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The Gryffindor dormitory was steeped in the honey-gold hush of early evening. Beyond the tall windows, the grounds glowed faintly under a bruised-purple sky; the last bit of sun slid down the Forbidden Forest and caught in the glass like fire. Laughter still echoed off the stone stairwell—James shouting something about exploding snap, Peter groaning in protest—but up here, for a rare moment, it was quiet.
Sirius lay sprawled on his bed, one boot still on, the other dangling from the heel of his foot. His Transfiguration notes were scattered around him, ink smudged from careless fingers. He was supposed to be reading, revising, doing anything except what he was doing now—staring at the ceiling and listening to the faint scratch of Remus’ quill at the desk across the room.
The sound was maddeningly delicate. Scratch, pause, sigh. He could tell which parts of an essay were giving Remus trouble by the rhythm of it. Sirius smiled without meaning to, a small, secret curl at the corner of his mouth.
Remus didn’t look up. He never did when he was working; his brow furrowed just enough to make a small crease between his eyes, lips parted as if he were silently reading each line back to himself. The lamplight carved him in amber—hair gone soft and gold at the edges, shadows deepening the curve of his cheek. Sirius had always thought Remus looked like something old and holy in the light: tired, a little cracked, but still shining.
And that was when it started—the sharp hitch in Sirius’ chest. A quick, traitorous flutter that made him suck in a breath too fast. It burned going down, a sting behind his ribs that spread like thorns. He pressed a fist against his sternum, forcing a laugh when Remus finally turned around.
“You all right?” Remus asked. His voice was low, careful, touched with that weary amusement that came from spending too much time around the rest of them.
“Fine,” Sirius lied easily, pushing himself upright. “Just dying from the sheer thrill of McGonagall’s notes on transfiguration law.”
Remus snorted, turning back to his essay. “That’ll teach you to sleep through class.”
Sirius smirked, though the pressure in his chest didn’t ease. “Worth it. Dreamt I was a dragon. You were there. Gave excellent commentary, by the way.”
“Tragic,” Remus murmured, quill still moving. “Even in your dreams, you’re an egomaniac.”
Sirius wanted to say something clever back, something sharp enough to make Remus look at him again, really look—but the words stuck. The ache swelled, forcing him to cough. He bent forward, covering his mouth quickly. It wasn’t deep, not yet, just dry and sudden, but it left an acidic taste on his tongue.
When he drew his hand away, something small and dark clung to his palm. A petal—velvet, black, the faintest shimmer of red bleeding through its veins.
He stared at it.
Outside, the sun slipped fully behind the trees, and the dormitory fell into twilight. The petal looked like it belonged there, a bit of night torn loose, resting against the pale skin of his hand.
“Pads?” Remus again—concern edging through the soft rasp of his voice.
Sirius closed his fist around the petal before Remus could see. He smiled, too bright, too wide. “Still fine. Just choked on my own wit.”
Remus rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched, that almost-smile Sirius lived for.
By the time Remus turned back to his parchment, Sirius had tucked the petal into the folds of his notes. His fingers shook just slightly.
Later, when the room was empty and the candles guttered low, he took it out again. The color deepened in the shadows, a perfect black-red bloom the color of blood in candlelight.
He burned it in the fireplace and watched it curl into smoke.
The next morning, his throat was sore.
———————————————
In the days that followed, Sirius told himself it was nothing.
A cough. A cold. Hogwarts air was damp, the dorm windows drafty, and he’d never been built for stillness anyway. But when he closed his eyes, he kept seeing it—the petal, black and red as dried blood, catching the light as it burned away.
So he distracted himself the only way he knew how: remembering the good parts.
Like the first time he really saw Remus Lupin.
First year, first week, sunlight spilling through the library window. Sirius had been pretending to study, parchment empty in front of him, while Remus sat across the table, biting his lip in concentration as he copied from a book. His handwriting had been neat even then, each letter careful and small. Sirius had reached out to flick an ink blot from his page and missed entirely, leaving a smear on the table.
Remus had just laughed—soft, like he didn’t want to be overheard—and pushed his own inkwell toward him. “You’re hopeless,” he’d said, and that had been that.
A laugh, a smudge, and something quiet blooming in Sirius’ chest he didn’t yet have words for.
