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When you knew someone long enough— when you loved someone long enough— you grew up. It’s a natural part of life, Peter supposed, but he wasn’t sure what happened when you grew up separately. The love didn’t stop, but one day you looked and your love was a completely different shape than the person in front of you, and the pieces didn’t match up anymore. Like a puzzle a dog had gotten to; some of the pieces were still there, but they’re all chewed up and soggy with slobber.
Whether he remembered the years in between or not, Peter wasn’t the same person he’d been on that last good Saturday, and neither were Remus or Sirius— they didn’t fit together the way they used to.
They didn’t fit together at all.
No, that wasn’t true. He watched them together— their chewed up corners matched seam to seam, a new image on their puzzle of two, the imprint of the teeth that spat them back out. But there was no room for Peter, here.
They sat across long tables, fought not to make eye contact, didn’t argue but didn’t agree, either. They were all here for Harry, for the War, for what needed to be done. They played along because their playing around fucked it up last time, and they knew it.
To fight was to have something to say to each other, and they didn’t. But it was strange all the same to sit across the table from someone and still love who they used to be around what used to be you.