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Sirius is halfway through rolling a warning slip into a truly spectacular spliff on the surface of the vintage ‘53 Cordia his mother had imported (along with the remainder of his, or rather her things for the summer)—the only way she would compromise on allowing her son to spend two months in the midst of “vagabonds” and “lowlifes.” James is exceedingly kind about it—when the door to their cabin crashes open.
He starts, upending the fine herbal substance all over the end table and his mahogany brown jodhpurs. “Fuck! Potter, what the—”
Sirius cuts off when he catches sight of him.
Standing at his door is a tall, willowy sort of boy with a shock of soft brown curls and the most irate expression Sirius has ever seen on someone their age. He’s dressed in white shorts buttoned somewhere near his navel, which serves to accentuate his long, limber legs and a tie-dyed camp t-shirt with a sterling silver CAMP COUNSELLOR badge pinned to the front. His soft mouth is set in a frown and he’s glaring straight at him.
Something foreign squirms around inside Sirius.
“Oh. Hello,” Sirius amends, sitting up straight. The cabin, he notes in a brief bout of filial hysteria, is a mess; his muddy riding boots are still flung near the door, multiple pairs of pants strewn across the floor, and his monogrammed trunk lays half-opened with his clothes spilling out the side. He’d blame it on James, but his side of the room is preternaturally tidy. “You’re not James.”
“You.” The boy's voice is harsh, low. Razor sharp. He stalks closer in slow, measured, careful steps until he’s standing just a few paces away. His eyes are narrowed, but this close Sirius can tell they’re honey-brown. And furious. “You’re Sirius Black?”
Sirius resists the urge to adjust himself in his suddenly too tight jodhpurs. He crosses his legs, props his chin up on a fist. “In the flesh. And you are?”
“Trying to go at least one full day without having our camp’s points obliterated by your stupid, senseless, pathetically juvenile war with the Slytherins. Are you incapable of thinking about anyone but yourself? Do you know what happens every time you and your friends fill their shoes with flobberworms or cut holes in their trousers or slip full fat cows milk into their breakfast bar milk dispensers? Do you?”
Sirius feels vaguely as though he had gotten high, like his mind is wading through molasses, sticky and thick. He tries to get it together, tries to think straight. His face feels hot. “Uh, no?”
“The rest of us have got to pick up the slack is what! For the past three summers we’ve lost out on the cup because of your ridiculous pranks, and I’m sick and tired of it. Stop messing with the Slytherins, stop acting out, stop losing us points, just stop!”
The boy sighs and rubs a hand over his exhausted face. He’s a little flushed and some of his curls stick up when he runs a hand through his hair. Sirius briefly wonders if it’s as soft as it looks.
“Look, Lord knows if McGonagall can’t control you I can’t but I’m sick and tired of losing the exemption to Ravenclaw every summer, and having to play ball as a result. Tell me, Black, do I look like the sort who enjoys baseball? Do I look like I relish standing in the hot sun for three or so hours, running around a diamond-shaped field to an end that, to this very day, I can not comprehend?”
Sirius opens and closes his mouth, dumbstruck.
“We’re not losing out on that exemption, Black. Not this year. Not again. So get it together.”
Then, he turns around and walks out the way he walked in, slamming the door shut with enough force that a sage green turtleneck flutters down from where it was lodged up in the ceiling fan.
A few hours and a cold shower later, Sirius gets dressed—fleece sweats, a navy t-shirt he grabs from James’ clean laundry pile and close-toed sandals—and heads down to the mess hall for dinner. He walks in and freezes, because standing at the end of the long Gryffindor table is James, messing with his neon pink visor, talking to him.
Sirius rakes a hand through his hair, grabs a plate from a passing camper, who turns to protest but ducks their head and walks away when they recognize the assailant as Sirius, and makes his way towards the duo.
“I think we can make that happen,” James is saying in his senior-camp-counsellor voice, handing a bright green clipboard back to the boy. “Let’s try to check the canoes tonight just to be safe. Oh, and switch the blue team with the red for morning riding, yeah?”
The boy sees Sirius first, his eyes, large, doleful, cinnamon sugar brown, briefly glance at him then away. He nods at James. “Yeah, alright. Thanks.”
Sirius catches a glint of metal and pale blue rubber bands. Braces.
