James spent the last night before summer holidays with Regulus. They laid on their backs, Regulus's fingers tracing the lines of his palm and the veins of his arm, causing every inch of his skin to tingle and spark to life. Over sensitive under Regulus's barely-there touches. They talked a little, they kissed a lot, Regulus had that faraway look in his eyes—like he was already back in London. Already trying to close off parts of himself. James tried not to notice. Not to let it hurt. But, of course, it did anyway.
It was late when he finally said it, not sure why he had waited so long; "I have something for you."
He pulled out a stack of letters, eight to be precise, one for every week of summer.
"I thought about writing one for every day," he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "But it seemed excessive."
Regulus stared at the envelopes in his hands, running them over, like he couldn't quite believe they were real. "I'm not sure I understand..." he said finally.
"Well I know—I know I can't send you post, over the summer, so, I thought I'd give them to you now."
Regulus blinked up him. "Give them to me now?"
"They're all dated," James went on, "so you can read them like I'm sending them to you in real time. I just thought..." he trailed off, shrugging. "I didn't want you to be alone all summer," after another long pause he dropped his eyes, more nervous laughter. "Maybe that's dumb—actually—now that I'm saying it out loud it's definitely dumb. Sorry, you don't have to—"
Regulus kissed him then. It had been a big kiss—full of feelings and words and desperation. All James could do was take it. Was hold him.
"Thank you," Regulus said, when they finally came up for air. "I love them. I love you."
Several weeks later, lying on his bed in his childhood home, James runs over that memory for the hundredth time. The way it had felt to hear Regulus say those words again—without needing to be forced or asked. Like they came naturally to him. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine the feel of the other boy's lips, the weight of him in his hands. He doesn't know if Regulus is okay, if he's read any of the letters, if he's thinking about James the way James is thinking about him. Constantly. Incessantly. He feels raw with all the things he doesn't know.
"JAMES!" his mother shouts, even though there are a dozen spells and a house elf who all could have communicated with him more efficiently, "BREAKFAST."
James slides out of bed, already dressed but reluctant to leave his room. Sirius hasn't tried to talk to him since they've been here, but that doesn't mean it isn't still incredibly uncomfortable to be in the same room as him. Part of James, the petty childish part, is mad at Sirius for not trying harder. He should be bending over backwards to make this right. He should be begging for James's forgiveness. For Remus's. For Peter's. Instead, he's just gone silent, keeping his eyes down and his face hidden behind a curtain of dark hair. Like he's trying to disappear.
James drops into his chair at the kitchen table, Sirius in the seat across from him, eyes trained on his breakfast. It's bright out, has been almost every day this week, skies clear and sun fat in the sky. It's aggravating, since James is not feeling particularly sunny at the moment.
"Well look who it is, risen from the dead," his mother chirps as she drops a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, giving his head a quick kiss. "Have you boys got any plans for today?" she sweeps around the kitchen, brewing coffee with the twirl of one hand and sending dishes into the sink with the brush of another.
Though he wouldn't have thought it possible, he thinks he sees Sirius curl further in on himself. His mother insists on acting as though everything is fine—as though they'll wake up one morning and it'll all be forgotten. Like Sirius didn't fucking betray each and every one of them.
"Going to Remus's," he says tersely, shoving eggs into his mouth like they've personally offended him.
"Both of you?"
"No."
He glares across the table at Sirius, daring him to say something, but he just keeps staring at his plate, barely touching his food.
"Don't you think—"
"Mum," he cuts her off, "leave it."
He meets her gaze, her stare not nearly as lighthearted and carefree as her tone would suggest. After a few moments of intense eye contact she sighs. "When will you be back?"
James shrugs, barely tasting the food he's eating, just desperate to finish and get away from this table and out of this house. He's spent nearly every day this summer at Remus's, which James knows Remus hates but there's nothing to be done for it. They can't hang out at Pete's—his mother is really weird about having people in her house, as in, she hates it and they're not allowed. And they can't come here for obvious reasons, so the Lupin's is their only option.
James actually quite likes Remus's house—a small farm in the Welsh countryside. James has always thought it a crime that Remus hasn't got an accent but he claims he doesn't actually speak to any Welsh people, and since neither of his parents are from there originally he's never picked it up.
James wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before standing and dumping his plate in the sink.
"Merlin James, where's the fire?" his mum laughs.
"Gotta catch the Portkey," he says blandly, kissing her quickly on the cheek and not sparing Sirius a single glance.
He slips on his trainers at the front door before pushing outside, not even bothering to do up his laces. Instantly he feels lighter, even as the early August heat sticks to his skin. Lately that house is full of all the things he can't fix—promises he hasn't kept. He told Remus it wouldn't always be like this and he meant it. He just hasn't quite figured out how yet.
There are a couple Portkeys set up in the area, leaving at designated times throughout the day. It's not a terrible way to travel but it's also not the most convenient. The Portkey only gets him to Wales and then he has to take a muggle bus to Remus's. He's become quite familiar with muggle transportation this summer. Far more familiar than he ever wanted to be, if he's being honest. Not that he'd never used it before of course, his mum used to take him into London when he was little, before Hogwarts. Day trips to the museums and parks and things, so he'd ridden the tube a few times. But public transport in a major city and public transport in the middle-of-nowhere-Wales, are two very different experiences, James has come to learn.
The bus takes ages, of course, and then there's still another twenty minute walk from the road to Remus's front door. By the time he gets there James is drenched in sweat and the day is half-gone.
"Oh, hello James," Hope opens the door for him. "You look knackered, come in, come in," she waves him inside. "Can I get you anything? Lemonade?"
"Yes, please, that would be brilliant," he tries not to sound too desperate, but she smiles at him like she knows.
"Where's Remus?" he asks, following her into the kitchen. James is completely obsessed with the Lupin's kitchen. It's full of muggle appliances he's never seen before. Like a fridge—which apparently keeps things cold no matter what the temperature is outside?! James has asked Remus multiple times but he swears it isn't magic. There's also a microwave that instantly heats up your food—also, allegedly, not magic—and an iron that makes waffles. Brilliant, James thinks, all of it.
"Remus is out back," Hope smiles as she hands him a cold glass of lemonade that he proceeds to gulp down likes he's just spent a week in the desert. Hope arches her brow, smiling in a way that looks so much like Remus it's almost scary.
