Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One day the neighbours' curtains twitched

because ordinary behaviour had been switched.

Those who knew the magic never snitched –

enjoyed being entranced, tricked, bewitched.

(Rob Walton)

It was mid-October of 1976, during their sixth year at Hogwarts. Samhain was nearly upon them, marking the turn to the darker half of the year—a time when the veil between worlds thinned and old magic stirred, promising more than cheerful fairy tales and bobbing for apples. Despite the approaching cold, the last echoes of summer lingered faintly, blending with the maple-scented chill of autumn. Students’ tans, remnants of their holidays, had yet to fully fade, though the routine of classes had firmly taken hold.

Today marked the long-awaited rematch between Slytherin and Gryffindor. Last term, the two Houses’ seventh-years had clashed in a duel so fierce it never even reached the Quidditch pitch. Only the teams and teachers knew the details, but a lingering, bitter tang of Dark Magic had haunted the locker rooms for weeks afterward.

Remus had been made prefect this year, an honour he accepted with quiet pride and no small amount of embarrassment. Meanwhile, James had embraced his role as Gryffindor Quidditch Captain with an enthusiasm that veered toward the absurd. Over the summer, he’d crafted a training schedule so ambitious that Remus doubted even James believed his teammates would follow it.

Since term began, extra practices had become James’s answer to any hint of doubt, though he always returned to the dorms with slightly more anxiety than he left with.

Remus had been dragged to many such sessions and didn’t envy James in the slightest.

After last term’s disappointing finish, Gryffindor was still chasing the Cup, with Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw already out of the running. Victory—or failure—now rested squarely on James’s team, a weight he carried with the seriousness of a sixth-year Captain eager to prove himself.

In the Great Hall, energy crackled. The first big event of the year loomed large, and even the professors seemed torn between excitement and competitive glee. Slytherin House, ever confident, were in high spirits, already convinced of their victory.

“Is it wrong to bet against your own House?” Sirius asked, glancing around the room with a smirk.

James fixed him with a disapproving look, the kind that suggested such betrayal was nothing short of high treason. “Yes. And betting against me is a bloody sin.”

“What’s the first rule of Quidditch?” James asked, slipping into his Captain voice as he addressed the Gryffindor team.

“Always blame the team. Nothing’s ever your fault,” Sirius replied with practised ease.

The players burst into a chorus of snickers, and James sighed.

Remus didn’t even pretend to be interested in Quidditch. From what he could gather from James’s freakishly early rising and terrifyingly regimented eating habits, it took a frankly mentally ill degree of dedication and focus. He admired it in a distant, bewildered way, but it wasn’t something he could ever see himself getting worked up about.

He tuned out James’s speech, which Peter was listening to with surprisingly rapt attention for someone not on the team, nodding vigorously at all the right intervals. James’s game plan unfolded with all the energy of a seasoned coach training the underdogs for the match of their lives in one of those Muggle sports movies—moving motivational speech, unfortunately, included.

Instead, Remus’s gaze wandered to Sirius, who was, predictably, up to no good at the far end of the table.

Sirius was deep in conversation with a seventh-year girl. She was pretty, with soft brown hair and warm eyes that never strayed from Sirius’s face, clearly already enchanted.

But people were always enchanted by Sirius.

It was always like this. Every so often, someone would look at Sirius like he was the only star in the sky, and it always led to trouble. A few weeks of attention, some ill-advised stunt, and the cycle would reset, complete with the collective indignation of Hogwarts’ female population swearing off him—until they didn’t.

Remus looked away as Sirius leaned in closer to the girl, whispering something in her ear that made her blush deeply. For a split second, Sirius’s gaze flickered, brushing past Remus, but the moment was gone before it could begin.

This year, Sirius seemed determined to work his way through the alphabet: Annabelle, Betty, Cindy, Dorothea, Emmeline, Felicity…

Every year, he returned slightly taller, slightly sharper, slightly more… Sirius. But fifth year had ended badly between them, and they hadn’t even said goodbye.

When Remus first saw him again on the train this September, it had felt like being hit with a Bludger. Sirius had been… different. Four weeks with James’s family had softened the harshness Grimmauld Place had carved into him, but something cold still hung between them. There was an awkwardness that hadn’t existed before, a tension that made Remus feel like he was meeting Sirius for the first time all over again. They’d nodded their greetings like strangers pretending they weren’t, their interaction overseen by James’s watchful eye.

Since then, they’d fallen back into their rhythm of friendship as if they hadn’t spent last year and all the summer holidays not talking. Except—of course—for that one night in mid-August when James had appeared in his fireplace in the middle of the night, frantic, and Remus had almost splinched himself Apparating to the Potters’.

It hadn’t even been a question. Sirius needed him, and despite the fact they weren’t speaking, Remus had been there.

They still didn’t talk. Sirius had been mute, but he held out his arms, and the three of them had crawled into James’s bed and held each other like they had only once before, in first year, when they’d ventured too far into the Forbidden Forest and almost lost Peter to the Acromantula.

That night in summer, Peter had been in France. He’d arrived as the sun rose the next day, just as Remus was leaving, carefully sneaking out before Sirius woke.

Peter hadn’t stopped him.

James, apparently finished, clapped his hands to disperse the team. He sighed, striding over to grab Sirius by the collar just as Sirius’s antics were escalating.

“Come on, mate,” James muttered, dragging him back to the table. Sirius followed with a languid, self-assured grace that only made James’s exasperation look almost dignified by comparison.

They should have looked ridiculous—one boy dragging another like a scolded puppy—but instead, they moved with an almost rehearsed, synchronous ease that turned heads and made onlookers smile.

“If being irresistible were a crime,” Sirius declared, dropping into his seat with a smirk, “I’d have been sentenced to life ages ago.”

Remus arched a brow. “A life sentence? For a crime you didn’t commit?”

James, mid-sip, nearly choked on his drink and coughed to cover it, while Sirius grinned shamelessly. “Oh, I definitely committed it. I’m just saying I’d be locked up for a long time if they made it illegal.”

Remus shot Sirius a dry look. “Right. And who exactly would be the judge and jury? Because this sounds more like a case of inflated ego than actual evidence.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Come on, Moony. Irresistibility is an art form. I might not work hard at it, but I’ve certainly perfected it.”

“Perfected it, sure.”

“And, in my defence, it’s a very serious crime,” Sirius added with mock gravity.

Remus tilted his head, his tone sharp. “Serious enough to warrant a life sentence?”

“Absolutely,” Sirius replied, his tone a perfect blend of seriousness and amusement. “It’s a crime of effortless wit and undeniable good looks.”

Remus allowed himself a smile. “And here I thought you were just full of yourself.”

Sirius feigned indignation. “Full of myself? Never. I’m just aware of my assets.”

Remus snorted. “Is that awareness or just insufferability? Hard to tell the difference these days.”

Sirius’s grin turned wolfish. “Why not both? Package deal, Moony. Take it or leave it.”

Remus thought wryly that awareness was one thing, but flaunting it was another. He quirked an eyebrow, folding his arms. “All right then, let’s hear it. What exactly are these assets you’re so aware of?”

Sirius smirked, leaning back with a relaxed posture. “Where to start? My devastatingly good looks, unmatched sense of humour, impeccable taste in music, and, of course, my charm. I could sing the knickers off a nun. All critical evidence in my case.”

James, snorting into his pumpkin juice, clapped Sirius on the back. “Don’t forget your true talent: getting away with nearly everything. You’re like a one-man loophole.”

Peter, still catching his breath from his own laughter, added, “If Sirius’s circle of admirers gets any bigger, we’ll have to start calling him Lord Padfoot. I’ll be the squire, obviously.”

“Nice of you, Pete,” Remus replied wryly. “Though I’m not sure you’re qualified to keep up with his ‘Lordship’s’ escapades.”

Sirius only shrugged, picking up his goblet as if to make a toast. “We live half our lives sinning and the other half repenting. I’m still firmly in phase one.”

Remus shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Just try not to get yourself into too much trouble with that charm of yours. Some of us have to deal with the fallout.”

The fallout typically included wayward Howlers, brokenhearted girls cornering Remus to talk to Sirius on their behalf (usually to ask if he “still thought about them,” which Sirius definitely did not), and occasionally breaking up fights between the girls Sirius had dumped and the new girl he was snogging.

Sirius winked. “Don’t worry, Moons. I’ll leave the fallout to you.”

“Generous of you,” Remus deadpanned.

“Generosity is one of my lesser-advertised virtues,” Sirius replied with a flourish.

“And by ‘virtue,’ you mean ‘liability,’” Remus countered, though there was warmth in his voice.

Sirius leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough for Remus to feel the shift. “Call it whatever you want, Moony. But I think you like it more than you let on.”

The words landed in a way that wasn’t entirely playful, and Remus felt a telltale flush creeping up his neck. Warmth spread through his chest—something dangerous, something he was trying hard to ignore. He’d locked that chapter away, shoved it to the back of his mind where it couldn’t hurt him. But Sirius had an uncanny way of rattling things loose without even trying.

James tried to block them out, the familiar back-and-forth becoming predictable nonsense he’d long since learned not to bother following. Unless they needed breaking up. At which point, knowing what they were arguing about helped exactly zero percent anyway.

James tuned back in as Peter, struggling to keep a straight face, spoke up. “We should start a fund for all the people Pads leaves in his wake. Broken hearts aren’t cheap to fix.”

James, smirking, elbowed Sirius. “Seriously, though, mate, you might want to dial it down. Your ego’s getting so big, it might need its own seat in the Great Hall.”

Sirius waved them off, still grinning. “Jealousy really isn’t a good look on any of you. Don’t hate me for being universally admired.”

Remus tilted his head, his expression deadly serious. “Oh, we don’t hate you for that. There are far better reasons. But if I start listing them, we’ll miss the match.”

The others laughed, and Sirius shot him a mock glare, though his smirk lingered. “Careful, Moony. Don’t make me start listing your assets. I’ll embarrass you.”

Something in Sirius’s tone—or maybe the glint in his eyes—made Remus tense. He tried to ignore it, falling back on well-worn sarcasm. “That would require you noticing my assets in the first place.”

Sirius’s smirk softened into a smile, and for a moment, something quieter passed between them. “Who says I haven’t?”

The words hung in the air a beat too long, the banter tipping toward something else entirely.

Remus’s stomach twisted. He recognised that look—the one Sirius didn’t mean to give but couldn’t completely hide. It always left him feeling untethered, like he’d misread the lines in a book he thought he understood. Quickly, he averted his gaze and forced a laugh, letting it carry him past the moment. “Right. I’ll believe that when James learns to stop hogging the Quaffle.”

James gave an exaggerated huff of affront. “Oi, leave me out of this. And for the record, I’m a team player.”

Sirius, clearly grateful for the shift back to safer ground, threw an arm around James’s shoulders. “See? Prongs gets it. Loyalty and admiration. Take notes, Moony.”

Remus rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

Sirius sighed, leaning back. “You know, I think I liked you better when you liked me more.”

For a moment, Remus stilled. That didn’t feel like a joke. More like an accusation.

He swallowed and straightened, though he didn’t respond.

Before he could overthink it, James stood, stretching. “Right, let’s go. If we don’t move, the Slytherins are going to start making bets on who hexes who first.”

Sirius tore his gaze from Remus, and the tension in Remus’s shoulders slowly faded.

“Let them bet,” Sirius said breezily, following James’s lead. “They’re just mad they’re not as good-looking.”

Remus quietly snorted, grabbing his bag. “Or relieved they don’t have to deal with you.”

James groaned before Sirius could retort, rubbing a hand down his face. “Just—walk, will you? Or I swear, I’m leaving you behind.”

The group fell into step behind him, Sirius and Remus predictably side by side, exchanging those familiar glances that James refused to try deciphering. He glanced over his shoulder to check on them, catching a fleeting smirk on Sirius’s face and a small, exasperated shake of Remus’s head.

The laughter subsided as the group exited the Great Hall, their footsteps echoing in the corridor. But Sirius hung back instead of taking the lead with James, his usual swagger dimmed just slightly.

Remus noticed, his chest tightening. He fell into step beside Sirius, lowering his voice. “Hey. You all right?”

Sirius shrugged, his expression carefully neutral. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Remus hesitated, debating whether to push. Eventually, he settled for a quiet, “You know I didn’t mean what I said earlier, right? About… all the reasons to hate you.”

Sirius only half-turned to glance at him. “Maybe not. But it’s not like you’re wrong. I screw things up all the time. Makes sense you’d be tired of it.”

Remus stopped walking, catching Sirius by the sleeve to make him do the same. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

Sirius blinked, caught off guard. “Do what?”

“Twist things. Make it sound like you’re the only problem here.” Remus’s grip loosened, but he didn’t let go. “You’re not. And I—” He exhaled, voice softening. “I don’t want you to think I’m tired of you.”

For a moment, Sirius just stared at him, something more uncertain flickering in his eyes. Then he huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

Remus winced, feeling like a heel. “I know. I’m sorry. I just…” He trailed off, searching for the right words and failing. “I’m trying here, too.”

Sirius studied him, then gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah. I know.”

Before the silence could stretch too far, James called out, breaking the tension.

When Remus turned to Sirius again, the shutters behind his eyes were gone, as if the moment hadn’t happened at all.

“Right then,” James said with a grin as he led the way. “Who’s up for watching us kick some Slytherin arse?”

“Oh, Prongs,” Sirius said with mock sympathy. “Any other time, I’d humour you. But you’re not winning this game.”

“You wound me, Padfoot! Ye of little faith in my Chaser skills.”

Sirius shook his head. “It’s not you, mate, it’s your team. And, well, their Captain’s a bit faster—”

James laughed, clapping Sirius on the back and refusing to hear more. “We’ll see about that. You’d better be ready to eat your words.”

Peter nodded eagerly. “Yeah, it’s going to be a great match.”

Remus begrudgingly summoned some enthusiasm. “I’m sure it will be. Just… be careful, all of you.”

Sirius shot him a sidelong glance before falling back and slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Like he can promise that, Moony. You know how we are.”

Remus rolled his eyes, predictably brushing Sirius off. “Yeah, that I do know.”

James grinned. “Exactly! When have I ever liked playing it safe?”

As they neared the pitch, Lily’s voice cut through their banter like a cooling breeze. She paused mid-step, arching an eyebrow and narrowing her green eyes ever so slightly—a subtle warning flickering in their depths.

She knew James too well: the thrill-seeker, the risk-taker, always leaping before looking, diving headfirst into situations without considering the consequences.

“Today,” she said calmly, her tone light but leaving no room for argument. “Today, you like to play it safe.”

James paused, momentarily caught off guard. He glanced around, startled to see her actually speaking to him first, before catching the amused looks of his friends, who were all too familiar with their dynamic.

Lily had always been a spitfire, and James had always liked to see how close he could get before being burned.

The others watched with varying degrees of amusement and curiosity. Sirius smirked knowingly, Peter looked unusually invested, and Remus simply observed, his expression unreadable.

James’s infatuation with Lily had started sweetly enough, with his bumbling attempts to impress her in earlier years. But by fourth year, it had become a running joke—even James laughed about it, until he didn’t anymore. Now, in sixth year, it was starting to feel a bit sad.

Remus, considering his own love life—or lack thereof—felt he had little ground to judge. At least James had the courage to be open about his feelings, even if it meant repeated rejection.

Lily, not one to back down from a challenge, held James’s gaze.

She lifted an eyebrow higher, and James mirrored her, as if to outdo her.

The air between them crackled for a moment. Then James’s grin faltered, then softened. He nodded, reluctant acceptance dawning in his eyes.

“Playing it safe,” he muttered, the words almost foreign in his mouth. Then, with a lighter tone, he nodded again. “Fine. Today, I’m playing it safe.”

A chorus of mock protests erupted from the group.

“Well, well, James Potter playing it safe? Who would’ve thought?” Marlene taunted, sauntering over to Lily’s side.

Sirius, ever eager to add fuel to the fire, smirked. “Next thing we know, you’ll be asking McGonagall for extra homework.”

James shoved him lightly. “Maybe I will,” he said with a half-smile, half-boast. “Can’t let Evans take top of the class again this year without a fair fight.”

Sirius scoffed. “Yeah, right. Like you care about class standings!”

“Maybe you should,” Lily suggested, folding her arms.

“I already do enough for this school’s reputation,” Sirius said dismissively.

Marlene smirked lazily. “Ah yes, the dodgy dung-bomb-throwing pillars of the community.”

“Model students,” Sirius corrected smoothly. “We set the example and lead by it.”

Marlene snorted. “Sure, if your working philosophy is, ‘Do as we say, not as we do.’”

Sirius waved her off. “The younger years couldn’t even if they tried. I walked by a group of second-years earlier, and not one of them flipped me off. Honestly, I’m concerned for the next generation.”

“Maybe they’re just… respectful?” Lily suggested, her tone implying, Unlike you.

Sirius rolled his eyes as if the idea were offensive. “Respect is just code for dull. Back in my day, we at least knew how to sneak out past curfew without getting caught. These kids barely know what it means to cause trouble.”

“Back in your day?” Remus interrupted dryly. “Wasn’t it just last week you got detention for locking Filch in a broom cupboard?”

“Three detentions,” Sirius corrected, eyes glinting with pride. “Worth every second. Can’t have people thinking I’ve gone soft.”

Lily shared a knowing eye roll with Remus, then turned back to Sirius, hands on her hips. “You do realise you’re practically a role model to half the younger kids here, don’t you? They think you’re untouchable.”

Sirius gave a playful shudder. “Terrifying. Next thing you know, they’ll expect me to behave.”

Remus let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Maybe they’re just a little intimidated by you. Your reputation does precede you.”

It was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic or sincere, though Sirius clearly took it as the latter.

Sirius smirked, rocking back on his heels with that easy confidence he wore like a second skin. “Intimidated? They should be taking notes. Fun isn’t exactly contagious these days.”

James laughed. “Exactly! Just don’t follow in our footsteps too closely,” he said, loud enough for the younger students, decked out in Gryffindor face paint and watching them curiously, to hear. “It’s a dangerous path.”

That part wasn’t a joke.

Lily’s expression softened slightly, a small smile playing on her lips as she exchanged a look with Marlene. Without another word, the two girls turned and headed off, their laughter trailing faintly behind them.

James stood motionless for a moment, watching until Lily disappeared from view. Then, with a sharp inhale that didn’t quite hide his nerves, he spun back to face the others. “Shall we, lads?”

“What, no ‘Lily Evans looked at me and my heart almost exploded’ speech today?” Sirius teased, leaning casually against the castle walls.

“Not today,” James declared, brushing past the jab with a quick wave. “No time. You lot wasted it all bickering like an old married couple.”

“We weren’t bickering!” Sirius and Remus said in unison, each rounding on James before awkwardly glancing at each other.

James grinned, unbothered. “See? Case in point.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “I don’t know where you get off calling us married when you’re out here playing Quidditch just to impress a girl.”

“That’s romantic,” James shot back. “Whereas you and Moony spend half your time trying to outdo each other like it’s some bizarre form of foreplay.”

“Not foreplay!” Remus protested, the tips of his ears turning pink.

Sirius made a strangled noise somewhere between indignation and agreement. “Absolutely not! And for the record, you’ve got a better chance of impressing Lily Evans than winning the Cup, mate.”

“Bit unfair to Lily,” Remus added mildly, earning a sharp side-eye from Sirius.

“Oi!” James rounded on him, sensing Sirius’s comeback before it could leave his mouth. “First off, mean. Second, I’m doing both today. Third—” He pointed dramatically between Sirius and Remus. “You can argue about who impresses whom later. Right now, the team needs me.”

Peter, perched a safe distance away from the brewing chaos, held up a hand. “If anyone wants to know what I think—”

“We don’t,” Sirius muttered, smirking.

“Didn’t think so,” Peter sighed.

James ignored them, already striding ahead with the swagger of someone certain of his own destiny. “Come on, then. Chop chop!”

Behind him, Sirius turned to Remus with a mock-serious expression. “Does he think bossing us around is inspiring? Because it’s really just irritating.”

“Definitely irritating,” Remus agreed, a corner of his mouth quirking upward.

“Are you two done?” James called over his shoulder. “Or should we let Gryffindor know their biggest fans couldn’t make it because they were too busy staring lovingly into each other’s eyes?”

Sirius bristled. “We don’t—!”

Remus stepped in quickly, his voice level. “He’s trying to get a rise out of us.”

“Well, it’s working,” Sirius grumbled.

“Obviously,” Peter muttered, earning himself a glare from Sirius.

James, clearly pleased with himself, kept walking. When he glanced back, Sirius and Remus were trailing behind but keeping pace, their usual bickering reduced to a quieter exchange of amused glances.

Peter fell into step with James, sighing. “You know, sometimes I think they’ll kill each other, and sometimes I think they’ll kiss.”

James snorted. “Honestly? Either would solve a lot of problems.”

Peter cast a look back at them that suggested he’d rather they do neither, though he wisely didn’t voice it.

Behind them, Remus let out a laugh that rang clear across the pitch. Sirius smirked, nudging his shoulder against Remus’s as they walked.

“Enjoy your Quidditch,” Remus called out to James. “May the best team win.”

James turned, grinning. “Which will be Gryffindor. Obviously.”

“We’ll see,” Sirius drawled, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “May the most insufferable captain lose.”

“Fat chance, Black!” James shot back with the confidence of a man who had never once doubted his own brilliance.

As James waved off Sirius’s joke and paused to wait for Peter to catch up, Lily found herself watching. There it was again—that maddening contradiction. How could someone be so thoughtless one moment and so thoughtful the next?

“Potter isn’t all that bad, you know,” Marlene said, nudging Lily with an elbow as they made their way toward the Gryffindor stands. “Not that you’d admit it, anyway.”

Lily snorted. “He’d better not be, or we’re all in trouble.” She tossed it off lightly, hoping Marlene wouldn’t press. But the thought stayed with her. James wasn’t all that bad. He wasn’t all that good, either.

“Hey, humour me for a minute. What reason has he given you to hate him?”

Lily held back a sigh. “There’ve been so many, it’s hard to pinpoint just one.”

“Today,” Marlene clarified, arching a brow.

“Today?” Lily’s mind scrambled for something other than, well, James Potter existing in her vicinity where she had to look at him. “Nothing yet. But it’s not even noon. Give him a few hours.”

Marlene snorted but didn’t argue. “Listen, I’d say he’s learning and growing, but that’d be a lie.”

Across the pitch, Lily felt Severus’s gaze before she saw it—cold, unblinking. Always watching. Always waiting.

A chill ran down her spine, one that had nothing to do with the cool October air. Adjusting her coat, she wrapped her red-and-yellow scarf more tightly around herself.

He was still staring when she looked back up.

Lily quickly averted her eyes before Marlene noticed where she was looking—or worse, who—and started in on her usual lectures. Something Marlene excelled at. Her lectures always came with lessons, and Lily wasn’t in the mood to learn whatever wisdom she had lined up for today.

Marlene’s last words on the subject still stung, burning with judgment:

“What you’re not changing, you’re choosing. Do you really want to choose that greasy loser over your own self-respect, Evans? I get you were childhood friends, but he’s a right weirdo nowadays. After what he called you…”

Marlene had shaken her head, steel in her gaze. “Well, let’s just say he’s lucky I wasn’t there. Potter might not always get it right, but he’s dead-on when it comes to that one.”

Lily’s problem always seemed to be boys. Boys with the mindset of, They started it, so it’s okay.

When they were younger, she’d always told Severus, “As soon as you stoop to their level, you’ve given your power to them. They now know that’s the line they have to cross to get a rise out of you.”

Except the line had been crossed and redrawn so many times over the years that it was practically a circle. The escalation of bullying had reached a point where it sometimes scared her, just how far they’d go—all of them.

She wasn’t sure if James Potter had changed, but Severus had. He’d stooped to their level—and below it. Now Lily couldn’t look at him without it hurting. She couldn’t be friends with him anymore, could hardly recognise him.

Marlene didn’t get it—she hadn’t seen Severus fall the way Lily had. He wasn’t the Severus she once knew. He wasn’t the Severus she once called a friend, the boy who’d always been there when things got hard. That boy was gone, buried beneath the bitterness and cruelty.

“Let them be the bad guys,” she’d urged when trying to talk Severus down from viciously retaliating after one of James and Sirius’s pranks had left him shivering and burning with rage in their third year. The two boys had poked at the Giant Squid and mockingly levitated Severus over the creature, sniggering and asking if he wanted to take a “dip in the lake to reunite with the only creature that could ever want him.”

They’d dropped him. It was the dead of winter.

She still remembered the cold, the way her hands shook as they tried to help him, the fury burning under the surface. He was always so angry, the kind of anger that stuck to her, lingering long after they parted.

It prickled her skin even now, cold and sharp, like fingers brushing a wound that hadn’t quite healed, filling her chest with a dull ache.

“Keep your cool, and stay in control of the situation,” Lily had pleaded, seeing that dark look in his eyes—the one she’d always tried to bring back to the light. “Don’t let jerks like that have power over your behaviour.”

But it wasn’t just James and Sirius Lily should’ve been worried about. It was the likes of Mulciber and Avery, who hung around Severus like dark shadows. They hated James and Sirius as much as they hated her—the boys for being Blood Traitors, and her for being—

Mudblood.

Using that sort of language as a weapon always hurt the wielder more than the target, like a rebounding spell twisting back on its caster.

It was getting harder to see Severus as anything but one of the bad guys these days.

She kept her eyes away from him now but couldn’t help noticing that James had stopped walking, his gaze fixed on someone behind her.

Lily’s stomach dropped as James and Severus’s eyes locked across the grounds. A brief exchange—sharp glares, nothing new. Different faces, same battle.

Somehow, she was always the battleground, stuck in the middle, trying to believe there was more to both of them than this.

It would be so much easier if people were just the good or the bad. But they weren’t, were they? And the hardest part, Lily thought, wasn’t deciding how much of each you could live with—it was knowing how much you were willing to forgive. And what it said about you when you tried.

Chapter Text

Given that Remus was customarily the one stuck in the Hospital Wing nursing some injury or other, it was a welcome change to see James occupying the bed for once. Not that Remus had wanted James to take such a nasty fall, but watching him endure Madam Pomfrey’s fussing all weekend had certainly provided some… mildly entertaining blackmail material. Not that Remus would ever admit it.

After three days cooped up in the infirmary, both James and Sirius had thoroughly worn down Madam Pomfrey’s patience. It was Monday morning now, and though James was promised discharge today, he was still stuck in bed, waiting for her to finally remove his cast.

James had shattered several bones in his arm trying to break his fall. While a simple Brackium Emendo was usually effective for fractures, it hadn’t done the trick this time. The weekend had been spent in the misery of Skele-Gro treatment, renowned for its bitter taste and the painful process of bone regrowth. Oddly enough, most of the complaints hadn’t come from James but from Sirius, who had supplied a steady stream of I-told-you-so’s.

“Should’ve listened when I said that dive was too risky,” Sirius had smirked as James was levitated to the infirmary. “But no, you had to show off for the Gryffindor stands.”

In the end, Sirius had been right from the start—as he often was, much as they all hated to let him know it. James hadn’t won the match or managed to impress Lily Evans. However, Lily had made sure to mention how impressively James had defied her instructions to play it safe. He’d gone above and beyond, as always.

In the corner sat a bouquet of wildflowers—yellow primroses, red campions, and dog violets—an artfully messy arrangement from Lily herself, who had just left. The splash of colour was a welcome contrast to the sterile white walls. James, still red-faced from his clumsy conversation with Lily, slumped further into his pillows.

He was sure his ears were still burning, despite his best efforts to play it cool. Facing a Bludger at full speed? No problem. Facing Lily Evans? He was a goner every time.

It wasn’t his fault. The red hair, green eyes combination was deadly. One of Remus’s Muggle Bat-something comics had a villainess who was actually lethal with those exact features. James still hadn’t fessed up to borrowing them back in third year.

“I really need to learn when to shut up,” he muttered, fiddling with the bedsheets and replaying every awkward sentence in his head. “Why do I keep going when I know I should’ve stopped, like, five sentences ago?”

Nobody bothered to answer. The only sounds in the room were the soft rustling of pages from Remus’s book, the rhythmic tap of Sirius’s wand against the bedside table, and Peter snoring faintly from the chair at the foot of the bed.

Still nursing his bruised ego, James sighed. “Taping my mouth shut isn’t an option, is it? Any other bright ideas?”

Without looking up from his book, Remus replied dryly, “Well, ‘bite your tongue’ is the age-old idiom. Might be worth a try.”

James threw him an unamused look. “Lupin, for the sake of future generations, please never have kids.”

Sirius, sprawled out nearby with the kind of effortless ease only he could manage, chimed in. “Yeah, probably for the best. Moony’s not exactly known for his financial smarts. Third-world country upbringing and all.”

“You mean Wales?” Remus raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m only half-Welsh, and last I checked, Wales isn’t exactly a third-world country.”

Sirius shrugged. “Still not England, though, is it?”

Remus blinked, trying to gauge if Sirius was serious. “…Wales is a first-world country,” he said slowly, as though explaining it to a particularly slow child. “Honestly, they should really teach Geography here,” he added under his breath.

Sirius lazily waved it off. “What’s the point? That’s what the Floo Network’s for.”

Remus sighed. “For my sanity, maybe?”

Sirius flashed a grin. “Did you really expect to keep your sanity when you decided to be friends with us?”

Shaking his head, Remus returned to his spellwork. “Hm, no,” he admitted, “but it’s not like I had much of a choice, did I?”

“There was definitely some choice,” Sirius shot back. “Slytherin’s dorms didn’t slime themselves.”

Remus’s lips turned up into something that almost resembled a smirk. “So that’s why we’re friends? Because I passed your prank test? Always wondered.”

“Not the only reason,” Sirius huffed. “But let’s face it, you’d have been a lonely little bookworm if we hadn’t saved you. Or worse—hanging out with the Ravenclaws.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “You and your weird vendetta against Ravenclaws. I’m starting to think you made it all up.”

“Samson practically begged to be your friend after we made the seventh years speak in iambic pentameter for a week.”

“Samuel,” Remus corrected, not looking up. “And we are friends. He lets me finish my homework without constant interruptions.”

“Yeah, ‘cause he’s boring,” Sirius muttered. “Still, how come he’s got a steady girlfriend and I don’t?”

Remus didn’t miss a beat. “Could be a lot of things—picky, aggressive, always shouting… think pranks count as romantic gestures…”

Sirius ignored the jab, his eyes lighting up as if he’d just had a stroke of brilliance. He leaned forward, elbow propped on the table as he stared intently at Remus. “Speaking of fun ideas, I’ve got the perfect one for tonight. But we’ll need to raid Sluggy’s potion stash again.” He waved a hand in front of Remus’s book. “Prongs is down for the count, so you’re in, right?”

“No,” Remus said flatly, cutting him off before he could even get started. The idea of sneaking around with Sirius—just the two of them—didn’t appeal to him, and the detention that would inevitably follow appealed even less. Peter might’ve served as a buffer, but his track record wasn’t exactly stellar. Given last weekend’s disaster, Remus wasn’t eager to tempt fate again.

“Come on, Moony,” Sirius coaxed, leaning in closer. “Live a little. Life’s too short to always play it safe.”

“Tell that to your professors,” Remus muttered, eyes still glued to his assignment.

“Oh, they know,” Sirius grinned. “They just haven’t figured out how to stop me yet.”

“Think they’ve got bigger problems than your petty crimes,” Remus replied, flipping a page without so much as a glance up.

“They’re not crimes—they’re hobbies.”

“Right,” Remus hummed absently. “Well, enjoy serving time with Slughorn when you get caught pursuing your ‘hobbies.’”

“Pranking’s legal—mostly,” Sirius argued. “The only crime is being stupid enough to get caught.”

Remus turned another page with deliberate indifference. “So, basically like lying, then?”

“Exactly! See, this is why you’re my favourite.”

“Oi!” came James’s indignant voice from the bed. “What does that make me?”

Remus, now gathering his things, glanced at James. “Don’t listen to him. Being Sirius’s favourite is a dubious honour at best, and one I’m more than happy to pass along to you. And while you’re at it, you can help him with whatever ridiculous scheme he’s dreaming up. I’ve got class.”

“Hang on, don’t drag me into this—my arm’s barely functional!” James replied, holding up his bandaged appendage for emphasis.

Sirius turned to him. “Exactly why you’re off the hook! See, Moony? It’s fate.”

“Fate doesn’t plan detentions, Sirius. You do,” Remus replied, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “And I don’t trust fate not to leave me cleaning up the mess afterward.”

“The mess is half the fun,” Sirius grinned, sitting up. He stuck out a leg to try to prevent Remus from leaving. “Besides, it’s not just a prank—it’s a… tradition. A legacy.”

Remus’s brow lifted. “A legacy of detentions?”

“Better than a legacy of finishing assignments on time.”

“Finishing assignments tends not to land me in trouble—unlike you,” Remus said, bypassing Sirius. “Enjoy your legacy. I’m perfectly fine staying in the footnotes.”

Sirius made a noise of mock affront, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out with exaggerated nonchalance, as if he hadn’t just been dismissed. James merely shrugged, unfazed by the exchange.

“Fine then,” Sirius said, feigning a sulk as Remus moved toward the door. “Miss out! You used to be more fun, Moony. What happened?”

Who was Sirius kidding? Like he didn’t know exactly what happened. He happened.

Remus paused, feeling a flicker of annoyance rise, though he knew it was pointless to engage. His voice stayed level. “It’s not missing out I’m worried about. It’s getting involved.”

He didn’t look back, determined to convey that he was, in fact, done with the conversation.

Just as Remus reached the door, Madam Pomfrey swept into the room, her air of authority instantly restoring some order. Her sharp eyes immediately found Sirius, lounging as if he owned the place.

“Mr. Black,” she said, her voice heavy with exasperation, “as always, I’m amazed you haven’t managed to break anything yet.” She gently redirected his wand away from where it had been precariously balanced against a vase. “Between the four of you, I don’t know why I bother with healing spells. I should just leave the beds warm.”

Sirius opened his mouth to retort, but she swiftly cut him off, turning to Remus with a softer expression. “You can take Mr. Black and Mr. Pettigrew with you,” she instructed, glancing at Peter, still dozing amidst what remained of James’s chocolate stash. “Mr. Potter will be discharged by lunchtime.” She sounded more relieved than necessary. “No need for the rest of you to miss class.”

“Can’t one of us stay for moral support?” Sirius tried, flashing his best grin—the one that usually got him whatever he wanted. Remus stifled the faint hope that Pomfrey might actually give in.

“What morals?” James quipped, smirking at Sirius.

Madam Pomfrey, however, remained unmoved. “Out.”

Remus sighed.

Caught off guard by the dismissal, Sirius hadn’t even bothered to wear his uniform. As Madam Pomfrey’s command to “dress properly” sank in, Remus consciously turned away while Sirius began pulling off his shirt, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. He did his best to ignore the sound of rustling fabric as Sirius slowly changed from his casual clothes into his robes, undressing without a hint of modesty.

Remus perched on the edge of one of the infirmary beds and pulled out his homework again, keeping his eyes trained on the door. Sirius’s bare chest hovered just at the edge of his vision. Remus tensed. Sirius had no sense of personal space—something Remus had grown accustomed to, though never entirely comfortable with.

“So, about tonight…” Sirius’s voice came closer, too close.

Remus closed his book with deliberate slowness. He didn’t turn, but his grip tightened slightly on the leather cover. “I’ll think about it,” he muttered, though the words held little promise.

Sirius’s persistence was an almost palpable force, and as he pulled on his shirt, Remus could practically feel the heat radiating from him—too much for comfort. Just as Remus was ready to step away, Sirius leaned a bit closer, his voice dropping lower.

“Wouldn’t want you to miss out on all the fun…”

Remus finally glanced up, meeting Sirius’s eyes briefly, just long enough to catch the spark of trouble in them before quickly looking away. His pulse quickened. He opened his mouth to respond, but all that escaped was a strangled, incoherent sound. “Euhfmjk—”

It wasn’t English. It wasn’t Welsh. It wasn’t even close to making sense.

Flustered, Remus cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and tried again.

“You know me,” he said, his voice tight, controlled—fighting to sound calm. “I’m all about the fun.”

Sirius laughed, stepping back just enough to allow Remus some breathing room. The smile on his face lingered as Remus’s hand flexed, a faintly nervous tension buzzing under his skin. He hated how his mind just short-circuited under Sirius’s attention, how his body always betrayed him, as if it had no loyalty to him at all.

The quiet knowing in Sirius’s eyes only made his face feel warmer. There was something more there. Something that wasn’t quite as easy to brush off. It was almost like he enjoyed making Remus squirm.

Remus swallowed, ignoring the dryness in his throat, and suddenly found the cracks in the ceiling very interesting.

James, having missed the subtle exchange, broke the silence. “You two need a hobby that doesn’t involve detention. Or each other.”

“Spending time with Sirius is a full-time job,” Remus muttered sardonically under his breath.

When Sirius took his sweet time, Remus finally glanced back over, arms crossed, and shot him a pointed look.

That was a mistake, as he realised thirty seconds later.

Sirius wasn’t in a hurry, his fingers deliberately unhurried as he adjusted his robes. Remus quickly looked away, his pulse kicking up for reasons he refused to acknowledge. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly hyper-aware of the room’s noise: the soft slide of material, his own uneven breathing…

His gaze flicked back, unbidden, catching a glimpse of Sirius’s bare shoulders. He looked away again, too quickly. Nothing new, nothing he hadn’t seen before—so why did it feel like he was suddenly seeing more?

This was Sirius—just Sirius. Nothing to get hung up on.

“No use trying to get through to him,” James called out, pulling Remus’s attention back to him and Peter, who was now stirring. “Moony’s too busy stargazing.”

Peter, more awake than asleep, furrowed his brow. “But it’s daytime.” He blinked blearily toward the windows.

“Exactly,” James smirked in that way that let Remus know James knew exactly what he meant, and he knew Remus knew he knew. 

James always saw more than he let on. He typically stayed mum on the subject—unless, like now, he was bored enough to stir the pot just to see what might happen if it bubbled over.

Remus sent James a warning look.

“What’s this about stars?” Sirius asked, strolling back over, now thankfully fully clothed.

Remus’s heart stuttered as he exchanged a pleading glance with James, silently begging him not to say anything.

But Peter, blissfully unaware, shrugged. “No idea, mate,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Sounds like something Moony’s into.” 

“Come on,” Remus said quickly, heading for the door, eager to escape before Sirius could latch onto the comment and turn his curiosity into a full-blown investigation.

“Running off already?” Sirius called after him, clearly amused. “I don’t know if I should be offended that’s your reaction to me getting naked.”

“You’ll survive,” Remus said over his shoulder, feeling a familiar tightening in his chest as he walked ahead. “Some of us have better things to do than count the number of hours we’ve spent with a shirtless Sirius.”

“Oh, come on, Moony. Not even a little bit of nostalgia?”

Remus shook his head as he left Sirius’s antics behind. “None whatsoever.”

“Pity,” Sirius said, his voice filled with playful disappointment. “Maybe if you got naked too, it’d be more memorable.”

Remus kept walking, resolutely ignoring him.

The flirting was nothing new, and it wasn’t like Sirius meant anything by it—he never did—but sometimes, it was harder not to hope.

Remus had seen Sirius flirt with everyone—from McGonagall to the Slytherin Quidditch Captain—on more than one occasion. There was zero intention behind it; it was more about proving he could be as charming as he was annoying. It tended to fluster most people, giving Sirius an automatic advantage in verbal sparring. Remus tried to let it slide off him like the childish flick of water from the taps it was.

There was a time when he might’ve entertained it, let himself read into it even. But not anymore. That chapter was firmly closed, and the book was shelved far away from where Remus might accidentally start to get lost in fantasy again.

When he turned around, Sirius was rolling his eyes at Peter, who was trailing behind them.

“Getting naked? Doesn’t that make you two sound a bit like—”

“Don’t,” Sirius cut in sharply, jabbing a warning finger in Peter’s direction.

Peter raised his hands in a show of innocence. “I’m just saying, it’s all very… affectionate.”

Sirius’s tone turned saccharine, predictably leaning into the tease. “Aw, Wormy, are you jealous? Don’t worry, you’ll always be number three in my heart.” He puckered his lips and made exaggerated kissing noises, drawing a groan of protest from Peter.

“Knock it off,” Peter muttered as he swatted Sirius away, looking more annoyed than embarrassed.

Remus turned back around, ignoring the exchange and keeping his pace steady.

“Are you really that eager to see Professor Fairfax again?” Sirius asked, easily catching up. “Defence class isn’t going anywhere.”

Remus didn’t turn back, though he could practically hear the smirk in Sirius’s voice. “We’ll see,” he replied over his shoulder, not giving an inch. “Stranger things have happened.”

Madam Pomfrey’s final words were sharp as they followed them out. “And don’t you dare break anything on your way out!”

“Never, Poppy!” Sirius said cheerfully, as though her instructions were entirely optional.

Remus just rolled his eyes and led the way out of the infirmary, feeling both relief and a twinge of resignation as Sirius fell into step beside him. Despite everything, a reluctant smile found its way to his face as Sirius’s shoulder bumped against his.

“So, about that brilliant idea…”

Remus sighed, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. Maybe. Just don’t expect me to endorse all your whims.”

“Noted,” Sirius said with a winning smile that suggested he’d known all along he was going to get his way. “But if you change your mind about the rest of my whims, you know where to find me.”

“Sure,” Remus said with the faintest hint of a smirk. “And if you ever need a dose of reality, you know where to find me too.”

They smiled at each other a beat too long, until a lost-looking first year nearly collided with them, forcing them to move aside.

“Alright, hear me out,” Sirius began, falling into pace beside Remus again. “I was thinking—”

“That’s never a good start,” Remus interrupted dryly.

“Oi, rude. Anyway, if we time it right, we could sneak past Filch and use the secret passage near the greenhouses…”

Remus let out a deep sigh, adjusting his bag on his shoulder and rubbing his temples. “I swear, if you get us caught—”

“We won’t!” Sirius insisted, grinning like he’d already won the argument. “We just need a diversion. Peter can handle that part.”

“You’re dragging Peter into this too?”

“Why not? He’s the best at distractions.”

Remus closed his eyes, silently weighing the potential disaster this could turn into. But he already knew how this would end. It always did the same way. “Fine,” he relented, pointing a finger at Sirius, “but when this goes sideways—and it will—I get to say, ‘I told you so.’”

Sirius’s grin widened. “Deal.”

They walked on, and Remus felt the familiar wave of weary acceptance wash over him, half-listening as Sirius outlined his latest half-baked scheme. He began mentally adjusting the details, just like he always did. Over the years, they’d perfected this wordless routine.

“See? Where would I be without my favourite partner in crime?”

Less trouble, probably.

“Partner in crime? Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Remus replied, raising an eyebrow. “If anyone asks, I’m just an innocent bystander.”

“Innocent?” Sirius snorted. “You? Please.”

Remus huffed. “Fine. An accessory, then.”

“Even better,” Sirius grinned, slipping his arm through Remus’s as they strolled down the corridor. “You do look pretty good on my arm.”

“Sirius,” Remus cautioned, his eyes darting around to check if anyone was paying attention.

Fortunately, the corridor was relatively empty, save for the faint sound of Peter’s footsteps following behind.

Sirius flashed a deceptively friendly grin, loosening his hold. “Kidding. Obviously.”

Remus exhaled through his nose, holding back another sigh. “Yeah, obviously,” he muttered, though they both knew it was never really obvious how far Sirius’s jokes could go—or how the line between joke and truth had never been as clear as it seemed.

Still, Remus didn’t pull away. Sirius’s arm stayed lightly against his, a casual touch that felt anything but. Sirius’s grin slowly shifted into something more private, as though he’d claimed another small victory. He always seemed to win in his own way, even when it felt like Remus should know better.

Remus could put up a fair fight against most things without much trouble. But when it came to Sirius? That was a battle he lost every time. He glanced sideways at Sirius, who was still enthusiastically laying out the plan.

Correction: maybe he’d lost long before the battle had even begun.

Sirius pretended not to be bothered by the Legilimency and Occlumency lesson, and Remus pretended not to notice. But Sirius’s tension showed in the tight set of his jaw, in the stiffness of his posture. And Remus’s concern was clear as day in the way his gaze kept flicking toward him, as though he could undo Sirius’s unease just by looking.

The lesson was supposed to be simple: learning basic shielding and interpretation techniques. They had worksheets with harmless prompts like, What colour are you thinking of?

But Legilimency wasn’t just mind-reading. It was the art of navigating someone’s thoughts, their memories, their feelings—an intrusion wrapped in precision and skill.

It wasn’t usually taught at Hogwarts; Remus knew that much. But in the current climate, it made sense. Spying, information-gathering, manipulation—it was all part of the war everyone insisted wasn’t already seeping into their world like an unstoppable tide.

“Partner up,” Professor Fairfax instructed, his voice sharp and perfunctory.

Sirius turned toward Remus immediately, too quickly, and Remus felt his stomach drop.

The reaction must have shown on his face because Sirius’s expression shifted, his grey eyes darkening.

“You don’t want to partner with me,” Sirius said, his tone flat but his shoulders tense.

“It’s not that—” Remus started, but Sirius cut him off.

“Why? Don’t you trust me?” His voice was low, almost a challenge. “To see what you’re thinking?”

Remus froze, unsure how to answer. The truth sat heavy in his chest: no, he didn’t trust Sirius with that. Not entirely. Not when so much of what filled his thoughts revolved around Sirius himself.

He hesitated a moment too long.

“I do trust you,” Remus said at last, though his voice lacked total conviction.

Sirius’s gaze narrowed. “You hesitated.”

“I didn’t,” Remus lied.

“You did.” Sirius’s lips thinned, his eyes cold. “James wouldn’t have hesitated.”

Remus felt anger flicker, hot and unwelcome. “Maybe that’s because James is more willing to overlook things.”

The words landed between them like a slap. Too loud. Too true. Sirius sat back, his expression shifting from defensive to wounded, though he masked it quickly.

And there it was: the reminder that things weren’t quite all right between them.

From the corner of his eye, Remus caught Lily glancing their way, her brow creased in quiet concern. He inwardly cursed.

“Right,” Sirius eventually muttered, very evenly. “So you don’t trust me anymore.”

Remus winced. “That’s not what I—”

“Forget it,” Sirius interrupted.

“Sirius—”

“It’s fine,” Sirius said, though his body language screamed the opposite.

Remus’s jaw pulled taut as he focused on the abstract golden swirls of the table. This was a conversation he didn’t want to have, and they both knew it.

Yes, he’d forgiven Sirius, at least in theory. How could he not? By the end of last year, Sirius had seemed ready to drop out entirely, with Remus ignoring his existence and James so disappointed in him. His sense of self had seemed shattered, his behaviour erratic. Most nights, he shifted into Padfoot just to avoid human thoughts and feelings.

And then there was everything that had happened with Sirius’s family over the summer.

Remus hated that he hadn’t been there for him properly. Not like he should have been. The distance between them had hurt because, even when Remus had convinced himself he no longer liked Sirius, he still loved him.

But in practice, forgiving Sirius was hard. The darkest, most bitter parts of Remus whispered, He hadn’t earned it. Sirius hadn’t worked to be forgiven; he’d only suffered.

Suffering doesn’t mean you deserve anything. It was a painful truth Remus knew all too well.

But he said none of these things. After all this time, there wasn’t a point, not really.

Sometimes it was easier to pretend things were okay than to explain why they weren’t. But forgiving and forgetting?

Well, forgetting was like a wound. It might heal, but it had already left a scar.

The thing was, Remus had forgiven Sirius, or at least he thought he had. But forgiveness was one thing; actually moving past the hurt was something else entirely.

This? This felt a lot like twisting the knife in a wound that had healed around it. The knife had stayed in to stop the bleeding, but it hadn’t prevented the slow death their friendship seemed to be heading toward.

“Y’know, Moony,” Sirius said, a faint edge of sadness curling around his words, “it’s not much of an olive branch if you’re beating someone with it.”

Remus didn’t respond immediately.

“Wait,” he said finally, just as Sirius scraped his chair back.

Sirius paused, his shoulders stiff, and turned to look at him. But as soon as Remus went on, Sirius’s gaze dropped.

“I need to partner with Peter.”

For a second, Sirius didn’t move, didn’t speak. Then he straightened, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. “Right,” he said lightly, as if he hadn’t heard.

“Sirius,” Remus pressed, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Come on. This isn’t funny. Can’t you just… help me out here?”

Sirius shrugged, his tone all airy indifference. “’Course I’d like to help you. Just not as much as I’d like not to.”

It wasn’t just the words—it was the way he said them, the expression on his face. That lazy, half-bored, pure-blood arrogance that Sirius rarely wore anymore but still knew how to wield. The kind Remus associated with the worst sort of Slytherins, the kind that made it seem like every conversation was beneath them.

Remus’s stomach twisted. He hated that look. Hated what it represented. Hated most of all that Sirius had aimed it at him.

“Really?” Remus said, his own frustration rising faster than he could hide it. “You’re so pissed off at me you’d rather let someone else rummage around in my head than just talk to me?”

That earned him nothing but silence. Sirius’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply. He turned on his heel, scooping up his books with practised ease, and stalked across the classroom to where Peter was sitting.

Remus sat frozen, the sting of the exchange settling uncomfortably in his chest.

“Hey.”

The voice behind him was soft, careful.

Remus turned, finding Lily standing there, her expression open and kind. He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly.

“Lily,” he said, his voice filled with relief.

Lily didn’t want to say she was keeping an eye on them because James wasn’t there, but that’s exactly what she was doing. His absence made the space feel a little too empty, and she found herself tracking the room’s subtle shifts in energy, particularly between Sirius and Remus. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the others to handle themselves—it was just that, with James gone, everything felt a bit off-kilter.

Without him around to break the silence or redirect attention, the atmosphere between the others seemed thicker, and it was hard not to pick up on that.

Lily noticed Remus the moment he slipped through the back of the classroom, quiet and unassuming. He’d always had a way of making his presence felt—not by drawing attention to himself, but by the contrast he created. There was something still and solid about him, like a deep river current beneath calm waters. Even now, as he quietly settled into his seat, she could feel the ripple he sent through the air.

It wasn’t just the quiet that set him apart, though. Remus carried an air of mystery—the kind people didn’t pry into. Not out of fear, but out of respect, as though they instinctively knew better. It was a mystery that Sirius Black, with all his impatience and recklessness, had spent years trying to unravel. These days, though, Sirius seemed less fascinated and more frustrated.

Their recent falling-out hung over them like a heavy, unresolved shroud. What they were mourning exactly, Lily had no clue, though it certainly seemed as if something had been set ablaze on a funeral pyre and gone up in flames.

Even Marlene had commented on it, suspiciously out of the loop for once. “Hey, why’s Lupin look like he’s gonna off himself, and why does Black look like he’s gonna follow?”

That had been the day Remus finally returned after two days of absence. During those days, the others had walked into the Great Hall looking grim-faced and stricken. James and Peter sat at one end of the table. Sirius? Completely on his own at the other.

And when Remus walked in that day? The look on Sirius’s face…

Well, she could understand exactly what Marlene had meant.

Lily sighed softly, her thoughts drifting to the aftermath of their fight. It had been awful—tense, silent, and painfully personal, even for those on the outside. Usually, Remus being mad at Sirius was entertaining, especially when Sirius deserved it (which he often did). But last term? There had been no humour in it. Just worry.

Still, it hadn’t been her place to interfere. Sirius’s temper was like a flash fire—bright, consuming, but ultimately quick to burn out. Remus, though, carried his wounds differently: quieter, deeper. Even now, months later, she could see the remnants of that fallout written in his posture, his expressions, the way he seemed to shrink into himself at the edges.

Something about that fight had cut deeper for Remus than it had for Sirius, and it showed in ways Sirius probably didn’t notice. Lily wasn’t sure what exactly had left its mark, but the shadow in Remus’s eyes hadn’t gone away.

She glanced at him now, studying his face. He hid himself well—he always had—but she knew where to look: the faint tension in his jaw, the slight hunch of his shoulders, as though bracing against some invisible weight. He was a little thinner, sharper around the edges; some pounds lost during the silent months he’d never regained. Some happiness gone that hadn’t quite been found again either.

That guarded look in his eyes was new since last term—or at least, new when it came to his friends. Now, it only seemed more pronounced in their presence. It was the kind of weariness that came from carrying burdens no one else could see—the kind no one was meant to see.

Remus had never been the type to share, not even with his closest friends. Another wound added to a lifetime of them.

Lily’s chest tightened. She didn’t know the full story, but she didn’t have to. Between his frequent disappearances, that mysterious illness he never explained, and the short-lived, doomed thing with some girl who’d vanished just as suddenly—it was enough to piece together that Remus had had a rough year. It was hard to imagine how he kept up with everything, let alone managed the mess between him and Sirius.

Mary’s soft cough pulled Lily from her thoughts. She was perched nearby, twirling a quill between her fingers.

Lily turned, catching her friend’s knowing look. Mary didn’t say anything—she rarely needed to—but her raised eyebrow was enough. Lily offered a faint smile in return, though she could still feel Remus’s presence like a pull at the edge of her awareness.

Something had changed since last term, and it wasn’t just the fight with Sirius. It was something else, something he didn’t talk about. Not with her. Probably not with anyone.

Remus was good at that—hiding pieces of himself. And yet, despite the walls he kept up, there was something about him that drew people in. The sort of quiet that stayed with you. A calm, steady even in its strain, like the low hum of thunder on the horizon—soft, enveloping, and somehow grounding.

Except today, that calm felt more like a storm gathering force.

“Earth to Evans,” Mary said, nudging Lily from her thoughts again. “Staring won’t solve anything.”

Lily blinked, then offered a small, sheepish smile. “I wasn’t staring.”

Mary sighed knowingly, her gaze briefly pivoting to Remus before turning back to Lily. “Sure you weren’t.”

Across the room, Sirius leaned toward Remus, their words sharp and clipped, like the crack of flint against steel. Their voices were low, too quiet to carry, but she felt the sudden hostility between them like a physical presence. It ended with Sirius rolling his eyes and sauntering off toward Peter, leaving Remus alone at his desk.

Sirius slammed his books onto the desk, hard enough to make Mary jump beside Lily.

Lily frowned, her gaze shifting between the two boys. The air still crackled from their argument, tension lingering like static. Whenever they clashed, it felt like something elemental—equal parts chemistry and history. Not always good, but undeniably there.

“Still daydreaming about Fairfax?” Marlene called over, arching an eyebrow at Mary. “You’ll wear grooves into the desk if you keep staring like that.”

“I’m not daydreaming. I’m admiring,” Mary replied, though she wore a dreamy grin. “There’s a difference.”

Her attention, predictably, was on Professor Fairfax. Not that Lily could blame her. He was a little gorgeous, especially for faculty. He had that debonair, worldly charm that came with class—without the pretentiousness most Purebloods carried. Even now, as he introduced the basics of Legilimency, it came with a quip about how he often wished he could read his partner’s mind.

“Would’ve saved me a lot of stumbling and second-guessing early on,” he added with a warm laugh, leaning against the desk with relaxed poise.

Marlene snorted. “Fairfax is like thirty-two, Mary. He’s probably someone’s dad.”

Mary smirked. “I’m gonna make him someone’s dad.”

“Manners, Macdonald,” Lily muttered, but she couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped out. Mary always had a way of pulling her back to the moment, no matter where her mind wandered.

Remus’s eyes scanned the room, searching for a partner. Before Lily could make a decision, Mary sighed beside her.

“You and that heart of yours,” she muttered, already packing her things.

Lily blinked at her. “Mary—”

“Go on, then.” Mary cut her off with a small smile, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She shot Marlene a pointed look, and Marlene abandoned her seat with exaggerated reluctance. With a dramatic sigh, Mary scooped up her books. “I’ll pair with Marls. But you owe me.”

From the Marlene-induced line of contrition already forming between Mary’s brows and the way she braced herself, Lily didn’t doubt she meant it.

With that, Mary was gone, her book bag swinging as she joined Marlene on the other side of the room.

Lily turned back to Remus just as he hesitated at her desk, offering her a faintly grateful look. She smiled and gestured for him to sit. He slipped into the chair beside her with his usual quiet movements, though his scornful glance toward Sirius didn’t escape her notice.

“Thanks,” he said belatedly. There was genuine gratitude in his voice, as though she’d done him a much greater favour than simply offering to work together.

Once seated, he focused on the parchment in front of him, shoulders taut as though he were trying to shake off whatever had just happened.

“Everything alright?” Lily asked gently.

Remus glanced up, meeting her eyes for only a second before nodding. “Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Just tired. Long night.”

It was the kind of standard answer Lily had come to expect from him—typical Remus in its vagueness, polished smooth by overuse. But the faint shadows under his eyes filled in the gaps he wouldn’t. Lily didn’t press, though. She knew better than to try; as much as she liked Remus, he had walls higher than James and Sirius’s egos. Remus never shared more than he was willing to, and forcing the issue would only make him retreat further.

She simply nodded, offering him a small smile before turning her attention to their work. For a moment, she thought she caught the faintest flicker of relief in his expression, as if the absence of questions was exactly what he needed.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remind Lily how little calm he must have these days—and how much heavier the storm seemed to be growing.

Across the room, Sirius was doing a poor job of pretending to be unaffected by whatever clash had just unfolded between him and Remus. His shoulders were tense, his expression bored, but the stiffness in his posture gave him away completely. He was bothered. Deeply bothered.

Lily ignored the scowl he shot her way as she shifted a little closer to Remus. She rolled her eyes with a disaffected smile, barely sparing Sirius another glance. He might’ve been the loudest voice in the room most of the time, but he’d never once managed to be intimidating.

Foolish? Often. Wild? Absolutely. Frightening? Not even on his worst day.

Lily had no interest in decoding whatever Sirius’s problem with her was today, though she had her suspicions. It wasn’t difficult to see that it had less to do with her and everything to do with the boy who had already composed himself and was now turning the pages of their shared textbook. Remus’s movements were careful, precise, his focus locked on Professor Fairfax’s instructions as though they were the only thing tethering him to the present moment.

Sirius, meanwhile, had shifted just enough to make his displeasure more visible, his posture rigid and his hands restless on the edge of the desk. If Lily were a betting woman, she’d have staked her next Hogsmeade trip on him being about two minutes away from an overly dramatic exit.

That was, of course, if he were prepared to take his eyes off Remus long enough to walk away.

And that was something Sirius very obviously wasn’t prepared to do. His gaze stayed fixed on Remus, as if watching the storm gather wasn’t enough. As if he were waiting for it to break.

Sirius was all about theatrical declarations and impulsive decisions. Remus, on the other hand, was all about the subtle, understated brooding. The kind that made you think deeply about life while staring out a rainy window.

Remus’s moods weren’t the sort you argued with—they were the kind that stayed with you, lingering like the sound of rain against a windowpane long after the storm had passed.

Those seemed to stay with Sirius longer than with anyone else.

As Sirius leaned back in his chair, his fingers brushed absently against his knuckles, tapping at the spot where a signet ring usually sat. It wasn’t there now—hadn’t been for a while—but the absent gesture felt too habitual to be meaningless.

Lily frowned slightly, a memory rising: a polished strip of platinum and obsidian, the Black crest dark against his pale skin, and the way Sirius had once twisted it around his fingers during a particularly dull History of Magic lecture. She’d never paid it much attention before—not until she’d noticed it missing after Christmas last year.

The same time things had started falling apart.

Before their true fight. Not long before, though. That had all come about at the end of April and lasted through to… well, she’d argue a tentative day in July when the boys were sat together again at breakfast, but Lily hadn’t seen Remus and Sirius talk again until this September.

Her gaze drifted back to Sirius. His hand had stilled, now resting flat against the desk, but the faint tension in his jaw hadn’t eased. And his eyes hadn’t strayed from the boy beside her.

Sirius didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, but in moments like this—when he thought no one was looking—his tells were painfully clear.

Whatever had happened between him and Remus, it wasn’t over. Not for Sirius, at least.

“Why’d you even bother partnering with me if you’re just going to stare at Moony the whole time?”

Sirius didn’t reply. He was too busy, predictably still staring at Remus.

Peter hadn’t even wanted to partner with Sirius. Not when he could’ve spent the next forty minutes admiring just how nicely Hannah Williams had filled out her blouse this year, under the guise of reading her mind instead.

But Sirius hadn’t exactly given him a choice. He’d dropped into the seat beside Peter with all the grace of a wingless Hippogriff and had maintained a face like thunder ever since.

Peter had caught a bit of the friction between Remus and Sirius before Sirius came over in a strop, but friction had become a permanent fixture between those two lately. Fine and telling jokes one minute, very far from fine the next.

Peter sighed and followed Sirius’s line of sight to where Professor Fairfax stood, chatting casually with Remus and Lily. The professor leaned against a desk, laughing softly at something Remus had undoubtedly said—sharp and witty, as usual. The conversation had clearly shifted to Defence, with Fairfax rolling up his sleeves to demonstrate a wand movement, revealing toned forearms that seemed to catch the attention of half the class, especially the girls.

Even Peter had to admit the bloke was annoyingly good-looking.

Evander Fairfax—a former Cursebreaker—had only been at Hogwarts a few weeks, but he’d already charmed his way into the students’ good graces, despite the cursed Defence Against the Dark Arts post. He managed to be both effortlessly magnetic and irritatingly competent, earning him the nickname “Professor Fairfox”—or just “Professor Foxy.”

His eventual departure, while inevitable, was something no one wanted to think about.

Well, almost no one…

“He looks like a Malfoy,” Sirius muttered darkly. “More like an albino rat, though.”

“Oi!” Peter protested, genuinely offended.

Sirius didn’t turn, but a half-smile tugged at his lips. “Sorry, mate,” he said, sounding anything but apologetic. “But come on, rats aren’t exactly winning beauty contests.”

“You’re one to talk. You turn into a slobbering mutt,” Peter shot back, more defensive than usual.

“Padfoot’s no mutt,” Sirius countered with pride. “He’s got pedigree—pure class.”

“Sure, if that’s what you keep telling yourself,” Peter retorted. “Or what James and Remus say so you don’t get your knickers in a wad.”

“Knickers in a wad?” Sirius echoed with a smirk. “You’ve been hanging around Moony too much. Losing your Pureblood vocabulary, Pete? Picking up Muggle slang now, are we?”

“At least I don’t dress like one,” Peter grumbled, his face flushing slightly.

“Muggles have style!” Sirius shot back, a bit too quickly. “Not my fault the Wizarding world’s stuck in the 1800s. If you’ve got it, flaunt it. Robes are a nightmare—tripping over them, sweating like mad, can’t move. The only good thing about them is the big pockets.”

Peter rolled his eyes but let the conversation die, knowing Sirius was impossible to deal with when he got like this—defensive and smug all at once. It was easier to let him ramble on about how robes were a deathtrap or how Muggle jeans were superior. Anything to avoid the real subject.

“We’re never going to get any work done,” Peter muttered under his breath, shifting his parchment and trying to steer the conversation back to their worksheet. They’d only managed two questions—ones that Sirius had gotten from Peter’s head with irritating ease.

Peter hadn’t even attempted Legilimency yet, though he’d proven a rubbish Occlumens.

“Pads,” Peter tried again.

But Sirius didn’t respond. His attention was back on Remus, who had now fully engrossed Fairfax in a complicated debate about magical wards. Remus was gesturing animatedly, his usual calm replaced by a rare burst of enthusiasm that clearly had Sirius transfixed. The corner of Sirius’s mouth twitched as Remus laughed at something Fairfax said, his eyes bright with focus.

Peter tried to figure out what exactly was so interesting. But it was just Moony. Albeit, a particularly spirited and scholarly version of Moony, but still just Moony.

“You’re staring again,” Peter pointed out, more curious than teasing this time.

Sirius blinked, finally tearing his eyes away. “What? I’m not staring. I’m just… observing. Keeping tabs, you know.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. He didn’t need to be a Legilimens to know Sirius was lying.

“Right. Observing. Sure.” He hesitated, then added, “You don’t actually think something’s going on, do you?”

Sirius shifted uncomfortably, fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt as if the conversation was straying too close to something more risky. “Doesn’t matter. Fairfax won’t last. None of them do. That post is cursed.”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe. He seems like he could break the streak, though. Students like him. Even McGonagall seems impressed.”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” Sirius said dismissively. “He’ll be gone by next year. They always are.”

“Maybe.” Peter glanced again at Fairfax, who was now demonstrating a particularly intricate Defence spell with effortless precision. The girls nearby were practically swooning, and even Lily was listening intently, genuinely engaged. “But if he sticks around, I’d bet he’s got all the girls in his pocket. Even Lily’s paying attention.”

Sirius snorted, though his smirk faltered slightly. “Lily’s got better taste than to fall for that pretty-boy charm.”

“You sure about that?” Peter asked slyly, watching Fairfax incline his head, shifting nearer to explain something to Lily, who nodded, her eyes alight with interest. But Peter wasn’t really looking at Lily. He was watching Sirius, who had stopped smirking altogether. Sirius’s grip tightened around his wand as Fairfax smiled at something Remus said, leaning in closer to explain a finer point.

“Nah, Evans is smart. She’d see right through him,” Sirius said, though the confidence in his voice had dimmed.

Peter smirked back, a knowing glint in his eye. “Maybe. But if he ever does leave, there’ll be a lot of heartbroken students, that’s for sure. Especially the girls.”

Sirius finally laughed, though it sounded more forced than usual. “Oh, definitely. And don’t worry, mate. Even if he sticks around, no one’s coming for your title of Marauders’ resident rodent.”

Peter scowled. “I’ll take that as a compliment… I think.”

Sirius grinned, the tension easing a little. “Good, because that’s as close to one as you’re going to get from me.”

But as Peter let the conversation drift into easier waters, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off with Sirius. He’d seen that look too many times to believe it was just harmless ‘observation.’ Whatever Sirius was thinking, it had something to do with Remus—and Peter wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a very bad one.

Peter’s quill found its way to his lips as he turned back to Remus, who seemed oblivious to the fact that Sirius hadn’t stopped observing him all lesson. Remus’s tawny head turned, as if sensing the unfamiliar sensation of eyes on him, and he met Peter’s gaze with a quizzical look.

Peter discreetly gestured to Sirius and rolled his eyes, and an entire silent conversation passed between them. Soft amusement lit up Remus’s face as he rolled his eyes knowingly and went back to work.

Sirius was quiet, which was never a good sign. He avoided silence at all costs—because silence had something to say.

For a brief moment, Sirius’s gaze shifted to Remus, and Remus slowly looked back up, as though pulled by an invisible thread. Their eyes met. Sirius’s expression was unreadable, but the look lasted longer than usual before he looked away, running a hand through his hair in a way that was clearly meant to seem casual. But Peter caught the tension in his shoulders—the way Sirius’s hand shook, just a little, as he turned back to his notes.

Peter looked away, suddenly uncomfortable.

Sirius had always been a bit weird about Remus—more protective, almost like he was a girl or something. They’d all agreed to become Animagi to help him with the full moons, though Sirius hadn’t exactly phrased it as a question when he first brought it up. He’d simply declared he was doing it, and if he was doing it, James was doing it. And if James was going ahead with something, Peter was always going to follow.

He didn’t like being left behind—had never wanted to be left out.

James and Sirius were easily each other’s best friends. Sirius was probably Remus’s, and James, Peter’s. But there were certain parts of each that the others didn’t quite grasp. Their friendship had always been like that—like realising you’ve been creating art but only just glimpsed the gallery it hangs in.

Sometimes, Peter felt as if he were standing in the middle of the Louvre, having only supplied a few cans of paint, never quite possessing the magic that made everyone else look at their group with such awe. There was a deep, unbreakable bond between them, but Peter wasn’t convinced he’d done much in the way of building it.

Out of all of them, Peter probably felt most understood by Remus—largely because Remus took the time to understand him. Still, Peter didn’t quite get Remus, especially when it came to Sirius.

He didn’t really get Sirius when it came to Remus either, frankly. For someone who’d always side-eyed the others into being more careful with Remus, he was the one who’d been the most careless.

From the way Sirius had cowered and slunk around during those tense and silent months between them, anyone would’ve thought he was the one done wrong. Even Remus had tried to send Peter and James to go sit with Sirius instead, insisting that his conflict wasn’t their conflict—and that he was fine. But Peter and James knew he wasn’t fine. And even though Sirius likely wasn’t fine either, he’d been the one who took things too far and hurt one of them. And even James knew that wasn’t on.

That made it all of their conflict.

As grateful as Peter was to have their group back together, he felt Sirius deserved a longer cold-shouldering than Remus had given. Then again, Peter supposed, the ice had yet to completely melt. Remus had subtly but indisputably locked away those doors inside himself that he’d only ever allowed Sirius into. And although Sirius had been let back into the building, those keys had yet to be returned.

What’s your favourite colour? The question sat atop their worksheet, innocuous enough, but neither of them could focus on it.

Remus tried not to picture silver. It was mostly grey, but not the dull kind of grey, more like the glint of light bouncing off glitter after a party—or the shade of grey that darkened into the winter sky when Sirius got that look in his eyes.

Lily, meanwhile, was doing her best not to think of red. The bold, vibrant red of James’s Quidditch jersey, bright as a warning. But why should that feel like one?

They hadn’t made much headway on their worksheet, though Lily couldn’t decide whether it was because they were both terrible Legilimens or unusually gifted Occlumens.

Remus had, for a brief moment, managed to break through her walls and pull out one answer. But the sensation of having someone inside your mind wasn’t something that could ever feel comfortable. It was a strange, off-putting feeling, like a tightening in her chest that made her want to shove everything out, close herself off entirely.

She tried to stay calm. Remus wasn’t being forceful, but the intrusion still felt like a violation. For a split second during that mental exchange, it was as though he was standing outside a door in her mind, knocking lightly, almost hesitantly, asking for permission to come in. The door appeared in the middle of a quiet meadow, a tree standing tall at its centre. A soft stream babbled nearby, the faint sound of children’s laughter echoing in the distance.

Then, in an instant, she felt the texture of his thoughts. At first, it was like wandering through a dark, stormy basement, flashes of lightning illuminating rain streaking down the window. But then the atmosphere shifted. The wooden walls of the basement seemed to soften into trees, the storm turned to gentle rain, and warm winds brushed past her face. The dim lighting shifted to moonlight filtering through the branches above. And the sound of distant laughter morphed into a dog's bark, followed by the low echo of a howl.

Not the wind.

Think of an animal.

Lily had tried to think of a bird, focusing all her energy on a light, airy image. She imagined the flutter of wings, the feeling of freedom.

Remus wrote down “Wolf” on the parchment without a hint of emotion, his eyes turning back to the classroom as the sounds of their surroundings crept back in.

He was right.

After that, Lily became much more guarded, unwilling to let Remus in again so easily. And Remus, in turn, seemed less eager to try.

She attempted a careful “Legilimens,” but was met with nothing—no rain, no storm, no trees—just a heavy, cool emptiness. Like the solid stone of a wall.

They tried a few more times before switching tactics.

Think of a place where you feel safe.

Nothing.

Radio silence.

Remus snorted, sitting back in defeat. “That failed too, so wonderful. I’m inept on several different levels.”

Lily sighed, moving the parchment away from them. For a moment, she thought she heard the faint crackle of thunder, the distant rumble of rain. But when she blinked, it was gone. The sound of water evaporated entirely, leaving only the whistle of wind in its place.

Remus wasn’t looking at her now. He didn’t have his wand out, and his attention was somewhere across the room.

“I’ll see you later,” Lily said as they packed up their things. “Seven o’clock by the staircases in the common room, right?”

Remus paused, his brow furrowing as if trying to untangle a knot in his mind. Then realisation dawned. “Oh, right. Prefect rounds. That’s tonight.”

“You forgot,” Lily said, more amused than accusatory.

Remus was a decent prefect, though it was obvious it wasn’t high on his list of priorities. He was thoughtful but forgetful. His mind was often a whirlwind of ideas and worries, which meant certain details—like their prefect schedule—occasionally slipped through the cracks.

“I didn’t forget,” Remus said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “It would’ve come back to me… eventually.”

“Like all Sirius’s exes?” Lily quipped.

Remus snorted, though the laugh quickly faded into a groan as something else came back to him. His shoulders sagged, and his face twisted into a grimace.

“Oh no.”

“What now?” Lily asked, tilting her head in curiosity.

Remus rubbed the back of his neck, looking unusually sheepish. “I, uh, might’ve told Sirius I’d help him with something tonight. And, considering he’s already in a bit of a mood…”

Lily raised an eyebrow, her expression softening briefly before narrowing in suspicion. “Help him with what, exactly?”

Remus hesitated, like a rabbit realising too late it had wandered into a snare. “You’re probably better off not knowing.”

“Let me guess,” Lily said, her voice dry and cutting. It wasn’t a guess, not really. “A prank?”

The crooked, guilty smile Remus gave her was all the confirmation she needed.

“I’ll be there,” he added quickly, as if that might somehow salvage the situation. “Just… after I survive Sirius.”

Lily followed his gaze to where Sirius was lounging against the classroom doorframe, doing his best impression of someone who wasn’t waiting for Remus—but failing spectacularly. He radiated impatience, tapping his fingers against the wood in a deliberate rhythm. His posture screamed casual indifference, but the pointed glances he kept casting in their direction told a different story.

“He’s blocking the door,” Lily observed, unimpressed.

“Yep.”

“And he’s making sure everyone knows he’s blocking the door.”

“Also yep.”

Lily crossed her arms. “Why is he like this?”

Remus sighed. “Because he knows he can get away with it, that’s why.”

Sirius caught Lily’s glare from across the room and offered her an exaggerated smirk. He didn’t budge. A few students tried to manoeuvre past him, but he ignored them entirely, clearly revelling in being an inconvenience. Lily suspected it had less to do with the doorway and more to do with proving a point to Remus.

“Good luck,” she told Remus, patting his arm in mock sympathy.

“I don’t need luck. I need patience,” Remus replied with a weary smile. “And I’ve got none left.”

Lily watched as Remus made his way back to Sirius. The moment he drew near, Sirius shifted from where he’d been blocking the door, taking a small, almost tentative step forward, as though resisting the urge to close the gap between them too quickly.

Even Lily found herself holding her breath at the way they stared each other down. Did they even realise how much of the world faded away when they looked at each other like that?

For a brief moment, concern flickered across Sirius’s face, cracking through his disinterested façade as he took in Remus. But when his gaze found no reason to worry, the softness vanished, replaced once more by his familiar, self-assured air.

Whatever Sirius said next was lost to Lily, but the quiet way Remus leaned toward him, head tilted ever so slightly, stayed with her even as Mary and Marlene rejoined her side.

Remus held Sirius’s gaze a moment longer than necessary. Then, with a small sigh, he stepped past him, leaving Sirius standing there like a sentry guarding something no one else could see.

Sirius didn’t move, but his eyes followed Remus like a shadow. Whatever game he was playing, Lily wasn’t sure either of them knew the rules anymore.

“You know,” Marlene observed, startling her, “they could just snog and save us all the theatrics.”

Lily rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Lily couldn’t help but wonder which of them would survive the other’s mood tonight.

Sirius pretended he wasn’t irritated as they walked to the infirmary to collect James, though his clenched jaw gave him away. Remus made no such effort—his displeasure was written plainly across his face.

They managed a passable performance when James emerged, cast-free and smug, flexing his newly healed arm with exaggerated pride. They even laughed along, though the sound lacked its usual warmth.

Madam Pomfrey scolded them all with a pointed look, warning James to “take it easy.” They nodded solemnly, even though they knew James wouldn’t recognise easy if it hexed him in the face.

Sirius was all grins, delighted to have James back in action. He was already re-planning the logistics of his prank, since Remus had firmly informed him he was sitting this one out. Sirius had acknowledged that announcement with predictably icy silence.

Still, the tension lingered, sharp and bitter, brewing in the spaces between their words.

Sirius’s earlier accusation twisted relentlessly in Remus’s mind: So, you don’t trust me anymore? As if Sirius didn’t know why. As if he hadn’t stormed off, leaving Remus stranded, vulnerable, and his secret—once again—nearly exposed.

If it hadn’t been for Lily… Remus didn’t want to think about what might have happened.

And yet, Sirius strutted ahead as though nothing had happened, as though he were the one wronged. He expected Remus to apologise, to admit fault, when Sirius kept giving him every reason not to trust him.

As they made their way out, Peter trailed behind, muttering something about taking a detour to avoid another Sirius-fuelled incident. But as they stepped into the corridor, the playful air between Sirius and Remus evaporated.

“Sometimes, I wonder,” Remus muttered under his breath, “if you actually think about what you leave behind.”

Sirius slowed, turning to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Remus’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t meant to say it, not like that. “Forget it.”

But Sirius didn’t. His expression darkened, and for once, his usual cocky mask slipped. “No, go on. I’d love to hear what you think of me.”

Remus closed his eyes for a brief moment, sensing the impending argument. “Sirius, I don’t want to fight.”

“Who said anything about fighting?” Sirius shot back, his voice rising as his temper flared. “I’m just curious.”

James must have heard, because he turned.

“Padfoot,” he said carefully, “let’s not—”

“No,” Sirius interrupted, quieter now but razor-sharp. “It’s fine. Let’s hear it.”

Remus sighed, glancing at the others. James and Peter exchanged a look, then deliberately turned their attention to a nearby tapestry. The message was clear: Work it out.

“It’s not about what I think,” Remus said finally, his voice low. “It’s about what you don’t think about.”

Sirius flinched as if struck, but quickly hardened in defence. “If you haven’t noticed, Moony, I’m trying. I really am. But I can’t exactly change the past.”

“I know,” Remus said. And he did know. He’d seen Sirius try—stumbling, failing, but trying all the same. And yet, letting go of the past wasn’t always simple.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Sirius’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You think I don’t feel it? That I don’t hate myself for all the ways I’ve messed this up?”

Remus’s lips pressed together. “I never said that.”

“But you think it,” Sirius shot back, his voice breaking just a little—just enough that it hurt to hear. It wasn’t satisfying. It never could be. “Don’t lie, Moony. You’ve been thinking it for months.”

Remus inhaled sharply. He wanted to say the right thing, to bridge the widening gap between them. But the words stuck, far too heavy and much too tangled in his throat.

He didn’t want to apologise. He wanted to ask why. Why Sirius had done it in the first place.

But that would mean talking about it. All of it. The whole messy affair. Not just Snape, but what had happened before that.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, his voice hoarse. “For… well, everything.”

Sirius studied him for a long moment, his shoulders stiff and his face expressionless. Then, slowly, the tension in his posture eased. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Me too.”

The gap between them still felt too wide, but Remus couldn’t bring himself to close it. Not yet.

Sirius was still there, close enough to touch, but now there was a distance between them that hadn’t been there before. Not before everything had changed last term. Remus didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to fix it—didn’t know if it could be fixed. Their relationship had become a language he was losing fluency in. He could still read it, but the words no longer flowed as naturally as they once had.

It wasn’t that Remus didn’t want to relearn it—he did. But it was starting to feel like a dead language. One he might not be able to pick up again, no matter how much he wanted to.

For once, Sirius kept a careful distance from him. Whatever was on Remus’s face, Sirius couldn’t seem to look at it head-on. Instead, his eyes were trained on something far away, towards the portraits lining the walls, which even seemed to be averting their painted gazes from the row.

Sirius had always been the one to start it and the one to end it. This. Them.

Remus supposed it was easy for Sirius to pretend like he wasn’t the one who had stopped talking to him first, long before Remus did.

I just… I think we need distance. To remember what we are—and what we’re not.

You mean what we’re not when you don’t want it. And what we are when you suddenly do again.

Moony.

I’m not interested in being someone you want whenever it’s convenient for you. That’s what toys are for, Sirius. Go find one.

Sirius had listened. Toy wasn’t the same as weapon, though. And Remus had never claimed he wasn’t that.

He didn’t think he’d needed to.

Remus wanted to say something more but didn’t. He didn’t want to reopen a conversation he’d already finished. Not one he’d had the last word on—for once. He didn’t want to give Sirius that much power. Not again.

“Truce?” he offered softly, hoping it was enough. “We can talk more tomorrow. I’ll even let you drag me into whatever trouble you want for the day.”

Sirius hesitated, eyeing him like he was weighing the offer. Then, finally, with a dramatic roll of his eyes, he relented. “You’re off the hook. Now stop looking so bloody miserable before you make me depressed.”

Remus gave a faint smile but didn’t respond right away. His fingers fiddled absently with the hem of his robes before he looked up, his gaze searching Sirius’s face.

The ease with which Sirius forgave him—it was surprising, to say the least. Maybe even too easy. He wasn’t sure he entirely believed it. Or trusted it.

That indifferent look was back on Sirius’s face, as if whatever was happening in front of him right now was just a mere inconvenience to him—nothing worth his attention. As if the tension between them was a nuisance he’d chosen to ignore.

“Sorry about bailing tonight,” Remus said, careful now, as though testing his words before committing to them. “It’s just… prefect duties—”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sirius interrupted. “We’ll survive without you.”

There it was: the reminder that this wasn’t really forgiveness—Sirius didn’t do forgiveness. This was Sirius offering just enough to move on. For now.

Remus kept his expression neutral, refusing to let Sirius see him flinch.

We’ll survive without you implied We don’t need you, which really translated to We’re better off without you.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to nod, as if the words didn’t sting. As if they hadn’t landed exactly where they weren’t supposed to.

But they had. And it still hurt.

The others were waiting just ahead, their voices echoing faintly. Sirius started walking again. Remus waited a moment, then followed.

It wasn’t a resolution. Not really. But as they rejoined the others, there was something like an acknowledgment of a shared goal between them. Maybe they could figure out how to stop hurting each other.

But as Remus stared at Sirius’s turned back, his eyes purposefully fixed ahead, gaze deliberately distant, the space between them vast despite the narrow corridors—he couldn’t help but think: Then again, maybe they wouldn’t.

Maybe some wounds went too deep to heal. Maybe that’s why some things were better off dead.

Maybe now they were both just waiting for the inevitable. Maybe that’s all that was left. Something best left buried, even if it meant burying the best parts of himself with it.

And maybe some hurts had already buried themselves too deep to ever surface again.

Chapter Text

When Remus finally caught up with her, he looked as though he’d barely survived Sirius. Judging by the tight set of his jaw, it seemed he might have preferred not to.

Sirius, unlike this morning’s Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, didn’t spare him so much as a glance. He was across the room, laughing with James and Peter as though nothing had happened—the very picture of confidence once again.

Lily didn’t buy it, but she also knew better than to get involved. Sirius deflected with charm, and if that failed, he shut down completely. Still, something about the way his shoulders hunched, just barely, made her feel the situation wasn’t as resolved as Sirius wanted it to seem.

Her gaze flickered to James instinctively, as it so often did these days. She caught herself before sighing outright. Windswept hair in all its usual disarray, a smile so smug it practically gleamed, and his Quidditch bag propped carelessly by his feet.

Of course he was back on the pitch. She’d only visited him in the hospital wing this morning, where he’d promised Madam Pomfrey he’d take it easy for at least a day. Typical James Potter. A scraped knee, a broken arm, a bruised ego—nothing ever kept him down for long.

The last match didn’t even count, he’d claimed, because it was technically last year’s season finale. The next one, three weeks away, was the real one. The one that mattered.

“Sorry I’m late,” Remus muttered, pulling her from her thoughts. He looked worse than he had that morning—paler, more drained.

Before she could snip at him about it, as usual, he begrudgingly donned his prefect badge. Lily had to hide a smile at the little frown that formed. She wasn’t sure why he was still so uncomfortable with the title. If she had to guess, it was probably because the others had given him a hard time about it.

“I just… Sirius,” he added, gesturing vaguely behind him.

Lily tilted her head, her brows lifting in silent question. “What’s going on with you two?”

She nodded toward Sirius, who was now gesturing wildly at James, head thrown back in laughter that didn’t quite reach their side of the room.

Remus shook his head and turned for the portrait hole without looking back. “It’s… complicated.”

“It always is with you,” she said, her tone wry but kind.

The common room fell away behind them, and with it, some of the tension seemed to ease from Remus’s posture.

“Want to talk about it?” she offered.

“No.” The word was curt, harsher than she’d expected. He winced almost immediately and glanced at her apologetically. “Sorry. I just—”

“It’s complicated,” she finished for him.

He exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. “It’s nothing new. Same old mess.”

Lily wasn’t sure how to help. Boys’ arguments always seemed bafflingly straightforward compared to girls’. She’d once watched James and Sirius start a fight, settle it by punching each other square in the face, and walk off minutes later with their arms slung around each other, laughing like it had never happened.

The whole thing lasted no longer than it took to brew a cup of tea.

Girls didn’t operate like that. Grudges lingered, festering beneath the surface. Even when they kissed and made up, Lily often found the “making up” part to be mostly for show—resentments tucked away for another day.

With boys, it was all pride and posturing, a quick burst of punches, hexes, or shouted half-hearted apologies before they forgot what they were angry about in the first place. Girls’ arguments, in Lily’s experience, cut deeper and ended in tears more often than not.

But Remus and Sirius’s argument? That felt different. Lily wasn’t sure it had even ended—or if it could.

“He did something bad, didn’t he?” she asked quietly. “Something that makes it hard to see him the same way?”

Remus hesitated, his gaze dropping. “Yeah,” he said after a beat, his tone deliberately even. “Pretty bad.”

Lily thought of Severus—not for the first time—and the ache of trying to reconcile who someone was with what they’d done. Forgiveness didn’t mean excusing, she reminded herself. It wasn’t erasing the harm or condoning the behaviour. It was choosing not to let it anchor you to the past so you could live in the present moment.

As they passed a pair of fellow prefects, Samuel Aldertree—a tall, sandy-haired Ravenclaw—gave Remus a warm smile, clearly intending to stop and chat. Remus barely nodded before moving on, leaving Lily to jog a few steps to catch up.

She hesitated, debating whether to push, then decided against holding back. “Whatever it is… you’ve forgiven him, haven’t you? For last term?”

“Yes,” Remus said, but the word came too quickly, too casually to feel real, as though he were acting a part, saying what someone else wanted to hear. He frowned slightly, as though hearing it for the first time himself. “Mostly. I think.”

Lily gave him a knowing look. “Forgiving someone doesn’t mean everything goes back to the way it was.”

“I know that.” His gaze shifted to the ceiling, his expression tightening. “It’s just… weird now.”

“What do you want to do about it?”

“I don’t know, Lily,” he snapped, though there wasn’t much venom behind it. It was loaded with too much sarcasm to strike hard. “Maybe stick an ice pick through my eye socket and hope it hits brain?”

She blinked, caught off guard, before snorting. “Very dramatic, Lupin.”

A DIY lobotomy might have been extreme—though not entirely unjustifiable—as a way of dealing with Sirius Black. Lily could almost see the logic. But Remus had tolerated Sirius’s chaos for years; it wasn’t until their fight that something had shifted between them, making him less inclined to put up with the madness. What exactly had gone on? What had changed? And why were they both still so sore about it?

She couldn’t help but compare it to her own fallout with Severus. But no—Sirius would never… would he? He despised his family and the Pureblood dogma.

But he was still a Black.

Lily shook her head. Surely not, Sirius wouldn’t go that far. Reckless to the point of self-destruction, yes. Careless and prone to explosive outbursts, certainly. But cruel? Not in his nature.

Remus let out a long, frustrated sigh. “I mean it, though. Sirius drives me mad. I can never tell what’s going on in his head, and when I think I do, I’m sure he’s just screwing with me.”

The words were almost offhand, but they struck with an odd weight.

“Screwing with you how?”

He stiffened, the walls coming up fast. “Doesn’t matter. Either way, I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Maybe it’s not about fixing it,” Lily said gently. “Maybe it’s about figuring out what it looks like now.”

Remus shrugged, his steps slowing. “What if what it looks like now is… this? Awkward silences and half-fights that don’t go anywhere?”

“Then you decide if that’s enough,” she said simply, her voice free of judgment. “For both of you.”

He looked at her, as though he were really listening now. “And if it’s not?”

“Then you figure that out too,” she said. She caught sight of two second years squabbling in the corridor and let out a resigned sigh. “But don’t let it fester, Remus. That’s the worst thing you can do.”

She left him there with that, already striding off to break up the brewing fight, leaving him to sift through her words on his own.

To say nothing good ever happened to Sirius at Grimmauld Place would be unfair.

