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James says jump, Sirius asks how high?
♆
Winter that year comes fast and thick, snow clogging up the landscape and impounding Sirius. He sits by the window with his palms on the panes, letting the chill burn through his veins in a Firewhisky imitation. Nose against the glass, vision bleached, the surrounding world turning slowly, slowly, slowly.
The papers say war is coming, but from the windowsill, all Sirius can see is pale oblivion, habitable by no witch or wizard.
James is across the room — he checked earlier, a compulsive habit — proof-reading an essay or playing chess or studying the fire, biting his nails. Maybe he's watching Sirius, wouldn't that be nice.
He can hear Remus talking a few metres away, all soft, flat vowel sounds and sighs. The full moon rose less than a week ago, and Sirius can hear Remus' bones creak from here, his fingers scratching along the wall unconsciously.
He's talking to Frank. "...so ye' not going t' Hogsmeade this weekend?" Remus mumbles something in return. Sirius can't hear him over the white noise growing in his ears, but he can guess what Remus would've said: either essays or sleep or meeting with Pomfrey or I'm sorry, because Remus apologises when he knocks a suit of armour.
Sirius peels his palms from the window, sluggishly, running his tongue over his oddly numb gums. Upon inspection, it turns out James is looking at him. He's staring across the common room, lips pursed, eyes narrowed and arms wrapped around his knees. His knuckles taut in white fists, his nails ragged. This does not change as Sirius stares back.
Frank pulls out a pack of cards. The world turns slowly, slowly, slowly.
♆
Things were not the same at Hogwarts.
Sirius had been searching for Narcissa, that was it. He wasn't going to talk to black-eyed relatives or future in-laws, but he'd wanted to sit with Narcissa, if only for that small smile she would give him, the one that said —
It's going to be alright, Sirius, because I'm here to look after you.
— the one that was normally saved for Bella's crying fits or Andromeda's rages, or the nights he'd hear glass shatter and Narcissa would suggest he stay in his room, and she'd teach him how to braid her hair.
He found her in the back carriage. Just her, Lucius Malfoy and the blinds drawn, their faces pink upon Sirius' arrival, standing small in the doorway. He had been cordial, because Narcissa was a kind cousin. There were four types of cousin Sirius had: kind, cruel, dead, dying.
"Cissy, may I sit with you?"
However, any notion of sentiment was scuppered when James emerged from behind him, rumpled and blinking owlishly, brown eyes, olive skin, crooked glasses. All but screaming Charlus Potter.
It would be more interesting to say they had met later, or earlier, but they had met on the Hogwarts Express, because neither Sirius or James are above tradition. Red-rimmed and full of false bravado, a little boy dreaming of being just like his dad, and another considering, for the first time, the opposite.
Lucius had reacted rather — violently.
Sirius should've been angry, with James maybe, but Narcissa had turned in her seat as James stumbled back into the corridor, and what once might've been poised was now stiff.
"Sirius, love, why don't you go find Andromeda? She hasn't seen you since July." And then she smiled that small smile, the one that used to say —
It's going to be alright, Sirius, because I'm here to look after you.
— but things were not quite the same at Hogwarts, and Sirius should be glad he learnt that so quickly.
♆
Did Sirius save James, or did James save Sirius?
Now, let's not ask stupid questions. They were damned from the start.
♆
Sirius does not begin with James, and he does not end with James, though you would be forgiven for thinking so. Girls coyly accuse Sirius of being James' shadow — he waits for him after practice, he waits for him after class. If he's not with James, it's because James has just left him, or is about to arrive.
(When Sirius isn't looking, his nose pressed against a window, girls accuse this of James too. James isn't so nice to those girls, his tongue thick, his eyes stuck on the back of Sirius' head.)
But there was a boy and a man who existed on a plane without James, do not forget. Their sanity is a matter aside.
James is not the prophet, the messiah and he is not the victor, no matter how much he'd like you to believe he is. He doesn't win in the end, although he won along the way — won one heart, won two hearts, won every heart he could dig up.
Sirius misses him when he's in the same room.
James is not the victor, but Sirius is always the loser.
♆
Sirius finds out much, much later, tearing through the family tree in despair — the last time he would — that James is his mother's cousin. It was a finding unconsciously informed by the memory of Lucius' outburst, but flagged by years of superciliousness. He stumbled over it accidentally, tangled up in blood lines, but the name peeks out under scorch marks, charred, burning itself into Sirius' retinas.
Cygnus Black, Violetta Bulstrode.
Pollux, Irma Crabbe. Cassiopeia. Marius. Dorea, Charlus Potter.
Walburga, Orion Black. Alphard. Cygnus, Druella Rosier. James.
Aside from the initial shock, Old French in a sky of stars, it did not really surprise him in the slightest. There's something flinty in James' eyes when he's angry, something hard and cold and very, very Black.
There's something in the way he holds himself — something in that self-taught arrogance, something small, that hints at centuries of craft.