"Another?" she asks.
James chews on his bottom lip like he's actually considering saying no. "If you don't mind?"
She laughs. "I don't mind," Hope Lupin, James has learned this summer, is infinitely more relaxed when a) her husband isn't home and b) she isn't surrounded by Wizards. Well, adult wizards anyway. She doesn't seem to mind James and Peter so much, but the one time his mother came to apparate him home he noticed her getting jumpy again. James doesn't think it's prejudice or anything. It feels more like fear.
He can't imagine what that must be like. To be married to someone you're afraid of. To have a son you're afraid of. He knows Remus feels it, the constant humming of fear beneath his mother's skin. Like she's expecting to be attacked. Though he imagines some of that is Fenrir's fault.
"It's been so nice having you boys over so much this summer," she says as she returns his refilled glass. "Usually we barely get to see Rem, he's at your place so much."
James smiles, nodding noncommittally.
"It's a shame Sirius hasn't been able to join you, but then, it's good for a teenage boy to have a summer job. I always worked in the summers, at my father's shop."
James freezes mid-swallow. "Er—" he chokes back the last of his lemonade, looking uncertainly at Hope. "Sorry? What was that about Sirius?"
"His job, at the Quidditch shop in Diagonal Alley or whatever it's called. Remus told me that's why he hasn't been around this summer."
She's still smiling at him, though it feels a little forced, and James suddenly has the intense desire to get out of this kitchen.
"Right, yeah—yeah, no that's...true. Definitely true. He's been really busy. At his...job." he rubs nervously at the back of his neck, trying to understand why Remus would lie about that. "Well, I should," he nods towards the back door.
"Of course, let me know if you need anything. Plenty more lemonade and snacks. Feel free to help yourself."
"Right, thanks," James says, before quickly turning around and bolting out of the house.
The Lupin's garden is just an untended field. It might have grown crops at some point, but now it mostly grows wildflowers and weeds. James cuts his way through it, sun beating down, eyes peeled for a sandy blond head. Eventually he spots it, under the only tree for a mile, right at the edge of the property.
"Could you have gone any further, Jesus Christ," he wheezes when he finally makes it up to him.
Remus is leaning against the trunk, dark shades pushed up into his hair, book in his lap. The bastard barely even looks up.
"If I'm any closer to the house she comes out every five minutes to check on me," he says flatly, James collapsing onto the ground in a sweaty heap. "Mind you, I don't know what she's so worried about. I've already been bitten by a werewolf."
James lets out a bark of laughter. "Jeez, in a real chipper mood today aren't we?"
Remus just shrugs, going back to his book as James tries to catch his breath.
"Speaking of your mum," he says eventually, pushing himself up onto his elbows so he can look at his friend properly. "Why did you tell her that Sirius has a summer job?"
Remus groans, letting his head fall back against the trunk behind him. "Because she wouldn't stop asking why he hasn't been over."
James feels like he's missed something. "Surely she knows why? She was was there in Dumbledore's office."
"Yeah, but as far as she's concerned that never happened."
James blinks. "What?"
Remus nods, running a hand over his flushed face. "You know how she is. Something bad happens and she just sort of—decides that it didn't. Him not hanging around was ruining the illusion for her, so she kept asking until I gave her a lie that would make her feel better."
James can feel his eyes widen. "Jesus," he hisses.
"Yup."
"I didn't realize she was so invested in your friendship."
Remus grimaces. "She isn't really, it's—it's not about him. It's about me. She—" Remus struggles for a moment, dropping his book onto the ground beside him and leaning forward, arms balanced on his knees. "She's worried that I'm going to end up alone, just, in general, in life," he laughs dryly, kicking at the ground, "Werewolves don't have friends. Lonely, pitiful creatures," he goes on bitterly, and James feels his blood run cold, realizing that Remus is repeating things his parents have actually said to him.
"My dad's told her that my life is doomed to be pretty fucking miserable," he goes on, shooting James a wry look. "She's worried that this thing with Sirius is the start of that."
"The start of what?" James demands, trying to sort through the various levels of anger currently boiling under his skin.
"Me losing friends because of my...condition."
"Bullshit."
Remus just shrugs, falling back against the tree again. "Makes her feel better, thinking he's just busy."
Jame stares at him for a moment, before reaching forward and jabbing him in the side with his finger.
"Ow, James, what the hell?"
"Stop it."
Remus's eyes narrow. "Stop what?"
James gestures to him with his hand. "Being so melancholic. We're not going anywhere."
"Yeah okay, still don't see why the violence was necessary."
"Remus," James repeats. "I mean it. You're not going to be alone. Not ever. And you're about the least pitiful person I know, so that's out too."
They're staring at one another, and James sees the small crack in Remus's sarcastic exterior.
"Least pitiful person, huh?"
James nods. "Definitely. Marlene's a close second though."
He snorts, pausing for a minute before taking a deep breath. "Thanks," he says, and James tries to pretend he doesn't hear the shake in his voice.
He nods, collapsing onto his back again, looking up at the tree branches above them. "Your family's pretty fucked up, huh?"
That gets a proper big laugh out of Remus, the noise swallowed by the never ending fields surrounding them. "Yeah, yeah a bit."
In the ensuing silence James can hear the sound of the breeze blowing through the tall grass, but doesn't feel any of it on his skin, his body slowly overheating. He was not made for the heat. Or for Muggle public transportation.
"How is he?" Remus asks eventually, sounding resigned.
James cringes, in no doubt about who "he" is. "Miserable."
Remus snorts. "I feel like that's supposed to make me feel better but it doesn't."
"Yeah," James nods, even though he's not sure that Remus can see, "tell me about it."
Another brief pause.
"Look, James, if you want to forgive him—"
"Not a chance," and then, turning his head to look up at his friend. "Unless you want to...?"
Remus sighs, closing his eyes. "Want to? Absolutely. Can I? Fuck, I don't know."
And oh, does James ever feel that right down in the pit of his stomach. He misses Sirius, desperately, almost more so now that their home, without anything else to distract him. Since he was eleven all he's wanted is for Sirius to live with him, and now he does and they're not even speaking.
"We'll figure it out," he says eventually, which seems to be all he says these days. They've pulled off elaborate pranks, figured out how to make a map that tracks everyone in the castle, turned themselves into animagi. Surely they can work their way through this too?
