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Chapter Text

Regulus

Week 1, Monday Morning

Evan Rosier drives a Mini Cooper Convertible, a cute one in sage green, electric of course, because he cares about the environment. Evan picks up Regulus every morning on their way to school, because he is his best friend, and Regulus doesn’t have a license and he’s not going to walk, or drive a bike to school. Ew no—thank you very much. 

It’s a really nice day for June—not that that’s surprising. The weather is always nice in California, so they’ve got the roof down and the music blasting. Evan is currently deep in his Olivia Rodrigo phase. (Regulus would rather listen to Gracie Abrams’s new album and pretend he’s sad and heartbroken, but that’s hardly the kind of music to get you hyped for the day, is it?) 

They’re just having a good time.

High school, however, is objectively not a good time. Of course, being a sophomore sucks: Getting good grades, cute boys, all the hormones, keeping your social ranking intact—it’s a mess. Well, not for Regulus, though. He was thoroughly blessed during puberty. No acne. No weird, stray hairs. No funky smells. He is smart, pretty and popular. And certainly, he doesn’t date, so that’s that.

Evan stops at a red light, looks over and smiles, bopping his head to the music. Regulus smiles back, but his eyes inevitably shift over Evan’s shoulder as a motorcycle pulls up beside them. Loud, obnoxious and reeking of gasoline. Regulus wrinkles his nose and regards the driver with a tired gaze. He is wearing a tattered leather jacket, sunglasses and no helmet (so stupid ). Whatever is blaring from the Bluetooth speaker in his backpack shouldn’t legally qualify as music.

He inclines his head and looks at the two of them dismissively. He stares. Evan, who had turned around to see who Regulus was looking at, awkwardly averts his gaze and focuses on the traffic light. Regulus, however, doesn’t drop his glare. He locks eyes with him in a silent standoff until he finally turns away and grins—arrogant.

Regulus can practically hear Sirius's eyes roll behind those stupid tinted sunglasses.

Then the light turns green and the motorcycle roars off.

Sirius 

Sirius shoves his way through the crowd of kids in the schoolyard heading for his first class. He walks up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, and stops abruptly on the landing. 

The school building is old, made of brick and stone, trying too hard to look like a castle. Obviously, it’s not a real castle—not like the ones in Europe—just a replica, maybe a couple of hundred years at best. But it’s draughty and smells strange nonetheless.

The stone walls have recently been covered in bright and obnoxious “Hogwarts Prom” flyers. 

Sirius can’t wait to graduate—only a few more weeks. Not because of prom, duh. Prom is stupid—an outdated and ridiculous excuse for pathetic people to show off and act like idiots. No, he’s looking forward to leaving school and this shit-hole town and actually start living his life.

He tears one of the flyers off the wall, crumples it in his first and groans in frustration. 

“Hey!”

Sirius glances down to spot Marlene McKinnon at the base of the stairs, her trademark mischievous grin firmly in place. Marlene is his best—and, if he’s honest, only—friend. They bonded after freshman year over music, their shared status as misfits and mutual disdain for the patriarchy. They’ve been inseparable ever since.

Marlene walks up and waves a permanent marker at him. “Can you imagine?” she says, nodding to another flyer before scribbling all over it. “Going to a fucking excessive commercial shitshow like this?”

“Well, no. Obviously not.” he smirks, watching her.

God, he loves her. She’s smart, creative, and doesn’t give a single fuck what anyone thinks of her. She’s got this edgy look: smudged eyeshadow, piercings, bleach-blond wolf cut (which she cuts herself), ripped tights, plaid skirt, band shirt and an oversized vintage biker jacket. Naturally, she doesn’t fit in with the other girls—and she wouldn’t want to. If Sirius weren’t so painfully gay (and Marlene not a raging lesbian), he could almost see himself with her. She’s definitely his lavender marriage wild card.

“Obviously,” she echoes, finishing her work and stepping back to admire it. “We’re making a statement.”

“Oh, good,” his voice is dripping with irony. “Something new and different for us.”

Marlene flashes him a grin before turning to head inside, leaving a trail of defaced flyers behind, each bearing a pointedly offensive message. Sirius glances at her handiwork, chuckles, and trails inside after her.

It’s Monday morning, and their first period is English. Sirius knows Marlene wouldn’t dare risk being late to Ms. Meadowes’s class.

James

James sits stiffly in front of the guidance counselor’s desk. The sign in front of him reads Ms. McGonagall. He exhales slowly, rubbing his palms on his shorts, he’s a bit nervous. His family just moved here, and although the term is almost over, today is his first day at Hogwarts High.

“I’ll be right with you,” Ms. McGonagall says without looking up. She is currently furiously typing something on her laptop. robably important, James guesses. He’s polite enough not to interrupt, so he waits. Lets his gaze drift around the room.

The office is crammed with cat paraphernalia: ceramic kittens perched on shelves, framed cat photos, and—a plush tabby cat? Wait. He squints. Is that… a real stuffed animal? He hopes not. Either way, she might be the dictionary definition of a cat lady, James decides.

To pass more time, he scans her bookshelf. A Discovery of Witches—sounds intriguing. Throne of Glass catches his eye too. Isn’t that what all the BookTok girlies rave about? He makes a mental note to text Lily and ask her about it later. His eyes skim across the spines of other titles: Beautiful Bastard, The Siren, Serpent & Dove, Dark Lover. Hmm. 

Finally, Ms. McGonagall snaps her laptop shut with a decisive click. She crosses her arms in front of her chest and regards him over her red-rimmed glasses. Her auburn hair is neatly permed, she wears a plaid two-piece and a pearl necklace. 

She offers him a tight, professional smile—the kind that says: God, I hate my job, and I definitely don’t get paid enough to deal with these god-damn kids.

“So,” she says, standing, “James Potter.” She adjusts her glasses, picks up a stack of papers from her desk, shuffles through them, and hands him a sheet. “Here you go.”

She turns toward the window, still flipping through the documents.

“Private boarding school in the UK? My goodness.” she says, in an exaggerated posh accent. “A little trust-fund marauder, are we? Quite the downgrade, transferring to a public high school in the US. Don’t you think?”

“Um, no, actually, I wanted to—”

“That’s enough,” she interrupts briskly, cutting him off. “I’m sure you’ll find the same little—”

BOOM!

James jolts, spinning toward the open door as a loud crash echoes down the hallway. He glances back at McGonagall, who looks wide-eyed, momentarily stunned. She blinks, presses her lips into a tight line.

“Same little shits everywhere,” she blurts out, looking back at him with a giggle, shaking her head.

“Excuse me?” James asks, blinking in confusion. Did she just—? He shifts nervously in his chair. “Am I in the right office?”

“Not anymore, you’re not,” McGonagall quips. “I need to meet other marauders like you and finish a fanfiction.” She says pointedly, tapping her fingers impatiently on the papers. “Now, out you go.”

James stares at her, stunned. What kind of school is this?

“Get out!” she repeats, more firmly this time.

“Right, um, okay.” He clears his throat and scrambles to his feet, almost tripping over his backpack. “Thanks, um, thanks a lot,” he mumbles as he stumbles backwards toward the door, he bumps into something solid—a broad chest. James turns and glances up.

A fierce-looking bloke with light brown curls falling into his dark eyes, and a fucking scar slicing across his entire face glares down at him. 

James flinches, “Oh, shit, sorry,” he stammers, backing away quickly. 

“Remus Lupin,” McGonagall says sharply from behind him, her tone suddenly firm and authoritative.

Did that bloke just growl at me?

Remus

“I see we’re making our visits a weekly ritual?” McGonagall briskly walks back to her desk and settles into her chair.

Remus flashes her his brightest grin. “Just so we can have these moments together, Minnie. Shall I turn off the lights?”

Remus would never admit it, but the playful banter with the guidance counselor is one of the highlights of his week.

“Oh, very clever, wolf-boy,” she replies, fixing him with a stern look over the rim of her glasses. Then, glancing back at her papers, she continues, “It says here you exposed yourself in the cafeteria last week?”

Remus groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I was joking with Filch. It was a sausage.”

“Sausage?” McGonagall repeats, her voice pitching upward as she scrutinizes him with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Very optimistic, Mr. Lupin.”

Remus grimaces.

“Next time, keep it in your pants, okay?” She flips open her laptop, fingers tapping briskly on the keyboard.

Remus just stares, dumbfounded, until McGonagall glances up again with a perfectly neutral expression. “Alright,” she says. “What should we talk about this week? Maybe your mysterious year of absence?”

That and the fact that he had to repeat senior year had been the topic he expertly avoided during their sessions all year, and he would not give in to her until he graduates. So, he deflects.

He leans back in his chair and smirks. “How 'bout your sex life?”

She responds with a withering stare. “Why don’t we discuss your compulsive need to be a pain in the ass?”

“Oh? Haven’t had any complaints so far.”

“You weren’t abused, you’re not stupid, and as far as I can tell, you’re only mildly psychotic—so why are you such a fuck-up?”

“Well, you know… there’s the prestige of the job title.” He shrugs, his grin widening. “And the benefits package is pretty good.”

McGonagall sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know what to do with you, Remus. I don’t get it.”

Then the bell rings. 

“Get lost!” she says, waving him out with a flick of her hand.

Sirius

“Okay.” Ms. Meadowes claps her hands as students pour into the room and find their seats. “What did everyone think of The Sun Also Rises?”

A girl—Sirius can’t remember her name for the life of him. Emily? Emma? Something like that—raises her hand eagerly. “I thought it was great,” she says. “So romantic.”

Sirius scoffs. “Romantic? Hemingway?” He leans back in his chair to look at her. “He wrote about alpha males, viewed women as intruders and threats, and was an abusive, alcoholic, racist misogynist who thought homosexuality was abnormal and pathetic,” he finishes, tilts his head and purposefully directs the last part at Ms. Meadowes.

Ms. Meadowes sighs, but before she can respond, Bartemius Crouch Jr. jumps in. “As opposed to a bitter, self-righteous freak who has no friends?”.

Sirius turns to him and flips him off. “Fuck you, Crouch.”

A few of the other students giggle. Sirius turns away, ignoring them.

“That’s enough, Mr. Crouch, Mr. Black,” Ms. Meadowes hisses.

“I guess being a straight, white, cis-male asshole in this society makes him worth wasting our time on,” Sirius says, glaring at Ms. Meadowes, though the jab is clearly directed at Barty.

Ms. Meadowes pinches the bridge of her nose, but Sirius continues. “What about Wilde, Foucault or—”

He’s interrupted by the classroom door suddenly flying open, and Remus Lupin stumbles in, nearly tripping over himself. “What’d I miss?”

Sirius groans, rolling his eyes. “The oppressive patriarchal values that dictate our education.”

“Good.” Remus nods and drops down at one of the tables in the back row.

“Ms. Meadowes?” Barty pipes up again. “Any chance we can get Sirius to take his antidepressants beforehe comes to class?”

“Someday,” she replies, pointing at Barty, “you’re going to get bitch-slapped, and I’m not going to do a thing to stop it, Mr. Crouch.” She strides down the rows of tables, turning to Sirius. “And you, Mr. Black, thank you for your point of view. I know how difficult it must have been for you to overcome all those years of upper-class, old-money suburban oppression. Must be tough. Next time you storm the parent-teacher conference, crusading for a curriculum reform to include more diverse perspectives in literature, ask them why they can’t buy a book written by a Black, queer woman!”

“YES QUEEN!” Marlene yells from the back of the room.

“Don’t even get me started on you,” Ms. Meadowes snaps, shooting Marlene a warning look. Marlene slumps in her chair, grinning sheepishly.

“Anything else?” Sirius looks up at her, bored.

“Yes,” Ms. Meadowes replies with a tight smile. “You’re going to the guidance counselor’s office now. You’re pissing me off.”

“What? But, Ms. Meadowes—” Sirius protests, but she’s already retreating to her desk, waving him off dismissively. “Later.”

Sirius stands, muttering in frustration. As he storms out of the room, he slings his backpack over his shoulder, deliberately smacking Barty with it on his way out.

*

“Acacius's swollen desire throbbed with heat in his hand... turgid desire... mhh,” Ms. McGonagall murmurs, then sighs and puts her glasses back on as Sirius walks into her office. “Black,” she greets, glancing up. “What’s another word for ‘turgid’?”

“Tumescent?” Sirius offers without missing a beat.

“Perfect.” She smiles at him and continues typing. “I hear you’ve been terrorizing Ms. Meadowes’s class again?”

Sirius drops into the chair in front of her desk. “Expressing my opinion isn’t terrorism.”

“Well, yes. Compared to your other choices of expression this year, today’s events are quite mild. By the way, Benjy Fenwick’s testicle retrieval operation went well, in case you’re interested.”

Sirius shakes his head with a small smile. “I maintain that he kicked himself in the balls. I was just a spectator.”

“The point is, Mr. Black...” She pauses to pick up her cat-themed mug, examining it with a delighted chuckle. “Mmm, black cat.” She points to a weirdly shaped feline on the mug and laughs to herself.

Sirius sighs and rolls his eyes.

“...people think you’re—”

“Mischievous?” he suggests, smiling slyly, daring her to say it.

“‘A rabid mutt’ was the most commonly used term, I think.”

Sirius grimaces.

“You might want to work on that,” McGonagall continues, smiling knowingly. “Thank you.”

Sirius rises from his chair, returning her smile with one that’s just as plastic. “As always, thank you for your excellent guidance, Minnie.”

As he heads to the door, he adds over his shoulder, “I’ll let you get back toAcacius’s swollen desire. ”

And Sirius wonders, not for the first time, if the headmaster knows the guidance counselor is writing Gladiator smut while on the clock.

James

“Hello! Peter Pettigrew. I’m supposed to show you around.”

Peter grabs James’s hand and shakes it vigorously. The boy is about a head shorter than James, with blonde hair, a little chubby, but his round face is lit up with a friendly, sincere smile. He is wearing baggy shorts and a faded Star Wars t-shirt.

“Oh, hi. Thank God. You know, uh…normally they send one of those geeks.” 

“Oh, I know what you mean. Not me. So uh…” Peter waves a hand as if brushing off the suggestion. Then, pulling his phone from his pocket with frantic energy, he types something before glancing back up. “...James. Here’s the breakdown.” He gestures for James to follow him down the hall.

“Over there we got the basic, beautiful people—wannabe influencers. Now listen, unless they talk to you first, don’t bother.”

“Is that your rule, or theirs?”

“Watch this.” Peter clears his throat. “Hey there, Malfoy!”

“Fuck off!” a boy with platinum blonde hair, icy blue eyes and a stern expression snaps at him.

“You see?” Peter shrugs, undeterred, and leads James outside to the schoolyard, where small groups of students hang out during lunch break.

“To the left we have the alt kids. Very edgy. They believe they’re living in the 70s—obsessed with niche indie music, books, vintage everything, coffee, and cigarettes.”

James furrows his brows, listening. “Is that Bowie?” 

Peter ignores him and continues to point to another group sprawled on the grass, surrounded by a telltale cloud of smoke.

“These are your semi-political eco-kids. All vegan, climate protests on Fridays and they are heavy into crystals and astrology. Very spiritual, but actually—”

“They just smoke a lot of weed?” 

“Yeah.” Peter confirms, waving to a bloke with long dreadlocks. “Save me some for after lunch, will you, Kingsley?”

Kingsley, clearly stoned out of his mind, raises a hand lazily in acknowledgment. Peter nods quietly and moves on, gesturing to a group of sharply dressed kids in the corner of the yard. “These guys…” 

They appear to be wearing button-down shirts and damn suit pants to school.

“Let me guess: Finance bros?”

“Correct, but the closest they'll ever come to Wall Street is a pyramid scheme group chat.” 

They head back inside, into the cafeteria. Peter holds the door open before pointing to a table with another group of kids. “And over here—” They are hunched over their laptops, wearing headsets, and yelling into their microphones.

“—we’ve got the gamers. They believe they can make it with e-sports. Or streaming. Or both.”

As they pass them Peter calls out. “Hey, are you winning, guys?” 

“FUCK!” yells a tall red-haired boy, slamming his mouse on the table, causing Peter to flinch, as the boy keeps shouting. “We’ve got a 9-3 Samira, and the 10-1 Olaf comes back down for a pentakill?! WHY IS THE BRONZE OLAF 10-1?”  Each word is punctuated by another slam of his mouse.

Peter quickly ushers James through the cafeteria. “Just last week I was their top laner.”

“What happened?”

“Gideon Prewett started a rumor that I play Dota.”

“So they kicked you out?”

“Hostile takeover.” Peter shrugs. “But don’t worry. Now the jocks, over here—”

“Oh my God.” James stops short and Peter stumbles into him. A slim, strikingly handsome boy walks past without sparing them a glance. His black curls look like velvet, his wide gray eyes glint with distant coolness (actually, they look eternally sad), his pale skin is flawless like porcelain and his facial features are stunningly sharp. Pure and perfect. James stares, captivated. “Which group is he in?” 

Peter rolls his eyes. “The don’t-even-think-about-it group. That’s Regulus Black. Sophomore.”

James turns to Peter, bewildered, and runs his hand through his hair in despair. “Why not?” 

Peter sighs. “Well, I could start with your haircut—”

“I burn. I pine. I perish.” James interrupts dramatically.

“Of course you do.” Peter’s tone is flat. “Listen, he’s handsome and smart. Sure, but see, it doesn't matter. He is the nephew of Dr. Alphard Black.” Peter whispers, James barely hears him, his gaze locked on Regulus as he and a blonde boy pass by.

“I'd let Pedro fold me in half,” the blonde boy says casually. He is just as handsome as Regulus, but in a softer, more ethereal way.

“Of course you would, Evan. Anyone would. Even straight guys. But you’re all sleeping on Paul Mescal—have you seen him in shorts? Those thighs could crush you.” 

“Nah, I’d rather let those freaky Emperor brothers rail me.”

“You really have the worst taste in men,” Regulus chuckles as the two of them disappear out of the cafeteria.

Peter turns back to James, he seems to be talking. (James? Are you still there? Hello? Planet Earth calling to James Potter.) “Forget him, immediately. Dr. Black is incredibly overprotective, and it's commonly known that the Black brothers aren't allowed to date. Regulus isn’t worth the trouble.” 

“Uh-huh.” James barely nods, still staring after him. “Whatever.”

Evan 

“I realize the language of Shakespeare makes him a bit daunting, but I’m sure you’re all doing your best,” Ms. Meadowes says just as Evan’s phone lights up. He discreetly swipes up the notification to read the text:

reg [14:16]:
omg
barty said hi to me in the hallway
bet he’s going to ask me to prom
🍆🥵

Evan frowns and glances at Regulus, who responds with a raised brow and a suggestive gesture—his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek in a deliberate in-and-out motion. Subtle.

“Mr. Rosier,” the teacher calls out. “Would you like to tell us what you’ve read so far?”

Evan looks up with his best sunny smile. “Not really.”

Ms. Meadowes shakes her head in exasperation, her long braids falling over her shoulders. She doesn’t seem entirely surprised, and Evan is grateful that she moves on without pressing him further.

At the back of the classroom, Marlene McKinnon—a senior who has absolutely no business being in this class—and who just dramatically attempted to slit her wrist with the plastic spiral of her notebook—suddenly looks up and raises her hand.

“Yes, Ms. McKinnon,” Ms. Meadowes says, one perfect eyebrow arched. “Since you’re gracing us with your presence, you might as well contribute. I assume you’ve read the assignment?”

“Uh, yeah. I read it all.”

“The whole play?”

“The whole folio, actually. All the plays,” Marlene clarifies, voice steady.

“You’ve read every play by William Shakespeare?” Ms. Meadowes asks, her disbelief clear. Evan can’t imagine a life so dull that someone would willingly read every single one of Shakespeare’s plays. The idea alone makes him wonder if he’d choose death over such misery as well.

Marlene tilts her head, challengingly arching an eyebrow. “You haven’t?”

Ms. Meadowes pauses, lips pursed, and then simply turns to the next student without answering.

Marlene 

“The fact that you’re skipping gym class to take sophomore English just to listen to her for another hour is a bit insane, if you ask me,” Sirius scolds, his tone casual but faintly exasperated.

Marlene is used to his usual rants as they make their way to the school parking lot. She watches him intently, waiting until he’s done, but he trails off. His gaze shifts to Remus, who walks past without so much as a glance, cigarette in hand, exhaling smoke like he couldn’t care less.

She rolls her eyes, raising her eyebrows. “What’s completely insane is you gawking at Remus Lupin, if you ask me.”

Sirius turns his head sharply to glare at her, but doesn’t say anything. 

“Wasn’t he away for about a year?” she continues, more to divert the topic than anything. She doesn’t wait for an answer. “I heard he killed someone and went to jail.”

Sirius snorts, a faint smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “I’m sure he’s incapable of doing anything that interesting.”

Marlene eyes Remus for another second. “He’s just so…”

“Lanky?” Sirius offers, finally turning his attention back to her. His eyes flick to her wrist, where faint red marks are still visible.

“What’s that?” he asks, his voice flat but tinged with curiosity.

“A suicide attempt,” she replies matter-of-factly, like she’s commenting on the weather.

Sirius stops walking, staring at her. “I know you’re in your emo phase and you have a hopeless crush on Ms. Meadowes, but killing yourself in her class is a bit extreme and far beyond the scope of normal teenage obsession, don’t you think?”

Marlene rolls her eyes again, not bothering to hide her smirk. “But she’s so brilliant—and not that much older than us. I heard she graduated at sixteen and then went to study literature in England. Imagine the things she says during sex.” Her voice takes on a dreamy, wistful tone she doesn’t even try to hide.

“Did you actually hear that, or did you stalk her on the internet?” Sirius asks, one eyebrow raised.

Marlene doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

“Alright, so you do it. You kill yourself, and then what? Haunt her classroom for all eternity?”

Before she can fire back with a snarky retort, Sirius’ attention drifts elsewhere. His eyes catch on his brother striding past with Evan Rosier, they strut as if they own the place.

“Virgin alert,” Severus Snape says right in front of them, though not at all subtle. His words are loud enough for Marlene and Sirius to overhear, just like the giggles that ripple through the group of Barty Crouch Jr. and his degenerates.

Barty leans lazily against his car, sharp smile and casual arrogance, his eyes following Regulus and Evan as they pass, oblivious to their comments.

“Looking good, Reg,” Barty calls out, his tone dripping with charm.

Regulus turns, smiling back at him, the kind of smile that seems to light up everything around him.

“He’s out of reach, even for you,” Snape growls, his voice tinged with challenge.

“No one’s out of my reach,” Barty replies, that sharp grin widening.

“You want to bet on it?”

“No, I have money. I’m doing this for fun,” Barty says, already pushing off from the group to catch up with Regulus and Evan.

Marlene glances at Sirius, who is standing rigidly, his jaw tensing as he watches his little brother get into Barty's car. 

“Well, that's a delightful development,” Marlene says, trying to tease Sirius. He doesn't respond, so her eyes flick back to him. She does notice how his hand clenches into a fist before he shoves it into his jacket pocket a little too forcefully. Without saying another word, he puts on his sunglasses and walks off.

James

“Who was that?” James nods toward the sleek Mercedes Regulus has just climbed into.

“Bartemius Crouch Jr.—Barty. He’s a jerk.”

Oh, that's just perfect. Obviously the love of his life, his soulmate, his one and only is dating a Mercedes-driving jerk. It's not like his parents wouldn't bat an eye if James asked and get him one in an instant, but that would be a bit pretentious, wouldn't it? (Besides, his dad has always been more of a Jaguar kind of guy.) And having just transferred from a posh private school, James just wants to blend in with the normal kids for once in his life, so his bike and asking his mom to lend him the keys to the Land Rover once in a while will have to do for now.

“Why do boys like Regulus always go for guys like that?”

“Because they’re bred to,” Peter replies casually. “Their mothers liked guys like that, and their grandmothers before them. Their gene pool is hardly ever diluted.”

Of course, James is more than familiar with guys like that. Still, there's something about Barty in particular that bothers him.

“Does he always have that shit-eating grin?” James asks, still watching the car.

“Perma-shit-grin,” Peter confirms. “I wish I could say he’s a moron, but he’s top of his class. And a model. And his family’s rich—his dad’s in politics.”

James watches as the Mercedes rolls smoothly out of the parking lot, its engine purring as it glides away. He cranes his neck, trying to catch one last glimpse of Regulus.

“Man, look at him. He’s just so...”

“Condescending?” Peter supplies.

“How can you say that? He’s totally…”

“Vain.”

“What are you talking about, Pete? There’s more to him than you think. Look at the way he smiles—look at his eyes, man. He’s totally pure. You’re missing what’s there.”

“No. No, no, no, James. What’s there is a snotty little brat wearing a strategically unbuttoned shirt so guys like you realize you can never touch him, and guys like Barty realize they want to. He, my friend, is what you pine for the rest of your life but can’t have. Include him in your fantasies to wank off to. Move on.”

“No, you’re wrong about him. I mean, not about the wanking, but you’re wrong about the rest.”

“All right, I’m wrong,” Peter says, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “You want to give it a try? Be my guest. Because he’s actually looking for a French tutor.”

“Wait, really? That’s perfect.” James stops dead in his tracks, eyes lighting up.

“Oh, you speak French?” Peter asks dryly, continuing to walk.

“Well, no, but I’m from Europe and mum’s Spanish.”

“Hey, dickhead! Get your head out of your sphincter and get the hell out of the way!”

James spins around just as a motorcycle abruptly screeches to a stop inches from him. The driver stares him down, wild-eyed, teeth bared, and James freezes like a deer in headlights. Before he can react, his arm is grabbed and Peter yanks him out of the way.

“Are you okay?” he asks, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” James mutters, still dazed.

“So, you met the rabid mutt. That’s your boyfriend’s brother.”

“Wait—that’s Regulus’ brother?”

“Sure is. Anyway, I gotta go. See you later.”

Chapter Text

Sirius

Week 1, Monday Evening

The tree-lined street that leads to Grimmauld Place is located in a charming, upper-class suburban neighborhood in California. The houses along the road are stately and immaculate. The sidewalks are perfectly spotless. Every lawn in the spacious front yards is meticulously manicured and surrounded by white picket fences. The Black family home is large, clad in pristine cream-colored shiplap with a grand wraparound porch. The neighborhood is quiet and idyllic, and the house is clean and elegant. It’s the picture-perfect image of suburban charm.

Sirius hates everything about it.

He’s sitting in the living room by the bay window, absentmindedly plucking at his guitar. The front door opens and closes with a soft click before Alphard walks in. He must have gotten off from work early today. “Hello, Sirius.” He says but doesn’t even glance up from the stack of mail he’s rifling through. “Make anyone cry today?” 

"Unfortunately, no. But it's only four-thirty," Sirius replies, the corners of his mouth curling into a grin.

“Hello, Uncle,” Regulus's voice sweetly echoes down the stairs, and shortly after, he strides into the living room, smooth like a feline, ready to greet Alphard with a hug.

“Oh, hello, Reggie,” Alphard says warmly, still barely looking up from his task.

“And where have you been?” Sirius snaps. 

Regulus had only arrived home just a few moments before Alphard. He had hurried upstairs into his room without even acknowledging Sirius.

“Nowhere.” Regulus's answer is saccharine. And full of false innocence. Alphard doesn't seem to notice—or he doesn't care. It makes Sirius infuriatingly mad. Regulus has always been the perfect little boy. He never caused any trouble. Perfect grades, too. Although Sirius knows all too well what a little shit his brother can really be. Except no one else seems to notice.

Before he can press further, Alphard interrupts. “Hey, what’s this?” He is holding up a large envelope. “It says Juilliard.”

Sirius gasps and his eyes widen, and he leaps up, nearly knocking over his guitar. He grabs the envelope, tears it open with shaking hands. He janks out the papers and his eyes dart across the first lines.

“I got in!” He feels breathless. Is this really happening?

“Uh, Sirius, that’s great,” Alphard starts, his voice slower now, measured. “But isn’t Juilliard on the other side of the country?”

“Yes! Yes, that’s the basis of its appeal,” Sirius mutters, still stunned. He runs his fingers through his hair as he studies the papers. A wave of adrenaline courses through him like a current. Getting out of this house, out of this suffocating neighborhood—as far away from this place as possible—has been his singular focus for years. All his life, really. And now, it really is happening.

“I thought we decided you were going to school here?” Alphard asks, he sounds exasperated. “Stanford? Like me. Be a Cardinal!”

Sirius growls under his breath. “Uhm, no, Alphard, you decided.”

“Oh, so what? After graduation, you just pick up and leave? Is that it?” Alphard’s tone sharpens.

“Let’s hope so,” Regulus pipes up. 

Sirius shoots him a look that could kill. “Ask Reg who drove him home,” he says curtly. His lips twist into a wolfish grin, can’t help it.

“Sirius, don’t change the—” Alphard begins, raising a hand to stop him. “Drove?” He spins around to face Regulus, his expression suddenly alarmed. “Who drove you home?”

“Don’t get upset. Just a friend—”

“Who’s a fucking imbecile,” Sirius cuts in.

Regulus rolls his eyes. “I think he might ask me—”

“Please.” Alphard stops him and guides him by the shoulders to sit down on the couch beside Sirius before leaning down. “I think I know what he’s going to ask you. And I think I know the answer—No. It’s always no. What are the two Black house rules?” Alphard holds up two fingers. “Number one: no dating till you graduate. Number two: no dating till you graduate. That’s it.”

“That’s so unfair!” Regulus protests, his voice pitching higher in frustration. Little bitch.

“Oh, you want to know what’s unfair? This is for you, too,” Alphard says, pointing between Sirius and Regulus. “This morning, I had a fifteen-year-old boy in my office, and you know what I had to diagnose him with? HIV. You know what he said?”

“I'm a stupid crackwhore and should've made my hookup use a condom?” Regulus answers dryly.

Alphard stares at him, dumbfounded. “Close, but no. He said, 'I should have listened to my uncle'.”

“No he did not,” Regulus scoffs, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Well, but he would have said that… if he hadn't been all drugged up...” Alphard mutters under his breath.

“Can we focus on me for a second?” Regulus starts. “I’m the only boy in my school who’s not dating!” 

Sirius thinks Regulus sounds like a little child on the verge of throwing a temper tantrum. And he's not here for it. God, Regulus can be so dramatic over shit like this. How can they even be related? 

“Oh, no, you're not. Your brother doesn't date,” says Alphard pointedly.

“And I don’t intend to,” Sirius replies smoothly.

“Sirius, will you remind your brother why that is?” Alphard asks.

“Have you seen the entitled trust-fund bros and unwashed jocks that go to that school?” he retorts, adding an extra dose of disdain to his voice.

“Where did you come from? Planet-of-the-losers?” Regulus shoots back.

“As opposed to Planet-look-at-me-look-at-me!” Sirius hisses.

Alphard claps his hands together. “Alright. Old rule out. New rule in. Regulus can date—” Regulus’s face lights up, like a fucking Christmas tree and Sirius feels the air shift, can’t help his mouth falling open. “—when he does,” Alphard finishes, jabbing a finger in Sirius’ direction. He looks very pleased with himself.

Regulus’s smile drops instantly. “But he’s a freak! What if he never dates?”

“Oh, then you’ll never date.” Alphard stands up. “Uh, I like that. And I get to sleep at night, the deep slumber of an uncle whose nephews aren’t out catching STDs…” he trails off “...or getting murdered by some Jeffrey Dahmer type of guy.” Alphard needs to stop watching true crime documentaries on Netflix. 

Before any of them can say anything else, Alphard’s phone rings, and he waves them off. “I need to take this. Sirius, we’ll talk about Juilliard later.”

Regulus jumps up. “Alphard, wait!” But he already has his phone pressed to his ear and disappears into the next room, closing the door behind him.

Sirius smirks and stands to go back up to his room, but Regulus corners him before he can leave. “Can you just find some blind, deaf idiot to take you to the movies so I can have one date?”

“Sorry, Reggie, looks like you’ll just have to miss out,” Sirius drawls, his voice sweet with mock sympathy as he heads for the stairs.

Regulus groans. “Ugh, you suck!”

“You wish,” Sirius shoots back over his shoulder before disappearing upstairs, leaving his brother fuming in the living room.

Regulus

Week 1, Tuesday Morning

It’s not like Regulus is bad at French. Quite the opposite, actually. Growing up in the Black household meant speaking French on a daily basis. But now, he doesn’t use it regularly anymore. Not since their parents left them in Alphard’s care anyway. So a little practice wouldn’t hurt, now would it?

He’s requested a tutor, and yesterday, the school notified him—completely out of the blue—that someone has applied for the job and scheduled their first session right before classes the next day.

