Chapter Text
Regulus stared at his brother for a long while, watching Sirius’ grin spread like the cat who caught the canary. It made his sharp jaw look sharper, his narrow grey eyes crinkled with mirth and self satisfaction at his own, perceived cleverness. He was sat in his father’s old, favourite high-backed chair with one leg kicked up over the arm. Sirius was wearing black leggings with minute, glittering stars on them, and they twinkled in the soft, yellow glow of one of the room’s ugliest lamps on the table a few feet away.
Regulus stared another moment, the words still echoing round his head. He groped blindly for his glass of whiskey, taking down burning mouthful after burning mouthful. Using the back of his thumb on the hand still holding the glass, he dabbed at his mouth, then sighed.
“Well,” he said after a moment, his voice liquor-heady and thick. He used his free hand to brush his fringe away from his left eye. “I’m not even sure what to say.”
“I know,” Sirius said, the tone in his voice warning Regulus that his brother was about to start babbling, “I was just thinking…”
“I mean,” Regulus interrupted, “you’ve had some pretty fucking stupid ideas in the past, Sirius, but this one really eclipses them all.”
Sirius blinked, his mouth dropping open in abject, bone-deep offense. “What?”
“You honestly think this is a good idea. You honestly think…” Regulus stopped himself, shaking his head. “Mother is rolling in her grave right now.”
“I had that bitch cremated and she’s currently floating on a wind current over the Thames,” Sirius said, his tone now filled with spite. Not that Regulus could blame him. The woman had spent the last years of her life attempting to shame and publicly misgender her eldest child.
“Be that as it may,” Regulus said, “you’re only doing this because of the will.”
“And?” Sirius said. “You’re telling me you’re not going to allow me a bit of petty, post-mortem revenge?” He sat forward, dropping both feet to the floor, issuing a challenge to his brother with narrow eyes.
Regulus gave a withering sigh. “I want no part in it.”
“Too bad, baby brother, Heir to this garbage palace of misery,” Sirius waved his hand round in a circle at the joke that was their parlour.
It was a sharp reminder of their mother’s persistent belief that they were royalty—or better. That they should denounce her half of their heritage and embrace their long-dead, Imperialistic white father’s viewpoints that all other races—like the Thai that contributed to how different Orion always claimed his children looked from the others at their over-posh, over-bred school.
“Sirius,” Regulus said.
“Regulus,” his brother mocked. “I can’t do it without you. Thanks to the will.”
Pursing his lips, Regulus gathered himself, finished off the whiskey, and primly set the glass back on the table. “Our house is not haunted. The famed Walburga Black is not haunting these halls.”
“Well Gilderoy Lockhart believes she is. Especially after I sent the video.”
Regulus blinked very slowly. “What. Video.”
“The one of things moving about the parlour, and my bedroom. And the hall.”
“I…” Regulus scrubbed his face. “I don’t want to know.”
“No,” Sirius said happily, “you don’t. But you have to be present and sign all the release forms. When I talked to that poncy shit, he was over excited. They haven’t had a proper celebrity haunting in ages, and his ratings have gone down. He thinks this is going to be the boost that saves his show.”
“And when he gets here and realises it’s not haunted he what? Sues us?”
“Oh that’s not going to happen. He’ll figure out a way to make it look properly haunted, then exorcised or whatever it is that show does.”
“Fucking…fucking Ghost Hunters,” Regulus groaned. “I cannot believe this.”
“Let me have this,” Sirius begged. “Let me have it. Then we can sell this place and take a long, tropical holiday and pretend like we were immaculately conceived in a cabbage patch or something.”
“You’re bloody ridiculous, you know that,” Regulus said, but this time his tone was fond, and he was shaking his head as Sirius gave him a wolfish, happy grin. “When are they meant to arrive?”
“The initial interview is next Monday. We’ll get their filming time table after that. I think he said it’s generally a two week project, but we won’t even be dealing with him. It’ll be his production team.”
“Fantastic,” Regulus said dryly, then pushed himself to stand. “You swear though, this is it? And then you move on? Because she’s dead Sirius. She can’t hurt you anymore.”
Sirius’ eyes took on an uncharacteristic softness as he looked at his brother, then nodded. “I swear. Just this once, and I’m done with her.”
