Chapter Text
𝕿𝖍𝖊 platform is nearly empty when Remus gets there. His mother had driven him to London, and traffic had been hell, so Remus is dangerously close to being late. Next time, he reminds himself, he should just try to Floo somewhere closer or even have his father Apparate him.
As it is, though, he is left kissing his mother goodbye in the car because she cannot find a parking spot anywhere near to King’s Cross, and then has to jog through the train station, lugging his trunk along as he goes.
He practically jumps through the wall between platforms nine and ten and, when he emerges, just cursorily sends a look around to ascertain that he really might be the very last person to arrive. Some people are still mingling about, mostly parents, some younger students reluctant to get on the train, collecting their last hugs.
There’s a whistle, followed by a loud “Last call!”, and Remus climbs aboard, lungs burning. He takes a moment to catch his breath, then fumbles for his wand to cast a refreshing charm because he can feel the fabric of his shirt sticking to his sweaty back. Bending over, he checks his reflection in the window to make sure his hair looks relatively presentable, and grabs his trunk once more to go look for a seat.
He’s not, he reminds himself, looking to encounter or avoid anyone in particular. But he does quickly find Peter sitting in a compartment across a bunch of what look like second-years. James probably would have told the children to scram and find somewhere else to sit, no matter whether they arrived there first or not, but Peter has always been more tolerant than that. Perhaps because he, too, knows too keenly what it’s like to think it’s a privilege that people want you around at all.
“Hey, Pete,” Remus says, ducking inside underneath the low door. He’s not quite tall enough to hit his head yet, but he thinks that, by next year, he might not be so lucky anymore. He’s had another growth spurt recently, and his mother has been lamenting how quickly he goes through robes.
“Hey, Moony,” Peter says, looking up from what must be their Charms textbook. Most likely, he didn’t finish all his assignments over the Easter break and now has to hastily finish them. Mentally, Remus prepares himself for an evening of looking over his parchments to pick out potential mistakes. Peter has sloppy handwriting on the best of days, and anything written on the train would be all the messier.
Remus lifts his trunk up onto the overhead compartment and, when one of the second-year girls shyly asks him, also adds hers. His bones ache under the heavy weight, muscles pulling unpleasantly when he reaches his arms over his head. It’s only been a little over a week since the last full moon, and he’s got a bad cut down his flank that still hasn’t healed. His transformations are always worse over the holidays, or at least it feels that way; perhaps, he has simply grown too used to the reprieve of having his friends along to protect him from himself.
His parents try, of course. But, even after all these years, his mother still gets upset and teary-eyed over the whole process of having to lock him away, of finding him in the morning, reverted to his human form, and futilely tending to his wounds. Remus gets it, gets that it must be terrible to see your child in such a state and to be powerless against it — even more so for a Muggle who, until not so long ago, wasn’t aware that wizards and werewolves existed at all. But it also grates on him that he always ends up being the one who has to console her in turn, has to soothe her hurts.
His friends have never treated him that way. They thought it is awful and unfair and also slightly exciting. But they never pitied him, and they don’t pity themselves either for having befriended him. Instead, when they first learned of his condition, they just set out for a way to help him.
Remus lets out a heavy sigh as he sits down. The next full moon seems agonizingly close already. He dreads it as always, but also cautiously looks forward to it. When he isn’t given the chance to turn his claws and teeth on himself, the moons are bearable. He never has a clear recollection of it, just a general impression of the various smells in his nose, the shadows of the Forbidden Forest, and his pack alongside him, crowding close.
Padfoot is the wolf’s favourite, because he is the most wolf-like. They nip at each other’s heels and chase each other through the trees, and sometimes the dog licks the wolf’s muzzle in a gesture of affection and-
“Have you heard from Sirius over the holidays?” Remus asks quietly, underneath the chatter of the three second-years, and Peter looks away from his book again, scratching the side of his nose.
“No, not really,” he says and then, a bit pointedly, adds, “Haven’t really heard from anyone, lately.”
“Ah,” Remus says, chagrined. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the cold shoulder, too. It’s just been… a weird time.”
“Yeah,” Peter says, with an easy shrug that indicates he has already forgiven him. “I get that.”
They are silent for another moment, until Remus can’t bear it anymore.
“Did you see Sirius when you got on?” he asks and then, because he feels like he should, “Or James?”
Peter shakes his head, gesturing to his book. “I just grabbed the first compartment I found, since I still need to catch up on homework. Figured you guys would find me, if you wanted to. But, er, shouldn’t you be with the other prefects anyway?”
Remus groans, letting his head slump against his seat. He’s tall enough that the headrest only really supports the back of his neck.
“I will, in a minute,” he says. When he first got the letter telling him that he had made prefect, he — along with his parents — had been very proud. It quickly turned out, however, that the job was more trouble than it was worth. Especially considering that he had probably primarily been chosen because, out of his three best friends and housemates, the teachers considered him the lesser evil.
He can feel Peter’s contemplative gaze on him, and Remus steels himself for the question that he knows is coming. The question that Remus has been mulling over for the past weeks as well.
“Are you guys going to make up, then?” Peter wants to know. He keeps his voice low, mindful of the second-years who have started pouring over some Quidditch magazine, discussing potential line-ups.
“I don’t know,” Remus says, rubbing his palms over his tired face. “I mean, hell, probably. What choice do I have?”
If he cuts off Sirius, then he will lose James as well. Not outright, perhaps, not immediately, but it still wouldn’t be the same. Peter would be stuck in between the frontlines and, even if he were to choose Remus, Wormtail on his own is not enough to control the wolf.
When it came down to it, Prongs would still be there for him during the full moon, Remus suspects. But it would still be wrong. It wouldn’t be pack.
And then there is this other part of Remus. The one that reminds him that it was always going to end this way. That he can’t possibly rely on other people for the rest of his life, that the Marauders had a good run, but now it is over and Remus is on his own again.
“I mean, I don’t know, you could always try to talk to him?” Peter suggests.
