"Any questions?" Dumbledore asks after a short pause. No one raises their hand. "Excellent. Well, I imagine you are all eager to return to your homes, and I'm sure Arabella would love it if we would depart from her's. Thank you for all your hard work, I'll see you all again soon." He smiles. James doesn't know if anyone smiles back.
These meetings are strange nowadays. He finds himself waiting sometimes, for his parents to walk through the door. For his mother to pull them all into a hug and get lipstick on James's cheek. For his father to watch on fondly, quieter and calmer but no less warm. He waits for that feeling of certainty that always filled him whenever they were around, the weight lifting from his shoulders. Because the adults were there. And surely they would take care of things.
The weight never lifts these days. But maybe that's just what it feels like to grow up.
The room is slowly emptying. People going outside to Apparate since Mrs. Figg doesn't have a Floo connection. Some people still linger, small groups huddled along the walls, catching up since the last time they saw one another, taking stock of the damage—who's been injured, killed, taken. James, Peter and Sirius, however, say nothing. The three of them too tired to speak. Too tired to move. This winter is feeling long and it hasn't even started yet.
"Did it—" Peter starts and then stops, looking at the pillow in his lap and fiddling with the lace.
James waits for a moment, but when Peter doesn't continue on his own he decides to give him a push. "Did it what?"
Peter chews on the inside of his cheek. "Well...it's just that—I'm not saying it is or anything—I'm just saying, it sounded a bit like..."
"Just spit it out Peter," Sirius says, now petting two cats. You'd think him being a dog would make them automatically dislike him but apparently his charm works on animals as well as people.
"When Moody was describing everything to look out for...did it sound a bit like he was describing Remus to either of you?"
Sirius freezes. He doesn't look up, doesn't speak, just goes deadly still.
James has somewhat of the opposite reaction. "Tell me you're joking right now?" he asks, anger edging into his voice as he watches Peter's cheeks flush.
"I told you, I'm not saying he is I'm just saying...well, the similarities were a bit hard to miss weren't they?" he now looks over at Sirius who still hasn't moved. James isn't even sure if he's breathing.
"Pete can you give us a minute?" James says finally, voice held tight.
Peter looks at him. "Give you..." then back at Sirius. "Oh—oh right, yeah," he awkwardly stands, taking a step forward before realizing he's still holding a pillow and placing it, somewhat delicately, back on the sofa.
Something is off. Sirius should be fuming—James should be holding him back, barely restraining him. Why is he just sitting there? Why is he—
"Pete's right you know," Sirius croaks.
James has to run those words through his head a few times before he's finally able to accept that Sirius said them.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
There's a beat.
"James—"
"No really, what the fuck is wrong with you? How could you even—" he has to stop because his anger is getting to be too much, making his words shake as they cut their way out of his mouth.
To be fair, Sirius does look ashamed, staring at the floor, curled in on himself. Usually so big and bright, now wilting. James isn't sure he's seen him this defeated since fifth year.
Chapter Fifty
Start from the beginning