“Then alright,” Regulus replied. “I’ll sign your ruddy form and play up this stupid farce. But you owe me.”
Sirius put his hand to his heart. “My undying gratitude.”
Regulus groaned, and realised one some level, he wanted to do this for Sirius. And his gratitude, in the end, was actually enough.
***
James let out a sigh, Gilderoy’s voice fading to a hum in the background as he reached for his tea. It had gone tepid and disgusting, but he gulped it down, knowing he’d need all the energy he could get to finish off this meeting which was going far longer than the one hour he’d been promised.
He was supposed to meet Lily in the lobby to get Harry before she had her shift at work, and now the meeting was bleeding into that. She was understanding about his job most of the time, they’d agreed to have a kid together long after James had started his producing career, but he had vowed it wouldn’t interfere with her life either, and lately—especially with Gilderoy’s antics, it was.
He wasn’t sure how he got roped into this show, with tanking ratings and a host who thought he was a far bigger celebrity than he was, but here they were. It was Remus’ fault, really. Remus, who had a degree in Paranormal Psychology and had dedicated his entire life to finding real evidence of the paranormal. Remus, who worked diligently behind the scenes, and had yet to actually experience a real haunted house.
And this was Britain, for fuck’s sake. It was ghost central.
The fault was on the BBC, and Gilderoy Lockhart, whose reputation was far more important than authenticity. James swore if he had to sit through one more filming where he was off screen throwing things across the room and making curtains look like they were blowing, he was going to just burn the studio down.
Not that he meant it. He needed his job, and he couldn’t afford to be the producer who went mental and sabotaged his show. The moment this shit-show was cancelled, he would be digging his claws into something meaty, something worthy of producing. And hopefully he’d drag Remus with him, who’d been there since the beginning.
“…and it’s the Black Manor,” Gilderoy said, and turned his watery blue gaze on James.
James, startled that he was being addressed, cleared his throat. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
Gilderoy gave him a withering look. “James, how can you say that? This is the Black Manor. The Ancient and Noble house of Black. Aristocratic, has a long string of suspicious deaths that were all—according to records—acquitted.”
James gave him a level stare. “How do you know that?”
“Because it’s my job.”
Rolling his eyes, James scrubbed his face. “You mean you paid your assistant to research. Or is that just what they told you?” The truth was, James and Remus had already watched the submission video sent in about this manor and it was so clearly false, it was almost comical.
But Gilderoy was clinging to this idea because the house was famous. And that’s what the BBC was convinced the show needed to have a resurgence of viewers.
James was not convinced, but he was being paid to pretend like he cared. So he smiled. “Right. Of course. So. When do we meet the owners?”
“Not my department,” Gilderoy said. His eyes cut to the door, glowering in irritation when there was a knock, and it opened. A redhead poked round the corner, and locked eyes with James.
“Nearly finished?”
“Dada!” The two year old came tearing past his mum’s legs, throwing himself at James who hoisted him up and gave his cheek a kiss.
“Sorry, we’re going long,” James said.
Lily sighed, but her glare was fixed on Gilderoy—where it belonged. “How much longer?”
“A bit. I bet Moony’s got sweets though, if you want to go wait in his office,” James said with a wink to Harry who threw up his hands.
“Moony!”
Lily smiled and stepped in, holding her hand out for Harry who reluctantly shifted off his dad’s lap and walked over. As Lily grabbed him, Gilderoy slid from his seat and wandered over, giving her a wide, plastic smile as she tried not to groan.
“Lily Evans,” he said.
She looked over at James, then gave Gilderoy a polite smile. “Afternoon, Gil.” He reached for her, but she flinched away, taking a graceful step back after.
“When will you give in to me, ginger?”
James felt his fingers curl into fists, but before he could say anything, Lily gasped. “Oh. Gil what…your hair…”
Gilderoy looked immediately alarmed. “What about it?”
“It’s…are your roots…?” She gave him a slow look, and as his expression melted into absolute horror, she shook her head. “Ah no, probably just the shadows of the room. No worries. James, I’ll see you later.”
Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, James kept his gaze on the table as Lily wandered out, and Gilderoy effectively ended the meeting by making an emergency appointment with his hair dresser. James got up from the table, stretching his back, and collected the Blacks’ contact information before heading out and walking down to Remus’ office.
He found his best mate lying on his stomach on the floor, colouring in a book with Harry. The pair looked up at him with matching grins as James flopped onto Remus’ sofa. “Well, that was a bloody disaster. We’re apparently going forward with this ridiculous excuse for a haunting next week.”
Remus dropped his forehead onto the colouring page and groaned. “Fuck.”
“Fuck!” Harry echoed.
James gave his mate a glower as Remus snorted into the book, then lifted his head. “That’s a grown up word, Haz.”
Harry poked Remus up the nose with a green crayon. “Moony!”
Remus gave a loud, pretend sneeze before easing up, running his fingers into his curls which were only slightly less wild than James and Harry’s. “So when do we meet them?”
James flicked through the pages, then sighed. “Tomorrow. We’ll do a preliminary on the house. I’m not going to play games with them. I’m going to tell them we know it’s all fake, and ask them to pull the contract.”
Remus gave his mate a grateful look. “I just don’t think I can stand anymore floating sheets and crooked paintings.”
“Believe me,” James said with a sigh. “Neither can I. I need to pop by my office for a mo’. Grab my things. Mind keeping the kiddo for a bit?”
“Go on, we’ll get some hot chocolate from downstairs and meet you in the café. Alright Harry?”
“Want chok-wet!” Harry said, and threw his arms round Remus.
James laughed, then got up and headed for his office. He was unsurprised to see Alastor there, though it was never a pleasant feeling to see his boss who was always frowning. He tipped him a nod as he went for his desk. “Moody.”
“Potter. We need a word.” Alastor shut the door as James took his seat, then dropped into James’ guest chair. “I have a new show coming on. Reality based programme—sort of cooking thing. It’s going to replace Ghost Hunters.”
James’ eyes went wide. “You mean it’s been cancelled.”
“Not cancelled. We’re going to be using the footage of the Black Manor as the show’s finale. Which means it needs to go perfectly.” Alastor clutched his gnarled hands together. “Thing of it is, if it doesn’t go well, and if it isn’t spot on the way I’ve been promised, I don’t know that I can guarantee anyone jobs here.”
James heard the threat in his voice. “So you…”
“I like you, Potter. And Lupin’s a bit…loony…”
“Sir, that’s not a kind term and he’s…”
“Do I look like I give a fuck, Potter?” Alastor snapped. “Point of it is, this episode had better deliver, or I’m going to be dishing out sackings by the truckload. I’ve loads of CVs from young, up and coming film students straight out of Uni and they’ll work for a lot cheaper than you lot.”
James felt the blood drain from his face. “Right. Well no worries, sir. You know we’ve got this.”
Alastor rose, giving James a careful look. “I sincerely hope so. I don’t like to lose good men. Have a good evening, Potter.”
As he left, James groaned and dropped his forehead onto his desk. His plans for shucking this ridiculous job were out the window, and now he was being asked to make the damned thing look authentic. But one last hurrah, and it was over. How hard could it be, really?
***
Remus hiked his pack up higher onto his shoulder, giving James a dubious look as they moved through the gate, heading for number twelve. Grimmauld Place was as dreary as the name sounded, lodged in Chelsea, the block ancient, posh, nothing modernised and likely would crumble if a renovation team so much as set foot near it.
James hated these sorts of places. Remus loved them, usually because he could formulate a hundred different theories as to how they were haunted, and by what sort of paranormal force, but not this one. At least, James was certain of it.
“We might get lucky,” Remus muttered, fiddling with a loose button at the very bottom of his plaid shirt. It clashed horribly with his jeans and brown shoes, but James had never known Remus to care about what he put on in the morning. If it was relatively unwrinkled and didn’t smell like the back of his wardrobe, he found it sufficient. Likely had something to do with him being colour-blind and never giving a shit about conforming. “I mean, we might find something.”
“Yes, but your somethings are never enough to give Alastor what he’s asking for. He wants some Ghostbusters shit.”