There had been fleeting moments—small, fragile reprieves scattered throughout the oppressive weight of his childhood. A stolen hour with his brother before they grew apart. The rare, quiet mornings when his mother’s shrieking hadn’t yet started. But those moments were hardly enough to outweigh the suffocating darkness that permeated every corner of the house.

The bad memories were the foundation of Grimmauld Place, as much a part of its structure as the rotting floorboards and peeling wallpaper. They were baked into the silence of the corridors, etched into the faces of the ancestral portraits. No matter how many times Sirius scrubbed himself, no matter how much dust he cleared away from his mind, the cruelty lingered like a curse, clinging to the air like damp rot.

Grimmauld Place was a mausoleum of everything that had gone wrong in his life.

Or at least, it had been.

He wasn’t there anymore. He was free of its physical grip. But Sirius had learned long ago that freedom was not the same as escape. He carried the poison of that house with him, its darkness seeping into him so deeply it bled out and infected everything else. Even Hogwarts, once his refuge, wasn’t immune.

Because Sirius brought it with him. And let it loose.

Before last year—before Sirius went and ruined everything—Remus Lupin had been untouched by all of that.

Incredible, sarcastic, glass-half-empty Remus Lupin.

Remus was brightness and laughter. Steady and unflinching, sharp enough to cut through Sirius’s bullshit with nothing but a shrewd look. Patient enough to wait him out. Took no nonsense but also took no prisoners. He had a smile that could pull Sirius out of the deepest gloom, a way of looking at him that made Sirius want to be better, even when he didn’t know how.

Hogwarts had been better because of Remus. Sirius’s entire life had been better because of Remus.

Whatever they were—or had been.

Not just friends, though that label had felt too big and too small at the same time. Not lovers either, though Sirius had contemplated that word in his more pitiful, desperate moments. Fuckbuddies, maybe, though they’d never quite let it get that far.

He knew what they weren’t. What they were was harder to pin down. Two idiots who couldn’t keep their hands off each other long enough to lock the door behind them? Sirius hadn’t cared what it was called. It had been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

He could have forgotten. If every corner of the castle didn’t whisper back at him, taunting him with memories of what he’d thrown away.

He might’ve let it go, maybe, if he weren’t currently pressed against the cool stone of a disused alcove, the very spot where, once upon a time, Remus had pulled him into the shadows, his hands sure and steady.

“What do you want?” Remus had asked back then, his voice low and deliberate, fingers brushing against Sirius like a question Sirius didn’t know how to answer.

One hand had been tangled in Remus’s hair, the other still caught in the grip of his mother’s disapproval. She’d never liked Sirius, but her disdain would’ve been even sharper if she’d known he was whispering filthy things in the ear of a werewolf. Not the casual filth tossed around the dinner table with a sneer and a glass of Macallan, but the kind that made Remus’s breath hitch.

At the time, he couldn’t have cared less about what she thought. Even now, he told himself he didn’t. But deep down, he knew—he really fucking knew—that he did.

Sirius didn’t know what he wanted. Never had. Just knew he wanted more of whatever Remus was.

They’d both been stupid.

Sirius had been worse.

Still was, probably.

Because now, Remus wouldn’t even give him that. Whatever not-quite-talking-about-it-but-definitely-keep-panting-against-my-neck thing they’d shared, Remus had locked it away and thrown out the key. No more sly grins. No more stumbling together—struggling to cast a locking charm on the closet doors they staggered into between classes. No more slow touches in the dark. No more Remus letting himself linger, even for a second, to see what Sirius would do.

Remus didn’t hate him. At least, not outwardly. He was far too good at pretending. But Sirius knew better.

He knew hate when he saw it.

It wasn’t in the words or the actions. It was in the distance. The way Remus’s eyes no longer softened when they landed on him. The way he deflected any teasing with cool efficiency. It was like whatever had happened between them hadn’t just ended—it had been erased.

And Sirius couldn’t stop himself from pushing, just to get those amber eyes on him—fond exasperation, true anger, it didn’t matter. Even if every barb left a deeper scar, he couldn’t stop himself from throwing them. He wasn’t sure he’d know how to stop.

He’d never been above using charm—or whatever else he had at his disposal—to get his way, especially when it came to what he truly wanted. But flustering Remus these days took about twelve times the effort it used to, and even then, the effect barely lasted. Not that he got much of a chance to try. The others made sure of that, never leaving them alone. Certain they couldn’t be trusted—or that Sirius couldn’t (which, fair enough, it wasn’t the worst assumption).

Still, it was driving him up the wall, especially since Remus wasn’t exactly volunteering for one-on-one time either. So, short of shoving him into the nearest empty room and locking the door, what the hell was Sirius supposed to do?

He’d royally pissed Remus off today. Likely gone too far. Again. Poked at him just to see if he could break through that wall. Just to see if there was still a him-shaped crack he could slip through.

A flicker of interest, anything at all.

There wasn’t.

So, yeah, he was constantly trying for more. Testing the waters. Seeing if maybe Remus might rise to the occasion. It’d been almost six months. Six months without so much as a hint of maybe, but Sirius couldn’t stop clinging to the hope that something—anything—remained. Despite all the evidence that it didn’t.

There’d almost been a maybe this morning, when Remus’s cheeks were flushed in the infirmary. When he’d relented long enough to give Sirius a few smiles on the way to class. Then, at Fairfax’s first mention of Legilimency, Sirius had felt his mother’s claws digging into his thoughts. The one person he might have trusted in his head didn’t trust him in return. So, he’d lashed out. Been a bit of a git. Certainly hadn’t made Remus want to come anywhere near him.

It’s what you don’t think about.

And, alright, fine—Remus had a point. Sirius hadn’t thought about it. Not today, at least. Not until after he’d already stalked off, leaving Lily to take his place—sitting in Sirius’s chair, looking into that head Sirius would have given anything to see inside. Just for two minutes. Just to find some sign of life, some faint glimmer of hope. Something to hold onto so he could stop feeling so damn rejected.

But of course, that wasn’t what Remus had meant. It never was. He had this infuriating habit of saying one thing and meaning three others. Over time, Sirius had learned to assume the worst was what he really meant. And somehow, that always still managed to hurt.

And still, he couldn’t let it go.

Remus had.

Sirius might’ve been able to, if he could just get over that fucking fact, let sleeping dogs lie and move on.

He might’ve been able to, if just walking through the dark and silent corridors didn’t bring back memories of better times. Sirius thought he’d left ghosts behind at Grimmauld Place, but good memories could haunt you worse than bad ones. And his did. Like the way Remus’s laugh used to echo down these halls, bright and full, chasing away all the shadows.

His thoughts churned, dragging him back there now, but not before the familiar sting of regret had sunk in.

That’s why hauntings happened in the first place, wasn’t it?

Unfinished bloody business.

A familiar voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

“What are we waiting for, then? Or do you want Moony to catch us and give you detention?”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “He wouldn’t.”

“Yes, he would. And you know it,” James retorted, all smug certainty.

Remus absolutely would. Sirius knew it, too—probably two detentions just to make a point. He’d wear that stern look, the one that made him seem so unshakeably responsible. And then, maybe there’d be the faintest twitch of an almost-smile at the corner of his mouth. The one wrapped in mischief, as if he hadn’t done far worse himself and wasn’t getting a kick out of being a wolf among the shepherds.

The thought made it tempting.

Maybe even worth three detentions.

He might even deserve them.

Sirius edged closer to the alcove’s opening but froze when Remus suddenly stopped in his tracks, his gaze sweeping the hallway. For one terrifying second, he seemed to look straight at their hiding spot.

Sirius ducked back, heart hammering hard enough to drown out James’s quiet snicker.

But then Lily said something, and Remus turned back, continuing down the corridor without another glance.

Sirius tried to shrug off something that felt suspiciously like disappointment with an exaggerated sigh as he looked to James.

“See? Nothing to worry about, mate,” Sirius said, though the ache in his chest begged to differ.

“Right,” James muttered, already walking away down the empty hall. He paused after a few steps, glanced back, and raised an eyebrow. “You planning on hanging out there all night?”

Sirius blinked, then shrugged, letting himself slide down the wall until he was leaning more comfortably against it. “Could be. Figured Evans might come back and keep me company. She couldn’t take her eyes off me in Defence today.”

“Yeah, sure,” James shot back with a snort, not buying it for a second.

“Actually, now that I think about it,” Sirius continued, feigning nonchalance, “it was probably your chair she was staring at. Looked a bit… concerned.”

James froze mid-step, his humour fading as a spark of hope lit in his eyes. “Wait—what? Seriously?”

James had a real gift for delusion, Sirius had to give him that. By now, Evans turning him down was practically a ritual. She might as well pencil it in between classes, right alongside lunch and a helping of “Not in this lifetime, Potter.”

Sirius, on the other hand, had only ever been told to fuck off by Remus once. Pre-Snape. And he was still licking his wounds from it.

Peter, still in rat form, scurried around the next corner, his claws clicking nervously on the stone floor. A moment later, he transformed, his small frame unfolding into something more Peter-shaped. 

“Distraction sorted,” Peter announced, his voice still carrying a hint of a squeak. He smoothed his robes as if to regain some dignity. “Nearly lost my tail to Filch’s bloody cat. Again.”

“Eh, sacrifices,” James replied with an easy grin. “We can workshop your nickname easily enough. Worm-cats-got-your-tail?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I’d rather keep my tail, thanks. At least Moony helped with the planning,” he added, turning pointedly toward Sirius. “He’s the only one who ever reminds you about that whole kiss thing.”

Sirius stilled, his head snapping around. “What?”

James snorted, already catching on. “KISS. Keep it simple, stupid. You know, the thing you always ignore with your over-the-top schemes.”

Sirius’s heart returned to a normal rhythm.

He barely acknowledged them, brushing past as he made his way toward the Potions classroom. They had work to do—a two-hour brew ahead, followed by a visit to the kitchens to deal with Winky. That part would be easy. The house-elf had once served the Blacks, and Sirius knew all too well how to mimic his mother’s cold, commanding tone. A sharp insult and a glint of feigned superiority would have her bending to his will in no time.

Even so, the thought of pulling off their plan didn’t stir much excitement in him. Not even the prospect of wiping the smug grins off the Slytherins’ faces tomorrow at breakfast was enough to lift his spirits. They’d been insufferable since James lost the game, their green banners filling the Great Hall like a constant bloody reminder of their victory. Sirius had considered defacing them—again—but it felt tired, too easy.

He’d been itching for payback all term. Since September, the whispers had followed him everywhere. They all knew—of course they did. The Sacred Twenty-Eight traded gossip like currency, because if there was one thing you could always rely on with Purebloods, it was their talent for spreading scandal—or their genes. Often both. And usually the same ones.

Family trees weren’t really their style; it was more of a family wreath. Sirius was fairly certain he and James were distantly related somehow—cousins, maybe.

Either way, the news of the townhouses wasn’t strictly false.

Sirius wasn’t the Black Sheep of the Blacks anymore. No, he was just a black sheep, full stop. Or worse: just a sheep.

The Slytherins had made it painfully clear. Whatever scraps of protection his title as Black heir had once offered were gone, shredded beyond repair. And they wasted no opportunity to remind him of it.

James and Peter walked alongside him, whispering conspiratorially. Sirius forced a laugh here and there, though it sounded half-arsed even to his own ears.

This was dull. Sure, James was adding in quips of his own, snide and funny. But they weren’t the ones Sirius wanted to sink his teeth into and taste—the kind that made him want to dig his fingers into something, pull it apart, and see what was really underneath. Peter’s impressed look as Sirius slipped out of Slughorn’s office without a hitch was nice, sure, but it wasn’t that begrudging, reluctant glance—the one that felt dragged out of him like a hard-won prize.

The truth was, without Remus, it felt flat. Sirius couldn’t even fool himself into thinking it was fun. Not the kind that mattered, anyway. There was nothing to push against, nothing to fight for.

That was the thing about Remus. Sirius liked having him around, even if it was just to watch him scowl or mutter something biting under his breath. To feel that flicker of resistance, like Remus might actually snap back—the flash of irritation that made it look like he might actually do something about it. Or to catch him looking—just once—as if Sirius was something worth seeing. 

It was stupid, really. Sirius knew that much. Knew he should stamp the thought out of his head before it grew into something too big to handle. Because Remus wasn’t here. Barely seemed to want to be here these days. He wasn’t even trying to be.

Didn’t seem to want to be around him at all.

Sirius told himself he couldn’t blame him for it—not really. But that didn’t stop the sting. Didn’t stop the ache of it. 

And he was angry, too. Angry enough to want Remus to see it, to feel it. To know exactly how much it hurt.

If it upset him, good. Let it. At least then, Sirius would know he still cared.

But maybe that was the very reason Remus stayed away.

“Oi, keep up!” James called, breaking through the haze of Sirius’s thoughts. He realised he’d fallen behind, his feet dragging, his mind elsewhere.

“We’re down a pair of hands, and I’d actually like to make Quidditch practice in the morning,” James added, mock-exasperated.

“You say that like Moony wouldn’t have been a disaster brewing,” Peter quipped, a knowing smile on his lips.

James barked a laugh, the sound echoing through the quiet corridors. “Don’t slag him off when he’s not around to hex you for it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter muttered, glancing nervously around as if expecting Remus to appear from the shadows. “He’s not exactly in a forgiving mood these days.”

The words set Sirius’s teeth on edge, though he didn’t let it show.

“Who is, these days?” Sirius muttered, half to himself, though James shot him a curious look.

“Don’t be a prat. He’s just busy, mate. Aren’t we all?” James’s tone was light, but there was a hint of concern buried beneath it—one Sirius pretended not to notice.

“Right. Busy,” Sirius repeated, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. Being busy wasn’t why Remus was pulling away. Sirius knew that much.

But he didn’t argue.

What was the point?

“Surprised we’ve got you tonight. No girls to keep you busy?” James asked with a smirk, casting a glance back toward Sirius, as if waiting for him to join in on the joke.

Sirius didn’t bite. He barely registered the words. His head was still swimming with thoughts of Remus—of the way he’d been and the way he wasn’t anymore.

Remus’s absence wasn’t just a gap in their plans. It was a pain in the bloody arse. Or, more accurately, just pain. The sort that refused to heal no matter how many distractions Sirius piled on top of it.

It wasn’t like they ever truly left him out of the conversation, either. How could they? He was part of everything—woven into their plans, their jokes, their victories. Even when he wasn’t there, he was there.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Remus was everywhere.

In every memory, every hidden nook and cranny of the castle, every bloody alcove Sirius passed. Even when he wasn’t physically there, he was still in Sirius’s head, haunting him in a way no ghost of Grimmauld Place ever could.

Sirius had always loved the moments after a prank, when the adrenaline was still pumping, and they were half out of breath from running—usually from Filch or Peeves. Those were the times when Remus seemed to glow, his laughter loud and his eyes bright with shared mischief. Sirius lived for those flashes of brilliance, for the way they’d duck into some cramped hiding spot, pressed close, laughing under their breath at their own audacity.

Not that they ever did anything about it, of course. There was never enough time—unless, by some miracle, they’d split off from James and Peter, and the coast was clear. But even then, it was always Remus who would raise an eyebrow and remind him, half amused, that the prank came first. Not getting caught came first.

Anything else? That came after. If it came at all.

And Sirius had learned to read the signs—how to tell when Remus might be open to breaking the tension, to leaning into something more. It used to feel like always. Then, at some point, it became never.

The only person who had ever caught them was the Fat Lady—though, admittedly, that had been Sirius’s fault.

They’d just slipped back from Filch’s office, their hearts still racing after a mad dash through the corridors. Peter had been stupid enough to get the Marauder’s Map confiscated earlier that day, and they’d spent hours planning how to get it back.

Sirius hadn’t exactly planned for it to be just the two of them that evening, but he wasn’t opposed to the way things had worked out.

James had already pushed his luck too far with McGonagall, nearly getting himself benched that month, and had wisely pulled out, muttering something about being “mad” to risk Quidditch over a little theft. As for Peter, all it took was a well-placed jab about being the one who’d lost the map in the first place—clearly too incompetent to get it back—and just like that, Sirius had found himself alone with Remus that night.

It wasn’t just a matter of Filch taking what was theirs; it was the history of the map. The one they’d spent hours poring over together, planning pranks and plotting their next adventures. The one that felt like freedom in ink and parchment. The one that had been created by all four of them—back when they were still whole.

A scrap of parchment that made the whole world theirs.

It would’ve also been an utter ball-ache to even attempt to remake it.

Sirius had been holding it up triumphantly, the other hand pressed against Remus’s shoulder, gently pushing him toward the portrait hole as they caught their breath. They hadn’t stopped running until they’d crashed together, breathless, right at the familiar entrance to their common room.

Remus hadn’t stopped grinning at him. Even in the dark corridor, his smile had seemed to light up everything around them, so bright it had driven all other thoughts from Sirius’s head. His heart had pounded in his chest, so fast it had felt like it might burst free, and for a moment, he’d felt completely clumsy—not knowing what to do, because the way Remus was pressed against him without pulling away had all still felt very new, and the only thing Sirius knew for sure was that he’d do anything not to fuck this up.

Before he could figure out how to handle it—whether he was allowed to or not—his free hand had found Remus’s jaw, fingers brushing against the warm skin there. Remus hadn’t pulled away. Instead, he had tilted his head back, pulling Sirius closer, and Sirius had thought he’d never felt anything so perfect.

A voice from above had eventually startled them apart. The Fat Lady’s sharp tone had clipped through the air, requesting they “kindly separate and remove their hands from anywhere untoward,” with a stern, “Do try to show some decency in this public passageway.”

Sirius had blinked, catching only the last part of her complaint, but he’d smirked anyway, still a bit dazed. “It’s only public if you’re looking,” he’d argued, keeping his hands exactly where they were.

“And where else would I look, young man?” the Fat Lady had sniffed. “There are only so many dimensions to which I have access.”

Sirius had opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, Remus had already begun apologising and giving the password. The moment Remus had slipped out of his arms, a strange, almost desperate impulse had surged through Sirius—to close the space, to pull him back. He’d followed without thinking, hearing the Fat Lady mutter something about “at least one of them having some manners” as he passed.

Inside, the common room had been perfectly still and blissfully empty. But before Sirius could do anything with that, Remus had turned to face him, a smug smile playing on his lips.

“What?” Sirius had asked.

“Nothing. Just surprised I actually got you to back down—from anything.”

Sirius had stared at him, an unexpectedly soft laugh escaping him. “You shouldn’t be.”

Because Sirius had been losing this battle for a long time. And somewhere along the way, he’d stopped trying to fight it.

Sirius could grudgingly admit he missed him. Missed his dry humour and warm presence. Missed the weight of his gaze, the sound of his voice, the way he never quite gave Sirius the satisfaction of an easy win.

Most of all, he missed the way it had felt like enough.

Even if it never really had been.

Peter’s voice broke through his thoughts. “There you go, you’ve got him fantasising about Vance’s mouth again.”

Peter was almost on the money. But it wasn’t a girl’s mouth Sirius was fantasising about. Not that it made a difference. Peter couldn’t hit the right target if it kissed him first.

James was already halfway down the hall, Peter trotting at his heels like an eager shadow.

Sirius threw on a grin, catching up, though the smile was tight, like a mask he had to keep in place.

He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Remus trailing behind them, rolling his eyes at their nonsense. But the hallway remained empty, the absence dogging Sirius’s steps like the shadows of that damn house he’d sworn he’d left behind.

And maybe that was the worst part—how even freedom could feel so meaningless without the right people there to share it.

Because the truth was, Sirius wasn’t just angry at Remus.

He was angry at himself.

For ruining whatever it was they’d had. For not being able to fix it. For caring at all.

And for still hoping—despite everything—Remus still cared too.

Remus had never put much stock in words; actions were what mattered to him. Sirius could apologise a thousand times over, but it wouldn’t erase what he’d done. And no matter how hard he tried, nothing seemed to shift the reality: Remus didn’t trust him anymore.

He forced his feet to pick up the pace as they descended into the dungeons. The air grew colder, the stone walls closing in around them, and Sirius found himself thinking how much it felt like Grimmauld Place down here. Dark, suffocating, and filled with memories he’d rather drown than relive.

Snape cornering him. The vicious exchange that followed. The mistake he’d made.

It was too quiet.

It was the silence of things left unsaid.

Of a laugh that no longer rang out among theirs.

Of a pair of warm eyes that didn’t soften for him anymore.

Sirius’s shoulders tensed, his pace quickening as if he could outrun the ache in his chest.

He’d spent years perfecting that trick.

Running.

But it wasn’t working tonight.

“Oi, Padfoot, slow down!” James called, jogging to catch up. “You’re not in a bloody race.”

Sirius walked on like he hadn’t heard, but James quickly reached his side, glancing at him with a slight furrow in his brow.

“You alright?”

“Fine,” Sirius muttered. He shoved past, his boots clicking louder on the stone as if to punctuate the point.

It wasn’t true, of course. He wasn’t fine. Hadn’t been for months. But the last thing he needed was James or Peter asking why.

Peter and James exchanged a look but didn’t press. They’d learned by now when not to push Sirius too hard. He was unpredictable when cornered, like a stray dog unsure if it wanted to lash out or retreat.

They rounded the corner to the Potions classroom, the faint smell of sulphur wafting through the cracked door. Peter fumbled with the latch, nervous and slow, while Sirius stepped past him, shoving the door open with more force than necessary.

“Careful,” James said, his voice a touch sharper. “You want Filch sniffing around before we’re even started?”

Sirius ignored him, striding into the dimly lit room and dropping his bag onto the nearest desk. The classroom was as cold and unwelcoming as ever, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across the rows of cauldrons. It smelled of burnt herbs and melted metal—a sharp tang that made his nose wrinkle.

He hated Potions. Always had.

Not because he was bad at it—he wasn’t. But it demanded precision. Focus. And Sirius had never been good at focusing on anything for too long. Not unless it was…

He clenched his jaw, forcing the thought away.

He could practically hear James and Peter exchanging a glance behind him, the unspoken question hanging in the air: What’s got his wand in a knot?

It didn’t matter. Nothing did—not the potion they were about to brew, not the prank it was for, not the Slytherins they’d piss off tomorrow. It all suddenly felt… stupid. Immature, maybe.

Sirius took a deep breath, letting the musty air fill his lungs, and tried to focus on the task at hand. But no matter how hard he tried, the silence between them all felt heavier than the dungeon’s damp walls.

“Right,” James said, breaking the quiet as he rolled up his sleeves with far more enthusiasm than the situation warranted. “Let’s get this over with. Wormtail, you’re on stirring duty. Sirius, you—”

“I know what to do,” Sirius snapped, cutting him off.

James raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Instead, he handed Peter the instructions and began unpacking ingredients from his bag. Peter groaned but got to work, the two of them setting up their cauldron with the kind of efficiency that came from years of mischief-making.

“Padfoot,” James said, snapping his fingers in front of Sirius’s face. “You planning on joining us, or just here to spectate? Pretty sure there’s a fee for that.”

Sirius cleared his throat with a shrug. “Just waiting for you lot to cock it up so I can swoop in and save the day. You know, as usual.”

Peter snorted, and James rolled his eyes. “Right. Well, don’t strain yourself, mate.”

Sirius busied himself with grinding roots, his hands moving automatically. The repetition helped—the scrape of the pestle against the mortar was almost grounding. But then Peter said something—some throwaway comment about the potion’s colour—and Sirius’s mind wandered again.

Back to him.

To the way he always managed to make Sirius feel like he wasn’t just mucking about, but actually contributing to something that mattered.

To the way he used to look at Sirius, like he saw something brilliant—something he didn’t want to take his eyes off.

And to the way he always avoided looking at him now.

Sirius slammed the pestle down harder than necessary, cracking the edge of the mortar. Peter flinched, and James looked up, frowning.

“Alright, what’s your problem?” James asked, hovering between irritation and concern.

“Nothing,” Sirius said through gritted teeth.

James didn’t buy it. He crossed his arms, leaning back against the desk. “Come off it, Pads. You’ve been a right pain all day. If you’re going to be like this, maybe you should’ve stayed in the dorm.”

“Maybe I should’ve,” Sirius shot back, low and dangerous.

James opened his mouth, probably to fire back, but Peter stepped in, his voice tentative.

“Maybe we just… focus on the potion? Yeah?”

For once, James let it go. He turned back to the cauldron, muttering something under his breath about moody gits. Peter hesitated, glancing between them before following suit.

Sirius didn’t apologise. He didn’t explain. He just went back to grinding roots, his movements sharper now, more deliberate.

Because he couldn’t tell them. Couldn’t admit what was wrong, let alone own up to how he once had—and still did—possibly want to snog the face off their closest mate. Which was just asking for a bollocking at best or, at worst, getting looked at like his mother once had.

He knew exactly what James and Peter would think—because Sirius had thought it himself, in the spaces between the flashes of wanting to ruin him. Moony was innocent. Sensitive. To them, he was still the same wide-eyed ball of anger and defences they’d slowly, painstakingly softened into someone who now curled up beside them, wrapped in soft jumpers and buried in books. They wouldn’t be able to reconcile that image with the boy Sirius had once made fall apart with nothing but his mouth at his neck—never quite leaving a mark—and the low, filthy things he’d whispered against his ear. Describing, in vivid detail, what he wanted to do to him—and would have, if the others hadn’t been sleeping just feet away.

Sirius wasn’t innocent. Wasn’t careful. James and Peter knew that. They knew he’d only crash into Remus, reckless and thoughtless, and shatter him into a million pieces.

Peter spoke up, stupidly. “What are we supposed to add here again? Moony’s the only one who actually reads the instructions.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “He’s the only one who needs to. Brewing’s about instinct, not following recipes like Muggle baking. Which he’s also shite at.”

He wondered what Remus would’ve said now. Something dry, probably. Cutting, but never cruel. Likely something sarcastic, like how Sirius’s instincts were the reason their last potion had turned green and set off a chain reaction of explosions. And Sirius would’ve smirked, thrown out a retort about how Remus should be grateful for the excitement.

They might have even laughed together—really laughed—and, for a moment, it would’ve felt like none of the bad shit had ever gone down between them.

Remus would’ve been a disaster at brewing—Peter wasn’t wrong—but he’d have made it entertaining. He’d have stood there with that faint wrinkle of concentration between his brows, just self-conscious enough to bite back when Sirius teased him about it. He’d have scolded James for distracting him, rolled his eyes at Peter, and told Sirius to shut up and get to work. Always in that order.

And Sirius would’ve shut right up the second Remus rolled up his sleeves, exposing those freckled forearms Sirius had spent far too much time staring at, and muttered something about not blowing up the dungeon this time.

And somehow, it would’ve been enough to make Sirius’s chest feel so full it ached.

But not tonight.

Because he wasn’t here. And Sirius was beginning to doubt he ever really would be again—not the way he’d been before.

He wondered if Remus ever thought about those days. If he missed them. Missed him. Missed whatever they’d been.

But Sirius stopped himself. Because what good did it do to wonder? To hope? If there was one thing Grimmauld Place had taught him, it was that hope was a foolish, dangerous thing. Something that could crush you under its weight when it inevitably fell apart. It had never done him any good.

So Sirius stirred the cauldron and counted the seconds, forcing a smirk onto his face as James and Peter debated the quickest route to the kitchens and bickered over the best way to smuggle their potion into the Slytherins’ food.

If Remus wanted to stay away, fine. Sirius wouldn’t chase him.

But that didn’t mean he’d stop thinking about him.

The desire was easy to let slip, the kind of thing that didn’t ask questions or demand answers. But the rest—the quiet pull, the persistent urge to call him something soft every time they got too close, the broken stream of endearments hovering at the edge of his tongue whenever they lined up so perfectly—was harder to brush off. Harder to write off as just scratching an itch any willing body could satisfy.

It had to be normal, though, didn’t it? Hormones, proximity—whatever excuse made sense for being this attached to someone he’d only meant to lose himself in. It all made sense in theory. He’d been getting his rocks off with the same person often enough; it was bound to blur the lines a little.

Except it didn’t explain why his mind kept dragging him back to the rush—the reckless, heady thrill he hadn’t felt with anyone else. The way it had felt like the world was sharper, brighter, when it was them together. Didn’t explain why Sirius felt so hollow, so stupidly jaded, now that it was all out of reach.

He’d gotten used to wanting things he couldn’t have. But this—this wanting without even being able to look at what he shouldn’t touch…

The others’ banter faded into the background as Sirius’s hands worked on autopilot. He couldn’t stop replaying the look in Remus’s eyes earlier that day—the hard, unreadable gaze that had once been filled with warmth and quiet understanding. Sometimes, when those eyes had darkened—heat. That one slow, purposeful look that had always got inside Sirius’s brain and squeezed, eclipsing out every other coherent thought.

He’d been provoking some variation of that look from Remus since the moment they met. But maybe it had started before that. Sirius couldn’t prove it, but he was pretty sure there was old magic in the train itself. Something subtle, like a prelude to the Sorting Hat’s wrinkled theatrics. He’d felt it the first time he stepped on board, his fingers trailing along compartment doors as he passed. Not this one. Not that one. Until one felt… close. Not perfect, but good enough to step inside.

The buzzing under his skin hadn’t stopped, though—not until Remus had walked in. Then it vanished, replaced by a quiet sort of contentment. Like the feeling of a spell clicking into place, just right.

If Sirius were the sentimental type, he might’ve said there was something binding about the first time you boarded the Hogwarts Express. That the people you started the journey with were the ones you were meant to finish it with. But he wasn’t sentimental, so he chalked it up to some trick Hogwarts liked to play. The castle was sentient enough, after all—the Hat far too annoyingly sentient—and the train was probably just an extension of that.

Cause and effect. Nothing more. Probably.

Still, the train hadn’t been the first time Sirius had received his first look. That came before, at King’s Cross.

A laugh had rung out across the platform, bright and melodic, like bells. Sirius had turned to see its source: a woman draped in a fur-lined suede jacket, her flared jeans brushing the ground. Hoop earrings that caught the light with every movement, and a dozen bangles clinking softly against her slender wrists. She’d been tall and willowy, her bohemian grace a stark contrast to his mother’s pinched severity. A Muggle, undoubtedly. And possibly the coolest person Sirius had ever laid eyes on.

Her arms were linked with a man in scholarly robes. Her whole face had lit up as she pointed around the platform, exclaiming over it like she’d stepped into another world. The couple had been young, their energy magnetic. Sirius had watched them burst through the barrier together, the man guiding the woman with his arm firmly around her as if shielding her from the stares they immediately drew.

When they parted, Sirius’s attention had shifted—and there, hidden between them, was a boy.

A Half-blood then.

Something had made Sirius look up at just the right moment, their eyes locking across the platform. The boy had the kind of presence that demanded attention even when he wasn’t trying to. Sirius hadn’t looked away, and neither had he—until the man had tapped his small shoulder, handing him a slightly battered trunk and saying something that made the boy smile.

It was a small moment, but it’d stuck with Sirius. The world had felt a little steadier, a little fuller, as though something important had clicked into place.

Somewhere behind him, the great steam engine had atonally hissed and churned, its rhythmic clanking cutting through the air. A blast of feedback had echoed intermittently, howling over the platform, while smoke from the chimney drifted past, curling like a veil and momentarily obscuring Sirius’s view.

The woman had crouched down to pull the boy into her arms, holding him fiercely, adjusting the hem of his worn robes with a care that had made Sirius want to look away. Those robes weren’t threadbare in a way that begged for pity, but in a way that had made Sirius glance down at his own pristine ones with sudden unease.

He’d absently scuffed his shoes against the gravel, trying to dull their polish, only to receive a sharp glare from his mother that made him stop. But his gaze had stayed fixed on the family—poor, but loving. Half and half but whole.

The woman had finally released the boy, but her tears weren’t for show. They’d streaked her face as she stepped back, and the man had been there immediately, wrapping her in his arms with a familiarity that spoke of a thousand similar moments. She’d forced a smile through her tears, but Sirius could see the strain of it.

The boy had taken a hesitant step away, and their eyes met again. Sirius, caught by something between admiration and mischief, had turned to his own mother and mimed the same kind of hug, his arms outstretched with mock earnestness.

The look he’d received for his efforts was nothing short of contempt.

Across the platform, the boy had rolled his eyes, the gesture so perfectly dry that Sirius couldn’t help the grin tugging at his mouth. He’d wanted to say something, to respond—but before he could, his mother’s iron grip had seized his wrist.

“Common filth,” she’d muttered under her breath, yanking him away from the scene. “Bringing Muggles into our world is bad enough. But reproducing with them?” Her lips had curled in disgust. “This country’s gone to the dogs.”

Sirius had barely heard her. He’d craned his neck to get one last look at the boy as he disappeared into the crowd.

It wasn’t until much later, after they’d boarded the train, that their paths crossed again.

By then, Sirius had met James, full of swagger and mischief. He’d met Peter, small and eager. But it wasn’t until he saw that boy again—the one he’d spotted first—that something truly fell into place.

Sirius had already been settled into a compartment on the Hogwarts Express with James and Peter. James was still lost in the aftermath of his first encounter with Lily Evans, and Sirius’s attention was elsewhere. His eyes had caught on a figure standing at the door, clearly searching for an empty spot. A boy—the boy from the platform—skinny, with a messy mop of tawny hair, and… about to leave.

Sirius’s mouth had worked faster than his brain. “What, too scared to join us?” he’d called out before he could second-guess himself. “Is it because of who I am?”

The boy had stopped, turned back, and leaned casually against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised. “Dunno. Who are you?”

“Sirius Black.”

The boy’s face didn’t change at all. He’d just tilted his head slightly and asked, cool as anything, “Is that supposed to be scary or impressive?”

And in that moment, Sirius had found himself unexpectedly liking him—so much, in fact, that he hadn’t even known what to say next.

Remus had sat quietly across from him, his gaze lost in the blur of the passing landscape outside the train window, the world passing by unnoticed. Sirius had felt the urge to ask him questions—questions he suspected Remus wouldn’t answer, not yet. There was something about the way Remus had sat there, so still, his face a mask of calm that betrayed nothing, and yet everything.

Sirius had never seen a kid, let alone an eleven-year-old, with such a weighty, unreadable expression.

At eleven, most kids wore a spark of hope or wonder in their eyes—a natural optimism—but Remus’s wasn’t there. Sirius couldn’t recall seeing that kind of look anywhere else. It wasn’t just quiet—it was weary, as though the world had already taken too much from him. It reminded Sirius of a look he’d worn himself sometimes when his mother’s punishments had made the mask slip and left him with nothing but the aftermath of what had been done.

He hadn’t known Remus then, but he’d understood him immediately. The sadness in those eyes wasn’t unfamiliar. It was something Sirius had seen before, in his own reflection. Something he didn’t know how to fix, but wanted to.

It took another few months of persistence—and all of Sirius’s patience—to crack him. Remus didn’t back down, and he sure as hell didn’t make things easy. He never had, and likely never would.

Six years hadn’t changed that. Much. What had changed was the innocence behind those jabs, the weight of those looks.

James had called it a bizarre form of foreplay, and honestly, he wasn’t wrong. Sometimes, that’s exactly what it was. Sirius would needle Remus just enough to get under his skin, then later, when they were alone, shove a knee between his legs and shut him up with a kiss that left no room for argument.

Was it subtle? Not really.

Was it effective? Absolutely.

Did Sirius miss the days when a smirk and a tilt of his head were all it took to end a fight? More than he’d admit.

He’d even take the bitter resentment that surfaced after Snape.

Because now, there was no anger or disdain, just… nothing.

Nothing was worse.

Sirius ground his teeth as he stirred the potion clockwise, his grip on the ladle tightening. He’d gotten used to the anger, the frustration. At least that had felt real, something solid he could latch onto, even if it hurt. But this? This emptiness? He didn’t even know if there was anything left to save.

He’d never been good at leaving things alone. Not the way Remus seemed to manage with such infuriating ease. Sirius needed to do something—poke, prod, provoke. Anything to get a reaction. Anything to bridge the gap, even if it meant setting the whole bridge on fire in the process. He’d never been good at leaving bridges standing—he’d burn them just to feel the heat.

But tonight, there was no bridge to set alight. No bait to dangle.

Sirius dropped a handful of crushed asphodel into the bubbling potion, watching it sink with a soft hiss. But the motion didn’t settle him. The room felt cold, yet he was suddenly suffocating with heat. He tugged at his shirt, loosening a few more buttons in a vain attempt to cool the rising tension inside him.

There was a craving gnawing at him, something maddening and elusive. A cigarette, maybe. Or the taste of smoke—licking it out of a cutting, clever mouth that drove him insane. It had been there for months, simmering beneath the surface, pulling at him. An itch he couldn’t scratch no matter how many times he gave in to the temptation. No matter how long it had been since he’d been forbidden to reach for it.

“Oi, Pads, careful!” James’s voice snapped him back to the present as a plume of smoke billowed from the cauldron. “You’re gonna blow us all up if you keep zoning out.”

Sirius grunted, stepping back and letting James take over. His hands felt restless, his chest too tight. He shoved them into his pockets, leaning against the cold stone wall as he watched the others work.

This wasn’t it. This wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want to be here, just going through the motions. He wanted… he wanted—

The thought died before it could fully form. His attention drifted back to the swirling contents of the cauldron, its surface rippling like the thoughts he couldn’t quiet.

What do you want?

The question echoed in his mind, tantalisingly low and deliberate, like it had all those months ago. But there were no warm hands to accompany it, no solid line of heat to lean forward and sink into, no heavy breathing that his next moves only made heavier. Sirius clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms.

He didn’t know what he wanted. Or maybe he did, and he just couldn’t admit it.

Because what he wanted wasn’t here anymore.

And he wasn’t sure he’d ever let himself want it again.

“What’s wrong with your face?”

Lily didn’t even blink. “What’s wrong with your self-awareness?”

The boy hesitated. “I was just curious. Cool scars usually come with cool stories. Wasn’t trying to be rude, s’just a question.”

Lily stood firm. “Maybe, but that’s not how you ask people things.”

The boy opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. The glare Lily gave him could’ve made stone look soft.

In moments like this, Remus could almost understand James’s six-year obsession.

Lily Evans was a rare combination—beautiful and completely terrifying.

Suitably chastised, the fourth-year hurried off.

Remus waited until the boy was out of earshot. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Lily said evenly, not breaking her stride as she walked on.

Remus thought of saying something more, thought better of it, and kept walking.

Neither spoke. They moved in quiet synchrony.

Then, Peeves zoomed past, spinning mid-air with a gleeful cackle.

“Ooooh, look at you! Sooo serious, so proper! Prefects, watch out! Heads up!” he sang, zooming just close enough to make Remus and Lily duck, then darting away before they could retaliate.

The poltergeist hurtled down the corridor in a whirlwind of cackles and nonsense.

“Better not look back! Back’s the way forward, forward’s the way back! Don’t look back!”

Remus and Lily rolled their eyes in near-perfect unison, then shared a smile as they caught each other’s exasperated expression. It was funny how often their reactions matched, despite their differences. Neither had much patience for nonsense, and both were unapologetically open about their irritation.

“This school’s weird sometimes,” Remus muttered.

Lily let out a quiet snort. “You’re only just noticing?”

Another soft laugh drifted through the air. Not Peeves. It sounded like two kids, barely audible, but definitely there.

Remus and Lily traded a quick glance before turning, scanning the corridor.

A second round of giggles followed, their voices blending together—light and mischievous.

Without needing to say a word, they went to work. Their eyes searched every dark corner, every door, even behind the tapestry. But the hallway remained empty.

Another laugh—closer this time—and a light tap on Remus’s shoulder. A strand of Lily’s hair shifted, as if someone was tugging at it playfully.

Lily straightened up and cast a sharp Lumos, illuminating the space around them.

Still, nothing.

Remus frowned. A Disillusionment Charm wouldn’t hold up that well, especially not one cast by what sounded like second years. If he’d heard the usual boyish chuckles, he’d have known exactly who the troublemakers were. But Sirius and James? They could barely fit under the Invisibility Cloak together anymore, and Remus had a strong feeling they were still on the other side of the castle, probably causing mayhem in the dungeons.

Another giggle echoed in the hallway, and then, just as suddenly, the invisible pranksters vanished without a trace.

Remus and Lily exchanged a resigned glance, their shared exhale somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. Like most things in the castle, it wasn’t worth the headache of investigating further.

The lanterns on the wall flickered faintly, their footsteps echoing loudly. It had been a quiet night, all things considered. A few idiots who didn’t realise Muggle fireworks were a little more dangerous than wizarding had needed accompanying to Madam Pomfrey after nearly turning their hands into high-velocity sausage meat.

Lily had asked them just what they were thinking, but Remus knew the answer: they weren’t. In his experience, idiots mixing fireworks with Firewhiskey rarely had the gift of foresight.

Lily slowed suddenly, drawing Remus’s attention.

“Has that door always been there?” she asked, her head tilted as she stared at the closed door.

Remus frowned. He’d explored nearly every inch of the castle over the years, memorising its hidden passages and quirks. No. That door hadn’t always been there.

“Well,” Lily said, brushing off her unease with a sigh, “we’re supposed to check every room, aren’t we?”

She started toward the door without waiting for an answer. It wasn’t the first time their rounds had led them into the lesser-travelled parts of the castle, though these forays usually resulted in little more than finding some pair of students sneaking off to neck on. Hardly thrilling—and not something she particularly wanted to walk in on.

But Remus didn’t follow.

He stood frozen, a cold prickle spreading across the back of his neck. Something about the door felt… wrong. As he came to a standstill at the entrance, he felt a wave of goose pimples cover his arms, a nebulous dread seemingly coming from nowhere to wrap around him. No. We shouldn’t do this…

It wasn’t fear, but suspicion—something that told him to turn around, to go back.

And yet, despite his every instinct, his foot moved forward, Lily’s flounce of red hair ahead of him a beacon in the darkness.

He walked inside and stopped, the lingering residue of magic hitting him like a wall of distorted static, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Despite the dark feeling, the room was empty and undisturbed.

It was… a normal room, with slightly balmy air and dust-covered tomes. Knickknacks were haphazardly piled up, with no discernible order. Goblets balanced precariously on crowns, and statues were scattered on mismatched furniture. Everything seemed in disarray, yet there was an eerie organisation to it all.

The door behind them slammed shut.

This isn’t good, Remus thought, as the dread of something—magic and wrongness—drifted over his skin.

“Lily,” he urged, feeling as though they were standing in the jaws of a quivering trap.

Lily turned, her eyes wide with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. But something’s not right. We need to leave.”

A darker scent—copper and earth—overwhelmed Remus’s senses, making him shudder reflexively. Carrion. It was the same smell that clung to the bloody back door of the butcher’s and haunted the murky pits of his worst nights. The same scent that had wafted chillingly from Fenrir Greyback’s breath as he climbed through Remus’s childhood window all those years ago. Death…

The feeling intensified, sharpening into something more potent as he stepped closer to the jumble of junk. That inanimate tower of nonsense seemed alive, filled with an undulating, rumbling drone and faint mutterings.

The children’s giggles returned, as if Lily and Remus had followed the trail of breadcrumbs straight to where the punchline was supposed to land.

Lily gripped his hand.

The ominous feeling dissolved suddenly, as if a bubble of tension had burst. The ringing in Remus’s ears faded—not gone, but dulled to a faint hum, leaving the room strangely muted. Every sound felt distant, muffled, as though the world had been placed under glass.

Then came the faintest rustle—a soft, rhythmic shift of fabric, as if someone unseen was moving. Both Remus and Lily turned, their movements eerily synchronised, instinct guiding them toward the source.

But the room was vacant. Just a large, ornate mirror stood against the far wall.

It was unassuming at first glance—until Remus stepped closer. Tall and imposing, its surface gleamed like water under moonlight. His breath caught as his reflection came into view—and alongside it, something else. Someone else.

It stopped him cold.

The reflection that met him was so far removed from reality it felt like a blow. His own face looked back at him, but different—lighter, brighter. Happiness radiated from him, pure and unhidden, as though every burden he had carried had been lifted.

In the mirror, he looked happy. Not the polite, measured contentment he occasionally wore in front of others, but something more intimate, more unguarded. The version of himself he’d long given up hoping for.

His gaze lingered on the other figure in the reflection, who leaned toward him with a smile so warm, so familiar, it made him want to look away and never stop looking at the same time.

“The Mirror of Erised,” Lily murmured, startling him. Her eyes were fixed on the intricate carvings along the frame. “It’s dangerous to keep in a school. I’ve read about it. They say it’s driven people mad.”

“How?” Remus asked quietly, though he had a good guess.

“It shows you your deepest desire,” Lily said softly, brushing her fingers against the inscription at the base. “The thing you want most in the world.”

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

I show not your face but your heart’s desire.

“Only the happiest person in the world would see themselves exactly as they are,” she added. There was a wistful edge to her voice, as if stating a truth too far away to be hers.

Remus swallowed hard. He knew what he was seeing wasn’t real—it couldn’t be—but that didn’t stop the way his heart kicked in his chest.

“It’s wish-fulfilling,” Lily continued. “Why choose reality if the illusion is kinder?”

Remus’s throat worked around a response, but none came. He wanted to laugh, to brush it all off as some ridiculous fairy tale. But the weight of what he saw pressed down on him, heavier than any spell.

In the mirror, his reflection laughed—a warm, easy laugh that wasn’t his own but could have been. The second figure leaned closer, his hand brushing Remus’s shoulder in a gesture so natural it was almost painful.

I love you.

The words stung, sharp and sudden, like a splinter working its way deeper under his skin.

They didn’t belong here, not in this world. And yet, in a momentary lapse of judgment, he almost believed them.

“How many years’ bad luck do you reckon you get for breaking it?” Remus asked finally, his attempt at levity brittle, cracking before it even reached the air.

Lily turned, offering him a small, knowing smile. “More than seven, I’d think. More than we’d care to risk.” Her voice softened. “But I don’t think it can be broken. It’s too powerful. Too… cruel.”

“Still worth a shot,” Remus said lightly, though the way his eyes stayed fixed on the reflection gave him away. “But I suppose the real bad luck is not being able to look away.”

In the mirror, the second figure laughed, the sound bright and carefree, the way it always was when Remus managed to get in a well-timed joke. It was perfect. Too perfect. The sound echoed in his mind, hollow, haunting.

“What do you see?” Lily asked—hesitant, curious.

“Something I’ll never have.”

The words came out before he could stop them, stripped bare of pretence.

His reflection—the happiness, the affection—felt like an undertow, pulling at him with a force he couldn’t resist. It wasn’t just a vision. It was a fantasy. Completely delusional.

For him, anyway.

It wasn’t completely unattainable for someone else. A girl, maybe.

Though his face, scar-free… well, there was no changing that. No changing being a werewolf.

His hands balled into fists at his sides as he tore his gaze away, the effort like wrenching himself from quicksand.

“We should go.”

Lily hesitated, casting one last glance at the mirror as though searching for something of her own. “It’s hard, isn’t it?” she murmured. “Seeing what you want most, knowing it’s just… a dream.”

Remus didn’t trust himself to answer. Instead, he nodded stiffly, his jaw tight.

He turned away, forcing himself to take a step, then another, away from the mirror’s lure. He couldn’t let it hold him. He couldn’t afford to.

Standing in front of the mirror felt like wallowing in self-pity… like waiting for a jump scare. The repetition of I love you started to sound less like a statement and more like a threat.

“Come on,” he said, his voice steadier now, though he couldn’t look at her. “Let’s get out of here before we get lost in it.”

Lily followed, her footsteps matching his. The echo of their steps filled the room as they left the mirror behind.

But even as they walked away, Remus felt the pull of it, like a hook lodged deep in his chest, as though part of him were still standing before it, staring at the impossible.

As they put distance between themselves and the room, the Mirror’s pull softened, fading into a dull ache—still present, but no longer overwhelming.

For a time, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching out between them.

A low, rumbling sound made Lily pause, her ears straining to catch it.

She tilted her head, listening. A faint echo of thunder rolled through the stillness. Frowning, she glanced toward the windows, expecting to see the telltale signs of a storm—darkened skies, flashes of lightning—but there was nothing. The corridors remained bathed in the same dim, warm lantern light.

Lily sighed and rubbed her eyes, writing it off as exhaustion. She’d been this tired before. Studying for her OWLs last year had left her seeing things at the edge of her vision—phantom spiders skittering across corners, only to vanish when she blinked. The memory made her mouth turn up in faint amusement. It was always the spiders that told her she’d pushed too far.

If she couldn’t see them but could feel them crawling over her skin? That meant it was definitely time to put the books down and rest.

Her eyes drifted to Remus as they walked. His expression was unreadable, too calm, as though he’d sealed something fragile behind a wall of silence. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, wasn’t even uncharacteristic—but it felt troubled.

Somewhere ahead, a loud thud broke the stillness, reverberating down the corridor. Persistent. Insistent.

Lily stopped in her tracks, her stomach knotting.

Merlin, what now?

Remus, still on guard, turned his head in unison with Lily.

The hallway stretched out before them, long and shadowed, empty save for their figures.

Lily squared her shoulders, fierce and fearless, and strode forward without hesitation.

Remus hesitated, trailing a few steps behind. He felt a twinge of guilt for letting her take the lead, but practicality won out. Someone needed to watch her back.

Besides, he had a pretty good idea of what lay ahead. He recognised that sound—the rhythm of it, the urgency. And while he wasn’t afraid of what he might find, he wasn’t keen on who he might see. Or what he might feel.

The thought turned sour in his chest: the half-lidded eyes, the hands tangled in dark hair, lips bitten raw from kisses that weren’t his. He didn’t want to see it.

And he didn’t trust himself to school his expression fast enough.

The noise grew louder as they approached—a rhythmic thud and shudder. It wasn’t hard to pinpoint the door responsible, its hinges rattling faintly in protest.

Lily didn’t pause. Reaching the source, she flung the door open with all the ceremony of a Head Girl on her last nerve. Not that she was Head Girl—yet.

Two figures tumbled out in a graceless tangle of limbs: Marcus Jones, shirt askew and trousers around his ankles, and Olivia Spencer, hastily clutching her unbuttoned blouse.

Remus released a slow breath of relief, only for it to be replaced by a sharp inhale of secondhand embarrassment. He turned his head away immediately, rubbing the back of his neck. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had been happening—or to note that Lily had interrupted it at the worst possible moment.

Marcus stumbled upright, making no effort to cover himself. Olivia, at least, had the decency to look embarrassed as she straightened her clothes, hiking her skirt back down.

Lily folded her arms, the picture of unimpressed authority. Her eyes flicked from Marcus to Olivia, and she sighed.

“Really, Jones?” she said, her voice cool. “Of all the places in the castle, you thought this was a good idea?”

Marcus stumbled to his feet, still struggling with his trousers. “Come on, Evans. Fun police much?”

“Curfew,” she replied crisply. “And maybe find somewhere a little less obvious next time.”

She didn’t wait for a response, closing the door in his face with a firm click.

Remus’s mind drifted, snagging on her words, unravelling a set of memories he hadn’t meant to revisit.

A broom closet’s hardly the smartest place, you know.

Lucky for you, I’ve got intimate knowledge of every dark corner of this castle. I know all the popular spots—and the ones where we won’t get interrupted.

Oh, right. Lucky me.

Is that jealous sarcasm or disbelieving sarcasm? Because, don’t get me wrong, I happen to like both…

Remus blinked, trying to shake off the memories of all the times Sirius had waited for him at the end of this hall. He could almost see him there now, leaning casually against the wall. Worse, he could feel him there—the phantom warmth of Sirius’s breath against his neck, the sound of his voice low and teasing in his ear. And it wasn’t as if it had ever taken much convincing for Sirius to pull him away then. It was the same now—he was trapped in the memory before he could even try to resist.

Remus barely had time to register Sirius standing across the corridor, leaning lazily yet somehow radiating restless energy, before Sirius was striding toward him. His eyes were dark, intent, and the set of his jaw made it clear he was done waiting. The students milling in the corridor barely seemed to exist to him.

Remus raised an eyebrow, but any question he might’ve asked stayed unspoken—he didn’t have the time. He was still fumbling to shove his books into his bag when Sirius reached out, plucked them from his hands, and tucked them under one arm.

With his other hand, Sirius grabbed Remus by the waist, his fingers curling firmly around his hip as he steered him with purpose toward the nearest shadowed corner.

Remus didn’t argue. He didn’t even think to.

His back hit the wall a moment later. His books hit the floor.

And then Sirius was kissing him—rough and desperate, their teeth nearly clashing from the force of it.

The world narrowed.

Remus didn’t hesitate. His hands found their way into Sirius’s hair, pulling him closer, matching the fervour like they’d done this a hundred times before. Like they didn’t know how to stop.

A burst of laughter from a group of passing students cut through the haze of heat and urgency.

“Wait,” Remus managed, though he didn’t loosen his grip. He held Sirius close, even as he tried to pull back. “Wait. Stop.”

Sirius leaned back, barely, his breath warm against Remus’s lips. “What?”

Remus tilted his head toward the hallway, voice dry. “The broom closet is infinitely better than this.”

That earned him a wicked grin. Sirius leaned in again, nipping at the side of his neck like he hadn’t heard a word. “Dunno,” he murmured, hands wandering. “This is pretty fun.”

The jolt that shot through Remus and the way his pulse picked up seemed to agree. Practicality, however, did not.

Remus exhaled sharply, part exasperation, part something else. “Not when I can make eye contact with McGonagall, it’s not.”

Sirius sighed as he pulled back, his expression equal parts amused and calculating, before suddenly spinning them around. Now it was Remus with his back to the statue instead, the towering stone bust shielding him from view.

Sirius stepped back just enough to look smug about it.

“How about now?” he asked. Then, with a small smirk and an exaggerated appraising glance over Remus’s shoulder, he added, “I’ve got no problem with facing Minnie, honestly.”

Remus groaned, letting his head fall back against the cool stone as he took in the sight before him: Sirius, grinning like the troublemaker he so clearly was, looking far too pleased with himself.

In moments like this, Sirius seemed untouchable—invincible, like there was nothing in the world that could ever hold him down. And yet, here he was, letting Remus pretend, if only for a moment, that he had any real power over him. That he could hold his ground against the force that was Sirius Black.

As though he had any real claim on him.

As if sensing the shift in his thoughts, Sirius leaned in closer, so close that Remus could feel the heat radiating off him, the press of his body through their robes. He could see the depth of Sirius’s eyes—more black than grey now, pupils dilated—and follow the sharp line of his jaw up to his lips. For just a second, Remus remembered how it felt, how that mouth had felt against his own.

Sirius was well aware of how attractive he was, and Remus would never be stupid enough to tell him outright just how much he liked what he saw. Doing so would only inflate his ego further, and Merlin knew Sirius didn’t need any more of that.

Still, it didn’t stop his pulse from racing or his heart from stumbling over itself every time Sirius’s attention honed in on him, leaving him momentarily breathless, as if it was the first time.

When Sirius finally pulled his gaze away from their pretend focus on McGonagall, it was like something shifted. His eyes softened, the teasing edge gone as they settled back on Remus. There was something there, a quiet kind of expectation lingering, waiting for Remus to acknowledge it.

The hands idly playing with the ends of Remus’s untucked shirt drifted higher, tracing absently across his bare stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps. Then they wrapped back around Remus’s hips, tugging lightly at his belt loops in a not-so-subtle invitation to come closer.

He was an absolute menace.

The look on Sirius’s face was downright infuriating—genuine, confident, and completely sure of himself, like he’d just won some game Remus hadn’t even known they were playing. It was in the way he leaned in, just a little too close, testing the space between them but not closing it.

It made him impossible to ignore, like a dare.

It was a look that said: You’re the holdup here. I’d very happily still have my tongue in your mouth.

Your move, Moony.

Remus rolled his eyes, fighting the urge to laugh. “We’re not doing this here,” he said firmly, though the resolve in his voice was already weakening.

Sirius didn’t move. He didn’t need to. A simple, “Aren’t we?” worked.

Almost.

Remus’s laugh finally escaped, a soft thing that vibrated in the space between them.

Sirius smiled.

“Well, you didn’t give me much of a choice before you decided to come attack me,” Remus pointed out.

Sirius shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “Felt the need, couldn’t wait—waiting’s the worst.”

It came with another look that said: You’re also incidentally making me wait.

Remus struggled to keep his smile away. Or his hands.

“C’mon. Five minutes.”

“Five minutes?” Remus lifted an eyebrow, sceptical as their faces hovered close again. “Really? Not sure if that’s worth my time.”

“That’s all it takes. Take the compliment, Moons. You’re just apparently the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” Sirius’s grin grew wider as he looked Remus over, eyes gleaming. “Especially when you get all embarrassed. That definitely does it for me.”

“The ego boost?”

“No, affecting you.”

“Right, so you’re definitely not here bothering me because the girls have decided none of them like you this week?”

The hand on Remus’s hip stilled its dangerous trail.

“No, I’m here to bother you because I like seeing you bothered.”

Remus shot him a look that was supposed to be stern, but considering the flush creeping up his neck, it didn’t quite carry the power it should have. He shifted closer, half-burying his face in Sirius’s neck to hide the red in his cheeks. When he pulled back just enough to speak, he muttered, “You’ve made your point. Stop it.”

“Yeah… just like that. Three minutes if you keep looking at me like that.”

Lily’s sharp tone sliced through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present. Remus shook his head, warmth seeping away as the chill of the corridor rushed back in.

“Wrap it up and get back to your dorms,” she called over her shoulder as she turned away, her voice cutting through the wood like a blade.

But Marcus wasn’t done. The door swung open again, and he leaned lazily against the frame, his smirk doing little to help his case of misplaced confidence. His gaze raked over Lily, lingering in a way that made Remus’s fingers curl into fists at his sides.

Marcus was a Beater, one of James’s teammates, and unfortunately, also a bit of a tool. Even so, he should’ve known better than to mess with Lily.

James wouldn’t just kick him off the team; he’d leave him bruised and Beaten.

“Hey, Evans. You know, if you’re interested, there’s room for one more—”

He didn’t finish. Lily’s glare froze the words in his throat.

Remus winced. There was a precision to Lily’s disdain, like the sharp edge of a scalpel. He couldn’t help but think James had been profoundly lucky to survive his earlier years intact—or at least without Lily hexing him into oblivion.

Behind Marcus, Olivia emerged, fully dressed and stone-faced. She didn’t look at him as she passed but slapped his arm hard enough to make him stumble.

“Liv, come on,” Marcus called after her, laughing awkwardly. “It was a joke!”

Olivia didn’t so much as glance back, her ponytail swishing as she marched off.

Lily tilted her head at Marcus, her tone as frosty as her glare. “Word of advice: if you’re the only one laughing, it’s not a joke.”

Marcus turned to Remus, perhaps hoping for backup, but Remus only leaned against the wall, raising an eyebrow. His shrug was small but eloquent: You’re on your own, mate.

Grumbling under his breath, Marcus yanked his trousers up properly and trudged off in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.

The corridor fell silent again.

Lily turned to Remus, her lips twitching faintly, though her exhaustion showed in the slump of her shoulders. “Come on. Just one more floor to check, then we’re done for the night. Thank Merlin.”

Remus blinked, then nodded, falling into step beside her.

For only a passing moment, he found himself looking back at the lion statue, the familiar figure standing sentinel in the hallway. He didn’t expect to see anyone there, but the absence hit him harder than he anticipated. The statue was just stone: still and silent, cold and indifferent. No maddening boys, no hidden glances.

He turned away, pushing the thoughts aside, his feet carrying him forward.

He knew what the mirror had promised. Or rather, he knew what it hadn’t. And he knew better than to entertain the messy notion of ‘what ifs’—the things that had been, might’ve been and, more painfully, of things that never would be again.

But where did that leave them?

Lily’s words echoed in his mind, simple but clear: Then you decide if that’s enough. For both of you.

It was late when Remus finally slipped back into the dormitory, the door creaking softly as he pushed it open. He entered quietly, the room dimly lit by moonlight filtering through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. The others were asleep—James and Peter sprawled out on their beds, the faint sound of soft snores breaking the silence. They had clearly managed without him: James’s trunk sat open, the Marauder’s Map resting casually on top of it, and a few vials of potion for the next morning’s prank scattered nearby.

The potions, midnight blue, were the right shade, at least.

But Sirius was awake, sitting at the edge of his bed, his posture tense as though waiting for something—or someone. The air felt heavy, as if the room had been holding its breath for this moment.

Remus paused just inside the door, his gaze sharp, assessing. “Hey,” he said softly, careful in his approach as he tried to gauge Sirius’s mood. “You’re still up?”

Sirius’s eyes slid toward him, his face unreadable. “Yeah,” he replied, quiet. Far too quiet. “How were your rounds?”

Remus took a step further into the room, sensing the underlying tension. “They were fine,” he said, keeping his answer neutral, unsure of where this conversation would lead.

Sirius gave a brief, stiff nod. “Good.”

The silence that followed stretched, uncomfortable and oppressive. Remus shifted, uncertain how to break it. This wasn’t their usual, easy quiet—it felt heavier, loaded.

Sirius didn’t speak again, his gaze distant. Remus couldn’t help but notice the restlessness in his posture—the way he fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, how his fingers kept tapping the edge of his bed. It was the kind of quiet that made Remus’s chest tighten. The sort that only came when Sirius was genuinely troubled.

And the worst part? Remus knew it was his fault.

After a moment of indecision, Remus gave a slight nod toward the door. His hand slid into his pocket, retrieving something familiar. The motion was almost instinctual—a small gesture, one he knew Sirius would never refuse.

Smoke? he silently offered, his hands moving with purpose. Sirius’s eyes flickered with recognition. He didn’t hesitate—already on his feet and heading toward the door. No words needed. 

They slipped out the dorm together, past the common room, down the hall, and into one of the open spaces overlooking the grounds. The only light came from the lanterns lining the walls as they passed, casting a muted glow on the stone floor. The stars were hidden tonight, and even the half-moon seemed reluctant to shine, half-obscured by clouds. The night felt too big, too heavy, for anything else to break through.

They leaned against the ledge together, the cold night air seeping through their clothes. Standing close for warmth felt like the natural thing to do, even though they both knew how to conjure a warming spell.

They both knew the wandless trick for the next part too, yet no magic was needed. Instead, Remus pulled out a Zippo lighter, its familiar click echoing softly. Lighting the cigarette the Muggle way felt right—something tactile to focus on, something to do with their hands. And when their fingers brushed as the lighter passed between them, it felt like a small tether to reality. 

Neither of them said anything. The night stretched between them like an unbroken thread. Two cigarettes passed in silence, the only sounds the faint crackle of burning embers and the steady inhale and exhale of smoke.

It wasn’t until the second cigarette had burned down to a stub that Sirius finally spoke, his voice rough, as if he’d been holding something back.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” he said, not looking at Remus. His voice wasn’t dismissive like earlier that day—just low, careful. “Try to fix things, I mean. I’m not broken.”

Remus’s expression eased, and he released a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. He studied Sirius for a moment, then said, “I know you’re not. But sometimes, I need to be sure.”

Sirius didn’t respond at first, just took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a shield. When he finally looked over at Remus, his eyes were still shadowed, but the tension in his shoulders had relaxed, just enough for it to feel less like he was hiding.

“Yeah,” he muttered, a soft half-smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “I suppose that’s the thing with us, isn’t it? Always needing to be sure.”

Remus smiled faintly, offering a shrug. “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing.”

For a while, neither of them spoke again. The sounds of the night settled around them, everyone else in the castle feeling miles away. The strain between them felt like some far-off war.

But, of course, things weren’t really resolved between them. They never were. Even when, for a moment, they could both pretend. Pretend they didn’t need to be sure of the small things. Pretend that made up for how they were both so unsure of the big ones. Pretend they weren't so painfully unsure when it came to each other.

Sirius glanced at him, the smirk that usually masked everything slipping for just a moment. “I’m fine, though. Really. Don’t make it a thing.”

“Just checking,” Remus said lightly, as if it didn’t matter whether Sirius wanted the concern or not. He was stuck with it.

The wind whistled past them, and the distant hoot of owls above mixed with the creak of the castle, filling the corridor. In the distance, the faint murmur of the Forbidden Forest could be heard, creatures that only came out at night stirring. Then, almost too quietly to catch, Sirius said, “You always are.”

Remus opened his mouth to respond, but Sirius had already closed himself off again, looking away as if nothing had happened.

Remus stared at his side profile for a beat, that familiar twist of confusion and fondness settling in his chest. He exhaled, shaking his head as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

Whatever it was, Sirius would open up when he was ready—or he wouldn’t. That was just how things went between them.

After Remus flicked the end of his cigarette away, Sirius tilted his head toward him.

Remus raised an eyebrow, trying not to look as apprehensive as he felt from the way Sirius’s gaze bore into him.

“We can’t keep avoiding this,” Sirius said suddenly, his tone uncharacteristically serious. The words made Remus’s blood freeze. “We need to talk about it.”

It wasn’t entirely surprising—Sirius had been pushing for this conversation—but it was still unexpected. Remus had promised they’d talk more about it, but if he were honest, he hadn’t planned to follow through. He hadn’t thought Sirius would want to.

That was Sirius, though. All gas, no breaks. Didn’t understand the meaning of slow or easing into things once he knew where he wanted to go.

Remus swallowed, the dryness in his throat more than just from the cold. He knew Sirius was right, but the thought of reopening old wounds made him uneasy. It wasn’t that things could get worse; it was that they might both finally realise there was no fixing what was broken.

“I know,” Remus replied, his voice steadier than he’d expected. “But I’m not sure I’m ready to face it yet.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened, and the flash of frustration in his eyes was hard to miss. “We can’t just keep pretending it isn’t there.”

“I’m not pretending,” Remus shot back, defensiveness creeping in. “I’m just… still trying to make sense of everything.”

Sirius held his gaze, not backing down. “How long is that going to take?”

Remus’s patience wore thin. “I don’t know!” His words came out sharp, taut with all the unsaid things neither of them were ready to unpack. “I’m trying, okay? But I can’t just switch things off like you can.”

He regretted it the moment it left his lips. Regretted that anger was always his first weapon when he felt cornered, trapped.

A heavy silence settled between them—thick and uncomfortable, unfriendly. Remus could feel the tension, all the sharp words they’d stored up for each other simmering just beneath the surface.

But Sirius didn’t take the bait. “Is that what you think? That I can just stop caring? That I’ve ever stopped caring about you?”

Remus’s gaze shifted, reluctant but honest. “Sometimes,” he said quietly.

“Is this still about last term?” Sirius asked, almost too low to hear. “Because I thought… I thought you’d moved on.”

Remus didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted past Sirius, settling on something in the distance, too dark to focus on. He was tired—tired of the same conversations, the same unresolved feelings, the same fights that led nowhere. He wasn’t ready for this now. Maybe he’d never be.

But Sirius waited, impossible and relentless as ever.

“Listen,” Remus said at last, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “The argument today was stupid. I was out of line, and I regret it. I’ll take responsibility for that. But you need to understand—things might never go back to how they were. That’s just the reality. And that’s the best I can offer. If that’s not enough for you…” He paused, meeting Sirius’s eyes. “Maybe we’re better off not being friends anymore, Pads. Because I can’t keep doing this.”

Sirius opened his mouth, but Remus raised a hand, stopping him.

“I don’t want to hear it tonight,” Remus said softly, sounding drained enough that Sirius didn’t interrupt. “Just… take some time to think about it, alright? This isn’t an argument or an ultimatum. It’s just… a possible way forward. I don’t want to keep making you unhappy, or being the reason you’re unhappy. And that’s… all I’ve been doing lately.”

For once, Sirius was silent. He didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t true. But it wasn’t completely false, either.

“Moony,” he began, unsure of where he was even going. His voice abandoned him halfway through, as if it knew whatever was about to leave his lips was a spectacularly bad idea. “I—”

“Don’t,” Remus interrupted, gentler now but no less firm. He looked up at Sirius, his expression a careful mask of calm that didn’t quite extend to his eyes, which were unbearably expressive. “Don’t say anything like that unless you mean it. They’re not magic words, Pads. There’s many magic words in the world… but those aren’t one of them. They won’t work on me.”

Sirius swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat like a stone. He wanted to argue, to reach for him, but Remus’s gaze pinned him in place. There was a quiet plea there, a warning wrapped in weariness.

The tension stretched, thin and brittle, until Sirius finally nodded. “Alright,” he murmured. He took a step back, giving Remus the space he clearly needed, though it felt like retreating from a battle he didn’t know how to win.

More quiet rushed in, filling the vast space between them.

It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence now—it was something more painful.

Remus eventually broke it, his voice quiet, almost resigned. “It’s late. We should get back.”

The finality in his tone felt like a door closing. Sirius slowly shut his eyes, his throat tight as he nodded, unable to muster a response.

Remus turned, his steps slow, deliberate. Sirius followed, his own movements heavy with everything left unsaid. The walk back to the dormitory was suffocating in its quiet. The space between them felt immeasurable, though they stood only a few feet apart.

When they reached the door, Remus hesitated, his hand resting on the knob. Without looking back, he said, “Goodnight, Pads.”

Sirius stared at his back, a hundred responses on the tip of his tongue, none of them right. “Goodnight, Moony,” he said finally.

Remus slipped inside, and the door clicked shut behind him.

And just like that, he was gone, disappearing into the night with only the faint scent of books and smoke lingering in his wake.

Sirius stood there for a moment, staring blankly at the wood grain. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms, before turning away. The corridor felt colder now, emptier, as if Remus had taken all traces of warmth with him.

He exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. The ache in his chest told him to chase after him, to do something reckless, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to go back inside. Not yet.

Instead, Sirius found himself wandering once more, the castle corridors stretching endlessly ahead. His mind raced with every possible scenario, every argument, every plea that might undo what had just happened. Anything to stop Remus ever thinking the solution was for them to leave each other. To take back the idea that they might not even be friends anymore.

But no matter how far he walked, he came up empty. He still didn’t know what he wanted. And worse, he didn’t know if he deserved to want anything at all.

Lily woke to the sound of laughter—loud, obnoxious laughter that made her instinctively roll over and bury her face in her pillow. It was too early for this. Too early for any noise that wasn’t the usual hum of the castle settling in the morning.

But the laughter persisted. After a long, heavy sigh, she reluctantly raised a hand to shield her face as light spilled in. Her limbs felt sluggish, heavy, as though she’d been asleep for days. A strange scent filled the air—earthy, with a touch of spice, something musky with a fresh edge. It was oddly familiar, yet miles away from the floral and vanilla traces that usually clung to her sheets. Smoke mingled with the faint tang of old books, layered beneath the sharper notes of mint and pine—like inhaling winter air after chewing on a peppermint.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open. The bed curtains were right in front of her, tightly drawn shut, like some kind of self-imposed barrier. She blinked, trying to make sense of the fog in her brain. She had to get up, see what Mary and Marlene were up to, maybe grab a shower, do her hair, finish that Charms essay—nothing unusual. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing she couldn’t handle.

But when she pulled back the curtains, the scene that greeted her sent a chill straight through her.

This wasn’t her dorm.

And those definitely weren’t her dormmates.

And most certainly, the half-naked James Potter—towel slung low around his hips, his bare torso gleaming in the morning light as he emerged from the bathroom, a cloud of steam clinging to him—wasn’t at all who she was expecting to see first thing in the morning.

His hair was still damp, droplets hitting his chest like he had just stepped out of a dream. The kind Lily would sooner die than admit she’d ever woken up from in the middle of the night—sheets tangled around her legs, pulse racing. The kind that started and finished in the Quidditch locker room. Sometimes multiple times.

Lily barely had time to process before she almost let out a yelp, her cheeks flaming hot. Her hands flew to her face, desperate to shield herself from the sight as if by not looking at them, they couldn’t see her—wishing she could simply disappear.

This couldn’t be real. It had to be a nightmare.

Sirius waved a hand in front of her face, snapping her out of her stupor.

“What’s with you?”

She blinked, her eyes slowly reopening to find Sirius far too close, his face hovering near hers as he peered at her with those all-too-observant grey eyes. Sirius had always been… well, Sirius—charming, bold, the kind of person who would crowd into your space without thinking twice. But this? This was different. His eyes weren’t teasing, weren’t mocking. There was something in them that felt a little too much like he was seeing right through her. Or trying his best to.

She swallowed hard, trying not to breathe too deeply as if his proximity might suffocate her. It felt wrong.

And yet, her body seemed to react differently, like it wasn’t in her control. More acutely aware of him, more aware of everything. The simple act of Sirius leaning in felt like a violation of personal space, too intimate in a way that made her stomach churn. She wasn’t used to being this close to him. She wasn’t used to him looking at her like this.

She scrambled backward, almost hitting her head on the headboard as she retreated behind the safety of the curtains. Sirius, oblivious to her discomfort—or perhaps pretending to be—turned his attention to buttoning his robes, leaving a few undone, because of course he did.

Then Lily’s gaze dropped to her hands. Familiar, yes—but not hers. Larger, rougher, the fingers longer, with faint scars scattered across the skin. Remus’s hands. Her shoulders felt too broad, her limbs too long. Remus’s limbs! Merlin!

“Oi, don’t even start,” James grumbled from the bathroom doorway. “Let Moony wake up properly before you start getting on his case. Merlin knows he never wakes up on the right side of the bed.”

Lily hadn’t even woken up in the right bed.

She was, currently, Moony. Somehow. Which meant Remus was… where?

Leaning against the bedpost, Sirius regarded her quietly for a moment as Lily tried to calm down, pulling herself together despite her heart thudding so loudly in her ears.

“Yeah, it’s too early to be annoying already,” Peter chimed in, scowling at Sirius before tossing something across the room. Was that a Sticking Snake?

“Nearly took off half my leg hair,” Peter continued, rubbing the tender spot on his leg as he adjusted his trousers. “Appreciate it, mate.”

Sirius, never one to be easily thrown off, ducked the snake with a roll of his eyes before stepping away from Remus’s bed and flashing the room a shrug. “Can’t help what I am.”

“Right, but sometimes it’s hard to accept you as you are,” Lily muttered before she could stop herself—forgetting she currently wasn’t even herself. She froze at the sound of her voice, deeper than she was used to, vibrating through her throat like a strange echo. It startled her all over again.

Sirius stiffened, his expression tightening with something almost hurt, though not surprised, before letting out a resigned sigh. “Fair enough.”

James, ever the quick one to lighten the mood, let out a loud laugh, the sound so bright it immediately cut through the tension. “Don’t listen to him, Padfoot. Some of us appreciate your particular brand of annoying.”

Lily relaxed slightly as Sirius’s lips twitched. James had always laughed loud enough for Sirius never to notice who didn’t. Except, Remus had always been the exception for him, hadn’t he? She’d have to be more careful until she found him and fixed this mess.

Peter hesitated before adding his own two cents. “Yeah… yeah, we do,” though he cast a worried glance at Lily.

But Lily wasn’t paying attention anymore. Not to him. Not to Sirius.

Across the room, James had dropped his towel and was casually pulling on his robes.

And Lily forgot how to breathe.

Definitely a nightmare. It had to be.

Sirius threw her another sharp, impatient look, his fingers drumming against the bedpost with a restlessness that made Lily wonder if he might actually snap his fingers in front of her face again.

He moved closer, stepping deliberately into her line of sight and blocking James from view. Lily wasn’t sure if it was intentional or if she should be grateful. Before she could decide, Sirius’s eyes narrowed, as though he were trying to read her mind.

“Well?” he said, the tap-tap-tap of his fingers picking up tempo. “Are you coming or what? Because as adorable as you look right now, Moons, I reckon you should probably get dressed.”

Lily went still, the suggestion landing like a punch. He was, unfortunately, right. The soft sleep jumper and plaid pyjama bottoms she was wearing weren’t exactly school uniform-approved. But the thought of undressing in front of them—of stripping Remus’s body in front of them—was mortifying. Even if it wasn’t her body, the very idea made her stomach churn.

Cheeks flaming, she forced herself to reply as primly as possible, “I’ll follow. I just need to shower first.”

“No time,” Sirius said briskly, folding his arms. “Just get dressed.”

Her eyes darted around until they landed on Remus’s wand, resting on the bedside counter. Ignoring how unnatural it felt to hold someone else’s wand—or to cast magic in someone else’s skin—she whispered, “Tempus,” watching as the time shimmered into view.

Sirius, unfortunately, was right again.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” she blurted, the words spilling out in a rush of indignation and panic.

James, already halfway dressed in his shirt and trousers, grinned. “Good one, Moony,” he said with a chuckle, warm and teasing. “We all value our lives too much for that.”

Lily ignored James. Ignored Sirius. Ignored the image now seared into her mind of James’s naked body catching the morning light as though it had been charmed to gleam. Her movements were quick, almost frantic, as she stood, her knees unsteady, and grabbed the fresh set of robes draped over Remus’s trunk. Merlin, Remus was tall. She felt far too high off the ground. She hid her stumble with a small stretch and a yawn.

Sirius was still staring.

Without another word, she strode to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with more force than necessary.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, watching her retreat without moving from his spot.

“What’s with him?” she heard him mutter to James as the door clicked shut.

“Dunno,” James responded, the sound muffled. “What’ve you done?”

“Why does everyone always think I’ve done something?”

James gave him a doubtful look. “You really have a way of pushing his buttons, don’t you?”

Sirius shrugged, flopping down in the chair in the corner as they waited for Remus to emerge. “What are friends for?”

“Sure,” James said slyly. “But are you sure it’s just your friend you’re trying to impress?”

For once, Sirius didn’t have a snappy comeback. Instead, he picked up his wand and tapped it against the table, the rhythm slow and thoughtful.

James didn’t press further. Sirius hated being backed into a corner.

Peter yawned loudly, breaking the silence as he shoved on his shoes. “What’s everyone on about?”

“Nothing,” James and Sirius said in unison, their tones entirely unconvincing.

“Right,” Peter muttered, rooting through his bedside table for his books. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to know.”

Luckily for him, Sirius wasn’t in the mood to share. He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the door Remus had locked himself behind moments earlier. The amused smirk returned, softer now, more private. And beneath that, almost… sad.

He tapped his wand against the bedside table again, the beat steady, like the rhythm of a heart.

Finally alone, Lily’s mask of calm dropped. She leaned against the solid wood for a moment, trying to collect herself.

The bathroom was warmer than expected, still humid from James’s earlier shower. The mirror was fogged, the faint scent of soap lingering in the air. Lily hesitated, her gaze falling to the sink. A small lineup of toothbrushes greeted her, but which one was Remus’s?

One brush had bristles so flattened it looked like it had survived a war. Sirius’s, probably. She huffed, casting a quick tooth-cleaning charm instead. The taste of mint filled her mouth, clean and oddly comforting. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. The thought of using someone else’s toothbrush—even while occupying their body—was a step too far. A new one would need to be purchased. At least, if she was still stuck like this tonight.

Her gaze flicked toward the neatly folded clothes, and she wasted no time changing. The awkwardness hit in waves as she avoided looking too closely at Remus’s body—her body now, apparently. Broad, lean, surprisingly strong-looking. Her face burned hotter with every accidental glimpse, and she was profoundly thankful he hadn’t drunk much water last night, sparing her from any further indignities.

But then, as she pulled on a fresh shirt, her eyes caught on something in the mirror. Scars. They crisscrossed his back in a way that made her stomach sink. Some looked faded, like they’d been there for years; others, fresher, harsher. Her breath caught, her chest tightening. How had she never noticed? They must have been hidden under layers of clothes, kept deliberately out of sight.

Lily didn’t linger—she couldn’t—but the sight lingered anyway.

Fully dressed, she took a moment to steady herself. She stepped closer to the mirror, meeting her reflection. Wide amber eyes stared back, her—his—face still flushed, hair thoroughly dishevelled. She looked half-wild, her expression betraying the madness she felt.

A loud knock at the door startled her.

“Did you drown in there?”

Sirius.

Lily closed her eyes, exhaling slowly, and forced her face into something resembling composure. She opened the door, stepping out with what she hoped was a neutral smile. “Shall we?”

James and Sirius exchanged a look. James shrugged and headed for the door, leaving Sirius hanging back.

“You good?” he asked. His voice was casual, but his eyes searched her face like he was looking for cracks, a bit of concern clouding the playful glint in them.

No, she wasn’t good. She was trapped in the wrong body, stuck in the boys’ dormitory, and surrounded by the most infuriating people she knew. But she bit back the tirade building in her chest and forced herself to nod.

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth, brushing past him.

If Sirius caught the edge in her voice, he didn’t say anything. But the way he watched her as they left made her feel like he might not have believed her.

Lily was right.

As they descended the staircase, she heard Sirius sigh lowly behind her.

“If this is about last night—”

Lily shot him a glance over her shoulder, resisting the urge to snap at him to just go away. But something in Sirius’s expression gave her pause. He looked… tentative. Dare she say careful?

Lily didn’t like it. Sirius Black had never once been careful a day in his life.

“What about last night?” she asked, genuinely confused.

Sirius’s expression shut down, his features hardening as though a switch had been flipped.

“Right,” he muttered, the word tight with frustration. “Right.”

Lily opened her mouth to respond, but before she could get a word out, Sirius had already turned away. He quickened his pace, his stride unbothered and his laughter easy as he clapped James on the back, sliding seamlessly into their usual banter as though the moment hadn’t even happened.

Lily let out a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. This was a mess. What on earth had she and Remus gotten themselves into?

Did Sirius know Remus well enough to notice something was off? Unquestionably. Did Lily know him well enough to play the part convincingly? The odds were grim. Sure, she understood his habits—they were friends, after all—but that didn’t mean she could replicate the nuances of him. She knew enough to get by. Enough to realise how much she didn’t know. Enough to understand that she’d never even scratched the surface of him.

In short, she was screwed.

Ahead of her, the others carried on, their laughter echoing across the corridor as they discussed their latest scheme with the kind of brash energy she could never attempt to keep up with.

James paused mid-stride, glancing back over his shoulder. His gaze traced over her for a moment—searching, measuring—but whatever he found didn’t seem to worry him. He grinned, that annoyingly perfect grin—the one that could only mean trouble. The one that since last year, had started to make Lily’s heart skip in a way that had nothing to do with logic.

“Oi, Moony! Keep up! The potion’s got a time delay, yeah, but not enough for you to be dragging your feet. We’re eating before we bolt, and Pete’s a nightmare if he skips a meal.”

Peter’s stomach let out a loud, grumbling protest, as if on cue.

“I’m a growing lad,” he said defensively, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, Wormy, growing,” Sirius repeated, emphasising the last word with a poke at Peter’s stomach that earned him an audible clap to the back of the head from James.

Lily rolled her eyes, then sighed, forcing herself forward to catch up with the rest of the group.

Fifteen minutes. She’d only had the Marauders for fifteen minutes, and already she was counting down the seconds until she could hand them all back.

By the time Remus stepped into the Great Hall, he was done. Completely, utterly done. He’d spent half the morning wrestling with Lily’s hair—how did she keep it so shiny and tangle-free?—and the other half trying to navigate a wardrobe that clearly hated him. The skirt he’d grabbed had to be last year’s; it barely brushed mid-thigh, leaving far too much of Lily’s pale, smooth legs on display.

Someone was going to dress-code him before lunch. If Lily didn’t murder him first.

Honestly, he’d allowed himself a brief (and reasonable) moment of panic—about two minutes—before deciding to just get up and handle it. Remus turned into a wolf once a month; forced transformations were nothing new. A werewolf? Unpleasant, sure, but something he was used to. Waking up as a teenage girl, though? That was something else altogether. Terrifying.

“Careful, Evans,” Marlene had whistled as Remus escaped the girls’ dormitory, dignity barely intact. “Those legs might start a riot.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Even Kingsley Shacklebolt, Head Boy, had raised an eyebrow as he passed—though he hadn’t written Remus up.

“Oi, Evans! Nice legs!”

The call came from a table of seventh-year Slytherins. Remus turned just in time to catch Sebastian Trevor leaning back lazily, a smirk stretching across his face. “When can I get in between them?”

Remus froze. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned back.

Heat rose to his cheeks—anger or humiliation, he wasn’t sure which. The key to not getting your arse handed to you was knowing who could actually hand it to you. And as a petite 5’6” girl staring down a 6-foot prat, Remus wasn’t feeling especially optimistic.

Though the girl part helped some. Sure, a Slytherin would taunt and jeer at a Mudblood, but they wouldn’t actually hit a girl. At least, not in public where their reputation could get stained.

But Lily’s reputation was also on the line.

Still, Remus’s hand was already curling into a fist before he could think better of it.

He took a step forward, arm drawing back, prepared to swing—

And stopped.

Something caught his wrist with infuriating ease. He barely had time to register the grip before he was hauled backward, feet leaving the ground entirely.

“Whoa, Evans. Take it easy,” a low voice muttered behind him.

Remus froze again, this time for an entirely different reason. He knew that voice. He knew the strength in the arms holding him, too.

Sirius.

He wriggled free, elbowing until his feet hit solid ground again. Spinning around, he looked up—and up—and swallowed hard. Since when had Sirius been this tall?

“Alright,” Sirius said, still holding him lightly by the waist as though afraid he’d lunge again. “What did Trevor say?”

Remus stiffened. His throat worked around the words he didn’t want to say. “Nothing worth repeating.”

Sirius tilted his head. “Something James would punch him for?”

Reluctantly, Remus nodded.

“Right.” Sirius turned, no hesitation, and clocked Trevor square in the nose.

The Slytherin yelped, clutching his face, but before he could recover, Sirius had his wand out, muttering, “Confundo.”

Trevor blinked rapidly, his scowl dissolving into vacant confusion.

Remus stood rooted to the spot, too stunned to react as Sirius grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the Great Hall.

“First rule,” Sirius said, grinning as they reached the corridor, “don’t get caught at the scene of a crime.”

Remus blinked at him.

“Seriously?”

He was fairly certain that rule didn’t apply when the entire Slytherin table had served as eyewitnesses. And they would snitch. Sirius had approximately as long as it took McGonagall to track him down before he’d be punished. So, four hours at most. They had Transfiguration this afternoon.

It might’ve gone differently if James had thrown the punch. Everyone knew McGonagall had a soft spot for him, letting him off the hook far more easily than the rest of them combined. Or it could turn out differently still if Dumbledore was the first to hear about it. Dumbledore had always had a particular fondness for Sirius, though he tried to keep it under wraps. Remus once overheard him admit it was because Sirius reminded him of someone he’d known as a young man, someone who had chosen a very different path than the one Sirius walked. There’d been a touch of wistfulness in his voice—a sentiment Sirius shamelessly exploited whenever it suited him.

Sirius leaned casually against the wall, his grin irreverent. “What? You’re James’s girl. I’m not about to let you go down for some idiot who deserved it. Besides, James would’ve killed me if I let you get your delicate hands dirty.”

Remus bristled. Lily would hex him for calling her James’s anything, but correcting him felt like too much effort. Instead, he settled for an annoyed, “You didn’t have to swoop in. I could’ve handled it.”

“Sure,” Sirius drawled, eyes glinting with amusement. “You were really showing him who’s boss, Evans.”

Remus scowled.

This wasn’t the same Sirius who had nearly broken Remus’s heart all over again the night before, the one who’d looked at him as if he were the one breaking his heart.

No, this was the devil-may-care, mischief-in-his-veins, irrepressible Sirius. A Sirius who couldn’t be reasoned with.

Remus hated dealing with this Sirius. Especially hated how, whenever he grinned like that, he looked like nothing could touch him. Utterly unreachable.

Remus wished he didn’t find it half as attractive as he did.

“Pretty sure the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you,’” Sirius added, leaning back further as if the wall itself were holding him up.

Remus’s scowl deepened.

Sirius’s grin only widened. His gaze swept over Remus, pausing briefly at his legs as if doing a double-take. After confirming what he was seeing, Sirius raised an eyebrow.

“Didn’t you promise McGonagall you’d keep your nose clean this year?” Remus asked, suddenly self-conscious as he tugged the hem of the skirt down. “Fewer detentions and all that?”

Sirius shrugged, entirely unbothered. “So what? People already think I’m a disappointment.”

The words landed lightly, as though Sirius didn’t care—but there was something quieter beneath the defiance. Something closer to regret.

Remus hesitated, searching his face. “You don’t have to prove them right, you know.”

Sirius blinked, visibly startled. For a second, something else swam in his eyes—something more unguarded. But it vanished as quickly as it had come. His expression reassembled itself, sharp-edged and effortless.