He may have dark colouring, terrible vision and a crooked nose, but the line of James' back, the angle of his cheekbones, the curve of that slow smile, the crack in his jaw and his relentless, ruthless charm are all inescapably Black. How Sirius didn't notice earlier is beyond him.
Truth be told, it makes Sirius' mouth water.
He debates whether to tell James, though he probably already knows, and definitely doesn't try to confirm it with his family. The knowledge just rests in the back of his mind, where names and faces and mothballs collect, cementing everything he holds dear.
It doesn't validate Sirius' choices, per say, but it hangs between his and James' glances, somewhere between their fingertips, something solid and invisible and permanent. Permanency, Sirius thinks, Remus' words muddled in his mouth, perdurable.
The blood of the covenant may run thicker than the water of the womb, but James — James is both.
It's reassuring, to someone like Sirius, who is lost in the world, that he and James would still have been tied, even if something had gone differently. If Lucius had banished James but welcomed Sirius, if James' mother had been slightly more scornful of her family, if the Potters had just arrived at the platform later.
If, if, if.
♆
They're on the sofa in the common room, the one with the gnawed cushions and the singed armrest. Remus is on his rounds, Peter in detention, and James is asleep — or getting that way, drifting in that space between consciousness and unconsciousness, his heartbeat slowing — slumped against Sirius' side, his wand still clenched in his hand.
The room is emptying as the grandfather clock ticks closer to six o'clock. Sirius is trying to chart constellations from memory, but long since got distracted trying to guess what James might've been named had his mother married someone else.
Procyon, maybe. He likes that.
A hand darts in front of him abruptly, pointing. "That's not Caelum, that's Columba."
It's Lily, leaning over the back of the sofa, and Sirius stares blankly at her through his fringe as she blushes slightly. In the disturbance, his quill has skidded under the table, but he is loath to shift James to get it, so Lily rounds the sofa and nudges it with her foot as Sirius sinks into the cushions. At this level, James' head falls naturally onto his shoulder.
She places the quill on the incomplete chart, before folding herself into the armchair opposite, seemingly calm. Her eyes flick between James' stupid, tranquil expression, breathing slow and even, and what is probably the tense set of Sirius' shoulders.
She rests her chin on her knees, and quirks an eyebrow. "James is going to invite me to Hogsmeade this weekend."
Sirius knows this. James had told him, the night before, as they wandered back from practice, at once animated and apologetic. James' face had looked warped in the long shadows cast by the setting sun: nose straight and cheeks gaunt and eyes sad. Sirius had knocked him with his shoulder, aiming for supportive indifference, but James had wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him into a hug, all mud, sweat and understanding.
Sirius blinks.
Lily nods, appreciative. She's perception under wine-coloured hair, diligence and prudence and safety. All things that are rare in a school full of soldiers. She continues.
"I'm going to say yes, right, because I know James likes me. Likes me likes me — isn't weird about my marks or muggles or, I dunno, blood lines." Her eyes drop to the star chart on the table, and Sirius smirks as she flushes, embarrassed. "And I like him, for all his foibles. He's good, he's good to — well, everybody, I suppose."
She's staring at the hand Sirius has curled into James' jumper. "He's good to everybody, yeah. But I was going to ask, right —"
"— best not," Sirius interrupted, dislodging hair from his face. Lily laughs quietly, bobbing her head.
Sirius is naturally quiet; it's only James who makes him loud, as if he needs to overcompensate. He may seem hostile to Lily, but if anything, he likes Lily much more than he normally likes anyone.
James stirs beside him, at the sound of Lily's laughter, and it's like flipping a switch: Sirius no longer cares about what Lily wants, and Lily no longer cares to ask him, all attention diverted.
James squints at Lily, surprised, and smiles into Sirius' neck. Sirius does not untangle his hand from James' jumper, and does not move away. Everybody loses.
♆
The night Sirius finds out that he and James are tied is the night he runs away.
He really doesn't want to talk about it.
♆
The heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black celebrates his 17th birthday deep in the den of the wolf. Or the den of the stag, whatever.
It's a quiet affair, because the Potter household is Sirius' asylum, not a place for a knees-up. They present him with a bundle of small gifts, socks and necessities, but principally, Dorea bequeaths him a heavy gold chain, and she clasps it on him with a genuine smile. The weight on his collarbone is comforting, the gold cool and solid. His hair just brushes it.
"I'm sure you have enough Black heirlooms," she says over roast potatoes, when James excuses himself to the bathroom. There's a glint in her eyes, that Black shine that betrays a face aged by kindness. "This one's a Potter."
Sirius' heart seizes up, and he might be red when James returns, quite possibly. James laughs over Sirius' head, confused.
"Mum, you've made him blush! What did you say?"
But Dorea just winks at them, and although something weird is kicking off inside him, Sirius laughs along.
It feels like the world is crumbling down around him.