Regulus is a bit late, which isn’t like him at all. Though, he doesn’t bother to hurry—running and sweating aren’t exactly his style. He strolls toward the back of the school library, where the study section is tucked away.

When he arrives, he spots a guy hunched over a brand-new French for Beginners book, flipping through the pages frantically—like his life depends on it.

The boy is fit. He has muscled arms, broad shoulders and the messiest head of brown curls Regulus has ever seen. His skin is tan, and he wears a pair of round glasses. He looks like a jock playing dress-up as a nerd. It’s ridiculous. Like a knockoff Clark Kent with bad hair. Regulus decides he looks stupid. Stupid and... okay, maybe a little cute. But mostly stupid.

He’s pretty sure he’s never seen him around school before.

“Hi, I’m Regulus. Are you my French tutor?”

The boy spins around, startled. “Um…yeah, um, hi... I... um...” His glasses slip down the bridge of his nose as he looks up, meeting Regulus’s gaze with wide eyes—they are the prettiest shade of hazel—flecked with green, and there’s a faint flush on his bronzed cheeks. Oh…shit! Regulus’s mouth suddenly feels dry. Stupid. So stupid.  

He looks completely caught off guard. Regulus recognizes that look—the boy is flustered and Regulus is very aware of the effect he has on most people. His mouth twitches in amusement.

“Can we make this quick, please?” Regulus asks briskly, all business. “Emmeline Vance is having another horrible public breakup with her boyfriend on the football field. Again. And I don’t want to miss it.”

“Well, I thought we could start with an evaluation of your skills, see where we’re at, and go from there,” Clark Kent offers, clearly trying to pull himself together.

Oh, no. You have to be fucking kidding me. A British accent? Regulus silently fights to maintain his composure.

He groans and drops into the chair next to him. “Je pense avoir couvert les bases. Les conversations ne posent pas de problème. Mais j'aurais besoin d'un peu plus de pratique dans des contextes académiques.”

“Um. Sure. Alright, then…” He looks completely frazzled, like he wasn’t expecting Regulus to actually know any French. “How about we try French cuisine? Saturday? Night?”

Regulus blinks at him and then smiles slowly. “You’re asking me out? That’s so cute.” He tilts his head, studying him. “What’s your name again?”

“Never mind.” Clark shakes his head quickly, but the pretty blush crawls up his neck again. Oh, this is going to be fun.

He decides to press. “No, no, it’s my fault—we didn’t have a proper introduction—”

“James,” James cuts in. “Listen, I know your uncle doesn’t let you date, but I thought that if it was for French class—”

“Oh, wait a minute, Jacob…”

“James.”

Regulus twirls a silky lock of hair around his finger and leans back lazily. “My uncle just came up with a new rule. I can date when my brother does.”

“You’re kidding. Do you like ice cream? Because I heard about this place, they have over fifty flavors—thought we could try them all.”

Regulus clicks his tongue, “Il y a un petit problème, Jamie.” James bites his lip but doesn’t bother to correct him this time. Regulus smirks. “In case you haven’t heard, my brother is a particularly hideous breed of freak.”

“Yeah. I think I’ve met him... He’s a bit aggressive? Why is that?”

“Unsolved mystery.” Regulus shrugs and leans forward. “He used to be really popular, and then it’s like he got sick of it or something. I’m pretty sure he’s just incapable of human interaction. Plus, he’s an asshole.”

“Well, yeah, but I’m sure there are people out there who wouldn’t mind going out with a... complicated man.” Regulus raises an eyebrow at him. Seriously? So James continues. “I mean, you know, people jump out of airplanes and ski off cliffs—it’d be like ‘Extreme Dating.’”

“Oh God, if only we could find such an extreme boyfriend for Sirius...” Regulus lets out an exaggerated sigh, running a hand through his hair in mock desperation.

“Yeah, sure, why not?” James says, he’s going for casual.

Regulus glances up at him through his lashes, smiling, and places a hand on James’s arm. His thumb brushes lightly over the toned muscle there. “And you would do that? For me?”

“Hell yeah!” James bursts out, and the sound is just a little too eager, a little too high. So James clears his throat and tries again in a lower voice. “I mean, I could look into it. Let me see what I can do.”

James

They’re dissecting frogs in biology class. It’s gross. Really, a barbaric way to teach anatomy in 2024, James thinks. Poor things, bred specifically to be torn apart by prongs and picks. 

Peter is going for the spleen—or maybe the kidney, or liver? Whatever. Who knows. James doesn’t want to think about the inner workings of his own body too much. He has this weird, irrational fear: if he thinks too hard about how his body functions, it might become self-aware and just stop. He shudders, his knees go a little weak, and he sits down.

Peter successfully extracts a blob-shaped organ and sighs.

“You’ve been in school for a day, and you ask out the most beautiful boy? Do you have any concept of high school social code?”

James grins. “No, but I have a plan. I teach him French, get to know him, seduce him with my charm, and he falls in love with me.”

“Unlikely. But even if he did, he can’t go out with you. What’s the point?”

James doesn’t answer. His attention shifts to Remus Lupin, who is sitting a few lab tables behind them. At the moment, he’s repeatedly stabbing his frog with a butterfly knife. (How the fuck did he smuggle that onto school grounds?)

“What about him?” 

Peter follows James’s gaze. “You wanna go out with Lupin?” he blurts, too loud. A few other classmates raise their heads.

“No,” James clarifies loudly, then leans closer and whispers so only Peter can hear, “But he could deal with the brother.”

It’s like a light bulb goes off in Peter’s head. His face lights up mischievously. “Alright. But, what makes you think he’d do it?”

They both turn to observe Remus, who is now lighting a cigarette on the Bunsen burner. He takes a slow drag, still toying with the flame. (Where even is their teacher to stop him doing shit like that during class?)

“He seems the type. Like he thrives on danger,” James observes.

“No kidding. He’s a menace. I heard he lit a cop on fire. Just got out of jail.”

“Well, then he’s definitely horny.”

“I’m serious, man. He’s whacked. He sold his liver on the black market to buy a new truck,” Peter adds, trailing off.

“Forget his reputation. Do we have a plan or not?”

Peter hesitates, weighing out their options. “Did Regulus actually say he’d go out with you?”

James pinches the bridge of his nose. This is getting frustrating. “That’s what I just said.”

Peter considers it for a moment. “You know, if you actually go out with Regulus Black, you’d be set. You’d outrank everyone. Strictly A-list. With me by your side, obviously.” Peter is extremely fixated on social hierarchies, James notes. It’s a bit annoying, really. This is about love—true love. Not climbing some stupid social ladder.

“I thought you hated those people,” James reminds him.

“Hey, you never know who might be useful.”

“He’s our guy.” James points toward Remus, who is making his dead frog hump another dead frog, complete with sound effects. “Let’s go talk to him.”

Peter squints at Remus in disgust. “I’ll let you handle that.”

*

After class, James confidently walks over to Remus. Who seems to be in the middle of discussing weed prices with one of the stoner kids. Kingsley, that was his name, James remembers.

“Look, man,” Kingsley says, leaning against the table, “inflation hits everyone, alright? What I’ve got is premium quality. Ten bucks won’t cut it.”

“Come on,” Remus replies, his tone sharp. “You’re running this racket out of your uncle’s trailer. I’m not paying extra because you want oat milk in your lattes.”

The dude looks affronted. “It’s almond milk. And I’ve got overhead costs—”

“Whatever. Just give me something for twenty,” Remus snaps.

James approaches, full of good-natured boyish glee, because he knows no one can resist the James-Potter-charm™. “Heya!”

Remus barely looks up. With a skillful flick of his wrist, he snaps his knife in James’s direction. He dodges, holding up his hands. “Later, then,” he says, retreating quickly. Well, he’ll get there, it only took him three years to get Lily to talk to him.

Peter

Peter catches up with James on their way to the cafeteria.

“So, how do we get him to date Sirius?”

James sighs. “I don’t know.” He’s pacing. “I mean, he seems to be short on money. We could pay him…”

“Yeah, well, what we need is a backer.” Peter concludes.

“What’s that?” 

“Someone with money—who’s stupid.”

They both glance toward the table where Barty and his crew are sitting. Barty leans back in his chair, casually drawing a pair of exaggeratedly lopsided tits on a cafeteria tray with a permanent marker, smirking proudly as his friends chuckle around him.

“I got this,” Peter says, pats James on the shoulder and without hesitation, he strides over to their table. He slides into the seat next to Barty, trying to look relaxed. Unsure how to open up the conversation he decides to go for action, so he reaches across the table, making a grab for a pastry. “Is that homemade? Because—”

Before he can finish, Snape clamps a pale, bony hand (it’s a bit sweaty too) around his wrist, his black eyes glare in warning. “Touch my food again, and I’ll remove the hand.” he growls slowly.

Peter raises his hands in mock surrender. “Oh yeah, alright.” He chuckles nervously (it’s a defence mechanism.)

Leaning forward, Barty’s lips curl into a smirk. “Are you lost, Pettigrew?”

“Nope. Just came by to chat.” Forcing his tone to sound as casual as possible.

“We don’t chat,” Barty states flatly, gesturing with two fingers back and forth between them. His voice is calm, but Peter can feel the tension crackling beneath the surface.

Here’s the thing: with Barty, it’s always a fine line. One wrong move or careless word, and he’ll trip over the edge, spiraling into full-on maniac mode—and Peter has no intention of letting it get to that point.

Barty lazily twirls the marker between his fingers, before slamming it down on the table with a sharp crack. Peter flinches, just a little.

“Especially not with people like you,” Barty sneers, leaning forward slightly. “So unless you’ve got something interesting to say—”

“Well, actually…” Peter interjects, clearing his throat once before he continues, smoothly. “I thought I’d run an idea by you. Just to see if you’re interested.” 

“I’m not.” Barty declares without missing a beat. Then, as if it’s an afterthought, he grabs Peter’s chin, turns his face—a bit too forceful for comfort—and begins doodling on his cheek with the marker. The felt tip scratches uncomfortably against Peter’s skin. 

He grimaces but holds still, letting Barty have his fun and goes on, unfazed. “Hear me out. You want Regulus, don’t you?”

Barty narrows his eyes but doesn’t respond. Instead he leans back, cackling at his artwork. “Look, guys, I made him a masterpiece.” Snape and Malfoy snicker, toppling forward and elbowing each other.

Peter ignores them. “You can’t go out with him because his brother’s a freak, and no one’s crazy enough to date him, right?”

Barty twirls the marker absently as he studies Peter. “You really came all this way to state the obvious? Congratulations. You’ve wasted my time.”

Peter leans in slightly. “So what you need to do is recruit a guy who’s willing to go out with Sirius. A guy who’s up for the job.” He gestures toward Remus, who is at another table inspecting his lunch like it personally offended him. A moment later, he stands and throws the entire tray toward the garbage—missing by a mile—then marches out.

“Loony Lupin?” Barty says, arching an eyebrow. “I heard he ate a live rat once.”

“Exactly,” Peter says enthusiastically. “Everything but the tail and claws, right? A guy like that? Solid investment.”

Barty snorts. “Solid investment? He's about as stable as a drunk on a tightrope. What happens if he loses his temper and bites someone's face off?”

Peter shrugs, grinning. “That’s not our problem. You just need him to go out with Sirius for a little while. After that, he can gnaw his way through a concrete wall for all I care.”

Barty studies Peter, his sharp eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to spot a trap. “What’s in it for you?”

“Oh, hey, nothin’, man. Just, I’m walking down the hall, I say hello to you, you say hello to me. That’s all.”

“Cool by association, huh?” Barty leans back in his chair, considering. He rubs his chin, the beginnings of a cruel smile creeping onto his face. “Alright. I’ll think about it.”

“Good talk.” Peter nods, suppressing his satisfaction and leans back.

“We’re done here,” Barty says dismissively, motioning for Peter to leave.

“Oh yeah,” Peter says quickly, standing up and flashing a double thumbs-up before hurrying back to James, who’s been watching from across the room.

“You got him involved?” James asks when Peter returns, sounding exasperated. God, this love-fool is a wreck. Peter is suddenly very glad he never made a fool of himself for being head over heels in love.

“Relax. When you let the enemy think he’s orchestrating the battle, you’re in a position of power. Let him believe he’s running the show, and while he’s busy with his plans, you have time to focus on Regulus.”

James tilts his head, impressed. “You’re disturbingly good at this.” He laughs, shaking his head.

“Oh. I’m just really into strategy games.”

James throws an arm around his shoulders. “You’re brilliant, Pete.”

“Thanks, mate. And I have a dick on my face, don’t I?”

“Oh yeah. Hairy balls and all.”

Marlene

“So, he has this huge raging fit about Juilliard and insists that I stay in the Bay area and go to that country-club he calls a school.” Sirius complains, his voice tight with frustration, stabbing at his food with more aggression than necessary. “I have no say at all.” Sirius has been brooding for the whole day, and it’s honestly a bit exhausting.

Marlene raises an eyebrow and shrugs. “Does it really matter?”

“Of course it does,” Sirius says sharply, then glances over at her. “If I were Regulus, it would be, ‘Any school you want, precious. Don’t forget your fucking crown.’” 

Of course, Marlene knows. She knows like no one else how important this is to him, but she also knows he thrives on chaos. Sometimes, she wonders if his rebellion and frustration with his uncle and brother are more about attention than anything else. 

They've never really talked much about what exactly happened three years ago that caused Sirius to make a complete one-eighty but she has a theory. 

She suspects his parents' disappearance had something to do with it. He is mostly driven by the desire to become independent and challenge authority. On one hand it looks like he uses his rebellion as a defense mechanism against that feeling of dependency. On the other hand, he is constantly competing for attention and affection that most likely resulted from his parents' neglect, which he now projects onto his uncle. And his hostility toward his brother is just another form of compensation for feeling undervalued and a need for immediate gratification, even if it means the attention is negative. 

However, that's just her best guess. Marlene is not a psychologist. Not yet, anyway. (Good thing she mainly applied to psychology programs). 

But really though, the tattoos, the piercings, the motorcycle. Marlene is surprised that Sirius isn't also a total slut—which would be fine, no shame in fucking around—but he strategically stays away from anyone who gets too close. That's a bit out of character.

She looks at Sirius carefully. But he doesn't seem to be interested in elaborating further, because something—or rather someone—has caught his attention again. (God, he really should get checked for ADHD. Sometimes he's like a dog who sees a squirrel). His gaze lingers on Remus, who's just coming out of the cafeteria. He walks past them, looking as unimpressed as ever, and nods at them.

Marlene leans forward, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Mary Macdonald spreads the word that he made an OnlyFans.” she whispers.

Sirius laughs. “Mary's an idiot.” He tries to sound nonchalant, but there's something about the way his gaze flickers. He really isn't as indifferent as he pretends to be.

She raises an eyebrow. “You think so? He's weird, but there's something about him...”

Sirius makes a strangled noise in his throat.

Remus

Remus is sitting on the bleachers at the edge of the football field, where the school team is practicing. He's not on the team. In fact, he doesn't even care about football. 

Like, why would he be interested in a game where grown men dress in crash-test gear to dramatically wrestle over a leather egg by smashing into each other and occasionally pause every five seconds to argue about lines on the ground, pretending to strategize, or to strike a pose? 

Football really is just a glorified halftime show where millions cheer for... commercials. Whatever.

Remus is expertly rolling a joint with the weed he acquired earlier. (He’s still pissed about being ripped off by Kingsley.) Just as he’s about to light up, a familiar voice cuts through.

“Hey. How you doin’?”

Remus doesn’t even flinch. He takes his time turning—not toward Crouch, of course. That would be too easy. Instead, he glances deliberately in the opposite direction, lets the silence stretch just long enough to make him impatient, then lights the joint. Two short puffs, one long drag. He exhales slowly, still ignoring him.

“I ate a delicious rat last night.”

Remus abruptly turns, eyebrows furrowing. “What?” Fuck. The hell kind of icebreaker is that?

Crouch doesn’t answer. Of course not. Instead, he points toward the field. “See that guy there?”

Remus follows his gaze to the players on the field. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to land on Sirius. He’s hard to miss—his long black hair is tied back in a loose, messy bun, he’s looking effortlessly lethal as he stalks the line of scrimmage. His focus is razor-sharp as Coach Hooch blows the whistle. Sirius sprints forward, tackles a player hard, and immediately moves to the next with the kind of ruthless efficiency that makes Remus’s stomach do something annoying. He lingers on the sight a beat too long, his gaze dragging over Sirius’s legs and the way his shirt is sweaty and clings in all the right places.

He’s attractive. Objectively, of course. Not that Remus gives a shit. Has been very focused on not giving a shit since his sophomore year, to be exact.

“Yeah?” he says finally, dragging his attention back to Crouch.

“That’s Sirius Black,” he says like he’s breaking the fucking news. (They have most classes together.) “What do you think?”

Coach Hooch blows the whistle again, shouting at Sirius. “Black! You’re the team’s linebacker, not the tackle. And this is high school football—keep it down. We don’t need any more broken bones this season.” Sirius glares at her, dark and smoldering, while his teammates help the poor kid he flattened off the ground.

“Two legs, nice ass…” It’s not even a lie.

Crouch doesn’t blink. “Great. I want you to go out with him.” 

Remus coughs, blowing smoke straight into his face. “Sure thing, Betty. Want me to fuck him right here on the field, too? Let you watch, you freaky little fuck?”

Crouch’s expression tightens, his jaw clenching just enough for Remus to notice. It’s satisfying in a way that Remus doesn’t bother to hide.

“Listen. I can’t go out with his brother unless Sirius starts dating. See, their uncle has this rule: Regulus can’t date unless Sirius does. And that’s the catch. He doesn’t want—”

“Touching story. Truly.” Remus takes another drag from his joint, savoring the burn before exhaling in Crouch’s direction. “Not my problem.”

“Would you be willing to make it your problem if I compensated you generously?”

Remus stares ahead, not bothering to hide his boredom. “Sure. I’d fly to Europe with him if I had the plane.”

Crouch grins, sharp and predatory. “It’s a deal, Lupin. I’ll pick up the tab, you do the honors.”

Remus turns his head slowly, fixing him with a flat, unimpressed stare. “Wait. You really want to pay me to take Sirius Black out?”

“Fifty bucks for every time you take him out,” he says, leaning closer, like proximity will seal the deal.

Remus snorts, flicking the ash off the joint. “Forget it. In this economy, you can’t take a guy like that out on fifty bucks. Inflation hits everyone, man.”

Crouch’s smirk falters just a fraction. Impatience flickers in his eyes, and Remus bites back a grin. He can practically feel the frustration radiating off him. It’s always the same with Barty—he thinks he’s the smartest fucking person in a room, and maybe he is, most of the time—given he hangs out with imbeciles like Snape and Malfoy, but jokes on him. He doesn’t have Remus’s patience.

“Fine. Seventy?” his tone is clipped now.

Remus raises an eyebrow, takes another infuriatingly long drag, and waits for Crouch to up the ante. Without looking at him—he knows guys like Barty too well. Knows exactly how to push his buttons. Silence always does the heavy lifting. Knows how to make them squirm without ever raising his voice. So he waits. Barty will snap in three, two…

“This isn’t a negotiation, Lupin. Take it or leave it.”  

There we go.

“Oh, I reckon it is, Junior.” Remus drops the joint and crushes it under his heel, standing to his full height. He leans into Crouch’s space, voice low and smooth. “Let’s think about it, shall we? I pick him up, take him to the movies? Thirty bucks. Popcorn and drinks? Fifty. Gas and something to eat after? Seventy-five. What’s in it for me, mh? A hundred bucks a date, and you’ve got your man.”

He holds out his hand for Crouch to shake, like it’s a fucking business deal. He stares at it, jaw tightening. The vein on his temple starts pulsing, like it’s about to pop. Remus can almost hear his internal debate—it’s fucking delicious.

“Fine. Whatever.” He pulls out a hundred dollar bill from his pocket and shoves it into Remus’s hand, gripping it tightly, like it’s a challenge.

Remus just grins. “Pleasure doing business with you, Barty Boy.” He releases Crouch’s hand and walks off, before he can change his mind.

Sirius

Sirius hates football. He was forced to join the team in his junior year, and the reasons they gave him were laughable. “To release some of that pent-up energy,” they said, like he was some kind of dog that needed to run more. Really, it’s the whole concept of football that bothers him—it’s mostly just a glorified halftime show with commercial breaks.

Though, he can’t deny he likes the raw, physical aspect of it. Maybe he should try boxing… or wrestling. Anything that doesn’t involve pretending to strategize or wearing dumb uniforms.

Coach Hooch wraps up the training session, and Sirius walks over to the benches to grab his gym bag and water bottle.

“Hey there.”

Sirius stops. He doesn’t even have to turn to know it’s Remus. Of course it’s Remus. His voice is deep and smooth, like… 

Sirius takes a moment to glance over sideways, eyes narrowing. He’s gripping his water bottle a little tighter.

Remus is standing close, like really fucking close, all of a sudden. Close enough for Sirius to notice Remus is actually taller than him by a few inches. (And Sirius isn’t short, but Remus has always been a fucking bean pole, alright.) And up close, he’s... 

The sun’s hitting his messy curls just right, glowing almost golden. His amber eyes are dark and locked on him. Pupils blown wide… Is he fucking high? Sirius could pretend he doesn’t notice, but... 

He’s… it’s hard to ignore. God damn.

“I mean, how ya doin?” Remus repeats with a sly smile, because Sirius didn’t fucking say a thing for what feels like a minute or two. 

He quickly clears his throat, rolling his eyes as he tries to shrug it off. “Sweating like a pig, actually. And yourself?” He stands undaunted, one hand on his hip.

Remus smirks, his presence is a little too casual. Sirius’s eyes flick over Remus face, over the freckles that are speckled across his nose and his cheeks, split by that fucking scar that runs diagonally across his entire face. From the corner of his eyebrow down to his jaw. 

“Well, that’s a way to get a guy’s attention.”

Sirius scoffs. He’s not even going to entertain the idea that Remus is serious about this. “My mission in life,” he mutters dryly. "Obviously, I’ve struck your fancy. So, you see, it worked. My life makes sense again." He turns and walks away across the field towards the locker rooms.

Remus catches up and falls in step with him, narrowing his eyes like there's a dare hanging between them.

"Pick you up tonight, then," he says, leaning in. His voice is even, his eyes... Dangerous . Sirius stares at him, arching an eyebrow. "Right. Tonight," he mutters, nodding slowly.

Remus leans over a little further. “The night I take you to places you've never been before.” His voice is deep, almost sultry. No, it's supposed to be sarcasm. Has to be. 

Sirius watches him, watches the way Remus’s smile tugs at his cheeks into dimples on each side. He ignores the annoying little feeling in his chest. 

Instead, he huffs, raises an eyebrow and feigns disinterest. “Like where? McDonald's? Do you even know my name, Scarface?” he shoots back, unable to resist the jab. Sure, Remus has probably heard it a hundred times before. It’s not like it bothers him.

Except, maybe it does. Remus flinches just ever so slightly, but then steps in front of Sirius, practically caging him in by placing a hand on the wall. “I know a lot more than you think,” he says, voice smooth but still edged with something. Sirius can’t quite place it.

And the fucker is still not backing down. 

It makes Sirius want to laugh. But he doesn’t. He’s not about to give Remus that satisfaction. So he just gives him a tight smirk, ducks away and turns toward the locker rooms, already halfway to the door.

“Doubtful. Very doubtful,” he throws the words back over his shoulder with a grin.

“You're no bargain either, Sirius Black.” Remus calls after him.

Sirius can’t help but smirk, feeling that stupid little rush in his chest again as the locker room door closes behind him.

*

Sirius leaves the grocery store, fumbling in his pockets for his keys. He pulls them free and walks toward his motorcycle.

“Nice ride. Triumph Bonneville from the 80s? You fix it up yourself?”

Sirius stops dead in his tracks, looking up. Sure enough, it’s Remus again, leaning casually against his bike like he owns the damn thing. There’s that crooked smile again and irritation spikes through Sirius. He doesn’t bother answering.

“Are you following me?” 

Remus shrugs, unbothered. “I was just in the area. Saw your bike. Thought I’d say hi.”

“Hi.” Sirius rolls his eyes, gives him the shortest possible smile before letting it fall.

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?” Remus steps away from the bike, closing the space between them.

“Depends on the topic,” says Sirius dryly and leans back. “Talking to a stalker about my motorcycle? Doesn't really get me going.”

Remus’s eyes glint with amusement. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

“Why would I be afraid of you?”

“Well, most people are.”

“I’m not.”

Remus leans in, so close Sirius can count every single fucking freckle splashed across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. He smells like smoke and mint, and the dimples in his cheeks deepen as his smile turns wicked. (He really hopes the sunglasses disguise his eyes darting across Remus face.)

“Maybe you're not afraid of me,” Remus says softly, his voice a low rumble, “but I'm sure you've already pictured me naked.”

Sirius freezes for half a second. His brain offers nothing useful, only a staccato loop of What the fuck? Then, reflexively, he gasps.

“Am I that obvious?” His voice drips with sarcasm as he tilts his head. Without waiting for an answer, he swings a leg over the bike and straddles the seat with exaggerated nonchalance. “Remus Lupin,” he begins in a bored tone, “I want you. I need you. Oh, fuck, fuck... fuuuuck.” he moans, lets his head fall back. Without further ado, he kicks the engine and his motorcycle roars to life and Remus finally steps aside, but Sirius doesn't miss the smirk still pulling on his lips.

Sirius twists the throttle, preparing to reverse out of the parking space, when a sleek Mercedes pulls up behind him, cutting him off.

The car parks, effectively boxing him in. Sirius groans, as the driver’s door swings open, revealing none other than Barty Pain-in-the-ass Crouch Jr.

“Ugh, what is this? Asshole Day?” Sirius mutters. Then, louder, sharp: “Hey, fuckface, do you mind?”

Barty pauses mid-step, turning his head just enough to flash a fake smile. “Not at all,” he says smoothly, wiggling his fingers in a sarcastic wave before he keeps strolling toward the liquor store.

Sirius swings off the bike in one fluid motion, stomping up to Barty’s car with a feral grin. Without hesitation, he hauls himself onto the trunk, his boots thudding against the metal.

Two sharp, deliberate kicks are enough to shatter the back window, glass raining down inside the car.

Sirius hops back onto his bike just as Barty bursts out of the liquor store, clutching a bottle, vibrating with rage. “You fucking freak!” he yells, his voice cracking with fury.

Sirius revs the engine, flashing him an infuriatingly sweet, insincere smile. “Whoopsie.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sirius spots Remus leaning against a lamppost now, watching the scene unfold. His grin is wide and wicked, dimples on full display, pure delight lighting up his face.

*

“Whoopsie?” Alphard snaps, glowering at Sirius. He paces through the living room. He is obviously agitated. “My insurance doesn't cover temper tantrums.” 

Sirius sits on the couch, calm, almost bored, and plucks at a loose thread on his jeans. He doesn’t even bother to look up. “Tell them I had a seizure.”

“Is this about Juilliard?!” He sounds distressed. “Are you trying to punish me because I want you to stay close to home?”

Sirius looks up sharply. “I thought you were punishing me because now I’m your burden after our parents abandoned us.”

Alphard stops, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sirius…no. Leave them out of this. Please. This has nothing—”

“Fine,” Sirius cuts him off, standing abruptly. “Then stop making decisions for me.”

“As your legal guardian, that’s my right ,” Alphard fires back.

“I’m of age, Alphard. Doesn’t it matter what I want?”

“Yes, Sirius, of course it matters,” Alphard says, angrily. “But you’re only eighteen. You don’t even know what you want yet.”

Sirius crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I want to go to Juilliard. I want to live in New York. I want you to trust me to make my own decisions. And I want you to stop trying to control my life just because you couldn't control yours!” 

Alphard opens his mouth to say something but his phone rings, cutting him off. He pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen. “Oh God,” he mutters. “I have to take this. It’s the insurance.” He pauses, looking back at Sirius. “We’ll continue this later.”

*

Sirius is sprawled on his bed, one leg dangling off the side, guitar balanced on his chest. His fingers lazily pluck on the strings, the notes are rather jagged and raw, much like his mood.

The door creaks open, and he looks up. 

Regulus is leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed in front of his chest, his expression is a mix of disdain and irritation. “Did you maim Barty’s car?” he asks, his voice dripping with accusation.

Sirius’s lips curl into a sly grin. “Yeah, looks like you’re gonna have to take the bus now.”

“You’re an absolute maniac,” Regulus snaps, his nostrils flare as he pushes off the doorway stepping inside. “You know, I’ve been wondering.” His hands twitch as if his anger flickers into something more calculating. “Maybe you act out so much because deep down, you know you’ll never amount to anything.” Sirius knows he is keeping his tone deliberately light, but the venom laced words sound way too familiar. 

Sirius grin falters and he drops the guitar onto the bed with a hollow thunk and gets to his feet, stalking toward his brother. Each step deliberate, he’s radiating controlled menace. He stops just short of invading Regulus’s space, tilting his head in consideration.

“Careful Reg,” Sirius growls, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re starting to sound like her .” 

Regulus stiffens, but his sneer only deepens, sharpening like a blade. “Maybe she had a point,” he fires back, his voice cutting. “You destroy everything you touch—Barty’s car, the people around you, yourself.”

Sirius lets out a short, humorless laugh and steps closer, forcing Regulus to retreat a step. “At least I’ve got a spine. You’d sell yours for her approval, wouldn’t you?” His voice dips, low and venomous. “Is that why you’re always hanging around Crouch—because his attention makes you feel less pathetic?”

Regulus flinches, and Sirius sees it—just for a split second. “Get out.”

Regulus hesitates, his gaze still sharp and the corner of his mouth twitches as if he wants to push further, but Sirius slams the door in his face. He turns, exhales sharply and rubs his hand over his face before dropping back onto the bed. 

Chapter Text

Remus

Week 1, Wednesday Morning

Sirius stands in front of his locker, shoving books into his bag with such forceful annoyance that Remus half expects the damn thing to break. He watches, from a safe distance down the hallway, gnawing on his bottom lip, debating his next move. Contemplating. But then, isn’t that what he’s been doing for the last few years anyway? Standing on the sidelines, thinking too much, and doing absolutely nothing about it.

When Crouch came up with that ridiculous deal—to date Sirius so he could go out with little Black—and even offered to pay him for it (and Remus certainly could use the money), what was left to stop him, really? It was the final push he needed. Well, that and the fact that he’d been high at the time, which had clearly impaired his sanity. In that moment, the whole thing had sounded... doable.

The next morning, sober, the whole endeavor seemed much more intimidating. Not to mention the very real risk of his truck ending up mutilated in retaliation.

Let’s think about this.

Sophomore year, first day of school: In walks this posh-looking freshman kid with silky black hair, piercing blue eyes and a smirk to kill, dressed in crisp slacks, and fitted shirts that looked too expensive to touch—Sirius Black. Turning heads left and right like a domino effect wherever he passed. Divine, really. And if Remus hadn’t already been questioning his sexuality before that, the effect Sirius had on him made the fact that he was swinging both ways crystal fucking clear. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t going to act on it. Obviously not. Remus never even dared talk to him. He was pretty sure Sirius didn’t even know he existed back then.

Sirius was the rich, popular kid. Everyone wanted to be him. Remus? Wanted him. But he was just the lanky, awkward nerd in hand-me-down thrift store clothes, because his parents couldn’t afford anything else. He’d grown too fast, too tall, and too clumsy. He needed glasses and braces and puberty overall wasn’t kind either—acne, uncooperative hair, and a sad, scraggly excuse for a mustache that he eventually shaved off in defeat. And on top of it all was the damn scar that disfigured his face. As if he needed another reason to be a target for bullies.

Junior year rolled around, and Sirius did a complete one-eighty over the summer. Gone were the slacks and fitted shirts. Instead: baggy cargo pants, oversized hoodies, ripped band tees, leather jackets, chipped nail polish, and a fucking nose ring (what the fuck?!). He grew out his hair, styled it in an intentionally messy way (still looked too good to be true.) And he started openly distancing himself from everyone he used to hang with before. Somehow he had fallen from grace.

And just like that, things got worse for Remus. Sirius went from being this unattainable preppy school fantasy to a wet punk-rock dream. But even then, talking to him was out of the question. Sirius had crafted this sharp, untouchable exterior for himself, as if he could eviscerate anyone with a single glare. Remus wasn’t about to risk that.

Then came senior year—or what was supposed to be his senior year. Instead, Remus took a gap year. By the time he returned, he was sure he’d moved on from his ridiculous crush. But life had other plans. Now he and Sirius were in the same grade, sharing most of their classes, and things went from bad to unbearable.