He can feel Remus looking at him. He does that a lot these days, like he's trying to figure James out. Like something is bothering him. James keeps waiting for Remus to bring it up but he never does. Which James supposes shouldn't be a surprise.
He exhales. "Moony?"
"Yeah?"
"You're staring."
"Am not."
James rolls his eyes, propping himself up on his elbows again. "You were."
Remus looks at him and then away, gaze running over the field in front of them, James can't tell if the flush on the tops of his cheeks is from the sun or from being caught.
"Something you wanna ask me?"
Remus lets out a dry laugh. "Nothing you want to answer."
That catches James's interest. "Try me."
He watches Remus chew his bottom lip, hands fidgeting in his lap as he keeps looking out at the field instead of back at James.
"Sirius told me you're seeing a bloke," he says finally. Bluntly. So bluntly, in fact, that it takes James a minute or two to catch up.
"I—he," he shakes his head, sitting up properly and staring at his friend who still isn't looking at him. "When did you talk to Sirius?"
Remus looks down. "I don't know, few weeks after it happened."
"It?"
He rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."
"I didn't know you were talking to him."
"I wasn't—I'm not," Remus has started pulling up the grass beside him. Nervous habit.
"Well clearly you are," James isn't entirely sure why he's so peeved by this, maybe just because it feels like a secret, something that's been kept from him on purpose. Or maybe it's because he's so desperate to talk to Sirius himself.
Remus sighs, scrubbing at his face with his hands. "It was only once okay? Is that really what's important here?"
James just stares at him for a minute, t-shirt two sizes too big, ratty jean cut-offs he definitely made himself. Remus Lupin in his natural habitat. The unhappiness is oozing out of him.
"Fine," James says eventually, running a hand through his hair. "Fine, okay, so he told you. I reckon you don't have a problem with it?"
Another dry laugh. "No, I don't have a problem with it," but it's clear there's more, James can feel it, feel the weight of it hanging in the silence between them. Finally, Remus looks back at him. "Is it Regulus Black?"
He wishes he was better at controlling his face. Wishes he couldn't feel his eyes widen or his mouth drop open. He is eventually able to school his features into something resembling neutral but by then it's too late. Remus has seen.
"Jesus fuck James," Remus hangs his head between his knees like he's going to be sick and James thinks he might join him. Despite being in the middle of a field James suddenly feels claustrophobic—trapped.
"How do you know—did Sirius—"
Remus laughs, though the noise isn't quite pleasant. "You think if Sirius knew either of you would still be breathing?"
James flinches. Not that he didn't know that already but it feels worse having someone else say it out loud.
"I saw you, on the map, saw you together in the middle of the night," Remus goes on, sounding weary. "Put two and two together, though Merlin I really wanted to be wrong."
James swallows, throat tight, he's not sure what to say. How to explain—what to explain. It's all a bit of a mess really. Apparently Remus feels similarly because for too long they stay frozen, neither of them looking, or speaking, or moving. The heat is getting too much for James.
"How long?" Remus asks eventually.
"Last fall."
"Fuck," Remus hisses. "What the fuck James? What are you doing? What are you thinking? After everything—after what they did to Sirius—"
"That wasn't Regulus," James snaps, anger flaring in his chest, which is better than whatever sad ache he'd been feeling before, so he'll take it, "he's trapped there just like Sirius was."
"No he isn't, you know he isn't. Sirius has been trying to get out of that house since he was eleven bloody years old. I mean, he got sorted into Gryffindor for Merlin's sake. From where I'm sitting Regulus looks pretty fucking comfortable."
"You have no idea what you're talking about," James can hear himself getting louder, and is suddenly very grateful to be out in the middle of nowhere, away from everyone. "He's fucking terrified. Did you know that Walburga uses Legilimency on them?" and judging by the look of horror that flashes across Remus's face James is going to assume he didn't. "They're all in his head, fucking him up, making him burry himself. So don't sit there and act like it's just as easy as walking away, because it isn't."
There's something new in Remus's gaze now—something softer. Pity, James thinks. It doesn't make him feel much better.
"But is he trying?" Remus asks softly.
"What?" something scratches at the inside of his chest.
"I—Jesus James, I get it, okay? I was there too, yeah? All those times Sirius showed back up to school looking like he'd had the fucking life beaten out of him. I know it's not easy. None of this is easy. But Sirius has always tried. Regulus walks around like he's one of them. He takes the protection it gives him. The privilege," Remus pinches the bridge of his nose while James just stares at him, the scratching in his chest growing violent.
"Maybe he doesn't agree with what his friends are doing, I don't know. But he isn't stopping them. Didn't stop them from hurting his brother. I—is that okay with you? Can you get past that? Because to be honest James, I'm having a bloody hard time understanding how."
James wants to scream, an unbearable pressure building behind his lungs. He shakes his head, closing his eyes, trying to get his thoughts in order. He can see Regulus in the supply room, eyes wide and earnest.
You're my person.
You're mine.
"Where is he supposed to go Remus?" he asks finally, barely able to get the words out. "Sirius had us. Regulus has no one."
When Remus doesn't speak James forces himself to open his eyes again, finding his friend's gaze focused on him.
"He has you now, doesn't he?"
James nods. "In the dark. In secret. Doesn't exactly inspire confidence, does it?"
Remus takes that in, leaning his head back against the tree again and looking up at the branches above. "That your idea or his?"
"I don't know," James answers, not sure if it's a lie or not. Then, after a few seconds, he sighs, "He's more scared than I am."
"Makes sense, don't expect his lot will be particularly accepting."
"No," James says flatly. "I need time, to make him see—make him understand that I'm not going anywhere. That he can trust me," he takes in a shaky breath, trying to ignore the sting that confession causes. Because he can see it, in Regulus's hesitancy, in the way that he still pulls away, that there is a part of him that doesn't trust that James will be there when he needs him.
"I'm going to get him out of there, Remus," he says.
Remus looks back over at him, expression unreadable, "If anyone could it'd be you," he says quietly, almost more to himself than to James. And then, louder; "Just—" he bites his lower lip, the pity making a reappearance, "don't wear yourself out trying to save someone who doesn't want to be saved, okay?"
He breathes through the ache that causes. "He wants to be Moons, really," James hopes that that's true. He's almost certain it is. Almost.