Years passed, and the small things accumulated like threads:
The way Remus’ hair curled damp at his temples after rain. The way he leaned too close over a chessboard, brow furrowed, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth when he was thinking. The way his eyes, in certain light, weren’t brown at all but gold—wolfish, fierce, kind.
There was the night in third year when Sirius found him on the Astronomy Tower, blanket around his shoulders, looking up at the moon like he was both worshipping and mourning it. Sirius had sat beside him without asking, shoulder brushing his. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Eventually, Remus had whispered, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Even when it hurts.”
Sirius hadn’t known what he meant, not really. But he remembered the sound of it—the fragile reverence—and how his chest had ached in reply.
There was the prank that went wrong, when a potion exploded and Remus had taken the brunt of the blast shielding Peter. His robes were singed, his palms red. Sirius had fussed for hours, dabbing salve on his hands while Remus rolled his eyes and told him to stop being dramatic. Sirius didn’t. He couldn’t stop looking at those hands.
There were Quidditch practices in winter—Remus always in the stands, pretending to read while his eyes followed Sirius across the pitch. Afterward, Sirius would drop his broom at Remus’ feet, laughing too loudly, cheeks flushed from wind and pride.
“Show-off,” Remus would say. But he always smiled when he said it.
There were nights when Remus couldn’t sleep, and Sirius would toss him a chocolate frog from across the room. They’d talk about everything and nothing until dawn—books, music, the unfairness of curfews, the way stars looked like spilled sugar. Sometimes Remus would drift off mid-sentence, glasses slipping down his nose, and Sirius would stay awake just to watch him breathe.
Little things.
Tiny, harmless things.
Until suddenly, every ordinary moment felt like a confession.
Sirius noticed that when Remus smiled, the corner of his mouth on the left rose just slightly higher than the right. He noticed that Remus’ laughter always began as a huff, like he was embarrassed to find something funny. He noticed that he couldn’t look at Remus for too long without feeling like his ribs were bruising from the inside.
The first time he realized it might be love was stupid, almost laughable.
A rainy afternoon, parchment scattered across the floor, both of them barefoot in front of the common room fire. Remus had leaned over him to reach for a book, his jumper brushing Sirius’ shoulder, and Sirius had thought, I could stay like this forever.
That thought scared him more than any monster in the Forbidden Forest ever could.
He laughed it off, buried it beneath jokes and loudness and Quidditch and everything else that made life bright and fast. But later, when he coughed again and another black petal fell against his hand, he understood.
It wasn’t the cold.
It was Remus Lupin.
———————————————
Sirius had never been good at silence.
Not in conversation, not in thought, and certainly not in feeling.
When something clawed at his chest, his answer was always motion — a laugh too loud, a dare too reckless, a kiss too quick.
By fifth year, he’d kissed half of Gryffindor and a scandalous slice of Hufflepuff besides. Hallways, hidden alcoves, even a broom closet once after a Quidditch win. He never stayed long enough to remember names.
He told James it was fun. He told himself it was freedom.
But really, it was distraction.
Because every time Remus smiled across the common room, soft and shy and unaware, Sirius’ stomach knotted like he’d swallowed a star.
So he kissed other mouths. Laughed against other lips. Tried to scrub Remus out of his lungs before the flowers had a chance to root.
It didn’t work.
It never did.
By sixth year, Remus had grown into himself — taller, steadier, shoulders broad beneath threadbare jumpers. The quiet boy with the kind eyes had become something magnetic, and Sirius hated it.
He hated the way everyone looked at him now: the girls from Ravenclaw who left notes in his books, the boy from Hufflepuff who lingered after Prefect meetings, the older Slytherin who called him “pretty” in the corridor.
He hated it because Remus didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, and it didn’t matter.
Then came her.
A Ravenclaw, clever and soft-spoken, who liked the way Remus quoted poetry without realizing it. Sirius watched them sit together in the library once, Remus’ head bent low as she leaned close to whisper something that made him blush.
He’d laughed — that same embarrassed little huff.
Sirius had left halfway through the page he wasn’t reading, thrown open the door to the cold spring rain, and found someone — anyone — to kiss behind the greenhouses. It tasted like wet grass and guilt.