“We did talk-”
“No, you both just yelled at each other.” Peter digs his pinky into his ear, looking disinterested. “You didn’t even give him a chance to explain.”
“What’s there to explain?” Remus hisses. One of the girls glances over, curious, and he quickly schools his expression, mindful not to reveal too much. “What he did was reckless. He put someone in harm’s way and, if it hadn’t been for James…”
“I’m not defending him,” Peter points out. “Just, you know. James didn’t say much, but he hinted that Sirius has had some stuff going on. So maybe try and see his side of things.”
Remus scoffs, crossing his arms. He can’t imagine anything that would possibly justify why Sirius would think it a fun idea to introduce Snape of all people to the wolf. Snape could have been killed or, worse, turned, and Remus would have had to live with the guilt of that. He would have been expelled from Hogwarts and received who knows what other punishments. All of that for a stupid prank because Sirius always has a bone to pick with Snivellus.
The door to the compartment rattles open with more force than necessary, making all five passengers startle and look over. Lily Evans sticks her head inside, red hair falling over her shoulder, a querimonious expression on her face.
“There you are,” she accuses Remus, her green eyes sparking in annoyance. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Did you know the prefect badges are not just for decoration?”
“Bugger,” Remus mutters under his breath, pushing himself up from his seat. The wound on his side smarts. “Just a second, Lily.”
“You’re not even wearing your robes yet,” she admonishes, hands on her hips. “I swear, I have no idea why Professor McGonagall chose you at all. All the Gryffindor boys in our year are louts.”
“You hear that, Pete?” Remus asks with a crooked grin, even as he turns to pop his trunk open and haphazardly pull out a robe. He’s not sure where exactly he put his badge, so he just quickly Accios it into his hand. “Louts, she calls us.”
“I prefer ‘degenerates’, really,” Peter muses. “Or ‘ruffians’.”
Lily is red in the face now, whether from anger or embarrassment, Remus can’t tell. She’s easily incensed, even without James around, and Remus wonders whether it’s simply due to the stereotype of fiery redheads.
“You guys were both so sweet in first year,” Lily tells them, wrinkling her nose as though in disgust. “Potter has thoroughly ruined you.”
“Aw, don’t give James all the credit,” Peter returns. “Sirius deserves at least forty percent.”
Lily just rolls her eyes, withdrawing into the corridor, while Remus and Peter snicker together.
The truth is, of course, that they have all corrupted each other in various ways. Remus incentivised the others to break major laws by becoming underage and unregistered Animagi. And Peter encouraged them to break curfew as early as their first Halloween in order to make assorted midnight trips to the kitchens. Together, they gained a respectable amount of house points each year but, on average, they also managed to lose about half of them in turn.
But now Remus is a prefect, and he has to at least play pretend at being a responsible member of the student body, so he shrugs on his robes, pins his badge to his lapel and, with a lazy wave at Peter, closes the compartment door behind himself.
Lily is impatiently tapping her foot at him, as if they weren’t only fifteen minutes into the ride, and she didn’t still have hours left to have a look around. Perhaps, however, Lily can read minds.
“I already had to break up a fight between some third-years,” she tells him. “So don’t think you can go around skirting your duties.”
“I’m not, I swear,” Remus says and, with a vague gesture, adds. “Just, you know, a bit exhausted.”
He must look the part, too, because Lily doesn’t even remind him that he literally just had two weeks off from school. Instead, she only gives him a searching look and then, grudgingly, asks, “So you and Black are still having a strop?”
At that, Remus sucks in a surprised breath and then slowly blows it out again. He hadn’t really considered whether any classmates might have picked up on their recent radio silence.
“That obvious?” he counters, hoping to avoid having to give an actual answer, and Lily just gives him a deadpan look.
“You ‘degenerates’,” she says pointedly, “Are usually attached at the hip. And then, boom, suddenly one can barely force you to be in the same room with each other. Was waiting to catch one of you sleeping in the common room or something.”
Remus bites the inside of his cheek.
“Have you seen them, then?” he wants to know. “James or Sirius?”
“Not yet,” Lily says. When she abruptly turns away, her hair whips like a flag in the wind. “But I’m sure we can find them.”
And they do find them. It takes thirty minutes, interrupted by small-talk with various students, a few Chocolate Frogs, courtesy of the trolley lady, and a rather explosive lover’s spat between two fourteen-year-old Ravenclaws, but they do find James and Sirius sitting in an otherwise empty compartment.
Under other circumstances, Lily would probably chide them for hogging so much space for themselves, but the train is pretty empty since many students chose to stay at school over the Easter holidays to get in some extra cramming before finals. That had been Remus’ plan as well, before everything went pear-shaped.
“Evans,” James says, brightly, eagerly, before remembering that he should be acting more suave. His hand flies up to smooth his hair back, like a sixties’ greaser, only he does it too quickly and ends up smashing his glasses into his face.
“Potter,” Lily returns coldly, like she regrets having been born, her gaze sliding over to Sirius. “And Black. Some laws of nature still hold true.”
Sirius doesn’t raise to the bait, and neither does he greet Remus or Lily. He’s sitting crowded-up against the window, the collar of his jacket flipped up. His face is turned away and mostly obscured by his dark hair but, in the reflection of the window, Remus catches a glimpse of his pale, expressionless face.
“S’up, Moony,” James says quickly, as if to distract Remus from the queer sight. He leans forward in his seat a little, to hide Sirius from view. As though not only Lily were an intruder, but Remus, too. “Have you seen Wormtail yet?”
“Yeah, he’s farther down,” Remus tells him robotically, through the lump in his throat. “Still has some homework left to do.”
James laughs, but it sounds forced.
“What else is new,” he says. “You two doing your prefect rounds, then? Guess we can catch up over dinner.”
It’s a clear dismissal, one that neither Lily nor Remus dispute.