It was one thing to admire Sirius from a distance. But hearing him speak? Seeing the way his mind worked—how sharp and oddly brilliant his thoughts were—it made Remus’s head spin. (He’d picked up smoking just to calm his nerves.) And then, of course, Sirius had joined the football team during Remus’s absence. Football, of all things. (As we’ve established: Who the fuck cares about football?) Except now Sirius was fit. (And more often than not, Remus found himself on the bleachers, chain-smoking while the team practiced.) Pathetic. And as if that weren’t enough, Sirius had gotten a motorcycle. It was all just too much. This felt personal now—like he was on a deliberate mission to kill Remus, leaving him open heart bleeding.

So, Remus decided he needed to act. Either he did something about this crush, or he found a way to get over it. And since the first option was out of the question, he went for the latter. His solution? Fuck it out of his system. Brilliant.

Surprisingly, that extra year of life experience had done him some good. He’d filled out his lanky limbs with lean muscle, his curls framed his face better, he lost the braces and swapped his glasses for contact lenses. He could even grow the shadow of a beard, he got a bit of a tan and just looked overall healthier. Shockingly, people somehow started to show interest in him. He figured it was mostly thanks to the rumors—suddenly, he was mysterious and dangerous—but hey, it also kept the bullies at bay. Not that any of it did much to change the way he felt about Sirius. If anything, having firsthand experience with sex only made him think even more about what it might be like with him—which, honestly, felt downright cruel.

But what’s left to lose now, right? High school’s almost over. He has no reputation to protect, and he’s planning to move across the country for university anyway.

He hesitates for a moment longer before muttering a silent curse at himself, then strides forward, forcing an easy smile onto his face.

“Hey.”

Sirius doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even glance his way. Actually, he’s trying really hard to ignore Remus, he can tell by the way he furrows his brows and huffs out a little breath.

“You hate me, don’t you?” Remus presses, leaning casually against the lockers.

Sirius rolls his eyes, snaps his locker shut—with a little too much force. “Don’t think you warrant that strong an emotion.” 

“Then spend Dollar Draft Night at the pub with me. Tonight.”

“And why would I do that?” Sirius shoots him a sidelong glance, his bluish-gray eyes glinting with so much disdain it makes him dizzy—in the best way possible.

He grins, leaning in just a touch. “Come on—cheap beer, our banter, you with daggers in your eyes, me with my hand on your ass…”

Alright, breathe in—breathe out. Bold move. Too bold? Maybe. But Sirius is a bold man, and Remus has just spontaneously decided he needs to leap out of his comfort zone. Scratch that—he needs to pilot a spaceship and fly so fucking far past his comfort zone that it’s just a mere dot in the rearview mirror. Big guns it is.

But Sirius doesn’t miss a beat. “You—covered in my vomit.”

Remus hears the words, but he also doesn’t miss the sly smile tugging at the corner of Sirius’s lips—barely there. It’s enough to keep him going. So he leans in further, raising an eyebrow as he tries again. “Seven-thirty?”

In response, Sirius just slings his bag over his shoulder and walks away without another word. Remus sighs, his gaze trailing after him. Biting his lower lip. What a fucking sight for the gods. This man will be the death of him.

He tears his eyes away from Sirius’s ass with a frustrated groan and stalks over to his own graffiti-scrawled locker, muttering under his breath. The door creaks as he flips it open, and he rummages through the mess, fishing out the books for his next class.

When he slams the locker shut, he’s met with Crouch’s scowling face, inches from his own.

“When I shell out a hundred,” Crouch growls, his voice low and dangerous, “I expect results.”

“I’m on it,” Remus replies coolly, shifting the books under one arm.

“Watching him vandalize my car doesn’t count as a date.”

“Relax,” Remus says, shrugging. “I’ve got him under control. He just acts crazed in public to keep up appearances.”

Crouch’s glare sharpens. “Don’t give me that shit. Let me make this very simple, Lupin. If you don’t get any, I don’t get any. So get your ass on his by the end of the week.”

He turns to leave but Remus calls after him. “I just upped my price.”

Crouch spins around, his face darkening. “What?”

“Two hundred bucks a date,” Remus says with a nonchalant shrug. “In advance.”

“Forget it.”

“Forget his brother then,” he counters smoothly with a smile.

The gears in Crouch’s head turn visibly before he curses under his breath and with a frustrated snarl, he punches the locker beside Remus, then yanks a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and flicks it at him.

“You’d better hope you’re as smooth as you think you are, Lupin.”

Remus picks up the bill with a self-satisfied smirk, but turns around in a hurry—he's already more than late for class—and almost bumps into two familiar faces: The new kid—what's his name again?—the one who was pestering him the other day after biology class and his nerdy sidekick, Peter.

“For fuck’s sake, what now? ” Remus groans.

“What?” the boy asks, all faux innocence.

“Whatever the hell it is you’re standing there for,” Remus snaps impatiently.

The boy is brimming with determination, like a fucking care bear. “We wanted to talk to you about... the plan,” he raises his eyebrows dramatically.

Remus squints his eyes. “What plan?”

Peter clears his throat and steps forward. “The situation is,” He begins theatrically, then nods toward the human-shaped bag of sunshine next to him. “My man James here has a major crush on Regulus Black.”

Remus snorts, folding his arms. “What is it with that guy? He got a candy-flavored dick or something?”

James opens his mouth, scandalized, but Peter cuts him off with an imperious hand. “I think I speak correctly when I say James’s love is pure. Purer than, say... Barty Crouch’s.”

“Crouch can fuck whoever he wants for all I care,” Remus says with a shrug. “I’m just in it for the cash.”

“Hey!” James almost chokes, “There will be no fucking !” The poor kid looks like the mental image of Crouch giving it to Regulus physically pains him.

“That’s where we come in,” Peter says, undeterred, holding James back. “We help you with Sirius, you help us with Regulus.”

Remus blinks. “So Crouch gets Regulus?”

“No, no, no,” Peter says, waving his hands. “Lupin—Remus—you’re missing the big picture. We set this whole thing up so James can get Reg. Barty is just a pawn.”

Remus smirks, liking the idea that Crouch is just a means to an end. “So you two are gonna help me tame the rabid mutt?”

“Absolutely,” Peter says confidently, slinging an arm around James's shoulders and puffing out his chest. “We'll do some research and find out what he likes. We're your guys.”

“In a purely platonic, no-fucking-way,” James clarifies hastily.

“Yeah, right.” Remus waves them off and turns to leave for his class. Over his shoulder, he adds, “We'll see about that.”

James

James sits cross-legged at a desk in the library, hunched over his phone, his foot tapping anxiously beneath him as he waits for Regulus and their next tutoring session.

His heart feels like it's doing somersaults. To be honest, he hadn't expected the French sessions for Regulus to work out so well—definitely not for the actual tutoring part. After their first session, it became painfully clear that Regulus already speaks perfect French, while James’s own French is... well, practically nonexistent. But for some inexplicable reason, Regulus had insisted on continuing the lessons, and James wasn't about to argue with him about that. He’d immediately installed Duolingo, diligently making his way through the basic lessons, and now the green owl keeps telling him he’s on fire.

He does feel on fire. For other reasons.

James glances at the door for what must be the fifteenth time, then back at his phone. He really, really hopes Remus manages to make progress with Sirius soon. That would give him a real chance to ask Regulus out. A proper date, something that doesn’t involve James embarrassing himself over his nonexistent French skills or awkwardly pretending their tutoring sessions aren’t completely unnecessary.

And then there’s this other thing. Ever since Remus had casually mentioned it—offhand, like it wasn’t a big deal—the idea of Regulus and Barty...doing stuff... had lodged itself firmly in James’s brain. And Lupin looks like the kind of guy who knows what he's talking about. The very thought makes his stomach churn, his hands tightening around his phone. Did it already happen? Is it happening now? Why is Regulus late again?

Nope. No. Not thinking about that.

He finishes another Duolingo lesson, the overly chipper green owl popping up with a thumbs-up and a “Bravo!” James groans softly and rubs the back of his neck. 

His phone vibrates with a message from Peter and snaps him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Pete [12:31]:
are you ready for step two of the plan?

Jamie [12:31]:
sure am
wait ✋
what’s step two?

Pete [12:32]:
check this out
[image attached]

James taps the image. It’s an invitation.

🍷🧀

WINE & CHEESE PARTY
FUTURE MBA’S ONLY

hosted by
Gilderoy Lockhart

Friday, 8:00 PM
RSVP

Jamie [12:33]:
i don’t get it
how’s that gonna help?

Pete [12:33]:
he’s one of barty’s friends
aaaand
our perfect opportunity
lupin can ask out sirius

Jamie [12:34]:
OH!
wait. how? is he invited?
he doesn’t strike me as a business guy
both of them, actually

Pete [12:35]:
james catch up 👏
we need to make it a school-wide blowout
think project x

Jamie [12:36]:
where do we get a monkey?

Pete [12:37]:
not that one, james, the one with the party
look, i made some alterations
[image attached]

James opens the second image. 

Jamie [12:37]:
won’t he get mad?

Pete [12:38]:
are you kidding? he’ll piss himself with joy
he’s the ultimate kiss ass
all we need to do is forward it to the right people

*

“Le camarade et l'ami? Quelle est la différence?” James stammers, his tongue tripping over the words. His pronunciation is... a work in progress.

Regulus sighs and levels him with a withering glare. “A camarade is someone you can count on. Ami is someone who makes promises he can’t keep.”

James winces and closes the textbook. “Are you mad at me?”

Regulus leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “I counted on you to help my cause. You and that thug are obviously failing. Aren’t we ever going on our date?” He pouts, his lips curl in a way so pretty it makes James's brain short-circuit.

“You have my word,” he blurts, clutching the book like a lifeline. “As a gentleman.”

Regulus softens, tilting his head forward so that his soft curls cascade over his forehead. “You’re sweet.” His fingers lightly brush over his hand, and James feels his face burn like a furnace.

“How do… do you get your hair to look like… like that?” James stammers, desperate to recover.

Regulus arches a brow, then tosses his glossy black hair back with a practiced flick. “Conditioner every two days. And I never, ever use a blow dryer without a diffuser attachment.”

James nods, his eyes wide. “I read an article about that once.”

Regulus looks momentarily surprised, his eyes flicking up for a second. “You did?”

Before James can say anything else—likely something stupid—Regulus’s phone buzzes. He lifts a hand apologetically. “Pardon.”

Regulus

Regulus is grateful for the interruption—James is being ridiculously cute again (and still stupid), and it’s absolute torture. The way he gets so easily flustered whenever Regulus strategically tilts his head or brushes against him. Then his cheeks turn that soft, pretty shade of maroon before he starts to babble. It drives Regulus mad in the best way possible.

He glances at the notification, and his eyes widen as he opens the image.

rosie
partytiiiime 💃🏼
[image attached]

🍺🍺🍺

FREE BEER
PARTY

hosted by
Gilderoy Lockhart

Friday, 8:00 PM
JUST BE THERE

Regulus looks up at James. "Have you heard about Lockhart’s party?”

“Sure have.” James casually leans back in his chair, balancing it precariously on the two hind legs, a smug grin plastered across his face.

“Are you going?”

“Sure am." James’s grin widens even more, and Regulus has to resist the sudden urge to kiss… wipe it off.

Instead, he pouts. “I really, really, really want to go, but I can't. Not unless my brother goes.”

James lets his chair drop forward with a thud. “I’m workin’ on it.” He pauses, contemplating, his expression shifting as though searching for the right words. “But he doesn’t seem to be interested in him ,” James fishes, his smile turning slightly lopsided. “He’s not…?”

Oh god, is he suggesting that his brother is straight? Because, has he seen Sirius? Sure, he exudes all that freakish cishet-macho behavior, but no man ever in the history of straight owned as much mesh and leather as Sirius—it’s not only distasteful, in Regulus opinion, but also a bit ridiculous, to the point of, his closet being closer to a fetish shop than an actual wardrobe—without actually getting any, one might add.

Also, Regulus is 99,9 % sure, Sirius sole reason to join the football team was so he could rub himself against fit, straight boys and manhandle them. (Not that bad of a reason, Regulus has to admit.)

“Straight? Nah, I saw he liked Drew Starkey thirst edits on TikTok the other day, so I’m quite sure he’s as bent as they come.”

“So that’s his type? Pretty?”

Regulus considers this, yes sure, Drew Starkey has a certain appeal, if you’re into boring, lanky men with sharp jawlines, who look like they climbed out of a dumpster—in that case Remus is not too far off, actually. Regulus's personal definition of pretty, however, would be something like ‘built like a renaissance sculpture, soft curls, wrapped in abs, thick thighs to crush you, but could simply ruin you with a smile’, but that is beyond the point and wasn’t the question, was it? He wonders what James’s definition of pretty looks like.

“Who knows?” Regulus shrugs “All I’ve ever heard him say is that he'd rather off himself than date a guy who smokes.”

James pulls out his phone to take notes, his fingers quickly tapping over the screen. “All right. What else?”

“You’re asking me to investigate the inner workings of my brother’s twisted mind?” Regulus smirks, taking James’s phone from him. He opens the contacts, creates a new one and types his own number, then hands it back. “Let me get back to you on that. Later.”

*

Barty’s locker is essentially a shrine to his ‘modeling’ career. Polaroids of himself decorate the inside of the door: Him shirtless on a beach, sunlight accentuating his sharp features; him in a denim jacket—bare chest, wearing orange sunglasses, his head tilted in a haughty smirk; a candid snapshot of him flashing a wide grin at the camera, a snake casually draped around his neck; a black-and-white image portrait smoking, tousled hair; and another showcasing his sharp profile, smokey eyeshadow and layered piercings on his ear, among others.

“Like what you see?” Barty grins, leaning casually against the locker.

Regulus smiles sweetly in response.

“Here, which one do you like better?” Barty pulls out his phone, swiping between two thirst trap TikToks in his drafts. Both feature him dancing to Modern Talking’s Brother Louie '98 , hitting the same moves and smirking lasciviously at the camera. In one, he’s wearing a plain white tank top; in the other, a tight black one.

Regulus tilts his head, feigning deep consideration. “Mmm. I think I like the black top.”

Barty nods, clearly satisfied. “It’s more...”

“Alluring?” Regulus supplies with a smirk.

Barty grins, closing the locker with a sharp click and leaning against it. “Well, damn. I was going for sexy.” His hand slides to Regulus’s waist, pulling him just a little closer.

“So, you're going to Lockhart’s thing on Friday?”

Regulus offers his best flirtatious smile. “I hope so.”

“Good. 'Cause I’m not gonna bother if you’re not gonna be there.”

*

Week 1, Wednesday Evening

[unknown number] [19:12]:
hi, it’s james
your french tutor
who you gave your number to
i hope it was your actual number
oh god
regulus?

rab [19:15]:
bonjour, mon chéri, ça va?
yes, jamie, this is me

Jamie [19:16]:
oh ok cool cool
so you got any updates for me?

Sirius is somewhere in the garage working on the pile of junk he calls a motorcycle. Regulus seized the opportunity to snoop around his room. He’s eager to find anything useful for James, but Sirius’s room is a disaster—every inch of wall space is covered with band posters, concert tickets, and random, obscene memorabilia. Regulus can feel a headache coming on from the visual overload; if he’s staying in here too long he might just risk an aneurysm.

rab [19:17]:
well yeah, actually
here we go
schedules, reading list, planner,
spotify playlists, concert tickets
[images attached]

Jamie [19:17]:
ok, good, that’s good
but i thought you might find something more personal?

Regulus goes over to the bed, sits down and pulls open the top drawer of the nightstand. Interesting.

rab [19:19]:
aha!
[image attached]

Jamie [19:24]:
lube and condoms?
what does that tell us?

rab [19:24]:
he wants to have sex, that’s what

Jamie [19:25]:
maybe he’s just well-prepared?
you know, stds and stuff...

rab [19:26]:
stop, you sound like my uncle
also, the s in std implies sex, james
people don’t just buy lube and condoms
unless they plan on using them

Jamie [19:26]:
oh, alright 

Jamie [19:34]:
so, what are you planning?

rab [19:35]:
goodbye james

Regulus rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling with a deep sigh. God , James is so dorky and cute. He’s like a lost little deer, and somehow, that makes him so... endearing . It’s absolutely maddening. And then there’s Barty. Barty might be a bit dull, sure, but he’s also insanely hot in that rugged, confident way. James is hot too, but in a completely different way—fit and sweet, somehow. The two of them are going to be the death of him.

“Ugh!”

Frustrated, he pushes himself off the bed and storms out of the room, heading for his own before Sirius finds him in there. Being a teenager is so damn complicated.

Remus

It’s Wednesday night, and Remus is at the pub for Dollar Draft Night—alone. Well, not alone, but without a date. Without Sirius to be specific. He’s playing pool in the back of the bar with a group of random middle-aged bikers, the type that hang out in bars on a Wednesday night.

He has the cue in hand, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and prepares to line up his shot, when he hears a commotion from the entrance. He glances up to see Arthur, the bouncer, in the middle of tossing James and Peter out.

“Arthur!” Remus calls, scrambling over. “It’s okay. They’re with me.”

Arthur gives him a surprised look but reluctantly lets the two boys pass through the door. Remus guides them to a nearby table, taking a swig from his beer and a long drag from his cigarette as he eyes them expectantly. “So, what have you got for me?”

James pulls out his phone and starts swiping. “We’ve got some intel on Mr. Sirius Orion Black. I think you’ll find it useful.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, glancing at Remus. “Quick question before we start—should you be drinking alcohol when you don't have a liver?”

Remus pauses, confused. “What?”

“Nothing. Just asking, go on.” Peter shrugs, motioning for James to continue with his insights.

James gives Remus a serious look. “Okay, first thing: Sirius hates smokers.”

“It’s a lung cancer thing.” Peter chimes in.

Remus’s eyes widen as he plucks the cigarette from his lips. “Wait, are you telling me I’m a—” He holds the cigarette up to James’s face and spits out the word, “Non-smoker?!”

“Just for now,” Peter clarifies, grabbing the cigarette from Remus’s hand, dropping it to the floor, and stomping it out with his shoe.

James continues without missing a beat. “Here’s another problem: Regulus said Sirius likes pretty guys.”

Remus stares at James for a beat, then shifts his gaze to Peter and back to James as he slowly rises from his seat, eyes narrowing. “What? You don’t think I’m pretty?”

Peter smacks James lightly behind the head. “He’s very pretty!” he hisses.

“Yeah, okay!” James scrambles.

“Look at him! Gorgeous!” Peter is gesturing wildly in Remus’s direction.

“Just making sure, alright?” James stammers. Remus sits back down, laughing as James starts scrolling through his notes again. “Okay, Sirius likes: Motorcycles, philosophy literature and metalcore.”

“So what does that mean for me? I’m supposed to get him a book, and then we'll listen to a guy screaming while we ride his motorcycle toward the sunset?” 

“Ever been to The Dripping Boiler?” Peter asks with a grin.

“Yeah…?” Remus answers, narrowing his eyes at him, unsure of where this is going.

“Well, there is a concert tomorrow night.”

“Don’t make me…” Remus groans. 

“Cover your ears for one night, Remus!” Peter says excitedly.

“I can’t be seen at the Boiler, alright?”

“It’s his favorite band! He’ll be there, with his friend, Marlene.” 

“He's got lube and condoms—if that helps.” James adds, nodding. And Remus gives him a look that suggests he highly doubts James has any idea what that means.

“Can't hurt, can it?” says Peter with a wink, patting him on the shoulder with a pleased look.

“I hate both of you,” Remus mutters under his breath.

“Also, I made copies of all his private Spotify playlists.” Peter says as he hands over his phone.

Remus raises an eyebrow, scrolling through the playlists. “Peter, how did you—did you hack his Spotify account?”

Peter puts a finger to his lips and winks. “I prefer to think of it as an alternative to the way the law allows.”

Remus smirks, glancing at them both. “Alright. I’m starting to like you guys.”

James nudges Peter happily, while Remus continues scrolling through the playlists, his face contorting in mild confusion. “This is… music?”

Sirius 

Week 1, Thursday Evening

Music blares from Sirius’s room, he’s sprawled on his bed, perfectly at ease, while Marlene sits on top of him, straddling his hips, completely focused on applying eyeliner and smudging it around his eyes.

She looks absolutely lethal in her fishnet tights, overknee socks, short plaid mini skirt, a skin-tight mesh long sleeve and one of his oversized football shirts on top.

“I’m using dark brown instead of black on you. It’ll make the blue in your eyes pop like crazy,” she explains, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration as she shifts to work on the other eye.

The door bursts open suddenly, slamming against the wall, and Regulus storms in. “Turn down the screaming you call music! Immediately! I’m trying to study,” he snaps. His eyes narrow. “Ew, you’re not fucking , are you?”

Sirius doesn’t flinch, while Marlene slowly leans back, fixing Regulus with a withering glare as if he’s personally offended her. Regulus, however, not impressed by her disdain either, strides across the room and lowers the volume on the Bluetooth speaker.

“Wait,” he says, pausing to look back, one eyebrow raised. “Don’t tell me you’re actually going out. On a school night, no less?”

Sirius shoots him a glare but doesn’t bother to answer him still.

“Oh my God,” Regulus mutters, crossing his arms. “Does this mean you’re becoming normal?”

“It means there’s a concert at The Dripping Boiler, and we’re going,” Sirius replies casually.

Regulus’s shoulders slump in disappointment. “Oh…” He hesitates before adding, “I thought you might have a date.”

He starts for the door but stops again, turning with a smirk. “I don’t even know why I bother to ask, but... are you going to Gilderoy Lockhart’s party, Friday night?”

Sirius gives him a deadpan look. “What do you think?”

Regulus presses his lips together. “I think you’re a freak. I think you do this to torture me. And I think you suck.”

With a saccharine smile, he spins on his heel and shuts the door behind him. Sirius doesn’t even blink, looking back at Marlene expectantly.

“All done. Let’s go!” she announces, hopping off him with a satisfied grin.

*

They arrive at the Boiler, with Marlene nervously pulling out her fake ID. The massive bouncer at the door gives them the usual silent treatment, his face unreadable.

“This is so stupid,” Marlene hisses at Sirius. “I’m turning eighteen in less than a week!"

“Don’t worry, it’ll work,” Sirius reassures her, grinning.

They approach the bouncer, and Sirius puts on his signature fake cheerful grin.

“Hey, two for Electric Callboy,” he says, handing over their IDs.

The bouncer looks them up and down, unimpressed. “I can count.” He growls in a deep voice and scans their IDs. Marlene shifts slightly, trying to seem casual, but she can't help the nervous energy. 

“I bet you can...” she drawls, giving him a flirtatious, exaggerated wink and licking her lips. Her attempt at looking cool makes her resemble a slightly psychotic-teenage version of Harley Quinn.

The bouncer stares at her deadpan and hands back their IDs. “Go ahead,” he mutters, then adds to Marlene with a warning tone, “And you.”

Marlene looks up at him, batting her lashes and craning her neck. “Yes?" she asks, pretending to be surprised.

“Take it easy on the guys,” the bouncer says gruffly.

Marlene flashes a wink at him, then sashays inside, confident as ever. Sirius follows behind, shaking his head, slightly exasperated.

Remus 

Remus’s truck clatters to a stop in the parking lot of The Dripping Boiler. He steps out, brushing his hands over his jeans as he makes his way toward the entrance.

The bouncer’s face lights up as soon as he spots him. “Lupin, my man!”

“Hagrid,” Remus greets him with a grin, reaching out to shake his hand. But Hagrid pulls him into a rib-crushing bear hug instead.

Hagrid’s voice booms near his ear as he chuckles. “Always a pleasure.” His hair and beard blur together into a wild mane that Remus is now being pressed against. “Likewise,” he manages, his voice slightly muffled by Hagrid’s chest.

Hagrid finally releases him, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stagger. “Didn’t peg you for an Electric Callboy fan. Aren’t they a little too... hyper-hyper energy for you?”

“Fan of a fan,” Remus replies dryly, adjusting his shirt. “You see a couple of Hogwarts kids come through?”

“You’ll need to narrow that down a bit,” Hagrid chuckles.

“Tall guy, long black hair, devastatingly handsome but probably undersexed. And a girl—kinda short, bleach-blonde, septum piercing. Both look like they could kill you—might actually kill you if the mood strikes.”

Hagrid lets out a hearty laugh. “Oh yeah, just sent ‘em through.”

“Cheers,” Remus says with a nod, turning toward the entrance.

Hagrid calls after him, “Hey—what happened to that guy you brought last time? The one with the snake?”

Remus just laughs, waving off the question as he disappears into the club.

Inside, the energy is electric. The band is mid-set, and the crowd is a riot of frantic motion, bodies packed together and thrashing to the beat.

“The next song is called Hate/Love! ” the lead singer announces into the mic, the intro starts playing and then his voice slices through the noise.

I hate you so much
Fuck, you are the worst damn nightmare
You're sick and close to die
But shit I don't care
You make me sick, your love is a lie
I wanna hate, so I keep you alive

The music slams into the room like a tidal wave and Remus makes his way through the chaos, his gaze scanning the crowd. He stops near the bar and surveys the writhing mass of people. It doesn’t take him long to spot them—Sirius and Marlene are near the front of the stage, completely absorbed in the music.

I love the smell of your blood
Come dance, dance, baby go, dance for me
The beat is beating you up

Sirius glows in the dim, frenetic light, his hair drenched in sweat is sticking to his forehead as he jumps and thrashes to the aggressive beat. He is clad in skin-tight leather pants and a plain, black t-shirt. He's wearing eyeliner too, Remus notices.

Sirius looks... fucking hot. He is completely enamored.

Remus’s lips twitch into a smile, and his attention lingers.

The song reaches its roaring bridge, and Sirius and Marlene face each other, screaming the lyrics with reckless abandon.

I make your heart stop
Reanimate you 'cause I will make your heart stop
Your fucking heart stop, I make your heart stop

Sirius is utterly alive, caught up in the moment. Remus can’t bring himself to look away—he is transfixed and most definitely attracted.

The next song starts and it takes him by surprise. The frantic energy gives way to the soft, nostalgic strains for a cover version of Everytime We Touch . The lead singer’s voice shifts, suddenly tender and melodic.

I still hear your voice when you sleep next to me
I still feel your touch in my dream

Remus turns to the bar and signals to the bartender for a beer, his gaze flickers back to the front of the stage. Sirius is still there, his grin is wide and carefree as he belts out the lyrics at the top of his lungs, clutching Marlene by her shoulders, as the beat picks up.

'Cause every time we touch, I feel the static
And every time we kiss, I reach for the sky

Sirius is radiant, his usual sharp-edge gone. He looks... happy. Gleeful, even. It’s a rare thing, and Remus feels something twist in his chest.

The bartender slides his beer across the counter, breaking Remus’s reverie. He takes a sip, the cold bitterness sliding down his throat. He looks back, scanning the crowd for Sirius, he narrows his eyes, searching, but he is gone.

Sirius

“I need water!” Sirius yells, throwing a glance at Marlene, but the music swallows his words. He gestures toward the bar, and she nods, waves him off and keeps dancing.

Sirius threads his way through the crush of bodies, the crowd pressing close from every angle. He’s already drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead and his shirt clings to his chest.

The bartender is busy, so Sirius tugs off his shirt, using it to wipe his face before tossing it over one shoulder. As he leans against the bar, his eyes flick to the side—and he freezes.

Remus. Just a few feet away.

“Shit,” Sirius mutters, ducking his head as heat rises to his cheeks.

The bartender bends over the counter and gives Sirius an appreciative look. “What can I get you?”

“Two waters,” Sirius says shortly, ignoring the lingering gaze.

He sneaks another glance at Remus, who’s leaning against the bar, entirely absorbed in the music. The flashing lights highlight the sharp line of his jaw and the soft curls of his hair, and Sirius quickly looks away, annoyed at the sudden tightness in his chest.

Everybody thinks that I'm just a fuckboy (fuckboy, fuckboy)
'Cause I know that you think that I'm just a fuckboy (just a fuckboy)
I know that I don't have any good reputation
Do you wanna be my way out of this situation?

The bartender slides two bottles across the counter with a smile, and Sirius grabs them, pays, and turns. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s already marching over to Remus.

“You’re not fooling anyone!” Sirius yells, stopping right next to him.

Remus turns, surprised, his eyes briefly dart down to Sirius’s exposed chest but his expression momentarily softens into a wide smile. “Hey! Great show, huh?”

“If you’re planning to ask me out again, just get it over with!” Sirius shouts, his voice sharp with intention.

“Excuse me?” Remus shouts back, brows arching.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Sirius snaps, gesturing broadly to his tattoo-covered bare chest.

Remus blinks, glances down briefly again, and for a moment, he seems stunned. Then he turns back toward the stage and says, “Do you mind? You’re sort of ruining the moment.”

He nods toward the band, his tone casual, and his focus remains fixed on the performance, seemingly indifferent.

Sirius fumes, the rush of adrenaline leaving him hot and restless. He stares as Remus nods his head to the beat of the music, perfectly at ease.

Give 'em somethin' to say 'cause I need you to stay
Yeah, I want you so bad in all the worst ways

“You’re not surrounded by your usual cloud of smoke,” Sirius blurts, arms crossed.

“I quit.” Remus leans back against the bar, looking completely unbothered.

“Oh, really?” Sirius leans closer, his tone laced with suspicion.

Yeah, everybody thinks that I'm just a fuckboy
So come here 'cause I don't give a fuck, boy

The song ends and the band leaves the stage, and Remus takes the chance to drop his voice to a conversational level. “These guys are good,” he says, nodding toward the stage. “Not quite Falling In Reverse or I Prevail, but they’re good.”

Sirius stares, dumbfounded. “You know I Prevail?”

“Why, don’t you?” Remus replies, smirking.

Sirius falters, momentarily derailed. Remus uses the moment to lean in close and brushes a strand of hair behind Sirius’s ear. His breath is warm against Sirius’s neck as he whispers, “I watched you out there. I’ve never seen you like that before. You looked hot.”

The words send a shiver down Sirius’s spine, and he steps back, running a hand over the spot Remus touched as if it burns. He feels a flush rising up his neck into his cheeks, unsure if it’s anger, embarrassment, or something else entirely.

Remus grins, cocky but not unkind. “Come to that party with me on Friday.”

Sirius tilts his head to the side “You never give up, do you?”

Before Remus can reply, the beat surges, and the band emerges back onto the stage for the encore. The crowd erupts, goes wild and surges forward in a thrashing, chaotic wave as the bassline drops. Strobe lights flash and slice through the darkness across the room. The backing singer lets out an aggressive growl before he hits the first lines.

You're like a bittersweet harmony
And there never really was a you and me

“Was that a yes?” Remus shouts over the music, leaning closer to Sirius.

You wrapped me 'round your finger
Then hit my back with your deadly stinger

“No?” Sirius yells back, twisting just enough to flash him a grin.

Save myself, you'll be the death of me

“Well, then was that a no?”

Save myself, stay away from me

“No.” Sirius throws the word over his shoulder as he moves.

Save myself, I want you out of my head so bad

Remus watches him, brow furrowing as though trying to solve a particularly complex crossword. He shouts something else, but the words are swallowed by the crashing music and the roar of the crowd. A surge of people pushes between them, and then Sirius is gone, slipping deeper into the wild crowd just as the lead singer tears into the chorus.

And even if I wanna hide what I'm feeling for you
You'd figure it out 'cause
You're a mindreader    

*

The crowd spills out of the club. Sirius and Marlene walk side by side toward the parking lot as a truck rolls past. Sirius turns his head, instinctively and sure thing, behind the wheel, Remus glances their way briefly, before he pulls the truck out onto the main road.  

“What did he say?” Marlene asks, her tone breezy but curious.

“Who cares?” Sirius replies shortly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.         

Marlene raises an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Has he importun'd you with love in honourable fashion?” she asks, putting on a mock posh accent that makes Sirius glare at her sideways.

“Hey! Don’t get all mad-dog at me,” she says, nudging his arm lightly. “I’m rooting for you, you know. You’re the one who wants to throw punches every time someone comes close.”

Sirius rolls his eyes and pokes her in retaliation. “You don’t get it.”

“Nope,” she replies, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. “I really don’t.” 

He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Concert was great, though,” he says, glancing back at the now-quiet club. Marlene hums in agreement and loops her arm through his as they stroll toward the car. 

Chapter Text

James 

Week 1, Friday Morning

Peter rummages through his locker, James stands next to him and eagerly recites all the details from his latest French lesson with Regulus.