His friend only nods. "You planning on telling Padfoot about this at some point?"
James lets out a huff, collapsing onto his back again. "Before? Maybe. Now? No. Lets just—one problem at a time, yeah?"
"Yeah," Remus answers distantly, and James tries to ignore the skepticism in his voice.
It's nearly dinner by the time James gets home. He missed the bus, and the next one took ages. How Muggles get anywhere on time he has no idea. Right now he just wants to go upstairs and lie down. Maybe take a shower. He's covered in sweat and dirt from sitting on the ground all afternoon.
"James, hun, that you?" his Mother calls from his father's office.
James groans internally, heading grumpily down the hall. "Yeah, you need something?" he asks as he swings into the room, not moving far beyond the door.
His mother snorts. "Hello to you too."
"Sorry, I'm just tired."
She's sitting at his father's desk—a giant, wooden monstrosity, that reminds James far too much of Dumbledore's office.
"How's Remus?" his mother asks pleasantly.
"Fine."
"Good, I haven't seen him much recently."
Jeez, what is it with mother's and not being able to take a hint?
"I wonder why that is," he responds flatly.
"You can be angry without being snotty you know," she says, eyebrow arched.
James sighs, running a hand through his sweaty hair. "Thanks for the tip. Did you call me in here just to lecture me about my attitude or is there something else you want?"
"Wow, you really are in a mood aren't you?"
"I hate the bus."
That gets a laugh out of her, big and bright, enough that it pulls the corners of James's mouth up.
"Fair enough I suppose," and then she pushes something forward across the desk.
James squints at it, stepping closer. "What is it?"
"A letter," she says simply. "It's address to you, it came by Muggle post."
"What?" he scrunches his face, looking back at her.
"Yes," she smiles, "I was rather surprised too—so was the mailman, now that I think about it."
"Mailman?"
She waves his question away. "Muggle owl."
"Instead of owls Muggles use men? That sounds bloody inefficient. Almost as inefficient as their stupid buses that only come once a stupid hour."
"James," she says, biting back a smile, "focus."
"Oh—right," he picks up the white envelope, with its funny little picture in the corner, and neat handwriting spelling out his name and address. "Who's it from?"
"I don't know, there's no return address."
"Return—what?"
His mother laughs again. "Never mind. I had to run some spells on it, make sure it was safe. Technically I'm supposed to give anything odd to Moody to check out but..." something twinkles in the corner of her eyes that James doesn't quite understand. A joke he's missed. "I feel confident it's safe."
"Er—okay, cheers," he starts to open it and his mother quickly gets up.
"I'll leave you to it shall I?" she says lightly, planting a kiss on the top of his head as she breezes past.
"Don't you want to know who it's from?" he asks, confused as he watches his mother head for the door.
"Oh I have my suspicions, though feel free to confirm them for me later if you like."
"Wait mum—" she pauses, turning back to him. "Is Sirius here?"
She shakes her head. "Gone into town, to the shops. That's what he said anyway," she smiles sadly. "That's what he does most days."
James nods, suddenly not sure why he asked, he's just...used to knowing. "Thanks."
She gives him one last smile before closing the door, leaving James alone in his father's office, arguably his least favourite room in the house. He's only ever called in here when he's in trouble. It's a dark space, wooden floors and walls, never ending bookcases, an overly ornate fireplace. All rather suffocating if you ask James.
Slowly, his attentions drags back to the letter in his hands and he drops into the chair his mother just left, sliding his finger under the seal and pulling out the pages inside.
Hi.
James pauses, squinting at the word, the curving script, recognition slowly dawning on him.
Don't ask me what I'm thinking,
The letter goes on.
I've spent too much time with you, clearly, all my common sense has gone out the window.
"Oh," the word comes out of James on his next exhale, chest aching as he hears the words so clearly in Regulus's voice. He hadn't been ready for this.
I can't send you post via owl but I thought—well—it's not as though my mother is checking the Muggle mail. I don't think so anyway. I suppose we'll find out. I'm not even sure this will get to you. Bertha, she works at the postoffice here, tried to explain to me how it all works—Muggle mail, I mean—sounds like a dreadful system if you ask me, but she double checked that I addressed this correctly so maybe there's a chance it'll make it to you anyway. I hope it makes it to you.
I'm in Scotland, at the summer house. It's good to get out of the city, and I can fly here which is—which helps. My dad loves it, he grew up in the country and mostly just tolerates London for my mother's sake. He spends most of his days out in the back garden watching me fly. It makes him happy, though I've no idea why. Still, I'll do anything at this point. He's worse than he was at Christmas. The Healers don't expect him to last much longer, but then, they're always saying that.
Sorry, I'm rambling. I'd start over, but I've already done this three times and I have to go home soon. I've been reading your letters. See, this is where I always get stuck. It's the reason for the rambling at the top. Because I've been reading your letters, that's why I'm writing this ridiculous letter and sending it in the ridiculous Muggle post. Because every time I read them I just—I just want to talk to you. I miss talking to you. I miss your voice. I miss the way you laugh. I miss your atrocious hair. I miss. I miss. I miss. That's all I do these days.
Well, that and go to the gallery. I've visited Patroclus and Achilles a few times, told them you say hi. God, sorry, that was awful, I don't know what I'm saying. Look, all I meant to say really, is that the letters are beautiful. Your letters are beautiful. And I wish that I could—that I could be what you are, to me. I know I'm not very good at this. But I want to be. For you.
Anyway, this is enough embarrassment for one letter. I don't think I'll try this again. But I hope that you're happy, whatever you're doing, whoever you're with.
Yours, always.
James rereads those last two words a few times. To anyone else it would be a half finished sign-off. But James understands.
You're my person. You're mine.
Okay Reg, yeah, I'm yours. You're mine too.
He traces them with his finger a few times, imagining Regulus sitting in some Muggle postoffice in Scotland penning them out.
Yours.
Yours.
Always.
He takes in a deep breath and fights the urge to find the closest Portkey to Scotland. Not that he'd have any real idea where he was going, Regulus never mentions specifics. His eyes flick across the page again. Once. Twice. Greedy for every word. Every sentence. Every piece of Regulus he can squeeze out of it.
I miss.
I miss.
I miss.
Me too, James thinks, God me too. He tries to remember if he thought to put that in his letters. But he must have. He misses Regulus the minute he walks away.