“Don’t get into any trouble before then,” Lily tells them sternly, even though she must be able to tell as well that neither Sirius nor James are in the mood for any pranks. She takes a step back, bumping into Remus at her shoulder, before she can close the door once more.
“That was weird,” she observes, sending a questioning glance up at Remus. “Didn’t think I’d ever say this, but I think I prefer your usual group dynamic.”
“Yeah,” Remus croaks out. “Me, too.”
△
They make it to Hogwarts without further incident. In part it may be because, according to Lily, Snape had chosen to remain at school, meaning he wasn’t given a chance to try and waylay James and Sirius on the train.
Hagrid welcomes them in Hogsmeade and heartily claps Remus on the shoulder, as he always does, in some sort of silent solidarity between the werewolf and the half-giant. It jars Remus’ injury a bit, but he still gives him a tired smile, before shuffling along to the carriages. He and Peter climb into one, along with Lily and Marlene McKinnon, before Remus has another chance to spot James and Sirius in the crowd.
“Boy,” Marlene says, crossing her arms over her chest. “And here you guys had me believing in true love.”
It makes Remus want to scream, scream that none of them have any idea of what is going on, that this is not some stupid dispute between school boys, but rather the tragedy of his life and that he very nearly murdered someone because Sirius apparently thought it would be fun-
But he just purses his lips and turns his face away.
“Hey, Remus,” Peter says, in an obvious attempt to change the subject. “Can you look over my Charms assignment later?”
“Yeah,” Remus says and breathes out through his nose, as their carriage sets into motion and begins ambling up the hill toward the castle. “Yeah, I can do that.”
They can talk over dinner, perhaps. Or rather, just sit together and, for half an hour, pretend like nothing were amiss. Leave the big, inevitable conversation for some other moment, when they are all in a better shape.
Only, it turns out that Sirius is not in the Great Hall.
“He said he wanted to lie down,” James says evasively, and then, more quietly, “He’s had a rough two weeks.”
Sirius never has a good time at home, in ways that are entirely different from Remus, and they all know it, but only at what Remus suspects is surface level. Sometimes, Sirius makes throwaway comments about things he doesn’t even seem to realise make other people falter: references to how he’s forced to miss meals over talking back at his mother, or how he’ll be locked up in his room for hours on end, or how that one summer between second and third year they didn’t let him leave the house at all. But those punishments are likely just the tip of the iceberg.
And Remus can only speculate, but he knows that both words and wands can hurt without leaving visible wounds.
He shovels food into his mouth, barely tasting any of it, nor paying any attention to the conversations around him. He doesn’t care about Quidditch results or who’s started dating who over the break. With difficulty, he swallows the last mouthful and then pushes his plate aside. He grabs one of the cloth napkins instead, folds it open in his lap, and then begins to select a couple of things that will make for a snack.
There are some slices of garlic bread, a red apple and a juicy tangerine, a small chunk of cheese and ham each, and two sausages. It’s an eclectic collection, but it can still be eaten later, and it’s certainly better than nothing at all.
“Moony,” James says, when he catches on to what Remus must be planning, but then seems to think better of trying to talk him out of it. If anything, James probably wants things to go back to normal just as much.
So Remus twists the napkin into a little bundle and then stands up from the table, not bothering to make his excuses. No one stops him as he makes his way out of the Great Hall and up the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower.
He mechanically tells the Fat Lady the password — Kneazle, still the same as before the break — and climbs through the opening. The common room is empty, as everyone else is still down at dinner, and Remus is grateful for it. He doesn’t feel like having to talk to anyone else.
The last few steps up to the boys’ dormitory seem strangely endless, even though Remus has climbed them a thousand times before and knows exactly how many there are. When he finally makes it to the landing and pushes the door open, his eyes need a moment to adjust to the half-dark. While the days have been growing longer, the Gryffindor Tower faces East and thus gets little light in the evening.
Sirius’s bed is closest to the biggest window, in-between those of Remus and James. The velvet curtains are drawn, but Remus isn’t deterred, just quickly crosses the room. There are worse things than waking Sirius from a nap.
Sirius must have heard him come in, because he does not look surprised when Remus pulls the hangings back.
“Hey,” Remus says, not waiting for permission to sit down on the edge of the mattress. He sets the food onto the bedside table. “I brought you something to eat.”
Sirius doesn’t move from where he is curled up on his side. His grey eyes stay trained on Remus, but his gaze is tired.
“I’m not hungry,” he claims, and Remus isn’t really sure whether he should buy that or not.
“James said as much,” he admits. “But I figured you might like something for later.”
Sirius hums non-committally, and that should perhaps be the end of it, but Remus just stays where he is, and Sirius does not tell him to leave.
For a minute or so, they are silent.
Then Sirius asks, “How was the moon?”
At that, Remus snorts, turns his face up at the canopy. “Awful, as was to be expected.”
He debates with himself for a moment, then shrugs off his robe to pull up his shirt and jumper, exposing his side where he had scratched himself. He took off the bandages this morning and the skin has mostly knitted itself back together, but everything still looks sore and red. It will scar, most definitely, but Remus is used to that.
Tentatively, Sirius lifts a hand and ghosts his fingers just along the length of the wound. His hand had been curled up under his cheek and so his skin is warm, bordering on hot. Remus bites the inside of his cheek.
“That looks like it hurt,” Sirius says softly, darting a glance up at Remus. “Hurts?”
“Yeah.” Remus ducks his head, clears his throat. He should probably push his jumper back down, but he wants to keep Sirius’ touch where it is, hovering at the upmost point of his hip. Sirius’ nails scratch over the skin, just lightly, and Remus resists the instinct to hold his breath. If he runs out of air, he’ll die. If he dies, this moment will be over.
“I’ll be there next moon,” Sirius promises him. “Even if- Even if you never want to talk to me again, Padfoot will be there. I’m not just going to abandon you.”
“I know that,” Remus tells him because, ultimately, he does know. He’s never doubted his friends’ loyalty — just his own worthiness. “I just- want to understand why you did it in the first place. I can’t be friends with someone who is so foolish and reckless that they’d endanger so many people just for a laugh.”