“Yeah, well,” he said, pushing off the wall with a careless shrug, “don’t go getting too attached, Evans. I’m still a troublemaker, through and through.”

For a brief moment, a memory surfaced. It was from last November, not long after they’d slipped away into the empty dorm while Peter and James busied themselves with setting up Sirius’s birthday party downstairs. The others had given Remus the task of distracting Sirius, though Remus doubted how he’d gone about it was what they’d had in mind when they’d said it.

The two of them had been tangled together, breathless, bed curtains drawn tight around them like a shield from the world outside.

Don’t get too comfortable, Moony. Trouble’s all I’m good for. Keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you care.

Get over yourself, Pads. I’m not about to start doodling your name in my notebook just because we snogged.

Oh, really?

What are you doing now, then?

Nothing.

You’re definitely doing something. That’s your plotting face.

S’pose I should try again, then. Reckon I didn’t do a good enough job the first time around.

And Remus had let him.

Two hours later, Peter and James had looked utterly baffled by the extra present Remus slipped into the pile—a notebook, one of Sirius’s usual variety, except this one had his name scrawled a few times in the margins as a mock tribute. It was meant as a joke, and maybe it was only half-funny, but the brilliant burst of laughter from Sirius had made it worth it. That, and the sly grin he’d thrown Remus afterward, sharp enough to make his stomach twist.

James had tilted his head at it, clearly missing the point, but Sirius had just closed the notebook with a snap and declared it “perfect.”

Remus wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Some sign, maybe, or an answer to the question Sirius never quite asked. But whatever it was, it didn’t come that night.

And yet, hours later, as the party dwindled and Sirius leaned against the doorframe with that maddeningly daring grin, waving him closer, Remus had felt that familiar tug in his chest.

Trouble.

He’d sighed, shaking his head, but his feet betrayed him, carrying him forward anyway. Always trouble. But if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that trouble wasn’t something you avoided with Sirius Black. It was something you braced for, lived with, kept close.

And Sirius, naturally, had used the notebook—doodles, scribbles, half-formed plans. Up until March, anyway, when it had disappeared without a trace. Like a memory Sirius had decided to leave behind.

Voices floated from farther down the corridor, snapping him back to the present. James. Peter. His own voice… Lily? Lily!

Sirius shifted, his demeanour changing in an instant. His eyes coasted past Remus as if he weren’t there at all. With a practised air of indifference, he sauntered off toward the others without a backward glance.

Remus exhaled slowly, the tightness in his chest unwinding but leaving something else behind.

The hands on him had been familiar, but the touch hadn’t been. It hadn’t lingered. It wasn’t slow or purposely drawn out. It wasn’t anything that could be mistaken for something it wasn’t.

It was nothing to read into.

Right now, Remus wasn’t anyone of significance—not to Sirius. Years of friendship, of closeness, felt like they’d been erased, wiped clean in an instant.

He was on the outside now, and Sirius had made sure he knew it.

Before Remus could spiral too far, a scuffle at the end of the corridor jerked him out of his thoughts.

He glanced over to where his real body—and Sirius—stood, just a few paces away from James and Peter. Sirius looked tense, frustration curling around his features.

“I just… need to talk to Lily,” Remus’s voice said, looking like he wanted to stamp his foot. Remus felt a wave of relief. That was unmistakably Lily. Even when negotiating, there was no mistaking the firm determination in her tone, a stubbornness that let everyone know the decision was already made, even if she was pretending to consider alternatives.

“Can’t it wait?” Sirius muttered, clearly growing more impatient. The edge in his voice was a familiar one—one Remus had heard countless times, whenever his own actions clashed with what Sirius wanted. “Evans is bloody demented today, and you skipped out on us last night. Come on, have breakfast with us. Watch the show.”

“I’ll meet you in there,” Lily snapped back, folding her arms in that no-nonsense way of hers, already signalling she wasn’t backing down.

Unexpectedly, Remus felt the weight of guilt settle deep in his chest. He’d done far worse than Lily was doing now to Sirius—cutting him off, being unnecessarily harsh. But watching it unfold in real time, from the outside, it felt like an inevitable crash, one he couldn’t stop.

Sirius sighed, long and drawn-out. “Alright. Do whatever you want.”

He turned away, glancing down the hallway.

From across the corridor, amber met green as Remus found his own eyes staring back at him, and in that brief exchange, there was an entire conversation—silent but brimming with a thousand unsaid things. By the time it ended, Lily’s rigid stance had softened into reluctant surrender.

“Fine,” she muttered, resigned, tugging on Sirius’s sleeve to make him turn and look at her. “I’ll come with you.”

For a split second, Sirius’s tension seemed to ease, a touch of relief crossing his face. A small smile formed, one that only grew as he took in how put-out Lily looked.

Remus bit back a sigh. He knew it. Knew Sirius bloody enjoyed riling him up for fun. Especially when he still managed to get his own way by the end of it. Like always.

Sirius wasn’t even talking to him right now—he was all the way across the hall with Lily-as-Remus. And yet, Remus still felt like he’d lost.

Yet, as he studied Sirius closer, Remus couldn’t help the unease stirring in his chest. Something wasn’t right. Beneath his casual amusement, Sirius still looked wound up. Tired, too, like he hadn’t slept much.

They’d had a tough conversation the night before, granted, but it had ended… well enough. So why was Sirius even picking a fight with Lily now?

Deciding not to dwell on it, Remus shifted his gaze down to his shoes—Lily’s shoes. He had more pressing concerns than deciphering whatever storm was brewing in Sirius’s head. If he hadn’t cracked that mystery by now, he wasn’t about to start today.

Thinking about it was nothing more than a headache waiting to happen.

A terrible voice in his head whispered: Maybe the temporary distance was for the best. At least for today. At least this way, Remus didn’t have to sit next to Sirius in the Great Hall, pretending everything was fine, forcing himself to laugh at James’s jokes or nod along with Peter’s chatter. He didn’t have to keep up the front of being a version of himself that wasn’t hopelessly in love with Sirius—a version he wasn’t entirely sure existed anymore. If it ever had.

This whole morning, pretending to be someone else had been easier than pretending not to care. Easier than sitting there, waiting for Sirius to finally admit what Remus had been dreading from the moment he suggested it: that he’d been right. That what Remus could give now would never be enough. That things had already shifted past the point of repair, and maybe they shouldn’t even be friends anymore.

As Lily, he could avoid that conversation for now.

Though, not forever.

James, grinning from ear to ear, turned back to Sirius and Lily. “Right, everyone ready?”

Sirius flashed a grin in return. “Ready to wipe the smirks off their smug faces? Always.”

Peter whooped in agreement, checking his watch. “Ten minutes until chaos,” he said, then paused as if considering. “Or, uh, you know, until we find out that Pads’ brilliant brewing last night royally screwed us over.”

Sirius shot him a look, dark and determined. “It’ll work,” he said with such finality that there was no room left for doubt.

Lily turned back to Remus one last time, her eyes full of quiet pleading. But she didn’t linger long. She was already being led away, joining the others on their way to the Great Hall.

Remus gave her a tight smile and a subtle nod, mouthing, I’ll meet you after.

“There you are!” a familiar voice called from his side, making him jump.

He barely had time to register Mary’s face before she hooked her arm through his and steered him toward the Great Hall with determined ease, her expression set to Mission: Gossip.

“Merlin, today’s a disaster already,” she began, her words tumbling over each other. “Marlene’s in a right mood—nearly hexed me when I came out the shower, and you wouldn’t believe why—oh, wait, no, you would, because it’s Marlene. But then you weren’t there, so you missed the whole show—”

Mary’s stream of words abruptly halted as they reached the grand oak doors. She stopped walking, tilting her head as her eyes swept over him. It didn’t take long for her to zero in on the issue.

“Is this some kind of statement, or are you trying to catch someone’s attention? Because if it’s Potter’s, you don’t have to try that hard.”

Remus grimaced, adjusting the skirt awkwardly. “Couldn’t find the right one this morning. Had to make do.”

Mary’s laughter was soft, a sound that felt more like sunlight than mockery. “What are you like?” she said, shaking her head. A beat passed, and her teasing gave way to kindness. “Want some help?”

“Please,” Remus said, nodding eagerly.

Mary whipped out her wand, her magic sweeping over him, warm and tingling, as the hem of the skirt lengthened to something more reasonable—still short, but no longer mortifying.

“There,” she said, surveying her work with satisfaction. “Left it a bit daring. It suits you. Those legs are too nice to hide.”

Remus gave her a dry look, though relief flickered across his face. At least now he wouldn’t risk flashing anyone. “Thanks,” he said, meaning it.

Mary shrugged as if it were nothing, looping her arm through his again and pulling him toward the Gryffindor table. “Come on, then.”

They arrived just as Marlene looked up, smirking. “What did I say?” she called. “Black caused that riot, didn’t he?”

Remus froze, trying not to let his unease show.

“What riot?” Mary asked, frowning.

“Meadowes reckons Sirius punched Sebastian Trevor for her,” Marlene said, stabbing at her eggs with unnecessary force. “Apparently, Trevor was being his usual slimy self.”

Mary’s gaze snapped to Remus, seeking confirmation.

Remus rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, trying not to get tangled in the curtain of Lily’s hair. He knew better than to say too much, so he just shrugged, keeping his attention on his plate as he piled on food he had no intention of eating.

“That was decent of him,” Mary murmured absently, her tone softening as she glanced toward Sirius.

Marlene noticed immediately. She snorted, dragging Mary’s focus back.

“What?” Mary asked sharply.

Marlene leaned back with folded arms. “Nothing. Just didn’t know you were still hung up on Black. Figured that was last year’s drama.”

Mary stiffened, her posture rigid. “I’m not hung up on anyone. Can’t I appreciate someone doing a good thing without it being some big declaration?”

Marlene raised an eyebrow. “Be serious. You think he helped Lily for you? That boy doesn’t think that far ahead.”

Mary’s frown deepened. “Don’t be mean. He’s thoughtful when he wants to be.”

“Sirius Black, thoughtful?” Marlene scoffed. “Right. That’ll be the day.”

Remus shifted uncomfortably, sensing a bit of tension.

“What exactly was Trevor doing?” he cut in, hoping to redirect the conversation. “Did anyone tell a professor?”

“Supposedly one of his mates tried to tell Slughorn,” Marlene said, still eyeing Mary. “But Trevor doesn’t ‘remember’ anything, and Slughorn couldn’t be bothered to dig into it. Lazy bastard, as usual. So you’re in the clear—or, well, Black is.”

Remus let out a quiet breath of relief. Sirius always had a knack for quick thinking, though people rarely gave him credit for it. Of course he’d thought that far ahead. He always did, even when he pretended not to.

“Convenient,” he muttered.

Before the girls could launch back into their argument, a sharp, sibilant hiss cut through the air.

The Great Hall fell silent.

Then more hissing followed, the sound coming from the Slytherin table.

Heads turned as the Slytherins looked at each other in bewilderment, some growing red with embarrassment while others glared in fury. Every word they tried to say came out as nothing but the sound of snakes, and the hall erupted in laughter.

Remus didn’t need to look far to find the culprits. James, Sirius, and Peter were huddled further down the Gryffindor table, their grins giving them away instantly.

Snape’s dark eyes narrowed, landing on them. He opened his mouth, but all that escaped was, “SSSsssSss… SsssSss…” His pale face darkened, and his fingers dug into the table, white-knuckled.

By now, James, Sirius, and Peter were laughing so hard they were nearly falling out of their seats.

At the far end of the Gryffindor table, in his own body, Lily looked distinctly unimpressed.

The second Slytherin to piece things together stood abruptly, their furious glare locking onto the usual suspects. The boys took that as their cue to leave, laughter trailing them as they slipped out the door.

Seizing the moment, Remus rose without a word to Mary or Marlene and hurried after them. Outside, he caught Lily’s robes as she reached the corridor. He yanked her behind the nearest tapestry, heart pounding.

Lily tensed, her hands balling into fists—then relaxed the moment she saw him.

For a beat, they just stared at each other.

It was strange, seeing yourself like this, from the outside. Like the oddest out-of-body experience imaginable. Because it was, quite literally, just that.

Lily finally raised an eyebrow and exhaled deeply. “Oh no, don’t worry—I’ll panic, you stay calm,” she said dryly.

Chapter Text

“Finite incantatem. Finite incantatem. Finite incant—”

“Because shouting it always does the trick,” Remus interrupted, deadpan.

Lily dropped her wand and rounded on him, hands—his hands—planted firmly on her borrowed hips. “Oh, brilliant. Sarcasm. That’ll fix everything. Got a better idea?”

Remus raised an eyebrow, annoyingly calm. “We need to figure out what started this. No point trying to fix something if we don’t know how it went wrong.”

Lily bit back a retort, recognising he was right. She exhaled deeply, lowering her arms. “Fine. We retrace our steps. What happened yesterday?”

Remus snorted. “What didn’t happen yesterday?”

He had a point. There were too many possibilities to count: the Legilimency lesson gone sideways, the mysterious invisible pranksters wreaking havoc during their prefect rounds, and—oh, yes—that strange, dusty room they’d stumbled into…

The thought of the room sent a flicker of memory through Lily’s mind: the dimly lit chamber, the oppressive hum of magic, and, most vividly, the Mirror.

The Mirror of Erised.

She could see it again, clear as if she were still standing before it. The reflection in its polished surface had stopped her in her tracks—her own green eyes staring back at her. But they weren’t just hers.

A boy had stood beside her. Dark, unruly hair framed a pale face, glasses perched on his nose. He wasn’t James—though the messy black hair, the slope of his nose, and the dimple in his chin had been painfully familiar. Enough like James to make Lily feel desperately awkward. But still, he wasn’t James.

There was no smirk, no mischief in his expression. He was quieter, his eyes softer around the edges, filled with something that twisted her heart.

He looked kind.

Kind in a way that made her think he wouldn’t raise his voice without reason or hurt anyone for the fun of it.

Lily knew the Mirror was just an illusion. But for a moment, it hadn’t felt like one. He’d seemed so real, as if the universe had shifted, just briefly, to let them exist in the same space—seeing her as clearly as she saw him.

The boy had gazed at her through the glass, pale and small, brave and curious, a hint of sorrow in his expression. He’d looked at her like he wanted to speak, to reach for her, though his little hands remained still at his sides.

There had been a weightiness in his gaze, something that pulled at her, tightening her chest with an ache she hadn’t expected.

He seemed so lost, like he was reaching for her as much as she wanted to reach for him. Like he needed her.

Her child.

Lily’s breath hitched, the memory sharper now. She’d seen herself in him—not just her eyes, but in the way he stood, the gentle tilt of his head. And she’d wanted to reach back, to hold him, to tell him she’d always be there.

It was a startling thing, that want. Lily had never considered herself particularly maternal. She hadn’t planned for children, hadn’t thought she even wanted them—there had always been other plans, other priorities. But then, last year…

The pain. The healers. The Muggle doctors. All of them offering carefully worded advice about managing expectations, gently pointing out how her condition might affect her chances in the future. And though she’d nodded and thanked them, part of her had already felt the grief settle in.

She hadn’t wanted to think about it then. Hadn’t let herself.

But now?

She hadn’t realised how much she wanted it until she’d stood before the Mirror and seen him. That miraculous boy. A child she might never have.

A son.

Her son.

The Mirror had shown her something she hadn’t even known she wanted—until it felt almost impossible.

And maybe, just for a moment, Lily had thought: if only she liked James Potter. Because there was no doubt in her mind—James Potter could do anything he set his mind to. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her. If anyone could face the impossible and come out on top, it was James.

And that boy in the mirror? He hadn’t looked like he belonged only to her.

He’d looked like he belonged to both of them.

Brave, impossible, and kind.

But near impossible nonetheless.

The weight of that truth pressed down on her now, like a wound reopened and bleeding. She blinked hard, pulling herself back to the present before Remus could notice her faltering.

“Lily?”

She glanced up sharply, catching the slight furrow of her—his—brow. “What?”

“You zoned out,” Remus said cautiously, though his concern shone through in her own eyes.

“Just… thinking,” she muttered, brushing past him and ignoring the way her voice cracked. “We should start with the Mirror.”

She didn’t wait for his response. She couldn’t. If there was any chance the Mirror held answers—or even the smallest thread of hope—she was going to find it.

They passed McGonagall in the corridor, surrounded by a gaggle of hissing Slytherins. Lily didn’t speak Parseltongue, but she was fairly certain the sibilant sounds translated to “my father will hear about this.”

McGonagall spotted them instantly—or rather, spotted Remus.

Lily and Remus exchanged a glance, reaching the same conclusion in silence. But before either of them could explain the body swap, McGonagall cut across their thoughts.

“Mr. Lupin,” she said sharply. “I don’t suppose you know where Mr. Potter, Mr. Black, and Mr. Pettigrew might be?” Her eyebrow arched, a silent don’t even think about lying. “I believe we’re overdue for a conversation.”

Lily blinked, caught off guard.

Remus—who, unfortunately, looked like Lily—recovered faster. “Remus was with me on prefect rounds last night,” he said smoothly. “He had nothing to do with this morning’s… incident.”

McGonagall’s gaze shifted to who she thought was Lily. Her expression softened ever so slightly.

Remus managed not to gape.

“Very well,” McGonagall said, though her tone suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced. “Do let the others know I’m looking for them. They’re to report to my office by the end of the day.”

She bought that? Just like that?

Remus shook his head. Sure, James could sometimes sway McGonagall with a bright grin and cheeky quip, but Lily apparently didn’t even need that.

So, that proved it. McGonagall had favourites, and Lily was obviously one of them.

Before either of them could get a word in edgewise, let alone raise the far more pressing matter of their swapped bodies, McGonagall had turned back to the furious Slytherins.

“Well, that settles that,” Remus muttered under his breath.

Lily didn’t answer. The professors would be busy dealing with the fallout of this morning’s chaos until lunch. That gave them a narrow window to regroup and figure out what the hell to do next.

She was already striding ahead, her borrowed robes swishing with purpose.

Lily marched ahead in his body, forcing Remus to practically jog to keep up in hers.

Bloody shorter, attention-grabbing legs. And skirts.

He felt the weight of gazes on him as they moved down the hallway. Smoothing the skirt, he tried to resist the urge to cling to Lily’s side. He didn’t need protecting—but in Lily’s body, he felt exposed in a way that was strangely unsettling.

At least when he turned into a wolf, he was the dangerous creature. Right now? He felt like the world was dangerous to him. He felt like prey.

It wasn’t just that he saw the eyes following him; he felt them. And they didn’t flick away when he noticed them. When he glanced up, the stares lingered, hanging in the edge of his vision like cobwebs he couldn’t brush off.

It was unnerving.

Remus was no stranger to attention, but it was usually of the passing sort—people looking past him to Sirius or James. Girls, at least, were usually subtle, giggling in a way that felt harmless, even endearing.

Boys, on the other hand, stared like it was their right. They didn’t look embarrassed when caught; they didn’t even look away. It was as if they were sizing him up, deciding whether or not he was worth their time. He couldn’t help but feel he was being appraised, like a dish someone wasn’t sure they wanted to order but wouldn’t mind sampling.

He resisted the urge to scowl as they passed, forcing his focus forward.

By the time they reached the third floor, where the strange door had appeared the night before, his skin was crawling. But there was no door.

They paced up and down the corridor twice, passing the broom cupboard where they’d found Marcus, the lion statue, and an entire line of portraits. Nothing.

Lily tilted her head, frowning at the blank wall where the door had been. “That’s odd.”

Remus huffed. “The maths isn’t mathing.”

“Can I assist you with something?” came a voice from one of the portraits. A young woman leaned against the frame of an apple tree, twirling a lace-trimmed parasol over her shoulder.

Remus turned to her. “We’re looking for a door. To a room. Dusty. Bit of a mess. Probably storage?”

The painted woman’s gaze flitted to Lily—or rather, to him. “What lovely eyes you have,” she remarked with a sly smile, batting her lashes.

Lily let out a small giggle as Remus instantly flushed, his cheeks burning with the tell-tale heat they always did when confronted with a compliment.

“We’re looking for the room,” Lily said, her voice light, though she flashed one of Remus’s signature smiles—soft, a little amused, and just the right amount of mischief.

The painted woman opened her umbrella and propped it behind her head, shielding herself from the painted sunlight streaming into her cottage as she stepped closer to the edge of her frame. The wheat fields swayed faintly in the background, as alive as she was. She studied Lily—or rather, Remus—for a moment longer before humming. “You’re looking for the Room of Requirement.”

Remus and Lily exchanged a look.

“So we just… think of what we need, and it’ll appear?” Lily asked.

The woman shook her head, a knowing smile gracing her lips. “The Room comes and goes as it pleases. It only shows itself to those who are truly in need of it.”

Remus muttered under his breath, “Well, we’re in great need of it.”

Lily shot him a sharp look, her disapproval at his attitude while wearing her face clear. She turned back to the painted woman, all charm. “Thank you for your help.”

The painted lady smiled warmly, lowering her umbrella and letting the sunlight dapple her painted skin. “No problem, love. Do come back sometime—I’d love another look at your eyes.”

Lily snorted, biting back a laugh as Remus groaned audibly, his expression somewhere between pained and begrudgingly amused.

“What? I can’t help it if your eyes are lovely,” Lily teased as they walked on, her grin utterly unapologetic. “Just don’t forget to smile more. Apparently, it’s a good look on you.”

Remus folded his arms, narrowing his borrowed eyes.

“Shall I remind you what James thinks of your eyes? Because I’ve got about five years of Valentine’s poetry memorised, and I’d be happy to share.”

Lily’s laughter cut off like a snapped string.

Next, they made their way to the infirmary. If anyone could help them, it was Madam Pomfrey. Remus trusted her more than most professors. Even if she couldn’t fix this outright, she could at least cast some diagnostic spells to point them in the right direction.

The infirmary was full of overdramatic Slytherins.

Despite the chaos—students lying on beds, hissing and clutching at their throats, others loudly moaning for attention—Madam Pomfrey’s sharp gaze immediately found Lily and Remus. Ignoring the growing queue of half-recovered prank victims, she crossed the room with brisk efficiency.

The effects of the prank potion were clearly wearing off now, as potions always did. Several of the hissing students had downgraded to mere grumbling, though some clung to their theatrics as if they’d been cursed for life.

It was that predictability—the short duration—that had led Remus and Lily to rule out Polyjuice straight away. This wasn’t just a matter of bodies swapped for an hour or two. They’d woken up in each other’s beds, in each other’s lives, and everything about the situation had a permanence to it that no potion could explain.

Madam Pomfrey, immune to the mutters and sneers around her, stopped in front of them. Her frazzled expression softened into one of concern as her gaze moved over Lily—or rather, him—searching for signs of injury or strain, the way she’d done countless times before.

“Mr. Lupin, it’s not that time yet, is it?” she asked quietly, her voice cautious, careful not to say too much in front of Lily.

Remus froze.

No. It wasn’t. The full moon was still two weeks away.

But, as the words sank in, a new and deeply unsettling thought occurred to him.

He wasn’t a werewolf right now.

Lily, however, was.

It took everything in him to keep the reaction off his face.

“What can I do for you?” Madam Pomfrey asked, her tone alert but kind.

Remus hesitated, glancing at the crowded room. The sight of the other students—eavesdropping more openly than they probably realised—made his decision for him. He felt the familiar weight of guilt rise in his chest as he stepped back. “We’re fine,” he said quickly, giving her an apologetic smile. “You’ve got your hands full. Don’t worry about us.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she gave a short nod, clearly not convinced. “If you’re sure,” she said, before turning back to her patients.

Once they were outside the infirmary, Remus sighed, running a hand through his—no, Lily’s—hair. “Sorry, I just—”

“Don’t like being a bother?” Lily cut in, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugged. “She looked busy. And with the potential for someone overhearing, I thought it was better not to… complicate things.” He glanced at her, his eyes skimming over her face. “Besides, I feel fine. Are you?”

Lily gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Fine isn’t the word I’d use, but no, I’m not about to faint on you.”

“Good,” Remus muttered, though he couldn’t quite hide the flicker of unease behind the word. Lily wasn’t fine, not really. And she had no idea just how much danger she was in.

That thought cemented it: they needed real help—someone who actually knew what they were doing.

Professor Fairfax. Or maybe even Dumbledore.

Fairfax seemed the better bet. A former Cursebreaker with an encyclopaedic knowledge of the Dark Arts, he might know more about the Mirror. He might even know if they’d been cursed. He might be able to fix it.

“Where are we going?” Lily asked, falling into step beside him.

“Professor Fairfax,” Remus replied, quickening his pace. “He’s the most logical choice to figure out exactly what we’re dealing with.”

Lily tilted her head, chewing her lip. “Did you notice anything strange yesterday… after Defence?”

Remus slowed, thinking back, but shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.” He paused, reconsidering. “I was—distracted.”

An understatement. He’d spent most of yesterday pissed off at Sirius, then arguing with Sirius, then stubbornly pretending Sirius didn’t bother him, even when he clearly did.

“What about you?”

Lily hesitated, her brows drawn in thought. “I don’t know. Maybe I imagined it. But during the Legilimency lesson… it was like we left a door open. And I felt—” She stopped, uncertain.

“What?” Remus pressed.

Her gaze flicked to him, unreadable. “A storm. You felt like a storm.”

His heart stopped. The night he was bitten came rushing back so fast it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

Thunder rolling over the hillsides. Rain drowning the daffodils. The flash of lightning illuminating his mother’s face, her scream lost in the roar of the storm.

Before he could respond, they reached Fairfax’s office. Lily stepped ahead and knocked briskly on the door.

Silence.

Another knock.

Nothing.

They exchanged a sigh, but before they could decide their next move, a voice cut through the corridor behind them.

“If you’re after Fairfax, you’re fat out of luck.”

They turned sharply to see a tall, familiar figure lounging casually against the wall. Cheeky grin, ginger hair, and a twinkle in his eye.

One of the only two people James and Sirius had ever respected at school—his twin brother being the other.

Fabian Prewett.

He’d graduated last year. So what was he doing here?

“Fairfax is off in Romania,” Fabian explained, his grin widening. “Something for Dumbledore. Top secret, naturally.”

“So secret you’re telling us it’s a secret?” Remus asked, raising an eyebrow.

Fabian shrugged. “Still a secret if I don’t spill it, isn’t it?”

Remus tried to suppress a smile but failed miserably. The twins had always had that effect.

Fabian’s eyes roved over them, and his grin grew impossibly wider. “Little Lily Evans!” he exclaimed with a mock bow. “Growing up well, I see. Not that I ever doubted it. Ginger gene, am I right? Look at me.” He flexed dramatically.

Lily rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.

“Breaking hearts, I’ll bet. Or is it still just Potter’s?” Fabian teased.

Lily turned a shade of pink that could only be described as blush pink, and Remus bit back a laugh.

Fabian turned to Remus—or rather, to Lily. “And you, Lupin? Still stirring up trouble with that lot of yours? Carrying on the proud Prewett legacy of mayhem?”

Without thinking, Remus answered. “They’ve probably written you and Gideon out of it by now. You know how James and Sirius are—not big on sharing.”

Fabian barked a laugh. Loud, warm, and infectious. Remus tried not to flush under his gaze. He could never quite figure out what it was about Fabian—maybe it was the sheer confidence, the way he seemed to have everything figured out, or the way he somehow made Remus feel like he was back in his first year, trying to hide the awkwardness of being around someone so effortlessly charismatic.

Either way, Fabian had always managed to leave him feeling more than a little charmed.

“Figures,” Fabian said, still grinning. “But we were first. They’re just knock-offs. Remind them of that, yeah?”

Remus nodded, feeling faintly—familiarly—flustered.

“You lot still go by that name, the Jinxsters?” Fabian asked, curious—no, amused.

Lily’s laugh rang out, vibrant and loud, as Remus flushed deeper.

“The Marauders,” Lily corrected, her smile wide.

“Right,” Fabian said with a nod of recognition. “Still a shit name, though, mate.”

Remus swallowed against the wave of embarrassment that crept up his neck. He’d never thought the name was particularly cool—hadn’t even liked it much at eleven when James and Sirius had first declared it with smug grins and too much conviction. But hearing Fabian Prewett say it out loud, with that particular kind of teasing, was a whole new level of mortifying.

Fabian clapped him on the shoulder, his roguish grin firmly in place. “Right, I’m off. Got a world to save. You know, the usual.”

“Do you know when Fairfax will be back?” Remus called after him.

Fabian shrugged as he strolled away. “Could be days, could be weeks. Depends. Personally, I’m not thrilled about tagging along with him. We all know Defence professors are cursed. But hey, maybe if it gets him, it’ll spare me.”

He tipped an imaginary hat and disappeared down the corridor.

Lily smirked. “So, Fabian Prewett?”

Remus rolled his eyes, fighting the heat creeping into his cheeks.

Yes, alright. Fabian Prewett.

Remus didn’t know what it was about boys with egos larger than their capacity for sense, but somehow they’d always managed to make him feel slightly like he’d lost his ability to think straight.

Still, Fabian’s mention of a top-secret mission for Dumbledore wasn’t lost on him. Remus had a sinking feeling he knew what it was about. And whatever it was, it didn’t bode well for getting Fairfax’s help any time soon.

Remus turned to Lily, his expression flat. “I think now might be the time to worry.”

Lily laughed, breezing ahead.

“Nonsense,” she said with mock cheerfulness. “One more try, and then we’ll panic.”

With a resigned shake of his head, Remus followed.

They moved through a maze of corridors and staircases, past portraits that muttered behind their backs and tapestries that fluttered faintly as they passed. Then, as sunlight spilled through tall windows, gilding the stone floor in the warm hues of late morning, Remus realised where they were.

The gargoyle corridor.

Lily stopped before the grotesque stone figure guarding the entrance to the Headmaster’s office. Without hesitation, she gave the password, her voice full of familiarity: “Sherbet lemon.”

The gargoyle sprang aside with a grinding of stone, revealing the spiral staircase winding upwards. Its slow ascent was almost meditative, the quiet hum of magic underfoot the only sound until they reached the landing.

Pushing open the heavy oak doors, they stepped into the Headmaster’s office, a vast and enchanting space full of peculiar sounds.

Strange silver instruments on slender tables clicked and whirred, occasionally releasing faint puffs of smoke. The walls were lined with portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses, most of them dozing contentedly in their frames. Behind the enormous claw-footed desk sat the Sorting Hat, slumped and mercifully silent on its shelf.

But no Dumbledore.

Fawkes stirred on his golden perch, feathers glimmering in the light as the phoenix ruffled himself. The faint ripple of his movement caught on the surface of the Pensieve nearby, the enchanted basin glinting like molten silver.

Lily let out a breath, turning to meet Remus’s gaze.

“Right,” she said finally, with exaggerated calm. “Now we’re allowed to panic.”

They decided to test how far the switch went with a few basic spells. To their surprise, magic seemed to be tied more to the soul than to the body. There was no odd sensation of using someone else’s magic when they cast—just the subtle shimmer of their differing magical signatures in the air.

When Remus softly murmured, “Expecto Patronum,” a familiar wolf emerged from the end of Lily’s wand in an ethereal swirl of translucent blue, confirming their theory.

He glanced at Lily, a hint of self-consciousness gathering in his eyes as she watched the Patronus. It wasn’t exactly damning evidence of his condition, but it often felt like it. Letting someone see your soul had that effect.

The first time he had successfully cast the spell, back in fourth year, he’d been horrified and made the wolf vanish almost immediately to keep anyone from seeing it. But now, Lily didn’t ask questions. She simply watched in awe as the wolf prowled around the room, its movements protective before suddenly breaking into a playful run, bounding around her like a puppy.

Lily smiled softly, then bit her lip as she followed his lead. Her wand twitched, and after a moment, a flash of blue light revealed another shape—a second Patronus joining the wolf. The two creatures danced around each other, playfully circling, much like his friends would during full moons in the Forbidden Forest.

Lily seemed almost sheepish as she watched them, her gaze darting to Remus as though searching for a reaction. It took him a moment to realise why. He recognised the shape her Patronus had taken. It was so similar to something—someone—he knew very well.

A doe.

James’s Animagus form was a stag, and his Patronus had always been a deer. Remus remembered the old saying about Patronuses shifting when you were in love, reflecting the soul of your partner. Which meant…

“Oh,” Remus said, his face carefully neutral, though a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Lily had to know what form James’s Patronus took. He’d been the first to cast one in their class, already having the deer galloping around the classroom while Remus was still trying to think of a memory happy enough to use.

Lily gave a small shrug, her voice soft but measured. “I always liked to think of it as… a wounded deer leaps the highest.”

“Emily Dickinson,” Remus replied with another smile, his eyes warm as they rested on her.

The shimmering forms of the doe and the wolf began to dissolve into faint wisps of blue before vanishing entirely.

Lily’s face—well, technically Remus’s—was still tinged with a faint flush. She supposed it was less noticeable on his masculine, angular features than it would have been in her own pale, redheaded body.

“Well,” she said at last, her voice as steady as she could manage, “at least one of you can read.”

Remus tilted his head, then shrugged. “I’m more of a Dylan Thomas fan, to be honest.”

“Of course you are,” Lily said, her smirk sharp. “You’re half-Welsh; it’s probably a requirement.”

“What can I say? ‘Though my bones creak, my heart blazes for an unknown tomorrow.’” He delivered the line with mock drama, though his grin softened it.

Lily rolled her—Remus’s—eyes. “Remus, the only blazing thing here is how inflexible your body is. Your body is so stiff, your muscles feel like they’ve been petrified.” She punctuated the complaint with a deliberate roll of her shoulders, as though testing just how rigid his frame truly was. “If you don’t start stretching more, you won’t live to see any tomorrows, let alone unknown ones.”

Remus frowned, slipping into that familiar expression of thoughtfulness Lily might have found endearing if she weren’t currently borrowing it.

“I’m fairly certain,” he said carefully, “the unknown tomorrow Thomas refers to is… well, no tomorrow at all. It’s, you know, that good night.”

Lily huffed, her annoyance written across his features in a way that felt oddly disconcerting to him. “Yes, I got that, thanks.”

Remus smiled faintly, but the amusement quickly faded as an unpleasant thought occurred to him. His expression darkened, and he turned to Lily with sudden seriousness.

“Do me a favour—don’t cast that spell in front of the others. Ever.”

Lily blinked, then caught his meaning with startling speed. Her eyes—his eyes—widened.

“Oh,” she said, the word dragging out as the implications sank in. “Oh, no.”

“Exactly,” Remus said, grimacing at the thought. A silver doe leaping through the air, summoned by his wand? It would be impossible to explain.

James would be the worst. He’d almost certainly misinterpret it as some kind of hidden devotion on Remus’s part. The very idea made Remus’s stomach churn.

And Sirius…

Remus winced. He didn’t know what exactly Sirius would say, but he knew it wouldn’t be good. Putting aside the possessiveness or jealousy that would almost certainly arise—because it always had in the past, regardless of the complete and utter mystery of Sirius’s feelings towards him—Sirius never missed an opportunity to needle him, and this? This would be handing him a gift-wrapped box of torment.

He could already hear it.

Worse—once the jokes had run dry, once Sirius’s armour had slipped—he could feel the stony silence the implication of Remus “moving on” to James would cause.

Last term’s fight would look like a minor disagreement in comparison.

The imagined headache Sirius’s reaction would induce was enough to make Remus sigh aloud.

Lily shuddered, clearly envisioning something equally horrifying. “Believe me, I’m not about to let James Potter see my soul. Whether I’m in your body or not.”

Because James would know. He always knew, somehow, the moments she felt herself softening towards him. The moments his charm made her smile instead of scowl, or the way she sometimes felt oddly nervous when he directed it at her now.

And, yes. She couldn’t deny her Patronus had changed. She didn’t know when, exactly, or why. Was it when his relentless pursuit began to feel more like genuine affection? When her stomach fluttered just a little when he grinned at her? Or when she caught herself watching him laugh, his head thrown back, warmth spilling from him like sunlight?

It didn’t matter.

Whatever her magic had to say about it, Lily Evans was not in love with James Potter. Absolutely not.

Not that her lack of affection for him did anything to get her out of this ridiculous, impossible situation.

“Merlin,” she muttered, dragging a hand over her face. “What are we going to do?”

Remus sighed, a heavy, resigned sort of sound. “I suppose the question is… do we tell anyone? Or just keep up the act until we figure it out?”

Keep up the act.

Living as Remus? While Remus lived as her?

Lily’s stomach turned unpleasantly. No, she didn’t want to live as someone else—especially not Remus. Not when he was best friends with the most insufferable people she’d ever had the misfortune of meeting.

But the alternative was worse. If they told anyone, those friends would inevitably get involved, and their collective capacity for nonsense was unparalleled. She could already picture James grinning like a lunatic, Sirius hatching some elaborate scheme, and Peter egging them on. None of that would help.

Still, this wasn’t just her decision.

Remus was close to them in a way she didn’t fully understand, and it wasn’t her place to demand he avoid them just because she couldn’t stomach James Potter for more than ten minutes without wanting to hex him.

Yes. Hex. Nothing more.

Never mind that Marlene had suggested Lily should stop punishing James just because she’d rather argue with him horizontally.

She absolutely didn’t.

Lily sighed, voicing her thoughts aloud. “If we tell them, you do realise they’ll want in on it. And then we won’t be working on a solution; we’ll be stuck entertaining their ridiculous plans instead. They’re loud, distracting, and—”

“And James will just about lose his mind that I’m living his dream?” Remus interrupted, a small, understanding smile on his lips.

Lily tried not to look too relieved that he seemed to agree. “Exactly. Best not to tell them anything. We’re both sensible, intelligent, and perfectly capable of handling this on our own, aren’t we?”

Remus gave her a look that could only be described as sceptical. It said, as clearly as if he’d spoken the words, Are we, though?

Sirius’s bad mood hadn’t lifted by the time he stalked out of McGonagall’s office.

It hadn’t taken him long to realise that Remus had vanished the moment they’d escaped the Great Hall, but before he could even think about going to find him, a familiar stern voice had pulled him—and James and Peter—back by the scruff of their metaphorical necks.

A good half-hour bollocking had followed, courtesy of McGonagall. The kind where she alternated between scolding them with genuine disapproval and raising her brows at their pathetic excuses.

When Sirius had tried to bring up Remus’s absence, McGonagall hadn’t missed a beat. “If I had any reason to believe Mr. Lupin was involved, he would be here with you, Mr. Black. Fortunately for him, Miss Evans has vouched an alibi that the rest of you lack.”

Sirius had muttered, “Traitor,” under his breath.

The rest of the lecture had gone the usual way: Peter looking sheepish, James flashing that too-charming grin of his, and Sirius shooting back sarcastic quips that danced just this side of insubordination. Normally, that grin of James’s worked wonders, dragging the faintest twitch of a smile from McGonagall’s lips, but today she wasn’t having it.

Sirius knew why. He’d cocked up. Helping Lily Evans with Trevor had been his first mistake; getting caught loitering near the Slytherin table before the prank kicked in had been his second. Stupid rookie move. And, worst of all, Lily hadn’t even been grateful. Grudgingly entertained by him, sure, but she’d scolded him, not thanked him.

It had been enough to land him with detention—actual detention this time. He accepted it with a huff, turning sharply on his heel as soon as McGonagall dismissed him.

James followed, still grinning like he’d got away with murder.

“What?” Sirius snapped, catching James’s look.

“Oh, nothing,” James said lightly, his grin widening. “Just wondering how you’ll cope with this cruel and unusual punishment.”

Sirius frowned. “Detention’s hardly cruel, Prongs. It’s a couple of nights.”

James smirked. “A couple of nights without Remus. Forced separation. It’s practically tragic.”

“Shut up.”

They passed a group of Slytherins in the corridor who, sadly, had regained their ability to speak and wasted no time exercising it by hissing a few insults in their direction.

James and Sirius didn’t even glance their way.

“Oh, come on,” James pressed, tone teasing. “Is this why you were so grumpy last night? Because you knew without Remus there, he’d get off scot-free, and you’d be left pining away in detention without him?”

“Sod off.” Sirius quickened his pace, glaring at the corridor ahead. “I’m not his bloody keeper.”

“‘Course not,” James said cheerfully. “But you’ll miss him, and you know it. Don’t worry, though. Maybe he’ll be off having a few lovely, peaceful evenings without you—realising how much better life is when he’s left alone.”

That made Sirius stop dead, just long enough to toss a pointed look over his shoulder. “Nope. He’s going to miss me,” he said, with all the confidence he didn’t have that it was true.

“Sure he will,” James said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Maybe even enough to hang out with Samuel instead.”

Sirius spun on his heel fully this time, the glare James received dark enough to make him laugh out loud. “Over my dead body.”

“Bit possessive, don’t you think?”

“Don’t push it, Prongs.”

James didn’t stop laughing all the way to the common room.

Sirius ignored him. He was fine. Perfect, actually. Because he’d spent last night thinking it through, and he knew exactly what he needed to do. A few detentions wouldn’t get in his way.

He’d made Remus fall in love with him once. He could do it again.

Granted, he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed it the first time. But it had happened. Which meant it could happen again.

One lunch later, Lily was already questioning her earlier confidence that they could handle this. She and Remus had split up at the oak doors to sit with their respective friends in the Great Hall, and Lily had done her best to keep up with the whirlwind of conversation between James, Sirius, and Peter without looking completely lost.

Sirius had lit up the moment he spotted her, and Lily’s stomach had sunk.

He immediately started pressing her—pressing Remus—about where he’d been all morning, his tone sharp with concern poorly masked as irritation. Lily, clinging to her composure, had managed to snap back something dry about having better things to do than clean up after their chaos and how McGonagall was probably sick of seeing their faces.

James had laughed at that, a full-bodied laugh that startled her enough to miss the scrape of a chair from across the hall.

She didn’t miss the wand, though.

A Slytherin, clearly holding a grudge from this morning’s prank, had stood with a hex on their lips and their wand raised. Lily barely had time to process, to duck, to reach for her own, before James was on his feet. His “Expelliarmus” was effortless—a spell so quick and smooth it was over before anyone else had caught up.

The Slytherin stumbled, their wand clattering across the floor.

James didn’t press the advantage, didn’t smirk or gloat. He just watched as they scrambled under the table to retrieve it. “Try it again,” he said, deadly calm, “and see what happens.”

Lily glanced at Sirius, whose jaw was tight with the effort it took not to jump in. He looked ready to escalate things until James turned and gave him a pointed look—a raised brow. Leave it.

Sirius sat back, but tension still radiated from him like heat.

Then James had left for Quidditch practice, and Lily had all but bolted from the table before Sirius could shift his focus to her.

Lily’s heart was still hammering by the time she met Remus in the disused Ancient Runes classroom. To her relief, he looked just as frazzled as she felt, clearly demented by whatever ordeal Mary and Marlene had just put him through.

Lily pressed her borrowed fingertips to her temples. “You don’t understand. I can’t do this. I hate them.”

Remus didn’t so much as blink. “Sometimes I do too,” he said lightly. “You’ll be fine.”

“But Remus! James Potter,” she said, as though his name alone was explanation enough.

To her, perhaps it was.

Remus sighed, the corner of his mouth betraying his amusement. “He doesn’t know it’s you, so you’re safe. And, honestly, James is harmless. A bit… overzealous, sure, but he’s got a good heart. And lately, he’s been—well, calming down a bit.”

Lily arched a sceptical brow. “Calming down?”

“Believe it or not,” Remus said, his tone bordering on dry. “And anyway, he’s not the one you need to worry about.”

Lily didn’t even have to think about it.

“Sirius,” she muttered darkly.

Remus rubbed the back of his neck, wincing faintly. “You’ve noticed.”

“Hard not to.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault he’s insufferable. I honestly don’t know how you put up with it.”

Remus shrugged, offering her a small smile. “Practice.”

It helped, of course, that he was in love with him.

“You’re welcome to keep them, though,” he added. “It’s been blissfully quiet without them this morning. Peaceful, even.”

Lily snorted. “Oh, no thank you. The less time I spend around your lot, the better.”

Remus smiled but didn’t say anything, letting her pace and think.

Sunlight glanced off the borrowed mop of tawny hair atop her head, the light brown strands turning almost golden under its touch. Across from her, Remus—trapped in the unfamiliar cascade of Lily’s red hair—struggled to keep the long ends from tangling in the buttons of his robes, swearing under his breath each time it caught.

In the centre of the room stood a chalkboard cluttered with scribbled ideas and half-formed theories: Body Swap or Soul Swap? Mirror of Erised > Legilimency > Pranksters > Cursed? (Fairfax’s help? - Romania?) Beside it, Prank had already been briskly crossed out, Remus muttering as he’d done so that neither Sirius nor James would devise something so convoluted without an obvious payoff.

“It’s not funny,” he’d grumbled, scratching through the word with force. Prank. And if amusement wasn’t the endgame, the only other suspect was Lily’s ex-best friend. But Remus had quickly shot that down too. “Even if Snape had a motive, he’d hardly put you closer to James.”

Now, Lily stood poised at the board, chalk in hand, writing Duration? in her neat script. A faint cloud of chalk dust hovered as she wiped away an untidy patch of leftover runes, clearing space for fresh theories.

“Maybe it’s just temporary?” she suggested, though even as she said it, she knew how flimsy it sounded.

Remus arched an eyebrow. “Oh, right. So we just sit tight and hope the problem magically resolves itself?”

Lily let out a sharp breath. “No, I’m just trying to hold on to a bit of hope. It’s called optimism, Remus.”

“Yeah, well,” Remus said dryly, “me and optimism aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”

Lily didn’t feel like optimism was particularly answering her right now either.

Remus’s eyes returned to Mirror, contemplating. The Mirror couldn’t have been wish-granting, could it? It showed you what you wanted, not handed it to you. And Remus was absolutely certain he hadn’t wanted this. Not even a little.

If anything, he had even less chance of that now than in his own body.

Sure, it was a girl’s body—but it wasn’t just any girl. It was the one girl who was absolutely, unequivocally off-limits.

Lily.

Lily, as in the girl James had been pining over for years. Lily, as in the one Sirius would probably cry harder over than James himself on their wedding day, should it ever happen. That Lily.

The only consolation to this being Lily was that she was probably the only girl in the school who wouldn’t exploit the access his body gave her. If anything, she’d be quicker to sock Sirius than Remus ever would if he stepped out of line.

And it was Lily. Remus trusted her—not to know everything just yet, but with everything else. At least when it came to the others.

“How am I supposed to manage Sirius?” she asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

Remus couldn’t help but smile at her innocence. Manage Sirius? That wasn’t just optimistic; it was impossible.

“If you crack that code, do me a favour and share the secret.”

Lily rolled her eyes, pacing again.

“How am I even supposed to act around them?” she asked, her voice filled with genuine worry as more questions tumbled out. “Do you all really just change in front of each other, or is that… weird? What about bathroom schedules? Do you lounge around together at night? What do you even talk about? And what if Sirius and James try to rope me into one of their pranks? Or worse, if they start talking about girls?”

Remus laughed, cutting her off. “You’re overthinking this. We’re not that complicated.”

“Boys? Maybe not. But you? You’re definitely complicated.”

Remus rolled his eyes, though a faint smile formed. “I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

Lily crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow in challenge. “Am I? You act like you’re straightforward, but you’re not. Sirius gets all broody and quiet, and you get… well, like this.” She gestured to him, exasperated. “All calm on the outside, but meanwhile, I can practically hear your brain whirring.”

Remus huffed another laugh, glancing away. “Maybe I just don’t want to give everything away at once.”

“Like I said: complicated.” She smiled, softening a bit. “It’s not a bad thing. Just… makes it harder to read you. Makes me worry I’ll mess things up.”

Remus looked at her, his expression turning serious. “You’re not going to mess anything up, Lily. Not with them. Not with me. Besides, I trust you with my life—or at least with my reputation, which is almost the same thing.”

Lily’s mouth quirked up. “That’s big talk for someone who’s about to hand over his friendships on a silver platter.”

He laughed, but there was a bit of nervousness underneath. “Guess that just means I’m trusting.”

But they both knew Remus was far from trusting. The implied I trust you, though echoed in the silence.

They exchanged a small smile before Lily’s face grew pensive again. “But really, Remus… is there anything I should know? Anything that could help me not throw everything off?”

Remus hesitated, considering his words. “Just… be yourself. Sirius, James—they’ll tease you to death, but they’ll also look out for you. Don’t be afraid to laugh along with them. And… well, don’t take it personally if they try to rope you into one of their schemes. They just want me—you—to feel part of it.”

Lily nodded, absorbing his words. “And what about you?”

“Me?” His brow furrowed slightly.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling softly. “Anything you want me to know? Any part of you you’d rather I didn’t muck up?”

Remus sighed quietly, shaking his head. “Just… maybe don’t let Sirius think you can be swayed on everything. He’ll try, trust me.”

Lily laughed. “No letting Black win every battle. Got it.”

They shared a quiet look, a mutual understanding passing between them.

Until they figured out how to switch back, things were going to be hard, and they’d have to find the humour in it somewhere. Hopefully, one day they’d be able to laugh about these odd few days trapped in each other’s lives.

“Actually… can you do me a favour?” Remus asked before he’d fully thought it through.

Lily blinked, her expression open. “Of course.”

He opened his mouth, ready to warn her—to tell her to tread carefully around Sirius. To please be careful with him. But the words stuck in his throat. How could he ask her to handle something he couldn’t even manage himself? If she was too cold, Sirius would notice; if she was too warm, he’d notice that, too.

“Never mind,” Remus said quietly, shaking his head.

He’d told Sirius to think about it. If Lily was distant with him, it would just look like he was giving him the space he needed.

Besides, Sirius was hardly delicate. He’d be fine. They’d be fine.

“Remus…”

“It’s nothing.” He tried for a casual shrug, though it didn’t quite land. He leaned back, his eyes drifting toward the window. “Honestly, Lily? Just have a little faith in them—and in yourself. I have no doubt you’ll fit in fine, even if it’s temporary.”

Lily’s gaze softened. “I’ll do my best to keep things steady on your end, don’t worry.”

Remus nodded, but his gaze was a little distant—almost sad. “They’ll probably be too caught up in their own antics to notice anything’s off.”

Lily huffed. “You say that, but I’ve seen the way Sirius watches you. He picks up on things others miss.”

The sadness faded as quickly as it had come—mentioning Sirius always seemed to have that effect on Remus.

“Observant, yes. But subtle, he is not,” he replied with a knowing smile. “If he does notice anything odd, he’ll probably just think I’m in one of my moods.”

Lily‘s brows lifted. “And what does that mean? Your ‘moods’?”

Remus shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “You know, when I get quiet, withdrawn. They’re used to it by now.”

“Well, I suppose that should be easy enough to pull off. I just… don’t want to make things harder for you.”

Remus’s gaze shifted to the floor, a shadow passing over his face. “You’re not making anything harder, Lily. If anything, I appreciate that you’re willing to put up with this mess.”

She watched him for a moment before giving a small smile. “I’m always here for you, you know that. Besides, it’s not like I have much of a choice at the moment, do I?”

Remus let out a soft huff, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Guess not,” he said, rising to his feet and heading towards the door. “But remember, if they get too much, just… keep them distracted. They’re easily entertained.”

Lily trailed after him, closing the door with a quiet click. The noise of the corridor hit her like a sudden wave, louder than she’d expected. Remus, she realised, must have exceptionally sharp hearing.

She shot him a wry look as they walked. “With James, I imagine a shiny rock would do the job.”

Remus grinned. “More or less. Just bring up Quidditch or pretend you’re interested in his training routine—he’ll be occupied for hours.”

Lily smirked, rummaging through her robes as they rounded the corner. She pulled out a carton of cigarettes and a lighter, flashing them at Remus with a raised brow.

His eyes lit up, but before he could say a word, she pocketed them again and instead pulled out a lollipop.

“No smoking in my body,” she said, the unimpressed look on her—his—face pure Lily.

Remus hesitated, glancing at the lollipop like it had personally offended him. “Very funny. I suppose it’s not really my body at the moment, is it?”

“Exactly,” she said, unwrapping a second lollipop and popping it into her mouth.

He accepted the first with a resigned air, though his expression soured. “It’s not about the oral fixation, you know—it’s the nicotine. A bit of sugar isn’t going to cut it.”

Lily twirled her lollipop with mock thoughtfulness. “Well, goodie for you, I’m the one in your body now. And I don’t feel even the slightest urge.”

Remus’s brow quirked, and he gave her a subtle nudge towards the two boys gawking at them from the other end of the corridor. “Maybe not in public, Evans. You can do that as me, but if I do that as you? Let’s just say I don’t have an oral fixation, but the average teenage boy does.”

Lily froze mid-suck, her cheeks going scarlet as she yanked the lollipop out of her mouth. “Oh. Right. Erm, thanks.”

Remus smirked, and for a brief moment, the tension eased. But reality returned quickly enough, and he glanced down the corridor.

“Right. We should probably get to class, stay out of trouble, and meet up after dinner?”

Lily nodded but grabbed his robes as he started walking. “Wrong direction,” she teased, gently tugging him by the sleeves until he faced left instead. “You’ve got Advanced Potions.”

Remus grimaced. “I hate Potions.”

“I know. You’re absolutely awful at Potions.”

Remus let out a defeated huff, unable to deny it.

“Just let Marlene handle the stirring. You can deal with the ingredients.”

“Not so keen on Marlene either,” Remus muttered, thinking back to this lunchtime’s gossip session. Marlene had treated it like a game, pointing people out in the Great Hall and whispering things like, “Alexandra Greengrass. Avoid her—all the women in that family are cursed. The brother’s fine, though.”

The trouble was, Marlene was unsettlingly accurate with her observations. Remus didn’t need to know that much about everyone. Especially not when Hannah had asked about him, and Marlene’s eyes had lingered on his—well, Lily’s—face as she muttered, “Definitely a no-go. He’s taken.”

“He’s single, isn’t he?” Hannah had questioned.

Marlene had shaken her head. “Trust me, he’s taken. Has been for years. Just as bad as Potter—better at hiding it, though.”

“So, it’s unrequited?” Hannah had asked, clearly thinking of James’s infamous one-sided crush on Lily.

“No,” Marlene had said simply, offering nothing more.

Remus exhaled sharply, his fingers drumming against the side of his robes. “Yeah, well, sometimes things aren’t as straightforward as they seem,” he muttered aloud without thinking. He glanced at Lily, trying to gauge her reaction, but she was already walking ahead.

“Don’t go getting all cryptic on me,” she teased, though her voice was softer than before. “I’m trying to make sense of all this.”

He caught up with her, a quiet laugh escaping him. “You’ll get used to it. Eventually.”

But Lily wasn’t so sure. She’d seen how easily Sirius and James could unsettle people, pushing buttons without even trying, how they could draw even sensible people like Remus in with their endless energy and antics. She only hoped she wouldn’t fall into some sort of trap she wasn’t prepared for.

She’d already learned there were plenty of things she didn’t want to know. Like the existence of a cup in the corner of the dorm that Sirius had called the “spit cup.” Or the sight of a Christmas tree made entirely of books she’d spotted on her way out of their room this morning—something that had clearly been there a while, likely since last winter. It resembled more of a Jenga tower, with books pulled from each layer, probably whenever Remus needed them, yet he’d let it stay standing. 

Those things weren’t so bad—but it still felt like overstepping somehow. Like she was seeing parts of their world that were meant just for them to know.

She’d dashed up to the dorm to grab a few personal things for Remus while he headed to the girls’ dormitory to fetch some of hers. As she passed by Sirius’s bed, she noticed two large dents in the wall, accompanied by a post-it note that proudly proclaimed, Prongs’s first steps.

Lily had tilted her head, bewildered. James?

She didn’t linger. Didn’t ask.

Everything Lily knew about the Marauders, she’d learned against her will—and she intended to keep it that way until this ordeal was over.

“Oh, and steer clear of Severus!” she called as they went their separate ways.

Remus rolled his eyes as if that was a no-brainer. “You don’t need to tell me twice.”

Lily bit her lip, watching as his—well, her—scarlet hair disappeared towards the dungeons.

She let out a small sigh, then made her way towards the spiral staircase. The stairs were both easier and harder to navigate in Remus’s body. Easier with his longer legs, harder because of the constant ache in his muscles, like a permanent reminder of something she didn’t yet understand.

When she entered the classroom, the familiar bustle of students settling into their desks helped ease her nerves, at least for a moment. She slid into her seat, glancing up just as James made his way over, Quidditch bag over his shoulder and grinning from ear to ear.

Lily took in a deep breath, bracing herself, but then her eyes caught something on his cheekbone—dark and swollen.

Before she could say anything, James practically shouted, “See this shiner? Samuel O’Donnell knocked me flat out! So cool, right?!”

Lily blinked in disbelief. “Cool? James, why haven’t you gone to Madam Pomfrey to get that healed?”

He tilted his head, as though the thought had genuinely never occurred to him. “Why would I? It’s a badge of honour!”

“You should’ve seen him today, Lupin!” one of the boys behind him chimed in, laughing. “He was unstoppable on the pitch! Almost had O’Donnell take a Bludger to the face, so O’Donnell decided to repay him with a punch instead.”

O’Donnell… Seventh year. Tall. Big. Former Captain. Half-blood. Had a reputation for winning a few regional Muggle boxing competitions.

James soaked in the praise, exchanging fist bumps like trophies.

Lily sighed, shaking her head. Boys…

Sirius slid into the seat beside them, doing a subtle double-take at James’s face. “What happened to you?” he asked, half-amused, half-impressed.

James leaned back, grinning even wider. “O’Donnell decided to teach me a lesson for nearly sending him to the infirmary with a Bludger. Guess he thought a little fist-to-face action was in order.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, but before he could comment, Lily interrupted. “You’re an idiot, James. You should’ve gone to Madam Pomfrey. That’s not just a ‘little’ bruise.”

James waved her off. “I’m fine. It’s a minor inconvenience. Besides, I’m a walking legend now. Look at this thing!” He pointed to his bruise dramatically.

Sirius snorted. “You’re going to be insufferable now, aren’t you?”

James shot him a grin. “You know it. But I’ve earned it.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Did you at least get a decent hit in on him?”

James chuckled, tapping his bruised cheek. “I tried, but I’ll admit—he’s got a hell of a right hook.”

Lily gave James a look of pure exasperation. That confirmed it. Boys liked girls, but they liked the approval of other boys far more.

James leaned even further back in his chair—too far, the legs tipping dangerously before he steadied himself effortlessly—the very picture of trouble. He kept posing as if inviting the other students around him to admire his new adornment.

Merlin, he was full of himself.

“You’re completely reckless,” she said bluntly. “And you’re just going to let that bruise stay there?”

James shrugged, swinging around with a smug smile. “What, and ruin my new ‘tough guy’ look?”

“More like a ‘stupidity’ look,” Lily muttered, almost to herself.

She’d only visited James in the hospital wing three days ago after watching him tumble out of the sky and scare her half to death. The memory of him crashing to the ground, barely conscious, made her heart twist, but she pushed it down.

It pushed back up without her permission.

Before she could stop herself, she reached out, taking his face in her hands to inspect the blossoming bruise, her fingers brushing over the raised, red-purple skin. It took effort not to pull out her wand and heal it right then and there.

Did James Potter actually have a death wish? Or did he just chase danger as relentlessly as he pursued her?

Lily swallowed the soft Episkey building on her tongue, focusing instead on the darker flecks in his hazel eyes—ever-vibrant and animated behind his glasses. Idiot, she thought.

For a moment, James froze, his grin faltering just slightly. The humour in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something almost unsure, as if he wasn’t entirely used to someone paying this kind of attention to him.

Then, just as quickly, he masked it with a crooked smile. “Well? Am I doomed, Doc?” he teased, though his voice was a little quieter than before.

Lily’s gaze dropped, and she released him quickly. “You’ll survive. Unfortunately.”

Sirius forced a laugh, slinging an arm around James to break the tension. “You’d probably let yourself get hit by a train if you thought it’d make you look cooler.”

“Then I’d be flatter, not cooler,” James replied with a wink. “More pieces, maybe…”

“Deader,” Lily corrected with a huff.

Her eyes drifted to Sirius’s knuckles, tapping against the desk, a faint bruise blooming there too. Lily rolled her eyes but didn’t bother asking. She already knew. James and Sirius never did think things through—they were all action first, ask questions later.

Idiots.

Still riding the wave of his own antics, James clapped a hand on her shoulder. “A little action never hurt anyone!”

Sirius barked a laugh. “Alright, let’s not get carried away. In fairness, our actions don’t tend to hurt anyone… cool.”

“See? Cool,” James said triumphantly, giving Lily a pointed look. “Gotta take risks for the glory, Moony.”

Lily shook her head, unimpressed. “You’re absolutely unbelievable.”

“Yeah, but you all love me anyway,” James said, flashing her another wink.

Sirius snorted. “It’s a mystery to me why anyone would love you.”

“Oi!” James shot him a mock-offended look. “I’m a catch!”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Sure, a catch. That’s why Evans won’t even give you the time of day.”

“Oi!” James warned, his tone shifting, a bit more serious this time. “Rejection’s just redirection.”

“Evans is always running in one direction,” Sirius replied, casual as ever, shrugging. “Away from you.”

Lily frowned, her gaze shifting between the two of them.

Sirius leaned in, smug. “Mate, sometimes the juice just isn’t worth the squeeze. I don’t know why you bother with her.”

Lily, who had been ignoring the conversation since her name first came up, kicked Sirius under the table. Hard. Sirius had the kind of face that clearly hadn’t been punched in its life, but right now, it looked like it was begging for one.

“That’s revolting!” she hissed.

Sirius rolled his eyes but lowered his voice. “C’mon, Moons. Don’t encourage his delusions. Lily Evans couldn’t care less about him.”

She actually could care less. Frequently wished she did, if she was honest.

“She’s bossy, stuck-up, and rude,” Sirius grumbled. “Sure, she’s pretty, but she’s also pretty insufferable.”

James didn’t hesitate to fire back. “She’s assertive, knows what she wants, and actually has a brain. And, for the record, she’s far less annoying—and leagues better-looking—than you.”

Sirius snorted, leaning back with an infuriatingly amused expression. “Merlin, you’ve got it bad.”

James didn’t even try to deny it.

Lily’s heart skipped a beat. Oh no, not now. Heat rose in her cheeks again, this time from something other than anger, and she thought she might just die of embarrassment right here in this classroom.

But then James knocked his shoulder against hers, completely oblivious, and Lily slowly felt her pulse calm as her expression softened.

She leaned slightly towards James, angling herself away from Sirius, their arms brushing casually. It felt warmer beside him, but not in a way that made her uncomfortable—more like the first day of summer, the sun on her skin, welcome and soothing, the air rich with the promise of what could be.

Sirius broke the spell. “I dare you to stand on the dinner table tonight and tell her all that. Except the part about being leagues better-looking than me—there’s a good chance that’d spark a riot. Might even be considered criminal. Public deception and all.”

Lily opened her mouth to say something but realised she didn’t need to. James was already shaking his head with a sheepish grin.

“I’m… trying to keep the grand gestures to a minimum,” he said. “She doesn’t really go for them. Thinks I’m messing with her.”

Sirius made a dramatic sigh. “Well, that’s boring. You’re going for the quiet pining routine this year?”

James chuckled, though his eyes were suddenly a little sharper. “Nah, I’ll leave that to you.”

For a split second, Sirius went still. His smirk slipped, and he glanced at Lily before quickly turning his eyes elsewhere.

James caught it, and a knowing grin spread across his face.

Lily tilted her head at them, her brows knitting in puzzlement.

Her gaze flicked back to James’s bruise, and her frown deepened, a touch of genuine concern sneaking onto her face. “Seriously, James. If that’s not healed by tomorrow, I’ll drag you to Madam Pomfrey myself.”

James waved her off with a shrug. “I’m fine. No point wasting her time on something stupid like this.”

Sirius, observing the exchange with an almost unreadable expression, leaned back and forced a tight smile. “Better hope Madam Pomfrey doesn’t see that bruise before it fades, or she’ll have a fit.”

James muttered, “Eh, I’ll live—so long as I’m not re-concussed,” already shifting his attention back to the front of the class.

Lily could only stare at him for a moment longer, wondering how anyone could be so careless—and so completely unconcerned with the consequences.

She exhaled a deep breath. Boys, honestly.

Determined to focus on the lesson, Lily ignored Sirius’s persistent, pointed glances, though she felt the tension building. What on earth was his problem? He was clearly waiting for her to react. A scrap of parchment knocked gently against her knuckles, and she looked up, giving the culprit a swift, reproachful glance.

Sirius looked around lazily, all wide eyes and false innocence.

Unfolding the note, Lily read the message scrawled in annoyingly elegant, too-perfect cursive: Mothering James much?

Lily rolled her eyes. Jealous much? she wrote back, sliding the note to him with all the subtlety of a Bludger to the face.

James peered over, catching sight of the note above Sirius’s shoulder. Before Lily could even register his reaction, Sirius swiftly cast an Obliteration Charm. The parchment shimmered blank, and the moment passed as though it had never happened.

Lily watched James recline casually in his chair, entirely unruffled. He didn’t push Sirius, didn’t even raise an eyebrow—just pivoted effortlessly into some ludicrous topic of conversation, pulling Sirius along with him. It was almost seamless, like breathing. His ease was deliberate, Lily noted, a practised deflection to keep the atmosphere light, the distractions constant.

As the lesson began, Lily tried to focus, but her thoughts kept circling back to the mess she was in. Sirius was charming trouble—a walking calamity with a frankly horrendous love life and more schemes than scruples. James, all swagger and mischief, was chaos personified. Peter trailed behind them, devoted to the point of blindness.

She was doomed.

But there was more to it. The brief moment with the note had been telling: the irritation Sirius had barely masked, James’s effortless smoothing over. It wasn’t just about surviving pranks or banter. The Marauders operated on unspoken rules, an intricate rhythm of give and take that outsiders weren’t meant to follow, let alone disrupt. If she wanted to avoid drawing suspicion, she’d have to pick it up fast.

Remus had warned her, in his roundabout way. Their loyalty ran deep; their friendship a fortress. But a fortress was also a trap if you didn’t know your way around it.

Disturbing that balance, even accidentally, wasn’t an option. He’d promised to help her navigate, but that didn’t stop the creeping feeling that she was the outsider in a tightly knit pack of wolves, trying to fit in by putting on a wolf’s pelt and hoping they wouldn’t sniff her out.

She scanned the room, letting her gaze linger on each of them as Professor Flitwick droned on. James, lounging back with his quill spinning idly, jotted the occasional half-hearted note. Sirius was engrossed in sketching an elaborate guitar on the edge of his parchment. Peter scribbled furiously, trying to keep up with Professor Flitwick’s lecture, his head snapping up every so often as if afraid to miss a detail.

And the rightful owner of her borrowed body—Remus—was conspicuously absent. Lily sighed. Potions, of all classes. She could only hope he wasn’t irreparably damaging her reputation there.

She’d chosen Potions on the off chance she might want to become a Healer, unwilling to close any doors just yet. Sitting down with McGonagall last year to discuss her future had been one of the most terrifying moments of her sixteen years. At just fifteen, she’d been asked to make decisions that might shape the rest of her life—a thought that still twisted her stomach.

Her thoughts returned to Sirius’s note and the smirk that had accompanied it. What had he meant by it? And why had James defused the moment so quickly? The Marauders’ dynamics weren’t just layered—they were messy, thorned with history and unspoken agreements she wasn’t privy to.

Yet, for all their recklessness, loudness, and entirely too much comfort with each other’s nonsense, they had a rhythm. A method to their madness. The unspoken language, the instinctive covering for one another—it was maddeningly impressive, even if she found it overwhelming.

But there was no turning back. She was here, in the middle of their chaos, and she had to survive it: maintain her cover, avoid missteps, and preserve her sanity. Easier said than done.

“Oi, Moony.” James leaned closer, grinning as he whispered, “How stupid d’you reckon you have to be to turn yourself into a human watering can?”

It was lesson-relevant, at least. Professor Flitwick was detailing the Aguamenti charm, including its unfortunate misfires—one of which ended with a wizard perpetually conjuring water until he drowned.

It was less horrifying than the story he once told about a witch mad with grief who lost her mind down a Pensieve. Still, a little horrifying.

Lily shot James a flat look. “Less idiotic than you, apparently.”

His laugh rang out, far too loud, earning them both a sharp glare from Flitwick. Of course. Typical.

Remus, she knew, would have handled this with his characteristic dry wit and subtlety. She, however, had to rely on sheer stubbornness—a volatile mix when paired with Sirius’s brazen humour or James’s relentless energy. And then there was the undercurrent of tension between Remus and Sirius, barely mended and all the more precarious for it.

It was like brewing a tricky potion: one wrong step, and the whole thing could blow up.

Lily breathed deeply, forcing herself to refocus as the lesson dragged on. She couldn’t let Sirius’s barbs or James’s antics get under her skin.

Both James and Sirius carried an easy sense of confidence, like they’d never had to worry about failing.

They always seemed annoyingly calm whenever they got in trouble, whenever they faced a challenge. No fear of failure, no dread of consequences. Lily supposed wealth had something to do with it. Money often brought financial security, of course, but growing up in an environment free from worry seemed to shape how they approached other problems too—with this sense that ‘everything could be solved.’

Like that saying: If your friends jumped off a bridge, would you jump too? For them, the fall wouldn’t be fatal.

It was the opposite for those from financially challenging backgrounds. Having seen how bad life could get, they were often far less calm when disaster struck.

Maybe that’s why Remus always seemed to hang back more than the others.

Lily understood what it was like to watch rather than leap headlong into things. Understood consequences. It was one of the reasons she and Remus had always gotten along.

But now, she wasn’t just observing the storm—she was walking straight into it, pretending like she belonged.

And belonging, she realised, wasn’t as simple as pretending.

Remus had told her she’d manage. And she wanted to believe him. But as she watched Sirius shoot another mysterious glance her way, and James flash that insufferable grin over his shoulder, she couldn’t help but feel like she’d just stepped onto a very thin tightrope.

And if she fell, she had no idea whether the Marauders would catch her—or simply laugh as she hit the ground.

By the time the lesson ended, she felt no closer to cracking the group’s dynamic but acutely aware of how much rested on maintaining the delicate balance Remus had struck, not just for her own sake, but for his.

She might not be one of them, but for now, she’d learn to blend in.

After all, to survive in a wolf’s den, a lion had no choice but to adapt.

James shot her a quick grin as he gathered his things. “See you at dinner, Moony?”

Lily forced a smile. “Yeah, see you.”

She watched them leave, her mind buzzing with half-formed thoughts. They were overwhelming, infuriating, and yet… magnetic. She found herself stuck to them and only mostly exasperated. A small part of her was… grudgingly curious.

The rest of the day went by in a haze of half-listened instructions and barely absorbed lessons. Yet, among the chaos, there were small victories. A comment she’d made that had earned a laugh, a brief moment where Sirius’s glare softened into something almost akin to respect. For all the confusion, Lily realised, she wasn’t as far from fitting in as she had feared.

When she finally met up with Remus, she was drained but not defeated. His calm, knowing smile greeted her, his sharp eyes assessing her expression.

“Survived your first day as a Marauder?”

“Barely,” she admitted, shaking her head. “James and Sirius are exhausting in their own unique ways. I think I’m starting to understand why you’re so calm—someone has to be, or the whole group would combust.”

Remus laughed and nudged her toward the portrait hole.

“Marlene’s driving me up the wall,” he grumbled wearily. He may have lost James and Sirius, but he’d gained Marlene—and she could give the boys a run for their money. “She treats gossiping like it’s some kind of competitive sport.”

Lily snorted. “You’re not wrong. First rule: don’t let her start talking about you,” she advised with a fond smile. “But she means well. That girl’s more of an open book than she realises.”

“Any advice on how to close the book?”

“Avoid the library altogether?”

Remus sighed. “Is this really what you deal with every day?”

“You mean Marlene and her endless commentary? Or Alice reminding you to eat more?”

Alice had a habit of leaning over and shoving more food onto the plates around her. Marlene often teamed up with her, jabbing her elbow into Mary’s side and muttering, “Stop picking at your food like a bird. Weight isn’t the worst thing you can gain in this life. A man is.”

“Both,” Remus replied, sounding like he’d been through it. “But mostly Marlene. And then there’s Mary. She’s relentless. Every time I turn around, there she is.”

Lily let out a laugh. “Mary? Seriously?”

“Seriously. She always wants to do things together and talk about feelings. She’s… too nice. My friends aren’t like that.”

“I’ve noticed,” Lily replied dryly.

Sirius only bothered talking to people if they were attractive or if he liked what they had to say—and he made no effort to hide it. James and Peter weren’t much better.

“It’s not like I don’t like her,” Remus quickly clarified, “but she’s always five steps ahead, booking time with me in advance. Sure, it’s useful stuff—studying, swapping notes—but it’s constant. I don’t think she even realises she’s hovering half the time.”

“Well, at least Mary’s harmless,” Lily said with a shrug. “Try dealing with James and Sirius all day. I swear, they’re like two halves of a very loud, very chaotic brain.”

Remus smirked. “Sounds about right. And you’re lucky. You’ve only had one day of it.”

“Lucky?” Lily scoffed. “I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use.”

They both laughed softly as they walked, the stress of the day easing into something lighter. It was strange, almost surreal, to talk like this—to share these small complaints about their friends as though the switch in bodies hadn’t complicated everything.

Lily glanced at him, a wry smile forming. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be one of their best friends, you don’t seem all that surprised by how insufferable they are.”

Remus shrugged. “Oh, I’m used to it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy watching someone else experience the madness firsthand.”

“Glad I can provide some entertainment,” Lily deadpanned, though a faint glint of humour shone in her eyes.

Remus nudged her shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’re doing fine. Better than I expected, actually.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to be a compliment, Lupin?”

“Take it however you want, Evans,” he said with a teasing grin.

They walked in companionable silence for a moment before Lily spoke again, her tone more thoughtful this time. “You know… I think I’m starting to see how you manage to stay sane around them. It’s not just patience, is it?”

Remus tilted his head, curious. “What do you mean?”

“You’re… detached, in a way. Part of the group, but also just a step outside it. Enough to see things clearly. Enough to keep your balance.”

He considered that, his expression unreadable. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just survival instinct.”

Lily smiled faintly. “Well, whatever it is, I’m glad I have you to help me figure this out. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

Remus met her gaze, his usual guardedness softening to reveal a hint of warmth. “You’ll be fine, Lily. Just remember—when in doubt, blame Sirius. He’s always guilty of something… even when he doesn’t remember what it is.”

She laughed, the sound light and genuine.

Then Remus turned, exasperation creeping into his tone. “Anyway, really. What do I do about Mary? She even follows me to the bathroom. Why do girls always go to the bathroom together? It’s like… every single time.”

Remus honestly had no idea what went on in the girls’ bathroom. It was like stepping into a completely different world. There was a makeshift tarot card reading station tucked into one corner, mirrors constantly crowded, and an endless stream of chatter—even as the girls slipped behind the stalls.

To be fair, the bathrooms were much nicer than the boys’. He could almost see why they spent so much time in there. No bare arses on display, for one thing. And, apparently, every stall had a permanent Silencing Charm for privacy, which made the whole experience far less mortifying.

But it wasn’t just that. There was a ritual to it all. Every girl, no matter how stunning or plain, no matter how confident or self-conscious, paused at the mirror before leaving. They’d check their hair, fix their lip gloss, smooth their robes. Just for a moment. And then, as if bracing themselves, they’d step back out into the world.

It struck him, watching it unfold, how the bathroom wasn’t just a place for them to relieve themselves. It was a sanctuary. A war room. Somewhere they could adjust their armour—hair, makeup, the little details that made them feel ready—for whatever waited on the other side of the door. Because they knew they’d be looked at, that some part of their worth seemed tied to how much others liked what they saw.

It was sad, in a way. And it wasn’t something Remus had ever noticed, let alone understood. Not until now. Now, with Lily’s eyes showing him everything.

Lily crossed her arms, smirking. “You think that’s bad? Sirius is just as bad. The boy’s incapable of being alone for five minutes.”

Remus’s lips twitched, as though he was about to say something but thought better of it.

“I’m serious!” Lily continued, gesturing animatedly. “If he’s not glued to me, he’s with James. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him by himself—” She broke off mid-sentence, her gaze narrowing at something hard in Remus’s expression.

“What?” she asked, frowning. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Remus looked away quickly, his jaw tightening. “I’m not.”

He looked angrier than Lily had ever seen him at anyone… except it didn’t seem to be aimed at her.

“You are,” she pressed. “It’s the look that says I’ve said something awful without realising it. What is it?”

Remus hesitated, his gaze falling to the floor.

Lily’s eyes narrowed in expectation.

“It’s nothing,” he said quietly, his voice carefully neutral. “Forget it.”

But Lily wasn’t about to let it go. She stepped in front of him, blocking his path, her expression sharp. “No, Remus. It’s not nothing. I’m in your shoes, remember? If I’ve said something wrong, I need to know. What is it?”

For a second, Remus just stared at her, that maddening mask of neutrality firmly in place. Then, finally, he relented. “It’s just… Sirius. He doesn’t do alone, Lily. Not because he can’t, but because he won’t. There’s a difference.”

Lily searched his face, seeing a depth to his expression she wasn’t sure she was ready to unpack. “What do you mean?”

Remus hesitated, clearly deciding how much to reveal. “He’s… been through a lot. Things I don’t think even James fully understands. So when he clings, when he hovers—it’s not about being annoying. It’s about not letting the silence catch up with him.”

Lily stared at him. She hadn’t expected that. Not from Sirius. Not from the boy who always seemed so carefree, so reckless.

“I didn’t know,” she said finally, her voice filled with regret.

“Few people do,” Remus replied, gentler now. “And he’d rather keep it that way. So… maybe cut him some slack. He doesn’t mean half the things he says. And the other half? Well, that’s just his way of keeping people at arm’s length.”

Lily nodded slowly, her mind whirling. She felt the urge to defend herself, to explain. “I wasn’t trying to judge him. I just—”

“I know,” Remus interrupted. “But if you’re going to be around us, around him, you should know what you’re dealing with. Sirius is… well, Sirius. But he’s loyal to a fault. Just like the rest of us.”

Her brow softened, her chest tightening.

Usually, it was James or Sirius sticking up for each other—or for Peter or Remus. But this was different. This was a kind of protectiveness Lily hadn’t seen from Remus before. As though he couldn’t stand the thought of Sirius being hurt—or someone thinking poorly of him. It was intense, almost visceral. A loyalty that came from somewhere deep, hidden beneath the quiet façade he always wore.

It was a reminder. Sirius, James, Peter—they all carried their own burdens, their own stories. If Lily wanted to get through this, she’d have to understand them, even if it meant looking past their masks. If they let her.

There was a moment of tense silence before Remus exhaled, a decision made. “It’s just…” He hesitated again, choosing his words carefully. “You’re not wrong. Sirius doesn’t like being alone. But it’s not for attention or anything like that. Not the way he’d let you think.”

Lily’s own voice, cracked and choked up during an argument with her sister over the summer, echoed in her mind. It had been the same day she’d got her OWLs results, the same day Petunia had introduced a boy to their parents.

You and your constant need for attention. Honestly, Lily, can’t you just let me have one moment?

Petunia had stormed off, flinging the parchment at her, muttering something about ‘Freak School’ as she went.

It wasn’t until Lily found herself alone on the landing—no Severus to share her excitement with that summer, no one to tell—that the words slipped out.

I never wanted to be special. I just… wanted to matter.

She willed the memory away, forcing it to fade into the shadows.

Lily’s expression softened further, her frown one of concern. “What is it, then?”

Remus’s jaw tightened again, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “His family. They used to lock him up. Alone. For hours. Sometimes days. It was…” His voice faltered before he forced himself to continue. “It was punishment.”

Lily’s hand flew to her mouth, her gasp almost soundless. “They locked him up? Sirius?”

Remus nodded, his gaze distant. “Grimmauld Place has cells. Real ones. Like a dungeon.” His voice dropped, low and angry. “They weren’t above using them.”

Lily stared at him, her arms falling to her sides. “That’s—” She shook her head, the thought sinking in. Parents should be the first to teach you what love is. Sirius’s taught him what love is not.

“Yeah,” Remus muttered, his tone bleak. “So, yeah. He doesn’t like being on his own. Not after that.”

Lily swallowed hard, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “I had no idea.”

“No one really does,” Remus said quietly. His gaze flicked to hers, guarded. “And if he knew I told you, he’d be furious.”

Lily gave a small nod, her throat tight. “I won’t say a word. I promise.”

Remus’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though the tension in his face didn’t fade. “Good. Just… don’t bring it up with him, alright? He doesn’t need pity. Just someone to keep him company.”

His eyes told a story his words didn’t: Please be nice to my bloody annoying friend.

Lily nodded again, her chest aching. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Of course.”

As they stepped into the evening bustle of the common room, Lily caught herself glancing at Remus. His expression was warm but slightly guarded, as always. She was starting to see their group’s dynamics through his eyes—the loyalty, the unspoken rules, the chaos that somehow worked itself into order.

The Marauders weren’t just mischievous boys wreaking havoc on the school. They were a family—a messy, flawed, fiercely loyal family. And somehow, against all odds, Lily was starting to feel like being part of it—even temporarily—was more of an honour than a curse.

But as she caught Remus sneaking a sidelong glance at her, his expression unreadable, she couldn’t help but wonder what else he wasn’t telling her.

Remus glanced around Dumbledore’s empty office, a sense of defeat settling over him. The evening stretched on, unravelling like the end of a knotted ball of yarn. He could drop the ball right now and save himself the trouble of untangling it, but where would that leave him?

“Fuck,” he muttered, kicking at the empty desk.

Fawkes shifted, a soft flutter of feathers accompanying a noise that seemed to say he understood—probably just as aware of how badly things were about to go as Remus was.

One of the others mentioned the moon, and that was it. Sirius shifting into Padfoot, a rat scurrying across the floor before turning into Peter—and the game would be over. Lily would know, at least about the underage, unregistered Animagi.

And once that was out in the open, the inevitable question would follow: why?

Remus exhaled slowly, his eyes lingering on Fawkes as the phoenix’s food and water replenished themselves.

So, Dumbledore wasn’t coming back tonight. Great. Just perfect.

He stepped out of the office, walking briskly past the gargoyle, then down the stairs toward the portrait of the young lady lounging beneath an apple tree.

Then he began to pace.

For a solid half-hour, he walked the length of the third-floor corridor, trying to summon the Room of Requirement. He focused on every detail: the wrong magic, the clutter of forgotten things, the Mirror of Erised’s painful reflections.

But nothing.

Leaning against the lion statue, he paused to catch his breath. His mind turned over his next steps before honing in on the more immediate problem: the furry one. The one he’d passed on to Lily—who now had the responsibility, at least for the time being.

He wasn’t sure whether the transformation would affect his body or Lily’s. When he was bitten, had the curse altered his physical form, or was it something deeper—something that touched his very soul?

In search of answers, he owled his father. The response came swiftly and was as brief as it was clinical:

Remus,

Lycanthropy is in the blood. Only the body infected will change under the moon.

L.L.

The word “infected” made him flinch, as it always did, but he forced the feeling down and allowed relief to take its place. He tried to convince himself he wasn’t disappointed at the thought of experiencing a full moon without agony for the first time since he was five.

Two weeks. They’d change back by then surely.

And at least the problem was contained to his own body. Lily wouldn’t wind up scarred. But if she experienced the moon in his? In his place? She might still get hurt.

His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten. He probably should—this wasn’t his body to neglect. But he wasn’t sure if Lily or her dormmates kept a stash of food like Peter always did.

Still, there were other worries. His mother’s letters had been getting shorter too, and Remus couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong. She’d looked thinner this summer, the belt loops on her paisley dresses cinched tighter. Her light brown hair had dulled to an ashen hue that spoke more of weariness than sun-bleaching. But her smile had been as radiant as ever, and at King’s Cross, Remus had endured the usual teasing from his friends about her beauty. 

Peter had practically tripped over his own feet, gawping at her as they made their way to the platform. He’d stammered out a greeting, blushing furiously until they finally found their compartment.

There had been a moment of hesitation as Remus stood outside the compartment, trying to summon the courage to face Sirius after all the silence—after ignoring his owls all summer until the owls stopped coming. His hands had trembled, but he’d kept them hidden, forcing himself to appear steady as he took a deep breath.

When he stepped inside, Sirius was already watching him. Just like back in first year, when everything had been new and uncertain.

Sirius looked good, as always, but this time there was something different. He looked well—much better than the last time Remus had seen him, during that heavy, awful night in the summer. Well, but not quite happy. He was on edge, like something was about to happen.

Their eyes locked.

Remus’s chest had tightened. The air around them felt heavier, as if the space between them had collapsed entirely.

Sirius had always had that effect on him—he could step into a room and make it feel smaller, fill it up with something Remus didn’t know how to describe but always felt.

James had sat there, trying not to make it obvious he was waiting for things to explode, observing but not stepping in.

Finally, Remus had sighed, breaking the silence, and walked in.

“Alright. Which one of you sent my mum flowers for her birthday?” he’d asked, remembering the thank-you card his mother had insisted he bring back—not that he’d ever give it to them. He’d looked around the train car suspiciously.

Sirius had been the first to deflect blame. “That one has Prongs written all over it.”

A small shrug from James had confirmed it.

Remus had shot him a deeply disappointed look.

“And how is your mother?” James had teased, waggling his eyebrows in exaggerated interest.

Remus had rolled his eyes but ignored him. Sirius, of course, wouldn’t let it slide.

“Right. How is lovely Hope, Moony?” Sirius had chimed in, all playful curiosity.

A playfulness Remus hadn’t heard in months. Had missed a stupid amount.

Remus scoffed, turning to the window. “Considering she’s had to clean up your sick more than once, I’d say she’s still very much not interested in little boys, Black.”

Sirius had leaned back with a mock-offended expression. “I’m not so little anymore,” he’d retorted with a smirk.

Remus had swallowed hard, unable to deny the truth in those words.

“How are you, then, Moony?” Sirius had asked, raising an eyebrow as he tried his luck again.

“I’ve also had to clean up your sick,” Remus had shot back, a small smile forming. “So, like my mother, I’m also not interested.”

Before Sirius could come up with a comeback, Marlene had poked her head into the compartment, eyes alight with mischief. “So, Lupin, care to explain why you didn’t mention your mum’s an absolute smokeshow?”

Remus had sighed deeply as the compartment erupted in laughter and teasing.

“Someone’s going to want to lock you down soon, Lupin,” Marlene had continued, leaning casually against the doorframe with a knowing smirk. “They say it’s smart to start making long-term investments at our age.”

Remus had avoided telling his mother about what happened with Sirius last term. She was already nervous about him attending Hogwarts, and sharing something like that would only confirm her fears. Besides, he wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want her thinking poorly of Sirius. Maybe because too many people already misunderstood him.

His father, on the other hand, knew about the incident but had never liked Sirius much. The feeling was mutual; Sirius wasn’t particularly fond of Lyall either. Lyall preferred people whose presence was more like a whisper, while Sirius’s was a shout. Hope’s was a lullaby—at its loudest, a soft croon.

Remus’s eyes lingered on the precise loops of his father’s signature, and he let out a slow breath. No updates from home. No news was probably good news, he reasoned.

Home had become a distant concept in recent years—more of a temporary stop between Christmas and summer breaks while he secretly counted down the days until his return to Hogwarts. He found himself missing his friends almost as soon as he left them.

But this summer had been different. He’d spent much of it feeling… angry. And, for the first time, he dreaded going back to school.

The Lupins’ house sat tucked away in the countryside along the border between Wales and England. Half coastal town, half sprawling farmland. Thurstaston, on the Wirral, had been home since he was twelve, after his father’s job at the Magical Creatures Research Institute in Liverpool won out over staying in Cardiff, his mother’s hometown.

It was meant to be temporary, but whispers of a brewing war made moving further south infeasible. Returning to Wales was equally dangerous. 

Moving—or running—had become a familiar pattern by then, each new town a little rougher than the last. Thurstaston, though, felt like it could last. There was enough wildness to keep the transformations private, and the locals near the city were… well, Liverpool had its own brand of privacy.

Every Scouser Remus knew would look you dead in the eye and swear they’d “’eard nothin’, lad,” if asked about strange noises. It wasn’t exactly peaceful, but it was friendly, making for an oddly comfortable hiding place. 