“…and I said, ‘You smell amazing, by the way.’ So he told me it’s Bleu de Chanel, and then he said, ‘You smell nice, too—' and he could tell I was wearing Acqua di Gio.’” James leans in, grinning ear to ear. “Like, Pete, he actually noticed that. That means we’re really connecting, right?”

He looks at Peter expectantly. 

Peter peeks out from inside his locker, an energy drink clutched in his hand. “You already told me that part,” he says flatly before cracking open the can. He takes a sip and sighs. His face looks blank, he doesn’t seem nearly as enthused as James. Weird . Maybe he should elaborate once more, so he really gets it. 

James groans, rolling his eyes. “Pete, come on! Stay with me here. I’ve been replaying the whole thing in my head, and—”

“Nerds,” seemingly out of nowhere Barty materializes behind Peter like some malevolent ghost, slicing through James’s train of thought. He sounds irritated, to say the least.

Peter freezes, his eyes go wide and he turns slowly, as though hoping Barty’s predatory mood might vanish if he just moves carefully enough. No such luck. Barty stands there, arms crossed, with a faint sneer curling his lips.

“Pettigrew,” Barty says, voice dripping with disdain. “I hear you’re helping Lupin?”

“Uh, yeah. We’re old friends,” Peter stammers, shifting nervously.

Barty tilts his head in mock surprise. “You and Lupin?” His barking laugh makes Peter flinch.

“What?” Peter blinks rapidly, his words tumble out in a frantic rush. “Uh, yeah… we, uh, went to boarding school together in… uh Scotland. Back when we were… uh kids—” He hovers his hand mid-air, as if to indicate just how small they had been at the time.

James cringes inwardly, struck by a wave of secondhand embarrassment. It’s painfully obvious Peter is lying—he doesn’t even have a British accent, for crying out loud.

Barty clearly isn’t buying it either. He doesn’t even bother responding, just stares at Peter until his rambling stops. Then, with a lazy turn of his head, he locks his gaze on James.

“And you?” Barty’s voice shifts, sharper now. “What’s your gig in all this?”

“Me?” James gestures to himself, blinking innocently before raising both hands in mock surrender. “Oh, I’m just the new kid. Nothing to tell.” He flashes his brightest grin, the kind he perfected to disarm even the most suspicious teachers.

Barty steps closer, his gaze bores into James, searching for cracks in his façade, James doesn’t flinch.

It seems to work for Barty, because after a tense moment, he shrugs—satisfied, or maybe just annoyed—hard to tell with that face. He turns back to Peter, grabs him roughly by the collar, and yanks him forward.

Peter squeaks, clutching his energy drink like a lifeline.

“Listen,” Barty hisses, his voice low and dangerous. “You better not fuck this up. I’m heavily invested.” His smirk stretches wide, sharp and unsettling, and for a moment, James swears something unhinged flickers behind his eyes.

Peter swallows hard, his voice cracks as he stammers, “Hey, it’s all for the greater good, right?”

Barty pushes Peter back, who spills his energy drink. Then Barty raises a hand to roughly smooth down Peter's rumpled collar, snickering to himself. As he steps back to leave, he doesn't miss the opportunity to shove James—hard.

The blow lands, but James doesn’t budge. He remains in place with effortless confidence, causing Barty to falter, momentarily irritated. James only grins wider, radiating unshakable smugness.

Barty glares at him, but says nothing and strides off.

When he’s gone, Peter finally lets out a deep sigh and slumps against the lockers. He clutches his chest as if he's survived a near-death experience.

“Is it just me,” James says cheerfully, as if nothing had happened, “or does he remind you of a coked-up ferret too?”

Remus 

Ms. McGonagall opens the door and ushers Remus out. “You’re completely demented,” she says with a frustrated sigh.

Remus grins, unfazed by her tone. “See you next week, Minnie!” he chirps, his voice dripping with mock sweetness as he strolls backward out of her office. Hands shoved casually into his pockets, he turns on his heel, and his heart skips a little beat.

Sirius sits outside her office.

Arms crossed, one leg resting on his knee, his foot bouncing impatiently—bored out of his mind. His eyes flick up to meet Remus’s, and for a split second, Remus thinks he can see a flash of something again—like the night before.

Seeing Sirius at the concert—he almost choked at the sight of him. Shirtless, glistening with sweat, eyeliner and covered in tattoos—hidden until then under T-shirts and oversized hoodies. And he has a nipple fucking piercing too, apparently.

Hello?? That was definitely a barbell-shaped Hitman, Remus was sure of it. He had to force himself to focus on the band to stop his mind from completely losing it.

Now, his stomach tightens again at the thought of Sirius's raw energy—and before he can stop himself, he flashes Sirius a grin, cocky and effortless.

Ms. McGonagall, who stepped out behind him, catches it too and freezes mid-step. Her eyes narrow, and her sharp gaze darts between them, like she’s piecing together a disaster in progress. Her lips press into a thin line as she motions with her pointer finger between the two. “You two know each other?”

“Yes!” Remus replies immediately, at the exact moment Sirius blurts out, “No!”

Sirius shoots him an annoyed glare, but Remus just shrugs, his grin widening.

McGonagall’s nostrils flare, and before Sirius can say anything else, she grabs him firmly by the arm and drags him into her office. Before shutting the door, she turns back to Remus, her expression dire.

“Dear God, stay away from him. If you two could procreate, evil would truly walk the earth.”

He tosses a last mischievous glance at Sirius before the door clicks shut, and then strolls away.

Evan

Week 1, Friday Evening

barty [19:42]: Missed call

barty [19:58]:
are you and reg coming to lockhart’s, or what?

evan [19:58]:
we’re getting ready

barty [19:59]:
when will you be here?

barty [20:04]:
evaaaaan i’m bored

barty [20:15]: Missed call

barty [20:17]:
alright i’m getting drunk

evan [20:18]:
if reg’s brother doesn’t go, reg won’t be allowed to go

For the better part of twenty minutes, Regulus and Evan lingered in the hallway outside Sirius’s room. Now, Regulus paces back and forth in front of the closed door, loud music blaring from the other side. His fingers fidget nervously with the hem of his sleeves. His outfit is a bit basic, in Evan’s opinion: black jeans and a cropped black T-shirt. Though, the pearl necklace around his neck elevates the whole fit—it really suits him well.

Evan opted for a classic yet relaxed look: vintage Levi’s and an oversized dress shirt with the top buttons undone. He leans casually against the wall opposite the door, arms crossed, glancing at his phone. Another notification from Barty flashes on the screen.

barty [20:21]:
but that rule doesn’t apply to you, does it?

Evan stifles a groan, shifts his weight from one leg to the other, and locks the screen. “He’s obviously not going, Reg. Come on!” he says, trying his best to keep the strain and impatience out of his voice.

Regulus stops mid-step, looking tense. He grinds his jaw and glances at the locked door again, then back at Evan. He visibly contemplates for another second before turning on his heel and heading toward the stairs. Evan pushes off the wall and follows closely. Regulus peeks down the stairs, muttering under his breath before they both creep down toward the front door.

“And where’re you going?”

They freeze. Mr. Black emerges from the kitchen, wearing a frilly apron and pink oven mitts. Regulus’s uncle sure is uptight, but he’s also a bit silly—Evan likes him. His parents could never, though Regulus looks too startled to appreciate it.

“Hi, Alphie. I—” Regulus squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath, but his voice cracks just slightly. “If you must know, a small study group—”

“Otherwise known as an orgy?” Mr. Black raises an eyebrow.

“Mr. Black, it’s just a party,” Evan says smoothly, cutting in. It’s quite obvious Reg’s uncle isn’t going to buy the lie about some ominous study group on a Friday night. So Evan smiles, aiming for calm and persuasive, but Mr. Black’s sharp look tells him it’s a miss.

“And hell is just a sauna,” he replies, leveling Evan with a wry smile as if to say: Nice try, kid.

“I knew you’d forbid me to go since the Edgelord Extraordinaire up there isn’t going—” Regulus gestures toward the staircase just as Sirius descends.

He’s wearing ripped jeans and a fitted black T-shirt, his hair tousled like he just rolled out of bed. Somehow he manages to effortlessly make his relaxed at-home outfit look five hundred times sexier than his usual school clothes, Evan notes.

“Do you know about any party, Sirius?” Mr. Black calls after him as he walks into the kitchen.

Sirius doesn’t break stride, shrugging as he disappears around the corner.

“People expect me to be there!” Regulus protests.

“If Sirius isn’t going, you’re not going,” Mr. Black replies firmly.

Regulus turns sharply as Sirius saunters back into the hall, a can of soda dangling from his hand. “You’re ruining my life. Because you won’t be normal, I can’t be normal.”

“Being this dramatic is normal behavior to you?” Sirius wonders, taking a lengthy sip from his soda.

“No! Gilderoy Lockhart’s party is normal, but you’re too self-absorbed to understand that!”

Sirius strides toward him, movements predatory, expression sharp—his whole posture emanates wild menace. He stares at Regulus, brimming with unspoken challenge, like a knife waiting to be drawn.

“What’s a Gilderoy Lockhart?” Mr. Black asks quietly, leaning toward Evan with genuine confusion written over his face. Evan opens his mouth to answer, but Sirius cuts in before he can get a word out.

“Lockhart’s party is just a lame excuse for all the idiots at our school to get drunk and fuck each other in a desperate attempt to distract themselves from the gaping void of their meaningless—”

“—meaningless consumer-driven lives,” Regulus finishes, rolling his eyes. “God, can’t you, for just one night, forget you’re a complete insufferable freak?”

“At least I’m not so pathetic to desperately depend on other people to like me,” Sirius retorts, his voice soft and precise, sliding like a knife between ribs.

Regulus’s expression tightens, but instead of snapping back with some snarky retort, he tosses his hair with calculated disdain. “I guess since I’m not allowed to go out, I should just rot my youth away—like you?”

Sirius leans in and hooks a finger around the pearl necklace. “Are these Mom’s? … Are you fucking kidding me?” he snarls.

Regulus doesn’t flinch. He holds his ground, glaring back as he swats Sirius’s hand away. “What? It’s not like she’s coming back to claim them.”

What follows is another of their signature silent standoffs. Evan watches warily, knowing better than to get between them when they get like this. It’s as if they’re having an entire telepathic argument.

“Boys, calm down,” Mr. Black says lightly, shaking his head, as if this is just another Friday night in the Black household. He looks over at Evan, like he can relate to the struggle and pain of raising two teenagers. Evan offers a small, helpless shrug in return.

“Fine. I’m going,” Sirius says suddenly, his tone unnerved, as though this whole argument was a waste of his time all along.

Regulus’s face lights up, and he looks over, wide-eyed. Evan can’t help but return a triumphant grin. Mr. Black, however, seems less enthused.

“Oh, God. It’s starting,” he mutters, pressing a hand to his forehead.

“It’s just a party,” Evan assures him.

“Is it?” Mr. Black replies skeptically, and Evan has the sneaking suspicion he’s about to launch into one of his dramatic lectures. And sure enough, he hastily moves to the kitchen and comes back with another can of soda, giving it a vigorous shake. “Imagine: this is you at a party—” he lifts the tab, and fizzy liquid sprays in every direction, making Regulus yelp.

Evan snorts and quickly looks away to hide his amusement. He has absolutely no idea where this is going and he’s dreading to find out.

“We’re going! Now!” Sirius interrupts, pulling on his boots, not bothering to tie the laces.

Regulus seems quite relieved that he has been spared the lesson his uncle wanted to impart, so Mr. Black gets straight to the point: “No drinking. No smoking. No drugs. No kissing. No tattoos. No piercings. No ritual animal sacrifice of any kind. Oh God…” He trails off. “I’m giving you ideas, aren’t I? Just promise me you won't do anything stupid. And stick to your brother.”

“Why?” Regulus asks.

“Because he’ll scare away anyone who’ll try anything.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, grabs his keys from the side table, and his leather jacket from the coat rack. He dramatically stomps toward the door, flings it open and—Remus Lupin is standing on the porch, looking a bit startled.

“Eight-thirty, right?” Remus asks, a sly smile on his lips.

Sirius looks stunned too. Evan looks over at Regulus quizzically, who just shrugs.

“I’m early,” Remus adds, his tone light.

Sirius sighs heavily and pushes past him toward the truck parked in the driveway—a terrible gas guzzler. The boys quickly and quietly follow him out of the door before anyone can change their minds, and Regulus climbs into Evan’s car.

Sirius 

Sirius slides into the passenger seat of Remus’s beat-up truck. The inside smells faintly of smoke and old leather. Remus turns the key in the ignition, and the engine sputters like it might give out at any moment.

The silence between them is more awkward than Sirius would like to admit. For the most part, they ride without speaking—until, after what feels like an eternity, Remus breaks the quiet.

“Excited for this?” he asks, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Sirius doesn’t bother answering. He leans his head against the window, watching the blur of streetlights streak by. His fingers drum absently against his knee.

He can’t believe he caved and agreed to go to this stupid party. It’s not like he wants to go—but there’s something about the way Regulus looked at him earlier. It wasn’t a plea, exactly, but Sirius could tell how much his little brother wanted this. Regulus doesn’t get many chances to feel like a normal teenager, and Sirius hates to be the reason why.

He doesn’t want Regulus to feel like a prisoner in his own house—because of him.

One night won’t hurt, Sirius tells himself. Just an hour or two. He doesn’t have to talk to anyone. He doesn’t have to enjoy himself. He just has to show up, for Reggie.

He doesn’t want this—not even a little, not at all. And certainly not because of Remus. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he suppresses the giddy twirling in his stomach because he’s in Remus’s truck, and Remus actually showed up.

The Lockhart estate is impossible to miss. The sprawling mansion looms like a monument to excess, its grandeur lit up by colorful lights. Cars are parked haphazardly along the long driveway and spill out onto the road. The thump of bass-heavy music vibrates through the neighborhood.

Sirius lets out a low breath as they pull up. His stomach churns, but he keeps his expression impassive, gripping the door handle tighter than he needs to. People are already clustered on the front lawn, leaning against cars or sprawled on the porch steps.

“You okay?” Remus asks, glancing at him sideways as he cuts the engine.

Sirius doesn’t answer again, not trusting himself to talk now, so he just pushes the door open and steps out.

Gilderoy, ever the showman, greets his guests at the door. Dressed in a crisp, salmon-colored button-down shirt and slacks, his golden waves styled back, he radiates fake charm. He grins, making sure to acknowledge everyone who passes through.

“Nice to see you. Dance floor to the right, shots in the kitchen,” he says to everyone, flashing a fake smile to show off his way-too-white, way-too-straight, way-too-perfect teeth. Sirius sneaks past while Gilderoy is busy smiling and shaking hands.

The house is packed. Bodies press together in every room, music blaring so loud it drowns out the shouted conversations. The air is thick with the smell of alcohol, sweat, and something faintly sweet and herbal—probably weed. The dining room table is already littered with abandoned cups and empty bottles. In the backyard, people lounge around the massive pool or lean against the patio railing, shouting over the music. It’s chaos.

Sirius weaves through the crowd toward the kitchen, Remus sauntering in behind him.

Sirius stops dead as soon as he steps in. Barty is holding court at the kitchen island, lining up shots with the jocks. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, his tie hangs loosely around his neck. His hair sticks out in all directions, and his movements are sluggish, teetering on the edge of losing balance entirely. He’s obviously drunk.

Sirius curses inwardly and tries to backtrack, but Barty spots him immediately.

“Fancy seeing you here. Lookin’ good tonight, Black.” His words are slightly slurred, but the smirk on his face is infuriatingly intact. He strides over, a bit wobbly, and blocks the doorway with a lazy, almost predatory stance.

Sirius stiffens, his jaw tightens, and his fingers curl into fists.

“Wait—what's that?” Sirius points to Barty’s forehead with a mock expression of concern. “Receding hairline, Crouch?”

Barty’s smirk falters for a fraction of a second. He whips out his phone, stumbling slightly, and opens the selfie camera to check. Sirius seizes the opportunity and tries to slip past him, shoulders brushing.

“Hey, where ya goin’?” Barty slurs, the drunken edge sharpening into something more deliberate as he pushes into Sirius’s way.

“Away,” Sirius snaps, shoving Barty aside.

No chance—he doesn’t get far before Barty leans in again, his voice low. “Where’s Reg?”

Sirius stops in his tracks, a spike of anger shooting through him. He spins around, teeth bared. “Leave my brother alone,” he growls, chest tightening.

Barty leans lazily against the doorframe, grinning. Sirius knows that look too well; Barty is enjoying this—enjoying baiting him, touching on the one thing guaranteed to rile him up.

“And why would I do that?” Barty drawls, his smirk widening as he leans in further, voice barely above a whisper. “He likes my company, you know.”

The surge of rage rises in Sirius like bile, his nails digging into his palms. He’s about to step forward when a ruckus erupts from the next room. Someone shouts, “FIGHT!” and the jocks rush out from the kitchen to spectate.

Barty shifts away from the door to watch the commotion, and Sirius takes the distraction as an opportunity to slip away—just as Regulus walks into the kitchen and makes Barty turn on his heel.

“Just who I was looking for,” Barty says smoothly, draping an arm around Regulus’s waist, escorting him out.

“Wait!” Sirius barks, but Regulus doesn’t even hesitate. He keeps walking, glancing back over his shoulder and giving Sirius a sharp, warning look that stops him cold—a look that says, I dare you to say anything. I’ll kill you if you do. Well, they’re related after all.

Sirius glares after them, seething as they disappear into the crowd.

When he turns back, Remus catches his eye—casually leaning against the kitchen counter. He’s watching the whole scene, his expression somewhat interested. Fucking annoying.

“What the hell are you looking at?” Sirius barks.

Remus just shrugs, unbothered, and looks away.

Someone pours another round of shots, and Sirius grabs one without a word, downing it in one harsh gulp, letting the alcohol burn down his throat as he slams the glass back on the counter.

“Drink up, mate,” the guy says, already pouring another.

After his third shot, and the comfortable swirling feeling in his lower stomach, Sirius finally looks up and around the kitchen. His eyes lock on Remus again, who is watching him from across the room, still leaning against the counter. He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head to the side as if to say, What are you doing?

Sirius grabs another shot and crosses the distance between them in two long strides. “I’m getting trashed, man,” he says, leaning into Remus’s space, bracing himself against the kitchen counter with one arm. He’s looking up at Remus through his lashes. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at a party?”

“I say, do whatever you wanna do,” Remus says with a shrug.

“Funny. You’re the only one,” Sirius mutters, downing the shot.

Evan 

Regulus stands next to Barty, who’s holding his drink like it’s a prop in a one-man show. Evan hovers nearby, pretending to check something on his phone, but really, he’s caught in their conversation—he can’t help it.

“So, yeah,” Barty says, leaning in closer to Regulus. “I’ve been hitting the gym every day. My trainer says I’ve got the kind of genetics you just can’t teach, you know? Broad shoulders, natural muscle definition…” He trails off, grinning as he gestures to himself.

“Mm. Must be… ” Regulus takes a sip of his drink, trying to look impressed but failing miserably. “...neat.”

Barty doesn’t notice—or doesn’t care. His smirk widening, clearly warming up to his favorite fucking subject: himself.

“And then over the summer, I’ll do the internship. Dad’s got me lined up with Minister Fudge’s office. It’s all about knowing the right people, you know? Networking.” He winks, and Evan suppresses the urge to gag. He keeps quiet, rolls his eyes, and takes a sip from his drink instead.

He’s seen all of Barty’s routines before. Classic.

“Of course.” Regulus tries, and Evan can tell he isn’t buying it either. The way Regulus’s gaze drifts toward the dance floor, the slight twitch of irritation on his face—it’s obvious he’s bored. Evan can’t help but smile to himself.

Barty barrels on, undeterred. “I bet they’ll put me in charge of executive-level stuff. Can’t imagine wasting my time on entry-level nonsense. I’ve got too much potential for that.” He laughs lightly, completely oblivious to Regulus’s thin smile.

Evan can’t take it anymore, so he leans over to Regulus. “I’ll be right back.”

Regulus perks up instantly. “Wait, I’ll come with you.” He sets his drink down, leaving Barty mid-sentence.

*

In the bathroom, Regulus shuts the door with a click and leans back against it, exhaling dramatically. Evan steps over to the mirror, running his fingers through his hair, watching Regulus in the reflection.

“Is it me, or does this party suck?” Regulus says flatly.

Evan snorts, adjusting a stray strand of hair. “Where’d all the infatuation go?”

“I don’t know.” Regulus rubs his temple, his expression softening. “I thought he’d be different. More of a gentleman. Less…” He gestures vaguely, searching for the right word.

“Barty,” Evan supplies, spinning around and leaning back against the counter, staring blankly at Regulus. “I don’t think the highlights of dating Barty Crouch Jr. are going to include door-opening and coat-holding.”

Regulus sighs. “Sometimes I wonder if the guys we want to go out with are the guys we should be going out with, you know?”

Yes, Evan knows. He knows all too well. And he knows who he wants to be with.

“All I know,” Evan says sharply, his voice tinged with frustration, “is that I’d give up anything to go out with a guy like—”

There’s a loud knock, interrupting Evan. Regulus steps away from the door and opens it to find a very drunk Sirius swaying in the hallway, eyes glassy and unfocused.

“Regulus, I need to talk to you—I need to tell you—”

“I really don’t think I need any social advice from you right now,” Regulus cuts him off, his tone flat and cold. He grabs Evan’s wrist and pulls him out of the bathroom, leaving Sirius leaning against the doorframe with a pained expression on his face.

*

They weave their way through the party crowd and eventually arrive back at the makeshift dance floor in the huge living room. It’s dimly lit; lights flash pink and blue above the crowd, reflecting off a spinning disco ball (who the hell brings a disco ball to a house party?). A fog machine fills the room with billowing smoke. In the corner is a DJ set, currently playing some EDM track with slow lo-fi beats—perfect for dancing.

“I wanna dance,” Regulus announces, apparently having had the same train of thought as Evan, and leads them to the edge of the dance floor. They start to move to the rhythm of the beat, their bodies falling into sync. Evan wraps his arms around Regulus's neck and pulls him close. Regulus smiles up at him before closing his eyes, his movements gentle and slow.

Evan's gaze is fixed on Regulus’s face, whose back is turned to the room. He knows Regulus well. He wouldn’t admit it now, but Evan can see he’s angry and hurting, knows he’s on the verge of spiraling into self-destruction.

So he leans in and whispers, “Are you okay?”

Regulus just nods in response, keeps his eyes closed, keeps dancing.

Evan lets his gaze drift through the room and lands on—Barty.

Who is already watching them from the other side of the room, leaning against the wall, casually exhaling smoke that curls around him like something unholy. His gaze is intense, feral, and fixed squarely on Evan.

Then he moves.

Pushing off the wall, Barty stalks toward them, his eyes never leaving Evan’s. The intensity of his gaze sends a hot shiver down Evan’s spine, equal parts anger and anticipation.

When Barty reaches them, he places a firm hand on Regulus’s waist, pulling him away from Evan. Regulus doesn’t resist, turning around and letting himself be pulled closer by Barty.

A lazy smirk tugs at Barty’s lips as he closes the space between them. He smirks over Reg’s shoulder at Evan, clearly enjoying the attention.

Evan feels his whole body tense, his jaw clenching so hard it aches.

Barty doesn’t miss a beat. His hand slides up to Regulus’s neck, tilting his head back. He leans in, capturing Regulus’s lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. And then, with calculated malice, he opens his eyes mid-kiss and locks them on Evan.

He kisses Regulus. His eyes stay open— locked on Evan .

There’s a fucking smirk behind that kiss, visible even in the flickering lights. The heat of Barty’s gaze burns, searing into Evan with unspoken challenge, satisfaction, and something more—

Evan feels like someone set him on fire. His stomach twists, a toxic mixture of rage and something dangerously close to jealousy.

When Barty finally pulls back, his smirk widens. He keeps his hand on Regulus’s neck. And the look he gives Evan before he averts his eyes to focus back on Regulus is maddening, infuriating—Evan still feels hot all over. He wants to scream, wants to smash something, wants to crawl up the walls. But he doesn’t.

He clenches his fists at his sides. His brain feels like it’s reeling, falling off a cliff. He hates this. Hates him.

And yet.

And yet.

James 

James pushes through the party crowd, scanning every corner of the sprawling house. He can feel the bass-heavy music thrumming in his chest. The mansion is grand but not massive, the rooms spilling over with people perched on every available surface, red cups in hand. The air reeks of alcohol, sweat, and weed.

Beside him, Peter practically beams with enthusiasm. He greets everyone they pass with the same bright joy. “Gid, my man!” Peter high-fives a tall, red-haired bloke with a wide grin. He spins toward James, eyes gleaming. “Challenger—recruiters have already started calling.”

James nods vaguely, oblivious to what Peter is even talking about. He barely hears him. His eyes dart past the crowd, scanning faces, shadows, and spaces between the bodies.

Peter moves on to fist-bump another tall, red-haired bloke who is the exact image of the first. James has to turn around to make sure it’s not the same guy. Nope. Twins. “Yo, Fab.” Peter laughs, turning back to James with the same mischievous grin. “Prefers edibles but has been known to use a bong.”

James doesn’t respond, his attention still locked on the crowd shifting under the dim lights. Regulus hasn’t answered any of his messages, and the silence is gnawing at him. Maybe he isn’t here yet. Or worse, maybe he isn’t coming at all.

No, stay optimistic, Potter, he tells himself firmly. The house is massive, and with the chaos of the crowd—Regulus could just be somewhere in there. Yes! He’s a glass-half-full kind of guy, after all.

Peter claps his hands on James’s shoulders, spinning him around. “Follow the love, man!” Peter jerks his chin toward the dance floor.

James’s heart jolts. There he is. Regulus .

He’s with Evan, and they’re dancing. Their bodies sway together to the beat. Regulus looks effortless, and somehow more distant than usual. Untouchable, but not less radiant, James thinks.

He takes a half-step forward but freezes as he sees Barty stride into view.

Barty snakes an arm around Regulus’s waist to pull him away from Evan. James watches, his heart pounding. Regulus doesn’t even protest. Instead, he turns around and lets Barty pull him closer. It all seems to happen in slow motion, but James’s brain doesn’t seem to process it anyway, because then Barty’s hands slide up Regulus’s pale neck, tilting his head back. And Regulus leans into the touch—a soft, deliberate movement that makes James’s chest tighten painfully.

Barty leans in and kisses Regulus.

Everything zeros in on them. It’s slow. So painfully slow, like the moment is drawn out just to torture him.

It’s entirely too much, too hungry, too intimate.

The floor beneath James seems to shift sideways. Something in his stomach twists painfully; something sharp and ugly burns in his chest. He can’t stop staring, even as it feels like the air has been punched out of his lungs. He has the sudden urge to punch a hole through the wall.

Finally, he tears his gaze away, spins around, and collides with Peter, who grabs his shoulders to steady him, his face unusually serious. There’s pity in his eyes but no surprise. “Extremely unfortunate maneuver,” he says.

“The hell is that?” James’s voice cracks as he gestures toward the scene behind him. There’s something lodged sideways in his throat, and his eyes burn. “What kind of guy just kisses someone like that?”

“Barty Crouch Jr. does,” Peter replies, trying for sympathy but failing miserably. “But hey, you’re making progress.”

“No, I’m not,” James hisses, running a hand through his hair and yanking at the curls. “Screw him. He used me! He wanted Crouch, not me. Bloody hell, if I can’t have him, then—” He cuts himself off, his voice strangled. “I’m an idiot.”

Peter pats his shoulder, his expression painfully neutral. “At least you’re self-aware.”

Remus 

“I really want to make a difference, you know, so I applied for political science programs,” says Frank. Frank, as Remus had learned over the past thirty minutes, is a Hogwarts High alumnus and already studying at college. He’s home visiting his parents, who live in the neighborhood, he heard the music and randomly decided to pop by the party.

Remus is listening half-heartedly, his attention more on Sirius, who’s somehow managed to down half a bottle of tequila by himself. Not that Remus is keeping track. (Except he totally is, and Sirius is throwing those shots back at an alarming rate.) Remus has resigned himself to nursing a can of lite beer, alternating with water. 

Meanwhile, after Sirius unsuccessfully looked for Regulus, he joined a group of drunk jocks—some of his football mates, apparently—who’ve started passing round a joint in the kitchen. He holds his shot glass, filled to the brim, in one hand and the joint in the other. He takes a hit and immediately starts coughing violently, spilling most of the alcohol. Lightweight. It’s almost cute, though.

Once Sirius has regained his composure, he looks up to catch Remus’s eyes across the room. For a moment, Sirius seems to pause, looking at him as if... as if he were trying to solve a very difficult puzzle. Remus holds his gaze and smiles—soft, almost secret. But Sirius quickly looks away again, downs the shot and reaches for the bottle.

Remus wants to make a move, but before he can a short, very drunk girl stumbles into him. She has a friendly, round face and her dark hair that is cut into a bob with micro-bangs. She clutches at his arms in a clumsy attempt to steady herself.

“Hi,” she slurs, her eyes go slightly cross-eyed. “Wanna make out?”

“Uhm, no thanks. Ask him.” Remus holds the girl by her shoulders to stop her from tumbling forward, spins her around, and practically shoves her into the arms of the next guy in sight—which happens to be Frank—who looks at Remus with a lopsided grin. “Oh. Okay,” she sighs dreamily, slinging her arms around Frank’s neck and kisses him fiercely.

Remus quickly shuffles away, leaving the two to their moment. “Thanks, man!” Frank yelps between kisses, but Remus ignores him. He walks over to Sirius, reaching for the bottle to remove it from his hand.

“Maybe you should let me have that.” 

Sirius’s grip only tightens stubbornly. “No! Iwannanotherone,” he slurs, stomping his foot like a petulant child.

Before Remus can react, he feels a hand clamp down on his shoulder. He turns, already annoyed. Of course, it’s Barty.

“My man.” Barty greets him.

Sirius takes the moment of distraction to slip away, darting out the back door into the crowd of people in the backyard. Remus watches him go. Annoyance-level rising. Great.

“It’s about time,” Barty says, clapping Remus on the back like they’re best pals.

“A deal’s a deal,” Remus mutters, shrugging him off. He wants him gone.

Barty peels off a few bills, holding them out with a flourish. “How’d you do it?”

Remus snatches the money and shoves it into his pocket. “Do what?” he snaps, though, he doesn’t really care; he just wants to go after Sirius, not waste another second with Barty. 

“Get him to act like a human,” Barty clarifies, the smirk on his face is unwavering, as if he’s genuinely impressed.

Before Remus can say anything else, loud cheering explodes from outside, yanking his attention away from Barty. He doesn’t think—just pushes past him and heads out through the kitchen’s back door to the patio. The scene that unfolds in front of him stops him cold.

A very drunk Sirius is climbing the railing to the roof. Naked. Completely butt-ass-naked.

Fuck.

He stumbles across the roof, wobbling dangerously close to the edge, stops for a second like he’s deciding, then takes two clumsy steps back. The crowd around the pool goes wild, claps and chants to spur Sirius on. Remus realizes too late what’s about to happen.

Sirius pauses dramatically, throwing one arm out like he’s the star of some ridiculous circus act, while the other hand barely covers himself. 

And then he jumps.

Remus can only watch in horrified slow motion as Sirius launches himself off the roof and lands in the pool with a massive splash, water drenching everyone nearby. The crowd goes nuts, erupts in cheers and whoops.

Remus storms forward, skidding to the pool’s edge as Sirius surfaces, laughing and pushing his hair out of his face.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Remus snaps, reaching down to help him out of the water.

“I’m fine,” Sirius slurs, grinning like he’s proud of himself. He ignores Remus’s outstretched hand and tries to climb out of the pool one-handed. He slips, falls back in, and hits his head on the edge of the pool with a sickening thunk.

A gasp ripples through the crowd as a red cloud spreads in the water. Sirius surfaces again, blood gushing from his nose, and the people around them shriek and back away.

“Oh fuck! You’re so not fine.” Remus hooks an arm under Sirius’s shoulder and hauls him up. Sirius flails weakly, trying to shove him off but losing his balance and gripping onto Remus again for support.

“I just need to lie down for a bit,” Sirius mutters, raising a hand to his face.

“Uh-huh. Sure. After we stop the bleeding and find your clothes. Where are they?”

“I… I know…” Sirius glances at his bloodied hand, his eyes widening as if he's only just realizing what's happened. He waves vaguely toward the patio. “There. Somewhere. Probably.”

Remus steers him to a lounge chair and points. “Sit. Don’t move. You might have a concussion.”