Later that night, he’d found the first thorn lodged in his throat.
⸻
It was months later, after that brief and doomed thing with the Ravenclaw had ended, that everything finally broke.
The Marauders had been celebrating another victory, a prank gone right, an exam gone wrong — it hardly mattered.
Empty bottles clinked by the fire, the air thick with laughter and warmth. James had fallen asleep sideways in an armchair, his glasses askew. Peter was snoring face-down on the rug.
Remus was half-sitting, half-slumped against the arm of the sofa, hair mussed, eyes soft from firelight and fatigue.
Sirius had been watching him all night, trying not to.
Trying not to notice the slope of his neck, the quiet curve of his smile when their eyes met.
The common room felt like a held breath.
Somewhere between a dare and a decision, Sirius set his drink down and climbed the dormitory stairs on unsteady legs.
He didn’t remember deciding to knock on Remus’ door. Didn’t remember turning the handle.
He just knew that the room was dark, the curtains drawn, and the sound of Remus’ breathing filled the space between them.
“Pads?” Remus murmured sleepily as Sirius crawled into his bed, bringing the scent of whiskey and smoke with him.
Sirius didn’t answer. He just lay there, close enough that their knees brushed beneath the blankets, close enough to feel Remus’ breath ghost against his collarbone.
He hadn’t meant for it to happen — the way his hand found Remus’ wrist, tracing the faint scar that wound down to his palm. The way Remus didn’t pull away.
The air between them trembled.
A half-second of nothing.
Then Remus shifted — barely, just enough that his nose brushed Sirius’ jaw, that warm exhale blooming across his skin.
Something in Sirius unraveled.
He didn’t know who moved first, only that the distance was gone, replaced by a hush and the sound of hearts stumbling out of rhythm. It wasn’t hunger. Not yet. It was something smaller, sadder — a reaching.
Remus’ hand settled against the side of Sirius’ neck, hesitant and sure all at once. Sirius pressed closer, eyes closed, trying to memorize the feel of it: the tremor in Remus’ fingers, the faint taste of salt and warmth in the air.
Neither of them spoke.
It was too fragile for words, too easy to ruin with the wrong sound.
When they finally pulled apart, nothing had changed and everything had.
Sirius lay awake long after Remus had fallen asleep, his pulse still echoing in his throat.
He stared at the canopy above them, eyes burning, chest tight.
He’d thought kissing strangers hurt.
He hadn’t known what real pain was until he felt Remus’ arm drape loosely around his waist in sleep, trusting him, unaware.
By morning, he was coughing up petals again.
———————————————
After that first night, nothing was said.
Nothing ever was.
Morning came like it always did—sunlight spilling through the high windows, dust floating lazy in the air. James was the first to wake, stretching and groaning, muttering something about Quidditch practice. Peter followed with his usual bleary confusion.
Remus rose last. Calm. Careful. Ordinary.
Sirius watched from his own bed, half-hidden behind the drapes, as Remus rubbed the sleep from his eyes, yawned, and asked if anyone wanted toast.
Not a glance. Not a flicker of recognition.
Just Remus Lupin, prefect and scholar, steady as sunrise.
Sirius laughed at something James said, too loudly, too bright.
Inside, the memory of Remus’ breath against his neck pulsed like a bruise.
⸻
That night, it happened again.
James and Peter were asleep by midnight, their snores blending into the soft crackle of the dying fire.
Sirius lay still for a long time, staring at the canopy above his bed, listening.
Then came the softest sound: the creak of bedsprings, the slow whisper of bare feet on stone.
His heart tripped over itself.
The curtains parted just enough for Remus to slip through, eyes shadowed in the dim light. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
Sirius shifted back wordlessly, making room. The mattress dipped under Remus’ weight, the space between them filled with warmth and familiarity. The curtains closed again, sealing them in a small, secret world of breath and heartbeat and candlelight.
It wasn’t tender, not exactly—it was quiet, deliberate, the way two people might share a secret neither can name.
When it was over, Remus’ hand lingered against Sirius’ chest for one long moment, then fell away. He didn’t look back as he slipped out again.
Sirius lay awake, throat burning.
⸻
Weeks passed like that.
By day, they were the same.
Sirius cracking jokes across the common room. Remus rolling his eyes, hiding a smile behind his hand.