Of course, being a “Wool” from the borderlands between Wales and England made Remus fair game for teasing whenever he ventured into Liverpool proper. Being half-Welsh and living across the water didn’t help. “The wooliest Wool to ever Wool,” a few lads had joked. 

The city’s grit didn’t bother him. Liverpool was blossoming with music, thanks to the Beatles. During winter break last year, he’d taken Sirius to Probe Records, a tiny shop infamous among locals. He’d warned Sirius about Burns, the eccentric cashier notorious for refusing to sell records to customers he thought had “bad taste.” Sirius had scoffed, insisting he’d breeze his way through. He failed spectacularly. Burns sneered, “I’m not lettin’ yer waste yer money on that shite,” sharing a wink with Remus.

Remus had grown to appreciate Burns’s brashness and eccentricities. He’d once seen Burns at the counter wearing a hodgepodge of glam-rock Bowie-inspired makeup, a soldier’s jacket, a skirt sewn into pants, and shoes with wooden planks nailed on. Some customers were too intimidated to approach the counter when Burns was on shift, but Remus had come to enjoy the all-out circus that seemed to follow the bloke’s every scathing word.

Remus didn’t want to move again, but he could feel his mother’s tension, her longing for Wales pulling at her. His father, meanwhile, seemed to want to be anywhere but home, where he’d have to face the reality that his son’s condition wasn’t something he could fix.

Living in the in-between had become the norm. It was life caught between worlds—a home that never quite felt like one. Too English for the Welsh, too much of a Wool for the Liverpudlians. Too magical for Muggles, too Muggle for wizards. Too human for werewolves, too much of a creature for wizards. It was as if he were always half of something.

Half-Welsh, half-blood, half-wizard… full werewolf?

And half, really, meant not enough.

Full meant too much.

Hogwarts was the only place that felt like it belonged to him—or perhaps he to it. Specifically, a loud dormitory shared by four boys in Gryffindor Tower. He’d do anything to protect that feeling of belonging, which was why he’d forgiven Sirius and why he’d never do anything to risk losing him—or the rest of them—again.

Still, lately… things felt different. And it wasn’t just the tension with Sirius.

Earlier, at dinner, Marlene had handed him a neatly folded newspaper, her expression deliberately neutral—a mask of calm.

The headline read: ‘Manchester Tragedy: Block of Flats Goes Up in Flames, Killing Almost 200.’ Faulty pipes, the article claimed.

Mary and Remus had exchanged a sombre look, fully aware that the darkness looming ahead was a grave threat. Sometimes, fear served as a necessary warning—one that must be heeded.

Fear came from the unknown, and this felt terrifying because the threat remained elusive.

It hadn’t fully revealed itself. Not yet.

But it echoed through the halls, evident in the menace thinly veiled behind Slytherin taunts. It showed in the increasingly empty classrooms as students retreated into hiding—or disappeared altogether. It appeared in the growing number of so-called “natural” disasters reported in the papers.

Muggle-borns were far from safe. Half-bloods weren’t much safer.

Perhaps they never had been. Perhaps they never would be.

Things might shift, even improve one day, but the fundamental reality remained unchanged. This was the way things were.

Maybe this was all there was. Maybe this was all there ever could be.

As long as differences existed—and they always would—there would always be those who believed their claim to the world was greater than anyone else’s.

Remus never discussed his growing fears with the others, though he noticed that James seemed to sense his occasional bouts of concern. He didn’t resent their moments of ignorance; after all, Sirius had his own issues.

Remus had occasionally glimpsed Sirius’s Slytherin brother and had a few unfortunate run-ins with him and his lackeys, either with Sirius or during his prefect rounds. Regulus wasn’t as vicious as some of the other Slytherins in his year—or as awful as Walburga, their mother.

Instead, Regulus had always seemed perfectly comfortable embracing the role of a perfect Pureblood son: withdrawn, contentious, analytical, and not so much frozen as immune to warmth. Traits Sirius could never embody.

At first, Remus had wondered why, if things were so bad for Sirius at home, he hadn’t taken Regulus with him when he left. But after observing Regulus, those questions answered themselves.

Sirius’s parents treated him with cruelty and disdain because he didn’t buy into the pure-blood ideology. Regulus, on the other hand, seemed to fully support it. Sirius had left his brother behind with parents who cared for him. Who treated him well.

Regulus was never abused by his parents; he was their favourite son.

The last thing Sirius had said about Regulus had been almost purposely apathetic. It wasn’t said directly to Remus but rather in one of those private conversations between James and Sirius that, while not intentionally excluding the others, made Peter and Remus feel like intruders.

“Just don’t see the point anymore, Prongs. Rotten fruit falls on its own.”

And that was that: no more birthday cards. No more acknowledgment of each other’s existence—not that there had been much effort to maintain it since Regulus started at Hogwarts.

Remus didn’t think siblings could grow more distant, yet somehow, their minimal efforts had completely ceased this year.

The war was bleeding through everything, spreading through Wizarding Britain like a stain, too deep and too fast to stop.

The Blacks, however, never got directly involved—not like the Malfoys or Lestranges. Sirius’s parents, for all their agreement with Voldemort’s ideals, saw revolution as something beneath them. A task for the lower classes. Perhaps it was some lingering snobbery from the French Revolution, or perhaps they simply thought themselves too grand to sully their own hands.

To them, “Throw a stone at mud, and you’re the one who gets dirty.”

Their weapons of choice were subtler: politics, business, and marriage—though, in their world, those were often one and the same.

But that didn’t mean the war wasn’t already making sides known.

Remus couldn’t forget a piece of advice he’d received last year from a werewolf he’d met in a dingy pub, probably someone recruiting for the other side.

“War is looming. But war is the affair of men, not wolves.”

Remus had folded his arms across his chest, levelling the grizzled man with a pointed look. “Shouldn’t be the affair of children, either. But look around.”

The werewolf had snorted, a harsh and jagged sound, followed by a cough that rattled deep in his chest. He’d grabbed the beer in front of him and taken a slow swig.

“I’m not one of them,” he’d said finally, setting the jug down with a thud. “Not here recruiting kids. Couldn’t care less why the wizards want to zap each other to bits.” He’d paused, shrugging with an air of weary indifference. “Doesn’t matter who wins. They’ll never give a damn about us either way.”

Remus’s eyes had narrowed, silently agreeing but still sceptical.

The man had noticed and let out a low, humourless chuckle. “You’re smart. That’s good. But be smarter. War’s got a way of blurring the line between friend and foe.”

“I thought it made those lines clearer,” Remus had countered, his voice steady but edged with defiance.

“For some, maybe,” the man had admitted, his gaze darkening. “But look whose side Greyback’s on. The other side might be darker, but at least they’re honest about hating us. They don’t pretend to give a damn.”

Then, the werewolf had looked straight across the room at Remus’s friends.

“You smell like one of them. That lad, over there.”

Remus didn’t bother following the man’s gaze. He’d already known who he meant.

Sirius had dragged him outside for a smoke earlier, though, as usual, it had been more excuse than intent. Sirius never needed much of a reason to steal kisses in the shadows. The air had been freezing, their breath curling like ghosts between them, but Remus’s mouth had been quick to warm under Sirius’s attentive tongue. The rough brick of the pub wall had scraped his back, the cold ground biting at his knees when Sirius’s fingers had threaded through his hair, but none of it had mattered.

Not when Sirius had come undone under his touch.

Not when after, instead of savouring the aftermath, Sirius had pulled him upright, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him again—hard and desperate, as though trying to drink him in. Not after they’d eventually shared that cigarette, though it had barely been smoked, passed back and forth between mouths that couldn’t seem to stop finding each other.

The taste of him lingered now, and it was no surprise the wolf could still catch the scent.

“He smells a bit like one of us,” the man had continued, his head canting slightly as he’d studied Sirius. “But not quite. Can’t tell if that’s him or… you all over him.”

“Don’t,” Remus had said sharply, his teeth flashing in warning.

He wouldn’t usually posture at all but this was a dangerous conversation. One the other wolf had made more dangerous by bringing up his… whatever they were. Trouble. Something that always led to trouble, and would no doubt lead to more should anyone know just what else the two of them got up to when alone.

The man had chuckled again, low in his throat, but his gaze slid away from Sirius. “Alright, alright. No offence meant. Wolves aren’t bound by the same rules as men or wizards, you know. Don’t much care what gets your engine going. Just wondering—he’s pack, though, isn’t he?”

“Pack?” Remus had echoed, tasting the word like it didn’t quite fit.

The wolf had frowned, his expression hardening with faint pity. “You’re packless,” he’d said bluntly. “Makes sense, I suppose. Explains why you don’t know anything.” He’d paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You know, I could—”

“No.” Remus’s voice was ice now, cutting the offer short. “I’m not packless. I have…” His hand had made a vague gesture towards the table where James and Peter were animatedly debating something, Sirius perched lazily beside them.

The wolf had followed his gaze, his mouth curving into something between amusement and condescension. “Good luck with that.”

Something in his tone had made a sickening knot form in Remus’s stomach. His jaw clenched as he’d watched the man turn away, a dark chuckle lingering like smoke in the air.

Just before he left, the wolf had cocked his head back around and nodded toward the others, his yellow eyes sharp with something knowing, and cautioned, “Other wizards will hurt you because they think you’re dangerous, and your friends will hurt you because they know you’re not.”

Remus hadn’t known then just how deeply he would come to understand those words.

Just three months after that conversation, Sirius had tested just how dangerous Remus could be.

Remus pushed aside the memory with practised indifference. Instead, he looked around Lily’s empty dormitory, the stillness suddenly pressing in on him.

It was too quiet. Too calm.

Mary had vanished an hour ago, off to meet some boy. Marlene hadn’t lasted long after that, her mood darkening the second Mary left. A strange tension had settled in the air, only broken when Marlene stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Now it was just him.

No James hurling a Quaffle about with reckless abandon, as if daring someone to tell him off. No Peter muttering through his essays, the frantic scratching of his quill eventually giving way to a pitiful plea for help.

And no Sirius.

Remus tried to shove that thought away before it could fully take shape, but it clung to him stubbornly, refusing to dissolve.

He’d gone through Lily’s assignments for tomorrow, read through the required chapters, even thumbed absently through her copy of Wuthering Heights. The words had blurred into nothing, his mind preoccupied, half-waiting for the inevitable interruption.

For someone to climb into the bed beside him, shoulder brushing his. For a familiar voice to tease him, a presence that made pretending to read impossible. For a pair of eyes that always held too much amusement, too much fondness, until he gave in and looked up.

And made some dry remark that would earn him a laugh—a laugh that set every nerve in his body alight.

But there was no music. No voices.

No laughter.

The silence pressed harder. It wasn’t peace, not exactly. It was absence. And Remus hated it.

He just couldn’t bring himself to figure out why.

Chapter Text

Day two of the body swap began with an argument. Or something that felt like one.

Lily wasn’t entirely sure what she’d done wrong.

James was in the bathroom, murdering The Rolling Stones’ She’s A Rainbow, while she pulled on Remus’s robes as quickly as possible, trying to avoid the humiliation of getting dressed in front of Sirius and Peter. It was mortifying, but somehow less so with James out of the room. 

She’d already showered—beating James to it, apparently. He’d come in from his morning run just as she was getting up, pausing in the doorway like he hadn’t expected to see Remus awake. Peter and Sirius were still dozing, and James had flicked a glance towards the bathroom.

But Lily had been faster, darting in and shutting the door behind her before he could.

James had laughed, loud and startled on the other side, and—unexpectedly—Lily had caught herself smiling as she adjusted the shower temperature. The water was freezing, of course. The boys had left it that way.

Now, James’s off-key singing carried through the door; Peter was muttering groggily as he searched for his homework. And Sirius—

She felt the hand in her pocket before she saw him.

It was instinct—someone grabbing her hip like they had the right, and she elbowed them off, a sharp, defensive motion before she could think better of it.

Sirius let out an affronted grunt.

She turned, narrowing her eyes at him.

Sirius raised his hands, all innocence. “Just looking for smokes.”

“You won’t find any on me. And in the future, look with your eyes. Not hands.”

Sirius cocked his head. “You always have them.”

Remus always had them. Lily, however, had taken them out of her borrowed robes the night before. The faint scent of tobacco still clung to the fabric, but at least the carton itself was gone.

James emerged from the bathroom, and Lily had to fight not to look at him—just as much as she had to fight the urge to look away.

Sirius was still watching her expectantly.

“No,” she said finally. “I’ve quit.”

Sirius snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“Really.” She crossed her arms, planting her feet. “I’m trying to quit… bad habits this year.”

Something shifted in Sirius’s expression. His smirk faltered, his face twisting like she’d said something—Remus had said something—that hurt.

He stared at her for a beat longer, assessing. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.

Peter winced.

James, pulling on a shirt, shot her a look that very clearly said, Really?

Lily frowned, at a loss.

All she’d said was that she wasn’t smoking.

Or, rather, that Remus wasn’t.

Why would Sirius take offence to that?

The way Sirius touched her—Remus—stuck with Lily too. It wasn’t just a presumptuous grab for something that wasn’t his to take.

It was like he had access, like those things—no, Remus—was his.

James let out a long-suffering sigh, pulling on the rest of his robes with practised speed. “I’ll go after him. You and Pete catch up.”

Lily blinked. “I didn’t mean to—”

James’s gaze wasn’t accusing, just knowing. Exasperated. “I know, Moons. It’s alright. He’s been in a mood, you know what he’s like.”

But she didn’t know. Not like Remus did. Not like James.

And after what Remus had told her about Sirius—about his family, about the ways he lashed out and the reasons why—she realised she didn’t really know him at all. Not properly. Not in the ways that mattered.

She bit her lip, watching James sling his bag over his shoulder and cross the room to pick up Sirius’s things as well, like he already knew he wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon. The door clicked softly shut behind him, leaving the dormitory quieter. Colder, somehow.

Guilt settled in the silence. Lily knew the switch wasn’t her fault, but she was part of the reason Sirius wasn’t with the real Remus right now. The Remus who knew exactly how to avoid pissing him off—not that he always chose to.

It was strange, seeing them apart. Last term had been an anomaly. And not in a good way.

But it wasn’t always obvious just how attached they usually were. They weren’t loud about it. Sirius wasn’t glued to Remus’s side the way he was with James, stirring up trouble. It was subtler. Something you only noticed if you were paying attention.

And Lily had.

If they were in the same room but not standing together, their bodies still angled towards each other, like they were caught in their own gravitational pull. At parties, they’d hover near the edges, heads bent close in quiet conversation. It was almost discreet. And, sometimes, it seemed almost… intimate.

Not that she’d ever say it aloud. It was a bold claim—and one she doubted she’d ever get a straight answer to. Sirius always had his girls. And Remus… was Remus.

People joked, of course. The ones who knew them well enough not to get hexed for it. But that’s all it ever was—a few jokes about a close friendship. People did the same with Sirius and James sometimes too. The difference was in how Sirius reacted.

When it was James, he laughed along, threw in his own quips. When it was Remus? He didn’t laugh.

Lily didn’t know what that meant. If it meant anything. All she knew was that keeping them apart felt wrong, like it went against something fundamental.

Even alphabetically, they belonged together.

L M N O P Q R S T U V.

Peter yawned, stretching, and Lily turned to him. “Do you know what I did?”

Peter gave her a look that said Why are you asking me?, then shrugged. “Dunno, mate. Never do.”

Lily frowned, replaying the moment over in her mind. Sirius touching her—Remus—her brushing him off. Him asking for smokes, her saying she didn’t smoke anymore.

All she’d done was tell him no.

Maybe that was the problem.

Sirius had been perfectly fine with her at breakfast. Lily didn’t know whether that was down to James working some miracle or if Sirius’s irritation really did just flare up in short, sharp bursts—too fleeting for him to bother sustaining.

Either way, this was the third or fourth time he’d gone quiet on her. Or grown irritable. And then, just as suddenly, brushed past it like nothing had happened at all.

It was starting to feel deliberate, like he was trying to make her—or rather, Remus—feel like they were imagining things. But she wasn’t. She might not be able to read Sirius the way Remus could, but she knew irritation when she saw it. Knew jealousy. Knew hurt.

No wonder Remus always seemed permanently exasperated with him.

But why?

Why was Sirius like this—so different from James and Peter? Like there was something beneath their interactions she wasn’t privy to. She knew about the tension between Remus and Sirius, of course, but experiencing it firsthand was another thing entirely.

She didn’t know what had happened between them, so she had no way of knowing how to handle it. But tension took two people, and she had no intention of indulging it.

Yet Sirius kept watching her, as if waiting—for an apology, a smile, some attempt at making nice. Lily didn’t give him any of it.

She already had no shortage of complaints about Remus’s friends. If she kept a diary of her grievances, it would be several volumes deep—most of them concerning their pranks.

She tried to make sense of it, the endless antics that teetered on the edge of bullying. The casual, mocking nicknames flung at passing students. The thoughtless little stunts—books knocked from hands, bags upended, legs subtly jinxed mid-step.

There was no deeper logic to it. No grand justification. They did it because it amused them. Because they liked seeing people flustered, humiliated, thrown off balance.

Lily didn’t. Because what was the point? To feel bigger? Stronger? She could almost understand it with Peter, who had something to prove. But James and Sirius? They already had everything—status, popularity, good looks (regrettably). What did they get out of it?

Boredom, maybe. Or just the simple fact that they could.

Either way, Lily couldn’t always hold her tongue. She couldn’t stop them, but she could make sure they knew exactly what she thought of it.

Not that they ever listened.

The first two lessons of the day passed without major incident. Lily still had to remind herself to respond when Remus’s name was called or when he was addressed directly. But James and Sirius weren’t with her during Care of Magical Creatures, so she had a brief reprieve from navigating their scrutiny.

When she saw them again in Transfiguration, Sirius seemed to be making an effort to be agreeable—or at least, he wasn’t actively antagonising her. James, meanwhile, was watching. Not obviously, but enough that she could tell he was paying attention while pretending he wasn’t. As if he were waiting for something too.

There was no need. Sirius had apparently moved past the morning’s cigarette debacle.

He still had no concept of personal space, though. Kept leaning into her, his shoulder brushing against hers like it was second nature. When she fumbled her first attempt at transfiguring a feather into a bird, he shifted closer, his fingers lightly adjusting her grip on her wand.

They were sure, practised, tracing over hers with an almost absent-minded ease. His touch lingered at her wrist, tapping once against the bone—just a habitual, restless movement—before he met her eyes and let go.

Lily was going to snap at him. She really was. Remind him—again—that words existed, that he didn’t need to use his hands to make a point.

But then she cast, and a powdered, baby-blue hummingbird flitted into the air, wings humming as it circled their heads.

She exhaled, watching it dart up towards the ceiling, and instead of snapping, she shot Sirius a begrudgingly grateful look.

Lily and Remus had barely had a chance to regroup before they were ambushed on their way to the abandoned Ancient Runes classroom they’d been using—one of the few places they could work on reversing the body swap without attracting curious ears. The corridors were mostly empty, most students already in the Great Hall for lunch, and the afternoon sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting long, shifting shadows as they walked.

Lily was in the middle of detailing the sheer absurdity of that morning’s events as they went, with particular emphasis on the uniquely exasperating existence of Sirius Black. At first, she’d half-expected Remus to chastise her for upsetting Sirius—somehow, everything always seemed to be her fault when it came to him—but instead, he just listened, perfectly unruffled. Completely unsurprised.

Emboldened by the lack of protest, Lily complained on.

“Remus, I mean it. I’m going to curse him bald. He’s actually making me like James.”

Remus, ever composed, merely sidestepped a group of third-years and smirked faintly. “Well, at least you know where to hit him. His hair’s sacred.”

Lily blinked, then—despite herself—laughed.

A voice stopped them in their tracks.

“Breaking my heart wasn’t enough for you, Evans? Had to steal my mates too?”

They both jumped, spinning at the same time.

Tall. Messy black hair. A grin so bright it should have been illegal. 

James.

Remus recovered first—just barely.

“I wasn’t—”

“I know,” James cut in easily, smirking. “Just messing with you.” His gaze flickered to Lily—who, of course, looked like Remus—but it barely strayed from Remus, wearing her face. “Any chance I can steal Moony back? Got a bit of a mission for him.”

Lily and Remus exchanged a glance.

“Depends on the mission,” Remus said cautiously.

Lily shot him a sharp look of betrayal.

“Nothing nefarious, I swear.” James held up his hands. “I just need a partner for… some not-exactly-school-approved activities.”

Lily’s frown deepened.

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘not school-approved.’”

James shrugged. “Not a prank, Evans. Promise.”

Remus studied him, debating whether to believe him. Then, to Lily’s absolute horror, he smirked—just slightly—and stepped away.

“Alright,” he said, already moving. Before Lily could protest, he threw a careless, “We’ll catch up later,” over his shoulder.

Lily stared after him, blinking.

She was going to hex him. Violently. Creatively.

But before she could plot his demise, James turned and grinned at her.

Lily sighed, long-suffering. “Go on, then. What’s this mission?”

“Just a quick trip to Hogsmeade. Need to pick up a present for my mum.”

Lily’s eyes narrowed. “Sneaking out?”

James gave her a look that said, Obviously, mate.

Lily folded her arms. “And where’s Sirius?”

James smirked. “Why? Need permission from your boyfriend?” His grin turned teasing. “Promise I’ll bring you back alive. No funny business.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “I might not bring you back alive.”

James laughed, loud and carefree.

Lily almost smiled.

Sensing an opening, James turned up the charm. “C’mon, Moony. Sirius is in detention, so he won’t be around to tease you if we stop by Puddifoot’s. I know you secretly like the hot chocolate there.”

Lily tried not to react, but it was true. Something she and Remus must have in common. She did secretly like the hot chocolate there.

James, undeterred by her silence, pressed on, giving her a look that was half-pleading, half-scheming. “I’m useless at this, you know I am. Can’t pick a gift to save my life. And it’s my mum. Help me out?”

That almost got her.

Then he went in for the kill.

“I’ll even let you spend as much time as you want in the bookshop.”

Lily sighed. And, for the first time in her life, she heard herself say yes to James Potter.

And James—completely unaware—had just got his first ever yes from her.

They’d made a detour to the dorms before setting off—James’s idea, a precaution to avoid getting caught skiving. He’d insisted they couldn’t change out of their robes yet, not unless they fancied getting stopped by a professor before they even made it out of the castle.

Lily had tried not to complain too much about it—or, more accurately, about the fact that this left her alone with James. Peter was still in a lesson, an extra Charms revision session he’d been forced into after barely scraping through their last test. No wonder he’d been scribbling down everything Flitwick said.

She grabbed one of Remus’s jumpers, a pair of jeans, a coat—thin, not particularly warm, but the only one she could find—and hesitated at the coat rack before taking a scarf as well. She’d barely stuffed them into her bag before James was calling from the doorway.

“Oi, Moony, move it!”

Lily sighed, slung the bag over her shoulder, and shut the door behind her.

James flashed her a grin as he jogged down the stairs, and she picked up her pace to keep up. As they left the common room, it occurred to her that she had no idea where they were going.

She knew, of course, about the secret passageways to Hogsmeade—everyone did. Fifth-years bragged about them constantly, though they were usually lying. Sixth and seventh-years were quieter about it, but she and Remus had caught plenty of them sneaking back in after one too many pints at the Three Broomsticks. 

The corridors were busy, students flooding out of classrooms for lunch. James walked ahead, weaving through the crowd, his messy hair just visible above the sea of heads.

Then, before she could panic about losing him, a hand found hers. 

Warm. Solid. Certain.

James.

Her heart stuttered in her chest.

She let him lead her through the crowd, neither of them speaking, until they reached the third-floor corridor. They passed the lion statue, the portrait of the young woman beneath the apple tree (who winked at them as they walked by), and the blank stretch of wall where the Room of Requirement had been.

James came to a sudden halt, letting go of her hand. Lily barely stopped in time to avoid crashing into him.

She watched as he tapped the one-eyed witch statue and said, with far too much confidence, “Dissendium.”

With a creak, a trapdoor swung open.

James turned to her, looking entirely too pleased with himself, and gestured for her to go ahead. “Moony’s first.”

Lily fought the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she stepped past him and ducked into the dark tunnel.

The door shut behind them with a snap, and for a moment, the blackness was absolute. Then James was beside her, the warmth of him steadying in the cool air.

It smelled damp, with a strange sweetness layered over it—peppermint, cardboard, chocolate, spun sugar. Odd.

James started talking as they walked, something about Peter and Herbology and rats, but Lily wasn’t really listening. The scent of chocolate was getting stronger.

And then, suddenly, light.

Stacks of crates surrounded them, stamped with a familiar insignia.

H.D.

Honeydukes.

They were in the cellar of Honeydukes.

Lily turned to James, but he was already kneeling, rummaging through his bag for his spare clothes.

“C’mon, get changed quick,” he said, tugging off his robes. “We’ll leave our stuff here.”

Lily’s face burned. She spun around so fast she nearly knocked over a crate.

Merlin, they really did strip in front of each other too much. It didn’t matter that she was in Remus’s body—the wrongness of undressing in front of a boy didn’t go away.

Especially not this boy.

Once dressed, Lily turned back around, stealing a glance at James.

He was waiting, leaning against a crate, arms folded like he had all the time in the world.

His gaze swept over her, then landed on her neck. “Is that my scarf?”

Lily frowned, glancing down at the soft wool wrapped snug around her throat. The scent of wind and grass curled into her senses. Oh. 

She’d thought it was Remus’s. It looked too neat to belong to anyone else.

But then… James was careful with his things, wasn’t he? He didn’t hoard tattered jumpers or wear the same fraying boots until they practically disintegrated like Sirius did. Sure, half the time he was windblown and covered in sweat and remnants of the Quidditch pitch—occasionally dirt—but his clothes were always well-kept.

Lily flushed, suddenly hyperaware of the scarf, the way it sat against her skin, the way it smelled like him. I’m an idiot. A big, huge dummy.

“Sorry, thought it was mine,” she muttered, already moving to unwind it.

But James stopped her with an easy grin. “Nah, keep it. Just surprised, is all. You usually act like you’re allergic to dressing sensibly.”

Lily huffed. “Didn’t fancy my chances catching a cold.”

James’s eyes didn’t linger. He clapped his hands and pushed off the crate. “Right, let’s go. You know the drill—stick close, I’ll give you the all clear.”

Lily nodded and followed as he wove between the stacks of crates, wrappers crunching softly underfoot. Remnants of other sneaky trips down here?

James didn’t pause, climbing the stairs and nudging open the door at the top. He turned back to her, pressing a finger to his lips in a wordless command for silence.

Lily sighed but complied.

James peered through the gap, waited a beat, then tapped three times against the wood.

A signal?

Before she could dwell on it, he slipped through the door. Lily scrambled after him, heart hammering, only to find him waiting on the other side, grinning.

He held out a hand.

Lily hesitated for half a second before taking it, letting him haul her up the last step.

Daylight spilled across the shop floor, illuminating shelves stacked high with sweets in every colour and texture imaginable.

Lily let out a quiet breath, taking it in. No matter how many times she saw it, the place always felt a little bit like stepping into a dream.

There were creamy chunks of nougat, shimmering pink squares of coconut ice, fat, honey-coloured toffees. Hundreds of different chocolates lined up in neat rows. Large barrels of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans and levitating Fizzing Whizzbees. Along another wall, the ‘Special Effects’ section: Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum (bluebell-coloured bubbles that wouldn’t pop for days), splintery Toothflossing Stringmints, tiny black Pepper Imps (‘breathe fire for your friends!’), Ice Mice (‘hear your teeth chatter and squeak!’), peppermint creams shaped like toads (‘hop realistically in the stomach!’), sugar-spun quills, and delicate exploding bonbons.

The cellar door clicked shut behind them.

A patron by the towering glass barrels of Every Flavour Beans shot them a suspicious look, but before Lily could so much as feel embarrassed, James was already moving, cutting a path through the shop like he belonged there.

Merlin, he was always in motion.

The bell above the door chimed as they stepped out into the chilly autumn air.

The cobblestones were slick with ice, and Lily skidded two steps before James caught her. He was steady, annoyingly so, like it took no effort at all. She straightened quickly, resisting the heat creeping up her neck as she stepped away.

What were they in? A bloody romance novel?

“Easy on, Moons,” James teased, watching as she tested her footing. “Pretty sure I’ll be in big trouble if I bring you back with so much as a scratch.”

“In trouble with who?” she asked, mostly to distract herself.

James gave her a look, as if the answer was obvious. Then he laughed. “You know exactly who.”

Lily rolled her eyes, but her body betrayed her by shivering.

James clocked it instantly. “Lunch first?” he suggested. “Then we’ll go present-hunting. You look freezing.”

Lily wanted to say no. She wanted to get this over with quickly, but—bloody hell—she was cold.

“Fine,” she muttered, following him carefully down the high street and onto the narrow lane that led to the tea shop.

As they strolled, James slowed to a stop in front of a flower stand, overflowing with blooms in every imaginable shade. Soft-pink peonies, delicate lilies, roses in bouquets bigger than his own head. There were exotic ones too—wizarding flowers that hummed gentle lullabies, some that glowed like lanterns, and a tulip with petals that shifted colours as if indecisive.

The air smelled sweet, floral notes curling through the cool autumn air.

“Dunno,” James mused, eyeing the display. “Do girls even like flowers?”

Lily liked flowers. And fashion. And romance novels. And love songs. And every Audrey Hepburn film ever made. She wasn’t sure if that was the answer modern feminists would want her to give, but it was the truth.

“Some do,” she said. “They usually have favourites, though.”

Her favourites were peonies—pink ones. But when it came to wildflowers, it was bluebells. They’d often grow alongside snowdrops, circling the tree trunk in the meadow near her family’s home on Spinner’s End.

“Right,” James said, nodding like he already knew that.

Then, without so much as a second glance at the stall, he kept walking. Lily sighed, shaking her head as she followed, throwing one last look at the flowers swaying gently under the warmth of a well-placed climate charm.

Samhain was approaching, and the signs were everywhere—the small pumpkins outside shopfronts, the crisp bite in the air. The Wizarding World had its own way of marking the season. There were no gaudy costumes in windows; wizards had little interest in pretending to be anything other than what they were. No fake cobwebs or plastic spiders draped over doorways, either.

Instead, the Jack O’Lanterns on doorsteps weren’t just for show. They burned to ward off trickster ghouls and restless spirits, a tradition Muggles had borrowed, though more for decoration than protection. Still, it had spread across the world for a reason—on All Hallows’ Eve, some doors were best kept shut.

As Lily and James walked through Hogsmeade, they passed a pair of Aurors in plain robes, patrolling the cobbled streets. The sight eased something in her, though not entirely. There hadn’t been an attack in Hogsmeade for eight months, but that didn’t mean the danger was gone.

James’s presence beside her helped, too—solid and warm, his step easy but alert. He was tall, stronger than most, quicker with a wand than anyone she knew. She hated to admit it, but she felt safer with him there.

A bell tinkled overhead as they stepped inside.

Madam Puddifoot’s was as frilly as ever, every surface drowning in lace and bows. Lily barely swallowed a sigh as she glanced around. She appreciated a good bow as much as the next girl, but this was too much.

Still, the drinks were worth it.

Earl Grey, brewed the way it was in a home where people actually liked one another. Strawberry rose tea, bright and floral, like spring in Kyoto. And hot chocolate, thick and rich, with toasted marshmallows that tasted like Christmas Eve.

They joined the queue, waiting as a little old witch in plum robes finished at the counter. She reached for her tray, but her hands trembled, tea sloshing dangerously against its rim.

Lily moved to help, but James beat her to it.

“Here, let me,” he said, already scooping up the tray. His grin was easy, familiar, as he led the witch to a clear table and pulled out a chair with all the charm of a gentleman Lily hadn’t thought he had in him.

“Careful—tea’s hot, but not as hot as you,” he said as he stepped back with a wink.

Lily choked on a laugh at his sheer audacity.

The witch, already taken with him, looked even more so. Though she pretended not to be.

That was the James Potter effect. You couldn’t let him know just how charming he was—it would only make things worse.

She patted his arm in thanks, and James returned to Lily, tilting his head as if to ask, What?

“Is this what you do in your spare time?” Lily teased. “Charm unsuspecting old ladies?”

James shrugged. “Some of it.”

Before she could fire back, the server waved them forward.

The girl behind the counter immediately lit up at the sight of James. She was tall and willowy, with sleek blonde hair and a perfect cupid’s bow. And very obviously enchanted with one James Potter.

Something in Lily twisted.

“Moons, what d’you want?” James prompted with a nudge, snapping her out of it.

Lily dragged her eyes away from the girl, scanning the menu quickly. She ordered a hot chocolate and the cheapest sandwich she could find, hoping Remus had grabbed enough coins from her dorm.

But when she reached to pay, James knocked her hand away and blocked her from the register like this was an argument they’d had before, and he already knew how to win.

Lily huffed, folding her arms as James finished the transaction. The receipt he was handed was scrawled with a name and a hopeful Owl me.

The twist in Lily’s stomach knotted harder.

She had no reason to feel this way. She’d rejected James more times than she could count. If some pretty witch wanted to take him off her hands, she should be relieved.

Only, she wasn’t.

And she was even more irritated because she was Remus right now, and it wasn’t as if she could do anything about it. Not that she wanted to.

Still, the two of them being here together was attracting amused glances from the other patrons, and Lily bit her lip, suddenly uncomfortable.

The witch behind the counter was watching them with a look that was almost fond, as if it was sweet that they were comfortable enough with their sexuality to eat here together.

She batted her lashes, leaning over the counter. “Any plans this weekend?” she asked James, her voice lilting.

James barely glanced at her as he collected their order. “Nothing exciting,” he replied, leading the way to a table by the window.

Lily hesitated before following, watching as the receipt—still in his hand—was scrunched into a ball and tossed into the nearest bin. 

Her mouth opened, then closed.

James caught it.

“What?” he asked.

Lily didn’t have an answer. Or, rather, she had too many. Instead, what came out was, “You don’t have to wait, you know.”

James’s brows drew together.

“For Lily,” she clarified, realising how strange it was to say it like this, as Remus.

“I know,” James said easily.

“Then why are you?” she asked, genuinely confused. He had no reason to keep waiting, no reason to turn down every girl who gave him a second glance. “She was very pretty.”

“Was she?” James asked, like he hadn’t noticed.

Lily narrowed her eyes. “James.”

He sighed, shoving his free hand into his pockets. “It wouldn’t be fair,” he admitted. “I’m interested in someone else. No one else even registers, not like that. If I dated anyone else, they’d be…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Not even second best. There is no second best. Just her.”

Lily stared at him, caught completely off guard.

James carried on as they walked. “Would I like it if Lily Evans was crazy about me? Sure. But… it wouldn’t be as fun.”

Lily blinked. “What?”

James grinned, eyes glinting. “I like her as she is. It makes the little things count more. When I get a smile, it’s like winning. And even when I don’t, I don’t feel like I’ve lost—because I’m still in the game. If she ever gives in, I’ll ride that high for the rest of my life.”

Lily gaped, cheeks going pinker than the tea shop behind them.

“You’re mad,” she spluttered. “Completely and utterly mad. You do realise she’s—” She stopped, mind scrambling for something to say that wouldn’t give herself away. “—not exactly easy. She’s got… um. Walls.”

James shrugged, settling into the seat by the window, unbothered. “Good thing I like to climb.”

Lily stared at him for a beat longer. Merlin, he was impossible. Relentless. Tormenting. He really didn’t give up, did he?

She sighed. But despite herself, a small, private smile crept onto her lips as she sat opposite him.

Forty minutes and three shops later, Lily was deeply regretting this excursion.

James hadn’t been lying. He truly was useless at choosing gifts—hopeless, even. He kept picking things up, getting distracted, and wandering off like an overexcited Niffler with no sense of direction.

She almost wasn’t even mad about it. Not even when he dragged her into Zonko’s and came out laden with far too many frankly dangerous items. Not even when he stopped dead outside Snitches and Stitches, a Quidditch equipment shop, lighting up from head to toe like a child on Christmas morning at the sight of the brooms in the window.

It was… sweet. That he still had that bit of childlike wonder, that awe, when so many their age had long since grown out of it. Especially considering this world had always been his. Magical.

The shop they were in now was some kind of wizarding equivalent of Debenhams, a chaotic sprawl of departments all crammed together with clashing marketing and a layout that made absolutely no sense. It was the kind of place that, were it not for the distinct lack of escalators and the occasional floating mannequin, Lily might have found herself wandering for hours, utterly lost.

Earlier, her gaze had caught on a dusty blue A-line mini-dress-inspired set of robes by the doors as they entered. Forgetting her current body, she’d strolled over to get a closer look.

James’s laugh filled the air before she could even search for her size. His eyes said, I’m not trying to control you… but you’ll be cold. I promise.

Lily had huffed, stepping away.

James was currently eyeing jewellery without price tags—never a good sign. Lily had learned very quickly that if something didn’t have a price tag, it was because seeing the number written down would be enough to send most people into cardiac arrest.

She turned her attention instead to the cosmetics section, idly browsing. Face masks that promised to leave skin glowing like the surface of the moon, hair potions that boasted miraculous growth, lipstick that claimed it wouldn’t budge, even through—

Lily felt her face heat and promptly looked away.

Across the shop, James caught her eye and sent her a pleading look, clearly overwhelmed by the enthusiastic sales assistant currently foisting more and more options upon him.

Lily smiled, biting back a laugh. Served him right for saying, “Money’s not an issue,” when asked for a budget.

She often forgot how wealthy he was. He never flaunted it like the Slytherins, who wore their inheritance like a sneer, as if it made them better. But she knew his family was some sort of wizarding aristocracy—or had been, once.

James shot her another helpless glance. Lily sighed, caving. She wandered over, casting an appraising eye over the ornate necklaces and bracelets displayed on plush velvet cushions.

“A bit… flashy,” she remarked. Gaudy, really, though she didn’t say so. No need to offend the Purebloods milling about.

James exhaled, as if he’d been too polite to say it himself.

“Your mum’s not flashy,” Lily pointed out. She’d only ever caught glimpses of Euphemia Potter at King’s Cross over the years, but she’d seen enough. Warm eyes. That same easy laugh James had. Always well put together, but never in the stiff, formal way of other Purebloods. She liked colour in her wardrobe. A bit of whimsy. The kind of woman who appreciated fashion as something fun, not just functional.

Euphemia and Fleamont Potter had exchanged the occasional amused glance in Lily’s direction at the platform, making her dread to think what James—or worse, Sirius—had told them about her. But it was never uncomfortable, never the sort of scrutiny that made her feel lesser because of her blood.

It was curiosity, warm and light. Like they simply wanted to see the girl who had stolen their son’s attention.

Like they cared because he did.

James had come over to greet Lily this year as she stepped through the wall at King’s Cross, his gaze flicking to the empty space beside her where Severus usually stood. He’d noticed last year too, when Severus hadn’t walked her to the barrier like usual. Had noticed, too, that her parents were never on the platform, though he hadn’t said anything.

Lily could bring them in, but she couldn’t walk them back out—not when most wizards wouldn’t think to help Muggles find their way. Not that she would have asked.

She didn’t trust bringing them into this world. Not when they couldn’t understand it. Not when they couldn’t see the danger.

Lily wasn’t stupid. She knew she’d been born into a time when things weren’t just difficult for Muggleborns. They were dangerous.

“She’s an apothecarist,” James said with a shrug. “Well, owns an apothecary. S’how she met my dad—he liked to test products. Scope out competitors and get inspiration for Sleekeazy’s.”

Lily raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh, I bet she loved that. Some man coming in and trying to take credit for her work.”

James laughed. “Exactly. Took my dad about eight visits to ask her out and for her to believe he wasn’t just after her formulas.”

Lily smiled softly. That explained a lot.

Practical, then. That was something she could work with.

With a graceful motion, she shooed the assistant away with a polite but firm nod and turned on her heel, heading for the door.

James, naturally, followed.

“Where are we going?” he asked as they stepped back out into the cold.

“You’ll see when we get there,” Lily said, the way already familiar beneath her feet.

“Always so mysterious,” James muttered, trailing after her.

Lily rolled her eyes. Remus was the mysterious one. That didn’t mean she didn’t have a few secrets of her own.

They stopped in front of a small, cosy building draped in ivy and wisteria, its thatched roof giving it the look of a storybook cottage rather than a shop. A sign, carved elegantly into a tree trunk, stood out front, declaring in curling script: Fable.

Lily knocked twice, light and deliberate, and the door swung open for her automatically.

James blinked, then huffed a laugh as Lily shot him a smug look and mimicked his earlier gesture. “Potter’s first.”

Inside, the warmth enveloped them immediately. Plush couches, a fire crackling in the hearth, and the air thick with the scent of cinnamon sticks and lavender incense. It felt more like stepping into someone’s living room than a shop.

Lily inhaled deeply, her shoulders loosening. Fable was a small, independent store Marlene had discovered, run by two witches, Frances and Thelma. It sold a little of everything for homemaking, which was why it felt so much like home itself. They’d all come here once to pick out decorations for their dorm: a lotus-shaped lamp that adjusted to the light you needed, a tapestry of Morgana le Fay in battle dress, and (for Marlene) a duvet charmed to make her bed for her.

James turned to her, brows raised, impressed. “This feels very mum.”

Lily smiled, wiping her feet on the welcome mat—enchanted to clean her shoes for her—and nudging James to do the same before they stepped further inside. “Thought so.”

Woodland creatures danced across the tablecloths, their printed forms playfully circling one another as if they might come to life when no one was watching. A tree of life fan shimmered with an almost imperceptible flutter. A burgundy handbag embroidered with mushrooms and a fox swished its tail, cunningly stitched to suggest movement. And atop some tables—not shelves—sat a hat knitted with Forget-Me-Nots, placed just so, as though a guest had only just taken it off upon arriving.

At the counter, Thelma stood beneath the soft glow of lamplight, her grey-streaked auburn hair catching the warmth of it. Crystals rested beside her in careful arrangement—clear and rose quartz, obsidian, jasper, citrine, turquoise, amethyst, tiger’s eye. She offered them a quiet smile as they browsed, content to let them linger at their own pace.

James hesitated near a display, his attention drawn to a black velvet bag nestled beside honeybee and pearlescent trinket dishes.

A fawn was embroidered at its left-hand side. A crescent moon and a star adorned the top right. The handbag was a good size, well-shaped—Lily thought it wouldn’t look out of place in a glossy fashion spread or tucked under the arm of a film star.

And, miraculously, it had a price tag. One that seemed too low for something so finely made.

“Cute,” Lily remarked, encouraging.

James picked it up, turning it in his hands. “You think?” He sounded oddly uncertain.

Lily couldn’t help but laugh. James Potter, perpetually self-assured, undone by a handbag. It was oddly endearing.

“I like it,” she said, putting him out of his misery. “And it’s practical. Expansion charm, so your mum can fit anything she needs—ingredients, books, a potions purse. Perfect for trips to and from her shop.”

James hummed in consideration, running his thumb over the embroidered fawn. Then, unexpectedly, he said, “Be good if it had a rat on it, too.”

Lily blinked, caught off guard. “A rat? On that pretty bag?”

James shrugged. “Yeah. But, true—she’s not as close to Peter.” 

Oh.

Lily looked at the embroidery again, seeing it properly this time.

The fawn—James, by way of his Patronus.

The star—Sirius, the brightest in the sky.

The moon—Remus. Moony. The body she was currently inhabiting.

A rat would complete the ensemble. Wormtail. Peter.

Her expression softened. It was sweet, really. Thoughtful. Who knew James Potter had it in him?

Thelma smiled as James paid, but as she handed over the bag, her eyes flicked to Lily. One of the witching rods on the counter twitched, spun, and the candles behind her guttered in their glass holders.

Lily’s gaze met Thelma’s. For a fraction of a second, the old woman’s smile slipped, her brow creasing as though she could sense something was off—as though she knew Lily’s soul was in the wrong body.

Then, just as quickly, Thelma’s expression smoothed, the moment passing as she gestured toward three tarot cards on the counter.

The Lovers.
The Wheel of Fortune.
The Tower.

Love. Fate. Upheaval.

Lily swallowed, understanding the message even if she wasn’t ready to face it. She forced a smile and turned back to James.

“See?” she said as they stepped out onto the high street. “Not quite so useless at gifts, are you? You barely needed my help.”

James shook his head. “Nah, wouldn’t have got it without you. Cheers, mate.”

Mate snapped Lily out of it, a sharp reminder that she wasn’t herself. It sat wrong in her ears, coming from James—too casual, too familiar in a way that didn’t belong to her. But why should it? Mates were just friends. And being friends with James wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

So why did it feel like it was?

Once they were back in the castle, it was a frantic scramble—day clothes off, robes on, a mad dash through the corridors to drop their things in the dormitory. They barely made it to the Defence classroom in time.

Not that it mattered. Sirius strolled in five minutes late, looking entirely unbothered, as if time bent to his convenience rather than the other way around.

They needn’t have rushed anyway. Lily knew Fairfax was away. Still, both she and James had made a point of being on time. It was an oddly disciplined streak in James Potter—though she’d noticed him checking his watch now and then when they were out. Not because he minded trouble, but because he didn’t want her getting into it.

Sirius had positively beamed when Professor Harrington walked into Defence, looking for all the world as though he’d personally shipped Fairfax off to Romania himself.

Everyone else groaned.

Harrington usually taught Muggle Studies—a subject that didn’t attract many students—and was often roped in as a substitute when other professors were absent. Thankfully, Fairfax had left them with something other than textbook work, and Harrington was left herding like a lost lamb forced to play sheepdog, while students ran circles around him as they practised disarming and shielding spells.

Lily found herself paired with James—mostly because the moment Sirius had turned to him, James had immediately declined to be Sirius’s hexing punchbag. Poor Peter, on the other hand…

Duelling with James was fun. Lily let him land two quick hexes, just enough to lull him into a false sense of security, before she revealed her hand. A rapid-fire duel broke out between them—lunging, ducking, evading—disarming each other only for a second before picking up again. They were evenly matched, neither holding back, and it was exhilarating.

Laughing, Lily just about kept up as he backed her further across the classroom, then turned the tide, practically dancing through the moves until she was breathless. James grinned, delighted by the challenge, his eyes gleaming like a boy who’d never considered that one day the party might end, who took the world in great, gulping bites.

The thrill was almost enough to make Lily forget she wasn’t in her own body—that she was supposed to be Remus. The burn of her own magic filled the air around her, that fierce rush of competitiveness—a trait she and James clearly shared, neither willing to give an inch.

She flicked a Trip Jinx his way only to be stunned in return, recovering just fast enough to dodge his next spell. They might have gone on indefinitely if Sirius hadn’t sent Peter barrelling straight between them.

Lily seized the distraction, firing off an “Expelliarmus,” followed by a quick “Accio,” and James’s wand flew neatly into her waiting hand. She spun it once, triumphant.

James accepted his defeat with good humour, playfully dipping his head as she smugly handed the wand back.

“Since when did you get so ruthless?” he asked, still a little breathless.

Their fingers brushed as he took the wand, and Lily felt it like a jolt of electricity—probably just the adrenaline.

She shrugged, smiling. “Always have been. I’ve just gone easy on you before.”

James grinned, about to respond, but before he could, the lesson ended, and Sirius was suddenly beside them, muttering about Defence professors, the ticking time bomb curse on the post, and whether they’d get lucky and have a hot girl replace Fairfax when he met his inevitable demise.

Remus was already at the end of his tether with Lily’s relentless badgering, and they were only on day two of this bloody body swap. He was minding his own business, sifting through the pile of books and research papers he’d stolen from Fairfax’s office, when Lily all but kicked the door to the disused Ancient Runes classroom open.

They hadn’t been to the library yet, though they needed to. Earlier, while Lily was off with James, he’d broken into Fairfax’s office, knowing full well she’d kick up a fuss about his methods. Fairfax’s collection had been slim pickings—some arcane tomes on curses that even the Restricted Section wouldn’t carry, alongside unpublished research papers that, frankly, Remus thought were too dangerous to see the light of day.

The office’s security had been… thorough. A complex locking spell, one that had taken him a good twenty minutes and an ungodly amount of patience to crack. Luckily, he’d inadvertently helped design it a few weeks back while discussing protective wards with Fairfax during a lesson. He’d replaced the spell on his way out, of course—nothing too perfect, just enough to avoid suspicion. He doubted Fairfax would notice.

The real casualty had been the ten minutes of Potions he’d missed, but honestly, that was probably for the best. If this body swap lasted much longer, skipping Potions altogether would be a public service. For Lily. For Slughorn. For everyone in the dungeons who didn’t fancy getting blown up.

At dinner, he tuned out Mary and Marlene’s increasingly tense silence, deciding he’d rather not know what their latest standoff was about. Instead, he glanced over at Lily—his own bloody face—unexpectedly smiling at something James had said.

Remus had to fight a smile of his own. He’d told Lily that James was harmless—good-hearted—but he knew she’d been sceptical. And he understood why. James was arrogant. He’d been insensitive in the past. Still could be, when it came to pranks. But he wasn’t cruel.

Remus barely tasted his food, already thinking ahead.

The Mirror. Legilimency. All clues, no answers.

After dinner, he took the long way back, checking the third floor and Dumbledore’s office again.

No Room of Requirement. No Dumbledore.

Just the evening settling into the castle, lanterns flickering brighter as the sky darkened outside.

The moon, a thin crescent, winked at him through the window. Thirteen days from full.

Remus ignored it.

That left the library as their next best shot, though he wasn’t holding his breath. He hadn’t found anything useful in Fairfax’s notes or private collection.

The only material that even mentioned soul transference was a single mediwizard article about extending a terminal patient’s life by transferring their soul into another body—ideally, one that was brain-dead. When two souls inhabited the same body, the results had been… unpleasant. One always forced the other out in the end.

Then there was a more radical theory speculating that Dementors were formed from the souls of wizards, along with a proposed method for reclaiming happy memories they had consumed. And finally, a single citation that led him on a half-hour wild goose chase—an account of soul fragmentation as a dark magic method of evading death. A Horcrux.

All of it useless.

The door swung open, and Remus looked up to see—himself. Or rather, Lily, wearing his face and looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“You have an invisibility cloak,” she said, incredulous, “and you’re not using it to spy on people?”

Remus raised an eyebrow, then went back to his notes. “No. We’ve got something else for that.”

The map.

The casual amusement on his face drained.

“I’m just saying,” Lily pressed on, pacing now. “Teenage boys with a cloak that lets them sneak around anywhere unseen? That’s dodgy at best. You’re telling me the idea of peeking into the girls’ locker room has never crossed your friends’ minds—”

Remus cut her off with a sharp shake of his head.

“No, Lily. The map.”

They needed to get it, and fast, before anyone noticed Remus Lupin mysteriously wandering into the girls’ dormitory or spotted Lily Evans where she shouldn’t be.

Lily’s eyes widened as he quickly filled her in, the urgency dawning on her. “Oh no. If they see that…”

“Exactly,” Remus said, standing abruptly. “We need to grab it before anyone else does.”

“Where do they usually keep it?” Lily asked, her expression shifting to match his concern.

“In James’s trunk, probably,” he replied. “We’ll have to be careful getting there. No drawing attention.”

They exchanged a determined look, then hurried through the castle, dodging crowds and taking hidden shortcuts. Lily had to stop herself several times from calling out greetings to friends, remembering at the last second that Remus being chatty would raise eyebrows—and that they had no time to waste.

When they reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, Lily instinctively offered a polite hello, but Remus cut her off with the password, ignoring the Fat Lady’s offended huff as they slipped inside. 

The common room was mostly empty, the majority of students still at dinner. They darted up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory, Remus cautiously opening the door and peering inside.

The room was empty. Perfect.

“You know,” he muttered as they entered, “the fact that girls can get into the boys’ dormitory but not the other way around has never sat right with me.”

Lily shot him a scandalised look. “And you lot having an invisibility cloak does? I’m suddenly very grateful that rule is in place. The idea of being watched while I sleep…” She shuddered, and the motion looked both strange yet unsettlingly natural in Remus’s lanky frame.

Remus rolled his eyes. “We don’t actually use it to spy on people, Lily.”

“Then what do you use it for?” she challenged, raising an eyebrow.

He hesitated. “Better if you don’t know.”

They went straight to James’s trunk and began rifling through its contents. Lily was as methodical as possible, while Remus sifted through everything from Quidditch magazines to chocolate wrappers with a speed that suggested years of practice. After a few tense moments, he finally pulled out a folded piece of parchment.

“Got it,” he said, holding it up triumphantly.

Lily sighed, collapsing onto James’s bed in relief. “Good. Now we just need to keep this under wraps and figure out how to reverse this mess without raising any suspicions.”

Remus nodded, unfolding the map and tapping it with his wand. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The map sprang to life, ink unfurling into the familiar intricate layout of Hogwarts and the tiny moving dots that represented everyone within its walls. Remus scanned it quickly, confirming their locations—and froze.

“Someone’s coming,” he whispered.

Too late.

The door swung open. Peter stood there, eyes wide.

“What in Merlin’s name—”

“Shh!” Lily hissed, glaring at him. “Long story, Peter.” 

Peter raised his hands in surrender, backing out slowly. “Nope! Nope! Don’t want to know.” He glanced over his shoulder, as if checking for witnesses.

“We’re not—” Remus began, but Peter cut him off, stepping cautiously back inside.

“Look, I know something’s weird, but I’m not asking questions.” His eyes darted between Lily sitting on James’s bed and Remus kneeling beside her. His mouth twisted in thought. “Pretty much the story of my life with you lot, really… though usually it’s James and Sirius sneaking around, not you, Remus.”

Remus forced a casual laugh, though Lily’s narrowed eyes suggested she’d rather hex Peter than explain further. 

Peter lingered awkwardly in the doorway, his expression a mix of suspicion and smug amusement. “Just… don’t let James find out. He’ll go spare if he thinks you two are…” He gestured vaguely, his meaning clear. “And Sirius? He’d go positively mental.”

Both Remus and Lily shook their heads emphatically.

“That’s absolutely not what’s happening!” Lily snapped, giving Peter a hard, reproachful look that would have made someone who wasn’t used to dealing with Sirius Black’s infamous temper tantrums positively wither.

Peter wasn’t phased. Slowly, he glanced pointedly at her position—legs sprawled casually open, with Remus kneeling in front of her.

Admittedly, it looked compromising.

“So, you’re… just up here. Alone. On a bed. Looking guilty as sin.” He raised his eyebrows, enjoying his newfound leverage. “You’re sure there’s nothing going on?”

“Nothing. Going. On,” Remus said through gritted teeth, tucking the map discreetly into his robes. 

Lily scoffed, crossing her arms. “Drop it, Peter. Or I’ll tell James and Sirius you’ve secretly been dating Petra Maywood.”

Peter went pale. “How do you—”

Marlene. The answer to knowing anything was always Marlene. Marlene knew everything.

“Doesn’t matter,” Lily said coolly. “What matters is that I’ve already thought of three jokes involving ‘Peter’ and ‘Petra,’ which means James and Sirius would come up with thirty. And besides—you’re seeing a Slytherin.”

While Lily didn’t necessarily give a toss about that, James and Sirius would.

Peter muttered something under his breath, but his retreat was swift. “Fine! Just… don’t get caught,” he grumbled, reaching for the door handle.

With one last wary glance, he made his escape.

Remus watched Peter leave, shaking his head with mild exasperation—and perhaps a hint of respect. Peter hadn’t had much luck with girls lately, and honestly? That wasn’t surprising. Remus suspected he was still relying on Sirius’s awful pointers—pointers that only worked for Sirius because, well, he was Sirius.

As Peter shuffled out of the dormitory, muttering about never understanding any of them, Remus let out a slow breath.

“Well, that was… unnecessarily close.”

Lily, still perched on James’s bed, crossed her arms. “If that’s your idea of close, we seriously need to redefine the word.”

Remus snorted. “Pete’s lucky he’s endearing.”

“Endearing?” Lily arched a brow. “He’s nosy and hopeless.”

Almost charmingly easy to manipulate, but still hopeless.

“That, too,” Remus admitted, pulling the map from his robes again. “But we need to focus. If this drags on much longer, someone’s going to catch us.”

Lily nodded, all business again. “What’s the plan?”

“We keep this on us. It’s our best shot at staying a step ahead.” Remus unfolded the map and tapped it with his wand. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

As the ink spread across the parchment, forming the intricate layout of Hogwarts, tiny dots appeared, scurrying about, each labelled with a name. Remus scanned the map quickly, searching for potential threats, his stomach sinking as his finger froze on a moving dot.

“There.” He pointed to Sirius Black’s name. The dot was heading straight for the Gryffindor common room.

Lily’s eyes widened. “How long do we have?”

“One minute. Tops.”

Panic flashed in her expression, and for once, Remus found it eerily reassuring—it matched how he felt inside.

“Right. We can’t leave together,” she said, standing and smoothing her jumper. “That’d look too suspicious.”

“Agreed,” Remus said, folding the map with practised precision and tucking it safely into his robes. “You go first. I’ll wait here a minute, then head out. Try not to talk to anyone.”

“And you try not to look guilty,” she shot back, already heading for the door.

He smirked faintly. “Impossible. That’s just my face.”

She rolled her eyes, cracked the door open, and slipped out. Before leaving, she paused and looked back. “You’d better not get caught.”

“Same to you,” he whispered.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Remus alone in the dormitory. He stood frozen for a moment, listening intently as Lily’s footsteps faded down the corridor.

Then, belatedly, he stiffened. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

He currently looked like Lily. Lily looked like him. And yet, she’d just walked out of the dorm while he—trapped in her skin—was left standing in the middle of a room where he had absolutely no business being.

More footsteps headed in the dorm’s direction, growing louder with each passing second.

The footsteps stopped right outside the door.

The floorboards creaked.

Think. Think.

Remus’s eyes darted around, searching for anywhere to hide. The options were dismal. Under the beds was a last resort—he knew exactly how disgusting his friends were, and he wasn’t desperate enough to brave whatever horrors lurked under there.

Instead, he moved fast, heart hammering, and wrenched open James’s trunk again.

The door swung open just as he yanked the Invisibility Cloak over himself, fabric barely settling around Lily’s too-small frame.

Sirius strolled in, but the second he crossed the threshold, he hesitated. His posture shifted, casual ease giving way to something sharper, more alert. Slowly, his gaze swept the room.

Remus held his breath, forcing himself to stay perfectly still.

It didn’t matter. Sirius’s eyes landed almost instantly on the exact spot where he stood.

“Moony?”

Remus exhaled, barely stopping himself from groaning.

Of course. Sirius had always known exactly where to find him.

Sirius narrowed his eyes at the empty space, suspicion flickering across his face. But before he could investigate, distant voices drifted up the stairs, either saving or dooming Remus.

“Where’s Sirius?”

James.

Remus swallowed hard. Perfect.

He barely had time to turn before James strolled in, his hair an even bigger mess than usual, Quidditch robes slung over one shoulder. “There you are, Padfoot. What’s the hold-up? We’ve got plans to—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sirius muttered, tearing his gaze away from where Remus stood. “Thought someone was in here.”

“Who?”

“Remus.”

James frowned. “We passed Moony on the way up—I even stopped to say hi.”

Sirius’s expression turned incredulous, as if the idea of walking past Remus without noticing was physically impossible. “No, we didn’t. I would’ve…”

“What?” James prompted, raising an eyebrow.

Sirius’s jaw clenched. “Nothing.”

Without another word, he crouched to retrieve something from under his bed, his movements sharp with frustration. James, meanwhile, dropped his Quidditch bag onto the floor with a thud.

Remus barely let himself breathe.

But then James’s gaze snagged on something else—the half-open trunk. His own trunk.

“Hang on…” His brow furrowed. “Why’s my trunk open?”

Sirius straightened, arms crossing as he leaned against the doorframe, casual but keen-eyed.

James looked over at him. Sirius looked back.

A silent conversation passed between them—one Remus had seen a thousand times before, and one that never, ever ended well for the poor soul caught in its crossfire.

Remus considered his options. He could try sneaking out under the cloak, but if he got caught… well, explaining why Lily Evans was creeping around under James’s invisibility cloak would be far worse than her just being in their dorm.

With a sigh, he crouched down, slipping the cloak off and stashing it under his bed, making a mental note to remind Lily to retrieve it and return it to James’s trunk later.

Then, slowly, he straightened, hands raised—and froze.

Sirius stood three feet away, his sharp eyes sweeping the room before settling on him.

“What are you doing up here?” Sirius asked, a slight frown forming.

Remus scrambled for an answer, his mind racing. “Uh… prefect duties.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “In the dormitory?”

Remus forced a shrug. “Where else would they be?”

Sirius’s eyes narrowed slightly, but before he could reply, James stilled at the sight of Lily Evans—or rather, Remus in Lily’s body—in his room.

“Lily?” James blinked, like he was the one in the wrong dorm, caught between confusion and disbelief. “What—”

Remus’s heart pounded.

“I, uh—” he began, but James’s eyes had already darted back to his open trunk and the guilty look on Lily’s face.

“Wait. What’s going on?” James asked, his brows drawn, suspicion creeping into his tone.

“Good question,” Sirius said, not taking his eyes off Remus.

Remus’s mind spun for a reasonable explanation, but Sirius beat him to it, strolling closer with an easy smirk.

“Well, well, well,” Sirius drawled, his eyes glinting. “To what do we owe the pleasure, Evans? Hoping to catch a glimpse of Potter’s—”

“Shut up, Sirius,” James snapped, flushing scarlet.

Sirius ignored him, leaning lazily against the bedframe. “Funny thing, though—girls don’t come into the boys’ dorms unless it’s for one thing.” He shot Remus a sly look. “Since Evans is more frigid than steel, can’t be that. So… sneaking around, are we?”

Remus’s heart thudded painfully in his chest.

“How’d you even get in here?” James asked, his expression darkening. “Unless…”

Remus felt the blood drain from his face.

“No!” he blurted, Lily’s voice rising higher than usual, straining her vocal cords. “It’s not what you think!”

James and Sirius exchanged another glance, Sirius’s grin widening.

“This is rich,” Sirius said, folding his arms. “What’s Snivellus’s bestie doing snooping in our dorm? Stealing secrets, Evans? Or…” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “Are you here for something else?”

James’s face turned a deep shade of maroon, while Sirius’s grin turned wolfish.

“You’re hiding something, Evans. And we’re going to find out what it is.”

Panic spiked in Remus’s chest. This was bad—very bad.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, stepping to the side as casually as he could manage, but Sirius mirrored his movements, blocking the path to the door.

“Come on, then,” Sirius teased, leaning in with the same relentless energy he used when cracking secrets out of James or Peter. “Out with it.”

Remus’s mind raced, but nothing coherent came to him. “I—uh—I was just…”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Just what? Rummaging through Prongs’s trunk for kicks?”

“I wasn’t!” Remus protested, his voice wobbling in Lily’s register. “I was… looking for Remus!”

That, at least, wasn’t a total lie.

James crossed his arms, his gaze shifting between them. “Looking for Remus? In here? At this hour?” His frown deepened, doubt written all over his face.

“I, er, needed to talk to him. About… prefect duties,” Remus insisted, mentally cringing. Even to his own ears, it sounded unconvincing.

Sirius let out a low whistle. “Evans sneaking into the boys’ dorms to talk to Moony about prefect stuff? Sounds dodgy to me.”

“Not everything is dodgy, Sirius,” James snapped, though the faint pink creeping into his cheeks suggested he wasn’t entirely unaffected by the insinuation.

Before Sirius could press further, footsteps echoed behind them. All heads turned as the door creaked open, revealing Lily-as-Remus. She hesitated on the threshold, her borrowed face pale and tense—but, unfortunately, not quite innocent-looking.

Her hair was slightly mad, as if fingers had dragged through it—her own, or rather, Remus’s, though the others didn’t know that—and her robes were, unfortunately, missing. Instead, they were pooled beside Remus’s feet, discarded earlier while they searched, leaving her—him—in just trousers, a shirt, and a jumper.

Sirius and James’s eyes clocked it.

Remus swore silently.

The room fell into silence as James and Sirius stared between the two of them—the Lily standing in the doorway and the one standing awkwardly near the bed.

“What. The. Bloody. Hell?” James said finally, his voice low and incredulous.

Sirius’s smirk faltered, but only for a moment. Then it was back, sharp and dangerous. “Well, this just got interesting.”

Remus-as-Lily shot Lily-as-Remus a panicked glance, silently pleading for an out. Lily’s eyes widened in alarm, clearly coming to the same conclusion he had: they were well and truly cornered.

“It’s nothing!” Remus blurted, clutching at the edges of the Marauder’s Map hidden in his robes. “Just a misunderstanding. We were—uh—just leaving!”

James stepped forward, blocking the path. “Leaving? Not so fast.” His gaze shifted to Lily-as-Remus, suspicion sharpening his features. “Why do you both look like you just got caught breaking into the Ministry?”

“We don’t!” Lily replied quickly, her tone unusually firm for Remus’s voice. “It’s—look, it’s none of your business, all right?”

James blinked at the uncharacteristic harshness, clearly thrown. Sirius, on the other hand, looked delighted.

“Oh, now this is good,” Sirius said, circling them like a predator. “Whatever you’re hiding, it’s going to come out. Might as well save us all the time and spill.”

Lily squared her shoulders, glaring at him with all the authority she could muster in her borrowed body. “Drop it, Black.”

That, apparently, was enough to make Sirius pause—if only because the sight of Remus glaring at him like that was entirely unnatural. And, to Remus, Sirius was hardly ever Black. James exchanged a look with Sirius, evidently unsure whether to press further.

“Fine,” Sirius said eventually, stepping aside with a shrug. “But don’t think we’re letting this go forever.”

As soon as they were out of the dormitory and halfway down the staircase, Lily rounded on him, her borrowed face still pale.

“That,” she whispered harshly, “was far too close.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Remus shot back, his voice tight with tension. “Let’s just get out of here before they decide to follow us.”

“Agreed,” Lily muttered.

They hurried down the stairs, neither daring to look back, passing through the common room and into the quieter hallways beyond. Once they were certain they were alone, they ducked into an alcove, leaning against the cool stone walls.

Remus let out a long breath, clutching the map like it was his lifeline. “We need to fix this. Soon. We can’t keep dodging them like this.”

“No kidding,” Lily said, crossing her arms. “At this rate, they’re going to figure it out before we do.”

“Let’s just focus on keeping a low profile,” Remus said, rubbing his temples. “And maybe avoid any more close calls.”

Lily raised an eyebrow. “Close calls? That was practically a catastrophe.”

“Fair point,” Remus admitted with a small sigh. “Let’s just hope Sirius doesn’t get any bright ideas in the meantime.”

“That’s asking for a miracle,” Lily muttered darkly.

Remus couldn’t argue with that.

Lily gave him a pointed look. “And next time, maybe plan things that don’t require us to act like total lunatics.”

Remus, to her horror, smirked faintly. “That’s half the fun, though.”

The girls’ dormitory was quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood or the soft murmur of sleeping students. Remus sat awkwardly cross-legged on Lily’s bed, the Marauder’s Map spread out in front of him, wand poised. He hadn’t dared to light more than the tip of Lily’s wand—just enough to make out the spidery ink scrawled across the parchment.

“Show me Lily Evans,” he whispered, willing the map to reveal something useful.

A set of tiny footsteps began tracing four paths through the castle. James Potter, Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, and Lily Evans were moving fast—too fast.

Remus’s stomach dropped. “No, no, no…”

The names hovered near the secret exit behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy and then… vanished.

He cursed under his breath. “Oh, that’s just perfect.”

Before he could panic further, a sharp knock sounded against the oaken dressing table beside the bed.

“Lily? Are you awake?”

Remus froze. He’d know that voice anywhere.

“Mary?”

“Yeah. Open up—I need to talk to you about Potter.”

Brilliant.

Scrambling to fold the map, Remus shoved it under Lily’s pillow. He tried to force a calm expression onto her face, though the awkward grin that greeted Mary when he opened the curtain probably wasn’t what she expected.

“You look awful,” Mary said bluntly, sliding onto the bed and pulling the curtain shut behind her. “What’s wrong? Bad day?”

“I—uh—didn’t sleep well,” Remus mumbled in what he hoped passed for Lily’s voice. Judging by Mary’s frown, he had failed miserably. “What’s going on?”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “You’re avoiding the question.”

Remus stared blankly. “What question?”

“What are you going to do about Potter?” Mary asked, exasperated.

Remus blinked, completely unprepared. “Uh… nothing?”

Mary’s jaw dropped. “Nothing?!”

“Why would I do something?”

Mary looked like she might throw a pillow at him. “Because it’s James Potter! You can’t just keep stringing him along. Either tell him you like him or put him out of his misery!”

“I’m not stringing him along!” Remus protested, horrified on Lily’s behalf. “He’s perfectly fine!”

“He’s not fine,” Mary retorted, crossing her arms. “He’s been pining for months—years. Sulking! You need to either tell him to stop or—Merlin help us—admit you fancy him.”

Remus felt his stomach knot. “I don’t fancy him!” he blurted, far too defensively. Because Merlin, it was true! He couldn’t imagine a universe where he’d ever even consider fancying James.

James was… James. Prongs, who left his dirty socks in bed with him. Prongs, who was probably the closest thing to a brother Remus had.

… Not that Sirius’s disgusting habit of shoving his boots up on the same tables people ate at, or trying to burp spells, seemed to affect Remus’s attraction to him. Nor did the fact that Sirius, too, was closer to a brother than a friend.

He blinked, belatedly remembering—a moment too late—that this was a conversation for Lily, not him.

Remus took in a calming breath, dialling back his immediate annoyance.

Mary narrowed her eyes. “Then stop acting like it. You can’t keep dragging him around by the heartstrings, Lily. Everyone sees it. And everyone knows you care about him, no matter how much you pretend otherwise!”

Remus was at a loss. “He’s fine! James Potter doesn’t sulk!”

Pout? Yes. Sulk? Never. Remus wasn’t even sure sustained emotion was something James could manage—at least not long enough to mope about. Brooding in an almighty strop? That was far more Sirius’s department.

James? He was more like a sparkler—his emotions fizzled up and fizzled out, like lightning striking. And he never made a fuss about the same thing twice.

… Except when it came to Lily.

For James, Lily was lightning striking the ground—not twice, but over and over again. Caught in a bottle at eleven, and still not quite ready to let go.

Mary snorted. “Shows how little you know. Marcus says he’s been taking it out on the team, and don’t even get me started on what Delphine Wormwood said she saw after Transfiguration—you and Snape? Seriously? Lily, I thought you weren’t speaking to him anymore. Not after what he said.”

Remus very much hadn’t spoken to Snape. Snape had ambushed him—ambushed Lily—outside McGonagall’s classroom, and Remus had done everything short of bolting to get away, his skin crawling at the almost soft look in those dark eyes.

“I wasn’t—” he started, but Mary plowed on.

She flung her hands in the air. “But Lily, if you don’t do something soon, someone else might swoop in and steal him. Melanie said Jenny Edwards is planning to confess to James.”

Remus stared at her, deadpan. “Right. And?”

Mary gaped, as if he’d entirely missed the urgency of the situation. Which, to be fair, he had. Girls had strange priorities.

“Jenny can try,” he said, shrugging. “James isn’t going anywhere.”

Mary huffed, folding her arms. “And how do you know that?”

Remus did, in fact, know that. He was sure Jenny Edwards had plenty going for her, but she had one insurmountable flaw.

She wasn’t Lily.

And that meant she didn’t stand a chance.

Honestly, Remus was fairly certain he had been with more girls than James had. And Remus hadn’t even realised he liked girls until well after the other boys in their year had figured it out. Not that he’d been looking elsewhere on purpose. He’d just been… distracted. By someone else. Not a girl.

For a long time, he’d assumed that meant something. That he was just attracted to boys. That he had to be. Then, in a desperate bid to prove otherwise (and because what he wanted wasn’t just impossible—it was laughably impossible), he’d forced himself to look elsewhere—only to find that, apparently, girls were an option after all.

But James? James had never needed that kind of revelation. James had looked once and knew exactly what he wanted. For all his bravado, he was a hopeless romantic, to the point that Remus was pretty sure he barely noticed other girls at all.

The way Remus hadn’t noticed girls when he’d been too fixated on one person.

Mary was still staring at him—at what she thought was Lily—waiting for an answer.

Obviously, he couldn’t tell her he had insider knowledge that made every other girl effectively invisible to James. Since Lily herself didn’t know that.

With a sigh, Remus gently pried the satin pillow from Mary’s grip before she could actually hit him with it.

“Experience,” he said at last.

Mary sighed loudly.

“Look,” she said, scooting closer, “figure it out. Because if I have to listen to one more lovesick groan, I’ll hex you both myself. And you know I mean it.”

This was officially the worst conversation of Remus’s life. “I think you’ve misread the situation,” he said weakly, trying to edge her toward the exit. “But I’ll, uh, think about it.”

Mary groaned. “You’re hopeless, Evans. Completely hopeless.” She gave him one last exasperated look before slipping through the gap in the curtains, leaving them swaying behind her.

Remus sank back against the headboard. “This is a nightmare.” He exhaled shakily, dragging a hand over his face.

The map was still safe under the pillow, but his nerves were shot.

He reached under the pillow to retrieve it, but his fingers brushed something else—a folded piece of parchment. Hesitating, he unfolded it, and James’s handwriting leapt out at him.

The note began innocuously enough, but by the time Remus reached lines like “forever girl” and “I know you said another person can’t be the reason I grow up, but I’m trying for you,” he had to force himself to stop reading.

“Oh, James,” he muttered, carefully tucking the note back where he’d found it.

Lily owes me a massive apology for this, Remus thought grimly, already dreading the trouble his body might be causing outside the castle. The map had shown him enough to know that Lily was about to have an outing she wouldn’t soon forget…

The pub was loud and raucous, its warm light spilling out onto the snowy streets. Lily had nearly slipped on the icy cobblestones three times on the way to its dimly lit entrance, each close call punctuated by Peter bumbling into her. She was almost certain that not a single pavement in the entire United Kingdom had ever been salted. Ever.

The journey through the hidden passage had been no better. She’d spent most of it uncomfortably crammed under James’s invisibility cloak, alternating between his elbow jabbing her ribs and Peter’s foot crushing hers.

By the time they emerged onto Hogsmeade’s lantern-lit streets, Lily had mentally drafted several creative ways to hex them—ones that, while not Unforgivable, would certainly be Unfortunate.

Sirius, the only one who had refused to cram under the cloak, strolled alongside them without a care, leading the way.

Naturally, he hadn’t bothered bundling up. He strode beside them in nothing but a T-shirt, jeans, and his ever-present leather jacket. Lily had held her tongue when they left the dorm—if he wanted to freeze, that was his problem.

It was almost laughable to think he’d once been the heir to one of Britain’s most noble Wizarding families, especially when he went around looking like a stray from a biker gang.

And yet, despite the slouch, the careless sprawl of his limbs, there was something in the way Sirius carried himself that reeked of class—like an old habit he couldn’t quite kick. No matter how much he tried to unlearn it, his posture remained impeccable, his chin tilted just enough to suggest he still thought himself a fraction above the rest. And when no one was watching, when the performance dropped entirely, he moved with the kind of effortless, unconscious grace that could only come from a lifetime of Pureblood breeding.

Lily barely registered the chill of the October evening, her mind preoccupied with the switch dilemma—an admittedly useful distraction from the warmth of James’s body pressed against hers beneath the cloak. She’d planned to work on a solution with Remus tonight. Not… whatever this was.

But Sirius had clocked the Zonko’s bags almost immediately after grilling her about Lily’s mysterious presence in their dorm earlier, and James, in an act of either goodwill or appeasement, had tossed him a bag of Sour Snakes from Honeydukes while idly opening his own honey-coloured sticky toffees.

Sirius hadn’t said thank you. Instead, evidently put out that they’d gone without him, he’d sulked just enough that James had relented to another trip. And if James was going, Peter was too. Which meant…

Lily had sighed.

They’d taken the secret passageway behind Gregory the Smarmy this time, apparently not keen to risk being locked inside the closed sweet shop—likely from experience.

She hoped Remus was faring well in her place. She wasn’t too worried about Mary or Marlene noticing anything amiss—not like she would have been if she were still speaking to Severus.

She loved the girls, truly, but they weren’t him. They didn’t read her the way Severus had. The way Sirius did with Remus.

Before she could think better of it, she broke the silence. “If you swapped places with a girl, what’s the first thing you’d do?“

It was an innocuous enough question, hardly enough to give the body swap away.

James didn’t hesitate. “Boobs.”

“Multiple orgasms,” Sirius declared, as shameless as ever.

Lily turned to Peter.

“Boobs,” he said, with less conviction but no less certainty.

Lily exhaled through her nose, long-suffering. She couldn’t say she was surprised—just disappointed.

Thank Merlin she’d switched with Remus. She couldn’t imagine him answering with something so… juvenile.

“C’mon. One drink!”

“None for you,” James teased.

They were around a table and one round in—a round that James had conveniently excluded Sirius from.

“Why not?” Sirius protested.

“Same reason you can never keep a girlfriend,” James replied, taking a hearty swig of his Butterbeer. “Classic case of ‘one’s too many, two’s never enough.’”

Sirius didn’t even refute it, simply leaned back in his chair. The uneven legs scraped against the wooden floor with a rickety protest. “Alright, fine. Pubs get me more drunk than I’d like to admit.”

Lily glanced between them, her curiosity piqued. “Why do you jump from girl to girl?” she asked Sirius. “Ethically, your actions are… well, awful. But wouldn’t it be easier to pick one and stick with her?”

Sirius shrugged with maddening nonchalance—the way he always did when he didn’t want to answer a question but felt challenged enough to do so anyway. “One bit of advice my father gave me, maybe the only good advice he ever gave: ‘There are women you marry and women you date. Don’t get them confused.’”

“Thought you weren’t looking for a wife,” Peter piped up, his timing ill-advised.

The scowl Sirius flung his way shut him down before he could elaborate, though Peter hastily added, “Not anymore, anyway.”

Lily simply humphed, thoroughly displeased. She crossed her arms, her expression frostier than the cobblestones outside. She wasn’t sure if she wanted Sirius to react—but she was certainly daring him to try.

“Be careful who you date,” she warned, her voice low. “You can fall in love with anyone.”

Sirius’s face went still at that, his gaze shifting away for just a moment—the first hint of genuine unsettlement she’d managed to provoke in him. Lily almost felt triumphant… until he turned, shrugged off the unease like a bad idea, and promptly headed for the bar, the moment evaporating.

Later that night, Lily was thoroughly regretting her words—and learning far more about the Marauders than she’d ever wanted. Just how disorderly their nights out could be—and how much of it she’d inevitably have to clean up.

She had an arm around one half of Sirius, with James propping up the other.

A patron paused, watching them carry a passed-out Sirius across the pub. James noticed the guy looking at them and said, “He’s our mate, we’re not kidnapping him.” Then, before the guy could reply, he added, “If I was gonna steal someone, it definitely wouldn’t be this arsehole.”

The next morning, Sirius had the audacity to say, “I mean… at least I took off my shoes.”

“No. I took off your shoes,” Lily replied flatly.

“You don’t want to know what I took off,” James added.

Lily didn’t either. She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

Remus definitely owed her. Big time. And she was going to make sure he remembered.

Once the others had cleared out from the breakfast table, Lily made her way over to Remus and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Are you aware your friends play idiotic, life-threatening games when they’re drunk?”

Remus arched a brow—the kind that told Lily, yes, he was very much aware.

“Which one was it? Broomies or Hex Shots?”

Given that it had involved standing on a broom and flying it as high as possible—all while barely able to balance on solid ground—Lily was fairly certain it had been Broomies.

James, of course, had remained an infuriatingly good flyer even while staggering drunk, which hadn’t stopped Lily from shouting at him to get down this instant, Potter. A warning he’d predictably ignored, climbing even higher in sheer defiance and insisting he was perfectly fine.

Lily hadn’t been convinced. She’d just shaken her head and called, James, if you fall from there, I’ll save you just so I can kill you myself!

James had only laughed, rocking the broom beneath him. Can’t spell ‘funeral’ without ‘fun’!

Peter had wobbled precariously at two metres before—mercifully—deciding that Sirius’s ribs weren’t worth the risk of soaring higher. Lily had merely folded her arms, deadpan, and informed them that if they expected her to take part in their ridiculous game, they were sorely mistaken. Oddly, Sirius hadn’t argued.

Being in Remus’s body often felt like being tied to a chair, forced to watch two toddlers play with guns—except wands were far more dangerous than guns. And Lily couldn’t stop them because Remus wouldn’t stop them.

Also, there simply was no stopping them.

“…What exactly are Hex Shots?” she asked, though she suspected she didn’t want to know.

“We hex each other and take shots,” Remus replied as if this were self-explanatory.

Lily stared at him.

He shrugged. “It’s good for getting out any underlying grievances. You pick who takes the shot, and once they do, you hex them before they can recover.”

Lily stared at him harder. Then, with a groan, she threw up her arms and started towards the Ancient Runes classroom.

“Men! This is why women live longer, you know.”

Remus’s laughter echoed after her down the hall.

The door clicked shut behind them.

As the sun dipped lower and the classroom’s occupants began to flag, Lily yawned, stretching out her arms before rising from her desk. She wandered the room, shaking the stiffness from her legs, until her gaze landed on the blank parchment resting by Remus’s side.

The map.

He’d pulled it out earlier, eyes skimming the shifting dots and intricate blueprint. She’d watched as he tracked one dot in particular for a moment too long, then, seemingly satisfied, had tapped the parchment with his wand and muttered something odd—“Mischief managed”—causing the ink to vanish as if it had never been there.

A password spell, perhaps? Clever.

While Remus flipped through the last of Fairfax’s research on cursed objects, Lily reached for the parchment. It was large when unfolded, with a few extra pieces of paper attached—additions, by the looks of it. Still, it remained blank.

Remus glanced up, smiling. “You’ve got to—”

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” Lily said before he could finish, carefully enunciating each word.

Remus’s smile widened just as Lily’s eyes did.

The map unfurled before her, intricate inked lines revealing themselves like a secret whispered into the air. Tiny, moving footprints roamed across the page, a perfect layout of Hogwarts appearing beneath them. It was far more detailed than the maps they’d been given as first years—more so even than the one enclosed inside Hogwarts: A History—showing not just every classroom, corridor, and courtyard, but every hidden passage, every nook and cranny of the castle and its grounds. More than that, it showed people. Names dotted the page, every occupant of the school accounted for.

Lily couldn’t pretend she wasn’t impressed.

Near her hand, a scribble began to appear. Messrs Prongs would formally like to welcome Miss Lily Evans.

Another line looped beneath it, this one more insufferably smug. Messrs Prongs would also like to ask Evans if she’s still pretending she doesn’t find him especially easy on the eyes.

Lily huffed a surprised laugh.

A new scrawl in elegant, familiar script followed. Messrs Padfoot has better sense, and is instead asking why Evans has hold of the map in the first place.

“Remus?” Lily asked, raising an eyebrow. “Why is this talking to me?”

Talking? James’s handwriting reappeared, the ink fading and reforming almost instantly. Flirting, Evans. Especially since you haven’t started shouting at me yet.

“Quirk,” Remus said with a shrug. “It’s… got a bit of all of us in there.”

Lily scrunched up her nose in mock disgust.

Remus let out a sudden bark of laughter. “Not like that! Merlin, spending time with James and Sirius has really done a number on you.”

More text scrawled itself onto the parchment.

Did Evans really just make a sex joke about us? Messrs Padfoot would love to know. And Messrs Prongs would like to say she’s welcome to try testing a bit of her with a bit of him…

Lily scoffed, her face warming as she snapped the map shut.

The writing simply transferred to the front of the parchment.

Aw, Evans. Scared you off already? We—

“Mischief managed,” she muttered before Sirius’s… essence could keep going.

Remus raised an eyebrow.

“Even in note form, they’re exasperating,” Lily said simply.

Exasperating, yes. But… undeniably talented.

The magic behind the map was far more advanced than she’d expected.

“Be glad the creators like you,” Remus said. “It’s enchanted to forever repel—as insultingly as possible—the curiosity of anyone else.”

Lily ran her fingers over the parchment before setting it back at Remus’s side. “The Homonculous Charm?”

Remus blinked. “What?”

“The charm you used to track everyone’s movements,” Lily said, giving him a pointed look. “Not to spy, of course.”

Remus grinned. “Of course.”

“Impressive,” she admitted. Then, arching a brow, she added, “A complete invasion of privacy. But very impressive.”

Remus nodded. “Thanks. Wasn’t just me, though.”

Lily narrowed her eyes. “You expect me to believe Potter or Black had the patience for something that fiddly?”

Remus shrugged. “Believe it. Sirius worked out most of the magic, actually—he’s… kind of brilliant sometimes. Not that you can ever let him know it.”

Lily didn’t doubt that last part. Sirius’s ego could make James seem humble.

But she supposed she’d have to reconsider what she thought they were capable of. Their impulsivity often looked like stupidity, but—clearly—it wasn’t the same thing.

Though, as someone who frequently dealt with the aftermath… it certainly felt like it sometimes.

Chapter Text

The dorm was half-empty and dimly lit. James had left for Quidditch practice after their final lesson of the day, and Peter was off somewhere—possibly with his girlfriend.

Sirius had apparently been let out of detention early, likely because McGonagall had decided that enduring his presence was more of a punishment for her than for him. Which meant he was here now, making Lily suffer instead.

It was Friday, which meant curfew was later. They were waiting for James to get back before heading down to the Great Hall for dinner.

Peter had hesitated on his way out, shifting awkwardly like he wasn’t sure whether he should leave the other two alone together. He’d lingered just long enough to gauge Sirius’s mood—mildly volatile, judging by the volume of the music—but he hadn’t found any immediate cause for concern.

Still, he might have stuck around longer if he hadn’t walked himself straight into a debate.

“You play such rubbish,” Peter had grumbled, to which Sirius had predictably scoffed in outrage.

Peter had made the fatal mistake of following up with, “Alright, then—what even counts as good music taste?”

Lily, half-listening, had already anticipated the outcome. Sure enough, Sirius had grinned, smug and insufferable, and declared, “Knowing good taste is like knowing what’s cool—if you have to ask, you don’t know.”

He’d turned toward the other side of the room as the door clicked shut, as if expecting backup—a dry quip, a raised eyebrow, something.

Lily, however, was buried in Remus’s Care of Magical Creatures essay, books and parchment spread haphazardly around her as she tried to string together his notes into a coherent argument against Wizarding interventions in unicorn conservation.

Interventions, of course, typically meant exploitation—farming their blood, horns, and hair under the guise of protection. It often caused more harm than good. Unicorns, like most things in nature, were best left alone.

Alone, unlike Lily, who was decidedly not being left alone right now.

Sirius flopped onto the bed beside her, jostling books and crumpling pages as he made himself comfortable. He leaned in, peering over her shoulder.

“Need help?” he asked, all casual. “I could—”

Lily barely resisted an eye-roll. “No,” she said shortly. “I’m fine.”

She caught the flicker of amusement in his expression, but he wasn’t deterred. If anything, he shifted closer, making a point of it. “But if I did help, you’d finish faster, and then I was thinking after dinner we could—”

“I’m busy later,” she cut in, then immediately regretted it. Right. She was Remus right now. Remus probably wouldn’t be quite so blunt. Taking a deep breath, she forced a more neutral tone. “Sorry.”

Sirius frowned. “But you did say, after bailing on Monday’s prank, that I could drag you into any trouble I wanted. And I am calling that in now.” He nudged her pointedly, just enough to smudge her ink.

Lily exhaled sharply, casting a precise Scourgify to clean the parchment—though the spell erased half of her argument along with the ink.

Sirius, entirely unapologetic, watched her expectantly.

Lily had made no such commitment to play partner-in-crime with Sirius. Remus had. And despite her very Remus-like outward appearance right now, Lily was distinctly not Remus. There was absolutely no chance of her ever going along with one of Black’s schemes, no matter how hard he poked her.

“I have no doubt that you can stir up trouble just fine on your own,” she muttered, attempting to salvage her essay.

“I can,” he agreed. “But, and I hate to admit this, it’s more fun with you.”

That was almost… sweet.

Still, she wasn’t saying yes.

“I’m busy tonight. Another time, okay?”

Sirius squinted at her. “Busy with what?”