“No problem!” Then, James, only now noticing Sirius, beams. “Look who’s decided to grace us with his presence. What, no newbies you’ve forced to bring your meals to you tonight?”
Sirius sputters. “What? I–I would never! That’s not something I do or, or even condone. Ever.” The boy has crossed his arms, hugging the clipboard to his chest. Sirius shakes his hair out of his face. “So, uh, what are you two doing? Planning the next colour run? Archery contest? Anything I can help with?”
James raises an eyebrow at him, then turns to the boy. “I’ll catch you later, yeah?”
He nods at James and walks away.
Sirius waits until he’s out of earshot then he punches James straight in his overjacked bicep. James swipes back at him, and Sirius puts the tray down and walks him out and to their cabin.
“Get in here,” Sirius hisses, dragging James in and kicking the door shut behind him. “Why did you do that?”
“Let go of me, you lunatic.” James wrenches his arm out of Sirius’ grasp and rubs a hand over the skin there. He takes a seat on the edge of his neatly-made bed and twists his arm around to take a look at it. “Remind me to declaw you when we get back into the city.”
“James, focus! Why did you send him away?”
“You were asking about colour runs and archery. I thought you were high, I was covering for you.”
“Well, I’m not.” Sirius crosses his arms over his chest, going for casual. He kicks his trunk. “So. Who is he anyway?”
James frowns. “Who is who?”
Sirius falls back on his bed with a groan, his goose feather stuffed duvet puffing up around him. “The boy, James! The boy at the mess hall. Tall. Curly brown hair. Big eyes.” Sinfully short shorts, he doesn’t add.
“Oh, you mean Remus? He’s one of the junior counsellors. He’s been coming to camp with us for ages.”
Remus.
Sirius sits up, determined. “Tell me everything.”
His name is Remus Lupin, an only child with a sordid sort of history James refused to divulge, a scholarship, and entirely too many pairs of shorts. He’s seventeen, allergic to pine nuts, and he likes to swim.
The next time Sirius sees him, he intends to be prepared.
“She doesn’t think that I’m straight.” Dorcas adjusts the eggshell white spaghetti straps of her bikini top with one hand as she nudges her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose with the other. The pair of them are laid out on plastic lounge chairs at the end of the pier, sunbathing. “I don’t think I behave like…that.”
Sirius turns on his side, hissing as the heat of sunburnt plastic seeps into his sensitive skin. “You don’t behave like anything. That’s the problem.”
“Meaning?”
“You need to give her a sign,” Sirius explains. “Show her you like her. Or that you could be persuaded to feel an emotion akin to like— ouch!”
She smooths a layer of sunblock on her legs, humming. “I see. Show her. How would I do that?”
“I dunno.” Sirius says, opening the tub, already exhausted; his complexion is vexing. Sunbathing is always tricky for him, balancing on that fine line between burnt and nicely tanned. Or as close to tanned as he can get. He smears the sunblock all over his arms, legs, and face, paying extra attention to the bridge of his nose and the highs of his cheeks.
“What would you do, then?” Dorcas turns on her side to face him. The diamond stud in her nose gleams. “If you were interested in somebody?”
“I would do the things they like to do. Show an interest in what they like. Spend time with them? I dunno, but what I do know is that you have to always, always play it cool.”
“Black.”
Sirius does not yelp. He will deny that, forever. What he cannot deny is the way he topples off his chair and straight into the lake.
The next few moments are not his best, he’ll admit. There’s murky, muddy water in places murky, muddy water has no right being, and what feels like flossy grassy extensions brushing against his bare ankles, and a foul, undeniably fish-like odour permeating his senses (amongst other places), and Sirius has the fleeting thought that they pay entirely too fucking much for this camp. Then, a pair of arms wrap around his middle and haul him up the wooden ladder and onto the sun-warmed pier.
When he’s finished coughing up pond—because no matter what the glossy brochure they receive biannually likes to advertise, this is categorically not a lake, but a pond— water and rubbing his eyes raw and thinking how at least this is the worst of it, he hears a soft, soothing voice whispering encouragements, a constant stream of, “There, you’re alright, you’re fine—” and Sirius abruptly realises that no, actually it can get worse, and he’s about to learn just how bad worse can be.
“Remus?”