By the end of the meal, James has slipped his hand under the chain, fingertips warming the metal. Sirius can feel him staring at the side of his face carefully, everybody ignoring the flush high on his cheeks and blotting his neck. Sirius prays to every god he doesn't believe in that James won't tug the chain, but when James slips his hand free, no less confused, Sirius is left feeling bereft.
♆
The world turns slowly, back at Hogwarts. Days melt away with no trace, sleepless nights leave Sirius looking at the same stars in the sky.
James sits up with him sometimes, when the papers scream
TERROR ALERT FOR MUGGLE-BORNS
or
SUPPORT FOR YOU-KNOW-WHO INCREASES
or
78 DEAD IN ATTACK AT MINISTRY
or
LONDON HALF-BLOODS TARGETED.
Outside of Hogwarts, the world seems to spin out of control, chaos with no calculation. James calls it both war and oblivion.
Those nights make Sirius.
Sometimes Sirius will lay in bed with the curtains drawn back, moonlight spilling obnoxiously over the room. James will lie on his side next to him, one hand tucked under his head and the other tentatively touching the gold chain around Sirius' neck. Sirius rarely takes it off.
Sometimes they'll break out Charlus' White Rat Whisky, passing the bottle between them until Peter, a much lighter sleeper than Remus or Frank, wakes up and tugs it from their grip, smiling down with forlorn eyes. This could be midnight or dawn, depending on how much homework Peter had the night before. Sometimes Peter doesn't stop them at all, the clever boy, and Sirius and James drink themselves to sleep and wake up tangled.
Sometimes they'll bypass the whisky, toe on their boots, and go exploring. It's not really exploring anymore, hasn't been for a long time, so more often than not they'll find themselves on top of the Astronomy Tower. From there they can seen the grounds stretching to the horizon, and their youth will feel like a blow to the gut.
The stars are brighter at the top of the Astronomy Tower, and they illuminate James' face in the dark.
Sometimes James won't come to him. Sometimes Sirius will crawl into James' bed, in the darkest corner of the dorm-room, and will shuffle his head onto the same pillow and wait for eyelashes to twitch and arms to envelop him.
Sometimes James doesn't wake up. Sometimes Sirius will go straight to sleep.
The world goes on turning slowly, slowly, slowly.
♆
James, to the casual observer, is good at many things: Quidditch, ostentatiously. Chess, tellingly. People, naturally.
Sirius is an ardent observer.
Sirius has seen James without Quidditch, has seen him crawling the walls, clawing at the carpet like a caged animal. James wishes he were an animal, half the monster that lurks behind Remus' eyelashes, and truth be told, Sirius wishes it too. It would make James easier to understand and easier to stand: simpler. He is not though.
James had a lonely childhood, for all his parents' love. Chess has trained James in strategy and war, which is why he no longer enjoys it, like a well-loved book that has finally grown predictable. James has no patience for clean-cut black and white figurines either, and Sirius sometimes catches James turning his head away from Dumbledore's sermons, and knows they have more in common than Sirius could ever wish for.
This is why James likes people, of course, for the worlds that spin in their eyes — people who will kiss their wives goodnight and dream of shooting their superiors, people who scream at their waiter but will dote on their children. Grey on grey on grey. People are an escape, for James, who grows restless when he can't fly and restless on his own, his forsaken heart beating in over-time.
Sirius, to the casual observer, does not hold a similar flush of talents.
He is not tactile, particularly expressive, or permissive. Intelligence is negligible and charm effective on very few. All worthless characteristics were drummed out of him as a child.
In the library, early one day, he carefully inks his talents into the margins of Dreadful Denizens of the Deep:
Disappearing. Disappointing. Distrusting.
He vows not to forget them, tucking the book into the bottom shelf and returns to burrowing himself further into old walls. Someone will find it later, given a few years and enough desperation mid-spring. They will peer curiously at the list, ink untouched by time, and the odd addition on the end, written in a scratchier, shakier hand.
Disappearing. Disappointing. Distrusting. James.
♆
Winter that year comes fast and thick, snow clogging up the landscape and impounding Sirius.
James is across the room — Sirius checked earlier, a compulsive habit — proof-reading an essay or playing chess or studying the fire, biting his nails. In actuality, he's watching Sirius with large eyes, the world spinning around him persistently. James can never quite get it to slow down. Ragged nails create white crescents on his knees, and the girl beside him lets out a long breath and moves away when he fails to notice her.
She'll be back tomorrow, but so will Sirius.
Remus and Frank are in the corner, and the wool in Remus' jumper is becoming progressively stretched under Remus' nervous hands. Someone laughs from the top of the stairs, and James blinks, his eyes sliding back to Sirius' profile. His cheeks are ruddy and sticking to the windowpanes. His eyes are flickering, as if he's tracking a Quidditch match and not staring at slushy snow. Grey on grey.
Eventually, Sirius pulls away from the window with a grimace, and glances behind him. He catches James' eye, unsmiling. Grey on grey on grey.
James leans forward, pressing himself into the armrest. The world re-aligns.
♆
James says miss me, Sirius asks how hard?