Trying to get back in my own body so I never have to deal with this again. Or, more accurately, deal with you.

“Helping Lily,” she settled on. Not a complete lie. She was helping Remus-as-her sort out their body swap problem. And herself in the process.

Sirius groaned, flopping back against the mattress. “What’s so bloody great about Evans that you’d rather spend time with her than your actual friends?”

Lily rubbed her temples. “Sirius,” she sighed. “Please. Just… give me a break.”

That, evidently, was the wrong thing to say.

Sirius sat up, expression shuttering, and shifted away from her. He didn’t quite leave, but he wasn’t looking at her anymore either.

Before the silence could settle, the dormitory door swung open.

James.

Lily exhaled, relieved. A perfect excuse for Sirius to entertain someone else.

Then she did a double take. James was carrying something. Something large enough to half-obscure his face.

He stopped in front of her, grinning, and held it out.

Lily blinked at him, startled.

Pink peonies.

A full bouquet, beautifully arranged, the sweet scent already filling the room.

She stared, eyebrows raising. For me?

James rolled his eyes and nudged them toward her again. Yes, for you, idiot.

She took them carefully, still thrown. Up close, they were even more beautiful—the prettiest flowers she’d ever been given, and she’d received plenty.

Sirius snorted. “Why are you giving Moony flowers?” He sounded half-incredulous, half-amused, like it had to be some kind of joke.

James didn’t miss a beat. “Because he helped me,” he said pointedly.

Then he turned back to Lily, his expression softening. “Mum loved the gift.”

Lily glanced down at the bouquet, brow knitting. “How did you—”

James shrugged. “Saw you eyeing them.” Like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Figured you might like them. Besides, the room could use some nicer smells.”

He shot a pointed look at Sirius, who had—just last night—tested two new dung bombs James had picked up from Zonko’s, with only questionable success at containing the aftermath.

But Lily barely registered that part.

James had noticed. He’d seen her glance at the flowers, put two and two together, and gone out of his way to get them for her.

She flushed, warmth creeping up her neck. “Oh. They’re, um—really nice. Thanks, James.”

James just smiled, shrugging like it was no big deal.

Sirius, watching them both, clearly thought it was a big deal.

“So, you like them?” James asked, his voice hovering on the edge of eager, like a child waiting to be praised.

It was—annoyingly—endearing. It reminded her of how painstakingly he’d deliberated over a birthday present for his mother, how much it mattered to him to get things right for the people he cared about.

Lily shook herself, huffing. “Yes, I like them.”

James grinned instantly, so pleased with himself that she felt compelled to add, “Careful—don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back. Madam Pomfrey’s only just fixed it.”

James snorted, and Lily tried—really, she did—not to smile at his amusement. She suspected it wasn’t even her own wit that had landed, just some remnant of Remus’s dry delivery slipping into her voice, but still… her cheeks felt a little warm. Flustered. A good bit more than she’d like.

Sirius, however, cleared his throat. Loudly.

Lily looked away. Quickly.

She slid off the bed, looking for something—anything—to put the flowers in. The best she found was a pint goblet, clearly pinched from the Three Broomsticks, its insignia still visible through the scratches. Lily sighed and transfigured it into a sturdy, no-nonsense vase—nothing too delicate, knowing nothing delicate stood even a chance of survival in this dorm. As she cast Aguamenti and water filled the vase, the dormitory door slammed shut with a resounding crack.

She startled, nearly knocking over the flowers, then looked up.

Sirius and James were gone.

Lily sighed.

The dormitory door had barely shut behind them when Sirius rounded on James with all the subtlety of a thunderclap.

“What the hell are you doing with Remus?”

James sighed, mostly amused. “Oh, come on. You can’t seriously think I’m—”

“That’s what it looks like,” Sirius cut in, arms folding tight across his chest.

James raised an eyebrow. “Sure.”

Sirius wasn’t amused.

“Stop it,” he warned, a first and final warning all in one.

James tilted his head. “Stop what exactly? Being nice to our friend?”

Sirius hesitated just long enough to realise how stupid he sounded. Still, he didn’t relax.

James exhaled, slower this time, narrowing his eyes. “Pads, no offence, but why do you care so much?”

“I don’t care,” Sirius said, too quick, too defensive.

“Right,” James said, his voice edged with sarcasm. “Because looking ready to hex me over some flowers screams nonchalance.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t even like flowers.”

“He liked those ones,” James said with a shrug. “And I thought they were nice. When Lily brought some to the infirmary… well, I liked getting them. S’not that weird.”

Sirius opened his mouth, closed it. He looked like he wanted to argue, then finally found his words. “Yeah, well, that’s different. That was Evans. That’s a girly thing to do when someone gets injured. You don’t just casually buy your mate flowers.”

James hadn’t thought that much about it. He’d just… done it. Was it weird? He didn’t really think so. Though, maybe it was.

Is it really the fact that I gave Remus flowers that bothers you, or is it that he wouldn’t accept them from you? At least, not without checking they weren’t pranked first? James almost said, but didn’t.

He knew better.

“I didn’t just ‘casually’ buy them,” he said at last. “He helped me out, I saw something he liked, and I wanted to get them. It’s that simple.”

Sirius was silent.

Pink peonies were about as girly as it got. Grimmauld’s library had an old Victorian flower language book, and Sirius had once weaponised it to send subtly insulting bouquets whenever his mother forced him to court potential matches.

He’d never sent a girl pink peonies.

The memory surfaced, distant but clear, the page flickering to life in his mind:

Pink peonies – symbols of feminine beauty, compassion, and romance. Their soft blush hue evokes warmth and gentleness.

The words only made his irritation worse.

James continued, undeterred. “Besides, you know what he’s like. Picky git. Won’t take gifts if he thinks they’re more expensive than he deserves. Flowers seemed like a safe bet.”

“Those weren’t cheap flowers,” Sirius pointed out.

Because bouquets like that weren’t the kind you grabbed last minute from a corner shop when you’d forgotten an anniversary. Bouquets like that—of that size—belonged in crystal vases in stately hallways. Bouquets like that cost money.

Money James, of course, had.

James shrugged. “Didn’t notice the price,” he said, and Sirius believed him. To James, it was pocket change. To Sirius… well. Once, it would’ve been.

“Don’t tell Moony that, though,” James added, a little stern. “Or he won’t accept them.”

Sirius just muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

James grinned. “Suppose I shouldn’t tell you we ate at Puddifoot’s either. Or that I had to basically hold Moony’s hand the entire time because he kept nearly stacking it on the ice.”

Sirius’s expression darkened. “Yeah,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t.”

James laughed, loud and unbothered, and some of the tension bled away. Not all of it. But some.

“Overdramatic prat,” he said, half amused, half exasperated. “Get that threatening look off your face. I’m not trying it on with Moony.”

“Keep it that way,” Sirius advised, voice low.

James rolled his eyes, brushing past him like Sirius’s threats weren’t even worth acknowledging. “Get over yourself, Pads. I don’t fancy lanky boys, as much as I think the world of Remus.” He reached the door, then glanced back. “Now stop being stupid and come inside.”

But Sirius didn’t follow.

Because he did want to hex James. And if he had to sit there and watch Remus ignore him—again—while paying attention to James, then he really might hex him.

And no, he didn’t think James fancied Remus.

But that didn’t mean Sirius didn’t feel threatened.

Because inside and out, James was better than him.

James might not want Remus, but that didn’t mean Remus couldn’t want James.

Especially since right now, Remus definitely didn’t seem to want him.

The problem wasn’t that Remus had stopped loving him—Sirius had known that for a while now.

It was that he didn’t even seem to like him anymore.

Sure, Sirius hadn’t expected this to be easy. Remus wasn’t easy. But he hadn’t thought it would be this impossible.

Normally, Remus gave in—eventually. Not to everything, but to the small things. Enough that Sirius could believe he cared about making him happy.

Now, it was like he didn’t care at all. Like he’d Obliviated himself of every single thing that had ever passed between them.

And it wasn’t like Sirius hadn’t tried. He’d pulled out every trick he had—teasing him, playing his favourite records, reading books in plain sight that always got a rise out of him because Remus always had an opinion on anyone picking up anything by James Joyce. Or Dickens. Or Hemingway. Or anyone he’d decided felt like a chore to read. He had a weird thing for Russian literature instead—Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Victor Hugo.

…Though his bookmark in Slaughterhouse-Five hadn’t moved in days, which was unlike him. Remus either finished a book within forty-eight hours or grumbled, gave up, and declared it not worth his time. 

But that was beside the point—Sirius had even strong-armed the house-elves into making his favourite meals. Downright humiliated himself, walking around half-naked like some desperate idiot.

Remus didn’t touch the food. Didn’t flinch at the teasing. Didn’t even look at him most of the time.

He was quiet. Kept to himself. Spent more time away from the dorm than in it.

He wouldn’t play.

Maybe he’d meant it, what he said about not being able to do this anymore. Them. And for something that Remus swore wasn’t an ultimatum, it was starting to feel pretty fucking final.

And Sirius was beginning to realise that pushing meant risking what little he had left.

James was still staring at him, leaning against the door, waiting for him to follow.

“Fine. Whatever,” Sirius muttered at last, choosing to walk away instead. He tried to shake off the frustration, but it clung to him stubbornly. It wasn’t James’s fault he was accidentally doing a better job of romancing Remus than Sirius was.

Still.

It was hard not to want to shove some distance between them.

Especially when Remus had flushed like that. When his voice had softened like that. When he’d looked at James like…

No.

Remus wouldn’t feel that way about James.

Would he?

Then again—he’d once felt that way about Sirius.

So it wasn’t impossible.

And wasn’t impossible meant possible.

And Sirius wasn’t prepared to see a single hint of that possibility coming out to play.

Samuel Aldertree intercepted Lily on her way to meet Remus, far friendlier with her as Remus than he’d ever been with her in her own body. He was as tall and handsome as ever, with the kind of perfect teeth that suggested he knew it, given how often he flashed them when he smiled.

Sam was a Muggleborn. A rugby player—broad-shouldered, blue-eyed. Cute.

And a reader. Ran some Muggle literature club for the younger years. Ravenclaw, naturally.

Mary had definitely mentioned fancying him. But he also definitely had a girlfriend.

Lily just about stopped herself from raising an eyebrow when he squeezed her arm in parting, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

The conversation had been unremarkable—just a quick reminder about prefect timetables, which, given everything, Lily was grateful for. The whole body-swap ordeal had thrown her off completely, and prefect duties had admittedly slipped her mind. Merlin, I really am turning into Remus, aren’t I?

Then, in what had clearly been a calculated move, Samuel had casually mentioned a Halloween masquerade party, extending an invitation in a way that implied while he didn’t expect her to accept it, he would certainly like it if she did. Lily had politely declined, knowing full well that even if they managed to swap back before then, Remus would rather spend Halloween in Gryffindor Tower than Ravenclaw.

Ravenclaws were like Slytherins in one key respect—they believed, as a collective, that they were better than the rest of the school. Not because of bloodlines or wealth, but because of their brains.

To be fair, their common room was gorgeous. One of the airiest in the castle, with tall arched windows draped in blue and bronze, a midnight-blue carpet scattered with stars, and a domed ceiling that reflected it all. She’d been to a few Ravenclaw parties over the years, usually as the one nudged forward to answer the riddle at the entrance—though really, there was always a Ravenclaw willing to let them in for the novelty of it.

But Ravenclaw parties were… well, tame. More scholarly debate than reckless abandon, punctuated only by the occasional student who was bright enough to excel academically but not bright enough to know when to stop drinking. They lacked the unhinged energy of Gryffindor’s, where nights ended in fistfights, fireworks, and headaches. Where the music was too loud, the drinks too strong, and someone always, always set something on fire. Gryffindors actually knew how to have fun.

Even Remus, for all his restraint, wasn’t boring.

She and Remus had once shared an amused look at the only Ravenclaw party she’d ever caught him at, both barely suppressing laughter at an impromptu slam poetry reading. It had been enough for him to call it a night. She’d caught him before he left, and he’d shrugged, saying he wasn’t there for the party—just for cigarettes.

Given the silent nod he exchanged with Alex Burnet, the pack already in his hand, Lily believed him.

She hadn’t stayed much longer herself, hanging back just enough to be polite before slipping out.

So when Samuel accepted her refusal with a slight smile—like it was exactly the answer he’d predicted—Lily barely gave it another thought. But as she turned away, she felt it: that peculiar, unmistakable weight of eyes on her. The sense that she was being watched.

She shook it off, flashing Samuel a last polite nod before continuing down the dimly lit corridor. The castle was quiet now, the remnants of dinner fading into the lull before curfew. A few students lingered in small groups, heading to extracurriculars or catching up with friends.

She had just turned a corner when a hand closed around hers.

Lily jumped. Instinct kicked in—body tensing, ready to throw a punch or a hex—

Then she saw who it was.

Her shoulders dropped, exasperation overtaking alarm. “Sirius,” she sighed.

He let go quickly, and Lily resisted the urge to shake out her wrist. He’d left the dorm earlier in a mood, and she wasn’t keen on setting him off again.

Except… he didn’t look angry. Not exactly.

He looked tense.

Lily’s irritation wavered, replaced by something closer to concern.

“Earth to Sirius,” she teased, hoping to break whatever weird spell he was under. “Is there a reason you’ve pulled me aside, or are you just here to stand there and look pretty?”

“Looking pretty is my specialty,” Sirius replied automatically. But he grinned, and just like that, she knew—for once—she’d said the right thing.

Still, he didn’t elaborate. He just stood there, fidgeting, looking at her like he was working up the nerve to do… something.

Lily waited. Then waited a little more.

Finally, she sighed. “Sirius, I’ve got places to be. Can whatever this is wait until later?”

She kept her tone gentle. But Merlin, if he was about to do something dramatic, she really didn’t have time for it.

“What did he want?” Sirius asked finally, nodding toward the corridor where Samuel had disappeared.

Lily’s eyebrows drew together. “Who? Sam?”

“Oh, so it’s Sam now?” Sirius muttered, just enough bite in his voice to make it clear he wasn’t just making conversation.

Lily tilted her head, frowning. She didn’t bother responding, just let Sirius sit with… whatever it was he needed to work through.

Sirius went quiet, which was odd enough on its own. Lily had never seen him look uncertain before—had barely even thought he was capable of it. But there it was, the faintest flicker of hesitation in his posture, something almost restless about the way he held himself.

She’d picked up on his habits these past few days, living as Remus. The relentless tapping. Always. If there was silence, Sirius had to be the one to fill it, whether with a foul remark that would get someone shouting at him or music played far too loud, forcing everyone else to entertain him instead.

Simply put, he was a noisy person. Always yelling across the room. Slamming every door he walked through. Slamming the drawers shut. Slamming the cabinets. Tossing out some wisecrack.

Now, though, he was quiet. Too quiet.

“I’m not seeing anyone,” he said suddenly, as if blurting it out before he lost his nerve.

Lily blinked. “Okay. And?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “Just… wanted you to know.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “And now I do. Congratulations on giving the female population of Hogwarts a, however brief, reprieve from you.”

But Sirius wasn’t rising to it. If anything, he looked even more serious—earnest, even. He shifted a little closer, as if proximity made his words more believable. “I mean it. I’m not even looking. Not interested.”

Lily straightened, leaning back slightly. “Right…”

This was starting to feel like a particular sort of conversation. A I’m single, are you? conversation. The kind that suggested a maybe we should do something about it kind of situation.

And Lily had absolutely no idea how to handle that.

Remus was single, as far as she knew. Why Sirius needed to confirm that, she could only dread to think.

Was he interested?

Merlin.

Honestly, if Sirius preferred boys, that would be excellent news for womankind. Less so for men, though Lily couldn’t say she felt all that sorry for them. Sirius didn’t exactly have the best track record.

After the way things ended with Mary… well. It was only Mary’s insistence that had stopped Lily and Marlene from hexing his bollocks off.

Sirius didn’t seem to know how to end things without breaking them beyond repair. An end, to him, was something final, irreversible. So that’s what he’d done.

He’d kissed someone else. Who, exactly, Lily didn’t know. It hardly mattered. Sirius had a pattern. Take one girl to a party, leave with another. Accept the screaming that came after like he’d rather be yelled at than leave any door open someone might want to walk through again.

Mary had claimed it was fine. Well—not fine, but she’d gone quiet about it, explaining that she didn’t care as much as she might’ve once, that she’d started liking someone else too and had felt guilty. But her guilt didn’t erase his.

Guilt wasn’t water. It didn’t wash anything away.

Not even if you drowned in it.

Before she could step away, Sirius blocked her path. “I know you’re meeting Lily, but can I talk to you?”

“You already are,” Lily said.

“Properly,” Sirius clarified.

Lily tensed. This wasn’t her conversation to have. It wasn’t meant for her. It was meant for Remus—who Sirius actually wanted to talk to, properly, once they were both back in the right bodies.

“No,” she said finally, sidestepping him. “You’re being weird and serious. I don’t have time for weird and serious.”

“You used to.” Sirius moved with her, bracketing her into the alcove with an ease that suggested plenty of experience. As if this was a game they always played and everything was playful, he didn’t let up when she attempted to push back.

He wasn’t being aggressive, but he was strong—lean but solid. Built in a way that made escape feel like a losing battle unless she was willing to knee him.

Lily had seen Sirius flirt before, watched him turn that effortless charm on girls who melted under his attention, left dazed in his wake.

This wasn’t that.

But it wasn’t not that, either.

It was… more. He was more. Present. Alert. Honest. With the girls, there was always a layer of detachment, like he was testing a trick he already knew would work, indifferent to the outcome.

This, though—this felt like he cared. A lot.

Unease crept in. And with unease came frustration.

“What exactly are you up to with Evans that’s more important than this?” he pressed.

That tone of voice shifted things. It didn’t sound like he was trying to pull her closer anymore—it sounded like he was trying to make her react. Like he wanted her to be the one to push back, to close the distance between them by any means necessary.

This was starting to feel like another fight. Not an argument, exactly, but some quiet, calculated battle for the upper hand.

Remus might have found whatever Sirius was doing endearing, but Lily didn’t.

He was looking at her like a child with a toy that wasn’t performing its tricks anymore—torn between poking at it until it did something or smashing it to pieces.

Her expression hardened.

Remus’s voice echoed in her mind from a few days ago:

Sirius drives me mad. I can never tell what’s going on in his head, and when I think I do, I’m sure he’s just screwing with me.

Yes. Lily was starting to get that feeling.

She didn’t know why Remus put up with it, but she knew what she wouldn’t tolerate. And this—Remus being treated like this, her being treated like this—was something she wouldn’t let stand.

“What’s your problem?” she asked, her voice sharp and unyielding enough to make him take a wise half-step back.

Sirius masked his surprise at what he thought was Remus’s uncharacteristic bluntness. “Don’t have one.”

“You clearly do.” Lily’s eyes narrowed. “Spit it out or leave me alone. And don’t storm off again like a child who doesn’t know how to handle being told off.”

Sirius went still, as though physically holding himself back from snapping or fleeing. “Nothing,” he said, too flatly to be convincing.

“Not nothing, Black,” Lily countered. “I know exactly what you’re doing. And I don’t like it. It’s making me uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells around one of my friends.”

His jaw clenched. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who’s making me feel like you don’t want to be my friend anymore.”

Lily hadn’t. And she sincerely doubted Remus would have—at least not without good reason.

She drew in a breath, trying to calm herself. It didn’t help. “Maybe I wouldn’t feel that way if you weren’t so difficult to be around.”

Sirius’s expression darkened. “Difficult?”

“Irritable, argumentative, controlling,” she listed without hesitation, arms folding tight. “You do realise I can do things without you knowing about them, right? You don’t have to know everything. And the mind games? Exhausting. You’re exhausting.”

Something flickered across his face—not just wounded, but confused.

“Why are you being like this?” he asked.

“What? Calling you out on your behaviour?”

“Being… not like you. You’re acting like you don’t even—”

“Care?” Lily cut in. “Because that’s not what’s happening. I’m trying to make sure we understand each other. Peter might let you bully him into doing whatever you want, but I won’t. Learn to communicate properly, and stop guilt-tripping me every time you take something the wrong way.”

Sirius’s temper flared. “Is there a right way to take what you’ve been saying?” His voice edged toward something jagged, something defensive. “Sorry, I didn’t realise I was supposed to feel happy about being reduced to a bad habit you’re trying to quit.”

Lily blinked. “I was talking about cigarettes.”

Sirius looked away blankly, as if he didn’t believe that.

Lily’s irritation gave way to suspicion. “Why on earth would you think I was talking about you?” She tilted her head. “Do you self-identify as a bad habit?”

“Forget it,” Sirius muttered. “Don’t want to fight with you, Moons.”

And he sounded like he meant it.

Lily exhaled, tension still simmering beneath her skin. “Fine. But Sirius?” She met his gaze, steady and uncompromising. “Stop trying to screw with me. I won’t put up with it.”

Sirius held her stare for a moment longer, then, without another word, turned and walked away.

“No, that’s definitely weird.”

“Is it?” Lily asked.

Remus gave her a flat look. Yes. Emphatically, obviously, yes.

They were talking about James, of course. And the flowers. Lily hadn’t brought up anything about Sirius yet. Didn’t know how to. Wasn’t sure if she should. Maybe whatever Remus thought about James’s behaviour would give her some context for Sirius’s.

Not long after Sirius had marched him out, James had come back into the room muttering, clearly scolded, though more exasperated than chastened. He’d flashed her a sheepish grin, laughing as he assured her he didn’t mean anything odd by the gift.

Lily hadn’t even thought it was odd—until he said that. Until she did start thinking about it. And now, apparently, so was Remus.

“I mean, it’s Prongs,” he admitted, “but it’s also a bit… odd. Even for him.”

Maybe James was confused, Remus thought. He had the girl he was in love with sleeping in the same room as him, just disguised as one of his best friends. Subconsciously, somewhere, some part of James had to be reacting to that.

James couldn’t know. But love transcended things, went beyond boundaries. Pesky magical mishaps, apparently included.

Lily tilted her head. “What would you have done if he gave them to you? As you?”

Remus shrugged. “Dunno. Laughed, maybe. Told him I’m flattered, but not a girl.”

Lily’s eyebrows lifted, her gaze sweeping over his presently very feminine frame.

Remus sighed. “Yes, I’m aware of the irony,” he muttered, before quickly adding, “and I didn’t mean it like that. Just—boys don’t get flowers. You give them to girls. It’s got a bit of a… romantic connotation.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Lily said dryly. “Sirius’s reaction made that very clear.”

Remus grimaced. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Lily returned.

His grimace deepened into a sigh. “He’s… well.”

“Uh huh. He’s very much that.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Why what?” Remus asked warily.

“Why does he act like some sort of jealous ex anytime someone so much as looks at you?”

Remus scratched the back of his neck. “It’s not that bad. He just doesn’t like threats to his claim on his, uh, friends.”

“Sure,” Lily said, unimpressed. “That’s why he’s always been completely fine with James flirting with me every day since first year but just about loses his mind if someone even thinks about snogging you.”

Remus winced. Shrugged.

“Have you considered that he—”

“No. He doesn’t.”

“Remus,” Lily said, exasperated. “He’s been glued to my side since James pulled that stunt. Won’t even let us talk to each other. Practically won’t even let us look at each other before he gets a face on. He sat between us at dinner like a bloody guard dog. Then, when we got back to the dorm, he still hadn’t relaxed. I laughed at something James said, and Sirius looked like he was ready to hex him.”

Remus sighed, his shoulders dropping. “Yeah, that checks out.”

“And you honestly don’t think there’s anything to look into there?”

Remus hesitated. “… Not really?”

Lily wasn’t letting it go. “Look, I need to know if there’s something going on you’re not telling me. I’m not prying, but… I don’t want to be caught off guard.”

“There’s nothing going on,” Remus lied.

Lily sighed.

“Just don’t let him get to you,” Remus said. “And maybe don’t accept anything else from Prongs. He might’ve just been trying to wind Sirius up anyway.”

Well, he succeeded.

Lily arched a brow. “Right. And why exactly would he know that would rile Black up?”

Remus gave a half-hearted shrug, the kind that said, Beats me. He was maddeningly calm. Almost truthful, even.

Lily might have believed him.

But she didn’t.

She’d been in his shoes for days now, and even she had a good inkling as to what Sirius’s feelings were.

They weren’t just friendly.

The way he was, the way he softened and hardened depending on her reactions, the look in his eyes that he probably didn’t even realise he let slip—

It almost looked like love.

Other times, it felt like hate.

Like there was something sharp beneath the surface—resentment, regret, something she couldn’t see. Like she was treading an invisible line, one Sirius had drawn without telling her, and if she strayed too far, he’d turn cold. Temperamental. Punish her for not instinctively knowing what he wanted, what he felt.

Either she was seeing things, or Remus Lupin was a very good liar.

“He misses you,” Lily said finally. “Seems… bored. Irritable. And he’s been acting a little… strange.”

Remus’s gaze met hers, wary. “Strange how?”

“Well,” Lily said carefully, “he tried to bring up his current lack of partners with me.”

Remus frowned. “Okay? That’s not that weird.”

“No, it was weird,” Lily argued. “Weirder than the flowers. He made it seem really important that I knew.”

“Oh,” was all Remus said.

His frown deepened. He looked away, toward the door of the classroom, as if considering going after Sirius and following up on that conversation himself. As if hoping someone might come bursting through it.

“You miss him,” Lily observed.

Remus blinked. Then, after a beat, he sighed softly. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s almost too quiet without them. And I usually take quiet as being cause for concern.”

Lily felt a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t want to be in his place, didn’t want to keep them apart. But she was, wasn’t she?

Remus gave her a small smile. “Not your fault. We’ll figure it out.”

Would they, though? It was Friday evening now, and they’d been stuck like this since Tuesday morning. Still no closer to a solution than they had been at the start.

He gestured for them to pack up their things, and Lily followed silently. The smell of chalk lingered in the air, with several theories crossed out on the board in the middle of the room.

The lights dimmed as they closed the door, and the cool air of the castle hallways greeted them.

“I yelled at him today,” she admitted after a moment. “Told him to back off. Called him exhausting. Had a few other… choice words for him.”

Remus didn’t look surprised. He just nodded, like he’d been expecting it. “Don’t worry about it.”

But Lily was worried. She’d needed to call Sirius out—she couldn’t deal with his relentless attitude—but she’d done it all wrong. Cornered and furious, she hadn’t even tried to keep her cover. Hadn’t softened her words, hadn’t spoken as Remus might have. She’d let him have it, no hesitation, like she would have as herself.

Remus kept walking, unconcerned.

“But you don’t find him exhausting,” she said, carefully now. “Not really. You never find him… too much.”

His steps slowed. “Exasperating, yes. Exhausting, no. Too much, never.” He shot her a small, reassuring look. “But it’s fine. You probably did the right thing. He’ll back off a bit. Maybe find a girl to keep him occupied. If we’re lucky, he’ll stay distracted until we sort this out.”

Lily studied him. “That’s not what you want, though.”

Remus sighed, unsurprised by the push. “Lily, we’ve got bigger problems.”

She let out a slow breath, knowing he was right.

“You’re right. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he said.

But it didn’t feel fine.

They stepped into the library, the familiar scent of parchment and ink enveloping them. Remus felt a sense of calm wash over him—this was a place of knowledge, a place where problems could be solved.

He led the way to a secluded corner, away from prying eyes and curious ears. “Alright,” he said, keeping his voice low. “We start with the basics. Body-swapping spells, if they exist. Curses, if that’s what this is. Grab anything on Legilimency and Occlumency—” He hesitated, then added, “—and check the indexes of any magical artefact books for mentions of the Mirror of Erised.”

Lily nodded, already scanning the shelves, fingers trailing over spines. “We might need the Restricted Section.”

Remus glanced toward Madam Pince, but she only gave them a wary look before returning to her own work. They moved carefully past the roped-off area, eyes skimming over dark, ancient tomes.

“We need something on magical mishaps first,” Remus murmured. “Rare and dangerous spells.”

It wasn’t long before he pulled a hefty volume from the shelves—Arcane Anomalies and Enigmatic Enchantments. He dropped it onto a table with a muted thump, and Lily slid into the seat beside him, flipping through the brittle pages.

“Here,” she said, tapping a section title. “‘Transpositional Transfigurations and Soul Exchange Spells.’ Sounds promising.”

Remus leaned in, skimming the text over her shoulder. He shook his head in disappointment. “It’s not much,” he muttered. “The few documented cases don’t exactly come with instructions.”

Worse, the chapter veered into something entirely different—soul bonding, which, even the author admitted, leaned more toward myth than a viable branch of magic. The last recorded attempt had been in the seventeenth century, and it hadn’t ended well.

A soul wasn’t meant to be split. A mind wasn’t meant to hold multiple voices. The side effects alone were grim: paranoia, insomnia, melancholia, a slow descent into madness. Reduced lifespans. Death.

Remus shut the book and exhaled sharply. Then, without a word, he pushed to his feet and went back to the shelves.

Lily followed suit, diligently gathering her own stack.

They worked in silence, the kind bred from deep concentration. The hours slipped away in candlelight and ink-smudged notes, broken only by the occasional murmured observation, a half-formed theory passed between them.

But when Remus finally sat back, rubbing his eyes, they were no closer to a solution.

“Nothing,” he muttered, snapping a particularly useless tome shut.

Lily sighed, her fingers absently twisting a strand of Remus’s hair as she stared down at the mess of open books. “You’d think there’d be at least one reliable source.”

Remus huffed a humourless laugh, rubbing at his temples. “I’m starting to think wizards just don’t write things down properly.”

Their best lead was still the mediwizard article on soul transference from Fairfax’s office—though it hadn’t cited any living survivors. Nor had it mentioned the spellwork behind the process. It had, however, included the name of the healer who had conducted the study.

Dr. Harlow Baudelaire.

The name alone set Remus’s teeth on edge. Pureblood-sounding. Not someone he particularly wanted to contact if he could help it. He didn’t trust doctors or healers—not exactly. Not after the ones he’d been forced to meet as a child. His dad’s doing. Lyall Lupin had been determined, relentless even. If there was a cure for lycanthropy, he’d made it his mission to find it.

And what an anomaly this would be—he and Lily, their bodies swapped by accident, a walking medical curiosity. He could already imagine the interest it would stir among eager, inquisitive minds. The pokes, the prods. The tests, if they weren’t outright locked away for further study.

A reflexive shudder ran through him.

Healers didn’t much like werewolves. The few who’d agreed to help had made that clear. They fell into one of two camps—either the morbidly curious, fascinated by the study of him rather than invested in actually treating him, or the kind who saw him as something less than human. An animal in borrowed skin. Some had even suggested to his parents, in the cold, clinical way of those who viewed suffering as a problem to be managed, that it would be more humane to put him down.

His parents had fought those ones. Fiercely. They got better at weeding out the worst of them, but that left very few who were actually willing to help. And out of those few? None had come up with anything that did.

A Sleeping Draught had made the wolf sluggish, but not enough to stop the transformation—and not for long. If anything, the slower the shift, the worse it was. His body stuck halfway, muscles refusing to obey, bones breaking in agonising slow motion as he blinked in and out of consciousness. And when the pain finally subsided, the wolf would wake—still feeling every bit of it.

And a hurt wolf was a dangerous wolf.

They’d tried upping the dose, but the amount it would take to keep him under the whole night would kill him in human form. Three doses in, and a fresh scar along his cheekbone, they’d all gotten the message.

No more experimenting.

He glanced at Lily, watching as she absentmindedly chewed the end of her quill, her focus entirely on the text in front of her. Unaware. Oblivious. A ticking time bomb, fuse already lit.

They’d switched sometime in the night between Monday, October 18th, and Tuesday, October 19th. Woken up as each other with no warning, no explanation.

It was now Friday, October 22nd.

And the full moon was looming—Tuesday, November 2nd, the transformation set for the night of November 1st.

They didn’t have time. If they were still stuck like this a week from now… he’d have to tell her. And after that, she might never look at him the same way again. Not with the easy warmth she gave him now, not with trust.

Sure, the others had accepted what he was—but even Peter had been uneasy at first. And eleven-year-old boys had very different standards than sixteen-year-old girls. The ‘cool’ factor wouldn’t win him any points here.

Still, this was Lily.

Lily, who was genuinely kind in a way that made Remus feel like he was somehow morally failing as a person. Not in the way people pretended to be, offering up shallow niceties, but with something harder to find in most, something real. She looked for the good in people—not just in those she liked, not just when it was convenient.

Remus wasn’t sure he could say the same for himself. He sought out goodness selectively, where he wanted to find it. Lily just seemed to believe it was there in everyone, waiting to be seen.

But that didn’t mean she would find it in him.

Or in what he was.

Remus had learned not to assume how people would react to things. Knew better than to assume how someone else felt. It hadn’t gone particularly well for him before.

He hurled that memory away, fast, locking it in that small, hidden part of his mind—the one that used to spark with the tiniest, brightest flicker of hope at the worst possible moments, whispering maybemaybemaybe whenever he let himself think too much about it—about him—about Sirius. Until…

Remus blinked at the scrape of a chair as Lily stood, gathering the pile of useless books—including his—and returning them neatly to the stacks.

A small black cat prowled across the library floor, rubbing against her legs. Lily’s face lit up as she sank to her knees, greeting it with a bright smile.

Salem. Marlene’s cat.

He’d never taken to Remus. Not even as Lily. Odd, Marlene had said when she first saw the cat’s tail puffing up in the girls’ dormitory. He usually only dislikes boys.

Except Salem clearly recognised Lily by soul rather than body. He loathed Remus even as a girl and adored Lily even as a boy.

She giggled softly, running a hand down his sleek fur as he purred like a motor, utterly trusting.

She wouldn’t last a full moon in his body.

The pit in Remus’s stomach hardened into something heavy and unrelenting, a stone that settled deep and gnawed at his ribs. Dumbledore would be back Monday, McGonagall had said.

The 25th of October.

That gave them a week before the full moon. It would be fine. It had to be. Dumbledore knew things that went beyond books, knowledge passed down and hoarded like treasure. He’d help. He’d know what to do.

They couldn’t owl him. Not yet. Not Fairfax, either. It wasn’t just the risk of sending their owls on long, pointless flights—it was dangerous. For Fairfax. For Dumbledore. For Fabian, if he was still with them.

If Remus was right about where they were, an owl could ruin everything. Could expose them. Blow their cover—locations, everything.

And the other side had already begun intercepting letters, tracking who entered and left wizarding Britain.

They’d started making sure people never came back.

Fifteen attacks this year—reported ones, at least. Several bodies had been found with strange objects nearby. Things that meant nothing to a Muggle but everything to a wizard: a pair of binoculars, a jester’s hat, a wooden cooking spoon, a silver pocket watch, a teddy bear, a Best Dad mug.

Portkeys.

Two attacks near airports, targeting families trying to escape.

Remus could go to Madam Pomfrey now. Or McGonagall. But he knew what they’d say: that he had to tell Lily. Had to warn her.

And they’d be right.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not if he could help it.

Besides, McGonagall was already stretched thin. With Dumbledore gone, she was acting Headmistress, stalking the halls with a look that told students not to make her job harder. Not to cause trouble. Not to give her any.

Lily and Remus’s predicament was trouble.

Trouble McGonagall didn’t need.

So Remus had used his Lily-shaped form to his advantage only once—to ask, in an offhand way, when Dumbledore would be back.

McGonagall had been busy disciplining some fourth-years, but when she turned to him, her answer was clipped, matter-of-fact.

“Monday,” she said, like the day couldn’t come soon enough.

So Monday it was.

The hours in the library had dragged on, yielding little they didn’t already know. By the time they finally gave in and packed up, their eyes were heavy, their yawns setting each other off in an endless cycle.

“We could try Legilimency again?” Lily suggested before they left. “If that’s what got us into this mess, maybe it’s what can get us out.”

Remus shook his head. “Not tonight.”

He already had enough voices in his head—things he was trying not to listen to. Letting someone else in, having to focus on keeping them out of doors he was barely holding shut, felt like asking for disaster.

And it wasn’t a question of if they’d burst open. Just when.

In the common room, they split off—Lily yawning her way up the stairs while Remus lingered just long enough to make sure she was out of sight. Then, instead of following, he slipped back out into the corridors.

He was tired, sure, but not enough to sleep. His mind always seemed more alive at night, and tonight, it was too loud to ignore. The thought of going back to the girls’ dormitory was… less than appealing. He could already picture Mary and Marlene skirting around some unspoken argument, leaving him stuck in the middle, or worse—being roped into another face or hair mask session while Mary chatted idly, oblivious to his silent suffering. The sticky weight of product in his hair, the suffocating clay on his skin—relaxing, they called it. To him, it was torture. Itchy, far-too-strongly fragranced, torture.

Instead, he wandered up to the fourth floor, near Ravenclaw Tower, where an arched window with a deep sitting ledge waited. A loose stone on the left side gave way easily under his fingers—muscle memory guiding him to the right one without thought.

The small hollow behind it was undisturbed. His stash was still there, just as he’d left it: a few cigarettes and a battered lighter. He pocketed them, slid off the ledge, and kept moving. The jump down felt different in Lily’s body. His balance was off, the drop steeper than he was used to.

He steadied himself, adjusted, then carried on down the empty halls. His footsteps echoed, but they were nothing against the noise in his head.

Technically, he’d promised Lily he wouldn’t smoke in her body. But in the grand scheme of things, that promise felt almost laughably small—especially considering the much bigger lies he was telling her.

And if he was already lying about those, what were a few cigarettes on top?

She wouldn’t know. And what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

At least, not yet.

He’d had four days to sort this out. And what had he accomplished? Broke into a professor’s office and stolen something utterly useless. Lied to Lily—repeatedly. Lied to his friends. Lied to her friends. Stolen the map. Done… homework.

So, nothing. Absolutely nothing.

And now Lily was starting to ask questions. Fair questions, ones he didn’t have good answers for—ones he didn’t want to answer at all. Because the truth was, he didn’t know what to tell her. And, if he was being honest, he was embarrassed. Not because of Sirius, but because Lily knew exactly what Sirius was like. And Lily thought Remus was sensible. Intelligent. Smarter than this. Because everyone knew that sensible, intelligent people didn’t fall for Sirius Black’s charms.

And Remus hadn’t. Not exactly. But he’d let himself get tangled up in Sirius anyway—just like so many others before him. The difference was, it had never been everything to them. And to Sirius, like always, it was nothing.

And that—that was the embarrassing part.

Go outside. Problems seem smaller when you think about them under the sky.

That was something his mother always said. When the heavy silences in their home grew too thick, she’d escape to the open air. Hope Lupin, her bicycle, and the country trails of whatever small town they’d landed in next. His mother wasn’t one for confrontations; she was calm, steady, and as constant as the hillside lanes she rode along.

His father had a different way of dealing with things. Lyall Lupin carried his anger deep inside but never let it show around his family. Instead, he’d lock himself in his study or disappear on work trips and research conferences, quietly tearing himself apart as deeply as his son did every full moon.

But did problems seem bigger from the outside or the inside? Remus had always known things with Sirius were… something—enough that he avoided thinking about them too much. But Lily was making it sound like an issue, and he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved that someone else saw it or unsettled by the fact that she’d called it out.

“Lily Evans, are you smoking?” Sirius’s voice cut through the quiet, his tone disbelieving.

“No,” Remus lied instinctively, but Sirius had already caught sight of the telltale stream of smoke billowing softly from the tower window. “Okay, yeah. Only when I’m stressed.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You sound like Remus,” he said, moving closer and leaning casually against the tower’s ledge. The look in his eyes was one Remus knew all too well—expectant.

Funny, that, Remus thought as he begrudgingly rummaged through Lily’s robes for the pack of cigarettes and lighter. Sirius’s eyes lit up with slow, lazy triumph as Remus brandished them with all the showmanship of a poorly paid Muggle magician performing a tired trick.

Their fingers brushed lightly as Remus passed them over.

Sirius smirked, lighting a cigarette with practised ease and taking a drag. “I never took you for a rule-breaker, Evans.”

Remus looked down at the slender, freckled arm that wasn’t his and sighed. “Yeah, well, stress does funny things to people.”

He watched Sirius inhale deeply, the familiar gesture making him miss the simplicity of being himself. Being in Lily’s body felt strange, like wearing a costume that didn’t quite fit.

Lily’s natural grace eluded him, and he fumbled clumsily with limbs that felt smaller and more delicate than he was accustomed to. As he had on Tuesday, Sirius still looked exceptionally tall. Remus avoided looking directly at him for a moment, disoriented by this new perspective—a girl’s perspective.

“Come on, then. Really. When’d you pick up this filthy habit?” Sirius asked, grinning.

“Probably before you,” Remus said, entirely serious. He had been the one to introduce Sirius to Muggle cigarettes in the first place, after all—though, obviously, Lily Evans hadn’t.

Sirius snorted, clearly unconvinced.

Remus only shrugged. “Ever try something once and… realise there’s no putting the genie back in the bottle?”

Sirius’s amusement faded. He went quiet, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette, gaze fixed on the glowing ember like it might hold an answer.

“Yeah,” he said at last, voice lighter than his expression. “Who hasn’t?”

Remus’s brows knit together, but before he could dwell on it, Sirius shifted, took another slow inhale, and held the lighter out to him.

“Cheers,” Sirius said, handing back the Zippo and exhaling a cloud of smoke. “You’re full of surprises today.”

Remus just nodded, gazing out over the grounds and trying to ignore the oddness of the situation. “Yeah, surprises seem to be the theme lately.”

Sirius didn’t answer that, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. A slight frown painted him in a particular kind of dark mood Remus knew well—well enough not to poke at.

They both leaned against the ledge, sighing in unison before turning to each other in surprise.

Sirius eyed Remus for a moment, then cautiously asked, “You alright?”

Remus blinked, schooling his expression. “Yeah. Why? Are you?”

“Fine,” Sirius muttered, straightening his shoulders as if that settled it. “Perfectly fine. Why?”

They stared at each other for a beat, then snorted at the same time.

“Liars, the both of us,” Sirius said, grinning.

Remus huffed. “It’s been… one of those weeks.” Which didn’t even begin to cover it—almost a full week in Lily’s body, away from his own bed. Away from… well, Sirius.

“Yeah, it has,” Sirius agreed, leaning in the way he always did when they smoked together, casual and thoughtless. Their shoulders brushed, and Remus felt something shift, like a tension he hadn’t even realised he was carrying had finally let go.

Sirius took another drag, the ember glowing brilliantly in the twilight. “So, what’s got you so stressed? Schoolwork? Exams? Or something a bit more… personal?”

Remus glanced sideways at Sirius, trying to gauge how much he could reveal. “Just… everything. It feels like there’s a lot going on this year.”

Sirius nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I get that. Second-to-last year at Hogwarts and all that. But you’ve always handled pressure well. It’s one of the few things I’ll give you credit for.”

Remus managed a weak smile, appreciating the compliment even if it wasn’t meant for him. “Thanks. Guess it’s just hitting me harder this time.”

“Whatever it is, you’ve got Remus helping you, right?” Sirius asked, not pressing for details—which was as surprising as it was appreciated.

Then again, he was only relentless about what actually interested him. And Lily Evans didn’t.

Remus shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Then you’ll be fine. He’s the smartest bloke I know. More importantly, he has me.” Sirius paused, then tacked on, “And the others. And if you haven’t noticed, Evans, I’m brilliant. Haven’t come across a problem yet I couldn’t solve.”

“Humble,” Remus commented, trying to ignore the warmth of the rest of… all that.

“Self-aware,” Sirius corrected smoothly.

Remus tilted his head. “Are you, though?”

Sirius barked out a laugh, then hesitated, like the sound had caught him off guard. “More than you’d think.” His expression shifted, the teasing ease fading. He knocked some ash from his cigarette, gaze drifting over the dark grounds. “Definitely more than I’d like. Being aware of something doesn’t mean I know how to change it.”

Remus exhaled. “Yeah, I know what you mean. If I can’t fix something, pretending it doesn’t exist seems like the next best thing.”

Sirius turned back to him and snorted. “Yeah, know that one too. Me and denial are good mates, though he seems to have abandoned me lately.”

“Oh?” Remus’s eyebrows lifted.

Sirius rolled his eyes. “That’s all you’re getting from me, Evans. Denial might be my close mate, but you’re not.”

“Ouch,” Remus said dryly, though it wasn’t exactly untrue. He was Lily right now. And even in his own body, close friend these days was pushing it.

Sirius smiled, shrugging. “Give Prongs a chance, and we’ll see. Maybe one day you’ll have that honour.”

Remus didn’t answer. That was a conversation for Lily. But even so, he had a feeling Sirius liked her more than he let on. He’d always admired competency and courage, and Lily Evans had both in spades. She was one of the few who called him on his bullshit, who didn’t let herself be charmed by pretty smiles and easy arrogance.

If anything, good looks and wealth worked against James and Sirius with her. She didn’t want to like them, but despite her frustrations with their antics, Remus had the sense they were slowly but surely winning her over.

He’d been like that once. Had thought them both a bit… wild, a bit too full of themselves. And they were. Easy to admire, difficult to love. Not because they were unworthy of it, but because they weren’t as simple as they seemed. Loving them—truly loving them—meant loving the parts that weren’t always easy. The recklessness, the impulsivity, the all-or-nothing way they cared about things. How if they couldn’t be loved, they’d sooner not be liked. How they never let anything go, even when Remus would rather be left alone.

And how, beneath it all, both of them—especially Sirius—were so painfully desperate to be seen.

But Sirius—loving him—that was something else entirely. He wanted to be admired, wanted to be appreciated, but he also punished the people who got close enough to see something in him he didn’t want noticed. Or loved. He was always quick to bite before he could be bitten, always first to have one foot out the door.

Remus knew that better than most.

Sirius flicked ash from his cigarette, studying Remus with a curious look. “You know, you’ve been acting a bit different lately.”

Remus’s heart skipped a beat, panic rising. “Different how?”

Sirius leaned back against the ledge, exhaling smoke into the night air. “I don’t know. You’re quieter. Less fiery, more… follow-through without the threat. Not that it’s bad. Just different.”

Remus forced a laugh. “Maybe I’m just growing up. You know, maturing.”

Sirius made a dramatic gagging noise. “Maturing? That’s disgusting. But, if you ever need to vent—preferably in a way that doesn’t involve public brawls—I’m available. As entertaining as Tuesday was, I doubt punching people in the Great Hall is doing wonders for your school record. Sometimes a well-timed hex goes a long way.”

“Right,” Remus said dryly. “And that’s what you did with Mulciber last week?”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Pulling a prank wasn’t enough. I needed to punch him in the face, but apparently, that’s ‘frowned upon,’ or something.”

Remus smiled despite himself. “So, in the future, you’d what? Take the fall and punch someone for me again?”

“We all know I’m a lost cause, Evans.” Sirius smirked, propping his elbows on the windowsill.

Remus’s gaze flickered, something warmer edging into his expression. “A noble lost cause, at least.”

Sirius shrugged, like noble didn’t suit him. But it always had.

“Sorry about the…” Remus trailed off, knowing he didn’t have to finish. Sirius would understand. “Did you get in trouble?”

“Nah,” Sirius said, then hesitated. “Well—no more than usual. Got nicked more for the prank than the punch.”

Remus nodded, then, a few days late, muttered, “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

Sirius shook his head like it was nothing. “Yeah, I did. Wasn’t about to let those idiots put a target on your back if you’d actually landed that punch. They already don’t need an excuse half the time.”

And while that was true, Sirius hadn’t needed to step in. He’d done it anyway, because that was just the kind of person he was—reckless, yes, but also the first to put himself on the line when not just anyone would. And he’d do it no matter what it cost him, selfless and brave in a way most people didn’t bother to notice.

But Remus did.

He knew Sirius could be selfish—still was, in a lot of ways—but that had never really bothered him. Even when it extended to Remus himself. Sometimes, that selfishness was the only proof he had that Sirius wanted him at all: the sharp flashes of jealousy, the dark looks meant to ward off anyone else, the sulking when Remus wasn’t immediately at his side.

But Sirius wasn’t nearly as self-centred as he pretended to be. He liked people to believe he was—why, Remus didn’t really know. Maybe it was easier that way. Maybe letting people see the good in him meant they’d expect goodness. And Sirius had fought against expectations all his life. Maybe admitting he cared meant risking no one caring back.

Not that it mattered. Because Remus always would. He just couldn’t let Sirius know it—not when he wasn’t sure Sirius ever would feel the same.

At least, not in the same way.

Sirius broke the silence, snapping Remus out of his thoughts. His voice was sharp with sudden alertness. “Wait—hold on. That’s not why you’re worrying, is it? Is someone giving you trouble? Because—”

Remus shook his head, cutting him off. “No, nothing like that. Seems someone did some quick thinking so Trevor doesn’t remember bothering me in the first place. And then, after the prank, well—everyone forgot what even happened before. Much more murderous intent aimed at you instead.”

Sirius relaxed, then smirked. “See, Evans, I can be smart.”

“I know,” Remus said easily, because he did. Sirius was smart. When it suited him.

The smirk on Sirius’s face softened into something almost pleased before he cleared his throat. “Anyway, don’t go worrying your little red head about me getting detention for you. I’m fine—always up for causing a bit of trouble for the right cause.” He flashed a grin. “Think of me as a misunderstood hero.”

Remus hummed. “Misunderstood, sure. Just try not to get expelled before graduation. I don’t think Hogwarts could handle the loss of its resident troublemaker.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “I’ll do my best,” he said, leaning in with a conspiratorial tone. “But usually, the cause is worth the risk. That’s the secret they don’t want us to figure out.”

Remus swallowed. “Right,” he murmured. Then, quieter, “You know you’re not really a lost cause, though, right?”

Sirius’s expression shifted, the playfulness fading. For a moment, his eyes held a depth Remus had rarely seen.

“Reckon that remains to be seen. Sometimes… I dunno. I mess things up, even when I don’t mean to—especially the things I really don’t want to. I act without thinking, and I don’t think that’s something I’ll ever grow out of.”

Before Remus could even begin to read into that, the guardedness started creeping back in. Sirius shifted, looking like he was about to laugh it all off.

“Don’t do that,” Remus said quietly, but there was an edge to his voice—just enough steel to cut through Sirius’s deflection.

Sirius hesitated, his usual smirk faltering. He opened his mouth, but Remus beat him to it.

“Everyone screws up, Sirius. You’re not special in that regard. But that doesn’t make you a bad person, either—no matter how much you try to convince yourself, or anyone else, that you are.”

Sirius stilled, his gaze locking onto Remus’s like he was searching for something. Whatever he found seemed to take the fight out of him, his shoulders dropping just slightly.

After a beat, his lips twitched—more muscle memory than real amusement. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

“No,” Remus admitted. “But I know when to say something.”

Sirius let out a quiet, breathy laugh, though it barely carried any weight. “You’re…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Remus raised an eyebrow. “I’m what?”

Sirius exhaled through his nose, something almost—almost—like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe a bit more onto me than I gave you credit for, Evans.” He was quiet for a moment before adding, “Also, incidentally, you’re the only person who’s been nice to me today. Or at least the only one who hasn’t gone out of their way to piss me off.”

Remus frowned. “Sorry.”

Sirius shrugged. “Not your fault. Pretty sure it’s all my fault, actually. Like it usually is.”

Remus’s frown deepened. It was his fault. At least, partially. Lily had mentioned yelling at Sirius—calling him exhausting. And then there was James, the flowers. And all of it stemmed from the fact that Remus wasn’t there. Lily was in his place, trying to handle things she shouldn’t have to, throwing everything off despite her best efforts.

Sirius was a lot. But Remus had never minded that. If anything, it made everyone else seem… not enough.

He wanted to say something, to tell Sirius he wasn’t wrong for being the way he was. But how could he—like this? With Lily’s voice, her face?

What could he possibly say that Sirius wouldn’t take the wrong way?

Remus hesitated, weighing his words. Anything he said now risked being deflected with a joke or an eye roll, and Sirius had a talent for twisting even well-meaning comments into something sharp-edged. But Remus had spent too many years watching Sirius carve himself down to a version that fit other people’s expectations, and he wasn’t about to let him do it again—not here, not with him.

“You can’t afford to tear yourself down in a world that already does it for you,” he said finally.

The world didn’t think much of Sirius, and Remus knew it. Girls, maybe. A few idolising younger students, sure. But Slytherin House? His own family?

Sirius had been called every foul name under the sun, and then some. To pure-bloods like the Blacks, the only thing worse than Muggles and Muggleborns were the ones who stood beside them—blood traitors, “Muggle-lovers.”

Because, in the end, the one thing intolerant people hated more than what they feared was the idea that fear wasn’t necessary at all. That tolerance wasn’t just possible, but preferable.

That they were at war was an open secret, written in the disappearances, the whispered names, the growing list of dead. And Sirius, by walking away from his noble house, had already picked a side.

The weight of it settled heavy in Remus’s chest. He looked away.

Sirius blinked, caught off guard. For once, his usual quick wit left him. “That’s… actually a good point,” he admitted, almost as though the thought had never occurred to him before.

A memory stirred in Remus’s mind—James, at fourteen, sitting beside him in the hospital wing after a full moon that had left Remus feeling more monster than boy. James, who had already learned how to hold the world steady for others, had nudged him and said, Mate, we love you. You’ve got to stop the self-hatred before it eats you alive.

Again, at fifteen, after the worst full moon yet, James had waited until Remus could meet his eyes before saying, Moony, don’t let it destroy you. You don’t deserve that, and neither do we. I know it hurts, but it wasn’t your fault. Stop punishing yourself long enough to survive it.

And later that day, when James had refused to sit with Sirius—even after Remus had told him it was fine (he knew where James’s loyalties lay, and where they probably should’ve stayed)—in the Great Hall, when he’d looked at Remus with quiet conviction and said simply, Loyalty doesn’t mean letting him get away with it.

Remus exhaled slowly, pushing the memories back. “Just something to think about,” he said lightly. “You’re not as bad as you think.”

For a moment, Sirius didn’t reply, his expression flickering between amusement and something softer, something almost vulnerable, like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or take the comment to heart. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a small, sincere smile.

“Thanks. That… actually means a lot.”

Remus nodded. “Anytime.”

A comfortable silence settled between them, the only sound the rustling of leaves in the evening breeze. The air smelled like damp stone and cigarette smoke, familiar and grounding. Remus felt an odd mix of relief and apprehension—relief that Sirius hadn’t noticed anything off, and apprehension about how much longer he and Lily could keep up the act.

Sirius took another drag of his cigarette, the ember flaring brightly. “Do you ever just… wonder about what’s next? After Hogwarts?”

Remus glanced at him, considering. It was something he thought about a lot, though never with much optimism. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Hard not to.”

Sirius nodded, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. Feels like the world's shifting under our feet—changing faster than we can keep up. Makes you wonder where we’ll all end up.”

Remus hesitated, a jolt of worry creeping in. “You mean with the war and everything?”

“Yeah,” Sirius said, quieter now. “But not just that. I mean… the rest of it, too. What kind of life I want. Who I want to be with.”

Remus’s pulse stuttered, this time for a different reason. He forced his voice to stay steady. “And have you figured that out yet?”

Sirius exhaled, smoke curling between them. “Eh, not entirely. I just know I want to do something that matters. And I want to be with people who make it all worth it.” He looked at Remus then—really looked at him, as if trying to see beyond Lily’s features.

Remus swallowed. “Yeah. I get that.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it felt heavier than before, filled with things neither of them were saying.

James didn’t smoke—bad for Quidditch. Peter had tried, once, but never quite figured out the mechanics of inhaling—at least, not without coughing so hard he nearly threw up. Smoking had always been a Remus-and-Sirius thing, something private, something theirs. Lately, though, their moments alone had been fewer and further between, conversations slipping into something more careful, more strained.

Distant.

The distance was both unfamiliar and growing too familiar for comfort.

Above them, the sky deepened into the colour of old blackberries, stars flickering into place one by one, pricking through like pinpricks in velvet. Remus found a strange comfort in their constancy—a reminder that some things remained unchanged, even as everything else shifted beneath his feet.

Part of him wanted to tell Sirius the truth. To share the weight of it, if only for a moment. But another part hesitated. His friends could be helpful, but they could also be reckless. And Lily was right—Sirius, especially, had a habit of turning problems into bigger ones.

And then, of course, there was the matter of dignity. He and Lily already had enough complications without adding this to the list of things James and Sirius would never let them live down.

Sirius flicked his cigarette away, watching the ember fall into the darkness below. “Well, if you ever need an excuse to escape and sulk dramatically, you know where to find me.”

Remus huffed a laugh. “You mean if you ever want to take advantage of my generosity and mooch some free cigarettes?”

Sirius grinned, utterly unrepentant. “Haven’t you heard? I’m disowned, practically penniless. And besides, I don’t ‘mooch’—I just have one of those faces that makes people want to give me things.”

“Pity you, more like,” Remus muttered, but even as he said it, he was already holding out another cigarette. Sirius took it without hesitation, smiling that particular smile—the one that said he knew exactly how much he could get away with.

“And besides, that face doesn’t work on everyone,” Remus added, looking away as he brought his own cigarette to his lips.

He’d always been a slow smoker, drawing each inhale deep, as if trying to make it last. Sirius, on the other hand, burned through them quickly, always talking between drags, always trying—and failing—to mimic Marlene’s perfect O’s or heart-shaped smoke rings.

He’d once dismissed it as “too girly” anyway—almost certainly because he couldn’t quite master them.

Now, Sirius watched Remus for a beat too long, his smirk flickering into something thoughtful. As if something in the way Remus held himself had shifted and he’d noticed—too much, too quickly, as always.

Before Remus could panic, Sirius just smiled. A small, genuine thing Remus hadn’t seen in a while. “I suppose not. Works on most people, though.”

Remus barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He’d heard this before—thirteen-year-old Sirius sneaking through the castle, whispering, ‘I’ll go first. If I’m caught, I’ve got the face to get out of it.’

He felt a pang of nostalgia for simpler times, for when things had been easier. Before unspoken things and fractured trust made it all heavier. Before he’d ever had to wonder how someone who brought out the best in him could also bring out the worst.

Sirius broke the silence first, his voice amused. “You know, Evans, you’re not as bad as I thought.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Gee, thanks.”

Sirius smirked, exhaling smoke. “I mean it. You’re alright when you want to be. And you’ve got good taste in cigarettes.”

Remus let himself smile, just a little, but said nothing.

Some things were better left unsaid.

They smoked together a while longer in easy silence, the only sounds the gentle whistle of wind and the distant hoot of an owl. The air was cool, edged with the promise of night, and for a brief moment, Remus let himself enjoy the quiet. It wasn’t often that he and Sirius got this anymore—just the two of them, side by side, the world fading to the edges.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost forget he wasn’t in his own body. The tension eased, drifting away like the smoke curling into the sky.

Sirius, naturally, couldn’t let the silence sit for long. “You know,” he said, nudging Remus with a grin, “I get the feeling you secretly like me. I can just tell.”

Remus shot him a look. “You’re about to feel my elbow.”

Sirius only leaned in, intrigued. “Oh? And then what?”

“Hilarious,” Remus said flatly.

“Low-hanging fruit, Evans. Try to be less predictable.”

Remus crossed his arms. “Really, Black. Don’t flirt with me.”

He knew exactly what he looked like right now. Lily Evans was the prettiest girl at Hogwarts—effortlessly stunning, the kind of girl-next-door pretty that should have made her intimidating, though she never seemed to notice or care. And while Sirius knew better, he also couldn’t help himself sometimes. Especially when faced with a challenge. And Lily was exactly that—she didn’t date, didn’t flirt, didn’t entertain their whims.

Sirius huffed, stepping back with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Please. I’m mad at Prongs, but not that mad. Besides, you’re not my type.”

Remus wasn’t sure why he asked, only that, as Lily, the question tumbled out before he could stop it. “And what is your type?”

“Not you,” Sirius threw back without hesitation. “Less ginger. More… bite.”

And despite Remus’s long-suffering sigh, the amused snort Sirius gave in return settled something in his chest.

Being with Sirius, even like this, was a comfort he hadn’t realised he’d been missing.

It shouldn’t have been surprising. They’d always been good at this—talking, not talking. Filling silences without crowding them. It was an understanding he didn’t share with anyone else. But it had been a while since it had felt easy. A while since they’d talked without tension creeping in at the edges, without the sense that one wrong word could wound. That defences had to be kept up, just in case.

Lately, their unspoken rule seemed to be: Sure, we can talk about feelings—just not our feelings.

Eventually, Sirius stretched, glancing at the cigarette between his fingers, now dangerously close to burning down to nothing but the dog-end. “Well, I should probably get going soon. Don’t want to get caught up here.”

Remus nodded, feeling a twinge of disappointment. “Yeah, me too.”

Sirius clapped him on the shoulder—casual, familiar. “Take care of yourself, yeah? And remember what I said. If you need anything…”

“I know,” Remus said softly. “Thanks, Sirius. Doubt I’ll take you up on it, but… thanks.”

Sirius cast him a sidelong glance, something sharper behind his usual nonchalance. “Anytime, Evans. Or whoever you actually are right now.”

Remus froze.

His breath hitched, his mind scrambling. “What do you mean?”

Sirius stepped in, just slightly. “I mean… it’s almost like I’m talking to someone else. Someone who knows me a little too well.”

Remus’s heart pounded. “Maybe I’m just getting to know you better.”

Sirius’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just different. Not in a ‘growing up’ way—like you’re someone else entirely.”

Damn Sirius and his uncanny ability to see through people. He and James had always been terrifying that way.

Remus thought back to that first year at Hogwarts—how he’d been so determined to keep his head down, to stay unnoticed. Then these two had crashed into his life, too loud, too insistent, and before he could help it, he was part of it. They hadn’t given him much of a choice.

And for all their bravado, James and Sirius weren’t as carefree as they wanted people to believe. They didn’t just like people—they needed them. That was where they differed. Remus had never cared about being liked. Only about not being feared. Or, worse, pitied.

He forced his expression into something neutral. “I told you—I’m just dealing with a lot.”

Sirius studied him a beat longer, searching for something just out of reach. His head tilted as if trying to grasp a thought that was slipping through his fingers. Then he exhaled, stepping back.

“Alright. If you say so.” A pause. “I’ll drop it—for now.”

Remus nodded, guilt twisting in his gut. He hated lying to Sirius more than anyone else.

Sirius flicked the spent cigarette away, but for once, he didn’t light another. And maybe that was what made Remus notice—because Sirius always found some excuse to linger. A second cigarette. A dramatic monologue. A stray piece of lint on his sleeve that suddenly needed urgent attention.

But tonight, he just stood there, hands at his sides. No casual arm slung over Remus’s shoulders. No subtle nudges, no lazy stretch designed to close the space between them.

It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.

Remus hadn’t realised how much he relied on those familiar points of contact—until they weren’t there. And the absence dragged up things he’d buried long ago.

Because for most of his life, the people who touched him were Healers. Mediwizards. Cursebreakers. Anyone his father could find who might fix him. And then, at eleven, James and Sirius stormed into his world and, without even thinking about it, rewrote the rules.

At first, their casual affection had caught him off guard. He didn’t flinch—not exactly—but he’d freeze, tracking their movements like a startled animal. Waiting for the inevitable sting that never came. Instead, their touches were warm, solid. And he’d been left stunned—not just by the contact itself, but by the realisation that it didn’t hurt.

He hadn’t thought about it much since. Not until now, when Sirius stood just out of reach, and the ache felt sharp.

His fingers twitched—an instinct, a pull—but he stopped himself before they could close the space. It felt like reaching for something that wasn’t his to take. Maybe it never had been.

And it didn’t matter, did it?

If he were in his own body, he might’ve asked Sirius to stay. Hell, he might not have even needed to ask. But like this? As Lily? There was no way to bridge the gap without making it… wrong.

The thought sent frustration curling in his chest, unexpected and cutting. This body wasn’t his, and the limitations of it made him feel like a stranger in his own life. As a girl? Sirius wouldn’t linger. Wouldn’t touch him. Wouldn’t make space for him the way he always did for his friends.

And right now, Remus wasn’t one of them.

So he let his hand drop, stepping back.

Sirius finally pushed off the windowsill, grinning. “Enough brooding. I’m off to find the others—see what trouble we can stir up before curfew.”

Remus smiled faintly, though the moment felt like it was slipping away too fast. “You do that, Black.”

But as he said it, a quiet part of him thought, Don’t go.

Sirius hesitated—just for a flicker, like something about this felt off to him too. But he shook it off, his usual swagger settling back into place as he headed for the stairs.

“Catch you later, Evans,” he called, throwing a lazy salute over his shoulder. “And next time, bring something stronger than cigarettes. Don’t stay up here too long—wouldn’t want to ruin that pristine record of yours any further.”

Remus laughed—Lily’s voice making it feel strange, like wearing someone else’s ill-fitting coat. “Right behind you.”

He watched Sirius disappear down the stairwell, his silhouette merging with the shadows, shoulders slumping the moment he was gone. Being in Lily’s body was disorienting enough. But keeping up the pretence with Sirius?

Exhausting.

Remus leaned against the ledge, taking a slow breath, trying to shake off the unease swirling in his chest. The half-finished cigarette dangled between his fingers, smoke unravelling into the night in wraith-like wisps like something restless, something untethered. It felt fitting. Every moment in this body, wearing Lily’s face, borrowing Lily’s habits, felt like losing another piece of himself.

How long could they keep up the act before someone—before Sirius—figured it out?

“Sirius wasn’t acting that weird, right?” he muttered, and hearing Lily’s voice instead of his own sent a fresh wave of disorientation through him. He exhaled deeply, shaking his head as if he could clear it.

The view from the tower was the same as ever—Hogwarts bathed in twilight, green fading into gold, the castle standing as it always had. But it didn’t feel the same. He didn’t feel the same.

They needed to fix this. And soon.

As the sky darkened, Remus turned Sirius’s words over in his mind. About growing up. About change.

Was he growing up or just growing tired? Tired of secrets, tired of pretending, tired of carrying things he couldn’t share. Tired of this ache in his chest that he’d long since stopped trying to repress. He wasn’t sure any of them were ready for what was coming—not just the war pressing in from the outside, but the fractures forming within.

It felt as though the dynamics of their world were shifting in ways he couldn’t yet fully understand.

He closed his eyes, letting the cool night air fill his lungs, and allowed himself a rare moment of stillness. Hogwarts had always been a refuge, but refuges were always temporary.

One thing was certain: they wouldn’t all be here forever.

With a sigh, he stubbed out the cigarette and turned back inside.

The corridors were nearly silent, the castle steeped in that eerie hush that only came at night. Shadows stretched long across the stone, the torches flickering as if the castle itself was listening. It always felt like it was.

The quiet should have been welcome, but tonight, it pressed too heavy on his ribs. His thoughts wouldn’t settle. The full moon was getting closer every day, and the question of what would happen if they couldn’t undo the swap gnawed at him. He couldn’t let Lily go through that. He wouldn’t.

His footsteps—her footsteps—echoed through the hall, the sound too delicate, too unfamiliar. He hadn’t realised how much of himself was wrapped up in the way he moved, the way he carried himself, until now. How much of himself he only noticed when it was missing.

By the time he reached the common room, the warmth and low hum of conversation felt almost jarring after the stillness of the halls. He climbed the stairs to the girls’ dormitory, slipping into the bed that, for now, was his.

But sleep wouldn’t come.

His thoughts kept circling back to the tower, to Sirius, to the way he’d looked at him—at Lily.

There had been something there, something Remus wasn’t sure how to read anymore.

He sat up, the unfamiliar weight of Lily’s hair slipping over his shoulders. Sirius couldn’t possibly have feelings for Lily. Not Sirius, not when James—

No. It wasn’t possible.

It was just… Sirius. He’d always treated the girls he wasn’t dating better than the ones he was.

Remus lay back down, staring at the canopy, trying to convince himself he was imagining things. Overthinking. It wasn’t his business. It never had been.

“Never mind,” he muttered, turning onto his side. “Never mind, never mind.”

But the thought wouldn’t let go.

You do mind, a voice whispered.

It wasn’t his own. It wasn’t quite Lily’s either.

“No,” he said, too quickly.

Silence. Then, again: You do.

Remus squeezed his eyes shut.

“I do,” he admitted finally. “But it hurts too much to say it.”

Outside, the stars were out and the moon was rising—not full yet, but growing. Always growing. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

But even in the quiet, he could still feel Sirius beside him. Still feel the warmth of him, lingering.

Even though he wasn’t there. Even though he never had been. Not the way he wanted.

He thought about the last time they’d shared a smoke—the words he hadn’t let Sirius say. If he hadn’t interrupted, would Sirius really have said them?

Would he have believed them?

Probably not. If he’d heard them then, when Sirius was just trying to hold on to him—well, they’d have rung as hollow and false as the Mirror’s.

Sirius had a habit of saying things in the heat of the moment—some of them true, some of them not. The kind of things he wouldn’t have let slip otherwise.

Remus had learned not to take any of it too much to heart. The bad stuff. And the good.

He should’ve known better. Should’ve learned his lesson by now.

Thinking it was anything more than what it was—that was a mistake he’d made before.

James’s birthday.

The same night he’d been stupid enough to push for more. To let something slip that shouldn’t have.

Five words, not three. Because if it had just been I love you, maybe he could’ve walked it back. Let Sirius pretend he’d meant something else.

But no.

I’m in love with you was a little harder to misinterpret.

Sirius hadn’t looked happy to hear it. He’d stared at him like he couldn’t believe he was doing this, like Remus had ruined whatever easy, uncomplicated thing they’d been indulging in for months with something heavy. Something real.

And then he’d pulled away. The party noise had crept back in as he stepped back, leaving Remus against the wall as if he hadn’t just had his mouth on his neck, as if he hadn’t been moments away from trying to consume him whole.

Remus had told himself it meant something else. That maybe Sirius did feel the same, that he was just scared. That if Remus was patient, if he waited, Sirius would come around.

But no.

That was the moment before the break. The crack before they shattered.

Sirius had said they needed space. It wasn’t the first time he’d drawn that line in the sand, but this time, Remus wasn’t going to let him cross it again when he got bored and wanted to play.

So he’d ended it. For good.

Sirius’s face hadn’t changed. Not since the words had slipped out. And Remus knew, even as he walked away, that Sirius didn’t believe him. That he thought Remus would cave. That he’d leave the door open, just like always.

That’s where Sirius was wrong.

Because that night, when the candles had been blown out and the music had faded along with the last of the booze, someone else had kissed him.

And Remus had let them.

And when that girl stuck around—liked him loudly in a way Sirius never had—he’d let her.

Maybe, if Sirius had knocked. If he’d rung, said something, done anything other than what he did, Remus would have answered. He would have broken up with the girl first, of course, but he would have let Sirius in again.

But that’s not what happened.

Sirius never knocked.

Then, not long after… Snape.

And that was how Remus knew.

The door was locked. Bolted shut.

And he wasn’t waiting on the other side, not anymore.

When someone truly loved you, their greatest fear wasn’t the thought of losing you—it was the fear of causing you pain. Of hurting you. But when someone only loved how you made them feel, their biggest fear was losing access to you.

And Sirius had hurt him because he lost that access. That was all it had been. So, it was clear—he didn’t love him the same way.

And Sirius had gone back to Mary while Remus was with that short-lived girlfriend. So, obviously, he hadn’t cared. But then, just before Snape, he’d still tried.

There hadn’t been a right side to it, not between them. No clean lines, no one to call the better person. Just a mess of mistakes. And it had hurt.

It still did, if Remus let himself think about it.

So he didn’t.

It didn’t matter anymore—not who hurt who, not how it ended, not who cared more. Not whose fault it was. It was over. Done. Best left untouched, shelved out of reach, at least until they were older. Until they were capable of looking at it without setting fire to it all over again. Because right now, they weren’t.

Maybe Remus should’ve ended things before they ever began. Maybe if he had, Sirius wouldn’t have done what he did with Snape. Maybe he’d still have his inheritance. Maybe—if they hadn’t happened—none of it would have happened.

Because what if it was his fault? What if he’d driven Sirius to it?

Sirius had wanted distance, and he’d made sure he got it.

By destroying every bit of trust between them, of course. Any hint of affection. But that was Sirius. Even when he was a wreck, he was a destructive one.

Granted, he seemed to regret it—deeply—but that didn’t change the fact that it had worked. Their friendship had been redrawn in sharp, careful lines, so precise it was as if nothing had ever bled outside them. Because back then, it had felt like there was no friendship left to salvage.

But now, after listening to Lily—after observing their relationship from the outside—Remus had a horrible, sinking feeling those lines weren’t as solid as he’d thought. That, without meaning to, they’d started slipping into old patterns, old habits.

And that couldn’t happen.

Because the past wouldn’t change. And neither would Sirius.

Chapter Text

Other than a few minor annoyances with Mary and Marlene, dodging Snape, and the unwanted attention that came with being a girl, Remus hadn’t really had much trouble the past few days. Lily kept her life stress-free. Unlike him—who’d tossed her straight into the deep end to manage the life of someone seemingly determined to make it as complicated as possible.

Right now, though, he felt pretty awful. Which, honestly, might have been his fault too.

He wasn’t sure what Lily normally ate, but he hadn’t been doing a great job prioritising meals—too busy running around the castle and combing the library, staying up all night trying to find something. An answer. A solution. Anything.

He woke up sluggish, like he’d been hit by a ten-tonne truck. Like he wanted to curl back under the duvet and disappear. Like he simultaneously wanted a warm body to curl up with for comfort and for nobody to touch him at all.

And he’d already taken some Pepper-Up, not that it had done anything. He wasn’t ill—not with a cold, anyway. But he didn’t feel well. His stomach turned, and his appetite was gone.

He needed to get up—get dressed, eat, meet Lily—but he couldn’t seem to muster the energy. Not when he’d just found a position that vaguely took the edge off.

Pain wasn’t new to him. He knew it too well—knew how to dismiss anything short of broken bones or deep gashes. But this hurt in a dull, insistent way, dragging him down into a restless, irritable haze. Flushed and sore, with emotions just below the surface. Like he really was turning into a girl. And the only thing he really wanted was—

His bed curtains snapped open, and sunlight crashed in, along with a small, shaggy-blonde head.

“Why are you being pathetic and moping?” Marlene asked. “You’re never pathetic.”

Remus sighed, resisting the urge to snap. He didn’t have the energy for it.

She wasn’t wrong. He was being pathetic.

Even Salem had taken pity on him today, the cat curling up beside him in what could only be reluctant solidarity. He must have looked especially pitiful.

His thoughts kept circling, caught between self-pity and a quiet, stinging sort of hurt. No one had even noticed Lily had taken his place these past few days. Logically, that was a good thing—it meant she’d done well, that the swap hadn’t raised suspicion. But still, something about it unsettled him. Was he really that easy to imitate? Or did the others not know him at all?

Frustration simmered beneath that hurt. At himself, at the situation, at the sheer absurdity of it all. And worse—he was keyed up.

Even through the nausea, there was something else, something entirely unwelcome. A restless, prickling heat he couldn’t shake, couldn’t redirect, couldn’t act on—not that he would, not in her body. The thought made his stomach twist. It wasn’t just humiliating; it was inconvenient.

He was maddeningly turned on in a way he couldn’t exactly just switch off.

Instead, it just lingered, a low, insistent thrum at the edges of his awareness, something he refused to acknowledge but couldn’t quite ignore.

Marlene was still watching him, expectant. Waiting for an answer.

“Head hurts. Cramps.” He paused, thought of Sirius, then muttered, quieter, “Want to make bad decisions.”

Marlene’s expression shifted from amused to sympathetic.

She disappeared briefly, then returned with pain relievers, a potion, and half a strip of Muggle ibuprofen pills. Then, she raised her wand towards his—Lily’s—abdomen and cast a heating charm.

The relief was mild but immediate.

Remus took the pills and potion with a grateful look.

Marlene shrugged, handing him a glass of water. “Some months are worse than others.”

His heart jumped, and he almost choked as he swallowed. How did she—? The dates weren’t even—Oh.

Understanding dawned.

She wasn’t talking about the moon.

He exhaled, relaxing. Right. This was normal. He hadn’t done anything to Lily’s body that needed Madam Pomfrey’s attention. He was just… menstruating.

Good thing he’d figured that out now—before spotting blood and panicking.

Christ, though. How did Lily deal with this every month? He’d never noticed anything. She never let it show. Always got on with it. Never missed class or prefect meetings. Never gave anything less than a hundred per cent.

Then again, she didn’t know what his body went through either.

The pain was starting to ease—slightly. Enough that he took in Marlene properly.

She looked rough. Smudged eyeliner—messier than usual. Bright blonde hair more tangled than artfully tousled. She was biting her lip, fidgeting.

Mary wasn’t here. Had stayed out last night.

“What’s wrong with you?” Remus asked, probably less tactfully than he could’ve.

Marlene blinked, startled.

“Rude, Evans,” she muttered, folding her arms. “Nothing’s wrong with me.”

Remus shook his head. “No, I mean… you and Mary haven’t been getting on.”

Marlene sighed, deep and frustrated. Twisted a strand of hair between her fingers.

Remus watched her, waiting. He’d noticed, of course—how could he not? But he hadn’t brought it up. Hadn’t cared enough to. Though Lily probably would. So maybe he should.

“She’s an idiot,” Marlene said finally. “Keeps giving me reasons to be annoyed at her.”

Remus tilted his head. “By… what, exactly?”

Marlene glanced away, took a step back. “You wouldn’t get it. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

Remus had a feeling he did get it. Maybe more than she’d give him credit for. Though, maybe Lily wouldn’t.

Marlene and Mary had once been inseparable, as close as James and Sirius. They’d spent their first few years at Hogwarts attached at the hip, whispering secrets and giggling at things no one else found funny. But somewhere around fourth or fifth year, something shifted.

Marlene cut her hair. Bleached it. Swapped frilly blouses for band tees, charm bracelets for leather cuffs. Her makeup got darker. She picked up smoking. Got angrier. The easy laughter faded, replaced by something more razor-edged, something bitter. It wasn’t clear who left whom behind—whether Mary had outgrown Marlene, or if Marlene had simply outpaced her.

Because Mary had changed too, just differently. She’d gone through her boy-crazed phase like most of the girls in their year, spent a whole stretch of time pretending to be shy and demure whenever a boy so much as glanced her way. She’d started caring more about how she looked, about how she fit in.

But that was just how things went. Remus had seen it happen to nearly everyone. One year, they all cared about whether there were really trolls in the Forbidden Forest. The next, they came back preoccupied with their hair and the opposite sex, as if someone had flipped a switch.

These days, Mary and Marlene’s friendship felt familiar. Brittle, like his and Sirius’s whenever things weren’t quite right. The affection was still there, buried under sharper edges, sharper words.

Maybe nothing had happened. Mary certainly acted like it hadn’t. But Marlene wasn’t as good at pretending. She was volatile, reactionary, like she was fighting against something. And Remus had a feeling it wasn’t nothing.

“I might get it if you told me,” he offered. “Maybe I can help.”

Marlene gave him a small, wry smile. “That’s adorable,” she said, then deflected. “But you can’t.” She paused, softer. “Sorry if we’ve been… a bit of a pain. I’ll try to rag on her less.”

She looked resigned. Like she was stuck at the bottom of a hole she couldn’t be arsed to climb out of. A feeling he knew well.

“No, it’s okay.” Remus studied her more closely. “Just… are you okay?”

Marlene’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You seem angry, sure, but also a little… sad. Hurt, even.”

She huffed out a laugh, but it sounded forced. “I’m not sad. And Macdonald can’t hurt me. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Right,” Remus said, unconvinced.

Marlene rolled her eyes. “We’re just not seeing eye to eye at the moment. It’ll pass. It always does.”

“Is it the boys?” Remus asked, cautiously. “The ones she keeps going out with.”

Marlene froze, startled. Then, just as quickly, shut down her expression.

“I think this is where we shelve the discussion, Evans. I have things to say you won’t want to hear, and she’s one of your best friends.”

“Our friend,” Remus ventured, careful.

Marlene scoffed, throwing her arms up. “No, right now, your friend. And I’m not dragging you into this. This is between me and her. Not you.”

Remus backed down. He didn’t need to involve himself. These were Lily’s friends. But there was something about the way Marlene was holding herself—as if she was holding something back, barely keeping it together—that struck a little too close to home.

Remus had always thought Marlene was the most like Sirius—loud, brash, utterly unconcerned with what anyone thought. A little reckless. Mary had always been softer. But right now, in the sharp edge of her voice, the stubborn set of her jaw, the particular way her anger simmered—Remus saw himself.

He’d had a conversation like this before himself—with James. He’d never told Sirius about it. Knew better than to. If there was anyone Sirius wouldn’t want weighing in on them, it was James.

James hadn’t said outright that he knew anything. But it was in the way he’d looked at Remus, in the careful tone of his voice. Not quite uncomfortable, but not easy either.

One thing had been clear back then: James didn’t approve. He supported them, sure, but that wasn’t the same as being comfortable with it. And his discomfort had been enough to make Remus wonder if he was doing something wrong.

These days, James seemed to have made peace with it. He hinted at things, nudged them toward each other when he could.

But there wasn’t a them anymore. Nothing left to approve or disapprove of.

“Okay,” he said. Then, after a beat, “But—if what I think is going on is going on…” Marlene’s head snapped up, but he continued, “I’m sorry. I’m not taking sides, not making any judgements, but… you should know that you deserve better. Your best friend should know to treat you better.” He hesitated. “Letting someone else figure out how they feel shouldn’t mean you get hurt in the process.”

Marlene was quiet for a long moment. Then she smiled. Small and resigned, but genuine.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I know. Thanks.”

She disappeared, and a moment later, Remus heard the thud of boots hitting the floor. The wardrobe creaked shut, footsteps retreating.

“Do you want me to wait for you?” Marlene called. She sounded like she wanted him to say no—like she wanted to be gone before Mary came slinking back in. “Breakfast’ll be finishing soon.”

The thought of food made his stomach turn unpleasantly. A wave of nausea followed, rocking through him. The thought of moving wasn’t much better. His cramps twisted sharp and insistent, making the decision for him. “No, don’t worry. Go ahead.”

He’d have to get up eventually. Just… not yet. Five more minutes for the pain potion to do its job.

Marlene’s footsteps reached the door, the handle creaking as she pulled it open.

“Suit yourself,” she said. The hinges groaned in protest as she swung the door wider and ducked out. “Feel better, Evans!”

Remus really hoped he would.

Silence settled in her absence. Then another cramp hit, cutting through him like a dull knife. He exhaled sharply, sinking deeper into the bed, the blankets tangled around him. Lily’s too-long red hair fell into his face, catching on the pillow, sticking to his cheek. He could already tell it needed a wash. And then a dry. And then… whatever else girls did with their hair.

The day loomed at the edges of his thoughts, muffled by pain but still there, waiting. Shower. Clothes. Research. Find Lily’s stash of—whatever he needed.

Not snap at the first boy who so much as looked at him wrong.

Not drag Sirius into the nearest broom closet.

Not that he could. Not like this.

Not that he even would anymore, anyway. It was just… hormones.

Unbearable, irrational, stupid hormones.

Being a girl was officially the worst.

Sirius had seemingly got the message yesterday. He didn’t bother Lily when she woke, didn’t subject her to his usual nonsense at breakfast. Didn’t even question her in that relentless way of his before she slipped out the door to meet Remus later that morning.

Instead, he seemed to be making a deliberate effort to avoid being shouted at. Announced his presence before brushing past her, kept his hands to himself instead of manoeuvring her out of his way with a touch to her hip, didn’t climb into bed beside her to get a better look at whatever was distracting her from paying attention to him.

He still watched her, though. Carefully now. It lingered like before, but it wasn’t the same. It was measured. Like he was tracking her reactions, gauging whether he was doing a good job. Double-checking what was allowed and what wasn’t.

It made her feel guilty. And relieved. And all the more guilty for feeling relieved.

He’d only asked her one thing that morning, and it hadn’t been frivolous.

James had beaten her to the bathroom, though she wasn’t irritated with him for it. She’d been exhausted after spending most of the evening in the library with Remus yesterday, the blur of words still swimming behind her eyes when she closed them.

She’d slept well. Woke late, only opening her eyes when James creaked the dormitory door open. The unfamiliar smell from Remus’s bed had faded in the days she’d spent warming the sheets instead. It wasn’t smoky and musky anymore. A little closer to her own scent, minus the vanilla and the lingering traces of her perfumes, body lotions, and face creams.

The peonies in the corner helped. Their light floral scent made her feel more settled, like this could be her own dorm. Even though it very obviously wasn’t.

The boys didn’t seem to do skincare. Not even Sirius, who was the vainest of the lot. Their sink wasn’t cluttered with bottles and containers, just shaving cream, razors, and Sirius’s expensive aftershave, which she recognised from how often he was close enough for her to smell it.

Still, she’d picked up a facial cleanser, moisturiser, and chapstick while in Hogsmeade with James. Habit more than anything. Kept them in a toiletry bag under Remus’s bed with her toothbrush to avoid the inevitable teasing should the boys catch Remus primping. She doubted Remus would mind—she was simply taking care of the body she was borrowing.

She’d picked up some Bio-Dittany, too. A topical Dittany treatment for scars. She hadn’t asked Remus about them. Couldn’t bring herself to. But her chest tightened every time she caught a glimpse of them in the bathroom mirror.

The ones near his hips were the worst—two jagged rows, old but deep, stretched in a way that told her they’d grown with him. Looked like a bite. Like something had clamped down on him and refused to let go.

James had smiled at her as she sat up, blinking herself into wakefulness when he crept back into the dormitory as the sun rose that morning. Sweaty, training clothes on, a little windswept, though hardly out of breath. He wiped his brow with the end of his T-shirt, exposing just enough muscle to make her look away.

She wished she had her curtain of red hair to hide behind. Especially when James reached for his glasses on the desk, his hair a complete mess from the run, somehow even more unruly than usual—and somewhere, buried shamefully deep inside, Lily wanted everything but the glasses off.

James could never, ever know. He’d be insufferable.

Boys who knew they were attractive were the worst.

James caught her eye, lifted a brow. “Not gonna try to steal the shower from me today?”

Her smile formed before she could roll her eyes. “It’s the weekend. Figured I’d give you a day off. All yours, Potter.”

James heaved out a mock sigh. “And to think I ran faster just to beat you to it. Cut a good two minutes off my best time.”

Lily actually rolled her eyes then. “Is Quidditch really worth all this fuss? You do it every day. Most evenings, too.”

James shrugged. “I’m Captain. Gotta set the example. Plus, most athletes train daily. Sometimes five times a day. I’m slacking, really.”

Her gaze swept over him. He didn’t look like he was slacking. At all.

He was disciplined. Committed. Responsible. And James Potter and responsible should have been a contradiction, but he was.

“You run without your glasses?” Lily asked, nodding toward his face.

James shrugged. “Yeah. You run with your legs, not your eyes.”

Lily sighed. “Hilarious.”

“Know the route,” James said, unfazed. “And it was raining this morning. Can’t be bothered wiping them every five minutes.”

Lily glanced at the window, where rain drummed steadily against the glass. Droplets streaked downward, blurring the dull grey sky beyond.

“Yet you put them on in the dorm,” she pointed out.

James tapped the frames. “The dorm’s where the real danger is. Gotta see all your faces and assess whether I should be concerned.”

Lily arched a brow. “And the verdict today?”

James glanced toward Sirius’s bed. “Dunno. Trouble hasn’t woken up yet.” He looked back at her, smirking. “Which means he hasn’t started negging you yet. And your reaction to that usually determines whether my day is peaceful or not.”

Lily couldn’t argue with that, so she didn’t.

Instead, she simply smiled to herself as he placed his water bottle on the counter and disappeared into the bathroom, whistling some upbeat tune. A morning person, quintessentially so. Had far too much energy for it to be reasonable, yet somehow managed to sustain it through the day while still being as wild as he was.

The muffled sound of running water started, and James’s singing began. That was when Lily noticed Sirius was awake.

He wasn’t making a racket, wasn’t jostling Peter, wasn’t loud.

He looked pensive. Eyes full of thoughts, a little dim. Not like he’d had a bad night’s sleep, but like he hadn’t had a peaceful one either. Like he’d been thinking about something.

And he turned to her, hesitant.

“Do you think I’m a bad person?”

Lily didn’t know how to answer that.

She liked to think he wasn’t. But Sirius had proved he could be often enough that she erred toward complicated rather than simply good or bad.

