PART I JAMES
A month after his wife, Fleamont Potter dies.
James isn't there when it happens. Though he supposes at this point it doesn't really matter. That's what he tells himself anyway. They send him an owl, inform him that he needs to make arrangements for the body. In some ways, it's a relief. They've already been talking about his dad like he's dead, at least now they don't have to feel guilty about it.
James has only just brought his father home when he receives a summons from Dumbledore.
"You don't have to go," Lily says as she reads the letter over his shoulder. "Write him back—or hell, I'll go. Tell him to fuck off."
James snorts. "As much as I appreciate the offer, I think I'd rather have something to do."
She nods, giving him a soft smile and squeezing his arm. "Pizza and butterbeer for dinner?"
James groans. "Merlin, yes. Have I ever told you I love you?"
"Once or twice."
He kisses her then, one hand on the back of her neck, tilting her head up, her mouth warm and solid beneath his. "Good," he murmurs against her, "because I do."
They've unofficially moved into to his parents house, at least for the time being. James knows it's been hard for Lily. Knows it isn't ideal. But she's still here, unshakable. A force of nature.
"Go on then," she says when they pull apart, giving his bum a smack. "Go see what the old man wants."
James laughs. It helps, acting normal. Helps them both forget about the bodies upstairs.
Dumbledore has opened the Floo in his office so James is able to go directly to the castle instead of walking up from Hogsmeade. The old man is waiting for him of course, standing at the large window on the far wall, hands clasped behind his back. He smiles when he sees James, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.
"It's good to see you," Dumbledore says once they're sitting across from one another.
James doesn't have a response for that, but it doesn't appear that Dumbledore needs one.
"Have you changed your mind, on the matter of your parents' funerals?"
James grits his teeth. "They'll happen as soon as Remus is back."
"Ah," Dumbledore nods sagely, not bothering to add anymore.
James arches his brow, voice sharp. "Any idea when that might be?"
There's a twinkle in Dumbledore's blue eyes. "I'm afraid I can't say."
James expected as much. It still pisses him off though.
"You wanted to see me?" he asks when the silence begins to drag, his knee bouncing impatiently up and down.
Dumbledore nods. "I did. We have it on good authority that Voldemort is going to be bringing some of his supporters from Bulgaria across the boarder in a weeks time. Very skilled and dangerous supporters. I intend to stop him."
James stares blankly back at him. "Okay?" he says eventually. "And you want me to...help?"
Dumbledore smiles. "On the contrary, I want you to lead the mission."
That takes James by surprise, Moody usually insists that only trained Aurors are given leadership roles. "Er, why me?"
"It's our belief that the group will be flying over."
It takes a minute for James to catch up. "On brooms?"
"Precisely."
"That..." he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. "That's bloody mental. That's a multi-hour flight."
"Indeed," there's that twinkle again, "but seeing as the sky is the most difficult mode of transportation to monitor and control, I believe they think that it is the option that will give them the best chance of avoiding an ambush."
It still sounds absurd to James, but he supposes he and Voldemort aren't usually on the same wavelength so perhaps that makes sense.
"Why me though?" he asks again, which actually has Dumbledore chuckling.
"And I was under the impression that you had a rather large ego—James, you are an exceptional flyer. The best in the Order, even out of the Aurors, though you'll not hear Moody say that aloud."
"Frank—"
"Ah," Dumbledore smiles. "Yes well, Frank Longbottom was an excellent captain I think you and I can agree on that. But I'm afraid he can't hold a candle to your flying. A fact he would freely admit himself if you asked."
Deep down James knows that's true, though he'll never be able to see Frank as being anything but aspirational. On and off the pitch.
"Okay," he nods eventually. "Okay, I'll do it. But I want Sirius with me."
There's the slight sharpening of Dumbledore's expression. "Sirius has his own assignments."
But James shakes his head. "No Sirius, no me. That's nonnegotiable."
The two men hold one another's gazes for a long moment, neither flinching or looking away. Eventually though, Dumbledore does concede.
"Very well, you'll be allowed at least three other people, if not four. Do you have any other—"
"Frank, Alice, Marlene," James lists off before Dumbledore has even finished the question. "And Mary."
The old man arches his brow. "Mary Macdonald?" he asks.
James nods.
"She's not a member of the Order."
"I know," James says without much concern. There's another pause before Dumbledore inclines his head in James's direction.
"Very well, if you can get her to agree I don't see why she can't accompany you," and then, a little wryly; "A Gryffindor team reunion."
James hadn't realized it, but he supposes it is what he's doing isn't it? He shrugs, "Best flyers I've ever met."
Dumbledore is smiling again. "Indeed."
James feels the finality of that answer, rising to his feet. "Are we done?"
Dumbledore gestures to the fireplace. "We are. Alastor and I will be in contact with you shortly to iron out the details."
James stares at the fireplace for a minute, feeling his chest tighten. He's not quite ready to go back yet. To that house. To everything in it. All the grief he still has to face. Eventually he shakes his head, taking a step back.
"I think I'll go for a walk actually," he nods towards the office doors. "It's been a while since I've been to Hogsmeade.
There's the flicker of surprise on Dumbledore's face but he quickly wipes it away. "Well then, by all means."
James doesn't bother with much more of a goodbye. It isn't that he doesn't like Dumbledore exactly. He doesn't agree with him always, but James knows that none of them would be here if it wasn't for him. Knows that Dumbledore is the backbone of the resistance and that as hard as all of them try it's nothing compared to him. James is, in many ways, grateful for Dumbledore. It's just that he always leaves James uneasy and he can never quite pinpoint why.
It's the end of the summer holidays, nearly September, but there are no children in the school yet. So James takes his time, walking leisurely through the familiar halls. There's a deep aching nostalgia that settles itself in the pit of his stomach. His memories like bruises. They'd been happy here. They'd been other things too of course, but he thinks above all, when it comes down to it, they'd been happy.