Sirius’ hand withdraws, and Remus realises he would have preferred suffocation.
“Do we have to talk about this now?” Sirius draws his limbs closer to his body. He’s still in his robes, hasn’t even drawn the blankets over himself, and somehow it makes him look smaller, like a child. He’s always been of slight build, which is common for omegas, but his presence usually dominates whatever room he’s in.
“Sirius,” Remus says tightly. His throat feels constricted, but they’ve postponed this confrontation for too long. “I could have killed Snape. Do you actually understand the gravity of that? Someone would have died, and both you and I would have been expelled. Hell, maybe worse. Would you like to know what Azkaban looks like from the inside?”
Sirius swallows, his jaw visibly clenching.
“I’m sorry I abused your trust and your situation like that,” he confesses. “Fuck, I’m even sorry I nearly offed Snivellus.”
“Maybe tell him that as well,” Remus suggests. “Though you should paraphrase it a little.”
Sirius scoffs, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a brief facsimile of a smile. He looks diminished, as he often does after having been home for a while, but normally he bounces back rather quickly. This past year, though, has been different. After Christmas had been especially bad, with Sirius caustic and self-destructive for the better part of January and-
“Sirius,” Remus tries again, licking his lips before he dares to continue, because he is only now connecting the dots. “Did anything happen with your family?”
“Nope,” Sirius says blandly, popping the P-sound. “Home sweet home, just like always.”
“You were- After Christmas, you were in a bad way. So I thought, was this whole thing just a belated-”
“Stop analysing everything I do, Lupin,” Sirius says, abruptly rolling onto his other side so that his back is to Remus. His dark hair messily fans out against the white pillow. “I’m a fuck-up. We both know that. Everybody knows that. This is just another item on a long list of why I am a disappointment.”
“You’re not a fuck-up,” Remus tells him. “At least not in the ways you seem to think.”
It’s a barb that usually makes Sirius say something snarky right back, but not so today. His back remains stubbornly turned, chin tucked against his chest.
Remus is nearly at his wit’s end.
“I promised Wormtail to read over his Charms essay,” he says, as an offer of conciliation. “Want me to check yours, too?”
Sirius vaguely shakes his head, the gesture mostly swallowed by his pillow.
“Didn’t write it,” he says, his voice muffled. “Didn’t care.”
“But,” Remus tries, “Your O.W.L.s.”
Sirius doesn’t react to that, as though he were perfectly fine with throwing not just his friendships away but his education as well, and Remus feels a flare of annoyance. You can’t help people who don’t want to be helped, and Remus feels rather sick of trying. This is just like dealing with his mother after the full moon, he realises; he’s the one who’s hurt, the one who’s been wronged, but for some reason he is still the one who is trying to set things to rights.
“Whatever,” he declares. With a sinking feeling, he realises that this conversation has ended up at an even worse spot than where it began. He pushes himself off the bed, carelessly leaving the drapes open. “Have fun drowning in self-pity, I guess.”
He leaves and does not look back.
△
Things, against all odds, do get better. James does everything in his power to rebuild burnt bridges, and Peter has always been a good buffer to neutralise everyone else’s eccentricities. By the end of the first week, Sirius is almost back to his old self, making jokes and bantering with James, though his smiles still look a little wan and hollow.
But he and Remus are able to have civil conversations, over classwork and meals. When Sirius suggests they hold a study session in the library, Remus agrees that it’s a good idea.
“I didn’t really have the chance to study over the break,” Sirius admits. “Maybe you can help me with DADA?”
Sirius doesn’t really need help with DADA, and they both know it, but it’s a flag of surrender, an olive branch. Sirius does care about school, and he cares about Remus, too.
That Saturday, Remus is the last one to arrive at the library, quickly locating his friends sitting at one of their favourite tables, over by a corner window. He had been making a quick prefect round, at the behest of Professor McGongall, but now pulls out a chair next to Peter, glad to be off his feet.
On the other side sit Marlene and Sirius, but James is manoeuvring his own chair around so that he is not only sitting at the head of the table but also bracing his chest against the backrest. It must be pretty uncomfortable, but James probably thinks he looks cool, and none of them disabuse him of that notion.
“Will Evans be joining us?” James asks hopefully as he finally sits down as well, and Marlene gives him a big smile that makes her freckled cheeks dimple.
“Nope,” she says, as though she enjoys nothing more than ruining James Potter’s day. “She and Severus are studying down by the lake. Actually looked more like a picnic, what with all the snacks she was packing. You can probably see them from the window, if-”
“Don’t rile him up,” Remus rebukes her gently. James really should know better than to keep pining after and, occasionally, harassing Lily, but Marlene should also know better than to pour salt into the wound. And Remus doesn’t necessarily agree with how James expresses his ill-placed feelings, but it’s not like he can’t relate.
Across from him, Sirius is digging through his ratty pencil case, the one that bears the signatures of all four Marauders, and pulls out what turns out to be an ornate golden fountain pen.
Marlene, who had been sharpening the end of her own quill, immediately perks up.
“Ooh, that’s a nice pen,” she comments, leaning over to get a closer look. “Where’d you get it?”
“Ah,” Sirius says, closing his whole fist around the pen as though to hide it from view. “Just… somewhere. Had it lying around at home and brought it with me after the break.”
“Wish we didn’t have to bother with parchment and quills any more,” Marlene complains. “Stuck in the eighth century, this school, I swear to Merlin. Lily has all these glittery gel pens and- and ink eraser. Can you imagine not have to scratch out your mistakes?”
“I don’t make mistakes,” James claims loftily, which is a big fat lie. He simply usually tries to convince people of his ‘alternative spellings’ of perfectly common words.
Remus doesn’t say anything, though, just calmly gets his own study materials ready. When he glances over, Sirius is holding the pen normally again, the thin shaft perched in the grasp of his elegant fingers.