A careless person.

A loyal, loving person capable of goodness. But also capable of being thoughtless, insensitive—not cruel, but mean, definitely.

Capable of being… Sirius.

The bullying, the cheating. Things Lily couldn’t paint in a good light, things she couldn’t rewrite in any way that softened the unkind edge.

She hesitated long enough that Sirius nodded, like he’d been expecting it but had hoped to be proven wrong.

“Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

“Sirius—”

But he’d already shrugged it off. Didn’t storm out, didn’t look angry. Just… resigned.

He got up, walked across the room.

The bathroom door clicked open as James stepped out, steam curling at his back. Sirius went in, the door shutting behind him before the warmth and scent of soap could escape.

Lily sighed, letting her head hit the pillow as she stared up at the canopy, her teeth worrying her lip.

Remus hadn’t wanted to talk about Sirius yesterday. Had brushed off her questions, denied there was anything going on. And maybe there wasn’t. They were friends, weren’t they?

Complicated friends. Friends with history she didn’t know. Friends who had fallen out so spectacularly last year that the entire school had felt it.

The Marauders had gone silent. No pranks for weeks, no loud laughter ringing through the halls. Just a tense, uncomfortable silence.

Friends whose fight had felt less like a spat and more like a breakup.

That was just speculation, though. But then—Remus hadn’t denied wanting Sirius not to look elsewhere when she’d nudged at the subject. Hadn’t insisted he didn’t feel some type of way about it.

And Sirius… he was different with Remus. Even with her, as Remus.

Whatever was between them, it didn’t seem simple. Didn’t seem happy. It seemed… like it hurt.

She’d seen Sirius snap before, sharp and cutting, turning his wit into a blade when people tried to rile him up. Had watched him shrug off taunts, insults, the ire of the girls he’d wronged with little more than a disaffected smirk. He didn’t care what most people thought of him—rolled his eyes at professors, shrugged at detentions, let consequences roll off him like water off a duck’s back.

She’d only gotten under his skin because Remus could. Because Remus mattered. Because Remus’s anger actually hurt.

And Remus… well, she had a feeling that he only got angry because he cared. He wasn’t the sort to let much bother him, but Sirius did. And whatever Sirius had done last term—it had destroyed him. He was still picking up the pieces.

But he cared enough to try.

Lily had almost been relieved when she stepped into the Great Hall this term and had to dodge a rogue firework, with James shouting, “Hey, Evans! Watch this!”

He’d missed his target, but the sight of Sirius and Remus sitting side by side again, friends once more, had made her smile. The universe had tilted back into some semblance of normalcy. Or, at least, normal chaos. She had lost her own best friend last term, and there was something… bittersweet about seeing someone else regain theirs.

Still, the mystery remained on what Sirius could have done to deserve such banishment in the first place. What did he do that turned not just Remus against him, but James and Peter too?

And now, with the tense way things currently were, she couldn’t help but wonder if he had truly been allowed back into Remus’s life—or if he was still on some kind of probation. Had he been forgiven, or was he still walking some invisible line, waiting for the other shoe to drop?

There was love there. A lot of it. That much was obvious.

But was it more than friendship?

Lily thought of Marlene. How she’d run through boys like they were nothing, only to stop abruptly, uncharacteristically hesitant, when she’d finally pulled Mary and Lily into a quiet dormitory conversation one night. How she’d looked them both dead in the eye and, in that no-nonsense way of hers, declared that she preferred girls, and if either of them had a problem with it, they’d best say so now.

Lily had told her to stop talking utter nonsense, called her a bloody idiot if she thought it would change anything. Then she’d hugged her tight, long enough for Marlene to let out a breathy laugh, to retract the claws she’d been ready to attack with, to shake off the weight of it. Almost long enough to miss Mary going quiet.

Lily had nudged her, given her a look that said, Get over yourself, and Mary had blinked herself back into the moment, joined the hug. And Marlene had finally, finally relaxed.

Sirius ran through girls the same way Marlene had with boys. Like he was proving something. To himself. To everyone else.

But that wasn’t proof. Plenty of boys acted like Sirius without it meaning anything. And Sirius Black didn’t do things he didn’t want to do. If he wasn’t interested in girls, would he really go through all that effort?

…Would he?

Remus… he was different. More private, more careful. He didn’t flirt just for the sake of it, didn’t mess around, didn’t drop his guard easily. He never openly stared at girls’ chests the way Peter did, nor did he chase anyone the way James chased her. And unlike Sirius, he wasn’t the one people gravitated toward first.

Lily could count on one hand the girls he’d been involved with during their years at Hogwarts. Two actual girlfriends. The rest—girls he’d been nudged into dates with by Peter or Sirius, girls he’d tutored, or the ones he’d allowed, just for a moment, to get close at a party—never stuck.

They never lasted.

It wasn’t that Remus didn’t attract girls. Wasn’t attractive.

He did. He was.

Tall. Tawny-haired. Those amber eyes—warm and deep, but distant, as though they were looking past you into something else entirely.

His voice had a quiet authority, not in volume but in weight. He rarely spoke loudly, as if reluctant to disturb the air around him. It reminded Lily of rain against a library window—soft, persistent, something you only truly noticed if you stopped to listen. But you had to be paying attention to notice.

Remus himself was like that. Present, but never demanding attention. A figure just beyond the edges of notice. Like background music—calming, steady, but never quite there to be fully heard.

It was the kind of presence that snuck up on you. The sort of crush that felt safe because it would never be returned.

And that, more than anything, was what usually cured any fleeting infatuation with Remus Lupin: the quiet, inevitable realisation that he wouldn’t return it. Would likely never notice it at all.

One year, he came back to Hogwarts a good head taller, with a fresh scar on his face that carved an unintentional slit through his eyebrow. Just like that, the girls in their year had silently and unanimously decided he was their new fixation.

For about a week.

Remus, however, had not taken to the attention. At all. Feeling scrutinised rather than admired, his usual dry responses about his scars had grown more clipped by the day, his patience reaching its end. “Attacked by a banshee.” “Disagreement with a Kneazle.” “Don’t date Veelas.”

Eventually, the jokes had stopped altogether. One day, his answer had been short. Flat.

“Self-inflicted.”

Lily had believed that one.

The scars were obvious, yes—but not as much as the fact that Remus felt them more keenly than anyone else.

And if they bothered anyone else? Well, no one seemed put off by them. Certainly not pretty girls.

His last girlfriend had been gorgeous.

Becca.

Rosy-cheeked, chestnut curls, always tearing through the hallways like everyone around her was wasting her time. She was shorter than Sirius, taller than Peter, most of her height in her legs. Doe-eyed, with a button nose and impossibly smooth skin, the kind no spell could replicate.

Loud. A bit of a show-off, but for good reason. She was sharp, always had something to say. And when she laughed, really laughed, it was the kind that turned heads—big and unrestrained, lighting up her whole face. The kind that made other people grin just from hearing it.

Lily had liked Becca. She was the sort of girl Lily got along with best: opinionated, self-assured, feminine without being frilly. And overwhelmingly kind. Genuine. They might have been closer if Becca had been in Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw, but their paths didn’t cross enough for more than a handful of conversations and the occasional shared eye roll over the antics of boys.

She could see why Remus had liked her. And why she had liked him.

They’d gotten together after James’s birthday party last year. Becca had been there because Sirius, as always, had invited every pretty girl he could think of. But she hadn’t spent the night eyeing Sirius, or James, though she’d wished him happy birthday with the sort of sincere politeness that set her apart from half the guests who only came for the free drinks.

No, Becca’s attention had been elsewhere.

She had been standing with a group of girls not far from Lily, half-listening to their chatter, but her eyes kept flickering toward the edge of the room. And Lily, following her gaze, had known before the others did who they were urging her to make a move on.

Remus.

He’d been quieter that night. A little distant. Mysterious in that absent, tortured way that girls always seemed to like. And drinking more than usual, though not in the way that made him reckless—more like he needed it to get through the night.

Becca had hesitated, but not for long. She was the sort to go all in. So when her friends pushed her, she had squared her shoulders, marched across the room, and tapped Remus on the shoulder. Said something Lily hadn’t caught.

Remus had blinked, startled. And then, to Lily’s surprise—he’d laughed.

Flushed a bit. Gone shy around the corners, letting Becca inch closer as he replied.

Becca’s friends had erupted in drunken cheers, loud and raucous. Remus and Becca had turned toward them in unison, Becca looking properly embarrassed now, like she hadn’t accounted for the public spectacle. She’d turned back to Remus, likely to apologise, but if anything, that had only made him soften.

Lean in a little closer.

And Lily, watching from across the room, had hidden a smile. Becca had done it—the outright impossible—cracked the enigma that was Remus Lupin. At least enough to make him pay attention.

Later, when the party had dwindled and Lily had spotted them pressed together against the common room wall, wrapped up in each other, it hadn’t been surprising.

They had been private about it. Remus always was, with the few relationships he’d had over the years. But Lily had caught glimpses. The two of them lingering in corridors before parting ways, stealing looks over books in the library, Becca leading the charge in Hogsmeade with Remus trailing behind—more amused than exasperated.

But then Becca had left for Beauxbatons.

And they had broken up before she did.

Right around the time Sirius and Remus had their falling out.

James’s voice broke through her thoughts. “You alright, Moony? You’ve gone quiet.”

Lily blinked, schooling her expression before meeting his gaze across the dorm. “Just thinking.”

James cocked his head, concern flickering across his face before he smoothed it over with a grin. “Well, don’t think too hard, mate. Not healthy for a Marauder.” His tone was light, teasing, but his eyes lingered a moment longer as she looked away.

Lily exhaled slowly. The Marauders had never built their antics on much thought.

But she wasn’t a Marauder.

She was just pretending to be one.

And there were some things only a Marauder would know. Whatever happened between Remus and Sirius last term being only one of them.

Lily’s gaze swept across the room.

Peter would be the easiest to ask. He wasn’t as sharp as the others, wouldn’t question it much. But pressing him for information he thought he was giving to a friend—her friend—felt like a step too far.

She could do it, but she wasn’t sure she could live with herself afterward.

James might tell her if she asked. He’d probably be honest with her, in that disarming way of his. And despite the fact that James Potter had spent years annoying her to no end, she didn’t think she could lie to him either. Not more than she already was. Certainly not for her own gain.

Not when he’d been good to her these past few days. Keeping Sirius busy, keeping her distracted too. Making some things easier.

She glanced at him now, across the room, whistling to himself as he made his bed before breakfast, that ever-present, effortless smile on his face. Like happiness was just his default. He caught her staring, raised an eyebrow as if to ask, What?

Her heart jumped.

She shook her head. Nothing.

James just shrugged, kicked back on his bed, and flipped open a Quidditch magazine.

No. She couldn’t lie to James.

Bugger.

Which meant she had three options: figure it out herself, ask Remus again, or drop it entirely.

And really, she should drop it. It wasn’t her business. Not at all.

But she wanted to know.

She’d never been one for gossip—not like Marlene. Didn’t like knowing things people wanted hidden. Didn’t believe in overstepping boundaries.

But she was in Remus’s shoes. And he wasn’t telling her things. And she wasn’t trying to satisfy some passing curiosity—she needed to understand.

Because right now, she was acting without a script, and every interaction was becoming harder to interpret without the full story. And the last thing she wanted was to keep making things worse for him without meaning to.

Except this didn’t feel like just a story from a book. More like a diary with pages torn out. And Lily had no idea how far Remus was willing to go to get them back.

If something had happened between them, she already knew it hadn’t ended well.

The uneasy, fragile friendship she’d stepped into… didn’t feel like a happy ending. Didn’t feel like it was over at all.

Remus trudged into the Great Hall late for breakfast, Mary towing him along with a crease of concern between her brows. They arrived just as Lily and the others were getting up to leave. He looked pale—paler than her face usually was—and a little drawn, exhaustion clinging to the edges of his expression.

He batted away Mary’s attempts to fuss over him, sliding stiffly onto the bench at the Gryffindor table with that same steely determination Lily had come to expect from him. But she caught it—the slight wince as he adjusted his posture, the way his hand went to his—her—stomach.

And—oh. Oh, no.

A sinking realisation hit her, and she suddenly felt terrible for not warning him.

Heat crept up her face. She could only hope Remus wasn’t one of those boys who recoiled at the mere mention of the female reproductive system.

He caught her eye and shrugged, as if to say, Stop worrying. I’m fine, Evans.

She breathed out a relieved sigh and let it go, turning back to James and the others as they finished up. She tried not to focus on how Sirius had been acting a little off with James all morning—quieter, more watchful. Just like yesterday. Like he was tracking something he hadn’t quite figured out yet. Making sure he wasn’t crossing any lines that weren’t his to cross.

Before she followed James out, she caught Sirius looking at Remus—or rather, at her. Considering. Like he could sense something wasn’t right, attuned to the balance of his world—at least, where Remus was concerned.

Sirius lingered a beat too long, watching as Remus batted away Mary’s attempts to make him eat, rolling his eyes and sinking further back on the bench as his defences went up.

“I’m bleeding, not dying,” Remus muttered, shoving a plate aside with a mulish expression and reaching instead for the steaming pot in the centre of the table.

Mary sighed. “You know caffeine makes the pain worse.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is this our period?” Remus deadpanned, a little too loudly, pouring himself a cup in pure defiance.

Mary huffed but backed off.

Sirius snorted, finally looking away, but there was something unreadable in his expression. Lily wasn’t sure she wanted to examine it too closely—not when it had been drawn out of him by someone wearing her face.

He looked amused.

Entertained in a way she hadn’t been able to manage. Not even as Remus.

Lily almost dismissed it. That was until Sirius paused on their way out of the Great Hall, then turned back and strolled over to tap Remus on the shoulder. There was a look on his face—not quite his charming one, but not the scheming one either. Something more measured.

To Lily’s surprise, Remus didn’t seem annoyed by the interruption. Or even surprised. He just raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Sirius said something she didn’t catch, but Remus rolled his eyes, so she figured it couldn’t have been anything interesting.

James, realising the others weren’t following, turned around. His eyes widened when he spotted Sirius, then narrowed slightly as he took in Lily—or, well, Remus—being almost pleasant to one of them.

Peter exchanged a glance with Lily. One she didn’t have to be a Marauder to understand: Oh, here we go.

Whatever Sirius was asking, Remus finally relented, exhaling a quiet sigh before tilting his head toward the Ravenclaw table.

Curly dark hair. Square jaw. Slight build. At that moment, he was sending away two Slytherin fifth-years with a distasteful look.

Alex Burnet. Model student by day, small-time smuggler by night—if the rumours were true. Ran a Muggle import business: illicit substances, cigarettes, booze, Adderall. Green and rocky.

“He won’t sell to you,” Remus said. “Hates Purebloods.”

Sirius gave him a look that clearly meant, Won’t he?

Remus shook his head. “I’m serious. Charm won’t work. He thinks it’s fake.”

“Alright,” Sirius said easily. “Then you’ll get them for me.”

Remus didn’t even argue. Just sighed, rose from his bench, and ignored Mary’s scandalised expression as he walked toward Alex.

Sirius followed, careful not to get too close, though his hand hovered near the small of Remus’s back—seemingly more instinct than intention.

Alex barely spared Sirius a glance, his focus settling on Remus instead. The exchange was quick: a subtle handshake, money passing one way, a pack of cigarettes the other.

Remus nodded in thanks and turned away.

Sirius hesitated for half a beat, then followed.

Once they were clear of any sharp-eyed professors, Remus turned, raising the pack just out of Sirius’s reach.

Sirius frowned.

“Money, Black,” Remus prompted. “I’m not running a charity.”

Sirius muttered something under his breath but dug into his pocket. Remus took the payment, handed over the goods, and returned to his seat as if he’d never moved.

“Cheers, Evans,” Sirius called over his shoulder as he rejoined the others at the entrance.

James’s frown deepened. “Why are you bothering Lily?”

Sirius shrugged, glancing back once toward Remus before meeting James’s gaze.

“I’m not. Just had some business to take care of.”

James crossed his arms. “Business?”

Sirius clapped him on the shoulder, breezing past. “All business, no pleasure. Promise.”

James didn’t look convinced. Didn’t look comfortable with Sirius involving himself with Lily at all.

Lily’s stomach knotted.

“Padfoot,” James said, more serious now. Sirius stopped. “Don’t get her in trouble. I don’t know what that was about, but don’t make it a habit.”

“It was one favour. Harmless,” Sirius said.

James didn’t look like he agreed. “Alex Burnet isn’t the kind of company she usually keeps. I don’t want her involved with him.”

Sirius sighed, blunt as ever. “She’s not yours, mate. She can keep whatever company she likes.”

James stiffened.

“She’s the one who knew him,” Sirius added. “Not me.”

But she didn’t. Remus did.

Lily wasn’t too worried about getting in trouble—if Alex was going to be caught, it would’ve happened already—but she didn’t like the tension between James and Sirius. This body swap was complicating things.

James giving her, as Remus, flowers had set Sirius off. Now Sirius running schemes with Remus, as her, was setting James off.

Lily briefly wondered when Sirius had even spoken to Remus—at least, as her—but dismissed it. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t exactly blame Remus for trying to smooth things over, not when Sirius had been in this kind of mood for days.

James and Sirius stared at each other, something private passing between them. Not entirely friendly.

Finally, James broke the silence. “Sirius. Anyone but her.”

Sirius clenched his jaw, but after a moment, he stepped back. “Alright, fine. I’ll get someone else to do my bidding.”

James studied him a beat longer, then nodded.

Peter fidgeted beside them, wisely staying quiet.

Lily fell in step behind them as they resumed their way down the hall.

The dorm wasn’t exactly tense, but there was something off about it—something a little stilted beneath the usual playfulness. James and Sirius weren’t quite laughing with each other so much as around each other, their usual rhythm slightly out of sync.

Peter, for his part, was working himself up into a nervous state, dodging questions from James and Sirius about who exactly he was meeting in Hogsmeade.

“Bet it’s Christine,” Sirius suggested in the sort of way that made it sound like an insult. “She’s the only one who’d say yes.”

Christine, who was plain and round and odd, with short hair and a nervous sort of energy—not someone Sirius would ever look twice at. Which, really, made the comment a bit cruel.

Before Lily could get on his case, James smacked him across the back of the head—hard.

“Don’t be a dickhead,” he said mildly, before turning back to Peter, grinning. “I reckon I know who it is. Did you finally admit you’ve been staring at Sprout’s boobs all term? Is she the one taking you out?”

“Sod off,” Peter grumbled.

Lily tuned them out.

It was Saturday, which meant no classes, though they were all technically supposed to be studying. N.E.W.T.s weren’t exactly a joke, and mocks were coming up soon. Their scores would determine next year’s predicted grades, scholarships, career prospects, and university placements.

She and Remus had already planned to swap notes and essays before they spent the rest of the day figuring out how to reverse the swap. They’d already been doing each other’s homework all week—it had seemed smarter than trying to keep up with double the coursework on top of their research. They got similar enough grades, anyway.

Not that the extra time had helped much. They were still more or less at square one.

Just before she stepped out the door, a thought occurred to her.

The library hadn’t offered much, but Sirius might know something. He was from a family that had more magical knowledge than most, especially of darker, lesser-known spells. He’d grown up with magic in a way she and Remus hadn’t. The magical theory he’d done on that map…

He was as good a source as any, and frankly, she had a feeling he’d tell her absolutely anything she wanted—at least while she was like this. As Remus.

Sirius glanced up as she approached, eyes narrowing slightly—not displeased, just a little surprised.

“Don’t get excited,” she warned. “I’m not staying long.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, though something else gleamed behind them. As usual. “You haven’t given me a reason to. Yet.”

“Can I ask you something?” she said, deliberately casual. “Doing some research for Defence, and Fairfax isn’t about.”

Sirius perked up instantly, straightening where he sat on his bed. “I’m better than Fairfax anyway,” he said smugly.

“Hm, sure,” Lily hummed, carefully sitting at the edge of his bed. “Do you know anything about the Mirror of Erised? Any potential… misuses?”

“What, like someone using it for a wank?” Sirius asked with a smirk.

Lily grimaced and shifted further away. Bloody boys.

She exhaled sharply. “No. More like… any stories of it doing more than just showing people what they want.”

Sirius tilted his head, considering. “I mean, you know people have died in front of it, yeah? Just sat there so long they forgot to eat, forgot anything else mattered. Prefer the reflection to real life.”

Lily nodded, so he went on.

“But it wasn’t meant to be like that, far as I know. Just a bit of fun magic turned harmful. Maybe a prank gone wrong. Maybe someone trying to figure out what they actually wanted. Since no one else can see what you see, it’s more… self-enlightenment than anything.”

“No wish-fulfilment properties?” Lily pressed. “No stories of people actually getting what they wanted?”

Sirius shrugged. “Doubt it. All magic’s a little self-willing—you have to want something to make it happen, have to picture it. But the Mirror’s not that. If it were, people wouldn’t waste away in front of it.” He paused, eyes sharpening. “Why? Have you been looking into it?”

“No,” Lily lied smoothly. “Just—curious. Mostly, I’d like more information on its origins. Uses. Effects.”

Sirius’s eyes narrowed, but he let it go. “Origins are murky. Most people don’t know much.”

“You’re not most people,” Lily pointed out.

Sirius grinned. “Never. Far as I’ve heard, it was made in the early 1800s—a wedding gift for some noble wizarding couple. And that’s where it gets interesting. Because it wasn’t from either of their families. It was from the best man. Childhood friend of the groom. Whatever they saw in there… wedding ended badly.”

“How badly?” Lily asked, though she already had a feeling.

“Triple homicide badly.”

“Purebloods are messy,” Lily muttered.

Sirius smirked. “A little murder’s nothing between family. Especially in a family where everyone hates each other.”

Lily couldn’t help but smile, grudging.

Sirius’s smirk deepened. “After that, people said it was cursed. Got passed around, lost to time. Few documented encounters, none of them happy, but that doesn’t prove a curse. Just bad luck to encounter something that makes you confront… well. You. Not many people can walk away from that.”

Lily thought of the way she and Remus had struggled to leave the room. The pull of the Mirror. But they’d managed it—together.

Though that didn’t exactly explain this. Didn’t prove the Mirror had done anything, or give them a way to reverse it.

She stood, offering Sirius a small smile. “Thanks for the help. Interesting, but morbid.”

Sirius shrugged, pleased with himself. “Anytime, anything, Moony. You know that.” He hesitated, then added, “D’you think you know what you’d see?”

Lily blinked. “In the Mirror?”

He nodded, trying to look indifferent but obviously invested.

She knew what she’d seen. Had no idea about Remus. What he’d want most in the world.

So she just shrugged.

Sirius nodded back, falling quiet.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and let him watch her leave without further questions.

The castle hallways were a flurry of movement. Students rushed about, calling out to friends and scanning the crowd for their dates as they gathered to leave for Hogsmeade. Some darted back and forth from their dorms, rummaging through bags and pockets, always forgetting something.

Gone were the dark school robes, replaced by colourful coats and thick jumpers. Scarves wrapped snugly around necks, hats pulled low against the chill. The Scottish autumn spared no one, and the slight menthol scent of Pepper-Up lingered in the air, steam curling lazily from students’ ears as they warded off the seasonal cold.

The door to the Ancient Runes classroom opened without resistance.

Lily paused in the doorway.

Remus was sprawled across the desk, books propped open beside him, his head resting against the cool surface like he was trying to absorb knowledge through sheer proximity.

She stepped inside.

“Are you okay?” she asked carefully.

Remus lifted his head just enough to look at her. “What makes you think I’m not?”

Lily raised a brow. “The laying on the desk.”

Remus exhaled, sliding down into a proper chair and making an obvious attempt to appear comfortable. “I’m fine. Promise.”

Lily hesitated. “I’m so sorry. Day one and two are the worst.”

Remus blinked at her, suspicious. “There’s more days of this?”

“Four,” Lily confirmed with a sympathetic wince. “But day three is better. Comparatively. Which is to say, it’s still awful, but by then you’re grateful it’s not worse.” She winced again as soon as she said it, pressing her hands to her head in mortification. “God, I should have warned you.”

Remus stared at her.

Considering everything he hadn’t warned her about—things much worse than cramps and blood, things like the fact that the body she was currently inhabiting turned into a monster once a month—he didn’t exactly have the moral high ground here.

He couldn’t not tell her. But he couldn’t tell her either.

So instead, he swallowed his guilt and shook his head.

“You’re fine,” he said, forcing a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Did you… find everything okay? Know how to, um, use them?” Lily asked, her tone edging on clinical, like she was aiming for medical detachment and only half-succeeding.

Remus nodded. “Had to grab them for my mum before. Knew where she kept them.”

Lily puffed out a relieved breath, but it didn’t quite ease the tension in her shoulders.

“It’s alright, really,” he said again.

The guilty look on Lily’s face wasn’t budging, so Remus switched tactics, aiming for distraction.

“No complaints today?” he asked, half out of curiosity, half because it was the first morning she hadn’t walked in grumbling about one thing or another.

“All quiet on the western front,” Lily confirmed, then hesitated, reconsidering. “Well—except for James and Sirius being a little short with each other.”

Remus raised an eyebrow.

Lily sighed. “James didn’t exactly love Sirius interacting with you—or, well, me—at breakfast.”

Remus rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, I didn’t even think. He just—Sirius asked me to do something, and I—”

“Immediately said yes, because you’re incapable of saying no to him?” Lily finished, far too knowing.

Remus exhaled. “I can say no. I just… usually don’t.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “You lot let him get away with murder. He looks even slightly put out, and suddenly, it’s whatever he wants.”

“Yeah? And?” Remus said. “Have you met Sirius in a mood? You’d do the same. It’s the path of least resistance.”

“Oh, I know. He’s a terror.” Lily huffed. Then, after a beat, she added dryly, “Although, he does frequently remind me that if I had to switch bodies with anyone, at least it was you. There’s no other boy I’d trust inside my body.”

Remus’s eyebrows lifted as a slow, amused smile spread across his face.

Lily’s expression froze as she caught up to her own words—or, more specifically, to how he had taken them. Colour rushed to her face.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake—not like that!” She smacked his arm, and his laughter broke free.

Remus coughed, valiantly attempting to stifle his amusement. He failed.

Lily huffed again, rolling her eyes, still pink. “Don’t make me regret saying nice things about you, Lupin.”

Remus’s expression remained amused, and despite herself, Lily felt a reluctant smile tug at her lips.

She exhaled, her tone quieter as she settled into the chair opposite him. “I mean… I don’t let people in easily. Don’t count many as friends. But I do with you. I trust you.”

The amusement faded from Remus’s face. He shifted, something in him going still. Because he knew—knew—he didn’t deserve that trust. Not when he was already breaking it in the worst way.

This was the moment he should tell her. Should have. If he were a good person, he would.

But he wasn’t. So he didn’t.

The moment slipped away.

Lily reached into her bag for her notes, and just like that, they were back to business.

Remus followed suit.

They started with Lily’s suggestion from yesterday—recreating that Defence lesson while they still had the energy for something as mentally taxing as Legilimency.

But as Lily attempted a careful, “Legilimens,”—there was nothing.

Remus’s walls were even stronger than they had been on Monday. Higher, thicker. As if they weren’t just meant to keep her out but to keep something in.

“You do have to try to let me in,” she remarked, studying him.

“I am,” he defended, sitting up straighter. At her flat look, he sighed. “I’ll—uh—try harder.”

They refocused, and Lily tried again.

“Think of a song,” she prompted.

Remus’s brow furrowed. Whether he was concentrating on letting her in or keeping her out remained to be seen. Still, his head bobbed slightly, as if he’d settled on a beat.

“Legilimens,” Lily murmured.

For a moment, there was nothing but darkness. Then, there it was again—that door. Not in the open meadow of her own mind this time, but in the basement of his. The dim light made it hard to see, but the door itself was clearer now. It was bolted, scratched up. The claw marks running through the wood were deeper than the ones across Remus’s body—though they were about the right size.

Wind howled in the distance, hard rain lashing against the windows. The floorboards beneath her groaned with age.

And she could feel him.

That same psychic handshake as last time. A tentative meeting at the threshold of his thoughts, as if Remus was trying to let her in while still bracing for impact.

So she moved carefully. Slow.

Her hand reached for the door—

A growl froze her in place. Then, a loud thud.

The door rattled violently, its hinges straining, the wood groaning under the pressure.

Lily’s pulse stuttered. She snatched her hand back and stumbled a step away.

It’s not real. She forced herself to breathe evenly. Just Remus’s mind. Just the two of them in his head.

But it felt so real.

Then, faintly, beneath the door, she caught something else—a melody. Guitars. She tilted her head, listening harder as claws scraped against the wood, momentarily drowning it out.

There. A riff she recognised. Sirius played it all the time.

All ten bloody minutes of it.

The growls sharpened. Sniffing. Pacing. As if whatever was behind that door knew she was there. Was sizing her up.

Lily sat back, curling her knees to her chest. She looked at herself. In her mind, she was in the right body. Hers again.

The growls deepened. The pounding grew more frantic. The wood began to splinter.

Lily got the message.

She bolted.

Her eyes flew open just as the door inside Remus’s mind burst open and something—fast, dark, dangerous—lunged straight for her.

Her breath hitched as she jolted back into the Ancient Runes classroom, her pulse struggling to find its rhythm again.

Remus was watching her with concern, oblivious to what had just happened. “Are you okay?”

Lily exhaled carefully, steadying herself against the desk. “Free Bird,” she reported. “Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

Remus nodded, brow furrowing. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Fine,” she said. Then, after a pause, “Just… don’t think we should try that again.”

She’d gotten in. Extracted the right answer. But it was less progress than Monday. It hadn’t been safe in there. And unlike Monday—when she’d felt the basement shift into a forest—today, she hadn’t been allowed past that one locked room.

Her mind scrambled to make sense of it—the storm Remus kept caged, the nightmare buried deep within him.

How something so dangerous could exist within mild, soft-spoken, ever-composed Remus. He had an edge, sure—a sharp wit, a bite when provoked—but nothing like that. Nothing that felt truly frightening. Nothing that he seemed more afraid of than anyone else.

All those bolts on the door…

Remus studied her another moment before deciding to let it go. Clearly, he wasn’t eager to have someone in his head anyway.

“Right,” he said, shaking himself off. “So, I’ve gone through all the books on Occlumency and Legilimency I could find.”

Lily blinked, refocusing. “Anything?”

Remus shook his head. “Not much. Barely any sources to begin with. Turns out, they’re not keen on letting kids learn mind reading.”

“Shocking,” Lily deadpanned.

“But what I did find,” Remus continued, “was a few cases of a lingering psychic connection. Nothing exactly like ours. But back in the ’40s, some wizards tried using it during the Grindelwald war to pass information. The Ministry even ran studies with Auror partners in the ’60s. Not much publicly available, but I tracked down some reported side effects. Extended use led to wizards having dreams that weren’t theirs. Memories that weren’t theirs. A few even heard voices in their heads—other people’s thoughts—when they weren’t even linked up.”

Lily folded her arms. “But no body swaps.”

“Nope. And that was after repeated use by wizards who weren’t exactly experts in Occlumency or Legilimency. We used it once.” He hesitated, thoughtful. “I wonder if mental compatibility plays a role. Two of the wizards who reported issues were married.”

Lily raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting we’re soulmates?”

Remus snorted. “Not a chance.”

She scoffed, more amused than offended. “A gentle ‘no’ would’ve been enough.”

Remus twirled his quill between his fingers. “I just mean… maybe it works like Muggle blood types. Similar brains, more chance of… bleeding over.”

Lily hummed in thought, crossing the room to the chalkboard and scribbling down notes. If Legilimency was the cause, it had acted in a way unlike anything documented before. Her gaze flickered over the mind map they’d built—her handwriting neat and familiar. She exhaled, rubbing chalk dust off on her jeans.

Her eyes landed on one note in particular. The Mirror of Erised.

She turned back to Remus, remembering what Sirius had told her about its origins—the bloodshed, the trouble it had already caused. She relayed everything.

Remus listened intently, asking a few questions of his own, which she answered as best she could.

“And Sirius told you all this?” he asked, tone sceptical. His expression added a silent, And where’s the catch?

Lily rolled her eyes. “Yes. Sirius told me. No ulterior motive, no trick. He actually wanted to help.” She hesitated, then muttered, mostly to herself, “Honestly, I think if I asked him for anything right now, I wouldn’t have to ask twice.”

Remus snorted. “You’d be wrong about that. Trying to get him to do anything is a headache. His first instinct is always what’s in it for me?”

Lily arched an eyebrow. “But he’d do it if you asked. No matter what it was. No questions asked.”

Something deeper swam in Remus’s expression—guarded now, more serious. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

“Doesn’t it?” Lily challenged.

Remus sighed, unsurprised. He’d practically left the door open for her to push. “Lily. Everything you’re picking up on—it’s nothing new. Yeah, I get how it looks. But you’re wrong. It’s not… like that.”

“So what is it like, then?”

Remus shrugged, tone carefully casual. “It’s just… our friendship. And Sirius being Sirius. Christ knows why he does half the things he does.” His voice turned firmer, as if convincing himself as much as her. “But I do know what it doesn’t mean. He’s not in love with me.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Experience. As in, I am sure. As in, I have pretty clear confirmation on that, thanks.”

Lily tilted her head. “So you two have—”

“Lily.” His tone left no room for argument.

She opened her mouth.

The look on his face closed it.

“I mean it,” he said. “I’m not having this conversation. If there was anything to worry about, I’d tell you. But if there had been anything—and I’m not saying there was—it’s long over. As in, not relevant. As in, nothing you need to deal with.” He hesitated, then softened his voice—though the sarcasm didn’t leave it entirely. “You will have to deal with him, sure. But not like that.”

Lily didn’t look convinced. Sirius certainly seemed interested. Exactly like that.

The things she’d seen, the things she’d felt as Remus… Friendship alone didn’t seem like the most compelling motivating factor.

“Come on,” Remus said. “You’ve met him. Can you really picture him in love?”

Lily sighed. “Stranger things have happened.” Her eyes said the rest—the thing they were both dancing around, the thing they were trying, relentlessly, to sort out.

Strange barely covered it.

Remus huffed out a reluctant smile, like she’d dragged it out of him against his will. But he didn’t budge. “Stranger, sure. Actually impossible? Not so much.”

“But it’s you,” Lily pressed. “And I really think—”

“No.” Remus cut her off, quick, like hearing it aloud might make it worse. “Maybe he could. One day. But not right now. And definitely not with me.”

Lily wanted to argue. Every instinct told her to push back. But the certainty in his voice was too solid. Too final. And, maybe, not hers to question.

Remus sighed. “We’re just—having a few issues. With our friendship. That’s why he’s acting strange.”

“From where I’m standing—uh, you’re standing—it doesn’t feel like just friendship.”

Remus’s expression shuttered, walls going up behind his eyes.

Lily had expected it. She gave him a moment, watching as he exhaled, weighing his words.

Finally, he spoke. “The night before we switched, I had a conversation with Sirius. About the tension. It was about what happened last term. I know exactly what you’re picking up on because I deal with it. Every day. He doesn’t like that things are different now. That we’re not as close. I told him that if he couldn’t accept the way things are—because they might not get better—then maybe we’d be better off ending the friendship.”

Lily’s eyes widened, then softened in sympathy. “Neither of you wants that. You’ve been best friends since you were eleven.”

Remus gave a small, sad smile. “Yeah. You’re right. I don’t want that.”

“But?”

He sighed. “But I was angry. And running out of options with him. And honestly, just… trying to figure out if he even wanted to still be friends. Because sometimes he makes me feel like he doesn’t.”

Lily frowned, realisation dawning. “And you two never got to follow up on that conversation.”

Remus shrugged. “Not yet.” A pause. “Some of what you’re seeing—it’s just Sirius processing that conversation. And we still have things to say to each other. About… the future of our friendship.”

Lily exhaled, crossing her arms. “Fine. Just friendship.”

Remus didn’t correct her.

“You’re not going to tell me what happened last term, are you?” she guessed.

Remus hesitated, then glanced away. “Maybe someday,” he said quietly. “But not today. Sorry.”

He couldn’t explain what happened last term without one key detail. Well, a few key details, actually. But the furry one was what mattered. The one that meant he’d sooner confess every mistake he’d ever made to Lily—relive every moment he’d let Sirius too close, told him too much, fallen for too much.

Everything.

Every misstep, every look held too long, every second he’d spent knowing exactly what he was getting himself into and doing it anyway.

All of it—so long as he didn’t have to tell her about that.

The others called it The Prank—capitalised, weighted, like a cautionary tale. Or just Snape, like it all began and ended with him.

But neither of those were right. It hadn’t been a prank. And it hadn’t been Snape.

It had just been Sirius.

And him, maybe. Them.

Anything else was just a convenient way to blunt the edges of the truth.

“If you ever do want to talk about it…” Lily offered carefully.

Remus shook his head. “I appreciate it. Really, I do. It’s just… there are some things that can’t be fixed with a good talk, you know? Or maybe they could, but…”

“Not everyone’s ready for it?” she guessed, meeting his gaze.

He nodded. “Something like that.”

Lily didn’t say anything more, letting him be.

The silence between them settled, the tension slowly lifting, and she found herself sinking into it, surprised by how much she welcomed the quiet. It was a rare thing in her life lately—her dorm was always loud, mealtimes even worse, and the constant barks of unruly laughter followed her everywhere. Maybe that was why she’d always felt most at ease with Remus.

Not just because he was the only one who understood what it meant to stand at the edges of the wizarding world, half-in, half-out. A half-blood to her Muggleborn, though still feeling the full weight of the world’s prejudices.

Maybe she just liked boys when they were quiet. And Remus was mercifully, perfectly quiet.

It was dangerous, in a way. Silence had a way of making her relax around him, let down her guard.

So it startled her when he was the one to break it.

Especially when it was to continue the conversation he’d seemed so determined to finish.

“You once asked me if he did something bad,” Remus said carefully, as though weighing each word before setting it free. “He did. But you also asked, ‘Something that makes it hard to see him the same way?’ And that—” he sighed, shaking his head. “That’s harder to answer. Because it’s not him I see differently now. It’s the way he sees me. Or… the way I thought he did. Before. That’s what I can’t ever see the same.”

Lily didn’t speak right away. She just let it settle, absorbing what he wasn’t quite saying. The hurt of it. The way she knew exactly how that felt. “Oh. Remus, I’m—”

He shrugged before she could finish, shaking his head in that way of his—like sympathy made him itch, like he could deny it still mattered just by pretending it didn’t.

“No, no. It’s okay. It’s… well, was months ago.” A beat. A breath. Then, quieter: “And what I’m trying to say is… Sirius didn’t change in that moment for me. How I saw him didn’t change. What he did? Awful. Stupid. Something I hated knowing he was capable of. But…” He hesitated, fingers tightening around the fabric of his sleeve. “He was always capable of it. Of something impulsive, rash, dangerous.” Another pause. “I just never thought he’d do it to me. And that’s what hurt.”

Lily tilted her head, her mind turning over the possibilities.

The problem was, it could’ve been anything. Sirius was exactly unpredictable enough for that. Whatever it was, it had been bad. Bad enough to change something fundamental between them.

But before she could ask, Remus spoke again, softer now, like he was figuring it out as he went. “But after that moment… he’s been trying so hard to make up for it. To the point where I think—sometimes—it hurt him more than it ever hurt me.” His voice was distant, the words raw at the edges. “And that’s part of why he did it in the first place. He’s self-destructive. I just… got caught in the blast. And when he came back to himself, he was horrified. But I—” He exhaled, pressing his thumb hard into his palm like it might ground him. “It took me longer to look at him again. I was still so—God, I was so angry. But when I finally looked, when I actually saw him—”

He broke off, shaking his head, like he still wasn’t sure how to explain it. “I couldn’t let him go on like that. Even if I was still hurt, he was hurt. But I think, sometimes… I went back before I was ready to. And that made it harder to forgive. Because I wasn’t over it. And instead of talking about it, we buried it. And the longer we went without saying anything, the more the things we weren’t saying got bigger. And the things we could say got smaller. Until all that was left were the wrong words.”

Lily swallowed. “And the right ones?” she asked gently.

Remus hesitated. Then, finally: “Stopped working. Stopped feeling right. The truth is… I was angry at him before he ever did what he did. And when he did it, it just—” His jaw tensed, his voice growing tighter. “It gave me an excuse to be.”

Lily frowned slightly, but didn’t interrupt.

Remus let out a slow breath. “He hurt me before that. But what he did—it hurt me enough to eclipse everything else.”

Lily’s frown deepened.

Whatever had happened between Remus and Sirius was messier than she’d imagined. And whatever Sirius had done had fractured something delicate, something not easily pieced back together.

Trust.

Trust needed at least two pairs of hands to rebuild. And Remus still seemed to be keeping his folded tightly against his chest.

“It’s strange,” he murmured, almost absently. “People talk about love like it’s something easy, something pure. But real connections? They’re messy. They hurt.” He hesitated, then added, “They’re never perfect. Even my mum and dad…” He paused, then shook his head.

Lily watched him closely. “What about them?”

Remus shrugged, his expression thoughtful. “They love each other. But that doesn’t mean they’re always happy.”

Not with each other. Not together.

Though, apart didn’t suit them either. They’d always loved each other more than they hated their fights—more than the things love couldn’t fix on its own.

And Remus knew, more often than not, that he was one of those things. The point where they faltered, where their certainty wavered. Some days, his father grieved him as if he were already lost. His mother saw only the pain of his condition, never quite understanding why it had to mean anything more.

Lily studied him, his quiet melancholy tugging at something deep in her chest. “Maybe that’s why those relationships matter,” she said softly. “Because we have to work for them. And sometimes… sometimes we have to let them go.”

For a brief moment, Severus’s face flashed through her mind. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat, letting the ache pass through her.

Remus’s gaze met hers, understanding settling between them. His lips curved in a faint, bittersweet smile. “You’re wiser than you let on, you know.”

Lily shrugged, her own smile wry. “Or maybe I’ve just learned that people can surprise you. Even the ones you think you know inside out.”

Something flickered in his expression, something cautious. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Sometimes they surprise you… and not for the better.”

Sometimes they made you wonder if you ever really knew them at all.

Lily watched him carefully, and Remus exhaled, forcing a casual tone that didn’t quite land. “Sirius… he doesn’t always think things through. He can be careless. He acts first, and people get hurt.” He hesitated, then admitted, “It’s hard to stay close to someone when you don’t know if they’ll just—” His hand lifted vaguely, as if searching for the right words. “Blow everything up again. Without a second thought.”

“You know he cares about you, right?” Lily asked gently.

Remus let out a breath, short and frustrated. “Maybe. But caring doesn’t mean much if you can’t trust them.” He gave a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t think he even realises how much he takes for granted. Or, well… did. Now everything’s different. But somehow, it’s still the same.”

He sounded both exasperated and sad.

Lily reached out, resting a hand over his. “Maybe he’s just scared of losing you,” she said quietly. “People do strange things when they’re afraid.”

Remus didn’t respond right away. His eyes lingered on their hands, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, more tired. “Maybe. But understanding why doesn’t always fix the what.”

They fell into silence again, though this one felt different—denser, weighted by all the things they were avoiding talking about. Remus turned a page in his book, but his gaze barely flicked over the words.

Lily regretted pressing him. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. That wasn’t fair. It’s not my business.”

Remus’s shoulders eased, if only slightly. “No, it’s alright. It’s just…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

She nodded, offering him an understanding smile. “I get it. Friendships can be… complicated.” She gestured vaguely, hoping he’d understand what she couldn’t quite put into words.

He let out a quiet huff, though his smile was strained. “Yeah. Especially with Sirius. ‘Complicated’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“Complicated doesn’t mean forever stuck,” Lily said carefully. “Sometimes people come back around.”

Remus glanced at her, something guarded in his expression. “Maybe. But what if they come back and they’re… not who you thought? Or worse, they are, and you’re the one who’s changed?”

She held his gaze. “You’re allowed to change, Remus,” she said softly. “Your feelings are allowed to change. It doesn’t mean you lose people. It just means you get to see who they really are—and who they want to be with you.”

Remus looked down at his book, running his thumb along the worn spine. “Maybe,” he said again. “Or maybe some friendships just… break. No matter what you do.”

Lily squeezed his arm lightly. “Or maybe they just need time. Maybe they’re stronger than we think.”

His expression shifted, something complicated passing through his eyes. For a moment, she saw just how deep the hurt ran.

She watched him, considering the distant look on his face, the way his thoughts seemed to drift somewhere far away.

Your feelings are allowed to change.

Had they?

Maybe he did love Sirius differently now. Maybe the way he loved him wasn’t the way it had been before. And maybe it wouldn’t come back. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to.

Because of course he still loved him—that kind of love left a mark, inescapable, changing you even after it faded.

If it faded at all.

But he couldn’t ignore the cracks. They were there, and they had been for a long time. Sometimes it felt like their friendship was held together more by the effort it took to keep it intact—mostly James, playing peacekeeper—than by how well they actually fit anymore.

Maybe they didn’t fit. Maybe they never really had. And maybe, as they got older, the silences between them would stretch longer, until one day, they weren’t friends at all.

Maybe the friends you made at eleven weren’t the ones you kept for life.

Remus shook himself from his thoughts and looked back at Lily, offering a wry smile. “Enough about that. I didn’t mean to drag you into my mess.”

“Too late,” she teased, nudging him playfully. “I’m already in it.” She gestured to her borrowed body with an exaggerated sigh. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Remus laughed, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “Couldn’t if I tried.”

Lily grinned, though a small ache lingered in her chest. Remus had always been careful with his emotions, but this felt like something different. Like she’d glimpsed a part of him usually kept locked away.

As the quiet stretched between them again, she stole another glance at him, wondering how many times he’d pushed people away to protect himself—

And how many times he’d been hurt anyway.

The corridors were crowded again, students trickling back from Hogsmeade with bags full of sweets and trinkets.

Remus weaved through them as best he could. His stomach still ached—not as badly as before, but enough that the idea of skipping dinner was tempting. He couldn’t, though. He’d barely eaten all day, and this wasn’t his body to ignore. This was Lily’s body. One that already felt faint and too damn tired. Probably needed iron.

A fourth-year boy skidded to a stop right in front of him, eyes wide. Remus sighed, but let it go when the kid turned red and was immediately subjected to a round of snickers from his friends.

That was the power of being Lily Evans.

For every boy who smirked and leered as he passed, there was another who practically tripped over himself to get out of the way—especially the younger ones. A lot of boys, Remus already knew, were afraid of pretty girls.

James was scared of one pretty girl in particular (rightfully so). Peter… of nearly all of them.

Lily had let him go early. They weren’t getting much further than they already had—sources dwindling, cross-referencing becoming more of a way to feel productive than actually be productive.

“Get some rest, alright?” she’d said as they parted, her brow creased with sympathy. “We’ll meet after dinner, go over things again before prefect rounds. A break might help us see what we’re missing.”

Remus hadn’t argued. But he’d still done his usual rounds of the third-floor corridor, pacing the same stretch of stone, willing the Room of Requirement to reveal itself through sheer stubbornness alone.

“What does ‘in need’ actually mean?” he asked the portrait of the lady beneath the apple tree.

She spun her umbrella, knowing but not telling. All women bloody did that.

“What if I really needed the toilet?” Remus went on, thinking of the litres of water he might have to drink to test the theory. “Would that count?”

The lady’s painted eyes followed him as he paced, hiding a smile behind her hand.

“Or, what if I was seriously injured?” he tried next. That seemed dire enough. Bleeding out, maybe—

Well. Not in Lily’s body. But also not Lily, since she was in his body and would feel it.

And he couldn’t exactly hurt someone else. Not for experimentation.

Sirius probably wouldn’t hesitate if he knew. To hurt someone, or himself, just to test a theory.

Remus wasn’t sure if he was relieved to be left out of that thought process.

“That won’t be necessary,” the lady told him. “It will appear when you require it next.”

It should be renamed as the Room of Nuisance. Requirement was pushing it.

Remus scowled. “Yeah, well, I require it now. Someone might be in danger if I can’t find that room.”

The lady didn’t blink, only looked up as the branches swayed above her, shifting just in time to dodge a falling apple.

“Danger that is circumstantial—that is, avoidable through your own actions—the room will not appear for,” she said. “It’s magic. It can’t be tricked.”

“I’m not trying to trick it,” Remus argued. “Just… get it to untrick me.”

The young woman hummed, tilting her head. “And that is why it will not appear. You have not fulfilled what it wants of you. You are fighting it.”

“Fighting what?” Remus demanded.

“The Room of Requirement has what you need,” she said simply. “I cannot tell you what that is. Perhaps it is a gift, a lesson, a refuge, an item of great importance. It varies, and no need is too great or small. But it is the room that decides whether it wants to be found.”

“So it’s trying to teach me something?” Remus asked, dry. “Because I’m learning plenty. None of it useful, and none of it wanted.”

The young woman huffed at him, definitely amused now. She stepped further back from the frame, curls of wheat swaying behind her, strands coming loose from her bonnet.

Remus watched her disappear and sighed.

A sharp cramp made him brace against the statue at the end of the hall, his breath hissing between his teeth. Maybe stopping by the infirmary wouldn’t be the worst idea.

It still felt like a bad idea when he finally pushed open the doors, the familiar scent of potions and antiseptic herbs hitting him.

Madam Pomfrey greeted him with a knowing look, as if she already understood why he was there. But, much like his own monthly problem, there wasn’t much she could do—only help him manage the pain.

She sent him away with a gentle squeeze of his arm, a few more pain-relieving potions, and some Stim pills—magical stimulants brewed from psychoactive plants to help with energy levels for studying. She also ran a few diagnostic spells while he was there, rattling off results in that brisk but reassuring way of hers.

He stumbled for a moment when she inquired about his sexual activity, since she’d never done so before when he was in his own body. He flushed through a made-up response, his quick thinking momentarily failing him.

Ovarian cyst screening, she’d said. Remus wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but it sounded serious. He was in the clear, though.

She hadn’t noticed anything else unusual. Nothing to give away the body swap. Just the usual: dehydration, exhaustion, slightly underweight for his height.

But Lily always was.

Slim, but not sickly-looking.

Except today, her skin looked too pale.

“Any time you’d like to talk, Miss Evans, my door is always open,” Madam Pomfrey said before he left. “Stress makes the pain worse—throws off your hormones.”

Right. Stress less. Sure. Great advice.

Except everything about this situation was stressful, which meant the pain was just going to be his companion for the next two days.

He felt a little ridiculous for even coming. Girls dealt with this every month just fine, didn’t they? But it wasn’t fine. It was awful. It was uncomfortable and relentless and made him feel useless and mortified.

There was probably a better way to handle it. Just like there was probably a better way to deal with the full moon besides locking him up and patching him up after.

He had the others now, and that helped. Running free helped. Because they cared enough to come up with something better.

Maybe girls and werewolves weren’t so different. Both had a pesky cycle that upended their lives every month. Both got little sympathy. And when there were solutions, no one cared enough to fund them—because neither women nor wolves sat particularly high on the list of the world’s priorities.

Remus shook off the thought. The world wasn’t changing any time soon.

It would be fine. He’d get through the weekend. Lily said the pain eased by Monday, just in time for Dumbledore to switch them back.

Besides, it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to this kind of thing. He already had his own cycle—irritability, muscle aches, appetite shifts, sleep interruptions. Feeling different.

Painfully turning into something else.

He could handle it. But being used to pain didn’t mean it hurt any less. Didn’t mean he had to like it.

A few hours after she’d parted ways with Remus, the quiet of the classroom had vanished, swallowed by the noise of the Gryffindor dinner table—boisterous laughter, clattering plates. The restless energy of James and Sirius, always tugging at her strings, always trying to make her dance to their tune.

She knew she wasn’t the same kind of steadying force Remus was, and without him, their chaos felt even wilder. He was still there, technically—his body taking up space beside them—but in spirit, he was absent. And somehow, the rest of the Marauders felt the shift, their usual rhythm thrown just slightly off-kilter.

It wasn’t just them. She’d noticed that Remus, without them, was quieter too, as if uncertain what to do with himself without something to push back against. Sometimes, he didn’t react at all.

She folded her arms, watching as Sirius grinned his way through a scolding from McGonagall, shrugging it off like nothing could touch him. Careless. That was the word Remus had used—and he wasn’t wrong. But careless wasn’t the same as cruel.

Still, sometimes it felt like the line between the two blurred when you weren’t watching closely enough.

The rest of the day had been surprisingly quiet. Lily had half-expected some kind of situation to arise, but Sirius had gone off to Hogsmeade with James, and between their departure and return, they’d been too busy scheming to cause any trouble.

“Party-planning,” James had called it, flashing Lily a knowing look that conveniently allowed her to slip in and out of the dorm without enduring one of Sirius’s usual interrogations.

She hadn’t been wrong in guessing they were plotting some big bash for Halloween. Well, the 30th, actually—Sirius’s idea. A week from today. Halloween fell on a Sunday this year, and even he had conceded that most students couldn’t indulge in reckless abandon and still drag themselves to class on Monday morning.

So, Saturday it was.

Sirius had pulled her aside at one point, which in itself wasn’t suspicious. But then he’d asked, in a tone that almost sounded considerate, “Any requests?”

Lily had tilted her head, surprised by the thoughtfulness. Right up until he added, “Near your time of the month, yeah? Thought it best to check since you’ll be even more touchy than usual.”

It had taken real restraint not to hit him. That sexist joke had never been funny, and he’d somehow managed to irritate her in record time.

It didn’t even make sense.

She knew Remus disappeared sometimes—monthly, for a day or two—to visit his sick mother, or so he claimed. But he always looked like the ill one before leaving. How Sirius could joke about that was beyond her.

But it did get her thinking.

That mysterious illness of Remus’s—because she knew now that some months, he left for himself, not his mother…

Lily didn’t feel ill.

Remus’s body ached sometimes, sure. A little stiff, like something had been torn apart and clumsily pieced back together. But not sickly. Not the way he sometimes looked—fragile, drained to the bone.

If anything, her time in his body made him seem healthier than her. At least when he looked after himself. Or, well, when she did it for him.

Despite his slight frame, he was strong—her book bag might as well have been empty. His eyesight was sharper than hers; she could sit at the back of the classroom and see the board without squinting. His hearing, though, that was something else altogether. Everything was too much. James and Sirius, already loud, were unbearable. Too many voices, too many overlapping sounds, all happening at once.

But when she focused—really focused—she could pick out noises from impossibly far away. Things she probably shouldn’t be able to hear at all.

Undeterred, Sirius had pressed on, completely serious. “That’s why I figured Saturday might be better—gives you time to recover before Monday so you don’t feel—”

But Lily had already turned on her heel and walked away, deciding she absolutely wasn’t dealing with him today.

James had been watching them, tilting his head at Lily like she was the one overreacting this time.

Before she could decide whether to take offence, Peter let out a frustrated groan, glaring at his pile of homework as if he could set it on fire through sheer will. It didn’t seem to have shrunk at all since he’d come back from Hogsmeade.

“Charms?” Lily guessed, taking pity as she wandered over.

“Magic,” Peter replied grimly.

Lily peered over his shoulder at his notes.

A charm alters an object’s inherent qualities.

Transfiguration alters an object’s form.

“Well,” she murmured, “that’s not wrong. Bit of a throwback to first year, but not wrong.”

Transfiguration changed what an object was, while Charms altered what it did. Spells like jinxes, hexes, and curses fell under the umbrella of ‘dark charms.’

She tapped her fingers against the parchment, her mind drifting. Where did a body swap fall into that? She doubted it was Transfiguration—she and Remus’s bodies hadn’t actually changed at all. Only their souls had. So, a charm?

Transfiguration was rigid, requiring precise technique, but Charms allowed for more creativity, a certain looseness in spellwork. That was why witches and wizards could invent their own charms far more easily than they could invent new Transfiguration spells.

Peter’s assignment, from the looks of it, was theoretical—designing a new spell, with the proper research, reasoning for its creation, and, ideally, proof that it worked.

“What’s tripping you up?” Lily asked, refocusing. “I can help.”

Peter scooted over on the bed, making space, and shot her a grateful look. She settled in, accepting a quill but waving off the half-eaten Chocolate Frog he tried to bribe her with.

Sirius shot them a look across the dorm, though—unlike when she’d spoken to Sam, or accepted a gift from James—he didn’t look remotely concerned.

It was only as she was leaving the dorm again after dinner that Lily finally learned something. Something she wasn’t supposed to. Something Remus hadn’t wanted her to know. Something he’d done his best to convince her wasn’t what it looked like.

Admittedly, it wasn’t outright confirmation of her suspicions.

But it was pretty damning evidence.

The Ancient Runes room had been freezing earlier that day—cold enough that she’d felt it even through her layers, even with Remus’s jumper. And they had prefect rounds tonight, which meant more cold, more drafty corridors, more chasing down rogue students.

So, before slipping out of the dorm, she paused. Went to the coat rack and pulled down the scarf she’d borrowed for Hogsmeade. Deep maroon wool, still faintly scented with summer and grass. She wound it around her neck as she crossed the room.

She smiled and waved to the others as she opened the door. James barely glanced up from his magazine, saluting lazily. Peter, surrounded by his books, cast her a final, desperate look.

“Stay to help me with one more, mate?” Peter asked, hopeless.

Lily made the fatal mistake of turning back, arms folding as she raised a brow. “How will you ever learn if you don’t do it yourself?”

And in turning around, she missed it. The way Sirius’s eyes swept over her. How they froze. Hardened.

She didn’t notice the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers curled into fists. Didn’t see how his entire body had gone rigid.

Not until the door creaked shut behind her—only to swing open again.

A body closed around hers.

Lily’s heart thudded.

She barely had a second to catch Sirius’s face—his quick glance up and down the hallway, checking for witnesses—before he rounded on her.

This wasn’t like yesterday.

Sirius wasn’t careful this time. Wasn’t playful. This was all emotion, all intent. And escape wasn’t even an option.

He was in her space before she could process it. Had her pressed exactly where he wanted her. When she did realise, her breath hitched. She looked up at him. He wasn’t giving her the option to look anywhere else.

And he was angry.

Lily knew better than to be alone with an angry man.

Sirius had never scared her before. But she was scared now.

Her pulse hammered as he stepped closer, his fist clenched so tight it shook. She braced herself.

For a shove. A hit. Something.

Because that’s what boys did when they were this angry. She’d seen it before—Severus’s father, anger clinging to him thicker than the stink of booze. Shaking with it, face flushed red. And Severus, standing rigid, refusing to flinch.

He’d always been braver than her.

But Sirius didn’t touch her.

Instead, he studied her, eyes lingering at her neck. Took a sharp breath. Exhaled through his nose. But didn’t move away.

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” he asked, his voice low, taut.

Lily blinked. “What?”

“Because it’s working.”

Her mind scrambled, rationality clawing its way back. And then—oh.

The scarf.

James’s scarf.

This was jealousy. That immature, possessive streak she’d seen in him before.

Relief flickered through her. And, with it, exasperation.

“It’s a scarf, Sirius. Not a wedding.”

But Sirius didn’t relax. His jaw only clenched tighter. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“That’s my best friend. Our friend.” His breath came hard. “Just… anyone else. If you’re trying to piss me off, to cosy up to someone, pick someone else. Someone I can actually hate.”

And oh.

This wasn’t like last time at all.

Someone I can actually hate—that implied some real feelings. Because why else would Sirius care this much about Remus wearing someone else’s clothes?

She needed to be careful. Extremely careful.

Because this wasn’t just an overbearing friend she was dealing with. Not anymore.

Something had happened between Remus and Sirius. Something deeper than even she’d suspected.

Sirius was acting like a jealous ex.

Because maybe he really was one.

“I’m not cosying up to anyone,” Lily said carefully. And it was the truth. Remus wasn’t cosying up to anyone.

But had she? By accident? As Remus?

…There was James. She’d been friendly with him. Maybe even teased him. A few looks she couldn’t help. But she’d never—Merlin, never—not James Potter. And certainly not like this.

Lily had always known saying yes to James would be a mistake. And now, she was paying for it—spectacularly. The worst part? She hadn’t even gone out with him as herself.

Sirius’s eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you? Not James? Not Sam?”

Lily snapped back to herself. “No. Sam asked me to a Halloween party. I said no, I’d rather be here,” she explained, forcing steady eye contact. Sirius’s shoulders eased, just a fraction. “James just needed help picking out a gift for his mum. He said I could keep the scarf. I was cold.”

She wasn’t angry with him this time. Could rein in her temper just enough to soften her words. Instead, she just felt… sorry. Like she didn’t want him to be angry—not with her, not with Remus, not with James.

Sirius hesitated. Considering.

Then, as casually as anything, he said, “You could’ve taken my jacket if you were cold.”

Lily went very, very still.

Because that was confirmation.

The playfulness directed at her. The shiftiness from Remus. Sirius loved that jacket.

But he clearly loved Remus more.

She raised a brow. “What? The one you guard like someone’s going to steal it off your body? I value my life, thanks. Plus, it smells like… smoke. And, as I said, I’m trying to quit.”

“Right. Cigarettes.” Sirius’s voice was bland, like she wasn’t talking about cigarettes at all. And like he no longer minded if she wasn’t. “You’re trying to quit.”

Lily folded her arms. “And leather isn’t warm, you know. It’s a stupid material for a jacket. Too hot for summer, too cold for winter. You can wear it maybe three days a year, max.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. But didn’t argue.

He studied her for another moment, then stepped back.

“Wait here,” he muttered.

Lily barely had time to catch her breath before the door swung open again.

Sirius reappeared, holding his own Gryffindor scarf. And a pair of black gloves. Expensive gloves. Clearly a gift from his family, but too finely made for him to toss. They had small, subtle Black crests on the wrists.

Lily blinked.

Sirius shrugged, offering them until she took them. But his hands didn’t leave hers. They moved, instead, to settle carefully on her arms.

Gentle.

In a way he looked like he didn’t even realise he could be.

“Just… don’t want you getting cold,” he said, soft now.

No. That wasn’t what this was. And they both knew it.

This was him marking his territory.

And not at all subtly.

Lily was definitely talking to Remus about this.

And he wasn’t getting out of this one.

She cleared her throat. “Um. Thanks.”

Sirius’s hands slid away slowly, like he didn’t want to let go.

And Lily’s heart broke a little.

Because, Merlin. Why her?

Well. No. She knew why.

It wasn’t her at all.

It was Remus.

Sirius Black—arrogant, reckless, too-cool-for-feelings Sirius Black—had very real, very big feelings. For Remus Lupin.

Not a stupid, fleeting crush. Real feelings. Indisputable feelings.

The kind that made him not just jealous, but protective. That made him offer his jacket like a gentleman on a date—albeit a completely impractical jacket, but the sentiment was there.

The kind that Lily never thought Sirius Black was even capable of feeling.

And yet, here they were.

Still.

She’d like it a lot better if the person Sirius was in love with wasn’t the body she was currently in.

And if he didn’t look at her like he wanted to do things to that body she was absolutely not letting him near.

At least.

Not with her anywhere near it.

Remus Lupin had a lot of explaining to do.

Chapter Text

Lily stormed through the hallways, practically flying down the stairs, barely registering the students she sped past. A few gave her odd looks, but she didn’t slow down. She just needed distance—from the dormitory, from Sirius, from all of it.

Her thoughts crashed into each other, tripping over themselves as they tried to make sense of what she’d just experienced. What if she was wrong?

No. She might not have proof, but she wasn’t stupid. And she wasn’t about to be tricked into thinking she hadn’t seen what she’d seen—on Sirius’s face, in his behaviour. Not when she’d seen it with her own two…

Well—technically, she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, per se. But she had seen it. And she refused to be told otherwise.

Even if, in hindsight, there were things she’d have rather not seen—well, imagined. Which was almost worse.

She grimaced, shaking her head sharply, as if that might rid her of the mental image. It wasn’t that she had an issue with it, but still. Those were people she knew. And Remus was a friend. And Sirius Black—regardless of whatever was going on—was still Sirius Black. A total sleaze. A handsome one, yes, but a notorious sleaze nonetheless.

At least when it came to relationships. Or, rather, how not to do relationships.

And he’d already hurt one of her friends.

And his own friend last term.

Not to mention that it was Remus.

The one Sirius was preoccupied with. Too preoccupied. Unhealthily so.

And Lily liked Remus far more than she liked Sirius. And maybe Sirius looked like he cared—a frankly alarming amount—but he was still Sirius. And she didn’t trust him not to hurt Remus.

Again.

She shook her head. Not her business. Absolutely not her business! She could disapprove from a safe distance when she was no longer in the picture. When she was safely back in her own body, where the only unwelcome advances were coming from one James Potter.

Frankly, she’d welcome them right now.

A mortifying serenade, complete with the frog choir and fireworks? A slow, arrogant stride towards her as he listed—at length—all the reasons she secretly wanted him?

She’d take it.

Anything over Sirius looking like he wanted to kiss her.

She shuddered instinctively.

Yuck.

If Sirius had actually got any closer—she’d have hexed him. Made him eat slugs.

Not hurt him, exactly. Just made him think twice about ever trying that again. Which? Wouldn’t do. Not when she was Remus—and didn’t know if Remus even wanted him to.

Did he?

Oh, she had so many questions for that boy.

Not about whether he wanted to snog Sirius as much as Sirius clearly wanted to snog him—she didn’t care about that. She cared that he’d lied to her about it.

Because he had. Multiple times. Told her nothing had happened. That if it had—and it hadn’t—it was over.

That? What Sirius had just done? Didn’t feel over. Felt very pressingly present.

She huffed, wrinkling her nose at the scent of smoke clinging to the scarf he’d forced her to wear, smug as anything as he’d plucked James’s from her hands and swapped it out for his own. Ridiculous. Boys, honestly.

She was, however, grudgingly grateful for the gloves. The castle was freezing, and for some reason, her body had lost all ability to retain warmth. Usually, Remus ran warm—cosy, even—but now? It was like all his energy was being siphoned elsewhere, and she didn’t know where yet.

She picked up her pace when she spotted the Ancient Runes classroom, realising her thoughts had slowed her steps.

The door creaked as she pushed it open—a little from disuse, a little from the overuse it had been getting lately. She swept inside, a million questions already forming, her body poised for interrogation—

Remus John Lupin—!

Then she stopped short.

Her fists dropped. Her eyebrows softened into thoughtfulness. Her mouth stayed open, but no words came out.

Slowly, she approached.

Remus was at the chalkboard. Or rather, what had been the chalkboard. Since the last time she’d seen it, their mind map had evolved into something sprawling and intricate, more like a spiderweb than a set of disconnected thoughts.

He was still adding to it, one hand scribbling in his narrower script, the other at his chin. His hair—her hair—was wild from thinking, a loose twist of red thrown over his shoulder.

Where they’d once drawn a simple arrow between Legilimency and The Mirror of Erised, there was now something more like a Venn diagram, post-it notes stuck along the edges, extra annotations scrawled between the lines.

He’d been busy.

He turned at her approach, and any question Lily had about Sirius fled to the back of her mind at his first words.

“We’ve been looking at this all wrong,” Remus said, quick, like he was still thinking through it but had something. Finally.

Lily blinked.

His hand moved toward the board. “We’ve been treating these like separate leads, right? Different threads.” She nodded. “I don’t think that’s it. I think they’re connected.”

Lily’s mind raced, trying to link the dots he already had. She wasn’t there yet. She looked at him for help.

Remus exhaled—not in frustration, but in discovery—his eyes alight with something rare and electric.

And Lily saw it.

That intelligence. That quiet passion for magic. The kind he never flaunted, only used. He always claimed Sirius was the one who figured out the magical theory behind their pranks, and maybe that was true. But this—this ability to see things, to spot the missing pieces and slot them into place—this was all Remus.

“What if the Mirror is a kind of Legilimency?” he asked. “Think about it. It looks into your mind and finds the thing you want most. Shows it to you. Makes you see it. Gets inside people’s heads so deeply they can’t leave. Won’t leave.” His fingers tapped restlessly against the chalk. “It’s the same branch of magic.”

Lily’s breath hitched. “That’s brilliant.”

Remus nodded. “So if we were already linked—when the Mirror looked into our heads, too…”

“It linked up with both of us,” Lily realised. That would explain why the Legilimency had acted differently, why the connection had stuck.

“Exactly,” Remus said. “And what you told me Sirius said—about the Mirror’s origins. A wedding and three murders, right? An affair, maybe—unresolved feelings, definitely. Emotions were high that day. So…”

“The Mirror feeds on emotions,” Lily murmured. Like a Dementor fed on happiness, drawing strength from it. Twisting it. Keeping people trapped in its grasp until they wasted away.

Plenty had.

“Right,” Remus said. His voice softened then, a little sheepish. “And, well, my emotions weren’t exactly… under control on Monday. Might’ve bled into your head without meaning to. That’s why you could’ve still been feeling it when we were on prefect rounds. Sorry.”

“The fight with Sirius,” Lily recalled aloud. Those barbed words in Defence. That storming across the room. The very reason she’d stepped in to partner with Remus for that Legilimency lesson in the first place.

Merlin, maybe Remus had a point on Tuesday—blaming Sirius did work for most things. That boy caused trouble he didn’t even mean to cause.

She refocused. “So we were still linked. Legilimency gone wrong. Emotional imbalance—our emotional states affecting the process.”

Remus nodded. “That’s what I think. Magic’s always influenced by emotion—especially something as intricate as Legilimency. The Mirror latched onto that.”

Magic was often more about feeling than words. Spells, whether spoken or unspoken, required intent. You had to truly will something to happen.

The Unforgivables, for instance, demanded a deep-seated intent to cause harm. That’s what made them Unforgivable. The sheer force of will behind them made them impossible to cast by accident.

But magic could heal, too. Poppy’s spells. The ease of Accio when something was lost. Reparo for things that had broken. Apparating to someone you loved with just a thought.

Lily’s heart kicked.

“If that’s the case,” she said, her voice sparking with renewed hope, “then maybe we need to fix whatever’s causing this emotional imbalance before we can switch back.”

Remus’s nod was a little more grim this time. That had occurred to him, too.

Fixing that felt significantly harder.

Lily turned to him sharply, snapping his attention back. “How on earth did you figure this out?”

“Recounted our steps. Used the Pensieve in Dumbledore’s office, just to see if we’d missed anything—we hadn’t. And then that got me thinking…” He trailed off, catching the look on Lily’s face. “What?”

Lily’s eyes narrowed. “You what?”

Remus blinked at her. “Used the Pensieve?”

“In Dumbledore’s office?”

Remus shrugged. “Yeah.”

Lily’s hands flew to her hips. “You broke into Dumbledore’s office?”

“Not broke in,” Remus said mildly. “It’s open half the time anyway. And I’ve done it before. Loads.”

Lily let out a slow, incredulous breath. “That’s… not better.”

Remus just tilted his head, like he genuinely couldn’t see the issue.

Lily huffed, rubbing a hand down her face. Merlin, of course. Of bloody course.

Of course this was who Sirius Black was in love with.

Brilliant, deceptively troublesome, Remus Lupin.

Who else could it possibly be?

“Oi!”

A bundle of fabric smacked James in the face with more force than a scarf had any right to. It crumpled his Quidditch magazine, knocking it from his hands, and by the time he looked up, the culprit was already stalking off.

Sirius.

He didn’t glance back, just threw himself onto his bed, limbs splayed, radiating pent-up frustration. He’d stormed into the dorm, slamming the door so hard it bounced back open.

James sighed. Here we go again.

It was Moony. Had to be. It was always Moony.

He shook out the scarf—really?—and pieced together why exactly it had been launched at his head. Took him all of two seconds to arrive at the answer.

Remus had borrowed it.

James snorted. “Flowers and a scarf? Mate, this is getting embarrassing.”

“I told you to stop yesterday,” Sirius muttered, like this was somehow James’s fault.

James held up his hands. “I’m not doing anything. And, for the record, I gave Moony the scarf before the flowers, so I haven’t ‘done’ anything since yesterday. He was cold, picked up the wrong one before we left for Hogsmeade. I said he could keep it. Because I’m nice.” Unlike you, the words went unspoken, but Sirius still scowled.

Peter, who had been following the conversation like a lost spectator, suddenly noticed the bouquet in the corner of the room. “Flowers?”

James ignored him, still watching Sirius, a suspicion creeping in. “You and Remus fighting again, Pads?”

Because, historically, the only time Sirius got weird about other people’s relationships with Remus was either:

1. They got a bit too close.
2. His relationship with Remus was in the gutter, making everyone else’s look preferable in comparison.

A dark look flickered across Sirius’s face.

He muttered something unintelligible, then grunted, “No.” A pause. Then, more irritated, “Not like he’s around enough to fight with.”

Which, really, wasn’t a no.

Peter opened his mouth like he might say something, but James wasn’t done. He was still a little miffed, frankly—about Sirius approaching Lily in the Great Hall, about getting her to do something reckless for him, about the fact that, for a second there, she had actually seemed charmed.

So, he went for the jugular.

“Not my fault Moony thinks you’re a twat now,” he said, throwing the words out casually. “Not really giving him any reason to think otherwise, are you? Why would he want to be around when you act like this?”

Predictably, Sirius tensed, jaw tightening. Which meant James had struck a nerve.

Because the thing was, James didn’t actually think Remus didn’t still feel that way about Sirius. He was almost certain he did—he was just protecting himself. Sensible, really, if annoying for Sirius. But James reckoned Remus would still give Sirius whatever he wanted if:

1. He grovelled a little more.
2. He actually said what he wanted in normal, non-Sirius words.

Neither of which, at present, seemed likely.

And sure enough, Sirius reacted exactly as expected—his frustration curling tighter, his irritation flaring hotter. If he hadn’t been angry at James before, he definitely was now.

Peter gulped, glancing toward the door like he was debating whether he could slip out before things got worse. Before wands got involved.

Not that they needed wands. Not yet. Not when Sirius could cut just as deep with words.

And he did.

“Oh, right, because Evans is just desperate to be around you,” Sirius scoffed. “It’s a bit pathetic, mate, how you’re still on about her when she’s told you no. Never. Not in a million years. Still sees you as the prick who mocked her greasy best friend and boasted about trying to get in his pretty mate’s knickers.”

James opened his mouth, then shut it.

Because Sirius wasn’t wrong. And having it thrown in his face didn’t feel great.

That was the trouble when they fought—they knew each other too well. Knew exactly where to press, where to dig in to make it really sting. Most of the time, they avoided going for the throat. Didn’t want to use that knowledge.

Except at times like this, when they were pissed off, defensive, spoiling for a fight.

And this had been brewing for days.

James wasn’t sure exactly why—only that something had felt off. Not just between him and Sirius, but the whole group. Sirius seemed to feel it the most.

So instead of snapping back, instead of saying something just as sharp, James forced himself to pause. He dialled back his irritation, let his expression go neutral. Then, with deliberate ease, he shrugged.

“Interesting that you took a comment about you and Moony,” he said, voice light, “and immediately compared it to me and Evans.”

That shut Sirius up.

James knew it would—though all it really did was shift Sirius from frustration to defensiveness. And that wouldn’t last long. Sirius never stayed quiet for more than a moment before the defensiveness gave way to anger again.

So James tried to lift the tension. Tried to get a smile. “What?” he asked, teasing. Feigning ignorance, like he was only poking fun. “If you don’t want me to call you a duck, then stop quacking.”

Sirius rolled his eyes but relaxed, if only slightly. Relief, there.

And then Peter, with the worst timing imaginable, asked the worst possible question. “Where is Moony? Is he on a date or something?”

James bit back a sigh.

Peter, to his credit, looked like he regretted it the second the words left his mouth.

Sirius tensed again, annoyance flashing across his face. His jealousy where Remus was concerned was as predictable as the phases of the moon—just as regular, just as impossible to stop.

James didn’t think he’d ever met two people more skilled at pushing each other’s buttons—both the wrong and the right ones. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.

They were terrible at honesty, terrible at communication, terrible at handling their emotions like normal people. But there was something else about them, too— something that stood out.

They both had their vices.

James and Peter never got into that—didn’t smoke, never let things sink their hooks in the way some people did. But Remus and Sirius? They had a tendency to get hooked. To latch onto something and never let go.

Sometimes, it felt like that was all their relationship was: an addiction.

And addictions had a habit of being destructive.

Remus hurt Sirius often, and Sirius hurt Remus deeply. That was how it had always been—one of them trying to get close, the other pulling away, only to reel them right back in. A constant loop, never broken.

Back when they’d first met, Remus had ignored Sirius’s attempts to befriend him. Sirius, back then, had treated friendship like a game of collection rather than something he was actually trying to form. And when Remus didn’t play along, he’d turned his attention to him in ways that weren’t always kind—digging up old newspaper clippings, prying into things Remus clearly didn’t want to discuss, asking questions about his father, his disappearances each month.

Sirius had never been sensitive. He didn’t know how to ease into things. He bulldozed. And Remus had adapted. Had turned sharp, passive-aggressive. Weaponised that dryness of his. Sirius usually enjoyed it—except when he actually wanted to impress Remus, which, of course, never seemed to happen.

They had never quite figured out how to be good to each other. Always circling, always pushing and pulling in ways that weren’t entirely healthy.

But they loved each other. Probably more than they loved anyone else. Which only made it harder to step in when things got ugly between them. They’d do anything for the other—except, of course, let them know just how much they really cared.

A shift in fabric pulled James from his thoughts. Sirius had drawn his bed curtains closed, making it clear he was done with company for the night.

“Good one, mate,” James muttered to Peter.

Peter grimaced. “Sorry. Didn’t think it through.”

Obviously.

He straightened up, a little indignant. “And what were you playing at tonight? You know how he gets about Remus. Especially since last term.”

James shrugged. “I’m not the one who brought up a girl. You know how he spirals over those.”

They exchanged a look, both recalling the last time Remus had a girlfriend—how Sirius had nearly hexed the poor girl.

Peter hesitated. “You think he’ll be alright?”

James shrugged again. “He always is. Just needs time.”

Peter nodded, but his gaze shifted to Remus’s empty bed, frowning. “Hey—has Remus seemed off to you lately?”

James cocked his head, considering. “Dunno. A bit? You know how he is. Odd bloke.”

Peter nodded, but he didn’t seem convinced. “Yeah, just—he doesn’t look at Sirius the same way lately. Made me wonder. Seems to like you more at the minute.”

James laughed because that was ridiculous.

But—was it?

He turned back to ask Peter what he meant, but before he could, Peter had already pulled out his wand, muttering something in mangled Latin. His wand sparked green, and a moment later, his bed curtains were alight, smoking.

James sighed, barely lifting his own wand to cast a lazy Aguamenti, putting out the worst of the flames while Peter frantically beat at the rest with his blanket.

This wasn’t an irregular occurrence. In fact, it hadn’t happened in so long that it was due to happen.

James was just glad it wasn’t him this time.

“Shit,” Peter grumbled, surveying his burnt duvet and ruined sheets. He groaned. “Gonna go see if they’ve got some spares.” He muttered to himself as he left the room. “Bloody bastard coursework. Make your own spell, it’s easy—it’s simple charm-work, my arse.”

James snorted, but his mind lingered on what Peter had said.

Remus didn’t look at Sirius the same way these days.

And lately, he seemed to like him more.

The smell of charred fabric was already thick in the air, putrid and clinging, and James directed his wand at the windows, spelling them open. Cool night air stirred the smoke, thinning it, but his thoughts felt heavier. He glanced between Sirius’s drawn bed curtains and Remus’s empty bed, his brows furrowing.

Yeah. Remus had been a little different the past couple of days. Not in a bad way—at least, James didn’t think so. If anything, he’d liked it. The slight shift in routine, the added bit of attention, the change of pace. It made things feel less predictable, less same. And James hated monotony more than just about anything.

Remus had been fun lately. Stupidly competitive about getting the first shower. Actually putting up a fight during that Defence duel instead of holding back like he usually did. And he listened—really listened—without that distracted, half-there quality he sometimes had, the one that meant he was thinking about Sirius, looking at Sirius, waiting for Sirius to inevitably interrupt.

Now, though, he laughed at James’s jokes. Asked about Quidditch and his training. Broke silences first, without that careful deliberation he usually showed. Stood a little taller, too.

There’d been something else recently—a quiet patience, a touch more warmth, though still edged with exasperation. But a different kind of exasperation. Less dry, more… reluctantly amused. Like he actually enjoyed James’s nonsense, even if he’d never admit it.

They’d just clicked more lately.

Not that James fancied him. It was still Moony. But for the first time, he thought he sort of got it—why Sirius had wanted to snog him in the first place.

It wasn’t like James had a problem with the way Remus usually was. He loved the idiot, even when he was being a miserable, snarky bastard. But the past few days… well, he hadn’t minded the change. Wouldn’t have complained if this version of Remus—the one who’d been a little kinder, a little easier—stuck around. Not all the time, obviously. Sirius would hate that, and James wouldn’t want Remus to lose the sharpness he loved about him. And James loved him too, in his own way.

But maybe sometimes.

It was nice, having someone around who seemed to get him. Other than Sirius—who understood most things, just not the parts he found boring, which, unfortunately, tended to be the ones James would rather not have mocked.

It wasn’t a big deal. Just… nice to be seen by someone. And if that person happened to be Remus, well, he was a mate. There was nothing weird about it. Didn’t feel weird. Wasn’t like he’d felt leered at or anything. Nothing that’d have him pulling Remus aside for a gentle letdown. If anything, Remus would probably laugh in his face at the suggestion.

But Sirius was reacting to something. Overreacting, in James’s opinion. Had been in a right strop for days—quieter when he should be loud, louder when he needed to drown out the quiet. Too easy to push over the edge.

And, all right, maybe James could see why. Remus hadn’t been paying him as much attention. And Sirius always took that to mean his attention had shifted elsewhere.

And Sirius had never liked that.

Liked it even less than when someone’s attention was on Remus.

He’d never quite been able to forgive other people for finding Remus attractive.

Had very nearly hexed the last girl who did.

Hadn’t quite forgiven Remus for liking her back.

James sighed, smoothing out the crumpled pages of his Quidditch magazine. The enchanted image of Atlas Silverthorn, Falmouth Falcons’ Seeker, kept glitching—just shy of catching the Snitch every time.

He barely registered it. His eyes were on the words, but they weren’t taking them in. Instead, his mind kept circling back to everything that was shifting around them.

They were growing up. And, more and more, it felt like they were growing apart.

It wasn’t drastic—not yet. They still had their laughter, their pranks, their late-night talks. But lately, those moments felt more fragile; it no longer felt like they’d go on forever, more like something delicate, balanced on the edge of a knife. One wrong move and—

James swallowed, turning the page.

He didn’t want things to change. But they already were.

Sirius with whatever all that was about. Peter with his insecurities. James with the growing weight of responsibility on his shoulders. And Remus—Remus with his secrets, always holding something back, even with them.

James had spent years smoothing things over, keeping them all together. But even he could feel it—as they got older, something was shifting between Sirius and Remus. Something that could either steady them or crack the foundation they’d built.

And he did, at least, have some idea of why that shift was happening.

It was just before winter break when James caught them. He didn’t know how long it had been going on before that. They hadn’t acted any different—not really. They’d always been a bit softer with each other, a bit more touchy than the rest of them, like they had their own thing going on, something the rest of them weren’t part of.

They’d been about fifteen minutes from King’s Cross when James went looking. They’d disappeared ages ago for a smoke—weed, probably. One last bit of freedom before Sirius was locked away for Christmas. Would’ve made Peter puff puff pass out instead of puff puff pass if they’d stayed in the compartment. At least, that’s what they’d said.

James hadn’t argued, hadn’t joined them either. His mum had a nose like a bloodhound, and besides, he’d never liked the stuff. Made him slow, made other people quicker, and James hated giving anyone an edge over him.

He walked the carriage up and down but didn’t see them. Was about to give up when he heard low voices, spotted them at the end of the train. He’d been about to call out—ask where the hell they’d been—but something about the way they were standing together stopped him.

So he held back. Watched.

Sirius was fixing Remus’s clothes, smoothing his hair—which was a state—and at first, James thought, right, fair enough. Probably had their heads out the window passing a spliff between them, trying not to get caught.

But no.

The way they stood, the way they touched—it wasn’t that. Sirius had Remus backed up against the wall, arm around him like he would a girl. Their touches were slow, lingering, deliberate, like they were taking each other in before they had to part. Like they were going to miss each other more than mates should. Foreheads pressed together, voices low and soft. And when they finally stepped back—the way they looked at each other…

James knew.

He’d made his way back to the compartment quickly, tense. Composed himself. Didn’t let Peter clock that anything was off. Let them lie to his face when they came back, laughing about how they’d been too stoned to move. Sirius had said Moony had been legless, and Remus had flushed—just a little, but enough. Enough for James to know that wasn’t what Sirius had meant. Or that, at the very least, it wasn’t the reason.

He wondered, briefly, how many times they’d lied to him like that.

At the platform, James gave them a short goodbye. Nodded at their well wishes for a good Christmas. Didn’t linger like he normally would to see Sirius off. But still, he noticed. Noticed the way Remus tensed when Sirius reached his mother. Noticed the way Sirius tried not to look back—but, of course, did. And when he did, he sent one last warm smile Remus’s way before his cool mask slipped on as he faced Walburga.

James swallowed, feeling… weird about the whole thing. Because that wasn’t normal. Mates didn’t do that.

He spent Christmas trying to make sense of it. Ignored a few of their owls. Took him until New Year’s to really feel like he could answer them again. Wrote back, wished them a happy new year, threw in some excuse about family gatherings, being too busy to reply.

Told himself to stop being a dick about it.

Because at the end of the day, they were still Moony and Padfoot, even if they were snogging. He couldn’t understand why they’d want to snog each other instead of a girl, not when girls were—well, nicer to look at, for a start.

But maybe it wasn’t his to understand.

He’d decided to bring it up when they got back to school. But then they returned, and Sirius was engaged. And suddenly, James couldn’t find the words.

Because it wasn’t like they could be together. Ever. And if that was the case, he wasn’t about to make it worse. Wasn’t about to be the reason they felt like they couldn’t be.

So James minded his business.

Not that it mattered in the end.

He had no clue where they stood now.

Because even knowing that much, he’d never completely understood whatever was going on between Sirius and Remus—and, frankly, he didn’t want to.

But whatever it was—or wasn’t—had been simmering for ages, and lately, it felt like it was about to boil over.

Most days, they seemed almost fine. Almost being the key word. It only took a stray look, a sharp-edged joke, and suddenly it was obvious that they weren’t fine at all.

Sirius, for his part, had been pushing it lately. James wasn’t sure if it was deliberate or if Sirius even knew he was doing it, but it was happening all the same. He’d wind Remus up, prod at him, pull at loose threads just to see what unravelled. And when Remus didn’t rise to it—or worse, when he barely reacted—James would catch something almost vulnerable flash across Sirius’s face before he shoved it back down like it had never been there at all.

Sirius Black didn’t get embarrassed, so it was unsettling to witness.

The jealousy, though—that James did understand. It wasn’t just about losing Remus to someone else. It was more than that. It was the fear of someone else seeing the specialnesses in something Sirius thought only he could see. That he had seen first.

Because he had been first.

First to realise there was something different about Remus, something worth knowing. First to see the sharp mind behind the quiet exterior. First to be trusted with the truth. First to sneak him out, to get him drunk, to watch him properly laugh.

Sirius had spent years carving out a space for himself in Remus’s life. James figured the thought of someone else coming along and taking it from him terrified him.

Like it would make him matter less.

Sirius had grown up in a house where love was a thing to be earned and withheld in equal measure. Where affection came in cold, careful doses—if it came at all.

Remus was different. His trust was hard-won, but once given, it was absolute.

Until Sirius broke it.

And that—that was something not even James could fix.

The reminder of it alone, even now, made Sirius shut down, jaw tight and the doors behind his eyes slam closed. James knew that face—knew it meant Sirius was spiralling, caught in the gravity of his own fears. It was the same expression he’d worn the night he finally left his family for good, not knowing where he would go but knowing he couldn’t stay.

Something about losing Remus scared him. James knew that much.

Sirius had always held onto Remus a little tighter than the others, almost as if he was afraid Remus might slip through his fingers like smoke. But the harder Sirius tried to grip, the more it seemed Remus drifted away.

Remus, for his part, had never shown the same possessiveness. Not as overtly, anyway. But then, Remus had always doubted he deserved much of anything, so he never claimed something unless he was sure it was truly his to keep.