It happens by accident really. He means to be making his way towards the front doors. He doesn't know how he ends up on the seventh floor. Ends up in front of a wall that barely needs any prompting at all, as if it still remembers him after all this time, producing a familiar looking door out of thin air.
For a moment, just a moment, James considers walking away. But of course he doesn't. He never could. His breath hitches when he steps through, like stepping back in time. Everything is the same—the bed, the furniture, the painting on the ceiling. It even smells the same.
"Fuck," he says shakily. These memories are more than a bruise.
He forces himself to walk further inside, eyes and hands greedy to touch everything. It's overwhelming. And he can't help but wonder if the last time anyone was in this room was the day Regulus showed him his Mark. He wonders if it's been sitting here all this time, waiting. If it's missed them.
He reaches the back wall, places his palms flat on the stone and drops his head. Trying to breathe. Trying to understand what the hell he's feeling. He loves Lily. He loves her. So where do all these other...feelings fit? This painful need. To have him. To hold him. To keep him safe.
He remembers Regulus, sleep mussed and sitting in the middle of the bed, smiling.
I might even be happy,
he'd said.
If you can believe it.
James's nails curl against the cold stone. He never did tell his dad about Regulus. It hadn't felt important before. He isn't sure why it feels important now. James tries to clear his head, tries to focus on the things he needs to do, tries to make lists. Get himself together enough to walk back out that door. But it doesn't work. His brain a mess of black curls and hesitant smiles and love. So much love.
"Fuck," he hisses again, pulling back and slamming his palms into the wall. Pain vibrates all along his forearms, the mirror next to him shaking before it crashes to the floor.
"Shit," James steps back as broken pieces scatter across his shoes, the golden frame laying face down. "Shit," he repeats, having absolutely no idea how you're supposed to fix things in an enchanted room. He bends down, carefully lifting up the nearly empty frame, a few more pieces sliding off and crashing onto the floor. He tries to run through all the domestic spells he knows, tries to figure out if any of them are any use in this situation, and that's when his eyes find the now bare wall in front of him.
That's when he sees the carvings.
He places the broken mirror back on the floor and steps forward. There, carved into the wall, are initials:
G & S
James traces them with his finger before his hand trails down to the second set of letters, carved just beneath:
J & R
The second carving is slightly rougher, but still clear, and James's finger follows the twists and curves as he tries to make sense of it. Tries to convince himself that it's just a coincidence. Because it couldn't have been Reg could it? When would he have done it? Why wouldn't he have said anything? Was it...was it after? Did he come back after all of it was over and carve them into the walls?
James flattens his palm over the letters, like he's trying to press them into his skin. Like he's trying to force a hole in space and time and go back to when they were written. He knows what they mean of course. Knows what this is.
It's an I love you.
Reg never said it back that last time.
He carved them into stone but he couldn't say it.
Not when James was walking away.
The same way Sirius had walked away.
I love you.
James pulls his hand back from the wall and starts moving. He has to. There's nothing in this room but heartbreak, he doesn't know why he came here. This is the last fucking thing he needs. He just wants to go home to Lily and curl up on the couch and eat pizza and drink butterbeer and pretend that things are getting better. And pretend that he doesn't still feel as raw and lost as he did on the day he walked into that kitchen and found his mum slumped over the table.
He wants to be happy loving the things he has.
Because it's killing him to want the things he doesn't.
PART II REGULUS
The problem with Dreamless Sleep, is it only helps when you're not awake. These days Regulus's nightmares don't stay under his bed. Though he supposes, depending on who you ask, maybe they never did. Maybe they always had faces and voices and hands. In any case, Regulus is nothing if not a problem solver.
He's started playing around with different potions—the endorphins of Amortentia, the high of Pain Potions, the peace of Calming Draughts. He hasn't gotten the mix right just yet, but he thinks he's close. Then maybe he'll be able to get them all to shut up. The ghosts in his head. In his chest. In the corners of his house. Two had been enough to keep him up at night. But four is driving him insane.
He's been closing off Grimmauld Place, bit by bit. He suggested to the Dark Lord that meetings be held elsewhere, for the sake of maintaining the integrity of his potions, of course. There's a new paranoia that Dumbledore may have gotten himself his own 'source' and Regulus expressed his fear that someone might be tampering with his lab. It was a flimsy excuse but he received no push back, especially not once Lucius offered up Malfoy Manner. Always so happy to be of service. To make himself important.
Walburga was furious of course. As was Bellatrix. They yelled through the Floo. They sent howlers. They showed up and threw pots and vases and curses. But it's no matter. Walburga isn't coming back from Scotland and Bellatrix's claim on the house does not supersede Regulus's. So the unofficial Death Eater headquarters have moved and Regulus has started tightening up his wards. He can't keep out his family of course, as much as he might want to. But there are no more strangers walking around.
The house is much quieter now.
Most days that's good.
Some days it feels like suffocating.
The potions he's currently brewing aren't complicated enough to hold Regulus's attention—to keep his mind from wandering. He's taken some Calming Draught but it isn't powerful enough and his homemade concoction still isn't ready. After his third lap around the house he grabs his cloak and Apparates to the first place he can think of. Which turns out to be Diagon Alley.
It's nearly September, which always makes him think of school, of coming here with Kreacher and picking out his books and gear. He expects that's why he thought of it. And true to form the streets are filled with families—with children whose eyes are nearly too big for their faces as they stare through shop windows, ogling sweets and racing brooms and potential new pets. It makes Regulus feel ancient.
He's only eighteen.
He keeps the hood of his cloak up, doesn't draw attention to himself, mostly stays out of the shops. He spots one or two Aurors lurking about but they don't seem to notice him. He knows they're only the tip of the iceberg, that Moody has this place locked down tight. This was a bad idea, all things considered, I mean, of all the places to go, he decided on the one place where he's most likely to cause a scene. It isn't that he's technically "wanted" but technicalities are a funny thing these days, and he knows that if the Aurors catch sight of him they'll do their best to find a way to drag him in for questioning.