Remus grimaced. “That’s not even how it works. That’s not even accurate and I…”
“Mate, you’re preaching to the choir here,” James said, ruffling his hair a bit in the back. He was due for an appointment, his twists all grown out now at the roots, but he couldn’t be bothered to deal with it when his job was on the line. Vanity would have to take a back-seat—which included worrying about his present dry cleaning, and the new pair of shoes he’d been eyeing online. If he was about to lose his job, the fifteen hundred pound Louboutin’s were going to have to wait.
He felt a bit like a spoilt arse even thinking of the damned shoes as they strolled up to the door, and pushed the bell. He could hear a deep chime, something ancient, and then the door opened with a loud creak.
James wasn’t sure what to expect when the door was answered. Some gnarled, ancient butler who’d been working for the family for three generations? Or an uptight heir to their dwindling fortune, even?
He did not expect an over-grown puppy of a man wearing a David Bowie t-shirt over ripped leggings, long plaited hair, and lipstick so violently red, it actually made James see spots for a second.
“Ghost blokes, yeah?” The enthusiastic man said as he stepped back. He offered a hand, James catching sight of long fingers, purple polished nails, and a ring on the middle finger like a vine which wound up over the first and second knuckle. “Come on in. My brother’s not here yet—he’ll be the one signing the contracts, but we can wait in the parlour.”
In the parlour, James thought with a laugh as he glanced back at Remus who hadn’t so much as looked up from his little…whatever device he was reading. He hadn’t heard words like, let’s take tea in the parlour since he was little and his mum had attempted a posh lifestyle. They’d given up after a few years, which saved James from sounding too poncy, though his spoilt habits lingered.
He had nothing on this man, who walked with clunking motorbike boots and a sway to his hips which happened to be the one thing that caught Remus’ attention. His overly nerdy friend actually choked a bit at the sight of Black’s pert arse, and he grabbed James’ wrist.
“Oh my god,” he mouthed.
James rolled his eyes. He could see the appeal, of course. James not really having any gender preference at all, might have actually gone for someone like that in his early teens, but he preferred a more stoic type. Seemed to be right up Remus’ alley, who was all-but drooling now, his little device forgotten as they walked into the dim room.
“My brother and I wanted to have this place gutted and redone to look like an actual home instead of like a depression dungeon,” Black said, waving his hand at the two men to have a seat on a far too stiff sofa. “But we looked at the cost and realised it would be best to sell this place. Which is why we wanted to be on the show. Haunted houses sell really well, you know?”
James blinked, then glanced down at his forms. “So you’re…not Regulus?”
He blinked, then let out a small, barking laugh. “Ah no, that would be my younger brother. The one who didn’t so violently disgrace the family for daring to choose what my mother perceived as the ‘wrong gender’,” he added this with finger quotes in the air, “and a sinful lifestyle. Course that was because she didn’t know where my darling brother was sticking his tongue behind the footie pitch at school…” he laughed again, and James caught a blush on Remus’ cheeks, “but that’s neither here nor there, isn’t it? Anyway, I’m Sirius, the elder brother.”
James realised he immediately liked this man, and he let his smile go soft and easy. “Well I’m James Potter, the producer of Ghost Hunters. And this is Remus. He’s the paranormal psychologist and he’ll be assessing the house to find the…what do you call them?”
“Hot spots,” Remus muttered, still unabashedly staring at Sirius. He cleared his throat when he realised Sirius had noticed, and blushed again. “I’ll be setting up some of my equipment to see where we can get the best activity from your erm…did you say it was your mother? Haunting this place.”
Sirius’ grin, if possible, got wider, and he let his fingers lace over his thin, crooked knee. “I believe it is her, yes.” James could tell that Sirius was aware and didn’t care that James and Remus knew the whole thing was a farce. “You see, she had this painting made of her when she was alive, and I’m fairly sure her spirit is attached to it. I swear sometimes I can hear her voice when I walk past it, cursing at me.” Sirius pitched his voice high and rough. “Shame of my blood, filth, desecrating my home with your impure ways.” James winced, and Sirius waved him off. “Nothing I didn’t hear when I was growing up, of course. That and worse, but I suppose children watch the show so…”
James pursed his lips, and cut his gaze to Remus who looked in awe, and a bit overwhelmed. “Well,” James said, “I’m sure we can…work with all that.”
“I thought you might. The person I talked to said you’d be running this as the series finale?”