James never wanted something like last term to happen again. The immediate fallout had been the worst of it, probably.

Seeing Remus’s face the next day. Blank. Every emotion tucked away so carefully it was like they’d never been there at all. He’d never done it so completely before—not with them. Not since first year. It was like he regretted sharing any part of himself with all of them.

Like Sirius’s mistake hadn’t just shattered his trust in him, but his trust in everything. In all of them.

And James—James had been beyond his limit with Sirius. With the way he’d been treating Remus before he did what he did. He’d noticed, of course. That whatever soft, gooey-eyed thing had been happening between them was over. That they’d stopped necking, definitely. Stopped disappearing together. Stopped sharing a bed.

James didn’t know what had happened there. Again—didn’t want to know, honestly. Had even been a little relieved when Remus got with Becca, when Sirius turned his attention back to just girls.

But then James had noticed just how bloody miserable the two of them were.

Moony quieter, all the time, in a way James couldn’t stand. Like someone had made him feel small. Insignificant. Like he didn’t matter.

This wasn’t the Remus James knew—the one who could hold his own with wit and patience. This was someone worn down to more shadow than person.

And Sirius—well, he’d been louder. Like he was trying to drown something out. More reckless, dragging James into increasingly stupid schemes, like consequences didn’t exist. Like he didn’t care about anything anymore.

So James changed his mind.

Didn’t care who either of them wanted to snog. If it was each other and it made them happy again, they could be James’s bloody guest.

But… they didn’t. Hadn’t, as far as James could tell. And neither of them had been happy since. Not properly. Not like before, when they lit up at the sight of each other. When the schemes they ran together were brilliant and fun, when their sniping was entertaining instead of painful.

James knew he couldn’t completely blame Sirius for what he did. Other shit had gone down. His mother. He’d already been spiralling. But it had been fucking awful being friends with both of them at that time.

Because part of James had been so angry at Sirius, for hurting their mate. Their Moony. Someone who didn’t let others close. Who wasn’t reckless like the rest of them. Who couldn’t afford to be.

And it wasn’t like Sirius had just done something stupid this time. This one—Snape.

That.

Well, Moony could’ve been put away. Would’ve definitely been taken away from them.

And maybe, at the time, that’s what Sirius had wanted. To just… not have to see him. Like Remus had done something—must’ve—to make Sirius react like that. Something he didn’t know how to deal with. So he needed him gone.

Expressed it badly.

They could be sweeter with each other than they were with anyone else—but just as easily, they could be more vicious too.

That was what made it so hard for James to forgive him. Intent. It was cold. Calculating. Indifferent to how it would ruin the life of someone they all loved. Someone Sirius loved.

Remus wouldn’t have forgiven himself if he’d killed Snape. Ever. James had seen how he checked them all after the full, like clockwork—relief when no one was hurt, downright panic if someone was, even just a scratch. Kicking himself. Hating himself.

It would have killed him.

Confirmed something they’d spent years trying to convince him wasn’t true. That he was a monster.

But James couldn’t hate Sirius for it completely.

He’d kept him away from Remus, swearing at him, had even punched him. Hard. Sirius had taken it without protest, like he deserved it. But… he’d still told James what he’d done. Like he didn’t want to see a scheme through to the end for once.

And Sirius never stopped once he put something in motion.

Granted, it had been really fucking close. And he hadn’t stopped it himself. James had—by the skin of his teeth. Tackling Snape. Almost getting a chunk taken out of him in the process.

His heart had nearly given out. It was terrifying, and for once, not in a good way.

But no. James couldn’t hate Sirius. Never could. He loved the stupid prick too much. Understood him too much. And Sirius had been regretful. Shaken. Careful, suddenly, in a way he’d never been before.

Remus, of course, wouldn’t hear his apologies. His excuses. Slammed every door Sirius was waiting at in his face. And James had started to feel… torn.

On one hand, Sirius had hurt Remus in a way James didn’t think deserved forgiveness. On the other, he wanted Remus to hear him out. As Sirius’s best mate, he wanted Remus to put him out of his misery. Wanted him to make Sirius happy again.

So yeah. It was a shite situation all around.

Those first few days, Remus hadn’t even come back to the dorm. Not even when they promised Sirius wouldn’t be there. That he’d found somewhere else to kip for the time being.

Remus wouldn’t hear it.

Like he couldn’t bear to step back in there.

Like it held too many memories. Like it was a mausoleum of moments before the disaster.

Sirius had come back to the dorm first. Remus was still out—staying in Ravenclaw Tower, with one of his other mates. Samuel.

And Sirius… well, most nights, he ended up curled on Remus’s bed. Transformed. A sad, black dog waiting for something that might never come.

That image stuck with James.

Remus came back, eventually. Let Sirius sit with them again, eventually. Looked at him again, eventually. Spoke to him again, eventually.

They made jokes again now. Planned schemes. Started up with those looks again.

But things still weren’t quite right.

James wasn’t sure if they ever would be.

He felt his own share of guilt about the whole thing. He’d been the first to single Snape out back on that train in first year, the one to catch Sirius’s attention and turn it toward the greasy prat. Over the years, James knew he’d pushed too far sometimes, goading Snape, trying to wind him up—trying, stupidly, to show off. To take Lily from him. And in doing so, he’d made Snape meaner, more ruthless. He’d blurred the line of what was fair game, of how far they could go before it stopped being just a rivalry. He’d made the others targets, too.

And Sirius—Sirius had never been one to hold back, not when it came to his pride or his friends. If Snape struck first, Sirius would strike harder, make sure he knew his place, make sure he thought twice before ever taking another swing.

James didn’t know what had set him off that night. Snape must have said something. Must have been in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong version of Sirius to cross paths with.

And in the end, none of them had come out ahead. The feud had cost them all.

James had never managed to impress Lily.

Snape had lost Lily.

Sirius had lost Remus.

And Remus had lost Sirius.

Now, it was starting to feel like they were losing whatever was left. The tension, the silence—those were becoming the norm, replacing the laughter, the ease. If this was how sixth year was going… what about the next? What about after they graduated?

James threw a look toward Sirius’s drawn curtains, then glanced at the darkened sky outside. Time felt different now—less infinite, slipping through their fingers faster than he knew how to stop.

“I miss first-year Remus and Sirius,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Guess Mum was right: little kids, little problems. Big kids…” He sighed. Big problems.

James didn’t know what came next. He just knew he didn’t want to lose this—whatever this was, whatever was left of the four of them before the real world finally caught up.

He hoped that whatever happened, whatever changes came their way, they’d still have each other in the end. Because if they lost that… James wasn’t sure how any of them would survive it.

They left the Ancient Runes room in near darkness, their notes a mess of frantic scribbles—but for the first time, they had something close to a lead.

Not a solution. Not yet. But an understanding—at least, a possible one—of how this could have happened.

Not that they had time to chase it down now. Because, as Sam had oh-so-kindly reminded Lily, they had the honour of Saturday night prefect duty. One of the worst shifts on the rotation.

As they passed a group of third-years huddled in a corner, clearly up to no good, the younger students stiffened at their approach and scattered with the speed of guilty consciences.

Patrolling always felt heavier at night, when the task of keeping a castle full of restless teenagers in check seemed impossible.

Saturdays, though? Saturdays were the worst.

No classes in the morning. Students coming back from Hogsmeade with armfuls of things they shouldn’t have.

Younger kids bouncing off the walls on Honeydukes sugar highs. Older ones stumbling in from the Three Broomsticks—some definitely not just drinking Butterbeer—ready to start a fight with the portraits if they so much as looked at them the wrong way.

Dragging hormonal students out of broom closets. Chasing first-years away from the Forbidden Forest before they could dare each other to go inside.

It was enough of a headache on a normal night.

And tonight? Tonight was far from normal.

Lily rubbed at her temples with a sigh. “You’d think, just once, we’d get a quiet shift. But no, there’s always someone testing curfew or seeing just how forbidden parts of the castle really are.”

Remus managed a weary smile. “It’s like the more we try to enforce the rules, the more determined they are to break them. Sometimes I think our only purpose here is to be obstacles to their fun.”

Lily shot him a teasing look. “Their fun? Jealous you’re not out there causing trouble with them? Or is this proof that one of the Marauders is finally growing up?”

Remus stretched, shaking his head with a soft snort. “Wouldn’t go that far. More like… I finally understand what adults mean when they say, ‘If it’s not one thing, it’s another.’”

Lily let out a groan of agreement. “I used to think my mum was being dramatic when she said she was ‘cursed’ and the universe had it out for her. But now? No, I get it. Turns out, I’m the cursed one, and the world is definitely against me.”

Remus thought briefly, Well, I am cursed, and the world is actually against me. Werewolf and all that.

“Yeah,” he said instead, voice dry. “This whole situation does feel cursed.”

Lily exhaled heavily. Then, suddenly, something like hope flickered across her face. “At least we have an idea of what caused it now. Who knows? By tomorrow night, we could be back in our own beds—even without Dumbledore.”

“Right,” Remus said, a thread of sarcasm in his tone. “Because everything else we’ve tried has been wildly successful. And I’m not even sure if—”

He broke off, a prickle of unease running down his spine. His senses weren’t as sharp in Lily’s body, but he still caught the sound of hushed voices up ahead—too hushed. And their tone was just a little too gleeful.

Instinctively, he moved closer to Lily as they rounded the corner.

A group of fifth-year Slytherins had a younger Hufflepuff cornered against the wall. A small, wide-eyed girl, shrinking into herself as they closed in. Wands drawn.

Remus felt Lily tense beside him, anger flaring hot, but these weren’t just any students, these were dangerous students. Before she could step forward, he did—keeping her behind him, though his borrowed body’s height didn’t do much to shield her.

“Oi,” he called out, his voice sharp. “Four against one? Bit pathetic, isn’t it?”

The Slytherins turned, though not before one of them—Rosier—had the beginnings of a curse on his lips. A curse that made Remus’s blood run cold.

The Hufflepuff girl looked between them, her expression flickering with relief.

Evan Rosier. Amycus Carrow. Bartemius Crouch Jr. Regulus Black.

Remus took in their faces as they assessed him in turn.

Carrow was the first to speak, slipping his wand away with an easy smirk and draping an arm around the Hufflepuff’s trembling shoulders. He gave her a squeeze that wasn’t meant to be comforting.

“No one’s against anyone,” he said smoothly. “She’s with us. We’re all friends here.”

The girl flinched, trying to twist out of his grasp.

Lily was already stepping forward, slipping past Remus before he could stop her. “You don’t look like you’re being very friendly,” she said flatly, her voice cool, controlled.

Remus bit back a sigh as Crouch’s smirk widened, tilting his head as he considered her.

“New friend,” Crouch echoed. “Badgers love making those, don’t they? So soft-hearted. We were just educating her.”

Lily’s expression didn’t waver. “Funny,” she said. “I don’t recall bullying being part of the curriculum.” Arms folding neatly across her chest, she added, “You might want to check your facts before you do something you regret.”

Crouch held her gaze, unruffled. “Oh, I won’t regret it.”

Rosier clearly agreed and wasn’t done educating. “Remember, Muddies,” he warned, his voice laced with quiet menace. “We let you exist. That can change at any moment, so tread lightly.”

Lily’s lips pressed together. She didn’t hesitate.

“Twenty points from Slytherin,” she said, her voice cutting through the corridor like ice. “Five for each of you. Let her go.”

Carrow scoffed but shoved the girl away from him, letting her stumble onto the cold stone floor. Lily moved instantly, crouching beside her with careful slowness, as if wary of startling her further.

Remus watched as she murmured a quiet Episkey, the small scrapes on the girl’s knees knitting back together.

Then, without looking up, Lily added coolly, “I won’t tell you again. I’ll just start taking names.”

That was enough to send them moving. With varying degrees of muttered irritation, the boys turned and sauntered off, Rosier casting one last glance over his shoulder before disappearing around the bend.

Remus let out a slow breath, watching them go before turning back.

Lily had produced a clean handkerchief from her pocket and was gently dabbing away the blood and dust. When she was done, she smiled, then stood and offered her hand. The girl hesitated but took it, her fingers still trembling slightly.

Lily inclined her head at Remus, a silent nudge. Right. He was the one in a girl’s body. The girl likely felt safer speaking to him.

Remus let his expression soften, offering an easy smile. “You all right?”

She nodded.

“Good.” His voice stayed light, warm. “Just be careful walking alone at night, yeah?”

The girl glanced between them, shoulders still taut—but something in her posture eased. “Thank you.”

“Want us to walk you back to your common room?” Remus asked.

The Hufflepuff entrance wasn’t too far, tucked away near the kitchens, but it was still a walk.

The girl hesitated. Then, glancing at Lily—at Remus—she shook her head quickly. “No, I—I’ll be all right. Thank you.”

Before they could say more, she turned and hurried away.

Lily let out a slow breath, following the direction the Slytherins had gone. “Vile children,” she muttered.

“Yeah, they really are.”

Lily shook her head, disbelief clear in her face. “Using curses like that… you’ve got to wonder what goes on at home.”

Remus nodded, but he didn’t have to wonder. He already knew.

They were just about to resume their rounds when the sound of footsteps caught their attention—two Slytherin boys lingering back.

Crouch and Rosier were gone, but from the shadows of an alcove, Regulus Black emerged, his pale face standing out in the dim light. Beside him, Amycus Carrow hesitated for only a moment before retreating into the darkness, heading back toward the dungeons. Regulus, however, moved in the opposite direction, alone.

Remus raised an eyebrow, keeping his tone light. “Off somewhere interesting tonight, Black?”

Regulus stopped short, his expression caught between disdain and calculation. Remus met his gaze steadily.

“What’s it to you?” Regulus asked, a hint of something nasty lurking in his challenge.

Lily and Remus exchanged a wry glance.

“Nothing much,” Remus replied casually. “Just thought I’d remind you—curfew’s nearly up. Wouldn’t want to cost your House any more points tonight, would you?”

Regulus’s mouth twitched, as if debating a sneer, but he didn’t quite commit. Instead, he gave a curt nod—less in agreement, more in resignation. His gaze slid to Lily, who remained silent, arms crossed, watching him with careful disinterest.

But Remus knew that look on Regulus’s face. He’d seen it before, and it wasn’t meant for Lily.

It was for him.

It was the same warning he’d received in passing glances and cold, quiet stares. Stay away from my brother. Don’t make things worse for him.

And maybe, Regulus had been right.

“Go on,” Remus said, noting how Lily tilted her head slightly, sensing something but not quite placing it. “Move along.”

Regulus hesitated for only a second longer before casting them a final, weary glance, as though even acknowledging them required more effort than he was willing to expend.

Then, with one last unreadable look at Lily, he turned and vanished into the dark.

“Well then,” Lily said, sounding mildly perplexed. “That’s Sirius’s brother?”

“That’s Sirius’s brother,” Remus confirmed, his shrug carrying a silent What can you do?

Lily watched as Regulus disappeared down the corridor. “He almost reminds me of Severus,” she mused, not unkindly. “Less bitter, a bit more… haughty.”

Remus huffed out a quiet laugh. “Never let Sirius hear that. He’s already not on speaking terms with Regulus—that might be the final straw.”

Lily tilted her head, as if trying to reconcile the differences. “He doesn’t really look like Sirius.”

“He’s—” Remus considered. “Less handsome?” It was true. Regulus was plainer and had an almost pinched look about him, as if childhood had been something to endure rather than enjoy.

Lily frowned slightly. “It’s not that. He just… doesn’t shine.”

Remus glanced after him. It was an apt way to put it. Sirius had a presence that demanded attention, even when he wasn’t trying—loud, magnetic, impossible to ignore. Regulus, on the other hand, seemed almost determined to fade into the background, as if trying to escape the light altogether.

Sirius rarely spoke of him. Regulus was like a shadow—always there, but easy to overlook until you found yourself swallowed by the dark.

Lily was right, though. More than anything, Regulus was defined by who he wasn’t: not Sirius, not daring, not shining.

Lily broke the silence first, her voice quiet. “I feel sorry for him sometimes. Growing up in that family, under all that pressure.”

Remus turned to her, his expression unreadable. “It’s not easy for any of them. But don’t feel too sorry. He hates people like us. That won’t change.”

Lily sighed. “I know. It’s just… sad.”

Remus nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

They both knew how precarious their places were—Lily, a Muggle-born, and Remus, a half-blood with a secret that could get him expelled if the wrong people found out. People like Regulus Black.

But Lily had always been one to search for goodness in the places it was hardest to find. The first to offer compassion to those who least deserved it. Even when faced with cruelty, she looked for the pain behind it, as if understanding might somehow lessen the hurt.

Regulus was a product of the same family that had driven Sirius away, but he hadn’t broken free—at least, not yet. And in a world where choices defined who you were, it was easy to see where Regulus stood.

Someone who agreed with everything. Stood for nothing.

“Maybe he thinks he’s right,” she murmured. “That’s the thing about terrible people—they convince themselves they’re doing the right thing.”

Remus’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. And there’s no telling how far that kind of thinking can go.”

Lily glanced sideways at him, thoughtful. “Still… do you think he’s just doing what he’s been taught? Maybe he doesn’t know any better. He’s young, Remus.”

Remus exhaled, measured. “Maybe,” he said, keeping his voice neutral, stopping himself from saying, You don’t have to be particularly clever to object to an ongoing genocide, Lily.

But she must have seen something in his face because she narrowed her eyes expectantly.

Remus sighed. “He’s surrounded by the worst kind of people,” he said, his voice carrying a rare hardness. “People who like hurting others. Who do it just because they can. Regulus… he’s not as bad as the rest, but that’s not saying much.”

The company one kept said a lot about a person. Lily had been friends with Snape, and despite everything, she had always tried to see the good in him. That kind of perspective was kind, but it wasn’t always right. The wrong people could change you, and often not for the better.

Regulus’s friends—

They were cruel. Cruel in a way that made Remus think they were just as dangerous to keep close as they were to cross.

Crouch was the worst of them. Last year, he’d been caught experimenting on Muggle-born students’ pets. Not Unforgivables, but close. The curses had left them mangled, whimpering, their owners heartbroken. A few detentions—that was all he got. His parents had stepped in, of course, threatened Dumbledore with Ministry involvement if he dared to expel him.

The worst part? Crouch’s defence was that at least he hadn’t experimented on fellow students.

Regulus wasn’t like Sirius. He wasn’t a ringleader. He occupied a position that reminded Remus, uneasily, of Peter—never the one calling the shots, but never the one speaking out, either. Someone who followed rather than led. Someone who let things happen.

“You don’t like him,” Lily observed.

Remus sighed. “He made Sirius’s life harder when it didn’t need to be. Got him in trouble when he knew the consequences. Made him feel… watched, even here. And Hogwarts was supposed to be where Sirius could escape all that.” He paused, unclenching his jaw. “I know why he did it. Doesn’t make it right.”

Lily tilted her head. “Why did he do it?”

Remus shrugged. “Why do Purebloods do anything? Reputation. Image. Sirius’s actions reflect on him, and I guess he wanted to stop getting flak for it. Get Sirius to be more responsible, to treat the family name with more respect.” A beat passed. “Jealousy, too, I think.”

“Jealousy?” Lily repeated. “Like a sibling rivalry?”

Remus shook his head. “Not a rivalry if one person doesn’t care enough to play—but still wins anyway. Doesn’t matter how perfect Regulus is, how well he plays the Pureblood son. He’s not Sirius.”

Lily’s brows drew together. “But he’s heir now, right? Since Sirius…”

She trailed off. They both knew.

Disowned. Outcast.

Most of the school knew. The Slytherins hadn’t been quiet about it. And the end of Sirius’s engagement had been in the papers over the summer—not a headline, but a notice, for the magical world to see.

“Not how it works,” Remus said, pulling her back. “They’re trying to make Regulus heir, sure. But they can disown Sirius all they like, take his inheritance, cut him out—he’s still firstborn. In Pureblood families, that means something. Some things they can’t take from him, not like money. It’s in the magic, in the bloodline. And every Pureblood knows it. Anyone marrying Regulus won’t have a safe position as Lady Black as long as Sirius is alive.”

Lily’s eyes widened. “You think they’d kill him.”

Remus’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “I wouldn’t put it past them. But for now, I think… they’re waiting. He’s still young, hasn’t graduated yet. They’re willing to give him time, see if he’ll get this reckless streak out of his system and come to his senses. Go home.”

Lily took that in.

Sirius. Home.

After everything Remus had told her about how they’d treated him, it seemed impossible. But she supposed… Sirius was wild. Hated monotony, and manners, and every rule he’d have to follow to go back. Still, there was a certain pull to safety, security, stability—the things his parents had promised him, even if they’d only ever been illusions.

Would he?

She swallowed, then asked, “And Regulus?”

“Acting heir—for now,” Remus said. “But they won’t be able to marry him off as easily.”

Lily frowned. “Because he’s not entitled to everything Sirius is?”

Remus nodded. “Yeah. But it’s more than that. The best matches—the good families—see him as the spare. Won’t settle. His parents couldn’t control Sirius. That reads as instability. And…” He gave her a pointed look. “Pureblood girls are still girls. Who d’you think they’d rather marry?”

Tall, charming Sirius, or his less attractive, less powerful little brother?

Lily rolled her eyes. “It’s archaic.”

Remus shrugged. “It’s the way things are. The Blacks and their circles don’t change. They’re the kind of people who think firstborns are the most magically powerful, that magic dilutes through bloodlines—” He snorted, shaking his head. “—and that vaccinations cause Squibs. That’s why I wouldn’t take anything they say seriously. Especially not about us and our kind.”

Lily smiled faintly. There was something freeing about it—seeing the absurdity of what someone believed. Made it easier not to care what they thought. But it didn’t erase the danger. Didn’t make it any less real.

Didn’t mean people like her and Remus weren’t still seen as interlopers, bugs in their world.

Something to be squashed.

She looked away. Hogwarts stood tall around them, ancient stone walls, a thousand years of history. A school that had always opened its doors to anyone with magic, regardless of blood.

Safe.

A place they belonged, no matter what any bitter Pureblood had to say about it.

Still… it got her thinking.

Her sister hated magic as much as some magical people hated her. Hated Lily as keenly as Regulus resented Sirius.

She never thought she’d have anything in common with Sirius Black. And yet—here it was. A thread that bypassed birthrights and bloodlines.

Sibling issues.

When Lily spoke again, it was almost absently, more to herself than to him, thinking aloud, “It’s got to be hard for his brother. Not measuring up. My sister…” She hesitated, catching Remus’s eye. It felt uncomfortable, like trying to explain things with Severus.

Remus gave her an encouraging look.

Lily sighed. “I… understand Sirius, in a way. Petunia thinks she’s in my shadow. She hates me for having magic when she doesn’t. For… other, more petty things.” For being prettier, thinner, their parents’ favourite—things that weren’t even true. “But magic is the big one. At first, she just hated that. Called me a freak. Still does. But now, I think she just hates me.”

She looked away, throat tight.

Remus didn’t speak, just let her compose herself.

“I feel guilty, of course,” she said at last. “I’d give it to her if I could. I don’t feel special, having something she doesn’t. It’s not like I want to flaunt it, but…”

“You can’t help what you are,” Remus finished quietly.

Lily exhaled. “Exactly.”

Remus nodded. “It’s the same for Sirius. He didn’t ask to be firstborn, didn’t ask for any of it. Would rather it wasn’t his. But Regulus still holds it against him. For having what he wants, for being—” His mouth quirked. “—more. More handsome, more charismatic, more likeable, more talented, gets better grades. And he doesn’t even try.”

Lily huffed. “Petunia’s complaints are… of a similar vein.”

Remus looked at her, serious now. “Sirius isn’t forcing his brother to live in his shadow. You’re not forcing your sister to live in yours. There are things we can’t change. But don’t dim yourself just because someone else isn’t shining as bright. Odds are, if the roles were reversed, Regulus and Petunia wouldn’t feel quite so sorry.”

Lily managed a small, sad smile. He was right, of course. But knowing that didn’t change the feeling—that nagging guilt, like she was stealing the light without meaning to. She wished that, instead of shrinking into the shadows and letting bitterness take root, Petunia could see that shining less didn’t mean being less.

A firework was bright and dazzling, yes, but sometimes it was the quiet glow of a candle that was needed most. Being quieter, less attention-grabbing than Lily, didn’t mean she wasn’t capable of being loved just as fiercely.

As they walked, Remus went on, “Luckily, our paths don’t really cross with Regulus. Sirius doesn’t like the way he looks at me. Or, well—looks down on me. Would probably hex him for it if he said anything. So I steer clear. I’m not about to give him another reason to hate his brother. And the only reason his brother even bothers looking at me is because I’m close enough to Sirius to be worth noticing. Easy strike.”

So that’s what that sour look from Sirius’s brother was about.

Lily exhaled in quiet sympathy. She could imagine it—your own brother thinking the person you loved wasn’t even worth the air they breathed. No wonder it caused problems.

“They’ve never been close?” she asked.

Remus shrugged, like he wasn’t entirely sure but also didn’t find it that important. “They grew up in the same house, but that doesn’t mean they grew up together.”

Lily hesitated. Then, carefully, “And… how they treated Sirius?”

His parents—those shadowy, merciless figures Lily had no desire to ever meet.

Remus’s expression flickered, something dark flashing behind his eyes before he forced it away. “Not applicable to Regulus. He’s never needed disciplining.” He paused, then gave a half-shrug. “Y’know, same boiling water that softens the potato hardens the egg.”

Lily let out a relieved breath, then raised an eyebrow. “And who’s the potato in this scenario?”

Remus snorted. “Depends on who you ask.”

Lily huffed.

As they turned a corner, she pressed a little more. “Do you think Sirius misses him?”

Remus slowed slightly, considering. “Maybe. It’s complicated. Sirius would never admit it, but I think part of him wishes things had been different with Regulus. They’re still brothers. But…” His voice quieted, careful. “I don’t think home is something you want to remember when you had to run away from it.”

Lily breathed out softly. “Family’s never simple, is it?”

She thought of Petunia—of how her words could wound deeper than any curse, the scars still there, invisible but lasting.

So desperate to be interesting with that little creep sidekick of yours. He just wants to sleep with you. Maybe if you’d let him, he’d still be around.

Did you like it? Being the only person in the world that freak cares about?

Lily’s fingers curled into a fist. “Stop it,” she muttered under her breath, shaking off the memory.

Remus glanced at her but didn’t press. Instead, he echoed quietly, “No, it’s not simple.” His expression held the weight of his own understanding. “Families can be, well… as messy as they are painful.”

Lily leaned against the wall, her voice quieter now. “It’s awful. Seeing families torn apart like this.”

Remus nodded. “It is. But people make their choices. We can’t make them see things our way.”

She let that settle, the truth of it sinking in, heavy and unwelcome. “I just wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

“Me too,” Remus murmured. “But this is what we’ve got.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick with everything they couldn’t change, with a future that wasn’t some distant thing anymore. It was here, closing in, and with every passing day, it darkened their world a little more.

They resumed walking, footsteps echoing in sync. The night was drawing on, and with the approaching curfew, their patrol was nearing its end.

“Do you think it’ll ever get better?” Lily asked quietly—no elaboration needed. Remus knew exactly what she meant.

He glanced at her. “I hope so.” A pause. Not a chance in hell…

It wasn’t a lie. He did hope. But hoping and believing weren’t the same. Deep down, he knew the truth: things weren’t going to get better. Not the way they were headed.

Lily must have known too, because she didn’t push for reassurance. They both understood—the darkness wasn’t just looming, it was already here. The shadows were growing, and any light at the end seemed impossibly far away.

It turned his stomach, but there was nothing either of them could do about it. Arguing with fate would be like arguing with the shape of clouds.

But Lily, ever the optimist, squared her shoulders, her voice quiet but certain. “If there’s ever a reason worth fighting for, it’s love. Hate… it’s never enough. Never a good enough reason for anything.”

Remus didn’t respond, but her words settled between them like a charm, small but stubborn against the creeping dark. He could see why she believed it—Lily always had a way of seeing strength where others only saw fragility. She thought love could be enough.

Remus knew better. Love was a reason to fight, sure. But not a reason you’d win.

Still, he didn’t say it aloud. He kept those thoughts buried, like so many others. No sense dragging her down when she still had hope.

It would be nice to believe that love could be enough to see them through.

But in the years to come, they’d both learn the truth: love alone couldn’t rewrite prophecy. You couldn’t wish your way out of destiny any more than you could alter the course of stars. No matter how bright the light or how fast it travelled, darkness always arrived first, lying in wait.

But what the darkness never understood—what it would come to regret—was that love had a way of staying. Not as an easy victory, not as a shield that protected everyone, but as something quiet and enduring. Something that refused to die without a fight.

In the end, against all odds, it was Lily’s love that would drive back the shadows long after all seemed lost. Even if only for a time.

Love wasn’t just a feeling. It was a force in its own right—stubborn, relentless, stronger than any spell flung in anger. It wouldn’t always win. Not every battle. Not a war. But it would persist, even when everything else had fallen apart.

Because love wasn’t about winning or losing. It was about surviving. About holding onto something good in a world determined to tear it away.

And in the end, that was what would make the difference.

Not right away. Not in the ways they might have hoped.

But eventually.

The castle was quiet as they walked, the hush of late night settling over stone corridors and shadowed alcoves. Torchlight flickered against the walls, stretching their figures into shifting silhouettes. The air was cold, but Lily’s words lingered like embers in Remus’s mind, warm and insistent.

By the time they reached the stairwell to Gryffindor Tower, the silence had deepened, broken only by the creak of ancient floorboards and the soft scuff of their footsteps.

At the entrance, Lily paused, turning to him.

“I know you think I’m being naive,” she said quietly. “But I’m not. I know how bad things are. I just… I can’t let myself believe it’s all hopeless. Not yet.”

Remus studied her, the dim light carving sharper lines into her face—his face, technically, but right now, it felt more like hers. There was something about the way she held herself, something certain, unshakable. It was the kind of strength he admired in her, even envied. He gave a small nod.

“I don’t think you’re naive, Lily. I think you’re strong.”

A flicker of a smile crossed her face, though her eyes remained steady. “We’ll figure this out,” she said, more to herself than him. “The body swap, this war… all of it. We have to.”

Remus wanted to believe her. She’d always had this need to fix things, to put the world right. But some things weren’t so easily repaired.

And he had the sinking feeling she was about to bring up one of them.

She’d been off from the moment she stepped into the Ancient Runes classroom earlier. Fidgety. Too quiet, too thoughtful. There’d been something in her eyes—something knowing, perceptive—that had made his gut twist. But she hadn’t said anything. Not then. She’d seen what he was working on, and whatever was on her mind, she’d shelved it in favour of the task at hand.

He’d been relieved. Curious, but mostly relieved. Because that was Lily—pragmatic. She understood stakes. Knew when to let something lie. And she knew he was tired, managing her monthly on top of everything else.

And Remus—well. He’d used that to his advantage. Put it on a bit. Because he knew she wouldn’t push. Not yet. Not until they’d handled everything else. Worked on the swap. Finished their rounds.

But prefect duties were over.

Excuses had run dry.

Now, as she stood there—expression unreadable, voice careful—Remus felt it in his bones.

This was it.

He braced himself so he wouldn’t flinch when she finally said it.

“I think we should go somewhere private—not here.” She flicked a glance toward the common room entrance, where muffled voices carried through the thick wood of the portrait hole.

The Fat Lady eyed them expectantly, waiting for a password that didn’t come. Her gaze sharpened with intrigue, ears pricking up as if she could sniff out a secret.

Remus’s stomach lurched.

And then—

“I need to talk to you about Sirius. Properly.” Lily’s voice was quiet but resolved. Her gaze met his, firm. The world outside—the war, the body swap, everything—narrowed into something smaller, something more immediate. More personal.

Maybe the most personal.

“Remus,” she said. “I know something happened.”

“Okay,” Remus said at last, the word both a resignation and a decision.

He hadn’t spoken since they’d left Gryffindor Tower, walking in silence through the halls. Not that Lily had expected him to. It was the kind of quiet she knew well—the caught, guilty, trapped kind. A wall of silence as his only defence. That he hadn’t denied anything was telling enough.

It was the kind of silence born from experience. From being caught too many times and knowing it was better to say nothing. Innocent until proven guilty.

That was what made it surprising when his shoulders dropped, when he finally turned to look at her.

They’d ended up outside in the courtyard, sharing a slightly damp bench. It was freezing, but Remus had led them there anyway, like he needed the air, the sky—something to make this feel smaller.

“Listen,” he said at last, his breath curling in the cold. “If I tell you this, you’re not allowed to make a big deal out of it.” A pointed look followed, sharp enough to be a warning. “And you cannot, under any circumstances, tell anyone.”

Lily blinked but nodded, accepting the terms.

Remus exhaled, searching for where to begin. Maybe it was easier to start with what they weren’t.

“We weren’t together,” he said finally. “I wasn’t lying when I said it… wasn’t like that.” His voice firmed, as if saying it with enough conviction would make it true. It still didn’t feel true. “It wasn’t a relationship.”

It hadn’t been a relationship.

But it had felt like one.

Not a very faithful one, sure. But it hadn’t felt like they were just messing around. Not to him.

“But something happened?” Lily pressed—painstakingly careful.

Remus hesitated, like he could still outrun the question if he waited long enough. But he couldn’t. Not this time. And he wouldn’t lie.

“Something happened,” he admitted, nodding once.

A lot of somethings.

Lily took that in, her expression unreadable but open. She didn’t mask her emotions, didn’t make him guess. If she was going to judge him, she’d let him know.

But she didn’t.

“When did it start?” she asked instead.

Remus met her gaze. The simple answer should have been easy, but it wasn’t. Because when had it started? When he first realised he liked Sirius in a way he wasn’t supposed to—more than a friend, more than a mate, especially one like that?

Or had it started earlier, in the too-long looks and the touches that held just a little too much intent? When curling up together became something that hummed with anticipation? When the space between them became something worth protecting—something that felt wrong when other people got too close?

But explaining all of that would take all night, and he wasn’t sure Lily would understand—not completely. So he picked the moment it had become undeniable.

“Early fifth year.”

Lily tilted her head. “How early?”

Remus shrugged. “This time last year, we’d already…” He trailed off. By November—by Sirius’s birthday—it had started to mean something.

“Oh,” Lily said, a little surprised.

“What?” Remus asked.

“Nothing, just—” She sighed. “I really had no idea.”

There hadn’t been any obvious signs. Or if there had, she hadn’t noticed.

“No one did,” Remus said, quieter now. He looked down at his hands. “That’s how we wanted it.”

“Was it?” Lily asked, and there was something in her voice—something too understanding—that made Remus want to stop talking. To never talk about this again. Not to anyone.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Not always.”

Lily’s eyes softened with something dangerously close to pity. Remus straightened his shoulders, refusing to let that look settle.

She caught on immediately, tucking the sympathy away.

An owl hooted overhead, its shadow fluttering across the moonlit grass.

After a moment, Lily settled on another question. “And when did it end?”

That one was easy. And also not. Because it had ended. And started. More than once. There was a clear end date. And a less clear one.

Both felt like lies.

“James’s birthday,” Remus said, because that was when it was supposed to end. For good. And technically, it had. But—

“The night you got together with Becca,” Lily placed, piecing it together the way she always did, finding the links Remus would rather she didn’t. He barely had time to brace himself before she added, “And April?”

He flinched. Just slightly. But Lily saw it.

The answer wasn’t coming. Not yet. So Lily switched tactics.

“Something to do with Becca?” she asked, careful.

Their relationship had ended in April, after all. Just before the big fight with Sirius. Becca hadn’t been there for that—maybe she was a safer topic. For now.

Remus swallowed hard. “I broke up with her, and he thought it meant something different.”

“That you did it for him,” Lily guessed, voice quiet.

“Yeah.”

“But you didn’t.”

Remus shook his head, firm. “No, I did it for her. Because I did like her, and it wasn’t fair.”

“And Sirius?”

Remus let out a short, humourless breath. “Definitely didn’t like her. I still loved him.” His shoulders lifted and fell, his sigh heavy. “Couldn’t keep seeing her without feeling like I was cheating… on both of them.”

Lily gave him a small, knowing smile. “Messy.”

“Yeah. Messy.”

“And then what?” she pressed, caution giving way to curiosity.

Remus hesitated. For a moment, Lily thought he wouldn’t answer at all, that she’d hit a wall. But then, he did.

“Well, like I said, I broke up with her, and Sirius assumed it meant I’d come back to him. I shut that down quick. He was still with Mary, and besides, just because I loved him didn’t mean I wanted to deal with… all that again.”

Lily’s gaze softened. “He didn’t take it well.”

“He really didn’t take it well,” Remus confirmed with a small, rueful smile. “Did something stupid. Couldn’t forgive him for a while after that.”

Lily put the pieces together. “That’s why you two fell out.”

“Part of it,” Remus said simply. “Sometimes I think it was… all of it. But who knows? Sirius had the capacity to do what he did, and us—everything that happened between us—was just one trigger. Could’ve been something else just as easily.”

“And you still…” Lily trailed off, but Remus understood what she was asking.

He nodded. “Someone doing something bad doesn’t mean you stop loving them. Even someone being bad doesn’t mean no one will love them. And Sirius isn’t bad—just not always easy.”

Lily hesitated, then asked, careful now, “What exactly did he do?”

That was the limit.

Remus shook his head. Not that. Not yet.

Lily hesitated, biting her lip before deciding she had to ask. “He never… pressured you, did he?”

Remus’s head snapped up, his expression horrified. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

Lily winced, guilt prickling at her for even suggesting it. “Sorry. Just checking. He’s just so… you know. And you’re more…”

A shadow crossed Remus’s face, and he folded his arms. “If you’re about to say girly, I might take offence.”

Given that he was currently a girl, it was ironic. Still, Lily shook her head quickly. “Merlin, no. That’s not what I meant. Just… you’re a bit more—” She cast around for the right word. Found one. “—sensible.”

Remus snorted but let it slide.

Lily moved past that with a nod. Instead, she asked, “And you liked Becca?”

Another nod.

“So… girls?”

“Some girls, some boys.” That was easy. What came next wasn’t. “But Sirius… more than anyone.”

That made frankly too much sense—painfully so. Lily opened her mouth, but he wasn’t done.

“I like people who can sweep me up in their pace, and Becca did. I didn’t want to be him,” Remus admitted. “Didn’t want to lead someone on, have to walk away when they said they loved me. Didn’t want to be the one who cared less. Because I did care about her, just… not enough to stop caring about him. And as long as he was there, he’d be the one I wanted. And that just made me feel like… a shitty person.”

Lily shook her head, meeting his gaze with quiet insistence. “You’re not.”

Remus scoffed. “But I did it anyway. I got with her even when I knew. Used her as a barrier, basically, to keep him away.”

“No, you didn’t,” Lily corrected, putting together more pieces than he probably realised. “You were hurt. Feeling unwanted. And she was brilliant and wanted you. It’s not wrong to like being liked. Not wrong to… like more than one person. And you did like her, right?”

“Yeah. Just… not as much as I should’ve. As she deserved.” He exhaled, then admitted, “I did things with her that I never did with him.”

Lily understood immediately.

“You slept with her,” she said—not accusing, not judging, just stating.

Remus was quiet, then, “Yeah. We never… some lines, you know?”

Lily let out an exasperated breath. Idiot boys.

Before she could stop herself, she muttered, dry and blunt, “Yes, because of course boys think sex only counts if there’s penetration. Honestly.”

Remus tilted his head. “It… doesn’t?”

Lily rolled her eyes. Marlene would’ve had a field day with this one. “Lesbians, Lupin. Penetration doesn’t exactly happen there.” She softened, realising this was news to him. “If you orgasm together, or at all, that’s sex.”

“Oh,” Remus said, blinking. “Well, that’s…”

Lily pinched the bridge of her nose. The picture was filling in, and it was a mess. No clear lines, just shades of grey.

“Merlin,” she muttered. “Merlin.” Then, under her breath, “That’s just like Sirius.”

Remus narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “What?”

“Semantics,” Lily said flatly. “Let me guess—he thought it wasn’t really gay if you two didn’t…”

Remus startled with a laugh, like he hadn’t expected it. “Hearing you say it like that, yeah. Sounds stupid.” He hesitated, then added, “But… it—”

Lily’s gaze sharpened. “Is stupid.”

Remus smiled, small but real. “Maybe.”

Their laughter rang through the courtyard, echoing beneath the stars. The night smelled of cold and damp, the breeze biting at their cheeks, but neither of them moved to go inside. Shoulders knocked together, warmth lingering where they touched.

The castle glowed behind them, golden light spilling through the windows—distant, separate. Just another world they weren’t quite part of in this moment.

Somewhere, an odd burst of laughter cut through the quiet.

The tension had eased—not gone entirely, but enough that Remus no longer looked like he was bracing for something.

The laughter faded. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“And who started it?” Lily finally asked.

Remus hesitated, his gaze flicking away. “He did.”

“And who ended it?”

“…He did,” Remus admitted, quieter now. Then, after a beat, “And then, I did too. For good.”

Lily frowned, something shifting in her expression. Remus caught it immediately. “No. Don’t—don’t feel sorry for me.”

Her eyes softened, but her voice was sharp. “I’m not just sorry for you. I’m angry for you.” Her fists clenched, emotion rising in her throat. “How could he do that? After everything you’ve been through together—one of his best friends—and he just—”

“He didn’t mean to,” Remus cut in, the words coming out like a reflex—defensive, too quick, too firm. “Someone isn’t a villain just because they don’t feel the same way back. He wasn’t thinking straight, he was—” He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his—well, her—hair. “He was going through something. It was comfort. Or rebellion. Maybe both. I don’t blame him.”

Lily heard the lie in his voice, the way he brushed aside his own pain. Ever loyal, even now.

“And you?” she asked quietly. “What was it for you?”

Remus swallowed hard. “He’s… my best friend. And—” The words snagged in his throat before he could stop them. “I love him.”

Lily’s face softened. “It meant more to you,” she murmured, gentle but certain. He meant more to you.

“It couldn’t mean anything,” Remus said quickly, shaking his head. “It wasn’t like that. Just… a mistake.”

“It couldn’t mean anything because Sirius decided it didn’t,” Lily said.

Remus didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Because it did mean something. Even if they were never really together. Even if they never talked about it. Even if it was a mistake.

“But you stopped it,” she pressed.

Remus nodded, looking exhausted. “I did.”

“Remus,” Lily tried again, softer this time—careful, deliberate, toeing the line he’d drawn before. The one thing he refused to answer. “What did he do in April?”

Remus went still. Then, somehow, he looked even more tired—like whatever fight he had left had drained right out of him, leaving nothing but the shadow of it behind.

Her expression shifted, the sharp edge of curiosity softening. She didn’t press, didn’t push. Just waited.

So, for once, he didn’t avoid the question. Not completely.

“That was when we stopped being friends, too,” he said, ignoring the tightness in his chest. “Had an argument that didn’t end… well. Sirius stormed out, did something that—could’ve ruined my life.” A pause. “Could’ve ended it. Set me up to do… something that would’ve got someone killed. I’d maybe have been killed for it.”

The words landed hard. There was no light way for them to land.

Lily’s eyes widened, but before she could speak, Remus kept going. “James stopped it. Sirius—he wasn’t going to go through with it, maybe—but it was already almost too late by the time he told James. Confessed everything. Called it a prank.”

Lily didn’t say anything. Just took it in. What he wasn’t saying. The horror of it. The devastation.

How bad it really was.

She couldn’t hold back her gasp. It broke from her lips, sharp in the cold air, misting, crystallising.

Shock.

Without hesitation, Lily reached out, her fingers closing around his.

His hands were cold, a little shaky, but he didn’t pull away.

Suddenly, the quiet of last term made sense—the way it had felt like the aftermath of something, like the air was still heavy with the remnants of an explosion she hadn’t seen.

Why the storm had come and gone, leaving only silence in its wake.

She didn’t need the details to understand. Would like to—would like to know exactly how much fury Sirius Black deserved—but this was enough.

What he’d done… it was horrifying. Unpredictable. Unforgivable. And it made her sick.

She said nothing at first, but her grip tightened, and her eyes carried the weight of her anger better than words ever could.

But then—

A sudden, horrible feeling gripped her. A memory.

Severus. The way he’d come to her that April—serious, shaking, furious. Looking so much like his father when she wouldn’t listen.

He’d warned her. Stay the hell away from Lupin. Said he was dangerous. Said Black was completely mad.

He wouldn’t say why. Something about Dumbledore, about vows. Expulsion. But his face had been vicious—more than she’d ever seen. And beneath that, afraid.

Like he’d seen something most terrible.

Lily shook it off. It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter anymore.

Remus, her friend, did.

“You said you were hurt before he did that,” she said finally, not pressing about… that, steering them back to something steadier. “What happened at James’s party? Why did you end things?”

Remus shrugged, the movement small and tired. “He showed me he didn’t feel the same. Then, in April, he proved it.”

Lily exhaled sharply. That stung. But from what she’d seen—what she knew—Sirius did feel the same. So what the actual fuck was he playing at?

She hesitated. “But, Remus—the way he is.” She gave him a look that said everything—the jealousy, the attention, the quiet care that set Sirius apart when it came to him. Sirius didn’t seem to care about much, but when it came to Remus, he cared about everything. “It’s obvious he feels the same.”

“No.” Remus’s voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. His gaze was steady, unflinching. “Everything you’re noticing—that’s how he was before. And I thought so too. That he felt… But he didn’t. He doesn’t.”

“You think he just saw you as an experience,” Lily said. Quiet, measured.

Remus gave another shrug. “Something like that.”

Lily studied him, lips pressing together. “Have you actually told him how you feel?” she asked, her voice gentle.

Silence. The wind stirred through the trees, sending crisp brown leaves scattering along the ground. Overhead, the sky was a deep midnight blue, the moon hidden behind shifting clouds.

“He knows,” Remus said at last.

Lily’s brow arched. “But have you told him recently?”

Remus looked away. “No. And I’m not going to.” His voice was quieter now, but no less certain. “I’m not doing… all that again.”

And that, it seemed, was the end of it.

The night had deepened around them, the cold settling in, but neither of them made a move to go inside.

Lily shook her head, breath misting slightly in the chill. “I just… I can’t believe he did that to you. He’s supposed to be your friend.”

Remus’s shoulders tensed. “He is my friend,” he said immediately, like the words had escaped before he could stop them. “He didn’t mean to hurt me. It just… got messy. That’s what happens when you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Lily’s jaw tightened. “That’s the thing, Remus. He should’ve known. He should’ve thought about what it would do to you.”

Remus dropped his gaze, fingers curling slightly at his sides. “I think he was just scared,” he murmured. “I was too. We were both pretending it wasn’t there. It wasn’t just him. I always kissed him back. Avoided talking about it.”

Lily’s expression softened, but her voice was steady. “So you both hurt each other by pretending it didn’t matter. But it did matter. At least to you.”

Remus inhaled deeply. “It couldn’t matter,” he muttered. “Not with us. Not with everything else.”

Lily frowned. “Why not? Because of what people would say? Because it’s Sirius?”

A hollow laugh escaped him. Because of all of that. And more. “Because it’s complicated,” he said simply. “We’re complicated.”

They couldn’t be together. Not openly. Not with who Sirius was. His parents would never tolerate that kind of stain on their name. And even if he wasn’t a Black, even if it wasn’t about them, it still wouldn’t be safe. People got killed for less. And people would talk—whispers turning to rumours, rumours turning to something worse.

They’d never be allowed to just be. A few disgusted looks would be the least of their problems.

But Lily didn’t look disgusted. Then again, Lily was better than the rest of the world.

A drunken cluster of seventh years spilled into the courtyard, their laughter cutting through the quiet. Lily and Remus fell silent at once, watching as one of them fumbled with a cigarette, cursing when the wind kept snuffing out the flame. The others snickered at each failed attempt.

Remus rolled his eyes.

Lily just sighed, glancing at him, then back at the scene in front of them. Waiting.

It took a half-smoked cigarette, three grumbled complaints about how bloody baltic it was, and a few more stifled laughs before the group finally wandered off.

Lily took a step back, trying to sort through it. “How did it even start?” she asked after a moment. “You two. What changed between friendship and… more?”

Remus sighed, like it wasn’t one thing but a hundred, tangled beyond recognition. Like he wasn’t sure he knew himself.

He pulled his hand from hers—not unkindly, but like he needed the space, as if any touch felt like too much.

Lily waited. Let him gather his thoughts.

Eventually, he spoke. “At the start of fifth year, he came back in a strop. Told us his parents were starting to arrange a match—nothing settled, but the talks had started.” A humourless twist of his mouth. “He wasn’t taking it seriously. Thought he could put them off by acting out—went from the occasional fling to building himself a reputation.” He raised his eyebrows to make the implications clear. “The kind no respectable family would want to attach their name to, especially since they were already overlooking… everything else about him.”

Lily didn’t need him to elaborate. She remembered that first day, the whispers that had spread like wildfire through Slytherin’s table, the way it had felt like something significant had happened—something an eleven-year-old Muggleborn wouldn’t understand.

Sirius… was Sirius.

A Gryffindor. A troublemaker. Loud when he was supposed to be restrained. Rebellious where he was meant to be obedient. Warm where he was meant to be cold.

Remus exhaled slowly, gaze distant, as if he were sifting through the past and trying to make sense of it.

Lily took his hand again, a quiet encouragement.

“At some point, I don’t know… he decided girls weren’t cutting it. Or he got bored. Or maybe I just looked especially fun to mess around with.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Either way, we crossed a line we couldn’t uncross. And we kept crossing it for months.”

Lily let that settle. She had the sense he was only giving her the edges of the story, that there was far more beneath the surface.

Her brow furrowed. “But… he’s not getting married anymore. He’s disowned.”

Remus nodded, his jaw tight. “Yeah. That came after everything. Summer before sixth year started. When we weren’t even speaking.”

Lily swallowed, feeling the weight of it—the pressure of the engagement, the tangled mess of what they’d been. Becca. The denial. The rejection. Sirius’s one big reckless mistake. The silence that followed. The months of it. The damage.

The disownment.

And now, this. Whatever this was—something new, rebuilt from the ruins.

Remus let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “God, I was so stupid,” he muttered, blinking hard.

Lily squeezed his hand. “I don’t think you were stupid, Remus. I think you were in love.”

Remus’s fingers tightened slightly around hers.

Lily studied him, her expression unreadable. Then, quietly, she said, “Remus… you can’t just carry this like it’s nothing.”

“I’ve carried worse,” he said, a bitter edge to his voice. “This is just another thing.”

Lily sat a little closer. “It doesn’t have to be.”

He hated how much he wanted to believe her. But believing meant acknowledging the sting of it—the way it lodged itself in his chest and refused to leave. The way it still ached, even now.

Because no matter how much it hurt, loving Sirius had always felt inevitable. When things were good, they were everything. When they weren’t—

He swallowed hard.

Lily’s voice was gentle when she spoke again. “And what about now? How do you feel about him now?”

Remus let out a slow breath, his chest rising and falling like answering physically pained him. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s complicated.”

“Is it?” Lily asked. “You love him. And he… what? Pretends it never happened?”

Remus turned away, forced a shrug. “He doesn’t pretend. Not really. We just don’t talk about it. It’s easier that way.”

“For who?”

Remus had no answer for that.

Lily sighed, watching him carefully. “Remus, you deserve better.”

She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to.

Remus flinched like the words stung, and she could see the conflict in his expression—the urge to defend Sirius, to make excuses. But after a long moment, he only sighed.

“I know,” he admitted, shoulders dropping. “I do. And I’ve tried to move on. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to let go.”

Lily’s chest tightened. She knew better than to push him. Love was never as simple as walking away.

“You don’t have to be without him,” she said carefully. “But maybe… you deserve to have him in a way that doesn’t hurt.”

Remus’s eyes lifted to hers, uncertain but listening.

“Sometimes,” she went on, so softly it was almost lost to the wind, “we don’t get the things we want because we deserve better.”

Remus didn’t answer, but she could tell the words had landed.

“Just… think about it,” she murmured. “You deserve to be happy. You both do.”

He gave the smallest nod but didn’t speak again. The silence stretched between them—not empty, not quite unbearable. There were no easy answers here, no quick fixes.

Love didn’t heal with time. It didn’t disappear with mistakes. It simply was, or it wasn’t.

And right now, it was what it was.

How many times could the same thing break your heart before you let go?

The answer, as always, was the same: as long as you loved it.

Lily let him sit with it for a moment. He’d told her more than she expected, though she could tell there were things left unsaid—carefully omitted details, like he was trying to tell a story while cutting around a pivotal someone. Or something.

Her mind drifted. April…

Severus’s warning was a possible lead, though Lily didn’t want to follow it.

Her mind kept moving. What else had happened in April?

Sirius and Mary had been together then. For a few weeks, at least. But by the end of March, Sirius and Remus were already fighting—or at the very least, unhappy with each other. Becca, obviously. By April, Lily had hardly seen them at each other’s side at all. A contrast made sharper by the fact that there had never been distance between them before.

And then came the fight. The one that made the earlier rift look like closeness. The one that fractured all of them.

Sirius had broken up with Mary that same day, like he thought he deserved to be alone. And he was alone. She remembered him sitting in the Great Hall, untouched food in front of him, James and Peter avoiding him, Remus nowhere to be found.

Mary had approached, cautious, asking what had happened, and Sirius had shrugged her off like her touch burned.

He hadn’t been cruel, exactly—but he’d been unfair in a way Lily had never seen him be with her before. He’d been stony, silent, removed.

By the end of that day, it was over. His excuse? He’d kissed someone else.

Lily let go of Remus’s hand, her fingers flying to her mouth.

The timelines added up.

Oh.

Her eyes widened as she turned to him. “You were the one he kissed.”

Remus flinched. Didn’t deny it.

He braced himself for a bollocking, but it didn’t quite come.

“Merlin,” Lily muttered, shaking her head.

Remus eyed her warily. “What?”

She folded her arms, regarding him like she was seeing him properly for the first time. “You… you’re a bit of a homewrecker, Lupin.”

Remus blinked. Sat up straighter, indignant. “No, I’m not!”

Lily raised her brows. “Okay,” she said, in a tone that made it clear she didn’t buy a word of that. “Well, boys do seem all too willing to leave their girlfriends for you.”

Remus frowned. “Boys? Plural?”

“Sirius. Samuel Aldertree.”

Remus scoffed. “Sam’s just a friend.”

Lily noted how he hadn’t said Sirius was.

“A friend who definitely wouldn’t be mad if you decided to snog him,” she said, a little amused.

Remus let out a huff, rolling his eyes, but the tension between them had already lightened, the heaviness of the conversation lifting.

Lily was still a little cross with him—on Mary’s behalf, if nothing else. She was furious with Sirius.

But then again—look how it had ended.

They slipped through the portrait hole quietly, the common room emptier than expected. Either they’d been outside longer than they realised, or everyone else had simply turned in early. The chill still clung to their skin, the last traces of cold from the night air following them inside.

They hadn’t meant to stay out so long. But the conversation had been distracting, pulling them in until the crisp air turned biting, until the cold had worked its way through layers of fabric. It wasn’t until the first few drops of freezing rain hit their faces that they’d looked at each other and known it was time to go back.

The Fat Lady had eyed them both with mild suspicion but said nothing beyond a sleepy, “Good night,” as they yawned their way past. The usual rowdy Saturday night crowd was absent, leaving only the low crackle of the dying fire and the hush of a castle at rest.

At the foot of the stairs, where they would usually part ways, Lily pulled him into a hug so tight it nearly stole the breath from his lungs. He felt her press in, warm and steady, like she was trying to take some of the weight off his shoulders. Like she was trying to keep all his fraying edges together.

He let himself sink into it. Trusted her. Liked her more than he’d realised—not that he’d ever disliked her, but this was different. Tonight had been different. He was grateful for the lack of judgment, for the quiet understanding she’d offered without hesitation. More than he probably deserved.

She smelled faintly of something familiar. Smoke. Leather. Something distinctly Sirius. His brow furrowed as he pulled back, his eyes catching on the scarf looped around her neck, the gloves on her hands. He raised an eyebrow.

Lily sighed. “He insisted,” she said, dry but not unkind. And then, after a beat, “That’s how I knew. I borrowed James’s scarf, and Sirius… cornered me.”

That was an obvious understatement. He caught the subtext; there had been more to it than she was letting on.

Lily huffed a soft laugh. “Even tried to make me take his jacket,” she added, her voice touched with something sly. “Said he didn’t want you getting cold.”

Remus rolled his eyes. Of course he did. But something in his stomach turned over, warmth curling at the edges of his exhaustion. It was ridiculous. Over the top, even for Sirius. Just what was he up to?

Before he could think too much about it, Lily turned for the stairs. It was late, and the long day and even longer night were settling over both of them. They needed sleep.

But she hesitated before leaving, glancing back at him. Her gaze was careful now, measured. “No more surprises, okay?”

Remus swallowed. “Okay. No more surprises.”

Liar.

Lily’s eyes flickered like she almost called him on it. But after a moment, she nodded, like she’d decided to believe him anyway. “Goodnight, Remus.”

“Night,” he murmured, watching her slip away toward the boys’ dormitory.

For a few long seconds, he stood there, still caught in the moment. Then he exhaled and turned toward the girls’ stairs.

Lily’s dorm was quiet. This time, Mary’s snores greeted him, muffled behind drawn bed curtains.

Marlene’s bed was empty.

Remus barely spared it a thought. He shucked off his clothes and pulled on Lily’s soft pyjamas, rolling his shoulders as he made his way to the bathroom. Another pain reliever. The cramps had dulled into background noise, but exhaustion dragged at him.

Still, beneath the physical fatigue, he felt something else. Like he’d stripped himself bare tonight, left too much of himself out in the open.

He climbed into bed and tried to push it all aside. Tried to sleep.

He didn’t quite succeed.

Pandora’s box was open, and the memories—good, bad, and uncomfortably raw—pulled at him from all sides.

Of course, what he’d told Lily wasn’t everything. Not even close. But it was some of it. More than he’d told anyone.

How they’d started March, for all intents and purposes, happy together. Close. Close enough, at least, to be attached at the mouth whenever they were alone. A bit of sniping, sure. But nothing like later. Back then, Remus had even enjoyed it—the sharp-edged teasing, the way one look and a raised eyebrow from Sirius could set him alight. Especially if he got even slightly annoyed. Sirius seemed to like him like that. Kissed him harder, like he meant it.

“Why?” Remus had asked once. Why deliberately wind him up just to fuel some kind of fantasy?

Sirius had only shrugged. “Your fault, Moons, not mine.”

Remus had rolled his eyes. “How is you being turned on by me being annoyed my fault?”

Sirius leaned in, utterly shameless. “You’re the one who’s moody. Hence, I’ve had more time to fantasise about it. Grumpy you makes for a foolproof shower wank.”

So it was about a bloody fantasy.

Sirius had sighed. “Don’t pull that face. Come on, like you don’t. I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

“I’m not answering that,” Remus had muttered, folding his arms.

Which, of course, had only encouraged Sirius further. He’d let out a small, delighted laugh. “Tell me one, and maybe I’ll do it. Depending on what it is.”

“You’re way too comfortable saying all this to me,” Remus had remarked, torn between amusement and exasperation.

Sirius had grinned, eyes playfully narrowing. “Would you rather I wasn’t? Is that what you like? Me being… more aloof? Pureblood? Because I don’t like it, but I reckon I could roleplay if it gets you off.”

Remus had frowned, shaking his head with a groan. “Ugh, no. Definitely not.”

Sirius had only smirked, not really listening. His grin slipped—just for a moment—into something colder. His chin lifted slightly, an almost imperceptible shift, but enough to change everything.

Power.

That’s what it felt like.

Remus’s breath caught as Sirius turned the full force of that look on him. Sharp grey eyes, narrowed just enough to cut. A quiet, deliberate condescension that made Remus feel smaller. Like he didn’t deserve to be this close, and it was only by Sirius’s permission that he was. A reminder that Sirius could do this—be this. Shed his easy charm in an instant, slipping into something detached, untouchable. Pureblood.

Then, just as quickly, Sirius let it go. The mask discarded as easily as it had been donned. His grin slid back into place, eyebrows lifting in amusement as he caught the look on Remus’s face, smirking like he hadn’t just pulled the rug out from under him.

Remus had scowled. Frowned deeper when Sirius’s smirk only widened.

“What?” he’d said, a little mulish.

“Proving my point,” Sirius had said with a grin, studying his face. “You’re annoyed at me.” A pause, then: “Huh. Maybe that’s what it is. I like that you’re grumpy because it means you’re reacting to me.”

Was that sweet? Remus wasn’t sure.

“You give me plenty to react to,” he’d muttered—though the words softened into a smile when Sirius shifted closer, wearing that look.

The one that said, I’m going to make you react to something right now.

And then Remus wasn’t frowning. Or smiling. His mouth was too preoccupied.

He’d sighed, tugging Sirius further behind the tapestry. “Someone will see,” he’d warned, casting a pointed glance at the corridor—mostly empty, but not completely.

Sirius had exhaled, long and slow, not even pretending to step away. “Who the fuck cares?” His gaze had stayed locked on Remus, sharp and unwavering, like he meant it. Like no one else mattered when they were together.

And maybe that was all it took. That look. That absolute certainty.

So Remus had gave in the way Sirius wanted him to, gave him that reaction he wanted—sighed into his mouth, let Sirius’s hands guide him, slipped his own beneath Sirius’s shirt, ran his lips along his throat, searching for a reaction too.

He’d found one. And had grinned against Sirius’s skin when he did.

“Other people?” Sirius had murmured, pulling back just enough to tip Remus’s chin up, their eyes meeting. His expression had been unusually serious, almost solemn. “They’re just noise. I’m louder.”

Remus had snorted, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, you are. Which is exactly why someone will see.” Then, faintly smirking, he’d added, “They’ll hear you.”

Sirius hadn’t looked even remotely ashamed. Just… intent. Enough that Remus had felt it like a spark in his gut.

It was a look that said, That sounds like something that needs testing. Now, preferably.

And thank Merlin for Silencing Charms—because Remus hadn’t been in the mood to test it for real.

The end of March had been the end of that. The end of playfulness. Of Sirius seeming to like him at all.

The 27th. James’s birthday. No more whatever-they-were.

By the end of April, they weren’t talking at all. They were nothing. Not even friends.

That was the point where Remus’s anger was real—and no longer something that turned Sirius on.

How they’d started was harder to pin down. He’d told Lily some of it, left out the parts that tangled too easily, the ones he still hadn’t unravelled himself. But he’d known—long before Sirius had turned around and upended everything by pressing their mouths together—that he was already in trouble.

Sirius hadn’t given him any warning. No shift in expression, no change in tone. One minute, they were sprawled under the bedcurtains, laughing, half-buzzed from the joint they’d passed between them, and the next—

He just did it.

No lead-up. No hesitation.

They’d gone out to smoke because Sirius needed it—because his mother had sent another Howler, this time about a betrothal she was arranging. By Christmas, she’d said, he’d be engaged. He’d learn to behave. He’d do his duty, like every Black before him. And if he was stepping out of line—keeping filthy company—she would know.

Sirius had incinerated the letter before she could even finish, scattering the ashes over Regulus’s head across the Great Hall. Walburga’s informant, reporting back all his misbehaviours. His brother had just given him a look—calm, disdainful, as if to say, You should listen. Stop embarrassing us.

So yeah, Sirius had needed the weed. And Remus, still sore from the full moon, hadn’t been about to say no. It had been a rough one—not the worst, but enough that he’d woken up aching, buried in warm blankets, with Sirius’s hand clasped around his.

Sirius had been curled up beside him in the infirmary bed, as he often was, despite all of Madam Pomfrey’s scoldings. When Remus blinked awake, Sirius had been watching him, face close on the pillow, his expression unreadable. That, in itself, wasn’t unusual.

Then he’d reached out, cupped Remus’s face, his fingers skimming over the scars—not like he didn’t notice them, but like he liked them. Like he liked him.

Remus’s heart had stuttered at that, but that, too, wasn’t unusual.

“What?” he’d asked, suspicious. “Did I nick myself last night?”

Sirius had frozen. Dropped his hands. Rolled his eyes, brushing the moment off like he hadn’t expected Remus to be awake at all. Like he hadn’t meant to do it.

But he hadn’t moved away, either.

So Remus had sighed, half a yawn, still exhausted, and shifted in closer. Sirius had gone still for a moment—just a moment—before his arms came around him, tucking him in, back to front. A slow exhale had ghosted over the nape of Remus’s neck, and then Sirius had pressed his forehead there, breathing him in.

Remus had understood it. They’d always done this. A quiet confirmation: You’re safe. I’m here. The moons were getting worse now—less fun, more dangerous. The wolf growing with him. If he hurt himself, it was more serious. Could mean days in bed, not just a spell and a round of Dittany.

So he’d let himself relax.

And then James and Peter had crashed in, loud and enthusiastic, cutting the moment short. James had a fresh bandage on his chin, and Remus had panicked before Sirius could stop him, but James had waved him off with some ridiculous story about getting his antlers stuck in a tree. A tree wrapped in poison ivy, no less. Padfoot and Peter had been on distraction duty, keeping Moony away from the plants while James freed himself.

So that was that. They didn’t get another moment alone until much later.

It happened when they were back in their dorm, tucked away behind the bedcurtains, slightly spaced out, feeling almost peaceful.

Until Sirius shattered it.

He hadn’t given any sign. They’d been talking about the betrothal, mocking it, and Remus had said something dry—he couldn’t even remember what now—but whatever it was, it had made Sirius grin.

Made him stare.

Which wasn’t unusual.

And then he’d done it.

Just done it.

And Remus’s world had never been the same since.

And he’d known, just as surely, that Sirius was only looking for something to get lost in. But Remus had felt lost too. Unmoored. Undone.

Especially that first time, when Sirius had just stared at him afterward, like he’d stumbled onto something brilliant. Like this was more fun than all their biggest pranks combined. And when he’d leaned back in, Remus had wanted to keep that look on his face.

It had been clumsy at first—lips knocking together, neither of them quite sure what they were doing, like they were both terrified of what this could mean. Maybe they should’ve been. But if they were going to kiss, going to ruin things, make them strange and irreversible, then they might as well make it worth it.

So Sirius had tilted his head, searching for something neither of them had words for. Stilled, just for a moment, as though stunned by the weight of it. Then he’d shifted closer, figuring it out as he went, coaxing Remus’s mouth open with his tongue, and that was when things got hazy around the edges. Heated. Sure.

Remus hadn’t been this nervous during his first kiss. Hadn’t felt his thoughts spiral just because someone bit down on his lip. Hadn’t melted so instantly, everything turning too warm, too good—like relief, like breaking the surface after being underwater too long. He hadn’t let out an embarrassing, shaky gasp the second hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, like they were trying to memorise the taste of him. Like the only thing they wanted was more.

But this was Sirius—so it was different.

He was different.

Everyone else kissed like they’d learned the moves. Sirius Black kissed like he’d invented them.

This wasn’t the first person Remus had ever kissed. But it was the first person he’d wanted to.

And the realisation that he finally was—that this was happening—knocked the breath clean out of him.

Sirius wasn’t careful the way Remus had seen him with girls. He wasn’t even thinking, seemingly—just pressing closer, as if chasing something that had always been there, simmering in the air between them, something that had finally reached its breaking point.

And Remus hadn’t known if this was their first kiss or their last. His pulse was too erratic to register anything beyond the heat of Sirius’s mouth and the way his own breath kept catching. The way this was already too much, too deep, too fast. The groan Sirius exhaled into him that he swallowed whole. The way Sirius gasped when Remus finally remembered to reciprocate.

Hands moving under clothes. Bodies they knew as well as their own—but not like this. Not with this kind of intent. Years of tension spilling out all at once. Every look that had lingered too long. Every sharp provocation. Every moment of hesitation before choosing someone else.

The space between them disappeared. Bodies flush. Breathing rough. Everything else fading away.

As far as first kisses went, it was probably entirely too much.

But then, when had they ever been anything else?

At first, it was fine. Better than fine. Exhilarating. Terrifying. More than he ever thought he’d get, so he took it. And when Sirius gave him more, he took that too. Tried to be careful about what he gave back, knowing this was a gamble—that he could lose it all in an instant. And Remus didn’t want Sirius to know just how much of him he already had. Didn’t want him to see that it meant something.

Especially not when pretending it didn’t seemed to keep it going.

He couldn’t let himself be seen in the mortification of caring more. Not when he’d been in love before they even started. Not when Sirius might take one look at that truth and bolt.

And yet, there was guilt in it. Remus felt like he was using Sirius’s need for distraction—his curiosity—to satisfy his own selfish, hopeless want. Letting himself have what he shouldn’t. Taking everything Sirius gave him while knowing it meant more to him than Sirius even realised. It felt dishonest. Unfair.

But then the tide turned.

He started to feel like the one being used.

It stopped feeling like they were just messing around. Started feeling more like what Remus wanted it to be.

Except it wasn’t. And as soon as Sirius seemed to catch on to just how serious it was getting, the fun of it started to end. He cooled. Stopped lingering. Stopped pulling Remus close. Stopped staying. Stopped holding him in the middle of the night like he didn’t want to let go.

Stopped talking.

Little things at first—pulling away from conversations that ran too deep, brushing off questions that hit too close. Then bigger things. The girls his mother was setting him up with. The engagement that was inching closer. Until, finally, he told Remus nothing at all.

And he lashed out. Started proving—deliberately, unmistakably—that none of this meant anything. Kissed girls where Remus could see, so he would see. Made sure he knew. Knew not to expect more. Knew not to put his heart in Sirius’s hands.

But it was too late for that.

So it just hurt.

And yet, Sirius still looked at him like he wanted him. Still approached him with that familiar hunger in his eyes. Still kissed him like no one else existed.

So at first, Remus let it happen. Let it hurt.

Because some part of him, stupidly, still hoped. Still thought maybe Sirius felt something for him. More than anyone else. Thought they were different. That the pull between them was real, not just something he’d made up in his head. That he couldn’t possibly feel this much—this chemistry, this longing, this undeniable thing—without the person he felt it for feeling at least some of it too.

That it couldn’t just be him.

But then he pushed. Mistake number one.

And let it slip. Mistake number two.

And Sirius’s reaction—or rather, his lack of one—told him everything he needed to know.

The indifference in his face. The cool, detached look in his eyes.

That it had all been wishful thinking.

That everything he thought was there… wasn’t.

That he’d only ever been seeing what he wanted to see.

James’s birthday party had scattered them like matchsticks burned to their ends—smoke curling, gone.

And then Becca.

And then Sirius realising Becca was sticking around.

So he upped the roster of his girls. Brought them to the dorm. Didn’t bother with a Silencing Charm—at least, not until James finally snapped and told him to knock it off, to put a sock on the door if he was planning to have someone over.

Remus couldn’t prove it, not exactly, but it started to feel like Sirius wasn’t parading the girls around just to spite his parents anymore. Now, it felt like he was doing it to hurt him.

Then, about a week later—the fight. Silent, but big.

James and Peter had been teasing Remus—harmless, thoughtless—about Becca staying over. Catching her running from his bed to the bathroom, swallowed up in one of his oversized jumpers. The loud jokes. The ribbing about her taking “their Moony’s innocence.”

Remus hadn’t corrected them.

Sirius had gone still.

Refused to react. Not that Remus had been looking for one. But they both knew the truth—that was one thing they hadn’t done. Maybe the only thing.

And Sirius had clapped him on the shoulder, thrown out a cursory quip about him being “a real man now.”

Then he’d left the room, let Peter and James keep at it. Skipped breakfast.

Returned at dinner with Mary.

So. Mary again. Like last year. Making a proper go of it this time, Sirius had told them all, grin in place, unshaken.

And Remus had nodded, shaken off the strange, clawing feeling in his chest, let relief settle in its place. Smiled. Congratulated him.

Because if Sirius wasn’t being Sirius about it—if he wasn’t making a thing of it—then this was good. He was moving on. He was listening. He was respecting the line in the sand instead of stomping it out and redrawing his own.

They were both with other people now.

That had never stopped Sirius before. Not when he was the one seeing someone else. But this was different. This was new. This was a line Remus knew Sirius knew he wasn’t allowed to cross.

And yet, shamefully, deep down, he’d still wanted him to try. Just enough. Just to prove that they’d happened at all.

He wouldn’t have let him. Would have stopped it before it started. But Sirius not trying felt like rejection all over again.

Then, one day, Sirius had come across Remus and Becca together.

Remus had been careful. Had taken care to make sure that wouldn’t happen—hadn’t flaunted her around like Sirius did with his girls.

Becca had been civil to Sirius whenever their paths did cross, though he hadn’t extended her the same courtesy. He avoided meeting her eyes when she joined them at the table, steered conversations away from her whenever possible. When he did acknowledge her, it was with those cool, razor-edged remarks wrapped in a smile—the kind he reserved for people he didn’t like but couldn’t openly dismiss.

Remus knew he’d even tried it on with her once. Becca had told him. After they were already together. It hadn’t been a surprise. She’d reacted exactly as Remus expected—but not how Sirius had, apparently. She hadn’t been flattered or flustered, hadn’t treated it like a joke. Instead, she’d torn into him, unimpressed and unmoved. Told him it was insulting, that he’d even try it with a friend’s girlfriend—What kind of girl did he think she was? What kind of friend was he?

That had only made Sirius dislike her more. She was the kind of person he couldn’t charm his way past, couldn’t win over with a joke and that grin—the one that let him get away with far too much. She didn’t like boys like him. Loud, smug. She didn’t like people who treated other people like a game.

But she tolerated him. Because he was Remus’s friend. Because she liked Remus more than she disliked Sirius.

And unlike him, she played nice.

Made it clear she wasn’t about to be scared off.

Still, Remus had tried to minimise the threat of Sirius seeing something that might make him really put to the test what it would take to get her gone.

But Becca had been telling him something important. She was half-blood, like him. She’d been worrying her lip, confessing that she might be leaving Britain soon. The war. Her family was considering France. Her mother wanted to get out—to protect her Muggle father, her siblings. She was likely transferring to Beauxbatons. She wanted to know if Remus would do long distance.

And Remus had been comforting her. Answering. She’d been lying across his chest, his fingers threading gently through her hair as he murmured reassurances—

And that was when Sirius had walked in.

They hadn’t been doing anything. Still fully clothed.

But maybe that was worse.

At least, to Sirius. Because if he wasn’t snogging a girl—if he just liked her company, wanted to spend time with her—if he did things with her that he only did with him—

That was worse than anything else.

That was betrayal.

Later that day, Sirius had asked if Remus planned on telling Becca about the moon.

Blunt. Unkind. Pointed.

Reminded him of everything he’d ever said about not wanting to get close to someone. About what she’d think. About how she’d probably react badly. About how he didn’t want him getting hurt.

Sirius hadn’t known they’d already broken up.

That Remus couldn’t do long distance. That he’d already been thinking about breaking up with her. Because it wasn’t fair to keep her around when he still had feelings for someone else.

But Remus hadn’t told him.

Had been too hurt to bother. Because that—that—was a low blow. One Sirius had never used before.

So instead, he’d said maybe he would tell her. That someone he might have a future with—someone he might start a family with—would have to know. And Becca wasn’t the kind to react badly. Because unlike Sirius, she was genuinely kind.

That had been frustration talking.

But they both knew it was a little too true to be said aloud.

And the next day, Sirius had made sure there were plenty of people around—that Remus was around—when he pulled Mary in for a lingering kiss and told her I love you as they parted ways in the Great Hall.

And that—

That was one of the meanest things Sirius had ever done.

Even if he’d meant it. And maybe he had.

Because if Sirius had loved him—had cared at all, even platonically—he wouldn’t have.

But when he’d said it, he hadn’t been looking at Mary at all.

He’d been looking straight at Remus.

And then—

The inevitable wreck. Blindsided. Because he hadn’t been watching the road. Because Remus hadn’t realised they were speeding towards disaster. Hadn’t known what road they were on anymore.

Hadn’t even realised they were already crashing.

They were young and reckless. And that kind of reckless never ended well.

Remus still remembered.

Becca had already left for Beauxbatons by then. James had noticed her absence, asked where she’d been, and Remus had sighed—finally admitting they’d broken up. He hadn’t wanted them to know; he’d wanted a little longer before seeing how they’d take it.

Sirius had gone still across the room. Like he’d taken a Stunning Spell to the chest.

And Remus had known what that meant.

He was right.

It had simmered for the rest of the day—a low, thrumming anticipation just beneath his skin, impossible to ignore. Every time Sirius tried to catch his eye, every brush of a shoulder, every lingering glance—it built.

Then there was the hand.

Under the table during Charms, Sirius had reached for him, bold and sure, until Remus batted it away with a sharp look. Sirius didn’t retreat; he just let his fingers settle higher on Remus’s thigh—deliberate, unhurried.

Remus went still, his pulse stuttering, every nerve locked onto that single point of contact. James and Peter were too close, too oblivious, and he struggled to breathe normally while Sirius’s fingers inched higher, testing, teasing.

He grabbed his wrist then, stopping him before things could get really irresponsible. Sirius just grinned, triumphant—as if he’d won something. He didn’t let go or even try; he simply shifted his quill to his left hand and carried on scrawling notes, their fingers tangled beneath the desk until Flitwick let them go.

Then he stood as if nothing had happened at all.

Later that evening, while working on an essay, his bed curtains shifted.

Remus blinked, startled. He was sure everyone was out of the dorm—Sirius had been egging them on for a scheme at dinner, one Remus hadn’t had the energy to entertain. It was the full moon that night, and his body was already protesting.

Sirius had promised it’d be a quick one, but Remus had caught the look in his eyes. The one that meant the prank was just an excuse, that what Sirius really wanted was to get his hands on him.

And Remus had wanted it too. The moon always made that base instinct rise to the surface, especially after Sirius had pressed a kiss to Mary’s cheek at dinner—then looked at him afterward.

That’s how he knew better.

Then the curtains closed, and a Silencing Charm was cast.

Sirius hesitated only for a moment, hovering too close, the warmth of him unmistakable in the dim light. They looked at each other, half-obscured by shadows, until Remus barely had time to breathe before his own breath was taken away.

Yes. He remembered everything.

The way Sirius had kissed him. Hard, deep, consuming. Overwhelmingly thorough, like he was trying to undo the touch of anyone else; erasing the memory that anyone else had been there at all.

And when Remus didn’t reciprocate, when he tried to pull away, Sirius only tightened his grip, pushed in further, kissed him harder.

“No. We can’t,” Remus had murmured against his lips.

Sirius’s hands had cupped his face, forehead pressing against his, coaxing, “We can.”

Remus shook his head, pulse racing. “Not like this. You’re with—”

Mary.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sirius cut in, eyes flashing with that same old look—the one that meant Why would anyone that’s not us matter? The one he’d fallen for before.

“It does matter,” Remus argued. “To me.”

Did Mary even know? Not about them, of course. But that Sirius was practically betrothed already? That she wasn’t just a distraction—she was playing the role of the other woman?

Probably not. Sirius wasn’t great at letting people know when he was making them complicit in his wrongdoing.

Not that he cared about the Pureblood girl his parents had picked, or respected her. Nor would he—until the moment he was marched down the aisle.

Nor did he care that he was using Mary to make a point, that his parents couldn’t control him, that he was out dating half-bloods and Muggleborns—doing his best to make himself as undesirable a husband as possible.

Unfortunately, Sirius would always be desirable—a noble house, firstborn son. Any girl he married would practically be wizarding royalty. And then, of course, there was Sirius himself.

A womaniser wasn’t the worst thing to be seen as. It meant he’d likely produce heirs.

And it wouldn’t take much for a girl to want to give him them.

Right now, Remus was struggling not to give him whatever he wanted.

The breath at his ear. The look in his eyes. The hand trailing too deliberately, too close to where it shouldn’t be. And Sirius knew it.

“Sirius,” he’d warned. “The girls. Your fiancée. Mary.” He listed them off like reasons, like a line Sirius wouldn’t cross if he simply named it aloud.

As if Sirius didn’t already know. As if Sirius cared.

Sirius definitely didn’t care. He looked at him like nothing else had ever mattered. Like nothing else ever would.

Their gazes locked—Sirius inched close enough that when he spoke, Remus felt it go through him, felt it work, unlocking him exactly the way Sirius wanted.

And Sirius didn’t even do much—just slowly shook his head.

“It’s better with you,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t just wrecked Remus’s ability to think straight for the next six months.

And that had made Remus reciprocate—closing the distance, sinking into the heat of Sirius’s mouth, moaning embarrassingly quickly at the first roll of his tongue, letting himself be coaxed back into his arms, pushed into the duvet—pliant, willing, stupid. Pressing closer, kissing Sirius harder, deeper, as if he needed to prove it to himself.

And Sirius had seemed determined to make him believe it.

“No one else feels like this,” he’d whispered, low, like a secret—fingers trailing, scorching, promising.

No one else feels like you.

Hands gripping him, keeping him close. No one else makes me feel the way you do.

Their teeth had nearly clacked. The Silencing Charm had never been more necessary.

Three weeks without this—that was all they’d lasted, with others filling the gap. But no one satisfied it, not like this, not like them.

It wasn’t a nice kiss. Not sweet, not affectionate. It was possessive. Greedy. Jealous.

Then, the heat between them shifted. Sirius kissed him again, but this time, it was with purpose. He ran a hand across his hip, reached further along his thigh—anchored Remus’s leg around his waist tighter, trailed kisses down his neck, moved against him in a way that let him know this wasn’t just about chasing orgasm.

It wasn’t the usual frantic, desperate thing—the kind that had them tugging at clothes, mouths insatiable, hands ravenous against bare skin, legs tangled in an effort to get closer. This was different. Slower. Deliberate. More drawn out. Like the prelude to something neither of them had dared to reach for before.

Remus had stilled.

There was one line they hadn’t crossed. One thing they hadn’t done. And right now, it felt like maybe they would. If only because Sirius needed to be the one to do this first.

He wouldn’t be the first person Remus had slept with. But he’d be the first boy. And he’d be the first—and only—person to ever do that.

Remus paused for a half-second, breathing hard, when he felt Sirius mutter something else—unthinking, softer than the moment should’ve allowed.

He’d heard it before—whispered against his neck, pressed into his skin, lingering in the space between breath and confession. Even that first time, it had slipped out in a half-breath, unguarded, like Sirius hadn’t meant to say it.

You feel perfect.

And they did. This did. No matter how much else they’d gotten wrong, this had always felt right. Which was why it gutted him to know it wasn’t forever. Hell, it wasn’t even right now.

Something flared ugly and deep inside Remus—something that demanded he keep this, keep him, whatever, whenever, for however long Sirius would allow it.

But… he’d done that before. And he hadn’t liked it.

Rationality was an icy glass of water, tipping over him.

He pulled away, detaching himself with effort—just enough to say one word, half-breathless but completely serious.

“Stop.”

Sirius sighed, deep and long. Like this was just another interruption, a temporary inconvenience.

He did stop, rolling off him—but with a look that said they were far from finished. His hands still gripped him, his eyes roamed his face, half-lidded and smug.

That look faded when Remus spoke again.

“I’m not doing this again.” He kept his voice steady, though every word stung. “We’re not doing this. Last time… I meant it.”

Sirius took that in. “Which part?”

Remus shook his head. Of course that’s what Sirius would get stuck on.

“All of it,” he said quietly, pausing. “You were right. We need to stop—shelve all of this, put some distance between us. Not do anything that friends wouldn’t do.”

Sirius straightened, defensive. “You are still my friend. Were even when I had my hand down your—”

“Padfoot.” Remus was tired. “This isn’t working. It’s making things… messy. Let’s stop now, while we still have a chance to put things back the way they were.”

The defensiveness didn’t drop, but Sirius’s shoulders did, just slightly. And Remus saw it—the way his mind was working, the gears shifting behind his eyes.

Like this wasn’t going how he’d expected. Like Remus wasn’t reacting the way he’d hoped. Like anything less than an unhesitating yes wasn’t what he wanted—wasn’t what they wanted.

And it wasn’t.

Remus didn’t want to say no. But he had to.

Because Sirius didn’t feel the same.

Because Sirius was getting married.

Because there was Mary.

And if there wasn’t Mary, there’d be someone else—because there always was.

And Remus was sick of feeling like whatever they were—whatever he was—wasn’t enough.

It was starting to make him dislike him. At least a little. And he didn’t want to not like the person he loved.

Especially not his closest friend.

Because it was messy, and it was only going to get worse.

Because even if he said yes—to this, to them, again—Remus knew it wouldn’t work. It never did.

Sirius blinked, thrown, then frowned. “I thought we had an understanding.” His voice had hardened. “That this wouldn’t change things.”

Remus’s patience snapped. “We didn’t have an understanding. We had a threshold for how much of an idiot I was willing to feel like. And this?” He exhaled sharply. “This goes above it.”

Sirius scoffed, straightening like he could pull himself out of the conversation entirely. “So, that’s it? You said—” He stopped, took a breath, and met Remus’s gaze again, jaw tight. “You said you were in love with me.”

Remus exhaled through his nose, annoyed now. So he did something reckless—something unwise—saying something that wasn’t even true.

He hurt back.

“Yeah. Were.” The word landed heavy, thrown like a weapon. “As in, I was.”

It hit its mark.

Remus saw the moment it cut deeper than he was expecting it to.

Sirius swallowed, not hiding how much it wounded him.

“Alright then.” He wasn’t looking at Remus anymore, his hands smoothing over his clothes like he could erase the evidence—like he hadn’t just let Remus close, hadn’t all but pushed his shirt up to feel his touch.

Then he turned and walked out.

The door slammed behind him.

Hard. Final.

Like he had to be the one to end it.

The silence he left behind ached worse than the moon. Worse than Remus’s body should have allowed.

His breath came hard and uneven, his chest tight, but somehow, without him noticing, it began to steady. His eyes still stung, arm shaking as he reached for his crumpled essay, the parchment cold and creased beneath his fingers. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat, ignoring the bitter taste lingering there—less like smoke, more like ashes.

He glanced at the door. Just once.

No one came.

Later, he wondered if Sirius would still come to the Shack that night—he had a feeling maybe he wouldn’t.

That maybe it would be better if he didn’t.

And in the end, Sirius hadn’t come. Not that night, not for a long time afterwards.

Because he’d sent someone else instead.

Chapter Text

Llandudno, North Wales, April 28th, 1968

He’d gotten better with storms. At least, since they’d moved here.

Their first few nights in Llandudno, the winds had howled through the town like something alive, far wilder than anything Hope had known in Cardiff. Worse, even, than the storm the night Remus was bitten.

Thunder rumbled over the sea, distant but insistent, and Lyall had muttered something about maritime winds making it worse. But then came the sound—low at first, then rising to a roar, like a train shuttling off its tracks. That was what finally pulled Remus from sleep, wandering bleary-eyed into their room.

Hope raised an eyebrow at Lyall, the unspoken challenge clear.

Lyall sighed, already defeated. “Wild woman,” he muttered, shoving on his boots and jacket. “Only person I know who hears that and decides to go outside.”

Hope just grinned, scooping Remus up and wrapping them both in the throw blanket from the bed before slipping on her shoes.

The wind fought them as they pushed the door open, tearing through the night like something desperate to be free. It caught their clothes, their hair, sent the world tilting.

“What are we doing?” Remus asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Following one of your mum’s mad ideas,” Lyall deadpanned, shaking a flashlight that gave a feeble flicker before giving up entirely. With a resigned sigh, he pulled out his wand.

“Lumos.”

Light cut through the darkness, pooling at their feet like something solid. Hope tried not to let it show, that wide-eyed wonder she still hadn’t outgrown, but Lyall caught it anyway, his lips quirking as he pulled them both closer.

They pushed through the wind together, heading for the cliffs. The sea churned below, waves colliding hard against the rock, and beyond them, swirling clouds twisted over the water.

“Huh,” Lyall remarked. “That’s interesting.”

They sat there for a long time, the lighthouse flashing in the distance, illuminating the sky in quick bursts. Remus, still half-asleep, blinked drowsily against Hope’s shoulder—until a crack of thunder sent his hair standing on end, and then he was fully awake, burrowing into her neck.

“A waterspout,” Lyall said, using his wand like a telescope. “Not common, but possible here. You can see the funnel if you look closely.”

He passed the wand along, and Remus peered through it.

For a moment, he went very still. Hope tensed.