They studied together, fought over chess, planned pranks with James, teased Peter.
Everything was normal. Everything was fine.
Only at night did the truth bloom between them.
Sirius would wait until the others were asleep. Remus would pretend not to expect it.
And when the curtains rustled, when the faint light caught on Sirius’ pale wrist, when that familiar scent of parchment and pine filled the space between them— Remus would stop pretending.
Sometimes Remus would fall asleep before dawn, his head tucked against Sirius’ shoulder, hair soft against his collarbone. Sirius would stay awake, memorizing every breath, every twitch, every sound.
By morning, Sirius would be gone.
⸻
If Sirius ever wondered what it meant, he didn’t ask.
If Remus ever thought about it, he didn’t say.
During the day, Remus laughed easily, spoke to him like nothing in the world had changed.
He’d bump shoulders in the hallway, nudge Sirius’ elbow at breakfast, toss him a quill in class with that same wry grin.
And Sirius would smile back—because if he didn’t, someone might notice the way his hands shook when they brushed.
At night, behind velvet curtains, everything slowed.
Remus’ breathing, the warmth of skin against skin, the ache that grew a little sharper each time.
Sirius could feel the flowers twisting deeper into his lungs with every quiet night he pretended not to love the other boy
He didn’t care.
He would have choked on a thousand petals if it meant he could have this.
———————————————
Morning came cold and bright.
The dormitory smelled of wool and smoke and the faint tang of polish from James’ broom. Sirius dressed before the others stirred, slipping his robes over the bruised ache in his ribs. By the time the curtains were pulled back, he was smiling again.
James grinned at him through a mouthful of toast. “You look like death, mate.”
Sirius rolled his eyes, snatching the toast. “I am death. McGonagall’s new essay killed me.”
Remus chuckled from his trunk, neat and unruffled, the sound sliding straight through Sirius’ chest.
It hurt. Everything did now.
⸻
By the end of the week, word spread that Remus and Marlene McKinnon had started seeing each other.
It began with an innocent walk by the lake, her laughter carrying over the water; it ended with whispers echoing up the Gryffindor staircase.
Sirius found out from Peter, who said it like gossip instead of a knife.
He laughed, of course—too loud, too bright—and said, “About time someone tamed him.”
But that night, the petals came harder.
Thicker.
The taste of iron never left his mouth.
He learned to turn away quickly when he coughed, to pretend he was sneezing, to shove a handkerchief between his teeth and pray James wouldn’t notice.
⸻
James noticed.
It was a rainy afternoon in the common room; the fire hissed and spat as the storm pressed against the windows. Sirius had been bent over a chessboard when another cough tore up his throat.
James looked up, startled. “Merlin, Pads—that cough sounds exactly like Reg’s did. You remember, near the end?”
Sirius froze, the chess piece trembling between his fingers. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I remember.”
They were alone; Peter had gone to dinner early, and Remus and Marlene were somewhere laughing in the library.
The room felt smaller than it should have.
Sirius set the piece down, face pale. “Did he ever tell you?”
James frowned. “Tell me what?”
“Regulus,” Sirius said, voice low. “Did he ever tell you that he—” He swallowed hard. “That he loved you?”
James blinked, stunned. For a moment he looked almost boyish, curls damp against his forehead. “What?”
Sirius kept his gaze on the fire. “That’s what killed him.”
“Don’t joke about that.” James’ tone sharpened. “It’s not—don’t. I don’t even want to talk about it.”
Sirius finally looked up, eyes glassy and exhausted. “I’m not joking.”
The silence stretched. The fire popped, sending sparks into the hearth.
“He had Hanahaki,” Sirius said softly. “He never told you. Wouldn’t. I’m sure he thought it would ruin you both. I didn’t find out until I found him. And I didn’t put it together that it was…” Sirius paused, coughing a little more before clearing his throat and continuing. “That it was you until the other day. Remembering how you were after he passed, and the way he died. He either never told you… or you rejected him.”
James’ jaw clenched. The color drained from his face. “I didn’t know… He never said anything, I swear.” Jame’s takes a deep breath, putting together another portion of their conversation in his head. “And you—you’re saying—”
Sirius shook his head quickly, forcing a laugh that didn’t sound like him. “I’m saying it’s a miserable way to die, that’s all.”