He wonders if James would come, if he got arrested. If he would sit across some intimidating table and drill him with questions while dumping Veritaserum down his throat. Or if he'd drag him away to safety. The war be damned.
It's a pathetic thought.
But he has a lot of those.
Daydreams about James Potter. He thanks Merlin every day he's as good at Occlumency as he is.
The sun is out, peeking at them from behind the clouds that intermittently pass overhead. Regulus pauses near the end of the street where the crowds are thinner, tilting his head back ever so slightly and feeling the warm light brush his skin. He doesn't go out much these days. Can't even remember the last time he flew. The thought makes something in his stomach ache.
He sighs, dropping his head back down and getting ready to turn towards the Leaky Cauldron again, when something catches his eye—long black hair, a leather jacket, a scowling face. Regulus's whole body reacts to the sight of Sirius walking away down the street, like an electric shock has just been sent through him.
It's been ages since he saw his brother.
Years.
Which shouldn't matter really. Not in the grand scheme of things. It certainly shouldn't change the direction Regulus is heading in. And yet, inexplicably, he feels himself moving forward, following after. He seems to be on a roll today, where poor decision making is concerned.
They turn off the main street, Regulus keeping a good distance between them and Sirius apparently not bothering to check behind himself. Typical. It's not until he sees his brother heading for the side door of a shop that he realizes he's about to lose him. Which is good, this has been going on long enough, he's lucky Sirius is such an unobservant idiot that he hasn't found him out already. Now he can watch him disappear inside and head back home where he should have stayed all along.
"Sirius?"
Oh goddamnit.
Sirius turns around infuriatingly leisurely, like they aren't in the middle of a war where people are murdered and kidnapped on the daily. Like he isn't an obvious target given his position in the Order and the galling nature of his betrayal of the Black family. He doesn't look like someone who is being eaten alive by fear or anxiety. He doesn't even have the fucking curtesy to look surprised when he sees Regulus, his eyes running the younger boy up and down before arching his brow.
"Well look who the fuck it is," he says eventually, leaning back against the door he was about to walk through and crossing his arms over his chest—the opposite in every way to a prepared, defensive stance.
"What the hell are you doing?" Regulus can't help blurting out. "I could be here to attack you you fucking idiot."
This too, does not appear to sway Sirius. "Your wands not out."
"I—well—it, I might—you don't—what if there were other people, what if I'm the distraction!" he says flustered.
Sirius's brow remains arched. "Are there other people?"
"That's not the point!"
"It feels like the point."
"Jesus Christ Sirius, how you aren't dead yet is a fucking mystery."
That manages to pull something vaguely resembling a smile out of his older brother, though Regulus has no idea why. "You always were such a worrier."
Regulus scowls. "I'm not a worrier, I'm just rational."
"Uh-huh," his eyes run Regulus over again, it's an uncanny move that reminds Regulus of their mother, the way she can make you feel so small with just a look. "So what the hell are you doing here Reg?"
Regulus opens and closes his mouth, finding he has no answer for that question. So he decides to change the subject. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demands instead.
At first he thinks Sirius isn't going to answer but then: "I live here."
Which Regulus wasn't expecting. "Oh," and then, before he can stop himself. "I thought you lived with—" he cuts himself off.
Sirius only waits about half a second before he decides to finish the sentence for him. "With James?" he asks, Regulus neither confirms nor denies that that was what he was going to say. "No. Not since school. He lives with Lily."
"Evans?" Regulus hates the way that feels coming out of his mouth.
"Yeah," Sirius says, laughing slightly, as though it's ridiculous to think that there could be any other Lily on the planet.
"Oh," Regulus fully intends to leave the conversation there, and yet; "They're together then?" It isn't that he hadn't suspected, only it feels different to know. To have it confirmed.
Sirius considers him for a moment before nodding.
"Have they—since..." Regulus fidgets. Merlin this is ridiculous, he can't even believe they're having this conversation. He needs to go, he needs to get out of here.
"Not until the end of our seventh year," Sirius says, surprisingly kindly. "It took him a long time to...you know."
Except Regulus doesn't know, but he desperately wants to. Wants to know if James talked about him and what he said and how fucking painful it was for him because Regulus spent most of that first year without James feeling sick all the time.
Luckily, however, he does appear to have some self-restraint left, because all he says is;
"Right."
There's a moment of tense silence before Sirius pushes himself off the wall. He steps forward and Regulus eyes him warily.
"I expect you know," Sirius says, a new weight in his voice. Regulus is about to ask what exactly it is he's expected to know when suddenly he realizes—a wave a nausea washing over him.
"You mean about the Potters?" he asks, hoping his voice isn't straining too much.
Sirius nods sharply, eyes intense. "Who did it Reg? Tell me who fucking did it." There's an edge that wasn't there before but that feels familiar, an anger. And it hits Regulus that his brother has been behaving suspiciously politely.
"You wanted information," he says out loud, more to himself than to Sirius. He should have known that was the only thing that would keep Sirius from ripping his head off. Honestly, it's a miracle that neither of them has drawn their wand yet.
"Just tell me this one thing, just this once have a fucking spine."
"Fuck you," even if Sirius does have a point.
"Forget me, think about James huh? You want me to believe you really gave a shit about him? Tell me who killed his parents."
"Fuck. You."
Regulus is shaking and it's only partially from anger. Because he could tell Sirius the truth, could tell him it was Wilke's who played the Potters. He could even tell him what department he works for at the Ministry. Except that maybe they would find him. And maybe they would talk to him before cutting him into pieces or flaying him open or doing whatever else it is they intend to do. And maybe he would let slip that it was Regulus who brewed the poison. Ice cold fear shoots through him and he takes a stumbling step backwards.
"Don't," Sirius warns, now letting all facades fall away. "Don't you fucking dare try to run away. They were murdered, they were murdered by some cowards too afraid to face them. That's whose fucking side you're on. A bunch of weak backed Purebloods who can't even look the people they're about to kill in the eye," he gives Regulus a disgusted look. "But then, I guess that's why you've always fit in with them so well huh?"