The boy blinks, clearly surprised. “Yes?” A pause, a tilted head, then, “Are you alright?” His hair is dripping, plastered to his face, and the upper half of his swimming shirt is wet and clinging to his chest.
Sirius’ mouth goes punishingly dry. He opens and closes his mouth.
A snort poorly disguised as a cough eventually snaps him out of it. Dorcas is stretched out on her lounge chair, her worn copy of Orlando held over the lower half of her face, her almond eyes laughing.
The walk to his cabin is a long one.
Remus follows along quietly.
Sirius attempts to think of something, anything to detract from his earlier—and unfortunately, current— state, but he can’t.
So, they walk in silence. On passing one of the neighbouring cabins, Sirius catches sight of his reflection in a screen door and balks. His white swimming trunks are muddy, his skin is smeared in remnants of sunblock, unwittingly casting him as that one painting that bears a striking resemblance to Regulus, and his hair —he can’t even get into that. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Sirius quickly schools his expression into one of cool, careful nonchalance when Remus, having noticed him lagging, stops and turns to him. “What’s wrong?”
“Hm? Oh, nothing.” Sirius runs a hand through his hair, suppressing a wince when his fingers get caught in God-knows-what. He gestures ahead with his other hand. “Shall we?”
Remus tosses him an odd look, all quirked eyebrows and wobbly, worried mouth, and Sirius curses every ancestor of his whose karmic debt he’s surely paying.
As soon as Remus’ back is turned he combs his hands through his hair and wipes his face down to the best of his abilities.
A few minutes later finds Sirius standing across from Remus Lupin in his cabin for the second time in his life, albeit under worse circumstances than he’d initially hoped to be, but the saying about beggars and choosers comes to mind and Sirius is all those things now. With Remus, maybe always.
He smiles broadly. “How can I be of service?”
“Are you sure you’re alright? That fall was rather nasty—”
Sirius laughs loudly, hopefully distracting from the flush he can feel spreading up his neck. “That? Oh, it was nothing, trust me. I’ve had worse.”
“Worse falls than that?”
“Not falls, that’s not what—I didn’t mean—” The flush has crept up to his hairline now, he’s sure. “—I wasn’t saying that, I just. I’m fine, really. You called for me? Before?”
“Right, uh, it can wait, if you need to go to the nurse’s tent. I could go with you, if you’d like,” Remus offers, his voice softer than Sirius has ever heard it be. Careful, considerate. Kind. It knocks against the rungs of his ribs, catches in his throat like a wishbone.
“I’m fine, I promise. Go ahead.” Then, feeling supremely out of his depth, he scrambles for familiar, blurts out, “Unless you were just looking to talk to me?”
Ah, there he is. His eyebrows, previously soft and teetering on concerned, take a sharp dive into indignant. He rolls his honeyed eyes and huffs out a short, irate laugh. “Of course you’re fine, what was I thinking?” This close, Sirius notices he has freckles. He wants to count them. Then, Remus looks right at him and says, “You’ve got to stop.”
Sirius, feeling vaguely caught, stands up a little straighter. “Pardon? Stop what?”
“I’ve asked you—no, pleaded with you even to halt whatever it is you’ve got going on with the Slytherins, and I thought you’d listened, that you’d been good, only to wake up today to find that not only have we lost all the points from winning the canoeing race on Tuesday, but that we’ve had an additional fifty points removed for repeated and flagrant disregard of camp rules. Obviously, they don’t hand out the infractor’s names, for safety reasons, but I just went ahead and put two and two together.”
Sirius’ mind had gone a bit hazy at you'd been good, he won’t lie, but rather than having to examine—or worse, explain—that, he crosses his arms over his chest and raises a petulant eyebrow at him. “So?”
“So? So?” Remus’ eyebrows disappear beneath his now-frizzy curls. “So, we’re down to three thousand six hundred and forty-nine points. That’s seventy-two points behind Slytherin and only four points above Ravenclaw. We’re going to lose out on the exemption and be forced to play—” His expression crumples, then hardens, a glare so severe it ought to be taught in Sunday schools now aimed at him, and Sirius wonders if his stomach should be swooping like that.
“No,” Remus says, firm, strong. “No, that’s not—we’re not— I’m not—” he inhales, holds it, then, “I’ve got a plan. Meet me at the mess hall. Five-thirty.”