The next morning, like every morning, James finds himself sitting silently across from his best friend. Both of them working overtime not to look or speak to one another—or indicate that they are, in any way, aware of the other's existence. Euphemia attempts to engage them in conversation a few times before giving up and going back to her work, parchment spread out in front of her as she ladles marmalade onto her toast. James asks her what the papers are for but she's cagey with her answers. She always is these days.
When the owls arrive it's a welcomed break from the tension. Well, until James realizes what they're delivering.
"Your school lists already?" his mum says, peering over his shoulder.
The letters is pretty standard, all his books and supplies for next term neatly laid out and—
"Oh, James," his mother beams as he holds up the Quidditch Captain badge. He allows himself a brief look across the table but Sirius is staring with an odd intensity at the parchment in his hands.
"Your father is going to be over the moon," his mum goes on, getting up to grab a mug for her coffee.
James only nods. It's bitter sweet really. I mean, it's what he's always wanted, but Sirius won't be there. Or Alice or Frank. The loss of them makes it all a bit more...hollow. He passes the badge through his fingers a few times before turning back to the letter. Realizing, suddenly, that there's another page hidden behind the first.
Dear Mr. Potter,
It reads.
As you are aware, Frank Longbottom graduated last year, leaving your dorm with an empty bed and Sirius Black without a room. It would be possible to place him in another room but that would require you to accept a new roommate. Since you were the one who first suggested his removal, and since some time has passed since the inciting incident, I thought it prudent to verify that it is still your wish not to room with Sirius Black.
Please discuss this with Mr. Lupin and respond to me quickly with your decision.
Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
He forgot about this. About what it means that Frank is gone. He had always been a temporary fix, a stall, putting off the inevitable of having to deal with Sirius. James scans the letter a few more times but doesn't come up with any solutions. Part of him never wants to share a room with Sirius again. The other part is desperate to have things go back to the way they were.
Of course, it isn't about him. It'll all come down to what Remus wants. Maybe he'll go back there later today and—
"I don't understand," Sirius's voice cuts through the kitchen with such urgency that James forgets he's supposed to be ignoring him, looking up just as his mother reaches Sirius's side.
"What is it love?" she asks, he passes her the parchment in his hands, wide-eyed and pale. It's only then that James realizes that Sirius's Hogwarts letter is still lying unopened on the table.
"I don't understand why—that can't be right, I must be—because why would he do that?" his voice is small and shaking and James has the irritating urge to reach out and squeeze his arm. He doesn't, of course, he just keeps staring, eyes bouncing between Sirius's face and his mother's.
"Oh Sirius," his mother says softly, eyes flicking over the page in front of her, hand falling on his shoulder.
"It's a mistake right? They've made a mistake?"
His mother chews her bottom lip. "No, I don't think so. It all seems to be rather legitimate."
It's hard for James to work out what emotion is playing across Sirius's face—pain, disbelief, awe—he can't take it. He breaks.
"What's going on?" he asks, bringing both of the heads across from him snapping in his direction.
"His Uncle Alphard," Euphemia says softly, "he seems to have changed his will not long before he died and left everything to Sirius."
James's eyes go wide. "Everything?"
Sirius sinks down in his chair, face pale. "I don't know why he did that, I don't—I barely knew him." His voice is thick and he coughs like he can get the feelings out of it.
James watches his mother squeeze Sirius's shoulder again, thumb making comforting circles. "Clearly you were very important to him."
Sirius's breath hitches, eyes somewhere on the floor, not looking at either of them. James remembers the look on his face, the first time he mentioned his uncle, remembers the care he always took with the letters he sent him. Sirius may have barely known Alphard, but knowing him at all had meant a lot to him. Sirius could be glib about his family, but however awful they were, walking away from them had still cost Sirius something. Not because he missed Grimmauld Place or Walburga, but because he missed belonging. However much the Potter's embraced him, he would always be a Black. An extra piece.
"We should go into town today, sort this out," his mother breaks the silence that's crept up around them. "The lawyer's office is in Diagon Alley so that's easy." She leans down and kisses the top of Sirius's head. "I'll go get ready and we can leave in an hour, okay?"
Sirius nods quietly, Euphemia giving him one last squeeze before moving quickly out of the room, spelling her papers to follow behind her. The two boys remain frozen in their seats—Sirius unable to look at James and James unable to look away from Sirius. He has no idea what's in that will but he reckons it's probably a good amount of money, Alphard was a Black after all. He wonders if he had a wife and children, but he mustn't have, not if he's left everything to Sirius. James realizes, suddenly, how very little he knows about Alphard Black, guilt worming its way into his gut. He should have asked Sirius more about him.
Eventually, Sirius gets up, not looking at James until he reaches the kitchen door. "Will—" he croaks, voice startling James, who turns to face him, "will you come with us?"
He hesitates, feeling entirely unprepared for all of this.
Sirius quickly shakes his head. "Sorry, that was stupid, never mind."
"Sirius," he calls to him before he can get too far down the hall. The other boy turns back and James wonders if this is the first time they've spoken since the night it all happened. It feels like it. "I'll come," he exhales, "of course I'll come."
Too many emotions flash across Sirius's face for James to makes sense of them. But when he speaks, it sounds like the first breath after a deep dive.
"Thank you."
The lawyer's office is in a worryingly thin building, squeezed between a botany shop and a Chinese food restaurant. It's possible that at one point it was an actual colour, but it's covered in so much soot and dirt that it's now just a murky grey.
They're all sitting in front of a tall, spindly wizard, his hair is orange and curly, streaked at the temples with grey, his robes starch straight and black. He has a very thin face, high cheek bones, and big, watering eyes. Like he's in a constant state of distress. It makes it very hard for James to take him seriously. Sirius is sat next to him, his mum on Sirius's other side. He has his head down, hands fiddling in his lap, and James is reminded unkindly of that day in Dumbledore's office.
"Can I just say again, Mrs. Potter," the lawyer—Mr. Beagle—says for the hundredth time, as he scrounges through the papers on his desk, "what an absolute honour it is to have you here—to be able to serve you—an indescribable honour."
His mother smiles kindly. "Thank you, but you really don't need to fuss."
To be honest, James isn't sure this man has ever done anything but fuss.