Sirius collapses onto the chair with a dramatic sigh and tilts his head back to stop the blood from sputtering out. Remus crouches down, scooping up the crumpled pile of clothing. He helps Sirius back into his boxers (while he’s still holding one hand to himself, to preserve whatever is left of his dignity) and jeans—it’s an awkward, uncoordinated ordeal that involves a lot of stumbling and muttered curses from both of them, it ends with Sirius only half-dressed.

Sirius’s shirt ends up being used to wipe the blood from his face and chest. Remus presses it against Sirius’s nose, holding it there firmly to stop it from further bleeding out. Sirius leans against him, his eyelids drooping.

“Okay,” Sirius mutters, slumping further down the chair. “I’ll just sleep here. You’ll stay, yeah?”

“Nope. If you really have a concussion, I’m not letting you sleep unless you want to wake up with a raisin for a brain.”

Remus catches him before he slides off completely and hauls him upright again. “Come on, we’re walking.”

Sirius groans in protest, but Remus keeps him moving, steering him back into the house.

James grabs his arm. “Hey, we need to talk.”

“James, I'm a bit busy.” Remus gestures to Sirius, who glares at James a little wryly before drooping his head forward. James's eyes widen briefly, but he doesn't comment on Sirius' bloodied face.

“Can you just give me a second?” he insists and Remus hoists Sirius’s arm further over his shoulder to keep him steady, before he turns back to James. “What?” 

“It’s off. The whole thing. It’s over.” James’s voice is strained, like he’s been punched in the gut.

Sirius slides halfway to the floor. “What’re you talking about?” he snaps at James, shaking his head, struggling to keep Sirius awake and upright.

“He never wanted me.” James lowers his gaze. “He’s into Barty, not me. The whole time.”

James looks actually hurt. Remus rubs his neck, annoyed. He doesn’t have time for this. Where the hell is Peter? Isn’t he James’s friend? Shouldn’t he be dealing with the heartbroken idiot?

“James—do you like the guy?” Remus throws his free arm up in exasperation, leveling a sharp look at James.

James glances up, biting his lower lip. He fidgets with the hem of his sleeve. “I mean… yeah. Sure.”

“And is he worth all this trouble?” Remus gestures broadly at the chaos of the party around them.

“I thought he was, but, you know, I—”

“Well, he is or he isn’t.” Remus puts his free hand on James’s shoulder. “See, first of all, Barty is not half the man you are. He’s not even half the man he pretends to be—trust me on that. And second? Don’t let anyone make you feel like you don’t deserve what you want.”

James looks at him, wide-eyed and a little skeptical, like he never expected that type of pep talk from Remus of all people.

Remus pats him on the shoulder once more. “Go get him.”

And that’s all he can offer James right now, because Sirius stirs and struggles again. Remus continues walking an oblivious Sirius outside and leaves an unsure James standing there.

He marches them across the street, away from the house and the party.

“This is so patronizing,” Sirius slurs. He’s leaning heavily into Remus’s side, holding on to his shoulder. The bleeding stopped, but he’s cold, his hair is still soaking wet, trickling down his shoulders and chest. He smells like chlorine and alcohol.

“Look at you, still using all the big words even when you’re shitfaced,” Remus chuckles.

“I don’t think so” Sirius sing-songs and trips forward, Remus catches him midway and pulls him back up.

“Why’re you doing this?” Sirius squints up at him and tries to pull away, stumbling backward. Remus catches him again, keeping him steady.

“I told you.”

“You don’t care if I die.”

Oh, we’re getting dramatic when we’re drunk. Alright. “Sure, I do.”

“Why?” Sirius furrows his brows. Even drunk, he still has this look when he stares at Remus, like Remus is a Rubik’s Cube. Maybe even more so when he’s drunk, because he’s not masking it properly. Remus decides to go for the honest answer—figures Sirius might not remember any of this conversation anyway.

“Because then I’d have to start taking out guys who actually like me.”

“Like you could find one,” Sirius scoffs.

Remus smiles. “Oh! See that? There? Who needs affection when I’ve got blind hatred?”

“I just… ugh…” Sirius struggles against him again. “Just let me sit down.”

Remus walks him over to the swingset on the playground across the street and plops him down in a swing, moving his hands to grip the chains. He takes off his sweater and slips it over Sirius's head. Sirius struggles, but somehow manages to push his arms through the sleeves.

“How’s that?”

Sirius sits there and looks at him for a moment with a wry smile. Then promptly falls over backwards.

Remus rushes to right him. “Geez.” He stands behind him, just in case, and slowly starts pushing the swing to keep him entertained.

“So, why’d you let him get to you?”

“Who?”

“Crouch.” Remus nods back toward the house.

“I hate him.” Sirius shakes his head.

“I know. But it has to be a pretty big deal to get you to mainline tequila. You don’t seem like the type.”

Sirius, tilts his drunken head back to look at Remus and slurs, “Hey… you don’t think I can be cool? You don’t think I can be lit like everyone else?”

Remus chuckles, weighs his options and decides to go for sarcastic. “I thought you were above all that?”

“You know what they say…” Sirius stops the swing.

“No. What do they say?” Remus waits.

“Sirius?” He moves around the swing to look Sirius in the face. He has fallen asleep mid-sentence, his head resting against the swing’s chains.

“Shit!” Remus crouches down in front of him. “Wake up, damn it!” He holds Sirius’s shoulders and shakes him lightly. “Sirius! Wake up! Open your eyes!” He pats his cheeks carefully. “You’re not gonna pull a Jane Margolis on me.”

“What?” Sirius furrows his brow and reluctantly opens his eyes, staring at Remus.

Remus sighs with relief. “I thought you were…” He moves to stand up straight, but Sirius grabs him by the collar, pulling him back down.

He looks at him like… like he solved the damn riddle and now he’s seeing the moon for the first time in his life.

“Your eyes have a little gold in them,” Sirius says softly.

Remus is caught completely off guard, surprised by the unexpected gentleness in Sirius’s voice. He chuckles nervously and his lips twist into an uncertain smile. The moment feels strange—charged.

Sirius doesn't let go, his fingers still clutching Remus's collar, and for a fleeting second, it feels like something might happen. Are we about to kiss? Remus thinks, and then Sirius lunges forward—

And he violently throws up in front of his shoes. Remus jumps back and moves quickly behind him. With one hand he holds the hair out of Sirius's face, with the other he rubs slow, soothing circles over his back.

*

Sirius splashes water in his face and grabs the mouthwash, tilting his head back to take a long swig. Remus sits silently on the edge of the bathtub, watching. There’s a knock at the door.

Sirius spits out the mouthwash and growls “Go away,” his voice sounds husky and strained but his tone is still sharp enough to cut glass.

The door creaks open anyway, and Regulus pokes his head in, smirking like the smug little bastard he is. “Dinner taste better on the way up?”

Sirius glares at him, unimpressed, and flips him off without a word.

“I don’t get you,” Regulus drawls, leaning casually against the doorframe. “You act like you’re too good for all this, but then you go completely feral the second you show up.”

“You’re welcome,” Sirius deadpans, shoving past him.

Remus gets up to follow, casting Regulus an awkward, apologetic glance on his way out.

*

Sirius is already slouched in the driver’s seat of Remus’s truck, fiddling with the keys. Remus opens the door, leans in without a word and plucks the keys straight out of the ignition.

“Nice try.”

Sirius groans but climbs over into the passenger seat without protest. Remus scoots into the driver’s seat, puts the keys back into the ignition and starts the truck.

Once they’re on the road, Sirius throws his legs up on the dashboard and reaches for the aux cord and starts scrolling through his phone. After a few moments, music blares from the speakers—something heavy, almost melancholic.

Remus immediately switches it off. “I’m driving.”

Sirius narrows his eyes and flips the music back on. “I’m in the passenger seat—the designated DJ seat.”

“It’s my truck,” Remus says, switching it back off again without looking away from the road.

“But it’s I Prevail,” Sirius argues, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I know you like them. You told me so.”

Remus glances at him out of the corner of his eye but says nothing. Sirius looks very smug, Remus has no rebuttal, and Sirius knows it, so he leaves him be when he switches it back on and turns up the volume.

Satisfied, Sirius leans back in his seat. Remus groans quietly when the aggressive beat kicks in—apparently it's some type of metal cover of Taylor Swift’s Blank Space. Of course it is. (Don’t ask how Remus knows this.)

Remus shoots Sirius another sideways glance, he bobs his head to the beat, looking insufferably pleased with himself, a sly smile tugs at Remus’s lips.

Ain't it funny? Rumors fly
And I know you heard about me
So hey, let's be friends
I'm dying to see how this one ends
Grab your passport and my hand
I can make the bad guys good for a weekend

Sirius lowers his legs, leans over and turns the volume down, his movements are slow, more deliberate. “When you were gone last year—” he starts. “Where were you?” His voice is softer than usual, less biting, almost curious.

Remus doesn’t look at him. “Busy.” His answer is clipped, practiced, he’s deflecting.

Sirius doesn’t let it drop. “Were you really in jail?” His tone is teasing, but Remus thinks to hear a flicker of genuine interest behind it again. 

He smirks despite himself, he’s very aware of all the rumors. “Maybe.”

Sirius twists in his seat, tugs one leg underneath himself, fully facing Remus now. “No, you weren’t,” he declares, his expression somewhere between smug and skeptical. He lets his head tilt to the side, watching him closely.

“Then why’d you ask?” Remus keeps his eyes on the road.

“Why’d you lie?” Sirius counters, his gaze steady.

Remus doesn’t answer, instead he reaches for the volume knob, turning the music back up. Sirius doesn’t press further, he leans back and bobbing his head lazily to the beat.

'Cause you know I love the players
And you love the game
'Cause we're young, and we're reckless
We'll take this way too far
It'll leave you breathless,
Or with a nasty scar

They ride without speaking for a while longer, the music shifting to something Remus doesn’t recognize.

“I should do this,” Sirius says suddenly.

“Do what?”

“This.” He gestures toward the stereo.

“Music? Start a band? Cover pop hits for weddings?”

Sirius snorts, but there’s no real amusement behind it. “My uncle would throw a fit.”

“Over the band or the weddings?”

“Both. All of it. Music, a band—whatever.”

“You don’t strike me as the type who asks for permission,” Remus says with a sidelong glance.

Sirius tilts his head, almost like he’s sizing him up. “Oh, so now you think you know me?”

Remus hums. “I’m gettin’ there.”

Sirius slumps back into the seat, turning his gaze out the window. “The only thing people know about me is that I’m scary,” he says, his voice oddly quiet, almost vulnerable.

Remus glances over—Sirius doesn’t look scary at all right now. His hair, still slightly damp, falls in soft waves. He’s practically swallowed by Remus’s oversized sweater, which makes him look smaller somehow, almost fragile. The passing streetlights carve fleeting patterns of light and shadow across his face, making it appear softer, unguarded. He looks small. Lost.

Remus feels a smile tug at his lips but quickly suppresses it and forces his gaze back to the road. He clears his throat to mask the lump suddenly lodged there. “Yeah—well, I’m no picnic myself.”

He looks back over at Sirius only to find him already looking at him. They hold each other's gaze and exchange a long moment. And for the first time, Remus feels like they’re on the same wavelength, sharing something real. Like Sirius is realizing in real time, that they’ve both crafted the same tough exterior for different reasons.

*

Remus pulls into the driveway of Grimmauld Place and kills the engine. He looks up at the house.

“So, what’s the deal with your uncle? He a pain in the ass?”

Sirius exhales sharply, it sounds more tired than annoyed. “No. He’s just… overprotective.” He pauses, like he’s weighing whether to say more. “He took care of us—Reggie and me—when our parents bailed. I don’t really wanna get into it. But I was a menace back then. Still am, I guess. Alphard just wants me to be like someone I’m not.”

“Who?”

“Like Regulus.” Sirius drops his gaze, picking at a loose thread on the hem of the sweater.

Remus twists in his seat, looking at him. “No offense, but your brother’s kind of a little brat. I know everyone loves him or whatever, but…”

Sirius glances up sharply, surprise flickering across his face, followed by something softer. He turns toward Remus, his movements slow, deliberate. “You know…” His voice drops, almost like he’s confiding something precious. “You’re not as vile as I thought you were.”

The shift in Sirius’s tone catches Remus off guard, and before he can react, Sirius leans closer. Their faces are suddenly inches apart, and Remus’s chest tightens. The closeness is suddenly intoxicating and the air between them seems charged.

Remus wants to give into it. He wants to crash their lips together, kiss Sirius senseless until neither of them can breathe. Heat curls low in his stomach, pooling there like fire. He wants to reach up and hold Sirius’s face in his hands, wants to pull him closer, grab his hair and tilt his head back to expose that long, pale throat. He wants to press his mouth to the delicate skin there. Mark him up with bruises. Claim him in the only way he knows how. He wants to know all the pretty sounds that would slip from Sirius’s mouth. He wants to see Sirius come undone by the touch of his hands. He wants it so, so bad.

He wants to do all the fucking vile things to him right here, in the front seat of his truck, parked in his uncle’s driveway. But then, suddenly, the acrid smell of alcohol on Sirius’s breath crashes through the moment like a sledgehammer, and for a split second, Remus is able to think clearly. Not like this.

He pulls back, quickly. “Right. Well…” He stares out the front window, his hands clutch the steering wheel, like it’s his lifeline, his knuckles going white. “I’ll see you at school.” His words come out clipped, because he is forcing his voice to sound casual, despite his heart racing in his chest.

Sirius freezes for half a second, before his expression hardens, turning hostile. He shoves the door open, slamming it shut behind him with enough force to make Remus wince. He stalks up the walkway, his movements sharp and furious, disappearing into the house without looking back.

In the agonizing silence that follows, Remus drops his head against the headrest with a dull thud. He runs his hands over his face and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. Waiting for the feeling still twisting viciously in his stomach to subside. 

Being reasonable fucking sucks.

Regulus 

Regulus steps out of the front door with Evan, the cool night air hits him like a slap after the stuffy air in the crowded house. It smells faintly of rain, the pavement gleaming under porch lights. The front lawn is dotted with people, others clustered near the porch railing, smoking and laughing. The bass from inside spills out, pulsing faintly in the background.

The neighbors haven’t called the cops yet—surprisingly—or at least the party hasn’t been shut down. Not yet, anyway.

Barty appears behind them, stumbling out of the house with a drink in hand. He shoves himself between them, slinging an arm around each of their necks. A splash of something cold and sticky hits Regulus’s shoulder.

“Malfoy’s throwing an afterparty,” Barty announces, his grin sharp, as usual, but his eyes are glassy. “A bunch of us are heading over. You in?”

Regulus hesitates, he feels Evan glance his way, but he doesn’t look back, his eyes stay locked on Barty. His stomach twists uncomfortably.

He pulls out his phone to check the time: It’s already after 11 PM. His window to get home in time is already thin. Not enough time for detours—Alphard finally let him go to a real party—he’s not going to push his luck now.

“I can’t,” he says evenly, shaking his head and shoves his phone back into his pocket. “I’ve got to be home in twenty minutes.”

Barty raises an eyebrow, smirk widening, like he’s heard the funniest thing all night. “What are you like… twelve?” But before Regulus can snap at him, Evan jumps in, a little too eager.

“I don’t have to be home ’til two.”

Regulus turns his head sharply toward him, clenching his jaw. Oh, aren’t we eager? he thinks, his stomach tightening further. Of course you don’t.

“Well then.” Barty lets his arm drop from Regulus’s shoulder and slides it around Evan’s waist instead. “C’mon.” His tone is dismissive, like Regulus is no longer part of the equation.

“Maybe next time,” Barty throws over his shoulder as he steers Evan back inside the house.

And just like that, they’re gone.

Regulus stands there, frozen for a moment, as he feels the anger rise—hot and fast, it’s a tangled mess—aimed at Barty for blowing him off, at Evan for following so easily, and at himself for even caring. 

Whatever.He doesn’t need them. Except, Evan was supposed to be his ride home, but now? He also has no idea where his shit-faced brother is—probably off with Lupin, doing god-knows-what. So now, Regulus is not only left behind, alone but a twenty-minute drive has turned into an hour-long walk. 

The corners of his eyes sting, he blinks it away quickly. Straightens his spine, squares his shoulders and stuffs his hands into his pockets. Doesn’t matter, he tells himself. He takes a deep breath. Alphard’s going to be furious when he gets home after midnight, he will probably ground him until he’s thirty. 

And in that exact moment, James pushes past him, but stops when he sees Regulus standing alone. He walks back over and says slightly accusatory “Had fun tonight?”

“Tons” Regulus replies dryly and James nods and walks on. Regulus starts walking in the opposite direction. 

On top of it all rain starts falling again—like in a fucking movie—perfect, simply terrific.

*

It’s dark. The rain is falling harder now, soaking through Regulus’s T-shirt, sinking deep into his skin. His feet are cold and ache from dancing. And his thoughts start to spiral, a vicious mix of anger and self-loathing. 

Barty is dull and egotistical—why did he even bother with him? Why does Evan bother? Evan, who left him behind like it was nothing. Though, he’s angriest at himself, for caring, for spiraling, for being this way. He deserves this, right? Walking home alone in the dark, drenched and cold, his curfew blown to hell. He deserves to get grounded. He deserves the bronchitis that’s probably already setting in.

Headlights sweep over him from behind, and an SUV slows to match his pace. The window rolls down, and James leans over from the driver’s seat.

“Get in.”

“No, thank you,” Regulus mutters, keeping his eyes fixed forward.

James keeps the car rolling at walking speed, his voice sharp with frustration. “Stop being like this, Regulus. It’s dark, it’s raining, and I’m not letting you walk home like this. Stop being so stubborn and get in the bloody car!”

“Don’t talk to me like that, James!” Regulus snaps, stepping squarely into a puddle. Water splashes up his leg, soaking his sneakers. “Fuck!” He keeps walking, now wetter and even more agitated.

James groans, gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing his mind. “You’re being stupid!”

“How charming,” Regulus mutters, not even sparing him a glance.

“It’s an hour-long walk—”

“I know! That’s why I’m not stopping to chat!”

“It’s freezing—”

“It’s June, James. Don't be an idiot.”

“And if some creep grabs you—”

“You’re a creep!”

James slams his palm against the steering wheel. “I’ll never forgive myself!” he shouts.

“As if you care,” Regulus shoots back.

James exhales sharply, exasperated. “Just get in already! Do you realize how ridiculous it is to drive at walking speed next to you? Because that’s the plan, Regulus. For the rest of the way. Unless you stop being the most stubborn person on the planet and get in the damn car.”

Regulus stops, arms crossed tightly over his chest, glaring at James through the rain. The water drips from his hair, trailing down his neck in cold lines. “You’re so annoying.”

James softens, his grip on the steering wheel loosening. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry, okay? I’m annoying and idiotic and a creep. But I care. You can keep insulting me the whole way, if you want to, but will you please just get in?” James leans over and opens the door. “Please?”

His words sting more than they should. Regulus exhales sharply, looking anywhere but at James. Why does he have to be the nice, golden boy now, after Regulus has been such an ass? It’s unfair.

“Fine. Whatever.” Regulus yanks the door open, gets into the passenger seat and slams it shut behind him.

The ride starts in silence, only the rain pelts against the windows. Regulus stares out at the blur of streetlights, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“I looked for you back at the party, you know. But you always seemed occupied.” James says suddenly. 

Regulus feigns innocence. “Was I?”

“You never wanted to go out with me, did you?” James’s voice is quiet, tinged with something raw that makes Regulus flinch.

He hesitates, biting his lip. “Well…”

“Then that’s all you had to say.”

“But—”

“You always been this selfish?” James’s voice cuts like a knife.

Yes. The answer is yes, he has. Of course, yes. How could he not? With Sirius as a brother—Sirius, who demanded attention no matter what he did, no matter who he hurt—simply by being the rebellious fuck-up. Regulus had always been the afterthought, the shadow, the forgotten one. Selfishness wasn’t a choice.

But he doesn’t say any of that. He just stays quiet, staring out at the rain.

James turns up the volume of the music. Neither of them says another word, so the rest of the drive passes tensely.

I wounded the good and I trusted the wicked
Clearing the air, I breathed in the smoke
Maybe you ran with the wolves and refused to settle down
Maybe I've stormed out of every single room in this town
Threw out our cloaks and our daggers because it's morning now

James pulls up in front of the house and cuts the engine. The music dies, leaving them in the quiet patter of the rain against the car. Regulus reaches for the door handle, but James’s voice stops him.

“You know, just because you’re beautiful doesn’t mean you can treat people like they don’t matter.”

The words land like another punch but this time James sounds genuinely hurt, and Regulus falters, his hand still on the door. He turns and looks at James.

Really looks at him. James’s hair is soft and messy. His glasses are slightly fogged—because he had turned up the heating so Regulus wouldn’t freeze. They’ve slipped down his nose, but he doesn’t push them up. His fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white and his eyes stay fixed forward. His brow slightly furrows and he bites his bottom lip, like he’s trying to solve a complex math problem.

“I mean, I really liked you, okay?” James’s voice trembles slightly, but he doesn’t stop. The words pour out, messy and raw. So brave. “I defended you when people called you conceited. I helped you when you asked me to. Fuck—sorry, but I even learned French for you, and then… you just blow me off, so—”

Regulus surges forward, cutting him off. His hands grab James’s face, cold fingers press against flushed cheeks as he kisses him. 

James jerks back in surprise, his eyes go wide for a moment—but then he dives back in. His hands find their way to Regulus’s face, warm and steady, his lips pressing back into his.

It’s nothing like Barty’s kiss.

James’s tongue gently grazes Regulus’s lips, seeking, testing, and Regulus sighs softly as he parts his lips to let him in. James’s hand slides to the nape of his neck, anchoring him close, deliberate and sure.

Barty kissed like he was devouring—wild and hungry, but distant, like his mind was somewhere else. Like Regulus was something to be consumed and discarded, meaningless.

James, though—James kisses him like he’s everything. Like he’s determined to know every part of Regulus, to leave no corner unexplored and memorize him. And Regulus would let him. Wants him to even. Needs him to.

He pulls James closer, something possessive and selfish flares in his chest. A soft whimper escapes his lips, and he feels a pang of shame for wanting too much again.

But he wants. More. So much more.

It’s as if James knows—he tilts his head and kisses him harder, deeper, in the best way possible and Regulus feels like his heart is about to break out of his ribcage.

That didn’t happen when Barty kissed him. It’s just like… James.

Chapter Text

Sirius 

Week 2, Monday Morning

Sirius is desperately trying to shove every lingering memory of Friday night—the bits he can recall—out of his mind. He buries his face in his book, as the rest of the class trickles in.

“Black, mate, nice stunt!” Malfoy slaps a hand on his shoulder, giving it a rough squeeze. Sirius shrugs him off without looking up, he wants to sink into the ground and disintegrate.

Next, Barty of all people, strolls in—all swagger, and drops into the seat next to Malfoy, wolf-whistling. “You were on fire, Black.”

Sirius can't remember much, but the fragments he does recall leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Barty and Reggie. Tequila. Way too much tequila. The way Remus’s eyes watched him all night, like something unholy. Vomit. And that mortifying moment in the car he wishes he could just erase. 

The bright idea to jump off the roof into the pool—completely naked, no less—and hitting his head in the process, is mercifully gone. But the reaction of his classmates and the viral TikTok, that was sent to him several times over the weekend, force him to relive it again and again and again, from a cruel third-person perspective.

The rest of the evening is a blur. He woke up the next morning with a splitting headache, a brutal hangover, and wearing Remus’s sweater, which was soft and smelled just like him. That was the worst part, honestly.

Sirius’s stomach twists. This is so fucking humiliating. Throwing himself out the window suddenly feels like a very good idea.

Ms. Meadowes strides into the room and drops her bag onto the desk. “Well, now. Did everyone have a good weekend?” she asks, cheerfully oblivious.

The door creaks open behind her, Sirius glances up and watches as Remus slips in—late, head down, making his way to his usual seat in the back row. Sirius quickly looks down again—anywhere, everywhere, just not at him.

Barty doesn’t miss it. He spins in his chair, his smirk saccharine, angled toward the back row. “Oh, maybe we should ask Lupin.”

This is getting worse by the second.

“Unless he kicked the crap out of your dumb butt, I don’t want to hear it,” Ms. Meadowes snaps, shooting Barty a pointed glare. Then, as if remembering herself, she clears her throat. “Alright, let’s get to it. Open your books to page 73, please—Sonnet 141.”

The class rustles with the sound of flipping pages, a collective wave of apathy settling over the room.

Ms. Meadowes clears her throat and begins reciting.

“In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But ‘tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote;”

No, Sirius thinks bitterly, because who would be so stupid?

Who would fall for someone so awkward and gangly, all sharp elbows and knees, moving like he doesn’t quite know how long his limbs really are. Dressed in secondhand sweaters and flannels, stretched and faded, worn-out baggy jeans hanging off of him, not cool or effortless, rather careless. Messy hair that refuses to be tamed. And that ridiculous scar—cutting across a face covered in freckles, imperfections scattered like a map.

It’s not rugged or charming. Not at all. And yet—

And yet—something treacherous aches in Sirius’s chest. Why would his heart—or anyone's—ignore all the obvious flaws and still… dote ?

Stupid word. Stupid feelings. 

He grips the edges of his book, trying to crush the thought.

“Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:”

What could possibly be alluring about Remus anyway? He’s boring, not smart, not funny—not at all.

His dry sarcasm isn’t clever—it’s irritating. His rare moments of quiet insight aren’t profound—they’re pretentious, surely. The way his infuriating deep voice wraps around the sound when he says Sirius’s name? Sirius hardly even notices.
Except he does. He notices everything.

The way Remus held him Friday night—the warmth of his touch. Sirius doesn’t think about that. (Imagine wanting those lanky limbs wrapped around you, like he owns you.) No thank you. Remus’s presence isn’t comforting—it’s dull.
The half-smile that sometimes plays at the corner of Remus’s mouth? It doesn’t do a damn thing to Sirius either.

Right. He doesn’t want any of it. None of it.

“But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be.”

The ache in Sirius’s chest grows sharper. It's a vicious, unrelenting pain that spreads to every corner of his chest, leaving him breathless. How did he let this happen? Letting these feelings crawl under his skin, take root, and thrive. He’s been a fool—falling for Remus Lupin—quiet, complicated Remus, impossibly good at making Sirius feel like an idiot…

The memory hits again like a slap—Remus’s face so close, Sirius leaning in, that disastrous almost-kiss. What the hell was he thinking? 

Pathetic. Lovesick fool. Can’t even control my own damn emotions. 

So deep in, it’s suffocating. He can’t even fight it—it’s all too much. It’s not even fair.

“Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.”

The pain twists and tightens in his chest, relentless and unforgiving. This is what he gets. Falling for someone who doesn’t, couldn’t , feel the same. Someone who doesn’t even try but somehow still manages to unravel him.

He knows this has been going on for a while. His heart has been whispering, even when he pretended not to hear.

He wants to hate Remus for it—for everything. But he can’t. Not when he’s so fucking funny —funny in a way that makes Sirius laugh until it hurts. Not when he’s sharp and thoughtful, effortlessly pulling Sirius in. Not when Sirius longs for more, for every word, every secret, every fleeting glance of those amber eyes.

He's effortlessly handsome, too. Sirius wants him, needs him, in every way imaginable. Anything he would give him, Sirius is willing to take. 

There's a cruel, twisted satisfaction in all the pain and chaos he's gotten himself into, though. Remus makes him feel alive and broken at the same time. 

That’s the worst part—the part that makes him nauseous. Not the lies he tells himself. But the truth.

Ms. Meadowes’s voice cuts sharply through Sirius’s self-loathing spiral.

“Now, I know Shakespeare is a dead white guy. But let me tell you, he knows his shit.” She pauses, her eyes flick sideways at Sirius with a knowing smirk, before they proceed to scan the rest of the class. “I want you all to write your own version of this sonnet. Take his theme, make it yours, and elaborate.”

The classroom groans in collective misery, but Sirius calmly raises his hand.

“Yes, Mr. I-have-an-opinion-about-everything?” she says without even bothering to look at him, picking up a stack of papers.

“Do you want us to use a specific rhyme scheme or meter?”

The question makes her stop mid-shuffle with the papers. “You’re not gonna fight me on this?” she asks, eyebrows arching in mild disbelief.

“No,” Sirius says with an almost unnerving sincerity. “I think it’s a really good assignment.”

Ms. Meadowes blinks at him, clearly waiting for the punchline. When none comes, she chuckles, shaking her head. “You’re just messing with me, aren’t you?”

“No,” he says again, voice steady. He leans back in his chair with a faint, rueful smile. “I’m really looking forward to writing this.”

*

“You went to the party?” Marlene asks, arching a skeptical brow and holding up her phone that loops the TikTok of him jumping. He swats her hand away and keeps walking to their next class. “I thought we were officially opposed to suburban social activity? You know, on moral grounds.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Sirius groans, running a hand through his hair.

“Ohhh, you didn’t have a choice?” Marlene’s tone is dripping with mockery, as she puts her phone away. “Where’s Sirius Black, and what have you done to him?”

“I did Regulus a favor. It backfired.” he sighs.

Marlene stops in her tracks, turning to stare at him. “You didn’t.”

“I did.” Sirius exhales, his gaze distant. “I got drunk. I jumped off a roof—naked. I puked. I got rejected. It was… big fun.”

Marlene narrows her eyes, clearly trying to process all the information he just unloaded on her. Before she can say anything, Remus strides past them, his bag slung casually over one shoulder. 

He glances Sirius’s way, and for a fleeting moment, their eyes meet.

“Hey,” Remus says softly, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Sirius freezes. His heart stutters, then seems to stop entirely, his chest tightening like a vice. His mind scrambles desperately for something to say—anything—instead, he spins on his heel and bolts, weaving through the crowded hallway.

Marlene 

In favor of sitting through sophomore English, Marlene skipped another of her actual classes—pathetic, as usual. She lingers after class, taking her time collecting her things. Everyone else already left, the classroom is empty, save for her—and Ms. Meadowes.

“Hey there,” Marlene startles slightly. Ms. Meadowes walked up to her desk, apparently—she didn’t even notice.

“Hi.” Marlene glances up, offering a shy smile, hoping it doesn’t look as awkward as it feels.

“It was your birthday yesterday, wasn’t it?”

Marlene blinks, caught off guard. How does she know? “Yeah. I guess.” She shrugs, looking back down at her notebook, suddenly self-conscious.

“Happy belated birthday, then. Eighteen. Big deal, huh?”

Marlene’s eyes snap up, studying her face. She is so gorgeous, and there is something about her voice—it's light but measured. It makes her chest feel tight. “You think?” she manages, trying to sound unaffected.

“Oh, absolutely,” Ms. Meadowes assures. Her lips curve into a sly smile as she leans down. She tilts her head, peering at Marlene through her long lashes.

Marlene opens her mouth to answer, but the words get stuck. What should she even say? Is this normal? Is she a normal human? How do humans move and talk? Oh god. Her eyelashes are so pretty. Suddenly, every nerve in Marlene’s body is focused on the small distance between them. Is Ms. Meadowes even aware of the effect she has on her?

Ms. Meadowes’s expression softens and a small, private smile plays around her lips. 

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;
And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind.”

Marlene's breath catches. Her pulse quickens, pounding loudly and irregularly in her ears. Her brain stumbles over itself trying to process.

Is this happening? Love? Cupid? Is Ms. Meadowes really quoting Shakespeare to her?

“That's...” Marlene stammers, feeling a hot flush in her cheeks. A wave of giddy panic washes over her. Her brain short-circuits. Shuts down. Reboots.

“A Midsummer Night's Dream, right?” she blurts out. Where did that come from?

“Right,” Ms. Meadowes says, her voice soft, almost amused. Her gaze lingers, a knowing glint dancing in her dark eyes. “I’m Dorcas, by the way.”

Dorcas. The name unfolds in Marlene's mind, elegant and meaningful. It feels so intimate to hear her first name like that—and a little dangerous too. Marlene's stomach flutters excitedly.

James 

Week 2, Tuesday

Remus sits on the bleachers, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, gazing out over the field. James follows his gaze, the football team is practicing (Sirius, among others). He’s moving with his usual intensity. James plops down next to Remus, he leans back casually, stretches out his legs. Remus just glances at him sideways.

“I think I’ll join the team next year,” he announces, his tone deliberately light. He looks at Remus, gauging his reaction. “I was on the rugby team back at my old school. Football seems milder, but I think I’d make the cut.”

Remus doesn’t reply. His eyes stay fixed on the field, following Sirius’s movements as he practices passes.