James stared at him, mind racing, piecing the fragments together—the coughing, the sudden silences, the way Sirius’ eyes followed a certain someone across every room.
“You have to tell him,” James said at last, voice rough. “Whoever it is. You have to.”
Sirius smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth trembling. “I can’t. If he says no, it’ll kill me faster.”
He rubbed at his chest absently, as though soothing something that lived beneath the skin.
“I’m not done loving him yet.”
James didn’t ask who him was.
He didn’t need to.
⸻
That night, Sirius lay awake listening to the rain. Every cough sounded like a confession he couldn’t make.
Across the room, Remus whispered something in his sleep, Marlene’s name soft on his tongue.
Sirius pressed his face into the pillow to keep from making a sound.
When he finally fell asleep with tears stains down his cheeks and blood stains on his lips, he dreamed of black roses blooming up through snow.
———————————————
It was supposed to be an ordinary evening.
Laughter, music, the fire cracking, cards scattered across the common room floor. Sirius sat with James and Peter, pretending to listen, pretending to care.
Across the room, Remus stood near the wall with Marlene.
She was talking fast, her hands moving as she spoke, that soft warmth in her voice that always made people feel chosen. Remus was smiling—shy, uncertain, the way he did when he wanted to hide how pleased he was.
Then she leaned up, pressed her mouth to his, and everything in Sirius’ chest turned to glass.
The world narrowed:
the whisper of robes, the low hum of the fire, the sound of his own heart tearing quietly apart.
He tried to look away but couldn’t.
Couldn’t breathe.
The pain came sharp and sudden, like a blade twisting behind his sternum. He coughed once, then again, doubling over. The third cough dragged something up from deep inside—wet, metallic, blooming.
A small bud hit his palm. Black as night. Red veins glinting in the firelight.
James’ laughter faltered. “Pads?”
Sirius shoved the bud into his pocket, straightened, forced a grin. “Fine—just swallowed wrong.”
He laughed, because what else was there to do? Then he excused himself and climbed the stairs, the sound of their laughter following like ghosts.
⸻
Madam Pomfrey was waiting before he even knocked.
The lamps in the infirmary were already lit, the air steeped in lavender and antiseptic.
“I knew you’d be back,” she said, without surprise. “Sit.”
He obeyed, trembling. When he opened his hand, the crushed bud rolled across his palm, leaving a smear of dark red.
Pomfrey sighed, not unkindly. “It’s grown. I spoke with Professor Sprout. We’ve brewed a slowing draught—mallow root, silverleaf, thistle pollen. It’ll ease the bloom and give you time.”
“How much?” Sirius asked, voice low.
“Months, maybe. But it won’t cure you.”
He nodded. “That’s enough.”
She handed him the vial; it glowed faintly violet under the lamplight.
“Drink it before bed. It will keep the thorns from piercing the lungs.”
Sirius took it, eyes fixed on the window where snow had begun to fall. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Pomfrey hesitated. “Does she know?”
“No, he doesn’t” he said. “And he won’t.”
⸻
That night, when the dormitory fell silent, the curtains rustled.
Remus slipped inside like he always did if Sirius didn’t come to him, smelling of parchment and the faint smoke of the common room fire.
Sirius lay still as the mattress dipped, as warmth settled beside him. Remus didn’t speak. He never did on nights like this.
Outside, snow tapped against the window; inside, Sirius felt the petals shift in his chest.
He thought of Pomfrey’s warning. Of time measured in coughs and kisses.
Remus’ fingers brushed his wrist, soft, trusting.
Sirius turned toward him, swallowed hard against the taste of iron, and let himself be held.
⸻
It kept happening.
Nights behind the drapes.
Mornings full of laughter and polite distance.
Petals burned in the hearth before anyone could see.
And every time Remus said Marlene’s name, Sirius felt another root dig deeper.
———————————————
Remus POV
At first, Remus thought it was exhaustion.
Sirius had always burned too hot—talked too fast, laughed too loud, lived like he was daring the world to keep up.
So when the brightness dulled, when the jokes began to falter halfway through, Remus told himself it was just winter wearing on him.
But it kept getting worse.
Sirius’ hands shook when he buttoned his cuffs.