Ominous words aside, Remus seemed to be a mild mannered, well-liked guy. Sirius watches him helping out the younger campers, offering his free time to the camp staff, particularly the chef, a middle aged woman with wavy brown hair. Sirius watches him, a lot more than he probably should; he watches from across the mess hall now as Remus—who has also cleaned up and changed into in a soft, white shirt and green cotton shorts—chats with Lucius Malfoy, a sneer tugging up his lip. Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy, what a stupid fucking name.
“Sirius Black!”
He turns around, and immediately pastes his most winning smile on his face. “Minnie!”
McGonagall, a stern woman with a fiercely tight chignon and capri trouser, marches right up to him. “You’re aware that you’re about two infractions away from complete expulsion, aren’t you?”
“I can honestly say I was not,” Sirius replies, still smiling. “May I just say—”
“You may not,” McGonagall cuts in. She narrows her eyes at him, runs them up and down his frame suspiciously. “What are you doing here anyhow? You haven’t signed up for kitchen duty.”
Sirius panics. “Ah, yes. Well, you see, I’m just, er—”
She holds up her hand. “Mr. Black, let me stop you before you dig yourself any deeper.”
“Thank you,” Sirius says on an exhale.
“I will insist you improve your comportment here, Mr. Black. We are a well-respected, traditional camp with values dating back to the eighteen hundreds.”
Sirius’ shoulders relax when he sees Malfoy walk away from Remus. Finally. “How retro.”
She follows his gaze, and her mouth softens around the corners. “Ah, there is a rather fine example of everything we stand for. Mr. Lupin. A kind, good young lad with strong values. You should keep close to him, watch him.”
“For once, Minnie, you and I are in complete and total agreement.”
She arches a thin eyebrow, her gaze shrewd. “Is that so?”
“Trust me, I intend to keep a very close eye on him,” Sirius deadpans. Remus has gone from speaking to Malfoy to Lockhart now. Sirius almost groans out loud. The blond boy has a penchant for name dropping and faux modesty, though nobody can figure out just what he is pretending to be modest about.
“Very well then.” McGonagall sniffs. “I’ll be off now. Behave.”
He nods absently, his eyes trained on the pair as he makes his way over to them. As Sirius nears them, he can hear Lockhart’s laughter, loud and deafening.
“I think I could offer a fresh take on it!” Lockhart is saying, batting his lashes at Remus.
Sirius scowls. How gauche.
Remus shakes his head. “Irrespective—”
“Not a word,” Lockhart cuts in with a shrug and a theatrical wince. “A common misconception, I know.”
Remus' mouth is hanging open and he is looking at Lockhart so incredulously that Sirius feels the irritation that had suffused him so entirely seep away.
Sirius walks up to the pair and claps a hand on Lockharts shoulder, tugging him away from Remus. “Gil! How are you?”
“Well, to quote Tom Riddle when we returned from our spa retreat in Barcelona,” —he says it like Barthelona, of course— “I’m quite refreshed, actually.”
Sirius grins. “Always a pleasure, Lockhart. Your mind is a...fascinating thing.”
“Orion Black once said something incredibly similar, he did.”
“Are you—sorry, just to clarify, are you name dropping my own father to me?”
Lockhart blinks at him, round blue eyes disturbingly innocent. “Hm? Oh, no, nothing of the sort, my boy, nothing of the sort, I was simply reminiscing.”
“You’re younger than me,” Sirius feels compelled to point out.
“It’s not the years in your life, but the life in your years,” Lockhart says, then, with a wink so infuriating Sirius feels his hand twitch, adds, “My great great great great uncle said that.”
Remus coughs into his fist.
“Right, of course. Listen, Lockhart. I heard old Sluggy was looking for you, so you should head out. He’s by the lake.”
“Ah, likely in need of my expert assistance with the gardens,” Lockhart laughs and shakes his head, looking ridiculously, and undeservedly, abashed. “I was an expert florist once upon a time, I’m sure you know.”
“For sure.” Sirius nods, shooting a look to Remus, who has pressed his lips together, wobbly and amused. It sends a thrill through him. “Off you go.”
“Tah tah! Do send my best to Orion and Regulus, won’t you?” Then, with a wave Lockhart goes on his way.
As soon as the screen doors slam shut, Remus begins to laugh, a hand shielding his mouth; it’s a punched-out, breathless thing that slides over Sirius’ skin. Melting ice pops. Slippery, sweet.