James clears his throat, shifting awkwardly in his seat. “He just needs time to cool off,” he says, attempting to sound reassuring. “I’ll give it a day.”

A football comes hurtling toward them, narrowly missing their heads. Both of them duck instinctively.

“Maybe two,” James mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

Remus finally turns to look at him, his expression tired and guarded. “No. I’ve got a sweet-paying job which I’m about to lose,” he mutters.

James frowns, his concern shifting. “What’d you do to him?”

“I don’t know.” Remus exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I mean—I didn’t do anything! I decided not to nail him when he was too drunk to remember it.”

James blinks, taken aback. “But the plan was working. You realize this puts the whole operation at risk, right?”

“No shit,” Remus snaps, gesturing toward the field. Sirius is running drills, his back turned toward them, deliberately ignoring their direction. “He won’t even look at me.”

James leans forward, determined to help, resting his elbows on his knees. “Why can’t you just tell him you’re sorry?” 

Remus shoots him a withering look that clearly says ‘Not an option’. Then, with a sharp edge to his voice, he says, “Wait. Why do you care?” He leans toward James, his voice rising. “I thought you wanted out.”

“Yeah, well, I did, but uh…” James admits, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, he can’t help it. “That was before he kissed me.”

Remus’s eyebrows shoot up. He blinks once, then a slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. “Where?”

“In the car,” James says dreamily, his thoughts drifting to Regulus. Holding his pretty face, kissing him—the softness of his lips, the quiet, breathy sighs. He’s utterly besotted with this boy.

“No, I meant—” Remus cuts in then pauses, shaking his head with a soft laugh. “Never mind.”

James holds his gaze for a moment, his grin widening. Then, impulsively, he slings an arm around Remus’s shoulders, pulling him into a loose, brotherly side hug. After all, it was Remus who gave him the courage to keep trying.

Remus stiffens at first, clearly caught off guard. But then, after a moment of hesitation, he relaxes, letting out a long, tired sigh.

James grins smugly at himself. He keeps his arm there, as they both watch the field.

Evan 

Coach Hooch patrols the tennis courts, her watchful eyes scanning for any sign of slacking. Evan and Regulus are paired up, half-heartedly rallying the ball back and forth. Regulus carefully lines up his next serve, focused.

“Hey there, Ace.”

Regulus swings, with a powerful overhead motion, too hard, the ball smacks into the net. He sighs, leveling a cool look at… “Barty.”

Evan slowly walks over to retrieve the ball, watching silently from the other side of the court. His eyes track Barty, who stops just short of Regulus, leaning in with that infuriating tilt of his head. 

"You’re concentrating awfully hard considering it’s gym class,” Barty says, lips curling into a practiced smirk. “But you look cute doing it.”

Christ. We're really putting ourselves out there, aren't we? It hurts to watch, that fake charm, the tilt of his head, that damn half-smile—that's textbook Barty. It’s getting boring at this point, but he always gets away with it. 

Bastard. Evan presses his lips together as he slowly turns to return to his position behind the serving line, listening intently.

“Can I help you?” Regulus’s tone is sharp.

“So, listen.” Barty’s voice softens, brushing past the formality. “I wanted to talk to you about prom.”

“Look, you know the deal. I can’t go if Sirius doesn’t—”

“Your brother is going,” Barty cuts in.

It’s almost convincing, the way his tone softens just enough to sound sincere. 

“Since when?” Regulus seems surprised—he grimaces and watches Barty skeptically.

“Let’s just say I’m taking care of it.” Barty tosses the words over his shoulder, already confidently strolling away.

*

Evan rummages in his gym bag to stow his racket and tennis balls. Right behind him, in the bleachers, Remus is discussing with Barty.

“I don’t know, Crouch… the limo, the flowers. Another hundred for the tux—”

“Cut the crap, Lupin. I know—Sirius is… special .” Barty pulls out a wad of cash and hands it to Remus with a flourish, who accepts it with a smile.

Evan freezes, his fingers clench around the handle of his racket, his mind begins to reel. Barty is paying Lupin to take Sirius to the prom—for Regulus, he concludes. The sudden jealousy rises up in him, like bile, biting and bitter. 

He suddenly wonders what damage the racket could do to Barty's temple. After all, Evan has a powerful serve.

Reg is exactly Barty’s type. Shy, eager, demanding—virgin. He knows exactly how this will end. Barty will chew Reg up, spit him out, and walk away once he gets bored. Like it’s a game to him. Always a fucking game.

You fucking asshole. You don’t even want him. Not really. You’re just bored.

Evan tells himself that it's okay to be angry—for Regulus’s sake, because he's his best friend, right? He should protect him, should intervene, somehow.

And yet… Evan swallows hard, his throat dry. It’s repulsive.  God, I hate you.

*

The door swings open silently as Evan walks into the locker room. It’s empty and quiet, except for the steady drip of water from the showerheads and Barty. Who stands in the far corner, hunched over his gym bag, a towel slung low around his hips, water trailing down his back in lazy rivulets.

Evan wants to storm in, grab him, shove him against the lockers. He doesn’t. Instead, he grits his teeth, his hands tighten into fists as the anger twists into a knot low in his stomach.

“So, you’re taking Reg to prom?” His voice cuts through the stillness.

Barty doesn’t even flinch. He turns slowly, the ghost of a smirk already tugging at his lips. Sharp and calculating, his gaze lands on Evan; he doesn’t look surprised to see him here. Not at all. Fucker.

“Eavesdropping again, Rosier?”

Evan strides forward. “You think playing the nice guy and handing out cash to Lupin will get you what you want? Does Reg know about that?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“What’s the plan, Barty? Use Lupin to get Sirius out of the way, sweep Regulus off his feet, fuck him once, then dump him the second you’re bored?”

“And why do you care?” Barty leans back against the lockers, casual and unbothered. His mouth finally splits into a smug grin. “Jealous?”

Evan is on him in an instant, slams his hand against the locker beside Barty’s head. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he growls, his breathing shallow as he leans closer. “He’s my best friend.”

Barty just tilts his head, the smirk deepening. “If he’s your best friend, should you be here? With me?”

He reaches for the hem of Evan’s shorts, his fingers curling around the waistband just enough to tease.

“Should you’ve stayed with me, after the party? Should we have done the things we did?”

Evan surges forward and shoves him back. Barty’s back meets the locker with a dull thud. For a moment, Evan blinks, momentarily surprised by his own force.

Barty’s older, sure, but Evan is taller and stronger, which always gives him an advantage when it comes to this. And Barty is easily strong enough to push him off if he wanted to—but he doesn’t. He never does.

Instead, he leans into it, the smirk never leaving his face. “You’re so predictable. What’s the matter, Evan?”

Evan’s fingers tighten around Barty’s shoulders, pinning him in place. His thigh presses firmly between Barty’s legs, and the towel slips lower.

Barty’s fingers still hover over the waistband of Evan’s shorts, lightly ghosting over the skin there. Teasing.

“Don’t,” Evan warns, but his voice wavers, betrays him. His hand slides to Barty’s throat, slender fingers curling around the damp skin there.

“Don’t what?” Barty’s voice drops to a low purr, his lips parting slightly as he leans into Evan’s hand. “Don’t touch you? Don’t want you?”

His eyes are dark—wild and hungry—searching for something in Evan’s face.

“Or don’t make you admit you still want me?”

He’s right. And it’s disgusting.

They didn’t go to Malfoy’s after Lockhart’s party. Instead, they fucked in Barty’s car.

It was the first time since… well, since everything went to shit.

And now it’s all too much, alright? The way Barty kissed Regulus. And this whole charade these past couple of weeks. Evan told himself it was fine, they could keep things casual this time.

Apparently, that’s not working out so great.

Because now he’s here. And Barty’s half-naked. And the jealousy is eating Evan alive. And he’s already—

Evan grabs a fistful of Barty’s hair, yanks hard. Barty hisses but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets his head fall back, challenge in his eyes. 

Evan feels a surge of revulsion—and desire—at how much he wants him like this: snarky, taunting, begging for more. “You’re fucking pathetic,” he hisses, his voice cold, trembling slightly because of how on edge he is already.

“Maybe,” Barty breathes, lips curling into something between a smirk and a plea. “But I’m yours.”

The sharp crack of skin meeting skin slices through the silent locker room like a blade. For a moment, he freezes, watches as blood rushes into Barty’s flushed cheek, staining it pretty pink.

Evan’s palm stings with heat, the sensation prickling in his fingertips. His chest heaving, his breath comes out ragged, as he glares down at Barty, suddenly unsure if he’s crossed a line.

But then Barty’s knees buckle, he lets himself sink to the floor slowly. Kneeling before Evan, one hand trails up his thigh, he places it there firmly, bracing himself for balance; the other curls around the waistband of Evan’s shorts, tugging with intent. 

His eyes stay locked on Evan’s, unflinching and burning, blown so fucking wide, like he’s high. His mouth falls open and his lips part slightly. His tongue darts out, licking over his bottom lip. He looks utterly wrecked. His hair is a mess, cheeks are flushed, lips glistening—exactly how Evan wants him. 

“Someone will walk in on us,” Evan mumbles, his breath catching.

“So?” Barty’s grin sharpens, turning manic. He presses his face to Evan’s crotch, mouthing at the strained fabric. His cock throbs with the friction, betrays him.

“Stop it.” Evan hisses, but there’s no weight behind his words.

“Make me.” Barty’s tone is feral now, his eyes dark and wild.

God, Evan hates how much he loves it when he gets like this.

He moves his hand up, almost instinctively, brushing his fingers over Barty’s cheek. The skin is still hot where he slapped him, and Barty leans into the touch, whimpering softly. Evan drags his thumb over Barty’s swollen bottom lip. “Open,” he instructs, his voice low and commanding.

Barty obeys without hesitation. His lips part. His mouth falls open. His tongue darts out, expectant. Evan presses his thumb to it, and Barty’s mouth closes around him, hot and wet. He lets his tongue move lazily, swirling around the pad of Evan’s thumb as if savoring it.

The sound Barty makes as his eyes flutter shut—it’s a mix between a whimper and a moan—sends a shiver down Evan’s spine. He closes his eyes too, his head tilting back slightly as heat coils low in his stomach.

He pulls his hand away with a soft, wet pop, and Barty immediately chases the touch, whining softly, with pleading eyes.

“Need you,” Barty rasps, his voice hoarse, his grip tightening on Evan’s thigh.

“Who are you taking to prom?” Evan whispers like it’s a secret. His voice cracks. It’s not a question—it’s a demand.

“You.” Barty doesn’t hesitate, and the sincerity in his voice cuts through Evan. It’s raw, unguarded—too real.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You, Evan. I’m yours. Always.”

Evan steps back abruptly, shaking his head. “What about Regulus?”

“Fuck him,” Barty spits as he rises to his feet. “You know it’s not about him.”

Evan scoffs, though his chest tightens. “Then why set this whole thing up? Why pay Lupin to go out with Sirius if it’s not to get to Reg?”

“Evan.” Barty’s voice drops, the smirk fading from his face. “It was always about you. Only you.”

“Fuck Barty, why do you have to be such an asshole all the time?”

“I don’t care about him.” Barty’s gaze locks with Evan’s, his voice steady and firm.

The weight of his words makes Evan waver. He takes another step back, and Barty follows until Evan’s back bumps against the lockers behind him. For a moment, the anger and jealousy give way to something softer. But the intensity of it—the depth of Barty’s feelings—is too much. 

It always was—is.

“Yes, Barty, that’s exactly the fucking problem, you never care about anyone else, but you, do you?”

“No.” Barty chuckles. His dark eyes look up at him. “What I care about—all I care about is how riled up you are right now. How it all fucks with your head. How I’m still able to fuck with you, while you pretend you’re not bothered. Look at you—all cocky and possessive. You’re here. For me. Thinking I want Reg when what I really want is you, Ev.”

“Fuck you, Barty.” Evan shakes his head, ducks away and takes a step toward the door. “You’re a mess.”

“Yes, Ev, I’m a mess. Because of you. Look at us—” Barty’s voice rises, tinged with desperation. “You’re a mess too. For me. Don’t pretend you’re not.”

“Fuck off,” Evan hisses, pushing through the door.

“Evan, please.” Barty’s voice follows him, echoing down the empty hall. “We’re not done. You know it.”

And Evan knows.

Remus 

Week 2, Wednesday Afternoon

Remus finds Sirius browsing the poetry section of the library. He peers through a gap in the books from the other side of the shelf. Sirius is focused, his fingers brushing the spines of the books, scanning the titles like he’s searching for something. He can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his face.

“Excuse me,” Remus says, his voice dripping with faux innocence, “Have you seen The Order of Things ? I think I lost my copy.”

Sirius’s brows knit into a frown as he looks up, clearly annoyed. “What are you doing here?”

Remus strides around the shelf, leaning casually against it beside him. His lips curl into a sly smile. “It’s a public library.”

“You’re so—”

“Lovely?” Remus cuts in, smirking.

Sirius fixes him with a deadpan stare, his jaw tightening as he pivots to leave without a word.

“Handsome?” Remus calls after him, unable to help himself.

“Unwelcome,” Sirius shoots back over his shoulder, his voice stiff and cutting.

Remus trails after him, undeterred. “You’re not as mean as you think you are, you know that?”

Sirius doesn’t stop, just glances at Remus sideways. “And you’re not as badass as you think you are.” 

Remus laughs, quickening his pace to match Sirius’s long strides. “Ooh, someone still has his jock strap in a twist.”

Sirius stops, spinning on his heel to face him, his tone biting. “I hate to disappoint you, but don’t think you have any effect on whatever’s going on inside my pants.”

Remus grins wider, leaning in just slightly as he presses, “Then what did I have an effect on?”

His expression darkens, and he spits out, “Other than my gag reflex? Nothing.”

With a sharp huff, Sirius brushes past him, pushing open the library door and stalking out.

For a moment, Remus stands frozen, staring after him. The grin fades from his face, leaving a sharp edge of frustration. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, typing furiously.

Remus [16:45]:
we have a problem
he’s still pissed
i need your help

Peter [16:45]:
your devotion is nothing more than cowardice

Remus [16:46]:
don’t say shit like that man
what does that even mean?

Peter [16:46]:
no idea, saw it in a movie the other day…

James [16:47]:
look, remus, you embarrassed him 🙈
sacrifice yourself on the altar of dignity
even the score 🤝

Remus [16:47]:
why did i even bother to ask
you’re no help at all

Peter [16:48]:
james, don’t say shit like that
and stop it with the emojis

James [16:48]:
never 😈😈😈

Peter [16:49]:
remus, best case scenario, you’re back on the payroll

Remus [16:50]:
what’s the worst?

Peter [16:50]:
you get the guy…

Remus [16:52]:
if i go down
i’m taking him down with me
i got a plan
are you down?

James [16:53]:
that’s more like it! 👏
we’re in! 💪

Peter [16:53]:
tell us! 👀

Sirius 

Week 2, Thursday Morning

Sirius sits at his desk, tapping his pencil against the corner of his math test paper. The classroom is stiflingly quiet except for the sound of scratching pens and the occasional cough. His focus flickers to Remus’s conspicuously empty seat near the back. Predictable.

From the hallway, a soft, tentative melody begins to filter in. Sirius frowns, looking up. The music grows louder, until the unmistakable sound of a piano suddenly echoes through the classroom speakers. Sirius’s stomach knots with realization.

It’s Everytime We Touch.

But not the dance version—it’s an acoustic cover.

And then, the singing starts.

I still hear your voice when you sleep next to me
I still feel your touch in my dreams

Sirius freezes. That voice is unmistakable. It’s Remus.

Students begin to murmur, heads lifting from their tests. Someone starts to laugh. And others stand up, their teacher is too confused to stop them.

Marlene is already on her feet too. She grabs Sirius by the wrist. “Come on!”

Before he can protest, she’s pulling him out of his chair. The hallway is chaos, students stream out of their classrooms toward the auditorium where the song grows louder.

Forgive me my weakness, but I don't know why
Without you, it's hard to survive

They reach the balcony overlooking the stage. The auditorium below is already packed, students craning their necks and jostling for a view.

On stage, Remus sits at the grand piano, his hands steady on the keys. His head is tilted slightly toward the mic, voice low. Beside him, James strums an acoustic guitar, offering backup vocals.

Peter stands nearby, fiddling with a soundboard hooked into what seems like the school’s entire speaker system—Sirius can’t even begin to imagine how the fuck he was able to pull that off. 

'Cause every time we touch
I get this feeling
And every time we kiss
I swear I can fly

Marlene places a hand over her heart, clearly swooning. Sirius grips the railing, his breath catching as he watches.

Can't you feel my heart beat fast
I want this to last
Need you by my side

Remus glances up and their eyes meet.

Sirius freezes again, his chest tightening. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, as Remus’s expression softens. His smile is small but radiant, and Sirius’s stomach does a flip.

"The good and the bad times. We've been through them all. You make me rise when I fall."

The chorus crescendos, James is harmonizing effortlessly.

"Can't you hear my heart beat so? I can't let you go. Want you in my life."

The room explodes with applause. Students cheer, whistle, and stomp their feet. Sirius exhales, sinking slightly against the railing, his face is burning.

But he’s smiling. Just a little.

Down on the stage, Remus stays seated, his fingers still resting on the piano keys. He doesn’t flinch as Mr. Filch barrels into the auditorium, red-faced and waving a clipboard, barking about school regulations. Ms. McGonagall hurries in behind him, looking no less flustered.

James and Peter bolt immediately, sprinting toward the side door like their lives depend on it.

Remus doesn’t move.

He just looks up, his smile doesn’t falter, his gaze locked on Sirius.

*

Sirius silently opens the door and peeks inside. A few troublemakers are scattered around the room, quietly mulling over their misfortune in detention.

At the back of the room, Remus sits slumped at his desk, arms crossed. Kingsley leans over and whispers, “Nice song, Lupin.”

Remus groans softly, dragging his hand down his face. “Kill me,” he mutters and makes a hand gesture like slicing his throat.

Mr. Filch doesn’t seem to notice—or care. He sits behind his desk, paging through a weightlifting magazine.

Sirius pushes the door open and steps inside, clearing his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Filch?”

Remus’s head snaps up, his eyes widening slightly when he sees Sirius standing in the doorway. Sirius flashes a small smile, and Remus straightens a little in his seat, curiosity piqued.

Filch looks up slowly, his eyes narrowing. “What do you want, Black?”

Sirius strides in, all confidence. “I’d like to state for the record that Mr. Lupin’s current incarceration is entirely unnecessary and a travesty of justice.” he says, smoothly, holding Filch’s gaze. “I never filed a complaint.”

Filch’s glare deepens. “You didn’t have to. He disrupted the exams.”

Sirius glances at Remus, tilting his head slightly toward the window. Remus frowns, mouthing, What? clearly clueless about what Sirius is planning. 

Sirius rolls his eyes and gestures more pointedly, his expression all but shouting, Make a break for it, idiot.

Remus hesitates but starts sliding his chair back cautiously. The others watch, wide-eyed, with gleeful interest as he slowly stands, inching toward the window, his eyes darting between Sirius, Filch and the open space ahead.

Sirius shifts his attention back to Filch, drawing himself up. “But honestly, Mr. Filch, I hardly think a simple serenade warrants a week of detention. There are far more hideous acts than off-key singing being performed by the student body on a regular basis. And yet this—this—is where you draw the line?” He lets the words hang in the air, sweet and mocking.

Remus manages to push the window open and glares down at the tree just a few feet away. He doesn’t look thrilled about his escape route.

“You’re not gonna change my mind, rules are rules, Black.” Filch says, waving his hand dismissively and turning back toward his magazine. “Now, get out of here before you earn yourself a spot in detention too.”

Sirius panics. Remus is almost halfway out the window, and he still hasn’t jumped yet. Sirius doesn’t have much time. He steps closer, placing a hand on Filch’s arm. “Oh my god,” he says, his voice filled with awe. “Your bicep is huge. ” He gives it an exaggerated pat. “And the other one—bigger. You don’t take steroids, do you? I’ve heard they, uh, shrink your… package.” He pauses, feigning a horrified realization. “Not that I’m thinking about your package!” He adds quickly. “That’s not the point.”

Filch’s face turns a fascinating shade of red. “Black, are you—” He clears his throat, flustered. “Let’s hope not!” He chuckles awkwardly, glancing away.

Sirius peeks at Remus, who is still teetering on the edge of the windowsill. His panic spikes. What are you waiting for?

Filch starts to turn toward the window just as Remus checks one last time over his shoulder.

Sirius lunges forward slightly, blocking Filch’s line of sight. “Wait, Mr. Filch!”

Filch looks back at Sirius, visibly annoyed. “What now?”

Sirius’s mind races. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to show you.”

“What?” Filch asks suspiciously.

“This,” Sirius says, yanking down his pants and boxers in one one smooth motion, flashing him with a ridiculous grin as he does so. 

Filch freezes, his mouth agape, blinking at Sirius in stunned silence. Then the room erupts into chaos.

Sirius throws a final glance at the window. There’s a loud rustle of leaves, followed by a muted thud.

“What the—?!” Filch sputters, his face crimson as the students burst with cheers and whoops of laughter. 

“I mean,” Sirius says with mock sincerity, “if yours looks remotely the same, I’d say you’re doing just fine in the package department!”

Filch’s jaw works, but no sound comes out.

Sirius pulls his pants up, smirking as he backs away, stepping toward the door with a flourish. “Well, that’s my cue. Gotta run!”

The troublemakers cheer louder, stomping their feet and hollering as Sirius slips out the door.

*

Sirius jogs into the parking lot, glancing around with a mix of excitement and nerves. He spots Remus leaning casually against his truck, arms crossed, wearing a mischievous grin.

“Took you long enough,” Remus teases. “Thanks for bailing me out. Very cool of you.”

“No problem,” Sirius answers, catching his breath as he walks up to him.

“I thought for sure I was busted when I jumped out that window,” Remus continues, shaking his head in disbelief. “I mean, second floor? Not exactly my first choice for a quick getaway.”

“Yeah, well…” Sirius smirks, “I guess an invisibility cloak would’ve been easier. I’ll bring one next time.”

Remus snorts, giving him a skeptical look. “So, what did you do to keep Filch distracted?”

“I dazzled him with my wit,” Sirius replies, winking. His grin widens mischievously.

Remus narrows his eyes at him, as if trying to read between the lines, but ultimately shrugs and opens the driver’s door. “You wanna get out of here?”

“Absolutely,” Sirius says, hurrying to the passenger side and sliding in.

Remus starts the engine, and they pull out of the parking lot, leaving the school behind.

After a moment, Sirius glances sideways. “ Everytime We Touch? Are you serious?”

Remus smirks without looking away from the road. “No, you are Sirius. Figured it had to be some ridiculous pop cover to win your respect.” He pauses, then adds with a sly grin, “And, you know, piss you off.”

“Solid strategy,” Sirius says, crossing his arms. “Respect earned.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence, and Sirius feels at ease and a little giddy, he had no idea where they were going, but he trusts Remus.

“So, what’s your excuse?”

“For what?” Sirius asks, turning his head.

“For acting the way we do.”

Sirius hesitates, looking out the window. “I don’t like doing what people expect. Why should I live up to other people’s expectations instead of my own?” He taps his fingers on his thigh, his voice quieter now. “Then they expect it all the time, and when you change, they’re disappointed.”

“So, if you disappoint them from the start, you’re covered, right?” Remus says, his tone thoughtful.

“Something like that.” Sirius says, halfway between a nod and a shrug.

Remus glances at him, “Then you screwed up.” he says matter of factly but his expression remains unreadable. 

Sirius furrows his brows, turning to face him fully. “How?”

“You never disappointed me,” Remus says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He looks over, meeting Sirius’s gaze, and smiles—soft, genuine, disarming.

Sirius feels heat rise to his cheeks, and his usual composure slipping for a moment. He looks away, staring out the window, pretending to focus on the passing scenery.

Remus pulls into an empty lot and parks, leaning forward against the steering wheel. “You up for it?”

“Up for what?” Sirius asks, his voice a bit more cautious now.

Remus grins, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You’ll see.”

*

The walls of a castle sprawl around them, a perfect illusion of ancient and magical chaos. Sirius inclines his head. Above them, magical candles flicker, seemingly hovering midair. They cast shifting shadows across the walls, which are engraved with glowing runes.

Sirius moves toward one of the runes. It looks like a chalice with a cross above it. He reaches out with the hand holding his wand. It shimmers green, and a glow appears around his vision. He glances down, where swirling dots around his wrist indicate he has just gained another health point.

He looks over at Remus, who is surrounded by a shimmering golden halo. He looks ethereal, and Sirius momentarily forgets to breathe.

“Shield charm,” Remus murmurs, his voice laced with awe. His wide eyes dart to Sirius, startled and delighted by his own magic. Remus steps closer, reaching for his hand. Sirius freezes, momentarily stunned.

“This way,” Remus says, his voice steady but soft.

Remus’s hand is big and warm around his, and Sirius follows him down the corridor. The walls are lined with moving paintings, their subjects whispering to one another, while translucent ghosts drift in and out of the stone, their forms glowing faintly in the dim light.

They reach a grand wooden door, its surface scarred with claw marks and scorch marks. They push it open together.

The great hall on the other side is massive and eerily quiet. Banquet tables lie overturned, their heavy legs jutting sideways like defensive spikes. As they cross the hall, Sirius can feel the air itself buzzing, alive with the roar of distant beasts, ominous chants, and the electric crackle of magic.

A guttural roar echoes from behind them, and Sirius spins around, his heart leaping into his throat. A giant, ugly troll lumbers into view, its grotesque features twisting as it raises a massive club above its head with another angry roar.

“Move!” Sirius yells, grabbing Remus’s arm as they dive behind one of the tables.

The wand in Sirius’s hand hums with kinetic energy, its tip glowing faintly. He waves it with a languid movement and wisps of blue and purple drift through the air. He grins, then swishes the wand rapidly, aiming at the troll. A volley of blue fireballs shoots out, followed by a sharp flick upward that unleashes crackling purple lightning.

Sirius feels adrenaline surge through his body as he twists and leaps out from behind the table. “Did you see that?” he calls over his shoulder.

Remus, crouched nearby with his wand raised, smirks. “Yeah, you missed. Twice.”

“I was giving it a warning shot,” Sirius retorts, peeking around the edge of the table. The massive troll staggers backward. It’s singed but still standing.

They exchange exhilarated smiles before bolting into the open, their wands flashing. Each movement is precise: spells fired in tandem, shields raised instinctively to protect one another. With one final, coordinated strike, the troll lets out a deafening grunt before collapsing in a brilliant flash of light.

Panting, Sirius leans against a massive stone column. He glances at Remus, who is also catching his breath, his hair a wild mess but his face alight with triumph.

Their victory is short-lived.

The walls tremble violently, and with a deafening crash, a section of the castle collapses. Dust and rubble cloud the air as a dragon emerges from the destruction. Its black scales gleam like shards of obsidian. Smoke curls from its nostrils, and its glowing yellow eyes sweep the room with deadly intent.

Sirius’s stomach flips. “Oh, come on!”

The dragon lets out a guttural roar, the sound reverberating in Sirius’s chest. They dive behind an overturned table just as a stream of fire surges past, the flames licking the edges of their cover.

“Stealth mode?” Remus whispers, glancing at Sirius.

He nods, his hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. “Stealth mode.”

They creep through the hall, careful to stay in the dragon’s blind spots. It moves slowly, its claws scraping against the stone floor, sending shivers down Sirius’s spine. Smoke curls from its muzzle in dark, sinister tendrils, and its massive tail swipes the ground with bone-rattling force.

A pile of rubble offers cover ahead, but it’s dangerously exposed. Sirius swallows hard, adrenaline buzzing in his veins. He dashes forward, wand raised, firing a rapid volley of lightning spells over his shoulder to distract the beast. The hall lights up with vivid blue and purple as the bolts streak toward the dragon’s scaled side.

It works—sort of. The dragon twists with terrifying speed and a furious roar, unleashing another blast of fire from its jaws. Sirius barely ducks behind the rubble in time as the flames scorch past.

“Damn it!” he hisses, his pulse hammering in his throat. “The spells don’t work. What now?”

Remus’s eyes dart around the room, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I have an idea,” he says, his voice low but certain.

Sirius watches, breathless, as Remus raises his wand. With a sharp flick, a massive chunk of stone levitates from the debris. He moves it slowly, deliberately, guiding it toward the dragon. Then, with a forceful shove of his wand, he sends the stone shooting toward the dragon’s head.

The beast ducks with shocking agility, its wings unfurling as it rises. Another wave of fire surges toward them, fast and deadly.

“Watch out!” Sirius shouts, leaping up and tackling Remus to the ground. They hit the floor hard, Sirius’s arm curling protectively around Remus’s head as rubble rains down around them.

For a moment, all Sirius hears is the rapid thud of his heartbeat—and then, laughter. Unrestrained, breathless laughter bubbles out of Remus, echoing in the hall even as the dragon looms overhead.

Then, a bright flash of red fills Sirius’s vision. A robotic voice echoes: “Game Over.”

The castle dissolves into digital fragments, leaving behind the plain walls and muted lighting of the warehouse where the VR arena is set up. Sirius blinks and pulls off his headset. He’s still sprawled on top of Remus, whose chest rises and falls rapidly beneath him.

Remus pushes back his headset, his cheeks flushed and glistening with sweat. His curls cling to his forehead, and his dark eyes lock onto Sirius’s, pupils blown wide, lips slightly parted.

For a moment, Sirius forgets how to move. He’s caught in the heat of Remus’s gaze. He is so close, he can see every golden fleck in his eyes, every freckle on his flushed cheeks. He can feel the way his chest rises and falls beneath him with each breath.

Sirius leans in, his heart pounding so hard it’s almost painful. He hesitates for a split second, hovering, giving Remus the chance to push forward—or pull back.

But God, he wants this. He wants him so badly it hurts. 

The thoughts flash through his mind—What if he doesn’t want this? What if he doesn’t kiss me? Again?—and the fear crashes over him like a cold wave. It’s pathetic, and selfish, he just wants to be kissed by the man he’s fallen for. 

And then, before Sirius can spiral any further, Remus closes the gap between them. 

He crushes their lips together in a kiss that’s all heat and hunger. It’s fierce and urgent, and Sirius feels like he’s free-falling, like the ground has disappeared beneath him.

He’s kissing Remus Lupin.

And Remus Lupin is kissing him back.

The world around them fades into nothingness once more. No warehouse, no arena, no glowing screens, no buzzing VR headsets—just this. Just Remus.

The warmth of his body beneath him. The softness of his lips. The touch of his hands. Every nerve, every fiber of Sirius’s being is buzzing.

It’s almost like there is a magnetic pull between them, Sirius can feel it, as if the universe has shifted and left them suspended in their own orbit.

Remus’s hand slides up, fingers threading into Sirius’s hair at the nape of his neck. His grip tightens slightly, tugging just enough to tilt Sirius’s head and deepen the kiss. Sirius gasps, a low, involuntary moan slipping out as Remus licks into his mouth.

Remus’s tongue licks deep, exploring, sucking on his tongue, and it’s like something feral inside Sirius lets loose. He melts into it, responding with equal intensity, swirling his tongue against Remus’s, biting down lightly on his lower lip. It draws a delicious, guttural sound from Remus—part growl, part moan—that rumbles deep in his chest and sets Sirius’s skin ablaze, igniting something primal.

Their kiss quickly turns wild and messy, full of unspoken longing and raw desire. 

Remus arches beneath him, his hips jerking upward. The sudden friction—Remus’s hardness grinding against his own—sends a jolt of pleasure through Sirius.

Sirius’s mouth falls open, breath hitching. He feels lightheaded, bloodless, because it’s all being pulled south, pooling in the ache that’s building between them. 

Desperate for more, Sirius rolls his hips experimentally, dragging himself against the man below him in a slow, deliberate grind.

The friction is maddening, the heat nearly unbearable. His breaths come out in uneven, ragged gasps as he chases the growing pulse of pleasure.

“Uh… hey, guys?”

The voice sounds distant at first, like it doesn’t belong to their reality. Then it registers fully.

“Just a heads-up,” the voice continues, echoing awkwardly through the warehouse. “We can see everything on the security cameras. So maybe… uh—the next group is already waiting.”

Sirius freezes for half a second before bursting into laughter. He drops his forehead against Remus’s shoulder, his whole body shaking with it.

Remus grins up at him, cheeks flushed crimson, dragging a hand down his face as he chuckles. “Well, that’s one way to kill a mood.”

Sirius pulls back, his laughter dying down to a smirk. “Mood’s not dead. Just… postponed.”