Regulus turns on his heel while he still can, desperate to get away.
"Stupify!" he hears Sirius shout behind him, but he swerves to the side, listening as the spell bounces off the cobblestone as he rounds the corner onto the busier street. He's shoving people out of his way, hood falling back, causing far more of a scene than he ever wanted to. He knows Sirius won't try to curse him again, not in the crowd, but that doesn't mean—
"DEATH EATER!" he hears his brother's voice carrying through the street, bouncing off the buildings, he winces, still pushing forward. "Death Eater! Get him—Sampson fucking get him!"
Regulus is going to assume Sampson is one of the Aurors he saw earlier. Or maybe one of the Aurors he didn't see. Either way he doesn't look for him, doesn't check behind him to see where Sirius is. There are spells placed on high traffic areas like this, that prevent Wizards from being able to just Apparate wherever they choose—there would be too many collisions—other wise he would have done so already. But he can see one of the Apparation points just up ahead.
"Stop him! Don't let him through, fucking—"
Regulus gasps as he stumbles out of the crowd and into the designated Apparating zone, air flying from his lungs as he throws himself into the spell, ripping himself away from the street. His brother's voice a fading noise in the background.
PART III SIRIUS
He doesn't tell James about Regulus. James already has enough to deal with and Sirius doesn't feel like opening up old wounds. Plus, in general, he likes to think as little as possible about what happened between his brother and his best mate.
They're meeting in the Hog's Head tonight. Dingy pub run by Dumbledore's brother, who is technically in the Order but who never seems to be around. Either way, he agreed to close down early tonight so that James could bring them together for this bloody mission he's been given. Not that Sirius is complaining really, it's the most interesting thing he's had to do in weeks, and he needs a distraction. Remus has been gone more than twice as long as he was last time. Sirius has no idea if he's okay or when he's coming back and it's started to drive him a little barmy. It's not helped by the fact that James refuses to burry his parents until Remus gets back. Just adds to the list of things he's pissed at Remus for.
"Do we know what kind of brooms they'll be riding?" Frank asks about two hours into the meeting. As far as Sirius is concerned all the important details have already been hashed out and the rest is boring semantics.
If Remus was here—which he wouldn't be anyway because the bastard can't even fly—but if he was here, right about now he'd be fighting back a smile because he'd know that Sirius was getting ready to jump out of his skin with impatience. And he'd be enjoying every minute of it. Of course he'd also make up some excuse to get them out early, and start laughing at Sirius the minute they left the room. Sometimes, when Remus laughs really hard he snorts and Sirius absolutely does not find it endearing.
Anyway. None of that matters. Because Remus isn't here.
"I think we can expect their brooms will be high-end," James says. "The Purebloods in Bulgaria aren't lacking in Galleons, and neither are our lot."
Frank nods, "Some of the new domestic models have cloaking features on them. That might be a problem for us."
"Cloaking features?"
"To help prevent any nosy Muggle neighbours from seeing you," Alice explains. "It's pretty low-level invisibility and camouflage but, they wont have to worry about casting those spells themselves."
James bites his lower lip, clearly thinking. "Okay, worth keeping in mind. I'll see if I can get my hands on one of those, take a look at what they're all about."
Great,
Sirius thinks.
Lets all go home now.
"Any word on how many we're expecting?" Frank asks, and Sirius barely holds back a groan.
They'll never have an exact number, there's no way for them to get that information, surely Frank is aware of that?
"Dumbledore's best guess is five at the least and ten at the most," James says. "But that is just a guess, technically we have no idea."
They never bloody do these days.
"So glad he only gave us enough people to handle the lowest possible number," Mary says flatly, and Sirius fails to hold back a snort.
"Aw come on Macdonald," James says good-naturedly, like their back in the Quidditch locker room. "You really think you can only handle one Death Eater? I always figured you for more of a multitasker than that."
Mary rolls her eyes, giving James the middle finger, but she doesn't push the issue.
"Okay great," James claps his hands together. "Anymore questions?"
There better fucking not be.
"Actually I was wondering—"
Sirius thinks he should be commended for the fact that he simply decides to tune Frank out for the next thirty minutes and not murder him. Sirius couldn't tell you what the hell he was asking but somehow he continues to come up with questions until eventually even James has had enough.
"I think we better wrap up," he runs a hand through his disheveled hair.
"I second that motion!" Sirius says quickly.
"Me too," Marlene yawns, sliding out of the booth. "I'm knackered. Got guard duty tomorrow morning too."
Everyone is nodding in similar states of exhaustions except for Frank. This is the problem with having a nerd on your team. I mean, arguably Remus is a nerd, but he's more of an aloof sarcastic nerd and less of a bug-the-teacher-for-extra-coursework kind of nerd.
"I still think we should go over—"
"Darling," Alice drawls as she shoves him out of his chair and onto his feet. "If you ever want to get laid again you'll stop talking now."
Sirius snorts, sidling up to James at the front of the table as their friends start making their way outside.
"Good meeting captain," he says, knocking James with his elbow. James rolls his eyes.
"Not a captain anymore."
"Says the man who just brought the Gryffindor Quidditch team back together."
"You sound like Dumbledore."
"Wise beyond my years?"
"Pretty sure he's wise well within his years."
Sirius laughs as he watches James finish packing up his notes, slipping them into the messenger bag he swings over his shoulder.
"Hey, stay for a drink yeah?" Sirius says, in a voice that he hopes sounds casual and not at all desperate. "Open bar and all that," he nods to said bar just over James's shoulder.
His friend arches his brow. "Aberforth give you permission to drink his booze did he?"
"Well, he didn't explicitly tell me not to," Sirius shoots him a grin. "Which is basically the same thing."
James smiles back at him but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Listen Pads," he rubs the back of his neck. "I'm just kind of...I'm a little tired can we—"
"Yeah, 'course," Sirius cuts him off quickly. He knows that it isn't a rejection. Knows that James really is fucking tired. But for some reason it still burns like one. "Another time yeah?"