His voice cracked in the middle of sentences, followed by a rough cough he tried to hide behind a grin.
Once, in class, Remus glanced over just in time to see him press a handkerchief to his mouth and slide it into his pocket, a smear of red along the edge before it disappeared.
And always—the faint smell of smoke and roses.
Everywhere Sirius went.
The friendship shifted like a current changing direction.
When Remus walked into a room, Sirius found a reason to leave.
They no longer walked the grounds together. The table in the library that had always been theirs stayed empty. In Transfiguration, Sirius quietly switched places with Peter, leaving Remus beside an empty chair.
It felt like losing something he hadn’t realized he was holding.
⸻
Then came Hogsmeade.
Snow still clung to the roofs, and Marlene’s laugh cut through the cold. She tucked her arm through Remus’, leaning against him as they wound back up the path toward the castle. He let her. It was easy, warm. She deserved someone present.
When they entered the common room, Sirius was there by the fire, a half-read book in his lap.
Their eyes met for half a heartbeat before Sirius looked away, jaw tight.
Remus felt something inside him drop—but he didn’t have time to think.
By the time he climbed the dormitory stairs, the air was sharp with the sound of coughing. He went straight to Sirius’ bed, tugged at the curtains—and hit a ward so solid it sparked under his fingers.
“Sirius?”
No answer.
He tried again, voice rough. “Pads, open up—please.”
The coughing on the other side only worsened, deep and wet and awful. Panic clawed up his throat. He shoved against the ward until it burned, shouting now, but still—nothing.
Footsteps thundered behind him.
James.
Before Remus could speak, James pushed past, laid his hand on the curtain, and the barrier dissolved like smoke.
He slipped through easily, vanishing into the dark behind the velvet folds.
Remus reached again, but the ward flared to life, throwing him back.
It wasn’t everyone locked out.
Just him.
⸻
Sirius’ POV
He couldn’t breathe.
Every gasp tore fire through his lungs. The petals wouldn’t stop; they came in waves—spilling across his pillows, clinging to his fingers, streaked with blood. Black and red and endless.
Outside the curtains, Remus’ voice broke against the wards, pleading. Each word made the fit worse. His body shook, the sheets soaked with sweat and crimson blooms.
He wished it would end. Right now. Right here.
He wished the disease would finish what it started before he had to hear another I’ll see you later, Marlene whispered in the hall.
Then the curtains parted and James was there, pale and terrified.
“Pads—Merlin—”
Sirius tried to speak, choked instead. The petals kept coming until something larger caught in his throat—a bloom, whole and heavy, cutting off his breath. Panic blurred everything; he clawed at his collar, vision going white at the edges.
James grabbed him, forced his mouth open, reached in.
When he pulled the rose free, its petals shone wet and dark in the candlelight, the stem slick with blood. It thudded onto the floorboards like something alive.
Sirius collapsed forward, coughing, gasping, sobbing all at once.
James caught him before he fell, pulling him against his chest.
“It’s all right, it’s all right, I’ve got you—”
But Sirius couldn’t stop.
Petals and blood soaked James’ sleep shirt; his shaking wouldn’t ease. He pressed his face into the fabric, shoulders heaving, every breath a ragged apology.
James just held him, hand steady at the back of his neck, eyes wet.
For a long time, that was all there was—
the sound of the fire,
the rustle of dying petals,
and the quiet, awful truth blooming between them.
———————————————
Morning came thin and grey, the sort that never really warmed the castle.
Remus hadn’t slept. He’d sat on the edge of his bed all night, waiting for another sound, another sign, anything. The wards had dropped sometime before dawn, the dormitory falling back into uneasy stillness.
When James finally emerged from behind Sirius’ curtains, his face was pale, eyes red-rimmed. His shirt was crumpled and stained dark at the shoulder.
Remus was on his feet instantly.
“What happened?”
James flinched at the sound of his voice. “He’s asleep.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Remus took a step closer. “You could get through, but I couldn’t. I heard him—Merlin, James, I heard him. What happened?”
James glanced toward the bed. The curtains were half-drawn now, a faint outline of Sirius beneath them, motionless except for the slow rise and fall of breath. The smell of roses clung to the air, faint but unmistakable.