Remus

Remus steers the truck up the driveway, the idling engine rumbles low, as they sit in the dim glow of the porch light. The warm hue casts soft shadows across Sirius’s face, highlighting his sharp facial features and the mischievous glint in his eyes.

Remus chuckles. “No, none of that stuff is true.”

“Cop?” Sirius asks, his tone light but curious.

“Fallacy,” Remus replies with a smirk. “Dead guy in the parking lot?”

“Rumor.” Sirius leans in, clearly intrigued. “The rat?” 

“I’m vegetarian,” Remus quips, grinning. “Ben Fenwick’s balls?”

“Fact,” Sirius admits with a casual shrug, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But he deserved it. He’s a homophobic motherfucker.”

“Fair enough.” Remus says, nodding in approval.

Sirius’s gaze softens, his eyes tracing Remus’s face. “What about the scar?” he asks after a moment.

Remus snorts. “Unfortunate encounter between my skateboard and my face when I was thirteen.”

“You skate?” Sirius raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

Remus tilts his head with a laugh, gesturing to his face. “Obviously not.”

Sirius narrows his eyes playfully. “I know the OnlyFans career’s a lie.”

Remus laughs and reaches for the key to turn off the engine. The truck falls silent and the mood between them changes, becomes something heavier—almost palpable.

He turns to Sirius, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Do you?”

Before Sirius can respond, Remus leans in, ghosting his lips over the soft skin of Sirius’s neck.

Instinctively Sirius tilts his head back slightly, granting more access and a quiet sigh slips past his lips. “Piano?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“My mom taught me,” Remus murmurs against his skin, nibbling lightly. “I’m a bit out of practice, though.”

“Oh. No—” Sirius says softly, his words faltering. “It sounded nice.”

Lifting a tender hand, Sirius cups Remus’s cheek. His thumb brushes softly against the skin, and Remus leans into the touch, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He meets Sirius’s gaze and for a moment, everything narrows to the silvery-blue of Sirius’s eyes.

“Tell me a secret,” Sirius whispers, his voice so quiet, barely audible, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile intimacy.

Remus’s lips twitch. “I’m a werewolf,” he jokes, automatically, because that’s easier than acknowledging whatever is happening between them.

“No—” Sirius rolls his eyes but smiles faintly. “Something real. Something no one else knows.”

The request sends a pang through Remus, something sharp is twisting in his stomach. It’s vicious and biting and impossible to ignore. The truth—his deal with Barty—is too heavy and suffocating and vile to share. He swallows the guilt and offers something else instead.

“Okay,” Remus murmurs. He brushes a strand of hair from Sirius’s face, his hand lingering. “You’re beautiful.” He lets his lips brush against the curve of Sirius’s neck as he speaks. His hand rests on Sirius’s hip, urging him closer. His thumb slides up under his shirt, grazing the spot above his hip bone in slow, deliberate circles.

“And fucking hot,” he adds, his voice low and raspy as he kisses along Sirius’s jaw. 

Sirius shifts, responding to the touch, tilting his head further back, baring the elegant, pale length of his throat. A soft, breathy moan slips past his lips. The sound sends a shiver of desire through Remus—straight to his cock.

He threads his fingers into Sirius’s hair, tugging lightly as he trails hungry kisses down his neck. He wants to suck and bite, leave marks. 

Wants more. Needs more.  

He wants to give into the urge, let go completely, lose himself in Sirius, watch as Sirius falls apart in his arms. Right here, right now. But he reins himself in, forcing restraint. 

Not here. Not now. Not yet, anyway.

“I’m completely mad about you,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to rest their foreheads together. He presses his lips to Sirius’s for a kiss, but Sirius hesitates.

Instead of leaning in, he pulls away, his expression reserved, a shadow flickers across his face as his brows draw together slightly. “What?”

“No one else knows,” Remus whispers softly, searching Sirius’s face. He’s keeping his voice quiet, deliberately holding back the edge of unease.

Sirius tilts his head slightly, and instead of a smile, a flicker of doubt crosses his face. “Why would you say that?” 

“Because it’s true,” Remus murmurs. He pauses, his thumb gently tracing along Sirius’s cheekbone. “You don’t see yourself the way I do.”

Sirius blinks. “And how’s that?”

“Like you’re the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen,” he admits, the words slip out like a confession.

For a moment, Sirius just stares at him, before he closes the distance, his lips meeting Remus’s in a kiss that’s softer, slower than before.

As they part, Remus’s words slip out, unguarded. “Go to prom with me.”

Sirius’s smile falters. “Is that a request or a command?”

“Come on. You know what I mean.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, I won’t go.” Sirius’s voice is firm as he pushes Remus back, creating space between them.

Remus blinks, stunned. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to. It’s a stupid tradition—” Sirius cuts himself off, looks away. His eyes trained forward, not at Remus. 

Remus doesn’t dare to speak, struggling for words, torn between pushing forward and retreating. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. He swallows, forces himself to speak, tentatively. “Come on. People won’t even expect you to go…”

Sirius turns sharply, his eyes flashing. “Why are you pushing this? What’s in it for you?”

Sirius's words hit like a blow, leaving Remus momentarily speechless. His throat tightens as he stares blankly at the dashboard, avoiding Sirius’s gaze. “Create a little drama? Start a new rumor? What?” Sirius presses.

“Oh, so now I need a motive to want to be with you?” Remus snaps, his fucking nerves already wearing dangerously thin.

“You tell me,” Sirius fires back, quieter but no less cutting. “You’re not exactly the guy who plans his prom outfit months in advance—”

“Oh, fuck off” Remus interrupts, his voice shaking with anger. “You need therapy, you know that? Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Answer the question, Remus.” Sirius’s tone is startlingly even, but the venom underneath is unmistakable.

Remus’s anger flares, it’s searing and he can no longer hold it back. Sirius somehow seems to have that effect on him, like he amplifies his every emotion—the good and the bad. 

“Nothing! There’s nothing in it for me.” he snaps. “Just the pleasure of your company, okay?” He fumbles with the glove compartment. His hands tremble slightly as he pulls a pack of cigarettes, he takes one out and places it between his lips.

Sirius doesn’t respond. He reaches over, snatches the cigarette from Remus’s mouth, and crushes it in his fist.

Without a word, Sirius throws the car door open and slams it shut behind him, with enough force to make the truck shake. He storms toward the house without looking back.

For a long moment, Remus sits frozen, chest heaving with uneven breaths. Then, with a sharp, frustrated growl, he smashes his fist against the dashboard. “Fuck!”

He starts the engine, the truck roaring to life, and tears out of the driveway.

Chapter Text

Regulus

Week 2, Friday Morning

Regulus is once again sitting with James in the study area of the library. The French book lies open on the table, but is long forgotten. After the party, they have both concluded that neither Regulus really needs French tutoring, nor is James in any way qualified to give any. At this point, it's basically just a scheduled date. And the two use the time thoroughly to make out. 

They have taken a little break, because after all they're still in the school library. Regulus absently twists a strand of hair around his finger. “You know who's absolutely cruel?” he says dreamily. “Aaron Taylor-Johnson.”

James raises an eyebrow, feigning curiosity. “Oh really?”

“Yes, really.” Regulus leans forward, as if sharing a closely guarded secret. “He’s not only ridiculously hot—like, offensively hot, how-is-this-even-legal hot—but he’s sweet. Have you seen his recent interviews? He’s always going on about how much he cares about his daughters, and it’s just… unbearable, James. Unbearable and cruel! How can someone look like that and be… nice?”

James leans back in his chair, folding his arms, watching Regulus with barely concealed amusement. “No way,” he says, drawing out the words in mock astonishment. “A hot guy who’s also nice? Somebody call the authorities. He’s breaking all the rules.”

Regulus narrows his eyes, trying to suppress a smile. “Why do you even put up with me?”

“Put up with what?”

“This! Me. My constant… yapping,” Regulus says, gesturing vaguely. “I don’t even know why you care to listen to this crap. I’m boring myself to death.”

James’s grin widens, and he twists a pencil between his fingers. “Thank God! If I had to hear one more story about another English guy who looks like a Greek god and acts like a saint, I’d have to stage an intervention.” He mock-stabs himself in the chest with the pencil, groaning theatrically.

Regulus lets out a soft laugh, swatting the pencil away. “You’re such an idiot.”

“And yet, here we are,” James says, his grin softening. “You being ridiculous, me pretending not to enjoy it.” Regulus looks down, he feels a faint blush creep across his cheeks. 

“I figured we’d get to the good stuff eventually.”

“What good stuff?” Regulus asks, wary.

“The real you.”

Regulus responds with the most sincere understanding he can muster, “Like my deep, existential fear of wearing pastels, because they wash me out?”

James looks genuinely horrified.

“I’m kidding.” “I'm just kidding.” Regulus chuckles and shows a faint smile, but it falters. “You ever feel like you’re just…" He goes quiet for a moment, his tone shifting. “…stuck in a persona? Like you don’t even know how to stop playing the part?”

James doesn’t miss a beat. “No, never.” He says it so matter-of-factly, so confidently, entirely self-assured. His voice doesn’t waver at all, not even a flicker of doubt.

Regulus blinks at him, momentarily stunned. Of course James Potter can't relate to something like that. He probably strutted out of the womb fully formed, effortlessly self-assured, and unapologetically himself—cheeky grin, tousled hair and everything.

Regulus narrows his eyes. “Right. Well, in that case, James—real talk—you’re gonna need to learn how to fake humility.”

*

Week 2, Friday Afternoon

Regulus lingers in the doorway, taking a deep breath before stepping forward.

Alphard is on his Peloton, he's furiously pedaling. On the handlebars, his iPad streams an episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. A half-finished protein smoothie sits in the cup holder. 

“Alphie? Can we discuss prom? It’s tomorrow night—”

Alphard doesn’t pause, shouting over the sound of his pedaling and the blaring iPad. “Prom? Sirius has a date?”

“Well, no, but—”

Alphard suddenly brakes to a stop, his sneakers harshly snap against the pedals. He squints at Regulus, leaning forward slightly. “Don’t think you’re fooling me for a second. It’s that hot rod Barty, isn’t it? You think I don’t know? That’s who you want me to bend my rules for?”

He has a smudge of protein shake stuck on his mustache, which doesn't make him look nearly as serious as he probably thinks he is.

Regulus frowns. “What’s a hot rod?”

“You know…” Alphard gestures vaguely, clearly stumped for an answer. “The kind you should stay away from. Anyway, if Sirius isn’t going, neither are you. End of story.”

Regulus crosses his arms. “Okay, let’s review this. Sirius doesn’t care. He’s not interested. Me? I’m dying to go.”

Alphard shakes his head with exaggerated severity. “Do you know what happens at proms?”

“Yes, Alphard. We’ll dance, we’ll kiss, we’ll come home. It’s not exactly the crisis you seem to think it is.”

“Kissing? That’s what you think happens?” Alphard raises an eyebrow, his tone dripping with skepticism. “Newsflash, kiddo. Kissing isn’t what keeps me up to my elbows in work all day. Trust me—your ‘innocent night out’ isn’t as innocent as you think it is.”

Regulus lets out a frustrated groan. “Can we, for two seconds, ignore the fact that you’re catastrophically paranoid and focus on my need for one night of teenage normalcy?”

“Normal? You mean like those kids in Euphoria? Backstabbing each other at parties, swapping partners, and ruining lives—all while looking fabulous?”

“Alphard, no one actually does that!”

“Maybe not, but on camera…” Alphard mutters darkly, gesturing to his iPad as if it’s evidence of the argument. “Listen up, your uncle’s not cheugy, alright? I’ve got mad rizz. And you are not going out to hook up with some lowkey sus simp. I don’t care how lit his aura is.”

Regulus fights the sudden urge to die on the spot, but he's too angry to care about Alphard's need to be the cool uncle. He's about three seconds away from exploding.“I’m not a character! What’s that even supposed to mean?? I just want to go to prom, Alphard! For once in my life, I’d like to be normal!”

Alphard narrows his eyes, suddenly serious. “Reggie, normal is boring. You’re not boring. And you’re not going to that prom.”

Regulus stares at him for a moment, stunned. Then his anger unleashes itself. “Fine. I see it now. Apparently I’m not your nephew—I'm still a prisoner in this house. I’m a possession!”

He turns and storms out, slamming the door behind him.

*

I would drive all night to get to you
But my curfew is early and mom's up at home
I would run for miles to get to you
But you gotta understand I can't 'cause
M-I-N-O-R
I'm minorly stuck
And it's not your fault
Just how things are

His “sad boy era” playlist is set to shuffle, and Regulus lies on his bed, sulking. He’s been doom-scrolling TikTok for the better part of the last hour and a half, liking every single teenage hardship-related video he comes across.

By now, he’s successfully trained his algorithm to show him an endless stream of videos about heartbreak and strict parents, only occasionally interrupted by the odd fit boy thirst trap—because apparently, you can only trick an algorithm so much, no matter how meticulously trained.

He’s just come across a video of a kitty sitting by a beach, looking particularly sad. Can animals even look sad? This one certainly does. Relatable, he decides, tapping the heart.

A soft knock interrupts his scrolling.

“Come in.”

Sirius carefully opens the door and peers inside. “Listen, I know…” He begins, then sighs, stepping in and turning down the volume of the music.

“I know you hate having to sit at home because I’m not Regina George,” Sirius says kindly. There’s a genuine look of compassion on his face as he walks over and to sit down at the end of the bed.

“Like you care,” Regulus mutters.

“I do care. But I’m a firm believer in doing things for your own reasons, not someone else’s.”

“Well, I wish I had that luxury,” Regulus says coolly, sitting up. “You know, I’m always trying to be the good kid because you’re such a…” he pauses, searching for the right word.

“Fuck-up?” Sirius supplies, giving him a sympathetic, lopsided smile.

“Yeah…” Regulus sighs. “I’m the only sophomore who got asked to prom, and I can’t go because you don’t feel like it.”

Sirius opens his mouth, then closes it, clearing his throat before starting again.

“Barty never told you we went out, did he?”

“Yeah, okay,” Regulus scoffs, rolling his eyes. But Sirius just looks at him, uncharacteristically solemn, and nods slowly.

“Wait, what?”

“Freshman year. For a month.”

“Why?”

“Because he was, like, such a total babe,” Sirius says mockingly.

“But… you hate Barty!”

“Now I do. Back then? Different story.”

“What happened?”

Sirius takes a deep breath. “He was fun and smart, and we got along well. We hung out after school. But he wasn’t out yet. I could tell he was curious and into me.”

“Oh! Please tell me you’re joking.”

“We fucked, Reg…”

“You did what?”

“Just once, the summer right after Mom left. Everyone was doing it, so… I did it. He didn’t want to be seen with me, but he wanted to keep doing stuff on the down-low, casual. I wasn’t up for that, and he got pissed.”

Regulus stares at him, dumbfounded.

“But—”

“After that, he came out and started fucking around, became the fuckboy he is today. I swore I’d never do anything just because everyone else was doing it. And I haven’t since. With the exception of Lockhart’s party and my stunning bare ass—”

Regulus is stunned. “How is it possible that I didn’t know about this?”

“I warned him that if he went and told anyone, the whole school would find out how tiny his dick is,” Sirius snorts.

“No. You didn’t!” Regulus looks at him wide-eyed. “Is it?”

Sirius only gives him a scrutinizing look in response.

“Okay, so why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to let you make up your own mind about him,” Sirius says, moving up the bed to sit beside Regulus.

“If you really thought I could make my own decisions, then you’d have let me go out with him instead of helping Alphard hold me hostage.”

Sirius stands up slowly. “That’s not—”

“I’m not stupid enough to repeat your mistakes!”

“Reggie… I guess I thought I was protecting you.”

“Protecting me? God, you’re just like him—like them! Just keep me locked away in the dark so I can’t experience anything for myself.”

“Not all experiences are good, Reg. You can’t always trust the people you want to.”

“I guess I’ll never know, will I?”

He gets up and holds the door open for Sirius, he's brimming with anger.

“Reggie…”

Regulus doesn’t answer. Fuming, he waits until Sirius steps out before slamming the door behind him.

Alphard

Week 2, Saturday Evening

Alphard is sitting in front of the television, engrossed in the new season of Is It Cake?— his newest obsession. This episode is particularly thrilling—he’s convinced the third pizza has got to be cake. Also, he might have a bit of a thing for Mikey Day.

“Bye, Alphard. I’m going to prom. See you in a few,” Sirius calls out as he bolts down the stairs, grabbing his leather jacket from the hook.

“Funny. Be serious.” Alphard barely turns in time to catch a glimpse of his eldest nephew dressed in what seems to be a fitted burgundy suit.

“Oh, I am—Sirius,” Sirius replies with a grin before rushing out and slamming the door behind him.

Alphard blinks, now alone and baffled. “What just happened?” he murmurs to himself and gets up from the couch to walk over to the hallway.

Regulus is coming down the stairs next. “Bye, Alphard.”

“Reg, what’s that?”

“A tuxedo?” Regulus replies matter-of-factly gesturing to himself.

It is indeed a tuxedo, and quite the one. It’s made of velvet—dark green, almost black—and underneath, he’s wearing a delicate cream-colored lace shirt that looks striking against his pale skin. Alphard swallows hard to clear the lump suddenly forming in his throat. His little nephew is growing up, transforming into a proper, handsome young man.  

Time is moving far too quickly.  

Hastily, Alphard pulls off his glasses, wipes at his eyes—which are suddenly a little blurry—and looks at Regulus again.

“You look stunning,” he blurts out, his voice slightly croaky.

“You think so?” Regulus, who just seemed a little self-conscious a moment ago, is now beaming at the compliment. “Thanks Alphie, my date should be here any minute.”

“I’m missing something,” Alphard mutters, blinking in confusion while readjusting his glasses.

Regulus suddenly looks uncertain again. His gaze drops to his (thoroughly polished) dress shoes, and he fidgets with the hem of his sleeve. “I have a date, Alphard. And he’s not a hot-rod .”

The doorbell rings that very moment, and Regulus flinches, startled for a brief second, before turning to open the door. 

Standing there is a boy wearing fitted black slacks and a crisp white shirt that hugs the defined muscles of his arms— a bit too tightly, for Alphard’s taste. A crimson bow tie completes the look, but honestly, he could have put more effort into taming his hair. It’s teetering on the verge of offensive. (Kids these days, right?) Alphard narrows his eyes at the boy, but he only stares dumbly at Regulus, his mouth slightly agape.

It takes a comically long time for both of them to catch their bearings—long enough for Alphard to put two and two together. Relaxing slightly, he leans against the wall, glancing between them with visible amusement.

“Wow, you’re—I’m—” the boy stammers, finally snapping out of it.

“Wow yourself,” Regulus replies, a shy smile spreading across his face. (The last time Alphard saw Regulus this smitten, was when he was five years old. Alphard had taken the boys to Disneyland and Mickey Mouse told Reggie he had the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen— Oh, boy! ) Regulus takes another few awkward moments before he finally mutters something more coherent, breathless. “Let’s go.”

“Stop. Turn. Explain,” Alphard growls, folding his arms over his chest. Regulus freezes mid-step, turning back on his heel.

“Okay, remember how you said I could go when Sirius has a date? Well, he found this guy who’s actually kind of perfect for him—like, soulmate-level perfect. It’s crazy and a bit annoying, honestly. Anyway, it’s also kind of perfect for me because James here asked me to prom, and I really, really want to go—with him. And since Sirius went, of course I get to go too, based on the aforementioned rule and its previous stipulations.” Regulus rattles it all off in one breath, words tumbling out in a rush. Alphard blinks, struggling to process the information, waiting for his brain to catch up.

James peeks around the corner, flashing a bright smile. “Good evening, sir,” he says, extending a hand for Alphard to shake. Alphard snaps out of his daze long enough to take James’s hand, though his gaze remains fixed on Regulus, still confused.

“But—who—what—?”

“James Potter, sir,” James says smoothly, as if that explains everything. Alphard squints at him sideways. “Nice to meet you. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t take drugs. My blood type is—”

Regulus nudges James sharply in the ribs, and James corrects himself with a sheepish grin. “I mean, I’ll have him home by 12 PM, sir.”

Alphard’s gaze shifts between James and Regulus, still holding James’s hand firmly. The latter stares back with a silent plea, and Alphard finally exhales, deflating and drops James’s hand. “10:30 PM and no later.”

“Alphard!”

“Alright, 11:30 PM.”

Before Alphard can change his mind, Regulus grabs James by the arm, who beams like he’s just won the lottery. Regulus drags him out and down the driveway to his car—a Land Rover, apparently. A thug afterall, Alphard thinks dryly.

“I know every cop in town, bro!” Alphard yells after them.

As the door clicks shut behind him, Alphard sighs, shaking his head. 

Oh, to be young and in love. 

With that, he returns to the couch and lets his head fall back into the cushions.

They grow up too fast.

A wave of nostalgia crashes over him, the emotions hitting all at once. It still feels like yesterday when he walked through the front door of his sister’s house three years ago to find her two sons—Regulus, thirteen at the time, and Sirius, fifteen—abandoned.

The news of his brother-in-law (and distant cousin or whatever the fuck, because of course with this family) going to prison, had taken over a week to reach him. Alphard had tried calling his sister immediately. When he finally got through, she was already in France.

When will you come back?—What about the boys, Walburga?—Wait, are you planning to come back at all?—Who’s taking care of them?

She hadn’t answered any of his questions properly. Either she didn’t feel like it, deflecting with some snarky comment, or she was already too drunk on red wine and champagne to care.

Alphard hadn’t needed much time to decide—though it wasn’t really a decision at all. The moment he hung up the phone, he knew. Overnight, he packed up his life and moved back to California to care of his nephews. Apparently, Walburga had told them she just needed a short vacation after all the stress with the trial and lawyers. Her “fuck-up-of-a-husband” (her words, but Alphard wouldn’t argue) had been convicted of conspiracy to commit widespread fraud, embezzlement, and money laundering over an extended time period (two decades), and sentenced to twenty-four years in prison.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” she had assured the boys. But when Alphard arrived, it had already been twelve days, and they were living off cereal, instant noodles and take-out orders (pizza mostly). Of course, no one had ever taught them how to cook proper food—or do much of anything around the house, really.

There was no time or energy to be angry at his sister (whom, by the way, he hadn’t heard from since). His sole focus became taking care of two teenage boys—despite the vow he’d made long ago that he would never, ever be a parent. The Blacks had produced enough fucked-up people, thank you very much.

And yet, there he was.

It hadn’t been easy. In the beginning, Sirius was angry all the time, like a raging wildfire. He screamed, fought, lashed out at anything and everything. Alphard understood—it wasn’t about him. Sirius just needed an outlet. Three days in, though, Sirius came to him late at night, after Regulus was already in bed. He didn’t ask, didn’t plead. He just stated, matter-of-factly, “She’s not coming back from her ‘vacation,’ is she?”

For the first time, Alphard saw the cracks in Sirius’s façade, saw how hurt and lost he really was.

“No, she won’t,” Alphard said, struggling to keep his voice steady.

“Okay.” Sirius nodded. “Good. That’s good.” He paused, then added, voice small, “I don’t want her to come back. Will you take care of us, Uncle Alphard? Me and Reggie?”

He looked so sad, so fragile, that Alphard just pulled him into a hug and held him. Held him until the sobs and violent crying stopped. Alphard knew Sirius wasn’t grieving his mother’s departure. He was relieved. And Alphard just wanted him to know that everything would get better now.

Regulus, on the other hand, had been quiet and withdrawn. He didn’t understand why his parents had abandoned them. He cried often—not in front of Alphard, of course, but it was obvious. His eyes were puffy and red-rimmed every morning. A month passed before Regulus finally came to him one night, saying he’d had a nightmare and was scared to be alone.

Alphard made him hot chocolate and sat with him on the couch. That’s when Regulus asked, “She’s not coming back, is she?”

“No, Reggie. I’m sorry,” Alphard said softly.

“Is it my fault? Was I not good enough to be her son?”

“God, no, Reggie. Please don’t think that.”

It broke Alphard’s heart. After Regulus had fallen asleep on the couch, it was Alphard who cried silently through the night. He swore then that he would give these boys the home they deserved, that he would protect them and be there for them, no matter what.

Maybe he’d made some mistakes along the way. Maybe he’d been too strict at times. Perhaps some of the rules he’d come up with to keep the two of them under control had been a bit questionable. But raising two teenage boys who had been abandoned and mistreated for the entire childhood wasn’t an easy task—not for him, at least. And certainly not for them. Still, he’d tried his best to show them they were loved and cared for.

Sirius

Sirius pulls up to the venue on his motorcycle. The engine purrs beneath him as he switches off the ignition, and for a moment, he just sits there, watching. Just needs a moment to collect himself. 

He spots Remus. He’s perched casually on the steps, waiting—looking like he belongs in a TV show. 

He’s wearing a tawny tweed suit that looks vintage—really cool actually and completely him. Somehow, Remus seems to be the only person on this planet under twenty who manages to channel Peaky Blinders but with a modern twist. He pulls it off in a way that seems effortless, natural, not contrived at all.

Sirius feels his breath hitch, a sudden tightness in his chest, he takes another moment before he swings his leg over the bike.

“How’d you get a suit at the last minute?” Sirius asks as he approaches, aiming for casual, but his voice betrays him, and a grin tugs at his lips.

“It was my dad’s,” Remus replies, glancing up at Sirius with a lazy smirk. “Where’d you get yours?”

Sirius shrugs, slipping into his practiced nonchalance. “Just something I had, you know, lying around.”

“Oh huh,” Remus replies, eyebrow quirking with the barest hint of amusement.

Sirius hesitates, something uncomfortable twists in his chest. “Listen, I’m, uh—” He doesn’t do this—apologize—but he needs to. “I’m really sorry. That I questioned your motives. I was wrong.” He fidgets nervously with the rings on his fingers.

For a beat, Sirius braces for something… anything. Anger, rejection, ridicule? But it doesn’t come. Remus just smiles, easy and sincere. “Don’t worry about it.”

The casual forgiveness catches Sirius off guard at first, but relief washes over him, a second after. “Okay,” he clears his throat, “are you ready for prom?”

Remus pushes himself up, his eyes glinting as he extends his hand. “Yes, sir.”

Sirius takes it and stares at their joined hands for just a second too long, before letting Remus guide him up the stairs toward the venue.

Events like this—formal, structured, and tied to memories of his parents’ suffocating galas—still put him a little on edge. Wearing a suit, even his interpretation of a suit (which looks undeniably badass, thank you very much), makes him a little uncomfortable. But Remus’s hand is warm and steady, his presence is grounding Sirius immediately. (Remus seems to have that effect on him.) 

When they step inside, Sirius is momentarily stunned, but he quickly raises an eyebrow to mask his awe.

“Quite the ostentatious display,” he remarks dryly, stepping forward with a smirk.

He glances around, taking it all in. The hotel’s ballroom has been utterly transformed into a fantasy world. Glittering decor, twinkling lights cascade from the vaulted ceiling like stardust and music drifts through the air. For a brief moment, he feels the undeniable hit of romance that courses through the whole scene.

Then, his gaze lands on Regulus and James. The two are slow dancing, cheek to cheek. It’s… awfully cute, seeing his little brother like that. (Not that he’d ever admit it—don’t tell Reggie—he’ll use it to annoy him later.)

Despite himself, Sirius smiles.

James

They dance slowly, the music gently wraps around them. Regulus looks stunning, and James still can’t believe his luck. To have him here, so close, with Reg’s arms wrapped around him, resting lightly on his neck. James rests his head on Reg’s shoulder, inhaling the subtle, clean scent of his shampoo.

“God, you smell so good, Reg,” James murmurs.

Regulus pulls back slightly, rolling his eyes and James whines softly, chasing the closeness. “Yeah, well, good thing I showered this morning.” he says dryly, but the corner of his mouth quirks in a way that betrays him.

James knows by now this is Reg’s go-to defense mechanism, and he has learned not to take it personally. He’s determined not to let it deter him tonight. He needs Regulus to believe him—needs him to know how much he means to him.

“No, I mean it,” James insists. “I can’t believe how lucky I am. I’m so happy right now, to be here, with you . That you agreed to go to prom with me. You’re so beautiful, and smart, and—”

“James, stop it.” Regulus squirms, a slight shiver rippling through him. James notices this about him too—how responsive he is to praise, how it both unsettles and pleases him. Carefully, he draws back just enough to meet his eyes, though Reg’s gaze flits away, shy. James smiles softly, resolute.

“No, I won’t stop.” James says softly, his voice steady and sincere, each word weighted with genuine intention. Because he knows how much Reg needs to hear this, even if it makes him uncomfortable. Especially because it makes him uncomfortable. “I can’t, I’ll tell you every single day, if I have to, until you believe me.”

Regulus surges forward, kissing him in a way that James also knows is meant to stop the moment from deepening further, by cutting off the words. James recognizes this again for what it is—yet another defense mechanism. When emotions run too raw, too real, Regulus falls back on action. But James doesn’t mind, lets him. He kisses back gently, pouring into the kiss what words can’t convey, but needs Regulus to understand: You make me so happy. You’re perfect for me.

When Regulus pulls away, his eyes meet James’s, they are shining, wide, raw and vulnerable, like they could shatter the whole world. “Why would you even say shit like that?” he whispers, pressing himself into James’s shoulder, as if the closeness will shield him from the weight of his own question.

“Because it’s true,” James says simply. “Look at me.”

Regulus hesitates, but then he slowly tilts his face up. His gaze shifts, searching James’s face. His lashes cast delicate shadows across his cheeks. James can feel the nervous energy in Reg’s hands as they fidget with the hair at the nape of James’s neck, grounding himself.

“You are so pretty,” James says, his voice soft but unwavering. “And smart. And funny. And nice. Even when you’re trying to be mean to me.”

Regulus huffs a quiet laugh, a teasing spark in his eyes. “You like it.”

James smiles at him fondly, warmth radiating in his expression.

“Yes, I do,” he admits. “Especially when you’re trying to be a little mean. Because you’re not. You’re really not. You’re kind and gentle and perfect for me.”

James speaks with the patience of someone who understands what’s at stake, giving Regulus the time to absorb his words.

Reg hums softly, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks,” he whispers. This time, the word carries a sincerity James has rarely heard from him. It’s not deflective or dismissive—it’s genuine, like he’s starting to believe it, like he’s allowing himself to believe that someone actually could feel this way about him.

James smiles and pulls him close again, resting his chin atop Regulus’s head as they sway to the fading music.

“I’m happy to be here too,” Regulus murmurs, his voice quiet but sure. He stretches upward, whispering into James’s ear, “With you, I mean. I’m happy it’s you.”

James feels his heart swell, his chest feels like it’s about to burst, and he knows he’s grinning like an idiot, but he doesn’t care. 

They finish the dance, and as the music shifts to something upbeat and bass-heavy, Regulus steps back, announcing he needs the bathroom. James nods, heading to grab drinks for them, his heart still racing.

*

James finds Peter near the drink station, nursing a cup of punch with a straw. His face lights up as James approaches.

“Plan worked,” James says, practically buzzing with excitement too. “I got him.”

“Regulus?” he asks, lowering his voice slightly.

“Yep,” James confirms, his grin widening. “Regulus freaking Black. Pete, can you believe it?”

“Actually, his middle name is Arcturus.” Peter chuckles, his expression a mix of mischievous smirk and genuine relief. “So you were right from the start, huh? I'm sorry I ever doubted your… way of wooing .”

James claps him on the back, a warm laugh escaping him. “You’re excused.”

The moment is cut short when Barty approaches, flanked by Snape and Malfoy, both looking as dateless and dour as ever. Barty is visibly drunk, his movements are unsteady, and his predatory gaze locks on James.

Before James can fully process what’s happening, Barty lurches toward him, invading his space. He reeks of alcohol, and his unfocused eyes take a moment to settle on James’s face.

“You’re gonna fuck Reg real nice, huh? Like the little preppy schoolboy you are?” Barty slurs, licking over his teeth like a feral animal.

James freezes, forcing himself to stay calm.

Remus

Remus slow dances with Sirius, his arms wrapped around Sirius’s shoulders. His eyes are closed, his nose buried in the crook of Sirius’s neck and hair. God, he smells so fucking good—it’s makes him dizzy.

“You look amazing,” he whispers, and Sirius responds with a contented hum.