James reaches over and squeezes his arm in thanks. "Yeah, after we kick some Death Eater ass in a few days."
"Damn straight," Sirius hopes his good cheer is believable. It must be at least a little bit because James goes, leaving Sirius alone in the empty pub. He should really go home himself, he knows that, but, quite frankly, he hates being home these days. And there's a fully stacked bar just sitting in front of him, ripe for the taking.
He's only just started pouring his first drink when Mary comes strutting out from the back, scaring the living daylights out of him.
"What the fuck Macdonald!" he shouts, spilling tequila all down his front. "Were you hiding back there or something?" He pulls out his wand and vanishes the mess.
"What? No," she says, not bothering to hide the fact that she's laughing at him. "I went to the bathroom."
"There's a bathroom in this place?" Sirius asks, looking around and feeling certain that any bathroom in a pub like this is one he has no desire to visit.
"You've been here how many times?" Mary asks, stepping up to the bar. "How did you not know there was a bathroom?"
Sirius shrugs, pouring himself a new drink. "Dunno, never looked I guess. Always just go outside," he nods his head towards the door.
Mary wrinkles her nose in distaste. "Jesus, men really are dogs aren't they?"
Sirius bites his lower lip, holding back a smile. "You have no idea."
He grabs a new glass and holds it up. "Drink?" he asks.
Mary seems to debate with herself for a minute before giving up. "Fuck it," she says, sliding onto the barstool across from him. "Why not."
"That's the spirit," Sirius grins as he gives her a generous pour, sliding the glass across the bar top. "So, haven't seen you around much lately."
He's leaning forward, resting on his elbows as he waits for her answer.
Mary only shrugs. "Yes, well, you lot are all busy saving the world and I'm off to an office job every morning so—our paths aren't exactly crossing."
"Where are you working again?" Sirius asks, taking a good gulp of his drink. It tastes awful—leave it to Aberforth to get the bottom shelf shite—still though, it doesn't stop him from drinking more.
"Interning at a Muggle paper, it's not bad."
"A Muggle paper? Damn, you've really forsaken us huh?"
She gives him a smirk. "I did get an offer from the Prophet believe it or not."
Sirius nearly chokes on his drink. "No shit," he shudders. "Better off taking the Mark than working for that lot."
Mary laughs. "Yeah, that's about what I thought too. Anyway," she plays with the condensation her glass has left behind on the bar. "I don't mind my job. It's kind of nice, being away from all this. Though I do worry about you lot."
"You worry about me the most though right?" Sirius asks, batting his eyelashes at her.
When Mary answers it's with far more sincerity than he's expecting. Than he wants. "Probably, yeah." Mary's stare is unblinking, and Sirius finds himself pulling away from it. She always did see too much of him.
"You don't need to," his voice has lost some of its mischief. "I'm fine."
"Fine? Really? Wow Black, you're so convincing."
He glares at her. "Fuck you. Not all of us get to just run away and pretend this isn't happening."
Mary is unfazed. "I'm not running and I'm not pretending. I'm just not interested in being Dumbledore's little bitch."
Despite himself, Sirius laughs. "Listen, I'm not exactly a fan of the old man either but we need him. He's smart and he's powerful and—" Sirius's throat grows unexpectedly tight. "And we're kinda struggling out here, in case you haven't noticed."
Mary watches him calmly. "I've noticed."
"From your cushy office job," Sirius can't help but jab back.
"When I'm needed I'm here," she answers easily. "James asks for help I help. The same way I do when Lily asks. Or Marlene, or you—if you need me Sirius? You let me know, okay? I'm here for you always. But I'm nobody's bloody foot soldier."
Sirius has always loved Mary. Always envied her. Envied the confidence she has. The confidence he's always trying to convince everyone comes naturally to him. After a few seconds he lifts his glass, holding it out to her. "I'll drink to that."
"You say that like you won't drink to anything," though she meets his glass all the same.
"Touché," he says, before throwing the rest of his drink down his throat. Pretending he doesn't see the concern sneaking into Mary's eyes at the way he doesn't even flinch when it goes down.
Eventually Sirius ends up beside her, the bottle of tequila between them. At some point they stopped using their glasses or chaser and started just taking sips. Mary has been regaling him for the better part of an hour with her office gossip. You would think it would be less enthralling considering he doesn't know any of the people involved but Mary is a very good story teller and Sirius is entirely hooked on the apparent love triangle that has been brewing around something called a "water cooler"?
"Is this even allowed," Sirius makes a large wave-y motion with his hand.
Mary arches her brow, she's acting more sober but the colour in her cheeks gives her away. "Is what even allowed? Trish shagging Jared? I mean, it's not advised but I'm fairly certain there's no law against it."
"No, no—I mean, yes—but no. The whole," more hand waving. "Sleeping with your coworkers thing, isn't that like," gosh his wrists are getting tired. "Against the rules or something?"
Mary seems amused by this. "Well, well, look at you, Sirius Black, concerned about rules all of the sudden. I think Remus is rubbing off on you."
Sirius pointedly ignores that last comment and the horrible things it does to his stomach. "I never said people should follow them, I was just wondering if this was on the down low because Jared is a dickhead or because there was some actual wrong doing occurring."
Mary shrugs. "No official rule. Not that I know of anyway. And I've gotten with at least three of the boys at the office."
Sirius lets out a low whistle. "Look at you, shagging Muggles left and right."
Mary snorts, reaching for the bottle and taking a sip before she speaks again. "Not sure I could go back to Wizards if I'm being honest," she says, wiping her mouth off on the back of her hand. "They're far too conservative in bed."
Sirius makes several very distressed noises, ranging from shocked to outraged. "Conservative! As if."
Mary shrugs, trying and failing to conceal her smile. "Just calling it as I see it. Or...feel it in this case."
"Well clearly you aren't sleeping with the right wizards."
Mary gives him a pointed look and due to alcohol consumption it takes Sirius far too long to figure out why.