It is a nice pen, Remus agrees, and not at all something Sirius would normally use or even be drawn to. He could see a pen like that being found in Orion Black’s own study, and even Sirius nicking it, just for the hell of it. But then he wouldn’t be bothered to actually use it.
And anyway, it’s not Orion Black’s initials that are engraved in the side of the pen. Instead, Remus catches sight of an elaborate R and, for a second, thinks it must be Regulus’. But then he sees the Y and L following it.
Remus pauses, stumped. He racks his brain, trying to think of anyone with the initials R.Y.L., but comes up empty. Is it some distant relative of Sirius, someone who doesn’t carry the name of Black? Or did he steal the pen after all, from some unsuspecting student?
Frankly, Remus wouldn’t even concern himself with the matter, not even the potential theft, if it weren’t for the fact that Sirius had so obviously lied in response to Marlene’s question. What reason would he have if, ordinarily, he would be more likely to brag about having relieved some first-year of a personalised gift probably given by their grandma? What motivation does Sirius have to keep all his cards so close to his chest lately?
Remus doesn’t ask, but he does ponder. At the end of their study session, he can barely recall a single sentence he read. There’s still one thing he learns, though: he really cannot judge James for his obsession with Lily.
△
Slowly, the mystery deepens. Two weeks after the holidays, as they are having breakfast in the Great Hall, the owls come pouring in. Remus keeps his eye out for an owl carrying a newspaper. His father is paying his subscription, and Remus is grateful for it. There are few happy news to be had these days, but vigilance is key in times such as these.
Sometimes, there is evidence of werewolf activity. Attacks. Murders. Fenrir Greyback is rumoured to have started siding with Voldemort, and Remus aches with the knowledge that he is just one victim in a long line of many.
A Tawny owl drops a rolled up Prophet right above him, and Remus barely manages to catch it before it lands in his porridge. He smooths it open in his lap, trying to gauge the mood of the day: Quidditch results, front and centre — boring, but relieving. Any violence would likely have been featured more prominently.
When he looks up again, it is to see Sirius liberating a grumpy looking Spectacled owl of a letter and a small parcel. That, in itself, strikes Remus as strange, because Sirius does not receive much mail in general. When he does, it tends to be Howlers from his mother or, on special occasions like his birthday, a present from the Potters or some secret admirers.
Sirius must think as much himself because he opens the letter first, with a foreboding expression on his face. As he reads, his frown deepens, the curve of his mouth turning downwards. Just for a moment, his eyes dart over in the direction of the Slytherin table.
Peter, meanwhile, has helped himself to the parcel, starting to unwrap it with nimble fingers without asking for permission. Underneath the paper sits a rectangular box and, when Peter opens that, too, its velvety insides are revealed.
“Ooh, shiny,” Peter says, drawing Sirius’ attention to him. It speaks to how distracting the contents of the letter must have been that Sirius hadn’t noticed the miniature theft in the first place.
“Give me that,” he barks, snatching the box up from Peter’s hands, only to balefully stare down at it.
“Padfoot,” James says, looking over his shoulder. He sounds pained.
“I know,” Sirius returns through gritted teeth.
The box, Remus can see, contains a finely crafted piece of jewellery: a golden necklace with a pendant in the shape of a scarab, its wings shining in shades of metallic green and purple.
Sirius lifts it out of the box, just holds it in his hand for a long moment. Then, with a resolute huff, he closes his eyes and fastens the chain around his neck.
Gold, despite him being a Gryffindor, is not really his colour, Remus thinks. Silver, like the metal zip of his leather jacket or the studs on the twin bracelets around his wrists, suits him much better. His ears, too, are adorned with a series of hoops and barbells that catch the light whenever he brushes his hair back.
The gold looks out of place on him. Like a foreign object. Like a parasite.
“Who’s that from?” Remus asks, unable to stop himself.
“No one,” Sirius says without hesitation, without even looking at him. He crumples the paper wrapping in his fist, then carelessly tosses it over his shoulder. The letter, however, he slips into his bookbag before anyone can get the idea to have a look at that, too.
With curiously nervous hands, Sirius fumbles around with his collar for a while, apparently unsure whether to wear the necklace underneath or above his shirt. In the end, he settles for above, and then messes with his hair. It’s grown longer again, longer than it ever has been before, and the ends of it have been curling prettily, like kelp in the Great Lake. He settles on tying everything back in a low bun at the nape of his neck.
It puts the scarab front and centre, sitting against his sternum, tempting like an open secret. It looks like a deliberate choice, a demonstrative one, and Remus wants to ask about that, too, but he’s afraid to hear the answer.
△
“Let’s go down to Hogsmeade,” Peter suggests. “I’m sick of studying, and we can always go back to the library tomorrow.”
He’s got a point, really. They’ve been neck deep in their O.W.L. preparations, both inside and out of class. Remus in particular has been feeling stressed. The other three primarily worry about the subjects they plan to take their N.E.W.T.s in, but Remus does not have that kind of luxury. He has read the statistics and knows that, as a werewolf, his career choices are severely limited. It’s in his best interest to qualify for as much as possible, and do similarly well in all his final exams.
The bitter truth is that, at the end of the day, no prospective employer will overcome their prejudice against werewolves just because Remus has good grades to show for his education. But, unlike his lycanthropy, it is a factor he can control, and so he does.
“Seconded,” James yawns. He’s balancing his Transfigurations book on top of his head, as though that might help the knowledge sink through his skull and into his brain. It makes his thick black hair stand off to the sides in a ridiculous manner, and his rectangular glasses are smudged with fingerprints. But Lily Evans is nowhere around, and for once he doesn’t seem to care what he looks like.
Suddenly brutally self-aware, Remus plucks at his curly fringe, as if that would hide the worst of his facial scars, and then smooths down his eyebrows, before darting a glance over at Sirius. Sirius, however, has his chin propped up on his hand and is blankly staring out the window.