“He is utterly ridiculous,” Remus is saying, with a shake of his head that sends his curls into his smiling eyes. “Thanks for that, I can barely hold myself together when he’s around.”
“Why do you, then?” Sirius asks, when he catches his breath. “Hold yourself together?”
Remus swipes a hand over his face, through his hair. He shrugs. “Dunno. Just the polite thing to do, I suppose." A beat, then, "Who is Regulus?”
“Nobody, just my younger brother.”
Remus raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“You don’t know all that much about me.” Sirius leans forward with a grin. “Would you like to?”
Remus rolls his eyes but there’s a pink flush creeping up the side of his neck. “Get over yourself. I just meant I’ve never seen him around here, that’s all.”
“You wouldn’t.” Sirius scoffs, standing straight again. “The closest Regulus has come to camping was the time our Range Rover broke down on the side of the road.”
“Ah.”
“Anyway, enough about him. You asked me to meet you here,” Sirius reminds him. “What’s up?”
Remus looks around then leans in close enough that Sirius can smell his fresh, clean scent. He fights the urge to inhale. “Follow me.”
“What is this place?” Sirius asks, looking around at the small, dusty shack Remus had led him to. There’s a large table in the centre with piles of books stacked on it and two old, worn sofas pushed against the far wall, the stuffing falling out in clumps.
“It’s, uh, well, it used to be the library, which nobody used so they turned it into a storage room of sorts.” Remus gestures around the room. “For unwanted, discarded things.”
Sirius nods.
“I hang out here sometimes,” Remus continues, tugging at the long sleeves of his shirt. “It's quiet.”
“Doesn’t it get lonely?”
Remus shrugs. “Doesn’t bother me, I don’t know a lot of you, so…”
Sirius feels something catch in his chest. “Right. I suppose you don’t.”
“Right, anyway.” Remus clears his throat. “The plan.”
“The plan.”
“If you insist on this prank war, let’s at the very least be smarter about it, shall we? Here's what we’re gonna do.” Remus walks over to the edge of the room and drags out a large, heavy-looking burlap sack.
“Please tell me I’m going to wear that?”
Remus smiles, quick and gone. “Funny, but no. You’re going to carry this to the Slytherin camp, with this tied to your waist.” He holds up a bear-shaped honey bottle.
Sirius frowns. “Hang on, so you want me to prank them? I don’t understand.”
“No, I want you to look like you’re about to prank them, the objective is to be seen,” Remus explains. “Preferably by a loudmouth, Malfoy is ideal. Earlier, he told me, without my asking, about the marathon he’s training for. Said he’d be running laps around the lake and along the forest trail until dinner, so you’re going to head over to the bridge and intercept him on his way back to his cabin.”
“Alright.” Sirius nods slowly. “But how is that going to help put us over Slytherin?”
“Think, what do Slytherins hate more than anything?”
“I dunno, being normal?”
“No,” Remus rolls his eyes. “They hate being had. If they know you’ve played a prank on them, they’re bound to retaliate.”
“But I’m not allowed to play a prank on them, you said I couldn’t.”
“Right. But they don’t know that, so they’ll think you are, and so—”
“—they’ll strike back and lose enough points for us to win the cup on Sunday!” Sirius finishes, suddenly breathless. “That, Mr. Lupin, sounds rather like a prank.”
“Not really.”
“An infraction, then. Deceiving a fellow camper.”
Remus shrugs, a small mischievous sort of smile stealing across his face. “Only counts as one if we get caught.”
Sirius feels overheated. Dizzy.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Remus asks, tugging at his sleeve again.
“I think I’m falling in love with you.”
Remus rolls his eyes. “You’ll get over it. Now focus.”
Sirius lugs the empty bag of flour—it’s still a little heavy, the burlap is thick!— across the bridge dividing their cabins from the Slytherin cabins for the fourth time, when finally, he runs into him. Lucius Malfoy comes sweeping across the bridge, platinum blond hair swept up into a sleek ponytail without a hair out of place and his tracksuit in mint condition. His trainers are stark white.
“Black,” he sneers, when he catches sight of him. "What are you doing on our side of the camp? Reprieve from your flea-infested cabins?”