They sway together, moving in perfect sync. Remus still can’t believe how lucky he is—to hold Sirius like this, to touch him, to breathe him in. And Sirius does look incredible. He’s wearing a fitted burgundy suit with a sheer, black mesh shirt underneath. The top buttons are undone, revealing layered silver necklaces and chains of different lengths, with the intricate tattooed vines above his collarbones peeking through. Instead of a tie, he’s wearing a choker adorned with silver stars. Rings on every other finger of each hand. And instead of his usual combat boots, he’s opted for pointed ones with a slight heel—elegant. It’s a stark contrast to his usual style, but Sirius pulls it off effortlessly. He’s timeless. Almost looks like a sexy gothic vampire.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” Remus murmurs under his breath. And he is. He really, really is. It’s almost painful. Something obsessive spreads through Remus’s chest. Mine, he thinks. Almost.

But then, suddenly, Sirius is yanked away—abruptly, too fast—leaving Remus blinking in confusion at the space where Sirius had just been. He looks up to see Sirius wide-eyed too, his arm caught in Marlene’s tight grasp.

She looks distressed—though, surprisingly, she still manages to be breathtaking, Remus has to admit. Her makeup is subtle and pretty, accentuated by dainty silver jewelry. Her blonde hair is styled in a neat updo, and she’s wearing a periwinkle two-piece. The top is a loose, flowy satin long sleeve, slightly casual, but the high-waisted skirt is sheer, almost see-through, shimmering at the hem with intricate sequins. She looks like an icy princess—stunning.

“Have you seen Dorcas?” she asks, her voice trembling slightly as her pleading eyes lock onto Sirius.

“Who?” Sirius asks, leveling his gaze at Marlene as he holds her by the shoulders.

“Ms. Meadowes! She asked me to meet her here.”

“Oh, honey—please don’t tell me you’ve progressed to full-on hallucinations.”

Remus glances over their heads toward the door and taps Sirius on the shoulder. He turns around and looks up, then gently steers Marlene in the same direction by her shoulders.

Ms. Meadowes, Dorcas—in a classic black tux—bows toward them elegantly. Marlene’s face lights up, her grin so wide it could split her face.

Dorcas strides over, taking Marlene's hand with a graceful flourish. “'Mi’lady”, she says, bowing once more and kissing Marlene's fingers before leading her onto the dance floor. Remus swears he can hear a slight whimper slip out as Marlene follows her.

Sirius watches after them, dumbfounded, and Remus chuckles. “They had it coming.”

“Wait, what?” Sirius looks at him, clearly irritated.

“Don't tell me you didn't notice the way they looked at each other in every single English class during our Senior year. Honestly, it was painful to watch.”

“I mean, of course I knew Marlene had a crush on Meadowes since she started teaching last year, but I never thought…”

“Oh, yeah.” Remus cocks his head. “You probably didn't notice, though, because you're always too busy complaining about whatever she's trying to teach us. But trust me, Dorcas has a thing for Marlene, too.”

“Huh…”

“I guess she wanted to wait until the end of term, you know— for conformity .”

Sirius watches the two of them dance to the bass-heavy upbeat song that started playing, an affectionate smile tugs at the corners of his lips. And Remus can’t resist the urge to slip his arms around Sirius’s waist from behind, pulling him close. He rests his chin in the crook of his neck again.

“My mother’s in Maryland,” Remus whispers, leaning closer so only Sirius can hear.

“What?” Sirius turns around to him, confused.

Remus takes a long breath, his gaze dropping to the ground, not meeting Sirius’s eyes. 

“That’s where I was last year,” he continues. “My mom had breast cancer. She was treated at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. It was aggressive, and she was too weak to travel back and forth to California all the time.”

Sirius’s expression shifts, confusion giving way for something softer.

“Dad had to stay here for work,” Remus goes on. “He needed to, to cover the hospital bills. So, I stayed with her. I was there through her chemo. Until it was over, and she was better.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, his tone is almost self-deprecating.

“I wasn’t in jail. I didn’t tour with any rock band as a roadie. And I’ve definitely never slept with anyone famous—as far as I know.” His lips twitch, the faintest ghost of a smile before he shakes his head. “I spent a year sitting next to my mom’s hospital bed, watching Judge Judy reruns. That’s it. That’s the whole story.”

“That’s…” Sirius starts, but his words falter. He hesitates, and then he moves closer and presses his lips to Remus’s. The kiss is slow, deep, like Sirius is pouring everything he can’t say into it. Remus feels like time seems to stretch as their move together, long and wanting. When Sirius finally pulls back, he’s breathless, his eyes wide and searching.

“You’re so sweet,” he murmurs. He lifts one hand to brush tenderly against Remus’s cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of his jaw.

Remus leans back in and kisses Sirius again, with more urgency, his hand slides into Sirius’s hair. It’s more intense this time—Remus needs him to understand how he feels, despite the things he can’t say, so he kisses him like it’s a promise.

When they part, Sirius lets out a shaky laugh, his face flushed but radiant. “Wanna get a drink?” 

Regulus

Regulus walks into the bathroom, positively radiant. Feels like he’s flying, like he’s glowing from the inside out. Giddy thoughts about James swirl in his head, like a swarm of butterflies is bursting in his stomach. He’s never felt so good about someone. James does that to him.

From one of the stalls, Evan steps out, breaking Regulus’s bubble of euphoria. He’s dressed in soft, wide, black trousers and a sheer blouse, with wide lace sleeves and a big, ruffled bow in front of his chest. He looks stunning.

Regulus blinks, startled. “What are you doing here?”

Evan shrugs, moving to the sinks with practiced nonchalance to wash his hands. “You think you’re the only sophomore at prom?”

Regulus tilts his head, curiosity flickering. “I did, actually.” He joins Evan in front of the sinks, watching him with quiet interest.

“Barty asked.” Evan smirks, fixing his hair in the mirror with deliberate indifference. “You know, I think you should stay away from him. Unless you’re planning to spend most of the night in his backseat, that is.”

Regulus frowns, his brows drawing together. “Oh, he’s all yours.”

“How very generous of you.” Evan’s smile is saccharine and all fake. “And just so you know, Barty only liked you because he wanted to fuck you—”

“I know,” Regulus interrupts, his tone sharper than intended. (No, he intended venom.)

Evan pauses, visibly caught off guard. “Oh. You… do?”

“Yes, Evan.” Regulus groans, rolling his eyes. He leans against the sinks. “I’m a virgin, not an idiot.”

“Oh.” Evan’s carefully aloof demeanor falters. “Well… yeah. Okay. But—”

“How long have you been in love with him?” Regulus cuts him off again, his voice deceptively calm.

Evan freezes, his eyes snapping from Regulus’s reflection in the mirror directly to him as he turns. “How—”

“Not an idiot,” Regulus reminds him, gesturing at himself, his lips quirking into something almost smug. “So?”

“It started a few months ago. But—” Evan hesitates. Regulus can see how his usual confidence is slipping. And he feels a pang of disappointment, that Evan didn’t tell him.

“Listen.” Regulus turns to face him fully, his expression softening. “I don’t want any stupid boy to come between our friendship, alright?”

Evan falters, looking away. “We’re not… together. Not really. Never were. I broke things off before…” He exhales sharply, like the words physically hurt. “Before he—it could mess me up more. He wanted to keep it casual. Friends with benefits. Whatever. At first I was cool with it, but then—” he takes a deep breath “I was not. So I told him we needed to stop and that he should get his shit together. Figure out what he wants and then—” Evans takes another sharp inhale. “Then he started flirting with you—”

Regulus’s face hardens, the warmth draining from his features, as though the air has been sucked from the room. A surge of anger courses through him like fire. If there had been any butterflies in his stomach before, they are now scorched, reduced to nothing in a single, fatal swoop of fiendfyre. Without a word, he storms out of the bathroom, his rage radiating off him in waves.

Evan’s scrambles after him, alarmed. “Reg, wait! I wanted to tell you…”

Sirius

As Remus and Sirius approach the drink station, James, Peter, and Barty are already there, they seem to be locked in a heated discussion. Barty sways unsteadily, his glazed eyes and loose posture betraying that he’s already drunk. Geez , Sirius thinks, that boy seriously needs to get his act together. Flanked by his usual band of troublemakers, Barty has cornered James and Peter, the latter nervously wringing his hands.

“C'mon,” Sirius mutters, grabbing Remus’s arm and dragging him toward the group.

“Lads, do we have a problem here?” Sirius says with forced casualness, stepping between James and Barty to grab a cup of punch.

Barty ignores Sirius completely, his attention snaps to Remus. His hand heavily lands on Remus’s shoulder, and his lips curl into a sneer.

“Lupin, care to explain? What’s Regulus doing here, with that dick, Potter?” His voice is sharp, but slurring slightly. “I didn’t pay you to take out Sirius so that little punk-ass snake me with Reg.”

Pay you to take out Sirius?

Sirius freezes, the cup in his hand nearly slipping. His stomach twists violently as he processes the words, the world narrowing to the space between Barty and Remus. Remus doesn’t say anything—doesn’t even try to deny it. Instead, he meets Sirius’s eyes, looking utterly defeated. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head.

Barty’s sneer grows. “You hear that, Black?” he says, spinning toward Sirius. “Your pretty boy over there? He was just doing a job, for me. Nothing personal.”

Sirius is still unable to move, to process.

What the fuck is happening?

“Barty, pal, compadre,” James cuts in, his voice hard but measured. “Let’s take it easy, yeah?”

But Barty whirls on him instead, shoving Peter out of the way as he closes in on James. His finger jabs at James’s chest. “You messed with the wrong guy. You’re in big trouble, you and that little bitch.”

James winces but doesn’t back down. He puts a hand on Barty’s shoulder, his jaw tight with restrained anger. “Alright, Barty, that’s enough. You’ve crossed the line.”

Before anyone can react, Barty’s fist connects with James’s face, catching him off guard. James stumbles backward, clutching his face as blood trickles from his lip through his fingers onto his shirt.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Barty snaps.

The atmosphere explodes. People from all sides surge forward, surrounding the scene like wolves circling prey. Peter rushes to help James steady himself. “Very uncool, bro,” he says, glaring at Barty.

“I’m not your bro, you little rat,” Barty spits back, his fists clenched, coiled like a snake ready to strike again.

Then his attention swings back to Remus, venom thick in his voice. “Just so you know,” he says, licks his lips, pointing a bruised finger at Sirius, his eyes flitting between them, “he’ll only let you fuck him once .”

Sirius blinks, the words slicing through him like a dagger. He looks at Remus, then back at Barty, his mind reeling.

Barty paid Remus to go out with me? Just so he could get to Regulus? And now he’s mad because he’s not getting any? Because Regulus went with James? And Remus... The concert. His serenade. Their date. Prom. That was all fake. Just for money...

The realization hits Sirius like a crashing tidal wave. Steals the breath from his lungs. His stomach churns, and his chest feels hollow. The ground feels like it's fallen out beneath him—but in the worst way. Everything starts to blur as the betrayal settles in.

Barty moves to leave, shoving through the crowd, but before he can get far, Regulus is there. And without hesitation, he punches Barty square in the face.

“That’s for making my date bleed,” he snarls.

Barty staggers backward, clutching his face, but Regulus doesn’t relent. He throws a sharp elbow into Barty’s jaw, sending him reeling further.

“And that’s for my brother.”

He surges forward again, with feral rage, but before the next punch can land, Evan is there, grabbing Regulus’s arm mid-swing.

“Regulus, stop,” Evan says firmly, leaving no room for argument.

Regulus freezes, his wide eyes meeting Evan’s calm but resolute gaze. He hesitates, then looks down at Barty, who now sits slumped on the floor, blood pouring from his nose and mouth, staining his pristine white tux.

Evan doesn’t wait for further protest. He just grabs Barty’s arm and hauls him to his feet. “Come!” he says sharply, dragging him away. Barty stumbles after him without another word, his hand pressed to his face, blood dripping down between his fingers. It looks like that freak is actually grinning like a mad man behind his hand.

Regulus turns to James. “Are you okay?”

James wipes at his bloody mouth with the back of his hand, wincing. Then he grins, crooked and defiant. “Never been better.”

Regulus doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward and kisses James, uncaring of the blood smeared across his lips. Oh, Alphard is going to hate this, Sirius thinks distantly.

And then Sirius snaps back to himself. His heart pounds as he spins to Remus, his voice raw and trembling. “Nothing in it for you, huh?”

Before Remus can respond, Sirius shoves him out of the way and storms out, his vision blurred and his chest aching like it’s caving in.

*

Sirius barrels down the stairs, his boots harshly pounding against the stone. Behind him, he can hear Remus’s hurried footsteps, the sound of his voice chasing after him

“Sirius! Wait, I—”

“You were paid to date me!” Sirius yells, spinning around briefly before storming across the parking lot. His boots stomp loudly over the asphalt. “By the one person I truly hate. I’m so stupid. I should’ve known it was a set-up!”

The words come out like shards, tearing through the tight, suffocating knot in his chest. Hate and anger swirl in him, like a thunderstorm tangling with humiliation and hurt. It feels like his ribcage might split apart.

“It wasn’t like that!” Remus’s voice is desperate, cracking under the weight of his plea.

“Really? Then what was it like, Remus?” Sirius turns to face him but continues to walk backwards, theatrically throwing his hands up in the air. “A down payment now, then a bonus for fucking me later? Was that the plan?” His voice rises, sharp and raw, but laced with venom. He raises both middle fingers in the air. “Fuck you! ”

He reaches his motorcycle and yanks on his leather jacket, his fingers trembling. He swings his leg over the bike just as Remus catches up to him.

“I wasn’t in it for the money!” Remus blurts out, his voice cracking. “I—I really care about—”

Sirius twists to face him, and the anger drains from his voice, leaving something far more fragile behind. His chest heaves as he struggles to hold back the tears threatening to spill over, but it’s a losing battle. He feels the first streaks run down his cheeks, burning against his skin. 

Unable to control his emotions. His fucking feelings.

“You’re not who I thought you were,” he whispers, and he can't stop his voice from breaking.

The words hang in the air for a second before Remus steps forward, his hands reaching up to cradle Sirius’s tear-streaked face. His palms are warm and firm, and they linger just long enough to make Sirius hesitate for a moment.

Then, before Sirius can protest, Remus kisses him.

It is a desperate kiss meant to prove something. For a moment, Sirius freezes, caught up in the overwhelming intensity. He wants to believe it's real. But it all comes crashing down on him and he tears himself away, his breath hitching.

It’s not real. It’s wrong. It’s all fake.

He doesn't say another word, starts the engine and the roar of the motorcycle breaks the heavy silence. With one last look at Remus, whose face is almost contorted in pain, Sirius turns the throttle and drives off.

Chapter Text

Sirius 

Week 2, Sunday Afternoon

Sirius is curled up on the couch, mopey, in comfy sweatpants and a sweater. (Remus's sweater, to be specific, the one he gave him after Lockhart's party—it's soft and still smells like him. It's torture, but Sirius figures he deserves it—the torture.)

The TV is on, he's watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for what feels like the hundredth time. Joel and Clementine are arguing and it's just way too much, so he grabs the remote and turns it off. He flicks through the other shows and lands on a true crime documentary instead, something cold and detached—perfect for drowning the pain.

His phone lies next to him. Screen up. No notifications.

Regulus strolls in, bearing a cup of coffee. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us for ice cream? It’ll be fun. I think you’d like James.” he says as he hands the cup to Sirius.

Sirius takes it with a small, appreciative nod. “Nah, I’m good,” he says, managing a weak smile.

Regulus sits down beside him. “Look,” he begins softly, “I just wanted to say… thank you. For going last night. It really meant a lot to me.”

Sirius glances over. “I’m glad,” he smiles softly. He means it, even though in hindsight he obviously feels conflicted about his decision.

On one hand, he is relieved that he did it. Really. Regulus looked so... happy—liberated. Sirius couldn't bear the thought of him feeling like a prisoner in his own life. That hit way too close to home and he couldn't stand the fact that Reggie was feeling that way because of him. 

And maybe it’s time he stopped treating his brother like a kid who needs constant protection. He’s not just his “little brother” anymore. Regulus is smart, and he’s going to make his own choices—and mistakes. That’s part of it, isn’t it? Growing up, living, figuring it all out on the way. Maybe he simply needs to trust Reg more.

Besides, James truly seems like a good guy. At least he’s not Barty, thank God.

Sirius had relented. He’d apologized. He’d told Regulus he’d go—for him. And then, impulsively, he’d told Remus too. Honestly, he hadn’t expected Remus to even show up. But he did.

Sirius exhales slowly, trying to push away the thought of how the night had ended. It leaves a foul taste in his mouth.

Regulus studies him quietly for a moment, then adds. “You looked happy last night, you know.”

Sirius blinks, he says nothing, not trusting himself to form words. Then, softly, he replies, “So did you.”

Regulus gives Sirius a tight squeeze—it is a little awkward, but sincere. When the doorbell rings, he jumps up and hurries to the front door. He opens and its James. Grinning per default. 

“Hey, Sirius!” James calls, sticking his head in and wiggling his fingers cheerfully. Then he leans towards Regulus and whispers—not quietly enough—“Is he alright?”

Regulus looks over his shoulder with a worried glance. “I hope so,” he says quietly.

The door closes behind them with a soft click.

“Was that your brother?” Alphard walks into the living room.

“Yeah. He left with some bikers, big ones, a gang—hairy and tattooed all over.”

Alphard deadpans. “Funny.” He sits down on the arm of the couch and watches the TV for a moment.

“I am completely convinced by the owl theory.” he mutters.

“What owl?” Sirius looks between him and the TV in confusion.

“No spoilers, Sirius.” Alphard plops down on the couch next to Sirius. “So tell me about this dance. Was it lit ?”

Sirius cringes then deflates and shrugs. “Parts of it.”

“Which parts?”

“The part where Regulus beat the hell out of some guy.”

Alphard spins around. “Regulus did what?”

“What's the matter? Upset that I rubbed off on him?” Sirius challenges.

“No—impressed.” Alphard confesses.

Sirius looks up in surprise.

“You know, I don't like to admit it, but you two are capable of running your own lives.” 

Alphard sighs deeply and continues. 

“It means I’ve become a spectator. And don’t get me wrong. I’m really happy that I didn’t mess you up completely. I always thought, I wasn’t doing this right—this whole parenting thing. No one teaches you, you know. You kind of have to figure it out as you go. Sorry, if I was a bit too overprotective at times. I guess—I was just overwhelmed with the responsibility. But the last three years have been the best of my life. I love you boys so much.” 

He looks at Sirius with pleading eyes. 

“Regulus still lets me play a few innings. You've had me on the bench for years—and I’m not blaming you, I know what she did to you.”

He sighs and looks down at his hands.

“So, when you go to Juilliard, I won't even be able to watch the game.”

“When I go?” Sirius blinks.

“Oh, boy. Don't tell me you've changed your mind. I already sent 'em a check.”

Sirius reaches over and pulls his uncle into a hug. 

“You didn’t fuck up, Alphie. We were a mess and you were the best thing that happened to us. I sometimes still can’t believe you put up with my bullshit all this time. I—we love you so much, too. And we still need you in our lives. I'll come visit during the semester breaks and you and Reggie will come and visit me in New York, yes?”

Alphard starts sobbing.

*

Week 3, Monday Morning 

Sirius parks his motorcycle in the school parking lot, swings his leg over— 

“Sirius?”

He freezes mid-step, at the sound of James’s voice. Slowly, he turns, his eyes narrowing.

“I need to apologize,” James says. He’s approaching carefully, like he’s walking a tightrope.

“Apologize? For what?” Sirius's voice is laced with warning. “What did you do to Reg?”.

James holds up his hands in surrender. “Nothing. I mean…” he scratches the back of his neck, looking anywhere but directly at Sirius. “Look, I didn’t mean for things to get… so out of hand.”

Sirius takes a step forward. “James?” he growls “What are you talking about?”

“When Regulus came to me about your uncle’s dating rules, I thought I was helping. I had no idea it would blow up like this, and I—”

He stops in mid-sentence when he realizes that Sirius is no longer listening.

Sirius stares grimly at a spot behind James' shoulder. His jaw clenches and his anger boils beneath the surface. Without another word, he turns sharply on his heel and stomps away.

“Sirius, come on, let me explain,” James yells, but Sirius doesn't look back. His pace quickens, his shoulders tense.

That little shit.

*

Sirius stomps down the hallway, his boots echoing sharply against the tiled hallway floors. Reaching the classroom, he doesn’t bother with subtlety, he kicks the door open with enough force to send it slamming against the wall. The loud bang reverberates through the entire classroom, startling everyone inside.

Without breaking stride, he storms in, grabs Regulus by the collar and yanks him out of his chair. “Family emergency,” he growls over his shoulder, ignoring the stunned class and their wide-eyed teacher.

Sirius drags a stumbling and protesting Regulus out of the classroom, through the hallway and presses him against the lockers.

“Let go!” Regulus squirms, trying to break free.

“You little shit set me up,” Sirius hisses, furious.

“I just wanted—” Regulus starts.

“What? To completely destroy my sanity? Send me to therapy forever? What?” Sirius snaps, his eyes blazing.

“No! I just wanted—”

“Gentlemen,” a sharp voice cuts in. They turn and see Ms. McGonagall approaching with a stern face. “Shall we take a trip to my office?”

*

Both brothers sit stiffly in front of Ms. McGonagall. She stares at them, but her expression is unreadable. After a long, charged silence, she turns her attention to Regulus, fixing him with a piercing look.

“So… you're the real bastard.”

Regulus sighs dramatically and throws his hands up in as if surrendering to the obvious. 

“Yes! Okay? Yes—I’m the real bastard.” His voice drips with exasperation as he leans back in his chair. “I wanted him to get a boyfriend so I could date. Apparently, this makes me a horrible person. I’m sooorry.” He drags out the ‘o’ with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

Then, turning to Sirius, his tone shifts, becoming softer, more sincere. “I swear—I didn’t know about the money. I didn’t even know Barty was involved. I would never intentionally hurt you, Sirius.”

Ms. McGonagall raises an eyebrow, her gaze flicking to Sirius. “Do you care to respond?”

Sirius crosses his arms, his expression deadpan. “Am I supposed to feel better? Like, right now? Or do I get some time to think about it?”

Ms. McGonagall barely suppresses her smirk. “Just smack him,” she suggests, gesturing lazily toward Regulus. “Get it out of your system.”

Regulus stands quickly and grabs Sirius by the arm. “We’ll get back to you on that.”

“What, no hug, either?” Ms. McGonagall calls after them with mock-disappointment.

Regulus shoots her an incredulous look as he ushers Sirius out of the office. Once the door closes behind them, he mutters, “Is that woman a complete fruit-loop, or is it just me?”

“It’s just you,” Sirius replies dryly, though there’s a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Look, Sirius, I’m really sorry that everything got out of hand, but I talked to James.” Sirius rolls his eyes and twitches in irritation. Great so his little brother is not discussing his dating life with his boyfriend, perfect. Regulus continues anyway, undeterred. 

“We really don’t think Remus is such a bad guy. He was really trying and made an effort. And to be honest with you I think you’re kind of perfect for each other.” Regulus looks Sirius in the face, his eyes searching, pleading, needing him to listen, to believe him.

“No…” Sirius deflates. “I know, he isn't.”

*

Ms. Meadowes turns to face the class. “All right. I assume everyone has found time to compose their poems. Except for Mr. Crouch, who has an excuse.” 

Barty looks up, he’s wearing sunglasses to cover his black eye. Marlene snorts in the back. Ms. Meadowes gives her a stern glance, but a sly smile tugs at her lips. “Anyone brave enough to read theirs out loud?”

No one moves. 

Then Sirius slowly stands up. “I’ll go” And he sees Remus looking up in the corner of his eye.

“Oh, Lord.” Ms. Meadowes sighs, crosses her arms in front of her chest and leans back against her desk. “Please proceed.”

Sirius stands, and takes a deep inhale before reading from his notebook.

“I hate your bright and cutting wits,
the way you see right through my pride.
I hate your dark, sarcastic bits,
and how you keep it all inside.”

He pauses, exhales, his voice shaking slightly, then continues.

“I hate that you’re so sharp and coy,
even when you never seem to try.
I hate the way you spark joy,
it’s worse when I’d rather cry.”

He takes another deep breath, and looks quickly at Remus, who stares at the floor. The corners of his eyes start to burn. He can't help it.

“I hate the way you’re always calm,
when I’m aflame and feeling feral.
I hate your damn unwavering charm,
it's maddening, I'm in peril.

I hate the way you don't care,
as if defiance makes you cool.
I hate it when you choose to stare,
and how you act so cruel.

I hate the way you withdrew,
when you’re not near, I feel so small.
Yet most of all, I hate I don’t hate you,
not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.”

He looks directly at Remus and Remus holds his gaze. But it’s entirely too much. So Sirius walks out of the room, leaving the rest of the class and Ms. Meadowes in stunned silence.

*

Sirius walks back to his bike. He decided to ditch the rest of the school day. But when he arrives, he's greeted with a cherry red Fender Stratocaster guitar, leaning against his bike. He picks it up slowly, inspecting every detail, then spins around.

Remus stands behind him, smiling.

“A Fender Strat! You bought this?”

“I thought you could use it. You know, when you start your band.”

Sirius doesn't answer, hides a smile and walks closer.

Remus continues. “Besides, I had some extra cash. Some asshole paid me to take out a really great guy.”

“Is that right?” Sirius cocks his head and steps into Remus’s space.

“Yeah, but then I fucked up. I fell for him.” He puts his hands on his waist and Sirius and looks down. 

Remus lowers his voice. “You know—it's not every day you find a guy who'll flash his dick to get you out of detention.”

Sirius looks up, surprised and amused that Remus found out.

“Actually, I’m a bit upset that Filch got to see both our dicks, before we—”

“Remus,” Sirius says softly, his voice cutting him off, before he can say anything more self-deprecating or completely stupid. He steps even closer and takes Remus’s face gently in his hands, his thumbs brushing over his cheeks, and leans up to kiss him. 

Their kiss is tender at first, almost hesitant. Remus melts into it, his hands finding their way to Sirius’s neck, holding him as if he’s afraid to let him go. The world around Sirius fades. There’s no hesitation anymore—just Remus. The way his fingers tangle in his hair at the nape of his neck. His lips. His tongue.

When Sirius finally pulls back, his lips curve into a sly grin. “You know,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, “you can’t just buy me a guitar every time you screw up.”

“I know.” Remus grimaces to stifle his own grin. “But then there’s always drums, and a bass and maybe even a tambourine…” 

Remus kisses him again, playful this time but Sirius breaks it off quickly, shaking his head, though he can’t stop smiling now. “Remus! And don't just think you can kiss me to—”

“Shut up!” Remus growls and kisses him again, not letting Sirius end it this time and he won't.

Epilogue - Peter

A few days later.

Everyone gathered on the backyard patio of Grimmauld Place to celebrate the end of the school year and their graduation with a barbecue. Music and laughter fill the air. Sirius stands at the grill flipping burgers with exaggerated concentration.

“Why are my veggie burgers the only burnt ones on the grill?” Remus demands, raising an eyebrow.

“Because I like to torture you.” Sirius smirks at him fondly, turning his attention toward his brother. “Oh, Regulus? Can you grab my freshman yearbook?”

Remus’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Don’t you even dare…”

Across the patio, Regulus and James are mid-argument.

“They do too!”

“They do not!”

Regulus gets up, exasperated. “Can someone please tell James that peanuts grow in soil and not on trees?”

From her lounge chair, Dorcas giggles, Malene sits in her lap and is thoroughly occupied, kissing her. When she finally comes up for air, she smirks.

“Yes, James,” she interjects casually, “peanuts are underground nuts. The growing process is actually called pegging.”

James doubles over with laughter. “Pegging underground nuts?” Sirius's barking laugh echoes from the other side of the patio and only spurs James on even more. 

But before Marlene can comment on the fact that the two of them apparently have the humor of twelve-year-olds and share a single brain cell, Dorcas pulls her back down for another round of kisses.

Meanwhile, Remus tries to intercept Regulus before he hands Sirius the yearbook. But he slips away.

“You’re really freaked out about this, aren’t you?” Regulus asks, scrutinizing Remus’s tense expression.

“I thought one of you was a menace,” Remus mutters, gesturing between the brothers. “But putting you two together is unbearable. I don’t know how your uncle did it.”

Regulus shrugs, handing Sirius the yearbook. “He’s more than freaked. He’s froke.” he notes.

“And Alphie loves us—that’s how. Catch up, Lupin.” Sirius says and winks causing Remus to duck his head sheepishly. 

Sirius is already flipping through the old yearbook, cackling when he lands on the sophomore pages. “I’d like to call your attention to Remus John Lupin’s stunning bad-ass look of 2021,” he announces triumphantly, holding up the page.

The group bursts into laughter. It’s a hilariously nerdy picture of teenage Remus—thick glasses, bad haircut, a scraggly shadow of a mustache, braces—the complete geek package.

“Remus, is that—” James stares, wide-eyed, gasping for air between the laughter.

“Blue hair!” Sirius completes, his grin widening. “I thought it was the coolest thing back then.” Sirius muses.

“It was a phase!” Remus groans, rubbing a hand over his face as he sinks lower into his chair but then stops, peaking at Sirius between two fingers. “Wait… Actually? You did ?”

Sirius nods and smiles at him fondly, while Regulus is still huddled over the picture, giggling.

The garden gate croaks open, Regulus glances up, spotting Evan walking through—holding hands with—Barty.

The group goes silent for a beat. Sirius straightens, eyes narrowing like a guard dog. “What is he doing here?” he growls.

“Sit down, Sirius.” Remus’s tone is firm, and Sirius begrudgingly complies, though he’s still grumbling under his breath.

Regulus throws him a sharp look, then steps forward to greet Evan with a warm hug. “Evan is my best friend,” he says coolly. “He’s invited, and he can bring his boyfriend if he wants to.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

Barty shifts awkwardly and holds up a small baggie. “Hey, guys. Listen, I—I’m really sorry, for what happened. I brought a peace offering?” He gives them a wry smile.

Remus grabs the weed, examines it and nods approvingly.

Peter strolls out onto the porch carrying a tray of drinks. He takes one look at the group, surveys the chaos and grins fondly.

“Jeez, what a bunch of queers,” he says cheerfully. “Are the burgers ready yet?”

Peter leans back, sipping his soda, watching the chaos unfold. A small, satisfied smile creeps across his lips. He wasn’t entirely sure how, but somehow, his plan had worked—every piece had fallen perfectly into place.

Here’s how it went: 

Step one, pick up James Potter on his first day. That wasn’t chance, of course not. Peter had studied the school’s student directory, done his research—a little light social media stalking—and positioned himself as James’s first friend. Easy.

Step two, introduce James to Regulus. That “accidental” encounter during lunch break? Please. Completely staged. Peter had memorized Regulus’s schedule, picked the perfect moment to make him seem unattainable, and then nudged James into his orbit. The challenge in James’s eyes? Exactly what Peter was counting on.

The French tutoring program? Pure fiction. Peter had set up a fake email, created the flyers, and made sure they found their way to Regulus. Convincing James that he was suitable for the job didn't take much persuasion at all. It was perfect—a structured excuse to spend time together without either realizing they were being set up.

Mr. Black—easy. Peter’s anonymous “parenting tip” newsletters had planted the seed: Don’t let younger siblings date until the older ones are settled. Pedagogically questionable, sure, but it had been enough to make Mr. Black change the dating rules for his nephews.

Sirius, Remus and Barty? Practically a self-solving problem. All Peter had to do was nudge Barty into paying Remus to date Sirius, knowing Remus’s financial situation was getting dire. It only took him one financial consultation with Kingsley, so that he’d raise his weed prices—Remus's inevitable financial ruin. (Now, this was truly perfect, because this way the blame would fall back on Barty, not James—of course Peter knew the Potters were loaded too and James could have easily paid Remus.) And since Barty was desperate to make Evan jealous, Peter simply gave him an idea with Regulus. 

The fallout? That’s really not Peter’s problem. Also it wasn’t that bad.

Lockhart’s party? Okay, maybe daring drunk Sirius to jump off the roof was a bit… unnecessary, but hey, it was hilarious. Wasn't it? Anyway—Lockhart sucks.  

And as for the unexpected twist with Marlene and Dorcas? Peter hadn’t seen that coming, but he wasn’t mad about it either. Sure, seeing their teacher make out with a student was... odd. But Marlene had graduated, so it wasn’t his business. 

Besides, they balanced out the overwhelmingly male energy of the group.

Peter takes another sip, watching his handiwork with pride. Sure, they were all hooking up now—like rabbits. But Peter was just happy to play puppeteer, chess, cupid.

And for the first time ever, Peter wasn’t the lonely geek lurking on the fringes of social school life. He belonged to a proper group of friends. To this madhouse. His madhouse.