"Ah—ha!" He pulls out a scroll, slowly unfurling it between his hands. "The last Will and Testament of Alphard Black," he announces proudly, peering over at them as though expecting some kind of reaction—applause. When he doesn't get any he turns back to the parchment. "There are several logistical elements that I expect you're not interested in but...ah, here we are," he clears his throat. "To my Nephew, Sirius Black III, I leave the entirety of my estate, including my home in Cornwall, my flat in Diagon Alley, and the contents of my account at Gringotts, totalling three-hundred-thousand Galleons, seven-hundred Sickles and fifty Knuts. Included in this is my art collection, encompassing—"
Sirius seems to sink further into his chair with every word the lawyer says. Unable to help himself, James shifts closer, knocking their shoulders together, leaning on Sirius just long enough for him to know that it was intentional. The other boy looks up for the first time, their eyes meeting. James doesn't need him to speak to know what he's thinking.
I killed him.
I killed him and now I'm getting all his stuff.
The lawyer continues to list the numerous priceless artefacts also being left to Sirius, his voice droning on. Eventually Sirius's eyes break with James and return to the man in front of them.
"Excuse me," he cuts in, interrupting a description of gold plated tableware. The lawyer looks up, startled.
"Yes, sir?"
"You're sure he meant to do this?" Sirius asks, looking at him a little desperately. "That he wasn't—I don't know—drunk or held at wand-point or something?"
"Certainly not," the man seems affronted that such a question would even be asked. "I was here when the will was drawn-up, I witnessed it with my own eyes. Mr. Black was of sound mind, everything above board," his eyes shift nervously over to James's mother.
"I'm sure it was," she says softly, putting him at ease.
"I just don't understand why he did it," Sirius is talking to Euphemia now. "I never gave him anything."
She smiles sadly, reaching out to brush the hair off his forehead. "Maybe you did, and you just didn't realize it. You are quite remarkable Sirius."
He flinches at that, and James knows that he's partly responsible for Sirius's astronomically high levels of self-hatred at the moment. After a brief pause Euphemia looks back at the Lawyer. "I think we're ready to continue."
"Oh—yes, yes—Of course."
In the end all they need is to confirm Sirius's magical signature in order to authenticate the will. The tap of a wand and he's suddenly rich all on his own. No need for his mother or his inheritance. You would think he'd find some of that comforting, but he stays tense and sober the whole time, even when they make it back out onto the street.
"Well," his mother says, squinting through the sun, "since we're already here, shall we check it out?"
"Check what out?" James asks.
She looks over at him, hand shielding her eyes. "The flat." Her gazes skips from James to Sirius, cocking her brow in question.
It takes him a minute, but eventually he nods. "Yeah," he says, ruffling his hair. "Yeah okay."
They don't talk as they maneuver through the busy streets, Sirius with his head down and his hands in his pockets, James awkwardly at his side, following the back of his mother's head. He knows he should say something, that he probably would have already, if things were different. But, given that they're still fighting—because they are, aren't they?—he's not really sure what the right course of action is here.
"This is it," Euphemia stops in front of a blue door with a bronze knocker, pulling a key from the envelope the Lawyer gave them and holding it out to Sirius. "Yours I believe."
He takes it hesitantly, fumbling as he fits it into the lock. The door opens into a small foyer with a set of stairs leading up. James thinks he hears Sirius gulp as they push inside.
The apartment is...nice. Warmer than James was expecting. He always pictures the Blacks living in recreations of the Slytherin common room, but this space isn't that. It's got warn wood floors and butter yellow walls, a big bay window in the living room, with a rug and sofa covered in blankets and pillows. None of the expensive art pieces Mr. Beagle had mentioned are hung up here, instead the walls are covered in concert posters—some looking like they were literally torn off of walls and lampposts. None of them are magic, as far as James can tell.
There's one bedroom, the sheets still messed up, a small kitchen with a mug in the sink, shoes carelessly removed by the door. All the signs of someone meaning to return. James half-expects him to walk through the door.
"Well," his mum says, once they all find themselves back in the living room. She stands by the front door, Sirius across the room, leaning against the entrance to the kitchen, "this is lovely. We should find a time next week, go through everything, figure out what you want to keep. I'll tell Mimi to pop by every once and a while to make sure it's kept in good shape for you until you decide you want to use it—if you want to, that is," she corrects herself. "You could always sell it or rent it out of course, it is a rather fabulous location."
Sirius has a look on his face, like he's got something stuck in his throat. He nods along, fingers nervously playing with his lower lip.
"Actually," he says eventually, "I was thinking I might...move here."
There's a pause.
"You mean now?" Euphemia asks, causing something cold to run down James's spine.
Sirius nods, very purposefully not making eye contact with anyone.
"You're still a minor Sirius..."
"I know, but you're my guardian right?"
"I am."
"So you could—could give me permission, to be on my own?"
James is waiting for his mother to laugh. To tell Sirius what a ridiculous suggestion that is and of course he can't move in here. But that isn't what happens.
"I'd have to talk to Fleamont, but if you really want to—"
"Are you joking?" James can't take it anymore. "He can't move out," he turns to Sirius. "You can't move out."
Sirius glares back at him defiantly, it's the most like himself he's looked all summer. "Why not?"
"Why not?" James demands. "Because you're a kid—you don't even know how to make bloody toast. How the hell are you going to live on your own?"
"First of all, I'm not a kid you prat, and I can totally make toast," he says defensively. "Why the hell do you care anyway? Isn't this what you want?"
"For you to starve to death? Not really, no."
Sirius throws his arms up in frustration. "I can manage feeding myself James, Jesus Christ."
"You can't move in here," he doubles down, teeth clenched.
"Yes, I can."
"No, you can't."
"Yes. I. Can."
James turns back to his mother, jabbing an indignant finger in Sirius's direction. "Are you really going to let him do this?"
"I do remember saying something about needing to talk about it," she sounds far too casual for James's liking.
"You don't get to decide what I do Prongs."
"I do when you're being an idiot."
Sirius scowls. "I'm not being an idiot," and then, with a frustrated huff. "I don't get you. You kick me out of our dorm, you don't speak to me for weeks, and now suddenly you're desperate to have me living in your house? What do you want from me?"
"I want you to have not fucking told Snape!" he snaps, the words ripping out of him like they hurt. Because they do.
Sirius looks like he's just been hit, anger fleeing his face and that familiar lost look back in place. The one that's been a permanent fixture all summer.