He’s been doing that a lot lately, more than ever before. Staring into the distance, or at walls, or the ceiling. Staring at books and blackboards, without seeming to absorb any of it. More than once has he lost them house points for being inattentive in class.
“Yeah,” Remus says, clearing his throat when his voice comes out croaky. “Yeah, we should. Sirius?”
It takes Sirius a moment to react, to blink himself back into reality and draw his eyes away from the window. When he looks over, he still seems preoccupied. “Hm?”
“Hogsmeade,” Peter repeats. He slams his forehead down onto the table, only cushioned by the open pages of his textbooks. “Please, I’ve been having nightmares about the library.”
“What kind of nightmares?” James wants to know. “Because I’ve had dreams about Madam Pince, and let me tell you, those weren’t the scary kind-”
“The books eat me,” Peter cuts him off. “Start at the end of my limbs and work their way inward.”
“So let’s go,” Remus decides for all of them. The last few days had been rainy, and they had barely set a foot outside. They deserve to enjoy a sunny day away from school.
So they go. Drop off their books and bags at the dorms, shrug off their school robes for something more casual, and then make their way down to Hogsmeade.
The sky is blue, only adorned with the occasional cloud, and the air is clear and summery.
Sirius has his hair up in a high ponytail, tiny braids intersecting it, and he has donned a pair of black aviator sunglasses, the ones he bought when they ventured out to Muggle London last summer and that Remus had to keep safe for him so his mother wouldn’t take them away. It’s been warming up, and the top buttons of Sirius’ white shirt are undone, his tie nowhere to be seen, but it’s windy, too, and the fabric keeps fluttering to reveal a triangle view of his smooth chest.
Peter’s elbow catches Remus in the side, and Remus snaps his mouth shut, realising that he must have been staring rather blatantly. Sirius himself luckily hasn’t seemed to notice, his head tilted back to turn his face toward the sun.
Remus, in turn, makes sure to keep his head down the rest of the way, kicking stones as he goes. They got a late start, though, and while the winding path down to the village was pleasantly empty, Hogsmeade itself is positively teeming with excited students.
A group of Gryffindor third-years passes them by and, wistfully, Remus wonders whether they had ever been that small. That first Hogsmeade weekend had been so exciting and they had all felt so terribly grown up, like the world was at their fingertips, even though it was really just a small wizarding village a thirty-minute walk away from their school.
Two more years, Remus realises with a pang. Two more years and then all of this would be over. No more Hogwarts and fretting over exams, no more Marauders and detentions, no more childish horsing around.
Better enjoy the moment then. Breathe it in while it lasts.
“So,” Sirius says. Some strands of hair have come loose and are wisping around his face; it’s mesmerising.
“I want to check out something at the bookshop,” Peter announces, rather abruptly, which is strange considering that, less than half an hour ago, he had still claimed to be suffering from nightmares about books.
“I’ll join you!” James chimes in loudly and, before Remus can even fully compute what’s happening, suddenly he and Sirius are alone.
“Er, what was that?” Remus asks, sending Sirius a questioning look, but it’s hard to catch his eye behind the glasses.
“I don’t know, let’s just have a look around or something,” Sirius suggests. He puts his hand into the crook of Remus’ arm, steering him into the opposite direction of where Peter and James had just run off to. “Or is there anywhere you wanted to go in particular?”
“Honeydukes,” Remus says without thinking. He’s been stress-eating and his stash is almost used up. Not to mention that the moon is fattening as well, which always makes Remus all the more ravenous.
“Of course,” Sirius says. He doesn’t sound surprised, but there is an edge of amusement in his voice, the kind that hasn’t been directed at Remus in a while. “Honeydukes it is.”
As they walk, Remus tries not to dwell on the fact that this is the first time since the Incident that they have been alone together for more than a handful of minutes. Or rather, as alone as you can be in a village full of other shoppers, including their fellow students.
Hogsmeade is predictably crowded, and so is Honeydukes when they get there. It always is, after the long stretches of winter. Remus doesn’t mind so much, however, because it means Sirius sticks close to him as they make their way through the shop, stopping at various displays to admire the wares.
Remus’ little shopping basket is already halfway full when he notices that Sirius hasn’t grabbed anything yet.
“You’re not getting anything?” he asks, gesturing at Sirius’ empty hands, but Sirius only hums.
“Trying to save up,” he says enigmatically, as though he doesn’t have money coming out of his ears, thanks to generational wealth, and Remus rolls his eyes.
“Want me to buy you something?” he offers on impulse, and Sirius looks at him with a surprised expression, one that melts away into something more pleased.
“Yes,” he says, immediately pointing. “I want that one.”
It’s a heart-shaped, cherry-flavoured sucker, wrapped in clear plastic and a red ribbon, looking like it might be a leftover from the Valentine’s sale. The price is minimally reduced, so Remus just shrugs and tosses it into his basket as well.
Once he has paid and they are outside again, Sirius snatches the paper bag from him and rummages through the treats, triumphantly pulling out the sucker. He makes a show of removing the wrapper and shoving it into his trouser pocket, before stuffing the sucker into his mouth.
“Sugar,” he groans, the red heart clinking against his teeth. “I don’t eat nearly enough of it.”
“Rots your teeth,” Remus says, fully aware that he just spent two whole galleons on nothing but sweets. He is also aware that he is staring once more but, this time, he doesn’t have a helpful Peter to elbow him in the ribs.
So he keeps staring, at Sirius who may or may not be staring back up at him through his aviator glasses, but who is twirling this tongue around a heart made of caramelised sugar that he asked Remus to buy for him.
“Shall we keep going?” Sirius asks, pulling the sucker from his mouth with a wet pop. His tongue is pinker than usual and darts out to lick across his equally pink lips.
“Yeah,” Remus says, coughing lightly. “Let’s.”
For a few minutes, they walk in amiable silence, with no clear goal in mind. It helps that Remus is quite tall, towering over the other students; no one complains about their slow pace, instead just passing them by left and right, and Sirius stops to peer into shop windows every now and again.