“He had a bad turn,” James said finally. “I helped him breathe. Pomfrey’s coming by after breakfast.”
Remus’ hands curled into fists. “A bad turn? That sounded like he was dying.”
James’ eyes flicked up, and something in them made Remus falter. A look he’d never seen before—fear, raw and unguarded.
“James.” Remus’ voice softened. “Tell me the truth.”
James hesitated, rubbing at the back of his neck, staring down at the floorboards. “It’s not mine to tell.”
“The hell it isn’t!” The words came sharp, louder than he meant. Peter stirred in his sleep across the room; Remus lowered his voice. “You think I haven’t noticed? He’s coughing blood. He can’t even look at me anymore. If you know what’s wrong, tell me.”
James looked toward Sirius’ bed again, jaw working.
“I can’t.”
Remus took another step, voice trembling now. “Is he dying?”
James closed his eyes. “He’s… he’s sick, Moony. Worse than he’s letting on.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” James said quietly. “It’s not.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of the fire downstairs and the distant murmur of students waking below.
Remus finally whispered, “Why would he keep me out? What did I do?”
James opened his mouth, then shut it again. He couldn’t tell him—not without betraying a secret that wasn’t his to share. Not without breaking the fragile line Sirius had drawn in the dark.
He reached out instead, resting a hand on Remus’ shoulder. “He doesn’t want you hurt.”
Remus stared at him, eyes shining with anger and confusion. “Too late for that.”
He turned away before James could answer, crossing to his own bed, sitting heavily on the edge. The sun had risen fully now, spilling pale gold across the stone floor.
Behind the curtains, Sirius shifted, coughed once in his sleep.
A single dark petal fluttered to the floor, landing between them.
Neither of them moved to pick it up.
———————————————
Remus left the dormitory before midnight. The corridors swallowed the sound of his footsteps, and with him went the last of the evening’s warmth. James found Sirius sitting exactly where Remus had left him, knees drawn up beneath the blankets, his face gray with exhaustion.
Without a word, James set the tray down on the nightstand: four small vials, each glowing faintly different colors.
“Pomfrey’s orders,” he said softly. “This one first. It’ll settle your lungs.”
Sirius grimaced but swallowed the potion. The liquid slid down thick and metallic, leaving a bitter tang that clung to his tongue. The next one cooled the burn; the third steadied the tremor in his hands.
“Last one.” James pressed the smallest vial into his palm. “She said to take it slow.”
Sirius obeyed. By the time he finished, color had returned to his cheeks, faint but real. His breathing evened out; the wheeze softened to a tired sigh.
For a long while they sat in silence. The only sound was the rain against the windows and the slow ticking of James’ watch.
“Better?” James asked finally.
Sirius nodded. “For now.”
James dragged a chair closer, elbows on his knees. “You scared him, you know. Remus. He looked—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “He doesn’t understand what’s happening.”
Sirius’ laugh was a whisper. “Good. Let him keep it that way.”
“You can’t keep this up.”
“I can,” Sirius said quietly. “Not for much longer, but I can.”
⸻
The hours crept by, the fire burning low. Sirius stared into it, eyes unfocused, voice almost conversational when he finally spoke.
“I’m going to do it.”
James looked up. “Do what?”
“The surgery.” The words were flat, almost calm. “After exams. Pomfrey says it’s the only sure way to stop it.”
James straightened, eyes wide. “Pads—no. You know what that means. You won’t just lose the sickness, you’ll lose—” He gestured helplessly. “Everything. The part that feels it.”
“That’s sort of the point,” Sirius murmured. “I can’t keep living like this.”
James stood, pacing once before he knelt beside the bed. “You’ll come out the other side hollow. You won’t laugh the same, you won’t—hell, you might never want again.”
Sirius turned his head toward him, eyes red but dry. “Without him, I don’t want to.”
The words broke something in James. He reached for him before he could think, pulling him into an awkward, desperate hug. Sirius’ head dropped against his shoulder; the smell of smoke and roses clung to his hair.
James felt the faint hitch of breath, the tremor of a body too tired to keep pretending. He tightened his arms, voice rough against Sirius’ temple. “You idiot,” he whispered. “You stupid, brave idiot.”
Sirius smiled faintly, the expression barely there. “Don’t tell him.”