"I'm going to wait for you two at the bottom of the stairs," Euphemia says quietly, neither of them turning to watch as she slips out of the room.
"I want you to have not done it," James repeats, voice gravel. "You think this has been fucking fun for any of us? You think I want to be mad at you? I hate it," his voice cracks but he pushes on, Sirius watching him with wide eyes. "But I don't know what else to do. I don't know how to forgive you Sirius."
And now he's begging, really. Begging Sirius to tell him how. How do we get past this? How do we go back? I don't want to be broken anymore.
"I'm sorry," Sirius says. It's all he ever seems to say these days.
James sighs, bringing his hands up to his face and turning away, towards the window.
"But I did it," Sirius goes on, talking to James's back. "I wish I hadn't—get me a time-turner, I'll go back. I'll change everything."
James shakes his head. "I want you to have not done it," he repeats. "I want you to be incapable of doing it."
"I'm sorry."
"I thought we were on the same page—I thought we were going to protect each other no matter what, have each others' backs no matter what," God it sounds so stupid now that he says it out loud. So childish.
"We are—James, I swear I never meant to hurt him. I would never hurt him. I wasn't—I wasn't thinking. I didn't—I was just—my head was all fucked up and I saw Snape and his stupid sneering face and I just—I acted. I didn't think. You know me, I never think." Sirius sounds breathless, the room filled with ghosts. With what if's and maybe's and should have's. All of it stings. Their friendship an open wound.
Eventually James turns back around to face him. Sirius has stepped forward, face pale, hair mussed from running his hands through it. James knows he means it. Means all of it. Knows that he's sorry. When you're younger it all feels so much simpler. Someone apologizes and you accept. It's supposed to be enough. But it doesn't feel like enough anymore.
"But you were supposed to think about us," he says eventually, watching Sirius flinch.
"That's the thing," he croaks, voice splintering on its way out of his mouth, "I do. All the time. You guys are all I think about. What I'm going to tell you, what would make you laugh, where you are, what you're doing, if you wish I was there like I wish I was there. I do think about you," he's as close to sobbing as James has ever seen someone who isn't already crying. "It was one time—the one time I wasn't thinking about you and I—" dry and cracked and desperate. "I'm so fucking scared. So scared of what I did. That all it took was one moment and I hurt the most important people in my life. And the worst part, is I didn't even feel it. I—"
He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to pull his words together. "I knew that you were upset, that Peter was upset, that it wasn't funny. But I couldn't feel the wrongness of it. Not until I saw you crawling out of the tree, covered in blood, and then it was like—something in me cracked open and all the sudden it was all there."
There is a desperate look in his eyes when he opens them again. "I don't know what's wrong with me," he whispers.
James is moving before he can think about it, pulling Sirius into his arms as he falls apart. It hurts. But then, James is used to that at this point, so he just holds Sirius tighter. He wonders how this is allowed to happen, how anyone ever let Sirius stay in that house so long, how they let Regulus stay there still. How can he be the only one who sees them?
"Fuck," Sirius huffs, pulling away and wiping his face on the inside of his shirt. James is reluctant to let him go.
"Don't move out," he says, a confidence in his voice that he doesn't feel about anything right now.
Sirius looks tired. "I can't stay there like this James, I can't handle us acting like we don't know each other. Like we hate each other. It's fucking killing me."
"Me too," James agrees, doing his best to keep his voice under control. For the first time in a long time Sirius looks hopeful.
"Yeah?"
James nods. "I don't hate you Sirius, I never have."
Sirius lets out a wet laugh. "Thank fuck for that."
James smiles back, even if it is a little shaky.
"Don't move out," he repeats. "I'm not saying everything is fixed but—I don't want you to go. Can that be enough?"
Sirius sniffles, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Yeah," he says eventually. "That can be enough."
James sends Remus an owl as soon as they get home. Brief. To the point.
Moons,
Can we talk tonight?
Fireplace? Midnight?"
James
He doesn't want Sirius there for this. The two of them are—they're better. But they're fragile. They make awkward small talk on the way home. Not really able to look at one another but trying not to look away. It'll be easier, James thinks, after he talks to Remus. It'll feel less like a betrayal.
He waits by he fireplace in his father's office, door closed, mum and Sirius up in their bedrooms, McGonagall's letter clutched in his hand. The flames flicker a few times before Remus's face emerges.
"Hey," he says lamely.
"Hey," Remus returns, "everything okay? Your letter seemed kind of...urgent."
"Oh, yeah, yeah, everything's okay," he tries to swallow but his throat is too tight. "Listen, um, I got—er—I got my Hogwarts letter today."
Remus gives him a funny look. "Yup, I figured. They usually send those out at the same time," he laughs a little. "What's up with you James? You're acting like I'm Lily or something."
That brings a smirk to James's face. "You think I'm trying to seduce you Lupin?"
Remus arches his brow, impressively sassy even in the fireplace. "Are you?"
"Always."
They both laugh at that, breaking the tension. James can do this. He can. He just doesn't know how to start.
"James?" Remus pushes.
"Right, sorry, so, I got another letter, with my—ah—with my school list."
"Oh?"
"Yeah," he nods, feeling the parchment in his hand like a hot coal. "Yeah, it's from McGonagall, she wants to know if—if we want to room with Sirius again or if she should find us a new roommate."
He sees the surprise on Remus's face, and then sees him try to suppress it almost immediately.
"Oh," he says.
"Yeah that was—that was how I felt too. Bit of a—"
"Gut punch."
"Yeah."
They're both nodding at each other, neither of them sure where this goes next. James doesn't want to tell him about the conversation he had with Sirius, not yet anyway. Doesn't want him to feel pressured into anything because he thinks it's what James wants.
"What're you going to tell her?" Remus asks finally, and James almost laughs.
"Whatever you tell me to."
"James—"
But he shakes his head, cutting Remus off. "You were fucked over here Remus. The rest of us were just—collateral damage. You decide what you need, what makes you feel comfortable. Whatever you want I'll support it."
He can sees Remus biting his lower lip, the nervous energy wafting off the fire like smoke.
"God, it shouldn't be this hard," Remus mutters, and then laughs at himself, it's a heavy sound. "Fuck it, okay."
"Okay?" James asks.