He’s inspecting a display of small silver daggers, when a flash of copper further up the road catches Remus’ eyes. After a closer look, Remus realises that it’s Lily Evans walking down the street, which, in itself, would be no big deal. But she’s got her arm linked with one Severus Snape, and Remus knows that that’s a confrontation he wants to avoid today.
Since Sirius is a fair bit shorter, he luckily doesn’t seem to have noticed his nemesis through the crowd, and so Remus makes the split decision of ushering him into a side alley.
“Let’s take a shortcut here,” he says by way of explanation. “The foot traffic is crazy.”
Sirius goes without protest, still occupied with his sucker, and Remus lets out a small sigh of relief.
Lily has been particularly prissy with Sirius lately, but less so with James, and Remus suspects that Snape has finally told her at least some of what had happened before Easter. However, she has been treating Remus must like she always has, so either Snape didn’t tell her any details about what went down in the infamous Shrieking Shack, or she doesn’t think Remus should be held responsible for his unwilling part in the prank.
So he can only hope that his secret is still safe, whether through Snape’s discretion or Lily’s. In any case, for now there have been no sensational articles about werewolves at Hogwarts, and that’s something to be grateful for.
“Anywhere else you want to go?” Sirius asks him. He is still walking very close to Remus, a little too close for comfort, and certainly too close for what would be considered proper for an alpha and an omega who are not dating. It had been more acceptable in the crowd, if only for lack of space, but even there Remus had caught more than a couple of their classmates sneaking curious glances at them. He hadn’t know whether to shy away from or preen under the attention, and he knows even less what to do now.
Because they misread the situation but, oh, how Remus wishes their assumptions were right.
Self-consciously, Remus manoeuvres his Honeydukes bag to his other hand and then, giving himself a little push, rolls up the cuff of his left sleeve. When he lets his arm dangle by his side again, it brushes up against Sirius’ similarly exposed one.
As he had hoped, Sirius immediately notices.
“Oh,” he says, clearly delighted. “You’re wearing the bracelet.”
It’s a simple thing, just braided strings of red and black leather, with a tiny pendant in the shape of a crescent moon attached to it. But Sirius made it specifically for him, as a gift for his sixteenth birthday, right before everything went arse over tits. Since then, Remus hasn’t really had an opportunity to wear it yet, or rather not the right motivation. Things had been too fraught between them still, and it’s been only recently that he’s been willing to make allowances like this.
Because the bracelet was made by Sirius and, by gifting it to Remus, he was gifting a part of himself. Remus, by wearing it, declared himself Sirius’ in turn.
At least that’s how it makes sense in Remus’ head, where bare wrists occasionally brushing against each other is apparently the height of eroticism. His mother never should have made him read Jane Austen. Or perhaps it’s just the proximity of the full moon, the wolf’s hunger that makes him ache for chocolate and other forbidden treats.
By the time they run into James and Peter again, Sirius has finished his sucker and their wrists have brushed an additional thirty-eight times. Remus has counted.
Peter badgers them into getting some Butterbeers from Madam Rosmerta, and they end up taking the bottles back up to the castle again. They don’t return inside, though, just sit out by the lake, lazing in the sun. James pulls out his Snitch from his pocket or his butthole or wherever else he keeps the damn thing on his person at all times, and Sirius starfishes in the grass, looking — for the first time in weeks — like he has no care in the world.
These are Remus’ friends, and they are loyal and true, and the threat of the moon does not seem nearly so daunting as it did last month.
△
Things are back to normal, Remus thinks as he makes his prefect rounds later that evening. Better than normal, really. Perhaps, they are truly through the woods. There are still things that remain unspoken, apologies that haven’t been made or accepted, but nothing feels like it is festering any more.
In fact, he thinks that, maybe, possibly, Sirius had been coming on to him today. He chides himself for thinking as much, but at the same time he cannot help but get his hopes up. Sirius has always thrived on physical contact, liberal with his touches and his embraces, but today it had felt like there was something deliberate about it.
It’s an omega thing, of course, because omegas need the assurance of smelling like their loved ones, but usually Sirius would opt for wrestling with James or putting Peter into a headlock or stealing Remus’s sweater to wrap himself in it. Today, though, he had somehow been direct and coy at the same time, like he was waiting to see whether Remus would react in kind.
Had he perhaps been attempting to flirt when he was sucking on that lolly? And had Peter and James given them some privacy, because they thought that Sirius and James needed some privacy? Had this, semi-accidentally, been a sort of date?
That’s what he is thinking, simultaneously anxious and buoyed, when he rounds the corner of the corridor that leads to the upper landing of the Grand Staircase.
There are two students there, older ones though, and Remus debates whether to remind them of the impending curfew, when he realises just what he is looking at.
Because that is Sirius, leaning against the balustrade of the landing so that his back is toward the Great Hall. In front of him, however, stands another boy, his shoulder-length brown hair held together by a ribbon of green satin.
Remus stops dead in his tracks, trying to make sense of the scene, blindly grappling for his wand, because clearly Sirius is being accosted, perhaps having mouthed off to the other guy. But then he has a closer look.
Sirius does not in fact look cornered, not even when the Slytherin — Rabastan Lestrange, of all people — moves dangerously close, lifting a hand toward Sirius.
Since their afternoon at the lake, Sirius has not done up his buttons again, and he has not put on his tie either. Like this, Rabastan can easily pluck the collar aside, brushing his fingertips over… not Sirius’ clavicle, Remus realises, but the stupid scarab necklace that Sirius had been wearing throughout the week.
“Sorry I couldn’t come down to Hogsmeade today,” Rabastan is saying, his voice a low susurration. His fingers linger on Sirius’ skin with too much familiarity. “Otherwise, I would have treated you to a Butterbeer.”
“Hm, trying to butter me up, are you?” Sirius returns, which is a terribly unimaginative pun, but Rabastan chuckles anyway.