“That’s right,” James said, and saw Remus’ face fall. He didn’t exactly have prospects after this, though there were a few shows on the BBC who wanted him as a script consult for paranormal things, but it wasn’t what his mate wanted to do, and James felt for him. Still, he would offer up his right arm to be rid of this show. “The network has certain ah…expectations, if you will. On how this is going to run.”
Sirius nodded, gnawing at his lip as he looked between Remus and James. “Well. I’m sure it’ll go swimmingly. You have a crew, right? Who takes care of…everything?”
Remus snorted. “You could say that. It’s…”
“Scripted?” Sirius offered.
“Crafted,” James supplied. “You’ll be given a nondisclosure agreement which prevents you from discussing the aspects of filming during or after the show’s production. It’s standard.”
“Oh I’m aware,” Sirius said, waving his hand. “I think I’m likely here for the same reasons as you are.”
“Which is?” Remus asked.
Sirius gave him an almost lewd once-over. “Well. To benefit myself. And a bit of revenge—though I suppose that one might just be me.”
Before James could even begin to formulate a response, there was the sound of the door opening and closing. He found himself holding his breath a bit, wondering if the younger brother was going to be anything like Sirius.
He found himself relieved in a way when a far more solemn man entered. He was shorter than James, but taller than Sirius, with a more square frame, and more rounded jawline. He shared the same hair, though his was cut shorter, falling just at the ears, with a fringe sweeping elegantly across his forehead. But the nose, the mouth, and the soft grey eyes were the same.
James appreciated this one more, though, personally anyway. Not that he was here to pull—not that he had time to even think about something like that. But he couldn’t help himself from noticing at the very least.
Rising, James quickly held out a hand, and found his breath catching at the feel of the soft, warm palm in his as they shook. The handshake was formal, but it lingered as their eyes met. “I’m James Potter, the producer. You must be Regulus.”
“I am.” His voice was an octave deeper than Sirius’, though lacked that smoky, rough quality which James knew was currently driving Remus mad since Sirius was still talking, and Remus was still blushing. “Has my brother filled you in.”
“Just giving them some family history,” Sirius said, winking at his brother, and received an eye-roll in return.
“Pleased to hear it,” Regulus deadpanned, and James could hear the subtle notes of sarcasm in the tone, and instantly loved it. “I suppose those are the papers.”
“Standard filming contracts, non-disclosure agreements. I thought I’d leave them, let your attorneys go over them with you before you sign.”
Regulus looked…almost impressed, James supposed, as he took the files in hand. “When do you need them back by?”
“We’d like to do the preliminary assessment of the house this Friday, if possible,” James said, looking to Remus who pulled his attention from Sirius like a stubborn plaster stuck to arm hair. Remus gave a nod, then cut his eyes right back to Sirius who seemed to be very much enjoying the attention.
Regulus and James shared an eyeroll, then a very soft, very careful smirk. “Mr Potter, was it?”
“James,” he offered.
“Would you like to accompany me for a drink and discussion away from the frivolity?”
James blinked, then looked over at Remus who had lost all concept of paying attention to anything that wasn’t Sirius telling some story about something he’d done at school, and James almost, almost laughed. “I would love that.”
Regulus’ smirk widened a fraction, then he beckoned him along. “I have a decent scotch I think you’ll like. And I’m sure we can get this sorted so we can get your project on its way.”
***
James left Grimmauld Place with a grinning Remus, and a funny crush settling in his gut. He’d attempted not to, he’d told himself don’t bother, but Regulus was…something else. Not quite flirty, but definitely showed interest, and James had to wonder if maybe there would be more than just the show by the end of things.
Remus hadn’t said a word about Sirius, but James had seen him take the number from Sirius’ hand before they’d gone, and he knew better than to take the piss and scare off Remus who often made his entire life about work rather than dating. They deserved something good after all this, and who was James to rain on Remus’ parade.
Besides, he thought, it seemed like Sirius truly liked him.
All they really needed to do was get through the filming.
And that, he knew, was going to be the complicated part. Because as they strolled down the street, Remus made the absolute declaration. “There isn’t a whisper of ghost in that house, James. We’re going to have to fake the entire thing if you want to keep your job.”