"Oh come on," he throws his arms up in exasperation. "You can't judge a bloke on what he was like at fifteen!"
"I'm not judging, you were very sweet," she says mockingly.
"Fuck you."
"And...virginal."
"Oh please," Sirius rolls his eyes. "You weren't any more experienced than I was."
There's a short pause in which Sirius becomes aware of how close they've shifted together, Mary's eyes intent on his.
"No," she says eventually. "I wasn't."
Something has shifted in the air between them and Sirius knows he should pull away, except that...it feels like ages since anyone's touched him, and he doesn't even mean sexually. He's never had a very cuddly family life of course, but the Potter's always somehow managed to fill that gap, with their easy comfort and affection—Fleamont swinging his arm over Sirius's shoulders, Euphemia hugging him and peppering him with kisses.
They're gone now though. And Remus is gone. And James is—well—James is dealing with things the best he can. And Sirius understands, he does, it's just that he's so fucking lonely.
"Sirius..." Mary says warningly, but he only hears it distantly, barely registering it in some vague part of the back of his mind. And then, somehow, he's moving forward and their mouthes come together. It's terrible and twisted and not at all how it's supposed to be. But at the same time Sirius can't help but think that this is the closest thing to home he's had since he found that fucking note on the kitchen table.
Mary kisses him back, but she's also the one who pulls away first. The cold air hitting Sirius's face only a second before Mary's open palm.
"Fuck," Sirius says before he can stop himself, it's a hard enough hit that even the alcohol can't dull the ache.
"That," Mary says evenly, "was for Remus."
Before Sirius has the chance to respond she delivers another jaw cracking blow.
"Christ Mary," he spits on the floor of the pub, half-expecting to see one of his teeth on the ground.
"That," she goes on when he's finally managed to pull himself upright again, "was for me."
Sirius can't help but feel bitter that the alcohol that was enough to make him think snogging Mary was a real ace idea, is not strong enough to stop the shame currently crawling up from his stomach or the ache currently spreading across his jaw.
"Sorry," he finally manages, voice tight.
"You don't get to use me just because you and your boyfriend are having problems."
"We're not having problems," Sirius snaps back—an automatic response.
Mary stares at him in disbelief for a few seconds before shaking her head. "Merlin Sirius, you really are a mess aren't you?"
He huffs out something that might be a laugh. "A bit." And then the real weight of what he's just done hits him and he groans, folding his arms over the bar and burying his head.
"Fuck," he hisses into his sleeve. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He stays like that, curled in on himself, wishing he wasn't such a colossal asshole, for about ten minutes before Mary starts kicking him under the bar.
"Okay enough, come on, lets go, time for bed," and then, as if realizing what she's just said. "Separately. Very separately."
Sirius snorts, lifting his head—which feels like it weighs about a hundred pounds at this point—and scrubbing at his face.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," he mutters as Mary vanishes the empty tequila bottle and summons two glasses of water.
"You're lucky you're so pathetic or I'd be much angrier right now," she shoves the water at him. "Drink."
He does. Though he honestly thinks he could use just a little more alcohol. Just enough to stop the hurting.
"He's gonna leave me," fuck he must be drunker than he thought. The words come out just as whinny as they sound in his head.
Mary scoffs. "Alright drama queen, it was one drunken kiss. You don't even have to tell him if you're that worried, it's not like I will."
But Sirius only shakes his head, making the room spin. "No not cause—not because of this," he half slurs, causing Mary to tap on his water. He dutifully takes another drink.
"Sirius," Mary says wearily, "that boy is in love with you, he's not going anywhere."
Sirius actually giggles at that. It's giggle or cry. "He's already gone though."
She rolls her eyes. "Doesn't count if he's coming back."
"You don't think?" the bitterness clear in his voice. "Feels like it counts."
There's a pause in which Sirius takes it on himself to drink his water unprompted. If he doesn't start getting a little more sober he's going to have to take the fucking Knight bus home.
"And here I thought you two weren't having problems," Mary says finally. Sirius snorts. "Look," she goes on. "He's doing his best I reckon, just like the rest of us."
But Sirius isn't having it. "Nah I don't think so. I've seen Remus's best, this isn't it."
"Sirius—"
"I should go," he gets up, too tired and too drunk for this conversation. Or maybe too sober. He can't really tell anymore. "Listen, Mary," he says as he shoves his arms into his leather jacket, it's not really cold enough out for it but he's been wearing it anyway. A layer of armour. "I really am...I really am fucking sorry I..." he doesn't know what else to say. He knows that's inadequate—knows he's been fucking inadequate this entire conversation but he's not sure he can manage anything else at the moment.
After a brief pause Mary nods her head. "Just don't do it again."
"Won't. Promise."
"And I'm not apologizing for slapping you."
He manages a smile at that one. "I wouldn't expect you to."
"How're you getting home Sirius?" she asks with a level of concern that is uncharacteristic for her. Sirius hates it.
"Knight Bus," he lies. "But I think I'm gonna walk for a bit first, clear my head."
"Alone?"
He swallows with difficulty.
"Yeah."
She looks like she might argue with him but eventually just rolls her eyes. "Well fine, I guess. Go be a bloody idiot, but I swear to God if you fall into some river and drown or get hit by a car I will resurrect you just so I can kill you myself. Understood?"
Sirius nods, mustering a grin. "Understood."
"Goodbye then, prick."
"Bye," he's at the door when he turns back, in time to see Mary refilling her water glass. "Hey Mary?"
"Hm?" she looks up.
He chews on his bottom lip for a minute before eventually getting himself to speak. "Come around more yeah? We miss you."
He doesn't wait for a response. Pushing out into the night.
It's three days later that he wakes up to the smell of bacon frying. He lies in bed for a minute and wonders if maybe he's having a stroke or if maybe he's had a stroke and gone and died. But eventually he wakes up enough to know that more plausible than sudden pre-mature death, is the possibility that someone in his flat is actually cooking bacon.
He's not sure he prefers that.