“Maybe I am,” he admits. “Is it working?”
“Well, you are on the right track,” Sirius muses aloud. His own hand comes up to touch the scarab, making his and Rabastan’s fingers brush. “The necklace suits me well, don’t you think?”
“It does,” Rabastan agrees. “There’s more where that came from, if you like it.”
The necklace was a present from Rabastan, Remus understands with searing hot clarity. And the pen, the bloody pen with the initials R.Y.L., was a present, too. Rabastan Lestrange is sending Sirius letters and presents, and meeting him in deserted hallways minutes away from curfew, and touching his bare skin with his dirty, worthless fingers and-
And now he is using that same damn hand to tilt Sirius’ chin up, before leaning in close.
Remus steps out from the shadows.
“It’s almost curfew,” he calls out. “You should return to your Houses.”
Rabastan’s head jerks up, putting blissful distance between his and Sirius’ lips, and then he turns to glare at Remus.
“Don’t order me around, boy,” he warns, and he may be a year older, but Remus is a prefect.
“It wasn’t an order, just a suggestion,” Remus corrects, making his way toward them with quick, confident strides. “But here’s an order for you: go back to your dungeon, Lestrange.”
Rabastan’s only response is a sneer — only for Sirius to place a hand upon his upper arm and gently pull him away.
“Go, Rabastan,” he tells him, barely above a whisper, his mouth close to Rabastan’s ear. “Let's not get detention over this.”
Rabastan glances at him, looking like he wants to object, but then he smiles, smugly, indulgently.
“See you later, love,” he concedes, just like that, as though that were at all a proper way to address any omega, least of all Sirius Black. Remus feels his hackles rise, ready to tear out the bastard's throat because-
“Yeah,” Sirius says plainly, before more insistently turning the Slytherin into the direction of the stairs. “Later.”
Remus watches, speechless, as Rabastan saunters down the steps, the sconces along the walls making his shadow dance erratically. Sirius, however, remains behind, fists balled at his sides, clearly waiting for Rabastan to be out of earshot. But Remus does not give him the chance to say anything before he turns on him.
“What, you're fraternising with Dark wizards now?” he demands, faintly aware of how caustic his tone must be, but Sirius does not flinch back from it.
“My entire family consists of nothing but Dark wizards, in case you’ve forgotten,” he points out. “I don’t exactly get a choice.”
It’s true enough. The Lestranges, though, are a different breed, and they make no secret of it. They are not just associated with the Dark Arts, but with Voldemort himself, while the Blacks had merely been tiptoeing the line, not outright voicing their support.
“Oh yeah?” Remus challenges, reaching out to pluck the golden chain from underneath Sirius’ collar. “Chose to put this tacky thing around your neck, didn’t you?”
He hadn’t worn it at the village, though, Remus realises belatedly. All week he had worn it, but not at the village. Had he taken it off so Remus wouldn’t inquire about it again? Or worse, had he put it on after because he was planning to meet with Rabastan?
Sirius pushes against Remus’ chest, forceful enough to make him take a step back.
“Don’t get involved in things you don’t understand,” he hisses. “And don’t you dare judge me for them!”
“Not judge you? Sirius, his brother is a known supporter of You-Know-Who. And you are, what? Having secret rendezvous with him?”
It’s only a few days from the full moon. That’s what Remus can blame the possessive rage curdling his blood on. Not his heart faltering in his chest at the sight of Sirius with another alpha. Not his desperation that he will never be good enough, never be worthy of his friend’s affections. That’s what he gets for deluding himself into thinking that Sirius might really be interested in him, and Remus chides himself for having been so gullible.
“You’re not a Pureblood!” Sirius counters. He sounds angry, but not nearly as angry as Remus feels. “You don’t get these things! You have- parents that love you and accept you! I don’t have that luxury!”
“So help me understand!” Remus is still holding his wand, gesticulating wildly with it, which is terrible wand etiquette. In his agitation, a few red sparks escape. “Explain to my inferior Halfblood brain why a tête-a-tête with a Lestrange would possibly be a good idea!”
Sirius always gives Lily hell for merely being friends with Snape, because Snape is a Slytherin with an interest in the Dark Arts, the very definition of what Sirius claims to despise. And yet, here he is, going against all his principles, because Rabastan Lestrange ties his locks with silly little ribbons.
“I am engaged to him, you pillock!” Sirius bellows, with the same force it must take to speak an Unforgivable Curse, and it knocks the wind straight out of Remus’ sails.
“Wha-” he asks, feebly. Suddenly, speech seems to be beyond him. His wand sinks down, like a sparkler dying before the New Year’s countdown is even over.
But Sirius turns away from him, buttons up his shirt all the way. Some more strands have come loose from his ponytail, and he reaches up to take out the hair tie altogether, letting his curls hang across his shoulders.
“Betrothed,” he amends, his face shadowed. “As good as. Our parents arranged everything over Christmas. We’ll be officially engaged this summer, and then mated once he graduates.”
Remus’ mouth opens and closes silently, like that of a fish.
“But,” he manages. “You’ll still be in school.”
Sirius snorts. “Like they care.”
“The necklace,” Remus realises. “The pen.”
“Courting gifts,” Sirius spits out, waving a dismissive hand. “Waste of money, like everything Purebloods like.”
“So what… what happens now?” Remus wants to know. Because there has to be more to this. Sirius can’t just surrender to his fate and have an arranged marriage.
“Now we go to Gryffindor Tower because, as you pointed out so helpfully, it is almost curfew,” Sirius says, with a forced calm that belies how close he still is to exploding again. “And then I don’t want to see your face or hear your voice for the next couple of hours.”
“But-”
“Starting now,” Sirius says, turning on his heel.
Remus remains rooted to the spot, staring after him.
By the time he makes it to the dorms and into his bed, it is well beyond curfew. Luckily, as a prefect, the rules are rather more malleable. He still barely gets any sleep that night.
△