“No, just leaving my favourite group of inbreds a little surprise.” Here, Sirius shifts around, drawing Malfoy’s attention to the empty sack and the honey tucked into the waistband of his trousers.
Malfoy turns puce in record time. “You filthy, little class traitor! You better have not—”
“I haven’t got time to stand around and chat, Malfoy. I’ll see you at the next rare mutation con we’re invited to.”
Sirius quickly makes his way back to the shack to deposit the evidence, and halts when he finds Remus on the sofa, a paperback book in his lap and clunky glasses on his face, which he takes off as soon as Sirius steps through the door.
Not fast enough, though.
Sirius' eyes widen, utterly delighted. “What were those?”
“Shut up,” Remus mutters, rubbing a hand over the bridge of his nose.
“No, come on, put them back on, they’re cute.”
“Shut up, Sirius,” he repeats, his face flushed.
Sirius, caught off guard at hearing his name from him, does.
Remus raises an eyebrow at him when the silence drags. “Well? How did it go?”
“He saw me. Let’s hope it takes.”
“Well, I guess it took.”
The scoreboard mounted smackdab in the middle of the camp reads in bold writing: GRYFFINDOR (3649), SLYTHERIN (3635), RAVENCLAW (3647), HUFFLEPUFF(3321).
Sirius turns to him, grinning. “We did it! We won!”
“Technically, I did it, you sort of caused the problem, then only helped fix it so—”
“Remus, we did it!” Sirius grabs and shakes him by the shoulders, excitement—exuberance—something else, something he can’t— won’t —put a name to broiling under his skin, in his belly. He can’t keep it at bay. Remus laughs, loud and a little helpless and reaches up to grip his wrists, and Sirius feels everything, all of it, increase tenfold.
“Yes, alright, we did,” Remus says at last. His eyes are soft and warm when he looks at Sirius. “Well done, Black.”
“You know, I don’t hear that very often.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Sirius’ hands feel clammy where they rest on Remus. Remus, who, Sirius notes with a thrill, is still holding onto his wrists. He knows, immediately, that he doesn’t want him to let go. Sirius leans forward, recklessly determined.
Unfortunately, Remus looks back at him, all long lashes and freckled skin and shiny metal braces, and Sirius chokes.
Quite literally, he chokes when he goes to swallow, sputtering pathetically, and has to smile thinly when Remus leads him to a nearby cabin and brings him a small plastic cup of cold, filtered water.
They sit on the cabin steps, shoulder-to-shoulder, knees knocking, and Sirius can’t look at him. He watches an ant struggle with a breadcrumb on the second step. “So, no baseball.”
“No baseball,” Remus sighs, a smile in his voice. He bumps their shoulders together, and Sirius looks over. His face is soft, relaxed. A wobbly smile on his lips. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
Remus shrugs. “I was a little…intense, I suppose. At the start.”
“A little?” Sirius scoffs.
“Alright, a lot,” Remus laughs. “It’s just—I just—I really, really hate baseball.”
And the statement is so honest, so whiny and petulant and young, from Remus, who is—well, none of that, that Sirius can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him. Remus watches with a hand over his own smiling mouth. Sirius has the urge to tug it down. Let me see, screams inside him. A constant, steady pulse of want. Or, rather a desire that is worse than base, it brushes against his sternum, inverts his insides, sucks the marrow from his bone. He leans in a little, and Remus sits still, watches him.
Sirius drops his eyes to his pinky, loose and slightly curled at the edge of scarred knees. He edges his knee closer, bumps their pinkies together. Neither of them move apart. “Remus.”
“Yeah?”
He looks up into big, brown eyes. Counts his freckles as he evens out his own breathing. “I, uh, I really do—”
“WILL SIRIUS ORION BLACK AND REMUS JOHN LUPIN PLEASE REPORT TO THE HEAD COUNSELLORS OFFICE. I REPEAT, WILL SIRIUS ORION BLACK AND REMUS JOHN LUPIN PLEASE REPORT TO THE HEAD COUNSELLORS OFFICE. THANK YOU.”
They jump apart. Remus turns to him, all worried, soft mouth and wide, panicked eyes. “What do you think happened?”
Sirius grimaces. “I dunno, but maybe don’t put your pitcher’s glove away just yet.”
"I suppose we should go and find out." Remus sighs, a soft and quiet thing, then he stands up and holds a hand out to him.
Sirius takes it.