Eventually, he does actually drag himself out of bed, shuffling down the hall with one sock half slipping off and nothing on but a t-shit and a plaid pair of boxers. When he gets to the doorway of the kitchen Remus has his back to him, his blond hair damp—just showered—wearing a sweater that drips off his shoulders, exposing his collarbone in a way that usually drives Sirius mad.
He stands there for a long time—longer than is socially acceptable—just watching as Remus moves about, making breakfast, like he hasn't been gone for nearly a month. Like everything is normal.
"Oh shit!" Remus lets out a nervous laugh when he catches sight of Sirius. "You're up." He smiles, stepping forward and kissing Sirius quickly on the cheek, not making eye contact before turning back to his cooking.
"Sit, I've made food. A full breakfast." There's a falsely cheerful tone to his voice, at odds with the new angry scar cutting down his face from his temple to his jaw. Judging by the way he's moving around the kitchen he's dealing with other far less superficially wounds.
Eventually Sirius manages to force himself to move, taking a seat at the table and trying to swallow the bile working its way up the back of his throat. This is what they're doing then. Pretending these gaps in their relationship don't exist. It sounds frighteningly similar to something Remus's mother would have done, though he doesn't suspect the other boy would appreciate the comparison so Sirius bites his tongue. See? He is maturing.
"I picked up this recipe ages ago—I think Lily gave it to me, she's a brilliant cook you know? James is well spoiled. Especially considering he can't make a boiled egg without setting something on fire. Though I suppose you and he have that in common," he throws Sirius a wink over his shoulder. He's speaking too quickly, voice too high—almost manic—desperately making sure there's no air left in the room, no space for Sirius to dredge up all the things he clearly doesn't want to talk about.
"I think I'm going to try cooking more, I always liked it as a kid. I mean, that was more baking, mum was really a baker more than she was a chef, still though. I like it. It's calming. Plus, I like feeding people. It feels...intimate I guess? Like a way of telling people you love them without actually having to say it."
Remus throws the empty skillet in the sink, grabbing two loaded plates off the counter and coming to sit across from Sirius.
"Bon appétit," he says, mispronouncing the words horribly. Sirius takes great joy in listening to Remus butcher the French language, if only because he knows his parents would be clawing at their ears if they could hear him.
Remus really did go all out; bacon, eggs, fried bread, potatoes—Sirius doesn't eat any of it, isn't sure he could manage it at the moment, but he can certainly appreciate the lengths that Remus has gone to to see this denial through.
"I went to this little grocers a few blocks over," Remus is looking at his own breakfast and not at Sirius as he prattles animatedly on. Sirius doesn't miss the way his hands are shaking as they lift his fork to his mouth. "It was amazing, really, we should go there more often. The produce was way better than the place we normally get it."
Under normal circumstances Sirius would laugh at that statement. They live largely off of takeaways and food items that come in various boxes and cans, vegetables are not a staple in either of their diets.
"Did I mention I'm thinking of taking up cooking? I should probably get some books huh? I feel like that's always a good place to start."
Sirius feels like something is crawling all over the top of his skin. Tiny legs running down his spine, along his sides, into the crook of his neck and the caverns of his ears. He wants to tear them off. Wants to cut the skin from his bones.
"Well go on, eat up, it's good I swear."
He just wants him to stop.
Stop acting like this.
Stop pretending.
"I kissed Mary."
Remus freezes across the table, forkful of egg halted on its way to his mouth. There it is then. The fiction shattered. Sirius has never been good with fragile things.
The silence continues, Remus eventually dropping his hand but still not looking up. There are people in the streets outside, there are owls and shop door bells and the sounds of the wind whipping between the buildings. All of that starts to feel unbearably loud in the wake of Remus's stillness.
"Why?" when the question comes it's small. It carves itself a home in Sirius's chest where he expects it will live for quite some time.
"I—" his voice fails him. He just wants Remus to be able to feel it—feel the ache that has been building inside him since the first time he left. How it's there, always, sometimes quiet and sometimes loud but never gone. How it stays even when Remus comes home. How it's eating him alive.
"I just wanted to be wanted," he manages eventually. Which isn't even the half of it. But is also maybe the most honest way he can answer.
Remus laughs bitterly but Sirius prefers it to the overly false cheer of earlier. Better to be something real, even if it hurts.
"Poor Sirius, nobody around to fuck him, what a hardship for you."
Sirius tries and fails not to flinch. "That isn't what I meant."
"Isn't it?"
"You're not being fair."
"Fair," when Remus's eyes meet Sirius's they are all sharpened points and bleeding wounds. "You snog someone else and I'm the one not being fair?" Sirius doesn't know what to say to that so he says nothing, watching Remus struggle with where to go from here.
"Just a kiss?" he asks finally.
Sirius nods. "She slapped me, if you can believe it."
There is no trace of humour in Remus's face. "So she stopped it?" he asks, voice struggling to remain even.
"Yeah," Sirius says slowly. "Yeah she stopped it."
He watches Remus take that in. "Would you—" his voice chokes itself. "Would you have gone further?" he manages after a few tries. "If she hadn't?" desperate. Pleading.
There are a dozen ways Sirius could answer this. A dozen ways he could hurt Remus less. He can pretend he chooses the truth because it's the right thing to do. But ultimately he thinks he does it out of spite.
"Probably, if she had let me. I didn't exactly have a plan but..."
"I see," there's that laugh again—cold and empty. He gets up out of his seat and walks over to the counter, bracing himself against it. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that."
"Yeah, I know how that feels."
"Oh you are not seriously comparing what you did to what I—what I have to do. Do you have any idea what I've been through the last few weeks and you—"
"No," Sirius cuts him off. "No I don't Remus. I have no idea what you've been through, why don't you share with the class?"
Remus glares at him. "That's not fair."
"What's that?" Sirius cups his hand over his ear. "No? Nothing to share? Okay, how about I go huh? For starters, Fleamont died—"
"What?" Remus's face falls but Sirius pushes forward.