He didn’t like storms. Always insisted he was fine—because Remus liked to be brave, didn’t like her to worry. But she had worried since he was four years old. Since the night she almost lost him. Storms carried memories of that night, and she and Lyall had been trying, gently, to stop them from taking root.

But this time, when Remus exhaled, there was no tension in his shoulders. No fear in his eyes.

No.

He looked awed.

“Wish it was closer,” he muttered, leaning forward.

“You wish the tornado was closer?” Hope huffed, amused.

“Not too close,” Remus amended. “Just… a little.”

Hope sighed, shaking her head. “You’d be a storm chaser in another life, wouldn’t you?”

“Mad as your mother,” Lyall added with a snort.

“Hey! I didn’t do this,” Hope shot back, grinning. “You’re the one who chases actual dangerous creatures.”

“And you’re still the most dangerous thing I ever chased,” Lyall said, his smile warm.

Hope rolled her eyes but leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth before turning her attention back to Remus.

But he wasn’t listening. He was still watching the waterspout twist across the sea, utterly transfixed.

For the first time, the danger of the present outweighed the fear of the past. The storm was no longer something to dread. It was something beautiful.

Hope smiled—but something in her chest tightened.

He had her heart, that reckless pull toward danger, but he carried his father’s restraint too, that quiet logic that made you believe nothing was as dangerous as it truly was.

It was a dangerous combination to have.

The next month, the daffodils were drowning. The garden lay submerged beneath murky water, the surface rippling under the relentless downpour. Remus pressed his nose against the window screen, inhaling the scent of rain and static as electricity hummed along his skin. A distant crack of thunder rumbled low, rolling closer.

“Things go quiet when it storms,” came a calm voice beside him. “You ever notice that?”

Remus turned. His mother stood next to him, her amber eyes catching the dim light of the basement.

He’d heard her lingering outside, even as the wolf paced the room, waiting for the sun to climb high enough for fur to give way to skin, for claws to shrink back into something she could face.

“Yeah,” he murmured, comforted by her presence. “It’s like the world stops to take a breath.”

Hope smiled softly, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Exactly,” she said, her voice as steady as the rain outside. “Even in chaos, there’s a kind of stillness. We all need a moment to pause—even Mother Nature.”

A flash of lightning split the sky, casting ghostly shadows over the waterlogged garden.

“Is that your way of saying my body throwing a fit every month is natural?” Remus asked, his father’s dry humour already threading through his voice.

Hope let out a wind-chime laugh, moving through the room with practiced ease. She barely glanced at the scratches on the wall before handing him a set of pyjamas and wrapping him in a patchwork blanket.

She raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in her gaze. “Well,” she said, tucking a stray curl behind his ear, “even the wildest storms have their rhythms. Maybe this is just yours.”

Remus huffed, eyes moving back to the window. The only one in the basement, it was too small to offer much of a view, and he had to stand on a box just to see the garden.

“Yeah, not sure how natural turning into a wolf every full moon is, Mum.”

“Maybe not,” she allowed. “But even the fiercest storms break eventually. And when they do, the world feels… different. Remade.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” he muttered in a way that was so Lyall.

Hope hummed, brushing a bit of sawdust from his hair. “Just remember—it passes. And you’re still here afterward.”

Remus didn’t answer. Another flash of lightning lit up the sky, the garden cast in stark, shifting light. His mother watched the storm with him, quiet for a long moment.

“Sometimes,” she murmured, “we have to sit in the silence and listen. You’d be surprised what you notice when the world slows down.”

Remus watched the raindrops bead against the glass, each one small but relentless. “I guess it’s kind of beautiful,” he admitted.

Hope smiled. “Exactly. Even in the chaos, there’s beauty—you just have to know where to look.”

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Lyall had told her once, after yet another Healer had turned them away. You were supposed to get the best of my world, and instead you’ve only seen the worst.

He wasn’t wrong. The bigotry, the way wizards turned on their own—it wasn’t something Hope had ever fully understood. But then, Muggles weren’t any better. Wars waged over scraps of land, power, petty differences. One side always just trying to defend their right to exist. And even Lyall, who loved their son, couldn’t always see past whatever it was that world had made him believe was wrong with him.

So she had only shaken her head, holding Remus closer. He’s the best of both of our worlds, she had told Lyall, quiet but certain.

Lyall hadn’t argued. Just looked tired.

Hope knew why. It wasn’t only because he hated werewolves—not exactly. He hadn’t, not before. He had been doing his job, trying to contain the threat as tensions between magical factions worsened. And then there had been Greyback.

Greyback, who had goaded him in that interrogation room, eyes alight with something feral and calculating. Who had lied and manipulated and smirked through every question, spinning a story that convinced every Committee member except Lyall that he was nothing but a homeless Muggle.

Greyback, who had needled and provoked, who had wanted Lyall to snap.

And Lyall had. Soulless. Evil. Deserving of nothing but death.

Words spoken in fury, reckless and sharp-edged. Hope still believed—hoped—that he had meant them for Greyback alone. Not all of his kind.

But Greyback had taken them as a challenge. As a promise.

And he had made sure Lyall never forgot them.

He had proven himself soulless. Proven himself evil.

Remus had not been the first child he had turned. And he had not been the last.

She pulled him close as thunder rolled nearer, the storm’s symphony just beginning. They counted the seconds between flashes of lightning, a familiar game they played to track the storm.

Remus held up four fingers. “Close,” he declared. “Four.”

Hope nodded. “See? In silence, you hear things you’d usually miss.” She carded her fingers through his hair, resting her hands briefly over his ears. “It’s a good time to listen.”

Remus nodded, sensing the weight behind her words. They stayed like that until his tawny head grew heavy against her shoulder, his breathing slow and steady. When he finally drifted off, Hope carried him upstairs.

By the time they reached his room, the clouds were breaking apart, golden light spilling through the windows, warming the house. The blue walls of his bedroom were a sharp contrast to the cellar’s damp grey, a reminder that he belonged to more than just the dark.

She tucked him beneath his solar system duvet, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Then, moving quietly, she crossed the room to check the locks on the window. Lyall assured her the house was warded, but if childhood fairy tales had taught her anything, it was never to trust magic alone to keep her son safe.

Satisfied, she returned to his bedside, picking up the book hanging precariously off the mattress. Hogwarts: A History. She gently marked the page with the silk ribbon attached to the spine, running her fingers over the worn cover.

She and Lyall had argued, once, about how much of that world to show Remus. She had worried about filling his head with dreams of a place he might never belong. But Lyall had only looked at her with that impossible steadiness and said, Kids need to believe in something magical.

Hope had never fought him on it again.

Sitting beside Remus, she reached for the Dittany on the nightstand. With practiced care, she dabbed the salve onto the small cut over his nose, the ones along his arms, the deep one along his neck.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stir.

Her heart ached.

He used to shrink from pain. Used to whimper when she kissed a scrape better. But now—now he simply bore it, as if he no longer saw the point in reacting at all.

She knew Remus let her fuss more for her sake than his own. By seven, he’d start to slip away from her touch, that brief need for comfort curdling into restlessness, stretching the discomfort rather than easing it. A rejection of anything that felt too much like sympathy.

She didn’t ask anymore—not about the transformation, not about the worst of it. Nothing that might jolt him too sharply into the strangeness of it all. Instead, she settled for a few casual words in the mornings after, enough to gauge how he was without making him say it outright. He was always fine, even when he wasn’t. Even when the wounds were deeper, even when exhaustion pressed heavy behind his eyes.

Still, he let her hold him when she needed to, as if he understood it wasn’t just for him. As if he knew how much she wanted to keep him safe, how it gutted her to lock him away and be powerless to protect him from himself.

Hope swallowed, smoothing a hand over his hair. “Even the worst storms pass,” she whispered, her voice barely more than breath. “And there’s always quiet after.”

She looked down at him, her little boy, eight years old and already carrying a weight too heavy for any child. She worried he wasn’t growing stronger.

Just tired.

“We just have to wait it out,” she murmured, lingering a moment longer before finally slipping out of the room, leaving him to whatever peace the morning could bring.

Remus woke to the sound of thunder, the memory slipping through his fingers as he blinked, and the dim glow of early morning filtered in.

The dormitory was still wrapped in quiet, save for the soft tick-tock of a wristwatch in the jewellery dish beside him and the slow, steady sound of Mary’s breathing. Rain tapped insistently against the windowpane, carried by the wind that whistled through the gaps in the frame.

A storm.

He tried not to tense as the thunder rolled, low and distant, a flash of lightning splitting through the darkness. It was just a storm. He’d lived through plenty. But then, it had never been the storm he was afraid of. Never nature.

Just a man. Or a wolf. Both. Or neither.

A monster.

Teeth. Claws. A long, hind-legged shadow.

A sound like thunder, masking the real threat. Lightning, illuminating nothing but too late.

Fenrir Greyback.

Remus drew in a slow breath, shaking himself free of it. Stupid. He was better than this. Didn’t need babying. Not from his mum. Not from Sirius.

Though Sirius was the only one who knew. At least, about this. He’d noticed the way Remus tensed whenever a storm rolled in, had pestered and prodded until Remus’s patience snapped, and the story came spilling out.

It was meant to shut him up. Meant to put him off. Meant to be too much.

It hadn’t worked.

Sirius had listened in rare, unsettled silence, something dark flashing behind his eyes at the mention of Greyback. And then, without a word, he’d pulled Remus close.

Remus hadn’t known what to do. They hadn’t been properly close then—not yet. Just two prickly eleven-year-olds circling each other, testing the edges of friendship. Sirius wasn’t soft, wasn’t sentimental. But he had held on like he was, like it was instinct, like he could shield Remus from things that had already happened just by wanting to.

And Remus had forgotten to be annoyed at him for prying. For pushing. For being anything except what he was—because, somehow, Sirius had known what he needed before he did. That his pulse was too fast. That his hackles were raised. That the storm bothered him, after all.

Sirius noticed. And he decided, without hesitation, that if there was a storm, he was going to be there.

Except today.

Because today, Remus wasn’t in the right dorm.

Or the right body.

Or the right life.

And even in the right one, there was still too much wrong.

Mary finally stirred, pulling him out of his thoughts.

She moved through the room with an effortless ease, fixing her hair, scrubbing her face, brushing her teeth—all in a practiced rhythm. She disappeared into the bathroom, then reappeared with her toothbrush still in hand, pausing by Marlene’s empty bed.

She frowned. Hesitated. Then, carefully, “Did she not come back last night?”

Remus felt his chest tighten at the look on her face, but there was no point in lying to spare her feelings. He shook his head.

Mary nodded, gaze lingering on the bed before she turned back into the bathroom. The tap ran, the quiet sound of her spitting out toothpaste breaking the stillness. When she re-emerged, she sat stiffly on her bed, swinging her legs idly, staring at her hands.

Remus sighed.

“You alright?” he asked before he could help it. Lily wouldn’t let one of her best friends sit in obvious distress, so he couldn’t either.

Besides, he’d always liked Mary. Setting aside all the mess with Sirius, he’d never held it against her. Hoped she wouldn’t hold it against him, if she ever knew. He’d hated how it happened, had stopped it—stopped Sirius—partially because he liked her. Respected her too much to see her disrespected.

She was clever, kind. A little too soft for some of the things their world threw her way. And, clearly, a little too hard where it mattered.

“I’m okay, don’t worry,” Mary assured, forcing a tight smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Remus shook his head and let it go. She wasn’t Marlene—she couldn’t be pushed on things like this. Wouldn’t fight him, wouldn’t meet him on equal ground. She’d either crumble or retreat, and he had no interest in causing another problem when this wasn’t his to poke at in the first place.

“Nothing,” he said mildly, keeping his tone light. He shifted the subject swiftly, stretching as if it was just a casual thought. “Fancy going to breakfast soon? They should still have those croissants you like. Just give me ten minutes to shower and for these potions to kick in.”

Mary smiled softly. Small, but real. “That’d be nice, thanks, Lily.”

Remus nodded and disappeared into the bathroom, giving her a moment to herself. Another rumble of thunder broke the quiet. He tensed.

He waited, watching lightning flash under the door, counting.

One… two… three… four… five…

Thunder clapped again.

Five miles away, then.

It was stupid—didn’t actually make him feel better—but it gave him something to do other than let his anxiety spike.

His mum used to make a game of it, they’d pretend it worked. He’d play along, mostly because he didn’t want her to know he was scared. Not when she was always so brave.

That was his mum, though. She took scary things and made them ridiculous.

It was how she met his dad. The only Muggle Remus knew who had encountered a Boggart and lived to tell the tale. Then, in typical Hope Lupin fashion, she’d had a Boggart-shaped wedding cake topper when she and his dad married.

The memory made him smile as he turned on the shower, hoping lightning wouldn’t move through the pipes and electrocute him. Another stupid fear, but one that had happened to a Muggle neighbour once. Poor bloke got zapped washing dishes back in Llandudno.

It was a stormy, coastal town—lots of storms.

Sometimes, Remus thought that was why they’d lived there for a while. To help him grow out of his fear. Not that they stayed long; that neighbour had been nosy, and thunder could only mask so much screaming.

A few months later, they were gone. An old run-down chapel near Snowdon became their next hiding place. No basement this time, just a sacristy. A room once used for sacred vessels, gold-edged Bibles. And, for a time, an adolescent werewolf. Something distinctly ungodly.

The shower was warm, the cramps easing faster today with the pain potion. Once the suds were gone and the slight splash of water he’d managed to catch in Lily’s hair had dried, he stepped out and grabbed some clothes from her wardrobe.

He struggled with the bra. Again.

“Why is hooking a bra so much harder than unhooking one?” he muttered.

Mary snorted, not looking up from her book. She’d changed and settled into a cocoon of blankets while he was in the shower, the wind knocking against the window behind her.

“Hook it in the front, then twist it around to the back,” she advised.

Remus blinked, disbelieving. Then he tried it. And it worked.

“…Thanks,” he said, meaning it.

Mary just shrugged.

He finished dressing, but the feeling stayed with him—that creeping tension, like something was coming. Something bad.

He deliberately avoided looking at the window. If he glanced, he’d want to check that it was locked, and that was illogical. They were in a tower. Greyback wasn’t going to climb up on a broom.

Besides, he was Lily right now.

Greyback didn’t know where he was.

It was fine.

It didn’t feel fine.

“Ready,” he said to Mary, forcing a smile.

Mary grinned and looped her arm through his. “Do you want to hear about the filthy thing I just read? Latest Scarlett Skye instalment. Turns out her best friend is a half-vampire, half-Veela, and that broody boy she’s been having all that tension with is a werewolf. You won’t believe what just happened between all three of them on that camping trip before the full moon.”

Remus snorted. Dark romance books and ridiculous erotica depictions of his condition were more amusing than anything.

And Scarlett Skye was already amusing. The name alone—overly sultry, just shy of ridiculous—brought to mind the old saying: red sky at morning, sailors take warning… red sky at night, sailor’s delight.

Given the no-doubt scandalous novels she wrote, delight seemed the likelier bet.

He raised an eyebrow, a silent Go on, then.

Mary’s smirk turned sly. “Do you know what an Eiffel Tower is?”

Remus frowned. “You mean the one in Paris?”

Her smirk deepened.

Remus got the feeling he was about to learn something else he didn’t particularly need to know.

Girls were terrifying.

Lily woke to real thunder.

Not a dream-softened echo, not the ripple of some lingering psychic connection to the boy whose body she was currently inhabiting. This was real—a crack of sound splitting the sky, flashes of lightning flickering through the gaps in her bed curtains.

Something warm curled against her side, pressed into her abdomen, rising and falling with quiet, steady breaths. Still caught in the haze of half-sleep, she reached out, her fingers brushing against soft fur. Black fur. Salem. The cat had a habit of choosing its bed partner based on who seemed most accommodating. Marlene moved too much. Mary got too warm and kicked him out. Lily wasn’t sure what she did, but the cat picked her often enough.

She sighed, sinking further into the pillow. Sitting out in the freezing courtyard last night with Remus had been important—what they’d talked about had been important. But she was feeling it now. The exhaustion, the chill that had settled deep in her bones, refusing to leave even under the heavy duvet.

She was almost certain she’d exchanged some blunt words with her dormmates earlier, when they’d been pestering her to get up for breakfast.

“Oh, come on. It’s the weekend! Don’t be such a killjoy, Moony!”

“No.” Stubbornly.

There had been a beat of silence, then a sigh, followed by, “This is the worst part of my day. It’s at least twelve hours before I can reasonably go to bed and avoid all of you again.”

A brief pause. Then, James’s voice, wry and amused: “I dunno what you’re on about, Wormy. He seems perfectly normal to me.”

Some muttering, the shuffle of footsteps, the door swinging shut with a promise to bring something back from the Great Hall. Leave Moony bloody be.

Lily had barely registered it, lulled back to sleep by the rain against the windows.

Now, she woke more fully, though still heavy-limbed. She peeled herself away from the warmth, stumbling towards the bathroom, carefully extracting herself from the bundle of fur at her side.

She relieved herself, brushed her teeth, scrubbed her face into wakefulness. Splashing cool water over skin that wasn’t hers but was getting alarmingly familiar. Remus’s reflection stared back—drawn, pale, dark circles beneath tired eyes.

She yawned, rolling out her shoulders as she padded back into the dorm, debating whether to crawl straight back into bed.

Then she stopped.

Everything in her body jolted to high alert.

Because that? That was not a cat.

It was huge, still curled in the middle of the bed, filling the space she’d just left. And she had slept beside that.

Clarity hit slowly, like ink blooming in water. Of course Salem wouldn’t be here—this wasn’t the girls’ dorm.

But she’d never seen this occupant in the boys’ room before.

As if sensing her gaze, the massive creature stirred, lifting its head. And oh—oh, it was even bigger than she’d realised.

Sharp teeth, intelligent eyes, paws too big to belong to anything harmless. A long snout, wild but refined, like some shadowy sentinel. A beast straight out of a storybook, watching her with keen, unblinking attention.

Her breath caught.

Lightning flared outside, throwing its silhouette against the wall, stretching it impossibly large. A heartbeat later, thunder cracked.

Lily froze.

The dog’s gaze pinned her in place, unreadable. A predator watching prey.

Then—just as suddenly—the tension shattered.

The beast’s ears flicked back. Its body dropped low, paws stretching forward, tail swishing in a way that was unmistakably… playful.

It let out a soft, high-pitched whine.

Lily exhaled sharply. The tight coil in her chest didn’t fully loosen—but it eased, just a little.

“…Hi,” she said cautiously.

The dog perked up, tail thumping against the mattress.

Oh. Oh.

It’s adorable.

Lily hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward. The dog practically vibrated with excitement, tail wagging faster the closer she got. The second she sat down on the bed, it surged toward her, knocking into her lap in an excited mess of fur and limbs.

“Alright, alright—hi—” she laughed, fending off an enthusiastic onslaught of licks.

It whined again, flipping onto its back, massive paws curled to its chest. Clearly demanding all of the affection.

“Oh, you are lovely,” she murmured, running a hand through thick fur.

The dog all but melted under her touch, looking at her with wide, soulful eyes. Nudging her hands if she so much as paused.

Absolutely not aware of how big it was. Definitely not acting its size.

“You have no idea how large you are, do you?” she chuckled, scratching behind its ears.

The tail-wagging somehow increased.

Lily was so caught up in cooing at the enormous dog sprawled across her lap that she almost missed the weight of another gaze on her.

Until she turned—and locked eyes with someone watching from across the dorm.

James looked like he was fighting a grin but said nothing.

Lily’s eyes flicked to him, but before she could question it, the dog nudged at her hand again, clearly not finished demanding attention. She laughed, rubbing behind its ears again before leaning down to press a few kisses to its forehead.

Now James definitely looked like he wished he had a camera.

Lily glanced up at him, hands still combing through thick black fur, head tilted as if to ask, What?

James just shook his head, all innocence. Nothing.

But his grin said otherwise—said it was something, and said he was having fun at her expense.

Still, since he didn’t seem to find anything odd about a dog being in the dormitory, Lily didn’t ask. Clearly, this was normal, or at least as normal as things got with the Marauders. Asking would no doubt only raise suspicion.

James went back to packing his Quidditch bag, though his usual pep was noticeably absent. His shoulders were tense, his movements a little distracted.

Lily frowned, the dog settling against her lap as she turned to face him properly.

“You alright?”

James blinked, like he hadn’t meant to switch off. A grin slotting into place to smooth over any uncertainty. “‘Course.”

Lily raised an eyebrow. Really?

James held onto the act a second longer before exhaling deeply, relenting. “Just—Captain doubts,” he admitted, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “Half the team still isn’t there yet, and the season starts up again next month. Not sure we’re ready to face Slytherin again. Marcus has a great arm for Bludgers but flies like he’s got bricks strapped to his broom. Donavon’s the fastest flyer we’ve got, but he couldn’t catch a Quaffle if his life depended on it. And no one bloody listens to me.” He kicked at the bedpost in frustration.

Lily nodded, watching him with understanding. “It’s not about having the best players, though. It’s about having the best team.”

James paused, glancing over as she continued.

“Your problem isn’t skill so much as organisation. That’s fixable—either by making sure they listen or by swapping in some of your benched players who will.”

James stared at her, then took a step closer, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Alright. Who are you, and what’ve you done with Moony?”

Lily’s stomach lurched.

“What?” she asked, forcing her voice to stay steady.

James snorted, shooting her a look that said relax. “You’re speaking my language. Paying attention to Quidditch, of all things.”

Lily let out a breath, shoulders dropping. The jig wasn’t up.

Quidditch was one of the few things in the magical world she’d understood straight away. Her dad was big on football—her uncle and grandad, too. Sundays at her grandparents’ house meant the lot of them crammed in front of the small telly while she was supposed to be helping her mum, sister, and nan in the kitchen with the roast.

But something about the sport had called to her. She’d sneak away, cross-legged between the sofas, eyes glued to the screen as her dad and grandad shouted at the ref. It was the rush of it—the competitiveness, the hope. The way one goal could change everything. The togetherness of it all.

The first time her grandad caught her watching instead of helping, he only smiled, like he knew something she didn’t. He gestured for her to grab him a beer—an unspoken bribe—and when she did, he patted her head as she smoothed down her skirt, nodded at the screen, and let her stay.

A few minutes later, the red team scored, and the entire room erupted—her uncle, grandad, and dad jumping to their feet, beer splattering the couch. The stadium crowd on-screen mirrored them, roaring with triumph.

Lily, still nestled between the sofa pillows, stared wide-eyed as her grandad ruffled her hair. Good luck charm, he declared, especially after the third game she watched ended in a win. After that, she was always allowed to stay, a juice box in hand, while the sporting rituals around her grew stranger—how she wore her hair, what colour she had on, the exact brand of beer she handed her grandad before kick-off.

Years later, when her Hogwarts letter arrived, she’d wondered, just for a second, if good luck charm had been more literal than anyone realised. But that was powerful magic, wasn’t it? Even for accidental magic, it would’ve been a stretch.

Still, the thought lingered.

Petunia never cared for the sport. Severus hadn’t either. He always turned up his nose at the men in the pub who were glued to the screen, sparing Lily a pointed look like we’re better than this.

But Lily liked it. Liked Quidditch, too. Liked the way her Muggle life had managed to translate into magic. Liked House pride. Liked that she still rooted for the same jersey-coloured players.

The Reds.

L.F.C.

Gryffindor.

She refocused on James, lifting her chin. “I’m not stupid, Potter,” she said. “It’s balls on a pitch. Children play it. Not difficult to pick up the rules.”

James was clearly unconvinced. He folded his arms. “How many balls?”

Lily didn’t hesitate. “Four during a match, three kinds.”

James looked pleasantly surprised—then, because he was James, and because he was sure he’d trip her up with his next question, he said, “Name them.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “One Quaffle, two Bludgers, and the Snitch.”

James blinked, visibly impressed. Before he could push her further, she crossed her arms and gave him a pointed look. “You done quizzing me on the basics, or do you actually want my help?”

James raised an eyebrow. Then, with a wave of his hand, he silently gestured, Go on.

Lily smiled to herself, feeling like she’d just won something. Respect, maybe. And from James Potter, that was no small thing.

“Your team isn’t listening to you because they don’t think they have to,” she said. “You need to remind them why they should. You’re James Potter—you know how to demand respect. You’re a new Captain, and that means growing pains, especially with the older players who don’t see why you got a position they’ve wanted for years. You’re hesitating because you don’t want to push too hard, don’t want to throw your title around—but all that’s doing is giving them free rein to slack off.” She met his gaze evenly. “Be you. Show off. Make them remember why you were made Captain. Use that little habit of yours—the one where you pick up on everyone’s weaknesses and store them away for later—and push them into shape. Embarrass them for not keeping up. For being the weakest link.”

James’s eyes gleamed, and for once, he looked like he was genuinely listening. “So, you’re suggesting I use my powers for evil?”

Lily huffed. “Not evil. But I think you’ve been a just ruler long enough. That clearly isn’t working with your jocks. They’re athletes—they respect skill. You fell off your broom last match, practically cost them the game. And sure, you were trying to save it, but that’s not what they saw. They saw recklessness, not talent. Remind them what you are.”

James nodded, considering. “And the team itself?”

Lily tilted her head. “Marcus is a problem, and not just because of his flying. He has no awareness of the rest of the team. I’d swap him out for Lawson—great team player, strong throw, good flyer. Nervous under pressure, though, but that’s fixable. Let him play in a few mock-ups, give him some praise, and you’ve got yourself a solid alternate Beater. More importantly, it gives you something to hold over Marcus if he needs reminding that he can be replaced. That kind of thing gets everyone moving—no one wants to be the one falling short when replacements are waiting.”

James absorbed that for a beat. Then, with no warning whatsoever, he moved—quick, sharp, and entirely James.

Lily barely had time to react before she found herself in a headlock.

“Moony, you’re a little genius,” James crowed, pressing a quick, smacking kiss to the top of her head.

The enormous dog between them gave a warning grumble, but James just laughed, delighted, and released Lily with a final ruffle to her hair before slinging his Quidditch bag over his shoulder.

“Come on, Wormy!” he called, already halfway to the door. “We’ve got work to do. You can be my notetaker—keep an eye on who’s slacking.”

Peter, who had been attempting to follow the conversation while also trying (and failing) to finish his coursework, immediately dropped his wand and quill in relief. His shoes were kicked on in record time as he scrambled after James, who, naturally, didn’t wait for anyone to catch up with him.

Lily exhaled slowly, falling back against the pillows of her borrowed bed. Something in her felt… too light.

James.

Ridiculous, completely ridiculous James.

That grin. That messy shock of black hair. That familiar gleam of mischief and arrogance.

Completely insufferable James.

Except—she seemed to be suffering him quite well at the moment. Well enough that it didn’t even feel like suffering at all.

“I don’t like James, right?” she half-whispered to herself, horrified.

A wet nose against her cheek cut off her thoughts, the weight of large paws shifting beside her.

Lily wasn’t sure if it was possible to be judged by a dog, but she definitely felt it. Or maybe it was just territorial. Maybe it had a favourite—Remus, of course—and it didn’t like her getting too close to anyone else.

Lily bet the dog just loved Sirius.

“Don’t worry,” she assured it, scratching behind its ear. “I still like you much more than James Potter.”

That felt like a lie.

Lily wasn’t sure she liked anyone the way she liked James. Wasn’t sure she disliked anyone the way she disliked him either. Wasn’t sure there was an accurate word for the mess of feelings that surged inside her whenever he so much as looked at her.

She sighed, forcing herself up.

Sirius still hadn’t returned to the dorm. Maybe he’d been out last night. Or maybe he was smart enough to keep his distance—not that he could know what Remus had told her. But she still knew now, and she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to meet his eyes today and pretend otherwise.

Pretend she didn’t want to hex him into next week.

Or the next century.

Admittedly, Lily was trying to give Sirius the benefit of the doubt, to muster up more sympathy than he probably deserved. If he truly didn’t love Remus back, then… well, she could understand that. She’d been in that position before—her best friend loving her in a way she could never return. And it was awful.

Wanting to take away their pain. Wanting to make them happy. Being the reason they weren’t. And knowing that making them happy would only break you in the end.

If that was what had happened here, then yes. It was a difficult position.

But Lily had turned over every possible detail, examined every angle, and none of it made sense unless Sirius loved Remus too. He had to. She just didn’t understand why he had run from that—

…Well. His family. That was the obvious answer. But it wasn’t a good enough one. Not to justify keeping the truth from Remus. Not to justify hurting him for confessing something that had already taken so much courage.

No. Sirius loved him. Lily would bet anything on it. He’d loved him even then. There was something else here—something she didn’t know. Something bigger.

The dog watched as she untangled herself, its big, knowing eyes following her retreat with something that felt suspiciously like disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, giving it another pat. “I’ve got things to do.” Almost to herself, she added, “We’re so close to figuring this out.”

The dog barked—short and loud, almost encouraging—and Lily laughed, shaking her head. It really was a strange dog. Too obedient. Too expressive. Almost… familiar.

She shook off the thought and rose to find clothes. The empty dorm meant she could change in peace, but as she peeled off her pyjamas, a prickle of awareness crept up her spine. A feeling—not quite like being watched, but close.

She turned, suspicious. The dorm was empty, just as it had been, but as her gaze swept over the room, the dog shifted on the bed. It turned its head away from her, ears twitching, its whole posture almost… sheepish.

A slow, amused smile spread across its snout.

Lily narrowed her eyes.

No.

Absolutely not.

She pulled on a jumper over her jeans and ducked into the bathroom to adjust Remus’s hair. A flash of lightning lit up the dorm as she stepped back in, thunder rolling low and distant.

The wind had picked up against the windows, the rain hitting harder.

Lily sighed, hoping James wouldn’t be stupid enough to fly in it.

He was exactly stupid enough to fly in it.

The dog watched her, ears twitching, its head tilting slightly. There was something considering in its expression. Almost… concerned.

Lily frowned.

The look was familiar.

The gesture was familiar.

Like something she’d seen before—more than once.

Something clicked in her mind, a flicker of an impossible thought—

She turned fully, looking at the dog again.

It just blinked at her, innocent and unmoved.

Lily inhaled sharply, then huffed out a laugh, running a hand through her hair. “Merlin’s sake,” she muttered, shaking her head at herself. “Now I’m just being paranoid.”

The dog said nothing.

But it smiled.

Lily barely managed to slip out of the dorm, the dog practically glued to her heels, skidding around her feet like a shadow that refused to be shaken.

It hadn’t even let her leave until she ate the toast on her bedside table, barking at the untouched food like it was on a mission. She’d tried offering it a piece, but it had just stared at her—watchful, expectant, too well-behaved. Not like any dog she knew, which would have snapped it up in an instant.

Instead, it had waited, only letting up once she took a bite. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, it nudged her hand toward the counter, huffing until she picked up her tea too.

“Oh, for—fine.” She took a sip, rolling her eyes. “Happy?”

The dog gave a sharp bark, satisfied.

Lily shook her head, muttering under her breath as she finally made for the door. But the moment she stepped out, it tangled around her legs again, nearly tripping her.

“No,” she huffed, levelling it with a stern look. “You can’t come with me.”

The dog sat, staring up at her. Challenging. Can’t I?

Lily folded her arms. “You’re staying here. We’re not supposed to have dogs. They’re not Hogwarts-approved pets. You’ll get us in trouble.”

The dog only looked more determined. And more like trouble itself.

Or maybe that was its name—because just as she thought she’d won, escaping the dorm alone, she turned down the corridor and found it waiting for her, tail wagging, eyes bright with a wordless, Where to next?

Lily groaned. “Oh, you are trouble,” she muttered.

Giving up, she strode ahead, hoping the dog wasn’t the sort that needed a lead. She’d never seen it before—not in the dorm, not anywhere—but it stuck to her side with unnerving loyalty, moving like it had always been there.

No collar, she noticed. Yet, somehow, it didn’t feel like a stray. It belonged to someone.

Remus?

It had to be.

She’d found it on his bed, after all. And it was far too comfortable with her.

“Where did you come from?” she murmured, half to herself.

The dog cocked its head, silent.

They earned a few looks as they passed through the common room—some whispers, a few murmurs of recognition—but no one stopped them. Even the Fat Lady said nothing, as if she was used to the sight.

It wasn’t until they were halfway down the corridor that a voice rang out behind them.

“Oi, Lupin! I told you about that dog. You can’t keep it here as a pet.”

The dog turned first, stepping in front of her, body taut and ready.

Lily recognised the voice. And the face attached to it.

Kingsley.

She schooled her expression into something warm and mild—the way Remus always did. Like trouble simply found him, like he had everything under control.

“He’s not a pet,” she said smoothly. “He’s a… friend.”

Kingsley snorted, unimpressed. “It’s a dog, Lupin. And it’s against the rules.”

Lily blinked. “Nope. Think you need your eyes checked, Shacklebolt. He’s… a big cat.”

Kingsley sighed, shaking his head, but there was amusement in his eyes. “Keep your cat out of the hallways, then. It’s too big to be anything but a slobbering menace.”

The dog made a low, disgruntled noise, clearly offended.

Lily barely held back a laugh.

Kingsley gave them one last stern look before letting them pass.

Lily glanced down at the dog. “See? Trouble.”

The dog’s tail wagged, and with a loud, triumphant bark, it made it perfectly clear—

That was exactly what it intended to be.

Lily shook her head, watching the dog’s sleek fur catch the lantern light as they walked. The storm clouds beyond the castle windows made it feel more like dusk than midday, the sky a thick, grumbling grey. The dog—whoever it belonged to—was clearly well cared for. Clean. A glossy coat. It smelled faintly of fresh rain and warm fur, but there was something else too, something familiar. A trace of smoke, a hint of leather. Sirius-like, almost.

Whenever lightning flashed or thunder rolled, the dog edged closer, pressing against her legs as if to shield her. When they passed other students, it watched them with careful, assessing eyes, as though deciding which ones were threats. It was endearing, if a little unnecessary. And a definite tripping hazard. Maybe it didn’t like storms? Dogs had sharp hearing, didn’t they? Each crash of thunder was rattling in Lily’s skull—she could only imagine how much worse it was for the dog.

Remus, apparently, agreed the dog was a menace, because the second she pushed open the door to the Ancient Runes classroom and it bounded inside, fluffy black tail wagging, he froze.

Before Lily could speak, he snapped himself out of it. His quill tumbled to the floor, forgotten, as he flicked his wand at the board to clear their research from view. A murmured Disillusionment Charm followed, settling over the stack of books and papers on his desk.

Lily tilted her head. Odd reaction.

The dog was busy sniffing around the room, oblivious, while Remus retrieved his quill, tracking its movements with a wary sort of attention. Then he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at Lily.

“What’s with the…?” he asked carefully.

“Followed me here,” she huffed. “Didn’t exactly take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Of course it didn’t,” Remus muttered.

The dog, clearly aware it was being discussed, stood to attention before trotting back over to Lily’s feet.

Remus’s gaze flicked between them, something unreadable tightening in his expression. “It can’t stay in here,” he said, voice thin.

The dog barked, as if taking that personally.

Lily laid a calming hand on its back. “Why not?”

Thunder cracked outside, shaking the windows. Remus hesitated.

“Don’t like dogs,” he said at last, quiet.

The dog grumbled, raising its head high in clear offence.

Lily frowned. She’d assumed it was his, but maybe not. He did look… uneasy. Not just irritated—actually tense.

“You’re not afraid of it, are you?” she asked.

Remus shrugged, still watching them both with that keen, calculating stare, as if trying to piece something together that Lily couldn’t see.

She sighed. “He’s friendly. I know he looks scary, but he’s a softie. Won’t cause trouble, will you?”

The dog, determined to prove its innocence, flopped onto its back, legs splayed in a dramatic display of submission. It looked, for all the world, like an oversized puppy.

Remus did not look convinced. “No,” he said, firmer this time. “It’s absolutely not staying.”

The dog huffed, sitting up and giving a full-body shake. Then, as if reconsidering its approach, it padded toward Remus more carefully, ears slightly back, trying to appear gentle.

Remus stepped back.

Lily frowned. “Alright, come on. Away.”

The dog lingered a moment longer, eyes locked on Remus. Then, finally, it turned.

Lily crouched, giving it a quick pet. “Good boy.” She stood, brushing stray fur from her jeans, and opened the door. “Go on, then. I told you, you couldn’t come with me today.”

The dog looked up at her, big dark eyes wide and pleading.

Merlin, it was manipulative.

“Out,” she said, pointing. “I mean it.”

The dog gave an almost theatrical sigh but finally obeyed. Not without pausing to lift its head proudly in Remus’s direction first. Then, just as it reached the doorway, it sprang up, licking a startled laugh from Lily before bounding off down the hall.

She wiped her face. “Bye,” she called after it. “I’ll see you later.”

Then she turned back to Remus, arms folding, brow arched to dangerous heights.

Remus did his best impression of someone who hadn’t just acted incredibly suspicious. He strolled across the room, turned the chalkboard back around, carefully undid the spellwork, and sat at the desk like nothing had happened.

Lily wasn’t buying it. She just kept staring.

Eventually, Remus turned, met her gaze—and shrank slightly before composing himself, blinking at her with forced innocence.

“What?” he asked, dry.

Lily folded her arms. “Want to explain what that was?”

Remus tilted his head, feigning confusion. He shuffled the papers in front of him, a little too focused, clearly stalling.

Lily narrowed her eyes. “You’re acting almost as cagey about that dog as you were about Sirius.”

“Am not,” Remus muttered immediately, a little petulant. “I just… don’t see the big deal.”

Lily threw up her hands. “Remus, you Disillusioned our work like the dog could read it.”

Remus didn’t even blink. “You left the door open. It wasn’t the dog I was worried about.”

Lily frowned, glancing back toward the door. Had she? She couldn’t remember.

“That dog was in your dorm, on your bed, and you’re afraid of it?” she pressed.

“Not afraid,” Remus corrected, pausing as if searching for the right word. “Just… aware of what it’s like. Troublesome. Wouldn’t have gotten any work done.”

Lily gave him a sceptical look. “So it is yours?”

Remus hesitated, stumbling over his answer like he wasn’t even sure himself. “Uh.” He scratched his head. “It’s not not mine. More Sirius’s.”

Lily absorbed that for a moment. If anyone was smuggling a dog into Gryffindor Tower, it would be Sirius.

She voiced that concern. “But Remus, I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to keep pets like that in the dorm.”

Kingsley, at least, had made it clear that Remus already knew this.

“Technically, no,” Remus said slowly. “But he’s not really a pet. More of a… frequent visitor.”

“A frequent visitor? To your bed?” Lily’s eyebrow arched.

Remus—who had faced down worse things than Lily Evans and lived to tell the tale—looked, oddly, even more uncomfortable at that. A faint pink spread across his cheeks. He cleared his throat.

“Sometimes,” he admitted with a forced shrug. “Comes and goes as he pleases.”

Lily frowned. She supposed that made sense. Salem free-roamed the castle, returning to the girls’ dorm when he got bored, missed Marlene, or just wanted a guaranteed soft, warm place to sleep. Still—

Remus sighed, cutting in before she could interrogate him further. “How’d you even find him?” The words were casual, but there was something deliberate about the way he asked, like he was still working something out.

Lily studied him for a moment before answering. “Woke up beside it,” she said finally. “Seemed like it didn’t like the storm and decided it wanted to curl up next to you.”

Something flickered in Remus’s expression at that—something warm, almost soft, but fleeting. He looked away, schooling his features back into careful neutrality.

Lily added, “Followed me from the moment I woke up, all through the castle. Weirdly possessive. Like it was guarding you.”

Remus grimaced, more uncomfortable than before. He attempted to turn the tables, raising an eyebrow. “And you just trusted a big, strange dog?”

Lily straightened, defensive. “It was on your bed, so I figured it was yours. Looked a bit intimidating at first, but up close? An absolute sweetheart.”

Remus suppressed the urge to groan. Merlin. How had she not guessed?

“Oh, right. Girls really aren’t afraid of anything, are they?” he muttered, half to himself.

Lily smirked. “Definitely not boys with too many secrets. Honestly, I like the dog better than your other roommates. Reminds me of what Clara Bow said—‘The more I see of men, the more I like dogs.’” She glanced at him, suspicion creeping into her eyes. “…Why are you smiling like that?”

Remus bit back the grin threatening to spread. “No reason.”

Lily folded her arms. “Right. I bet with you lot around, the poor thing thinks its name is ‘No, don’t do that.’”

Remus sighed, shaking his head. “Oh, if only.”

Lily gave him a bemused look. “If only? I feel like I’m missing something.”

He scratched the back of his neck, scrambling for a distraction. “It’s nothing, really. Just… you know how dogs can be. Mischievous.”

“Mischievous?” Lily’s eyes narrowed. “He didn’t seem the type. More like he’s taking after someone.”

Remus groaned internally. Of course she’d catch onto that. Lily was as perceptive as ever. “Yeah,” he muttered, “you could say that.”

The truth hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t just say it. Not yet. This wasn’t just any old secret—it was their secret. And it had to stay that way.

Could he trust Lily with it? He glanced at her again—impatient, curious, but also… trustworthy.

Still. No. Not yet.

Lily, unsatisfied, pushed again. “Alright, spill. What’s the deal with this dog? It doesn’t exactly seem like standard Hogwarts pet material.”

Remus hesitated, grasping for something close to the truth. “He’s… a stray. Sort of follows us around. Harmless, really. More bark than bite.”

Lily tilted her head. “A stray that sleeps in your bed? Sounds pretty loyal for a stray.”

Remus silently cursed. She was too sharp for her own good. “Yeah… well, he’s persistent. Keeps sneaking in when no one’s looking. We don’t have the heart to kick him out.”

Lily’s face softened, her suspicion giving way to amusement. “I knew there was more to you boys than just mischief and pranks. A bunch of softies at heart, aren’t you?”

Remus let out a forced laugh, relieved she seemed to be buying it. “Just don’t tell anyone. Ruins the image.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Lily teased. “Your secret’s safe with me. But if I see him again, I’m naming him. You can’t just keep calling him ‘the dog.’”

Remus winced at the thought of Sirius being saddled with some cutesy name. He was sure rebellious, leather-jacket-wearing, rock-n’-roll enthusiast Sirius would just love that.

The wince deepened. He could practically already hear the dramatics. “Let’s not get too attached. He’s… unpredictable. Wanders off, a bit wild…”

Lily smirked, finally sitting down beside him, giving him a nudge. “Sounds familiar. But if he’s anything like the rest of you lot, he’s probably just misunderstood.”

Remus smiled faintly. “Yeah… something like that.”

Lily studied him for a long moment. “You’re not telling me everything, are you?”

Remus exhaled. “Not yet.”

Lily sighed but, thankfully, didn’t push further, seemingly aware she’d reached a door that wasn’t ready to open today.

Remus leaned back, but his thoughts didn’t settle. If Lily ever found out the truth—about Sirius, about him—things would get a lot more complicated than a simple conversation about a dog.

She hadn’t asked about the scars. Lily was one of the few who never had. But unless they found a way to change back, she might get her answers soon—whether he was ready or not.

Her voice drew him out of his thoughts.

“Honestly, Remus,” Lily said lightly, shaking her head. “You and your secrets. One of these days, they’re going to catch up with you.”

Remus’s smile slowly faded. A shadow passed over his face.

“…Yeah,” he murmured. “Sooner than you think.”

Remus stepped out of the Ancient Runes classroom just past noon, the storm finally spent. The rain had stopped rattling the windows; thunder no longer grumbled at the horizon. The clouds still lingered, heavy and grey, but the sun had begun to edge around them, casting long shafts of light through the corridor’s high windows. Outside, the wind had stilled, no longer howling like it had something to prove.

The quiet after the storm, his mum would’ve called it. There was calm before, and quiet after.

He’d volunteered to fetch food, aware that Lily was flagging as the afternoon wore on. They’d skipped lunch, too absorbed in their still-unsuccessful attempts to get back in their own bodies.

Legilimency was their current focus. If this really was a case of a botched psychic link, exacerbated by the Mirror’s power, then maybe they could guide each other back through the doors of their own minds.

And it was a door. Literally.

They’d pieced together everything they’d seen in each other’s heads. Lily had been strangely evasive about what exactly she’d glimpsed in his, but their stories had lined up well enough to support the theory.

Lily hadn’t seemed eager to be the Legilimens again, so Remus had tried instead, somewhat tentatively. They’d started with basic questions, like in their first Defence lesson, but something was different today.

There was less resistance.

Getting in was easier, like walking a familiar path to a friend’s house.

Maybe it was the late-night conversation. Maybe trusting each other—saying things out loud instead of locking them away—had made a difference. There was less Remus was actively keeping hidden, though one thing remained firmly locked away. The one thing he couldn’t risk letting her see.

Lily’s mind was warm, like the last day of spring bleeding into the first day of summer. The tree still stood tall in the meadow where their psychic meeting place had formed, its rope swing swaying lazily from a thick branch. Children’s laughter rippled through the air, blending with the murmuring river that wound through the scene.

It was clearer this time. The greenness of the grass, the brightness of the sky. And Remus was almost certain he could place the boy’s laughter twining through Lily’s—except he’d never heard that boy laugh like that. Never heard Snape sound happy.

When they’d tested the questions, the answers had come almost instantly.

Favourite book?

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.

Remus had raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Favourite song?

“Landslide.”

Fleetwood Mac.

He’d snorted before he could stop himself.

“What?” Lily had asked, indignant.

Remus had shaken his head. “Just—getting a very clear picture of you, Evans.”

“And?”

Remus had only smiled. Checks out. The memory of the song had come with flashes of Lily belting it at a party alongside Marlene, Firewhiskey on her breath. Singing along with her dad in the car on a long summer drive. Spinning around their dorm with Mary, only half-dressed for the night ahead. Alone in her room, swaying, completely at ease.

A good song. Better memories.

“Can’t really talk,” he’d added with a shrug. “Decent album. One of my mum’s favourites. I like Crystal.”

Then, it was Lily’s turn to snort.

He’d raised an eyebrow, debating whether to be offended.

She’d smirked before teasing back, “Just getting a very clear picture of you, Lupin.”

He’d rolled his eyes, and they’d moved on.

Favourite colour?

That was the first question they’d tested in Defence. It was the only time today that Lily had hesitated.

Remus had opened his eyes just enough to see the tension creep into her shoulders. But then, like she was making a decision, she took a breath, and the tension unspooled.

He tried again. Legilimens.

Flashes of red.

Scarlet banners catching the light as the Sorting Hat’s voice rang in her ears. Her mother’s braid swinging in front of her as she reached for her small hand. Marlene and Mary testing lipstick in their dormitory mirror, laughter bubbling up through their messy attempts. Her dad wrapping a L.F.C. scarf snugly around her neck as he carried her on his broad shoulders through a packed football stadium. James’s Quidditch robes fluttering in the wind as he darted through the sky. James, flushed with frustration, as she yelled at him. James again, just before Christmas, in a deep maroon jumper, Sirius snorting over his shoulder at the enchanted reindeer prancing proudly across the wool.

The warmth of her own cheeks as she fled to the bathroom, breathless, pressing her fingers against her skin, staring back at herself in the mirror.

Red.

Remus had opened his eyes to find Lily a light shade of it herself as she nodded.

He hadn’t pushed, just smiled to himself as they returned to their work.

James couldn’t know yet. It was still finding its footing—tentative but steady, something he’d already sprinted a thousand steps ahead with. But Lily wasn’t there yet. She was still making sense of it, still working out what it might become.

But it was there.

One day, Lily Evans was going to make James an impossible kind of happy—the kind he deserved, the kind he’d spend a lifetime trying to give back to her.

Remus had a feeling he’d never hear the end of it. He should probably enjoy the quiet—the calm before the storm—while it lasted. Because once it happened, there’d be no stopping it. James and Lily bickered like they were already three kids in, even though they’d never even kissed. Maybe that was the reason they bickered in the first place. Maybe they were just waiting for the inevitable.

Now, as he made his way toward the kitchens, the corridors were mostly empty. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were playing a mock-up match outside, testing their lineups before Quidditch season started again.

A few younger students lingered, half-whispering to each other, wands flicking toward the suits of armour as they tried—unsuccessfully—to make them dance.

Remus kept walking. He wasn’t on patrol. Besides, that prank had been pulled before, and the castle had put its foot down.

He’d just turned a corner when a pair of hands closed around his waist with far too much familiarity.

He didn’t jump, but his pulse did.

“You’ve got a shadow,” a voice murmured at his ear, low and amused. A second later, the warmth of another body pressed close, guiding him into the nearest alcove.

Sirius.

Remus followed without thinking, hands settling obligingly around Sirius’s neck as his back pressed against the alcove wall. He caught on quickly.

Sirius stood in front of him, shielding him from view—though not exactly hiding what they were supposed to be doing, should anyone glance their way. Or at least, what Sirius intended to make it look like they were doing. Smoke, leather, Sirius—the scent of him hit Remus, proximity erasing any coherent thought he might have had.

“Who?” he finally thought to ask.

Sirius glanced down the corridor. “Some Slytherin bozo,” he muttered.

Remus peeked over his shoulder, catching sight of a boy making his way toward them.

Rosier.

The Slytherin slowed when he saw them, sneer curling in recognition.

Sirius’s reputation preceded him, and right now, it was working in their favour. Rosier didn’t need to think hard to understand what was happening—or at least, what he thought was happening. And he certainly wasn’t about to challenge a Black, not this Black, no matter how repulsed he might be by the idea of touching a Muggleborn without intent to harm.

Sirius’s gaze sharpened, but his mouth tipped into a lazy smirk. He leaned in deliberately, hands tightening at Remus’s waist, breath warm against his neck.

Remus’s breath hitched, fingers digging a little tighter where they rested around Sirius’s neck.

This was the closest they’d been in six months. Time hadn’t dulled it—not the weight of it, not the way the air felt charged between them. Even being in the wrong body couldn’t erase the sense that this was them.

Sirius didn’t know. Couldn’t know. So Remus swallowed hard, shoved down the feeling clawing its way up his chest, and forced himself to stay perfectly still.

“Still looking?” Sirius murmured, far too close.

Remus didn’t need to check. “Yep.”

Sirius hummed, amused. “Reckon he fancies you?”

“Maybe he fancies you,” Remus shot back, keeping his voice even despite the way his heart stumbled.

Sirius rolled his eyes, like that wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest, then grimaced, like the idea of Rosier specifically turned his stomach. “Everyone fancies me.”

Remus bit down on a laugh, fighting even harder when he felt Sirius’s against his collarbone.

Rosier was still watching.

Sirius muttered something under his breath before leaning in even closer. For a second, Remus thought—actually thought—he was about to be kissed. His pulse tripped, but Sirius didn’t close the gap. He just hovered there, close enough that it would look like they were, close enough that they were breathing the same air.

Everything else faded.

Remus grasped at what was left—cool stone at his back, warm breath ghosting over his lips, the way his own breathing had stopped entirely.

Sirius wouldn’t.

… Sirius would.

To prove a point? He definitely would, no matter the consequences.

Rosier rolled his eyes, scoffing, and kept walking.

Remus exhaled, loosening his grip. Sirius didn’t move.

He stayed put, tracking Rosier’s retreat.

When Rosier was out of sight, Remus sighed. “Sirius.”

Sirius’s head snapped back around. “What?”

Remus arched a brow. “You can let go of me now.” He gestured vaguely between them, indicating their current arrangement.

Sirius blinked, as if just realising he hadn’t. His hands dropped away at once, though he made no effort to actually step back.

“What’d you do?” he asked, suspicious.

Remus folded his arms. “Why d’you think I’ve done something?”

Sirius rolled his eyes, finally shifting back to lean against the wall beside him. “Dunno, Evans. Maybe because you didn’t punch me when I got within five feet of you—practically clung to me to hide.”

The knowing smirk was what made Remus sigh. “Are you this annoying on purpose to everyone?”

Sirius grinned. “Nah, I save it for the people I reckon’ll appreciate it most.”

Remus lifted an eyebrow. “And how’s that going for you?”

“Minimal punches,” Sirius said with a shrug. “So not bad, really.”

Remus snorted before he could stop himself.

Sirius’s grin widened. “Told you. You like me.”

Remus shrugged, still smiling. “You’re likeable.”

Sirius’s grin vanished. He straightened, giving Remus a stern look. “Shite. No—don’t do that. Prongs’ll…”

Remus immediately schooled his expression, whatever look it was Sirius had seen. Not sure he could ever completely not look at Sirius like he wasn’t the person he liked most in the world. Because he was.

But Sirius couldn’t know that—not like this.

“Christ, no,” Remus said quickly, shaking his head. “Likeable doesn’t mean fanciable. I just—”

Sirius’s slow, knowing grin cut him off. The amused one. The one that meant Remus was only feeding his ego.

Relief settled in alongside exasperation.

“I mean… I was messing with you,” Sirius said, narrowing his eyes playfully. “But you seem awfully defensive. Got something to cough up, Evans?”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Didn’t do anything to Rosier,” he said, steering them back on track. “Took some House points last night on rounds—him and his lot were bullying some Hufflepuff.”

Sirius nodded, like that wasn’t surprising. After a beat, he asked, “Was—”

“Yeah,” Remus cut in, already knowing where this was going. “Your brother was there.”

Sirius didn’t outwardly react, just followed up with another question. “Hufflepuff a—”

“Muggleborn, yeah,” Remus confirmed.

Sirius let out a loud sigh, but looked more amused than angry. “You gonna let me speak today, Evans, or just keep reading my mind?”

“Dunno,” Remus said dryly. “Usually, letting you speak is where the trouble starts.”

Sirius snorted. Then, after a moment: “Was Remus with you?”

Remus stilled. His smile slipped. “Yeah,” he said, since it wasn’t exactly a lie. “We’re usually paired on rounds.”

Sirius nodded, feigning indifference. He shifted his weight, hesitating. Then, more carefully, “And… after?”

Remus blinked.

“He didn’t come back to the dorm last night,” Sirius clarified, voice even. “Not for ages.”

Right.

Technically, Remus hadn’t set foot in the boys’ dormitory since sneaking in to grab the map earlier that week. But Sirius wouldn’t know that.

Lily had been with him last night, late, talking about—

Well.

The very boy who was now eyeing him like he held the answer to something important.

Oh.

Realisation settled.

Sirius wanted to know if Lily—if Remus—had been with someone else. If he had reason to be… concerned. Or jealous, probably.

Remus ignored the way his heart took notice of that. The way it stuttered, demanding attention.

“He was with me,” he said finally. “Just… Defence stuff.”

Sirius’s shoulders eased. The tension in his frame unknotted. He nodded, then cocked his head, eyes narrowing. “Hm, right. Mirror of Erised, yeah?”

Remus went still, then remembered—Sirius had been the one to give Lily that information. Of course he knew at least part of what they were working on. And of course, he was poking his nose in.

He tried for casual. “Uh, sort of. It’s part of it.”

Sirius arched an expectant brow. Clearly not a good enough answer. “Go on.”

Remus debated whether to say anything at all, but sighed. If he dodged, Sirius’s curiosity would only grow.

“We think the Mirror might be made with Legilimency,” he admitted. “Or maybe it performs Legilimency. Same branch of magic either way. That’s why people die in front of it—it gets into their heads. Makes them want to stay. Feeds off it.”

Sirius’s suspicion gave way to intrigue. His eyes lit up—the look that meant trouble, no matter what.

He leaned back against the wall, knocking the idea around his head. “Feeds off unhappiness?”

“Pretty much,” Remus said.

The silence that followed wasn’t the usual kind—the comfortable lull of their conversations or the easy quiet of shared space. No, this was the kind of silence that only came when Sirius was thinking, really thinking. He leaned back against the wall, his posture deliberately careless, but Remus could see through it. That sharpness was there, gleaming behind grey eyes like silver catching the light.

Sirius didn’t like people to notice it, that razor-edged intellect of his. Or maybe he just didn’t want them to know how vast it was—how effortlessly magic came to him, how easily he grasped things others struggled with. Because acknowledging that meant acknowledging where it came from. And maybe that would mean his parents had been right about something. That the breeding, the lineage, the so-called superiority had made him this way.

But that wasn’t it.

Sirius was brilliant because he was Sirius. Because he learned fast, because he worked hard, because he’d taught himself to master things young so no one could ever use his shortcomings against him. Magic came naturally to him, yes, but only because he’d wrestled with it until it did. He made things look effortless because, for him, they had to be.

And then, just like that, he got it. His head tilted slightly, his eyes meeting Remus’s again.

“From what I know about the Mirror, it’s not a dark artefact,” Sirius said. “Not classed as one, anyway. Though, yeah, people think it’s cursed.”

Remus considered that. “Maybe it wasn’t made bad. Maybe it just… became bad.”

“What? Like nature over nurture?” Sirius asked, clearly sceptical.

Remus shook his head, thinking back to that article on how Dementors might be formed—from wizards. From unhappy magical souls. Magic could change, depending on how it was used.

“If it has Legilimency in it, there’s a chance the psychic component goes both ways,” he mused aloud. “That when you link up, emotions flow both ways. Even from that first interaction, its first-ever use—that wedding… well, it learned quickly that showing people what they wanted but couldn’t have made them unhappy.”

Sirius tilted his head. “Yeah. Strong emotions. There’s a bit of will in magic, subconscious magic.” His gaze sharpened. “People go to great lengths to get what they want.”

“Exactly,” Remus said quietly.

The silence that followed felt too heavy. Sirius shifted, as if shaking something off.

“Heard it’s kicking around here somewhere,” he said, casually now. “Least, last place it was rumoured to be. Officially lost—less officially, Dumbledore has it. Doesn’t do a great job of hiding dangerous things in safe places.”

They shared a look, remembering first year. The student who’d been killed after wandering into the wrong part of the castle and stumbling on a Balaur. Dumbledore had been babysitting it after it terrorised a Muggle town in Inverness.

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Surprised you haven’t gone looking for it.”

Sirius shrugged. “Never had much interest. Self-aware, remember?”

Remus huffed. “Go on, then,” he challenged. “You know exactly what you’d see?”

Sirius rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

“Have a pretty good idea, yeah.” A pause. Then, quieter: “Couldn’t be anything else.”

Remus opened his mouth, unsure what he was even going to say, but Sirius went on before he could find out.

“Someone’s been in my head before. Saw what I wanted.” A shrug, too casual. “Didn’t end so well for me. But on the bright side, they didn’t see the other thing.”

Remus took that in, frowning. “Other thing?”

Sirius’s jaw tensed. His expression was unreadable, but his words said plenty.

“A secret that wasn’t mine to tell. I’d have let them see everything but that.” He shook his head, drew in a breath. “Cost me everything to keep that under wraps, but it doesn’t matter. Didn’t matter how many hexes I took—I wasn’t going to give that one up. I’d already lost everything worth having the last time I let that slip to someone I shouldn’t have.” A pause. “Learned my lesson.”

Fuck.

“Sirius,” Remus said gently, half in shock, half in sympathy.

He hadn’t known. He’d had a hunch that something had happened, that maybe they had been the final straw that drove Sirius out. But not that.

Not him.

Sirius brushed past it, his body language shutting down, signalling he was done talking. Had already said more than he should. He pulled the conversation back to safer waters.

“Legilimency isn’t a dark art,” he muttered. “Just depends on the wizard using it.”

Remus just stared at him, still processing. “I—”

Sirius shook his head, gaze hard. “Not your business, Evans. Don’t.”

“Sirius—”

“No.” His voice had an edge now. “Stop with that face. You don’t know anything. Have no idea what went down. Alright?”

Remus schooled his expression quickly. Gave a nod.

Sirius hadn’t wanted him to know. Hadn’t told him for a reason. Had only said something now because he thought he was talking to Lily. And Lily wasn’t supposed to know anything. At least, not about them. Nobody was.

But now she did know. And Remus had a far too clear idea of what had happened.

That awful night in August, at the Potters’. Silent but loud. Adrenaline, hurt, anger, and worry swirling into something too big to name. Sirius, mute and still. James, tense. And then Remus had walked in, and Sirius had relaxed. Just a bit. Like he was the one relieved Remus was safe, not the other way around.

Later, when James was asleep, they’d just looked at each other in the dark, bodies curled toward one other. Not sexual. Not romantic. But the most intimate thing they’d done in months.

Remus wasn’t sure who moved first, but he woke up half-entangled with Sirius, his face nestled against his neck. Sirius’s arm around his waist, hand hovering protectively over his scar. The scar. The one that led to all his others.

His heart had kicked stupidly at how right it felt. How safe. And how much he hated Sirius’s family. Hated what they had done.

It shouldn’t have felt safe, being this close to Sirius. Remus knew he had no right to be here—not when he was the one who walked away, not after what Sirius had done to make him leave. But despite every bit of common sense he had, despite every reason to keep his distance, he still trusted Sirius more than anyone.

So he’d carefully untangled himself, pausing before he left. Sirius’s breathing was deep, but when Remus pulled away, his hands unconsciously tightened, as if trying to keep him there.

He looked impossibly young. Like that eleven-year-old who had run wild their first term but came back from Christmas different. Quiet. Wincing when he thought no one was looking. In a kind of pain Remus knew well—the kind that wasn’t meant to be seen.

That had been the first time Remus had let Sirius close. Really let him in. And it hadn’t been easy. They’d both been defensive, cutting. Too stubborn to talk, too desperate not to. Until the only thing left to lose was each other.

And then, they’d talked.

Had climbed into bed together like they understood. Like they knew. Sat there until whatever was wrong had been put right again.

That had settled it. They weren’t alone anymore. They had each other.

But that night at the Potters’…

Whatever Walburga had done to him—it had been bad.

But Remus couldn’t stay.

Because it hurt too much.

Because they had hurt each other too much. And he wasn’t over it, not yet. And Sirius didn’t need that right now. Didn’t need him.

So he exhaled and let Sirius’s warmth seep away. Detached the arms from around him. Reached up, brushed some hair from his forehead. Pressed a kiss there.

He couldn’t not.

Sirius relaxed, sleepily murmuring the first word Remus had heard from him all summer.

“M’sorry.”

Remus hesitated. “I know,” he whispered.

Sirius looked awful. Paler than he’d ever seen. Thinner, too. Dim in a way Sirius never should have looked, like someone had taken his light away.

Something in Remus shattered.

So before leaving, he gave Sirius the only thing he could. The only thing that hadn’t changed.

“I love you.”

Then he pulled away completely.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon as he stepped outside. The kind of dawn that felt like both an ending and a beginning.

He passed Peter at the gate, ignored the quizzical look sent his way. Guilt settled deep, but Sirius would have people around him. He would be okay.

Remus didn’t need to be one of them.

Not now.

Not yet.

It would be better for both of them if he wasn’t.

Sirius’s voice pulled him out of the memory. Remus blinked, shaking it off, grounding himself in the present—Sirius, bright-eyed and healthy, a far cry from how he’d looked that summer.

“What about you, Evans?” Sirius challenged. “Got any idea what you’d see?”

Remus didn’t have to wonder. He already knew. Had known the moment he understood what the Mirror showed.

You.

Not that he could say that. So he forced a shrug, ignoring the way his chest tightened, and looked away.

Sirius held his gaze for a moment, then just nodded. He didn’t ask. Didn’t push.

“Remus figure that one out?” Sirius asked before the silence could settle. “The Legilimency and the Mirror link?”

Remus hesitated. Yeah, he had. Why that mattered, he wasn’t sure.

He shrugged the thought off and gave a simple nod.

Sirius grinned like he’d already known. His expression softened for a moment, almost thoughtful. Then he went quiet. Weirdly quiet.

Enough that Remus asked, “What?”

Sirius blinked, shaking his head. The softer look was gone, replaced with something more casual. “Nothing. Just—told you so. Whatever problem you two are working on, he’s the best. Solving a centuries-old magical mystery like it’s nothing.”

Remus swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wasn’t that impressive. Just a bit of magical theory and common sense.”

Sirius snorted, amused. “Yeah, him and that bloody common sense. Absolute pain in my arse.”

Remus knew full well his so-called common sense didn’t hold up when it came to Sirius. Him and Sirius—that was where logic failed him.

“Common sense isn’t a bad thing,” he said instead, glancing past Sirius down the corridor.

Sirius’s laugh pulled his eyes back. He shook his head, smirking like he knew something Remus didn’t. “No, it’s not. He’s got enough for all four of us.” A beat. Then, teasing, “At least when he remembers to put up some token protest before we do something reckless.”

Remus sighed. “Token protest?”

Sirius’s eyes gleamed, knowing. “He likes trouble more than he’d like people to think.”

Remus raised his eyebrows but didn’t argue. “And you’d know?”

“I know him,” Sirius said simply.

Remus smiled, but before the warmth—the implications—of that could sink in, Sirius went on to prove it.

Sirius smirked knowingly. “Let me guess—he’s got you both buried under every book he can find on the subject?”

Remus didn’t argue. That was exactly what had happened.

“He likes to be… prepared,” he defended.

Sirius rolled his eyes. “He likes an excuse for extra reading, admit it.”

Remus crossed his arms. “Reading’s good for you. Teaches you things.”

Sirius groaned like the thought physically pained him. “Uh-huh. You know what else teaches you things? Experience.” He gestured vaguely. “Hands-on experience of ‘huh, that doesn’t work’ and ‘oh, that one does.’”

Remus’s arms tightened across his chest. “You just like an excuse for hands-on anything.”

Sirius grinned, shameless. “Depends what I’m putting my hands on.”

Remus tried—really tried—not to flush. Not to think about every time those hands had been on him. Where they’d been. How they’d touched him. The ways in which Sirius had once practically gotten him to beg to touch him, refusing to continue until Remus said exactly what he wanted in words, loudly and without the sarcasm. Failed miserably.

He’d never needed the same guidance from Sirius, no instructions disguised as foreplay—he’d spent far longer imagining them, and likely in far more detail, so he knew exactly where and how he wanted to touch. Probably with more certainty—and enthusiasm—than Sirius had anticipated.

Not that there’d ever been complaints. Just surprise. And encouragement.

He cleared his throat, shoving the thought aside.

Sirius, thankfully, continued without noticing anything amiss. “You’re not wrong, though,” he said with a shrug. Then, his tone sharpened. “Speaking of things I’d like to get my hands on, when can I have my mate back from you? Surely you two’re almost done with whatever weird research project you’re on.”

Remus stilled.

When would he be back? Back in his own body, back in his own life, back in the dorm?

Ideally—tomorrow. Monday. Dumbledore’s return. Hopefully, he could fix this. Fix him and Lily.

Less ideally—who knew?

If Dumbledore couldn’t help—

Remus swallowed hard.

He had seven days. Seven days until the jig was up. This time next week, it wouldn’t be a matter of if he told Lily. He’d have to.

And the others… they’d have to know, too. They’d have to stay away from the Shack, definitely. Moony might have liked Padfoot, Prongs, and Wormtail—but Lily’s wolf? It might not be so friendly.

Would it even be a different wolf, though? What if the wolf sensed something was wrong? What if it knew the wrong person was in there? What if it tried to—

Remus’s blood ran cold. He forced his expression to stay neutral.

Focus. Sirius.

Sirius, who was watching him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Soon,” Remus said, casual as he could manage.

Sirius sighed, like this was a great inconvenience and all Remus’s fault. Or, technically, Lily’s fault, since she was the one he was looking at right now.

Remus couldn’t find it in him to be annoyed. If anything, he felt the exact opposite. He wanted to get back to his life. Would happily go along with whatever ridiculous scheme Sirius dragged him into. Might even let himself not overthink it. Let Sirius throw in something reckless that, usually, Remus would logic their way out of, steering them toward a saner plan.

Sirius muttered something under his breath, pushed off the wall, and stepped back.

Remus let out a slow breath.

Then, just before leaving, Sirius hesitated. Pulled a carton of pumpkin juice, a pack of pain relievers, and a wrapped sandwich from his pocket like an afterthought. Though, clearly, there had been some thought.

Remus recognised the handiwork of one of the kitchen’s house-elves—Winky. One-eyed. Left a heating charm on toasted sandwiches and tied them up with loose string.

“He forgets when he’s fixated on something,” Sirius said, like this needed justification. He shrugged, all nonchalance. “Looked a bit peaky this morning.”

Lily had looked a bit pale. Hadn’t complained. But Remus knew—she’d be feeling it around now. Always did a week before. The fatigue that sleep didn’t fix. The sharpness that refused to smooth out. The hunger for… something. The sensation that her skin didn’t fit quite right.

Still, Remus’s eyes softened as he looked at Sirius. He took the items carefully, his fingers lingering a second too long against Sirius’s. Sirius didn’t seem uncomfortable, but Remus still snapped himself out of it, breaking contact.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll pass them on. Thanks.”

Sirius nodded, then left without another word. Never did stay in one place for long. Unless—

Unless there was a reason to. Something to occupy his hands. His mouth. His attention.

That was the only thing that ever held Sirius still. Not for long, of course. And even then, it wasn’t really stillness—it felt more like being caught in the eye of a hurricane. A very skilled, persistent, heated hurricane. But for a brief moment, there it was.

Stillness.

Just them.

Remus watched him disappear down the corridor, absently toying with the string on the warm sandwich.

He still felt warm, too. His chest still stupidly light, heart still kicking about.

His eyes flicked toward the direction Sirius had gone, brow furrowing slightly.

First, what Lily had said—Sirius giving her, him, his scarf. Gloves. Even offering that bloody jacket. Padfoot following her around all morning just because the weather was a little stormy, and Sirius knew the memories that accompanied thunder. Now this.

What was he up to?

Sirius wasn’t uncaring—far from it. He could be incredibly thoughtful, in his way. But this—this felt more deliberate.

Not just a chocolate bar nudged in his direction when he was half-asleep at a desk. Not two arms wrapping around him, grumbling about the cold, telling him to bloody wrap up or he’d have to keep him warm. Not any of the usual, thoughtless ways Sirius looked after him without ever calling it that.

This felt different. Like Sirius was trying to take care of him.

To let him know he was being taken care of.

It wasn’t the usual brush-off. It was something else.

But—why?

Then, the far heavier subject they’d touched on.

Why?

Even when they weren’t speaking—when Sirius had no reason to believe they ever would again—he’d still protected him. His secret. And he’d suffered for it, obviously. Chosen him over… well, over the Pureblood life he’d never much cared for, granted, but still the life he’d been raised to expect. Security, privilege. Things Remus could never offer him.

And considering how they’d left things before summer, it had seemed, for all the world, like Sirius hadn’t even wanted a life with him in it at all.

The apologies had ceased, the distancing mutual.

Remus didn’t think he was the only reason Sirius had run, but… he was a much bigger one than he’d ever let himself believe.

And beneath it all, another worry tugged at him. Sirius had jumped in to save him—Lily—without hesitation. Chivalrous in a way Sirius could be, but often wasn’t. And he’d done it so fast, like he’d already been tracking Remus’s—Lily’s—movements. Had been paying attention. Had noticed Rosier before Remus did.

Why?

Remus lingered for only a minute longer before shaking it off and continuing down the hall.

Lily spent dinner watching Sirius, who had reappeared sometime while she was out of the dorm, looking none the worse for wear. He’d grinned at her when she walked in, right before they headed to the Great Hall. No questions about where she’d been, no sign of irritation or tension. Just easy, uncomplicated warmth.

It was funny—Lily couldn’t think of a single reason she’d earned it. But there it was, like she’d somehow made him happy today, and he wasn’t above letting her see just how much.

She didn’t feel the same.

She’d watched him in thoughtful silence as they made their way from Gryffindor Tower to the Great Hall, the usual swagger back in his step. The others weren’t quiet—of course they weren’t—just her.

She saw it happen in real-time: the moment Sirius spotted someone in the corridor and decided, with effortless certainty, to make himself a nuisance. His whole body shifted like a well-oiled machine—his lazy stride sharpening, eyes lighting up, a grin sliding easily into place.

Lily wasn’t sure what exactly he said to McGonagall, only that it earned him a swift scolding and a pointed dismissal. Not that it mattered. He sauntered away, grinning like he’d at least accomplished something today.

James chuckled, shaking his head. “Honestly, Padfoot, sometimes I think you’re determined to give McGonagall a heart attack.”

“And miss out on her legendary lectures?” Sirius scoffed, throwing a wink in McGonagall’s direction. “Never.”

Lily had only rolled her eyes, choosing—wisely—not to say anything. But even as they took their seats at the Gryffindor table, with idle chatter buzzing around her, she kept watching him. Still caught on the same impossible puzzle.

She was still angry at him. Still heartbroken for him. But more than anything, with every little thing he did, everything she’d been told he’d done—the things that should have made Remus run for the hills—she had one question.

How in Merlin’s name did he manage that?

How had he gotten Remus—careful, intelligent, far too patient Remus—to let him so close? To kiss him, and whatever else they did? To make him fall in love with him?

She couldn’t, for the life of her, figure it out.

“What?” Sirius asked, finally catching her at it.

Lily blinked, realising she’d been far less subtle than she thought. “Nothing.”

Sirius sighed. “You look like you have a burning question. It’s annoying me that you’re not asking it. Put us both out of our misery.”

“There’s no question,” Lily returned, straightening her shoulders as she threw his own game back at him. “You’re seeing things.”

Sirius’s eyes narrowed, head tilting as he studied her. “No. You’re being… stare-y. But not in a way that makes me think you’re thinking of something I’d like. It’s too innocent.”

Lily’s eyes widened. It was the sort of thing he’d said to her before, when she’d been in Remus’s body—flirtatious, weighted, easy to brush off as just Sirius.

Except now she knew he wasn’t just Sirius. He was serious.

And casual enough—shameless enough—to say things like that here, in the middle of the Great Hall, in front of James and Peter, neither of whom even blinked at it.

She lifted her chin. “Merlin forbid I look at you. You’re mad when I ignore you, mad when I don’t.”

Sirius shook his head, a little amused now. “Not mad. I like you looking at me,” he said, and there was no mistaking the meaning this time. “Just… the way you’re doing it right now is making me feel like you’ve got something to say.” He gave her a pointed look. “And you not saying it is annoying.”

Lily huffed, folding her arms. “Good,” she muttered. “Stay annoyed.”

Sirius’s mouth opened, but James finally chose that moment to interrupt.

“Do you two ever stop bickering?” he asked, exasperated. “Christ, it’s Sunday. A day of rest. So for the love of Merlin, give it a rest.”

Clearly, the Quidditch drills he’d been running all day had put him in a mood, because there was just enough authority in his voice that both Lily and Sirius shut up at once, still staring at each other but with a little less challenge, a little more shared scolded schoolchildren solidarity.

Peter looked relieved at the silence.

James, satisfied that for once they’d actually listened to him, nodded approvingly and went back to his meal.

Lily tried not to flush at how easily he’d commanded attention. But she felt it anyway—that telltale warmth creeping up her cheeks.

And… Merlin no. Damn it all.

It couldn’t just happen like this, could it? Sneaking up on her when she wasn’t looking, like a hex aimed to upend her life. Just because James was sitting there, just because he’d caught her off guard in that exact moment. These things were supposed to be bigger, weren’t they? She couldn’t just feel something on an ordinary (…well, otherwise ordinary) Sunday evening—especially when he wasn’t even trying. Not after years of determinedly not feeling anything.

From the moment he’d crashed into her life—all grins, all… James—he’d been nothing but a source of pure vexation. Tripping Severus on the Hogwarts Express, being an insufferable prat, earning her eternal disdain. And for years, he’d done nothing but prove why he deserved it.

The rare, reluctant flicker of something softer only surfaced when he did something good—something that made her wonder if maybe he wasn’t just tormenting her for his own amusement. When he was kind to his friends. When that big, ridiculous heart of his refused to tolerate injustice, and he stood up for what was right.

Her eleven-year-old self would throw an absolute fit if she knew what was currently stuttering around in her sixteen-year-old heart.

Merlin, she had the worst timing imaginable. She couldn’t possibly fancy James Potter.

And yet.

The slightest crush. The tiniest part of her that, for once, didn’t want to run for the hills.

Worse than that, she liked him. Not necessarily romantically. Just, in general. She couldn’t find it in her to truthfully say she hated him. Not anymore.

She slumped back in her seat, half mortified, half horrified, willing James to do something—anything—awful to snap her out of it.

But he didn’t.

He got pulled into a conversation with one of his teammates, only for another of them to come bursting into the Great Hall moments later—clearly one James had left to suffer some form of punishment.

Marcus. Sweaty. Muddy. Exhausted. No trace of his usual smugness. In fact, he practically slumped over to James to mutter that the locker rooms were clean and he’d finished his laps.

James smirked and waved him off.

“What was that about?” Sirius asked once Marcus had gone.

James shrugged, swinging back around to the table. “Moony’s idea. Something about reminding them who’s Captain.”

Lily shook her head, unsure whether she was proud her plan had worked or horrified further that James’s Jamesness—that sparkling arrogance, the smugness, the king-of-the-world confidence—wasn’t making her feelings worse.

He caught her eye then, flashing a small, genuine smile. Ran a hand through his windswept hair. Adjusted his glasses, the light from the enchanted ceiling catching in the lenses as he turned back to Sirius, snorting over the details of his day. The punishments he’d doled out.

He just… shone.

And oh, Lily felt like she was definitely in some kind of trouble.

Chapter Text

It was fine, Lily told herself.

It had to be. There wasn’t anything she could do about it right now, anyway.

A crush could be fleeting—ridiculous, even. And this one was. James Potter being kind, being thoughtful, being good—that didn’t change the fact that he was still a smug, arrogant prat at his core. She’d spent years resisting him, and it would take more than a few glimpses of depth to change her mind. If she found him unfairly attractive now and then, well… that was hardly a crime. She had eyes. She had a pulse.

But James wasn’t safe. He was all chaos and confidence, always moving, always pushing. He’d chased her for years, yes—but that didn’t mean he’d be happy if he ever caught her. What if he realised she wasn’t who he thought she was? What if he got bored?

What if she bored him?

She could still hear Aunt Jackie’s voice—cool, sharp, effortlessly cynical: “Men’ll chase you to the ends of the earth just to leave you there. Don’t let them catch you, Petal.”

Jackie had always been the wild one, the one who wore too much eyeliner and never married and told Lily things Petunia wouldn’t. Lily had taken her seriously. Maybe more seriously than Jackie had intended.

She would not be caught.

And yet… James cared. That much was clear. And sometimes, caring was all it took to throw everything off balance.

Because what if he meant it? What if all these years, he’d been serious in a way she hadn’t let herself believe? What if he wasn’t just interested—what if he actually liked her?

Wanted her?

Wanted to kiss her?

Lily’s heart gave a treacherous little jolt at the thought, a flush prickling at her cheeks. She resisted the urge to flee, to hide under her duvet until the feeling passed.

Because the worst part was—she wasn’t sure she wanted him to stop thinking about her that way.

Still, she didn’t have to do anything. She’d fancied him before. It had passed. She’d managed.

It was manageable.

There had always been flickers of maybe over the years, moments when he’d caught her off guard. Stolen the air from her lungs. Made her heart race. A few times, even his most ridiculous attempts at charm had—just for a beat—left her flustered before the usual annoyance rushed back in.

Last December, at the final Gryffindor party before the holidays, he’d managed to unsteady her so completely that she’d thought of him nearly the entire train ride home.

The music had been loud, the chatter louder. James and Sirius, naturally, were at the centre of it all, setting off what they’d dubbed tinsel bombs: streams of glitter and light and fake snowflakes, metallic confetti shaped like marching nutcrackers and dancing reindeer, scented with gingerbread and fresh snow, jingling with bells and ghostly carollers.

Sirius was pulling strands of red and gold tinsel out of Remus’s hair, who was muttering about the mess—but smiling. Sirius said something about him usually liking mess, and Remus had flushed. Whatever was on his face made Sirius soften, grin widening as his hands fell from Remus’s hair to hover briefly near his jaw.

Lily had stopped walking, head tilting. She’d never seen them quite so…

Then a tingling sensation settled over her. Warm. Light. Magical.

She turned, or tried to—but her feet wouldn’t move. Her hands were fine. She checked at once, half-wondering if someone had Petrified her.

A tap at her side. Of course.

James.

He looked sheepish. Grinning, warm, smug in a jumper that fit him far too well.

Lily sighed. Merlin’s sake. She should’ve known.

She folded her arms and raised an eyebrow at him—the only things still mobile.

He scratched the back of his neck and pointed upward.

Mistletoe. Naturally. The Marauders’ enchanted monstrosity that had been wreaking havoc across the school all week. Twelve Days of Prankmas, they’d called it.

She’d been lucky—until now.

She glared at him, unimpressed. He just grinned wider.

She looked around. Mary was busy across the room, Marlene was smirking into her drink, no help whatsoever. Other people were beginning to notice. Smiling.

There was a betting pool, of course. There always had been. A joke in second year, a real gamble by fourth. A frankly absurd amount of Galleons was riding on when—or if—James would win her over.

She wanted to stomp her foot. Couldn’t.

James snorted, shaking his head, eyes flicking back to the mistletoe.

“No,” she said flatly.

She wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this. She wasn’t kissing James Potter.

“Black!” she called, ignoring James completely.

Sirius startled from where he’d been leaning into Remus, then relaxed when he saw it was her. A slow, amused smirk spread across his face.

“Little help banishing your ridiculous plant?” Lily asked, folding her arms tighter as more people turned to watch.

“You know how to make it go away,” Sirius said breezily. “Pucker up, Evans.”

“This is a violation, you know,” she snapped.

“Of what?” Sirius asked, unconcerned.

“Consent,” Lily said sharply.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s a kiss, not a binding contract. Don’t be so boring.”

“Oi!” James warned, voice low.

“What?” Sirius said, reaching for a drink. “I’m defending myself.”

Lily’s eyes caught on another enchanted sprig zipping through the air. It hovered above Sirius and Remus—for a second—then floated off.

Neither of them was frozen.

She pointed. “That’s not fair! It only traps boys and girls?”

Sirius shrugged. “Trying to spread love, not war. Imagine it landed on Longbottom and Wormtail—think of the trauma.”

She huffed. Sirius had clearly checked out of the conversation, already turning back to Remus—who, she noted, had seen her situation and firmly decided not to get involved.

Probably wise.

She turned back to James. The red of his jumper matched the cursed mistletoe overhead. Both mocking her.

Twinkling lights danced off his glasses. The windows were frosted. Pine from the tree in the corner mingled with the scent of spiced cider and Firewhiskey. She could still taste the latter faintly on her tongue.

James was holding a cup of something creamy—eggnog, presumably the spiked version Lily had been warned was strong enough to floor a troll.

She looked at him. Taller this year. Broader. Grinning like she’d done nothing but delight him.

Then she caught it—a shift on his shoulder. The reindeer stitched into his jumper was standing taller now, puffing out its chest, smugly animated.

“Nice jumper,” she said, amused.

James blinked, then snorted. “Cheers. Sirius thinks he’s funny.” He pointed to the reindeer, then made little antlers with his fingers. “You know. Prongs.”

“Oh. The antlers,” she said, catching up.

He smirked, pleased. Then, shifting gears, said, “Like your outfit. Nice, uh, dress.”

She arched a brow. “It’s a skirt and a top.”

He looked down, confused.

“Different colours,” she added, smoothing the burgundy suede of her mini skirt, gesturing to the green turtleneck.

He blinked again. “Oh. Right.”

Boys.

His eyes moved back to her face—pausing on her lips. Just for a second.

She startled.

“My favourite colour on you,” he added lightly, taking a sip of his drink.

“Red?” she guessed, glancing down.

He shook his head. “Green.”

She snorted. “Secret Slytherin sympathies, Potter?”

James laughed. “Not that green. Brighter. Like… grass. Spring. Sea glass. Woodlands.” His voice softened. “Your eyes.”

Her heart stuttered. “Oh,” she said, voice gone quiet.

She didn’t correct him that she was wearing a more Yuletide-appropriate forest green. That it was more Slytherin emerald than Quidditch pitch green. He wasn’t looking at her jumper, their eyes were still locked.

He exhaled, looked away. Oddly shy.

Then, because he was James, and pathologically incapable of stopping while ahead, he added, “Looks good with your hair. Your skin. Your… smile.”

He looked at her like he meant it. Like she was something worth seeing. Worth watching.

Lily’s cheeks flushed. Which, unfortunately, only proved his point. Red and green. Of course. Red hair. Green eyes. And now: red cheeks.

Red was rebellious. It drew attention. Signalled danger.

Before she could speak, he moved.

Fast.

Her hands went instinctively to his shoulders, prepared to shove him back—but stopped. He was close. Too close. His breath brushed her cheek. Her pulse was beyond her control, racing far away from her.

Her fingers tightened, unsure if they were meant to push or pull.

Then he leaned in—and kissed the corner of her mouth. Light. Brief. Nothing, really.

Except… something.

And then he pulled back. Stepped away. She blinked—he could move now.

She tested her feet. Free.

He smiled at her. “Rules never said it had to be the lips. Just a kiss.” He shrugged, as if it meant nothing. “Wouldn’t force you. I want to earn it.”

Her blush deepened. She didn’t know whether to hex him or thank him.

She chose neither.

She turned and fled the common room.

She made it to the girls’ loo at the end of the hall, went straight to the taps, and ran her wrists under the icy stream.

Her reflection stared back from the mirror. Too red. Too breathless. Her pulse still out of rhythm.

Too affected.

In trouble.

Ten months later, and here she was again: that trouble catching up with her.

Still, this didn’t have to mean anything.

She didn’t have time for a boyfriend. Certainly not James, who’d be all-consuming. He wasn’t the kind of person you dated lightly. Wasn’t the kind who let you.

And she couldn’t say yes if she wasn’t ready to give him everything he deserved. Time. Focus. Care. He’d take less, probably. He’d be content, probably. He’d settle for what she gave him—just to have her.

But she wouldn’t be content with that. Not if she was going to give him a real chance. And this year, with N.E.W.T.s and responsibilities and uncertainty about what came after… it wouldn’t be fair. She couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not by him.

Because James would throw himself into it. He always did. The same way he threw himself into Quidditch, into being Captain, into caring for his friends. She’d seen it in the smallest things—in how carefully he’d picked out his mum’s birthday gift, in how hard he tried to make people laugh when they needed it.

He’d treat her the same way. He’d give her all his attention if she let him. All in. No holding back.

And she’d take up space in his life. More space than she should.

Not now. Not with the world the way it was.

Not when dating a Muggleborn could make him a target. Could make her one.

And then… there was Sirius.

Sirius, who was still figuring out how to exist after being disowned. Who’d lived with James’s family over the summer, whose edges were still frayed. Who wasn’t quite okay.

And who needed James. Needed him in a way Lily didn’t. Not now.

She couldn’t steal that from him—James’s attention, his steadiness, his presence. Not when Sirius still leaned on it so heavily, not when he still needed all the support he could get.

Especially not when Lily had seen the other side of Sirius. The version of him only Remus seemed to fully understand. The two of them… whatever they were, whatever they might be—Lily didn’t know how it would end, or if it would work at all. But it mattered. And Sirius needed James steady. Available.

So no—she didn’t need James. She didn’t.

But, if she was being honest, there was a part of her—a small, traitorous, aching part—that wanted him.

“Moony! Get a move on,” James called from the doorway, snapping her out of it.

Lily sighed, shouldered her bag, and followed the others out. Their robes swished ahead of her, conversations already darting between them like birds.

Her brain felt slower today; thoughts moving like syrup, aches a little sharper, fatigue deeper. It made the world feel just slightly off-balance, like the ground was tilting under her and she was stuck trying to find the rhythm again.

By the time she sat in the Great Hall, it only got worse. She had to brace herself with one hand on the oak table, like anchoring herself would help.

Everything was too much. The light was too bright. The smell of breakfast too strong. Cutlery clattered like thunder in her skull.

A hand closed over hers—warm, steady, grounding.

She blinked up. Sirius.

“You okay?” he asked, his usual stream of chatter halted, all his attention locked onto her.

She gave a weak smile. “Just feel a bit off. Nothing to worry about.”

Sirius sighed, unimpressed. “You always say that. Even when it’s clearly something to worry about.”

Before she could argue, he was pulling her to her feet, still holding her hand. She didn’t even realise she was standing until she was already upright, tugged up by sheer force of Sirius Black.

She bristled. “Sirius—”

“C’mon,” he said, like it was obvious. “I’ll take you to Pomfrey before Defence. Fairfax is probably still missing—” a grumbled, hopefully permanently under his breath— “and Harrington couldn’t spot a missing limb if it was waving at him.”