Remus swipes a hand across his face. "Tell her it's okay, I'm not rooming with a stranger that's ridiculous. The amount I'd have to hide every full moon? It was hard enough with Frank and we liked him," he shakes his head. "We'll deal with Sirius—I don't know how, but we will. Besides, it would feel wrong, having anyone else in there. Don't you think?"
James nods, trying to contain his relief. "Yeah, yeah I do."
"For good or bad, he already knows all my secrets," Remus sighs.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah—or, no, not really," he gives James a sad smile, "but I'm not really sure about anything these days."
"I know the feeling," James feels his grip loosen on the letter in his hand. "Okay, well, I'll write her tonight."
Remus nods. "I should go, my mum won't sleep until she knows I'm in my room."
"Right, okay. I'll come 'round tomorrow yeah?"
"Sounds good, I think Pete's planning to come by too."
"Brilliant—Moony?" he says.
"Yeah?"
James takes a deep breath. "I have your back, always, you know that right?"
Something flickers in his eyes, but James isn't sure if it's really there or if it's just the fire. "Yeah James, I know. Me too—I have your back. I know I was a little...harsh, yesterday. But I—I'm here, if you need anything. Okay?"
James nods, smiling. "G'night Moons."
"Night James."
The fireplace splutters, flames reaching out for a second and then receding back as the connection is severed. James sits back on his heels, trying to let go of some of the anxiety still clinging to his skin. It's okay, everything went okay. Remus said yes. Sirius can come back. Nothing is fixed, of course, not completely, but...at least it's a start. They're mending.
He gets up, rounding his father's desk and pulling out a fresh piece of parchment. He scribbles McGonagall a note, nothing fancy, but he wants to get this done now. When it's sealed and addressed he goes into the back garden and whistles for Hoot. He comes almost instantly, happy to have a job—James hasn't had much for him to do this summer.
"That a boy," he says softly, tying the letter to his leg and ending him off. He's almost instantly lost in the black night sky.
"Okay," James whispers to himself, hand running through his hair. "Okay, okay," it's rubbish, trying to comfort yourself. Never works. Still, he tries to get himself to relax. Today was a good day. Hard and long and bloody exhausting. But good.
He's only just come back inside when he hears the crack of someone apparating into the front hallway.
"Bloody hell," they curse as he walks through the kitchen towards them. He knows it's his dad, there's no one else who's keyed into their wards—well, except for Dumbledore and Moody. But that 'bloody hell' was definitely his dad.
"You're back late—" James stops at the top the hall, his father looking up at the sound of his voice, face bloodied. "D-dad?"
Fleamont tries to smile and then winces. "Bad huh? Haven't had the chance to look in a mirror yet."
And then he starts limping towards his office, as though showing up in the middle of the night beaten to a fucking pulp is nothing out of the ordinary.
"What the hell happened? Are you okay?" he follows him into the office, watching as he throws his cloak on his desk, the shirt underneath dirty and blood splattered.
"Shh," he says, opening the closet door and peering into the mirror hung-up on the inside. "I don't want to wake your mother." He pulls out his wand and starts casting healing charms. James watches as the skin on his face starts stitching itself back together, bruises fading.
"Dad," he repeats, still standing in the doorway, "what happened?" He can see that his dad is okay, he's standing right in front of him, so he doesn't know why he suddenly feels so afraid.
"Well," his father sighs, eyeing his face one more time before deciding it's good enough. He pulls away from he mirror and leans against the front of his desk, facing James. "I encountered a bit of a...situation, trying to leave work."
"I can see that," James says, fighting between concerned and annoyed now.
Fleamont offers him another small smile. They're really the only kind he has, everything he expresses is tinged with a bit of self-conscious embarrassment, nothing like the boisterous emotions of James's mum.
"There have been attacks," his father sighs, sagging a little bit. Now that the blood is gone James can clearly see the deep bags under his father's eyes, lines marking up his forehead and mouth in a way they never have before. For the first time in his life, James finds himself thinking that his father looks old. "Three in the last two weeks."
"Three?" James demands, because he's been reading the paper everyday and he hasn't seen a single bleeding thing about attacks.
Fleamont nods. "All Ministry employees, usually leaving or coming to work. Moody thinks it's a new kind of initiation."
"Initiation for what?"
His father sends him a look.
Oh.
OH.
"Death Eaters are attacking the Ministry now?"
His father does not seem nearly as concerned as James thinks he should be. "It's only a theory, no one's died yet, they don't seem to be very well organized. That's what makes us think they're not proper members."
James isn't sure if that's supposed to be comforting, but it isn't. "Why don't they have extra security then?"
A rueful smile finds its way onto Fleamont's face. "There's some, but the Minister doesn't want to allow Moody to post too many, afraid if people start seeing hoards of Aurors marching around they'll get the wrong idea."
"Which is?"
"That we're in trouble."
James feels something squirm in the pit of his stomach. "Are we?" he asks, voice tight, "In trouble?"
The good humour slowly drops from his father's face. "Yes."
"Oh," which James realizes is a stupid and inadequate response, but it's the only one he has.
"I'm not trying to scare you James," his father says softly. "But I don't want to lie to you either."
Feeling slightly dazed James shakes his head. "I'm not scared," an automatic response.
"Well," a sad smile finds its way onto his father's face. "You're a braver man than I am."
James doesn't believe that for a second.
"It's late," his father pushes off the desk. "You should head up to bed before your mother comes down here and gives us both grief."
"You aren't going to bed?" James asks.
His father nods at the fireplace behind him. "I've got to call Dumbledore, let him know whats happened."
"Right, okay," he's hesitant to move but he can't think of any excuse to stay so, reluctantly, he starts making his way towards the door.
"James?" his dad calls to him before he's out of the room. James turns back. "I don't think I've had the chance to tell you, but I'm really proud of how you handled everything this past year at school."
When James's brows inevitably draw together in confusion his father chuckles, explaining; "I know you and the Snape boy aren't exactly on the best of terms. But it was incredibly brave and decent, what you did, going after him. Saving him."
James isn't exactly sure what to say to that.
"I didn't do it for him," he manages eventually. "I did it for Remus."
His father nods, a knowing look on his face. "You're a good friend."
James shrugs. "They're important to me."
"Good," his father says, moving slowly behind his desk. "hold on to that—that feeling—let it keep you together."
There's no wavering in James's voice when he answers; "I intend to."