"And James has been sitting around waiting to burry his parents because he doesn't want to do it without you. Which has been jolly good fun for all of us let me tell you. I've been stuck in this fucking flat, alone, with barely anything to do because Dumbledore thinks I'm a goddamn liability. I haven't heard the case against me but I'm sure it's a good one if he's got you on his side."
"Dumbledore doesn't think—"
"Really? Is that why he told you not to tell me where the fuck you keep disappearing to?"
Remus sighs, scrubbing at his face. "None of us are supposed to be telling each other where we are."
"And you think James and Lily are following that rule huh?" Sirius asks bitterly. "Or Alice and Frank? Marlene and Dorcas? You think they're keeping secrets from each other?"
"Well they should be—"
"They're together Remus. They're in relationships. That's what you do in relationships, you tell each other things."
"Like how you snogged your ex-girlfriend? Those kinds of things?" Remus shoots back, but Sirius is too wound up to be cowed.
"At least I'm not a fucking liar."
"No," Remus sneers, "just a cheater."
"It was a kiss Remus grow up."
"It was a kiss because she stopped you you absolute asshole. Did you even want to or did you just do it so you could throw it in my face?"
Sirius isn't sure he knows the answer to that question, though he's almost positive neither of those options are the right one. He'd wanted to. He'd wanted Mary, because of everything she was and everything she meant and all the things she tasted of. Childhood and safety and four poster beds all squashed together under one roof. Back when he always knew where Remus was. And James. And Peter.
"What did Dumbledore tell you, really?"
Remus throws his arms up in the air in exasperation. "Let it go Sirius."
"No, I want to know what he said that made you so convinced you can't tell me where you're going!" his voice cracks. "What the fuck did he say?"
"Nothing!" Remus finally shouts back, the word mutilated, like he barely allows it passed his mouth, teeth carving into it on the way out. "He didn't have to say anything."
Didn't have to say anything.
Didn't have to.
Of course. Because who knows better than Remus Lupin what a betrayer Sirius Black can be.
Sirius's chair screeches as he pushes back from the table and heads out of the room.
"Where are you going?" Remus calls after him, panic clear in his voice.
"Bed," is all Sirius says, before slamming the door to the bedroom closed behind him.
He curls up under the blankets, curtains drawn, lights off, and squeezes his eyes shut. He could keep fighting, he has it in him, he's a Black after all. But he's tired of saying terrible things. Tired of hearing them. Sometimes he feels the echoes of his mother in his voice and it makes him want to scrape out the inside of his skin. He just wants Remus to go away again. He likes himself better when he doesn't have anyone around to bite.
It might be minutes or hours but eventually the door opens and closes and Sirius feels the mattress dip. He doesn't look up, doesn't unfurl from his ball. Remus sighs, his hand coming tentatively to run through Sirius's hair. When Sirius doesn't pull away his movements become more sure of themselves, fingers dragging across his skull.
"I hate this," Remus says finally.
Sirius only hums in response.
There's a pause before Remus speaks again. "I want you," he almost whispers.
Sirius finally pulls himself properly out of the covers, looking up to find Remus's eyes already on him. The sight of him makes something trip in Sirius's chest. It always does. Remus Lupin is a work of art. He deserves to be carved out of marble and placed on the palace steps. Deserves to be studied and admired and remembered for generations to come. One day you will find him in a museum and people will travel from all around the world to see him and they will say;
This.
This is what it looks like.
To be made of magic.
Of daydreams.
Of love in all its colours.
This is Remus John Lupin.
"I want you," Remus says again, voice sneaking beneath the blankets and kissing Sirius's skin. "I want you."
For a moment the past and the present blur, and Sirius can see two boys in their school dormitory. Together. Finally. After waiting for so long.
I want you.
"Then have me," he croaks, stealing Remus's line.
He hears the other boy's breath catch and in the next second they're crashing together, desperate in a way that has nothing to do with bodies or heat and everything to do with the wounds they're both nursing. Both constantly tearing open.
They're clumsy as they push the blankets aside, Remus straddling Sirius's hips as Sirius runs his hands up Remus's sides, feeling like he might die from the sudden overwhelming sensation of having the only thing he's ever wanted.
Remus pulls off his own shirt, revealing a map of cuts and bruises and ribs that are too close to the surface. Sirius makes sure to keep his touches gentle—reverent. They kiss with their teeth. Sirius lifts up and Remus pushes him back down, hands running along Sirius's arms until he has him pinned by the wrists.
"I want you," Remus murmurs as he trails kisses along the underside of Sirius's jaw, along his neck, his shoulders. "I want you."
Sirius can't help bucking up, can't help whining in agreement. His life is empty when Remus is gone. His body is cold. His bed is too big. It is terrifying to know that someone can walk away and take so much of you with them. That without realizing it you have been cutting pieces of yourself away.
"What do you want?" Remus asks, breath hot against the skin of Sirius's stomach. He doesn't remember losing his shirt. Doesn't know how it happened or which one of them did it.
"You know what I want."
Remus looks up at him for a moment, cheeks flushed, lips spit-slick and bitten raw. "Yeah," he says hoarsely. "Yeah okay."
It isn't until later. When they are as close as it is possible to be. When Remus is filling him up and all Sirius can feel or smell or taste is him, that Sirius really embarrasses himself.
"Don't leave," he pants—whines—not "harder", or "faster," or "more baby more", but; "Please don't leave." He thinks it's possible that there are tears escaping his eyes, rolling silently down the sides of his face. But he tries not to think about it.
Remus falters above him, concern washing over him. "Sirius—"
"No don't," Sirius huffs, out of breath as he digs his heel into Remus's lower back, urging him on. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
Remus looks like he's trying to figure something out. Sirius isn't sure if he manages it but he moans in relief when Remus finally starts moving again. When he brings them back together, opening Sirius's lips and forcing his way inside.
Sirius is too hot, his skin too tight, everything dissolving into nothing but feeling.
Have me,
he thinks, as he comes apart in Remus's arms.
Have me.
Have me.
Have me.
I'm yours anyway.