“I won’t,” James said. He couldn’t. The promise hurt in his chest like a lie.
They stayed like that for a long time—
two friends breathing in sync, one trying not to cry, the other too drained to do anything else.
When Sirius finally drifted toward sleep, he mumbled something against James’ sleeve.
“What?”
“Thank you,” Sirius whispered. “For helping me love him a little longer.”
James closed his eyes and let the tears come. The fire burned down to embers, and outside, the storm carried the scent of roses through the night.
———————————————
The argument began with a whisper that wanted to be a scream.
Remus shut the door with more force than he meant to. The room jumped at the sound, dust shaking loose from the canopy posts. Sirius was sitting up in bed, thin as moonlight against the pillows. He looked startled at first, then wary, as if he’d already rehearsed this moment in his head and it had never gone well.
“You could at least look at me,” Remus said. His voice was low, trembling with the effort of calm.
Sirius did, barely—his eyes bright but distant. “You shouldn’t be here, Moons.”
“I shouldn’t—?” Remus laughed, the sound brittle. “You shut everyone out for weeks, you can’t even stand long enough to get to class, and you think I’m going to just—what? Pretend you don’t exist?”
Sirius coughed into his sleeve, the sound thick. “Go back to Marlene.”
Remus blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
Sirius’ mouth curved, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You heard me. You’ve got her now. No need to—”
He broke off in another cough, worse this time, body folding in on itself. A rosebud fell from his hand onto the blanket, dark red edges glistening.
Remus stared at it. “You think—Merlin, Sirius—you think Marlene and I—?”
“You don’t have to explain,” Sirius rasped. “I saw you. I know what I saw.”
Remus moved closer, anger mixing with disbelief. “You saw me playing a part. She was trying to make Dorcas jealous, and I— I helped. That’s all it was.” He swallowed hard. “It wasn’t real. I kept trying to show you that by coming to you, but you—”
Sirius’ eyes fluttered shut, a faint tremor running through him. “I didn’t know.”
Remus’ voice softened. “Then know it now. I don’t care about Marlene, I—”
“Don’t.” Sirius’ whisper cut him off. “Don’t say things you’ll regret later.”
Remus gripped the edge of the mattress, leaning forward until they were almost nose to nose. “You think this is regret? You think I like watching you fade out of every room the moment I walk in?”
Sirius’ breath came shallow, uneven. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Then tell me what’s happening.”
When he didn’t answer, Remus reached for him, shaking him lightly. “Tell me!”
Sirius’ head lolled toward him, a ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “I’m tired.”
“Don’t you dare close your eyes.”
“I’m not dying, Moons. Not yet.” He coughed again, weaker this time, and blood streaked the corner of his lips. “Pomfrey’s got me on potions. And… I’ve decided. I’m having the surgery.”
Remus went still. “What surgery?”
Sirius looked past him, toward the window where the storm pressed its face against the glass. “The one that takes the seed out. The thing that makes the flowers grow.”
Remus’ heart lurched, he remembers reading something on a magical disease that causes flowers to grow in the lungs, he doesn’t remember why or too much about ways to stop it other than the heartbreaking reality that whoever had it and surgically removed it, they could never actively love again, and that seemed like a terrible fate to Remus. “You can’t. You’ll lose more than the flowers—you’ll lose everything that makes you you. You’ll never feel love again.”
Sirius’ laugh was soft, almost kind. “Maybe that’s for the best.”
“Don’t say that.”
He turned his head, meeting Remus’ eyes at last. “I’m a Black, Moons. Love was never exactly in the family crest. We were bred for duty, pride, bloodlines—anything but warmth. I used to think I’d burn that part of me out, prove I didn’t need it.”
His fingers tightened on the blanket. “And then you happened.”
Remus opened his mouth, but Sirius kept going, words spilling like breath he’d been holding for years.
“I didn’t think I was built for it—whatever this is. And I still can’t believe I got to love you, even if you couldn’t feel the same. It’s all right.” He gave a fragile smile. “I got my little slice of paradise. A few nights, a few laughs, you looking at me like I was worth something. That’s more than I ever expected.”
Remus shook his head, eyes wet. “Stop talking like it’s over.”
Sirius’ voice thinned to a whisper. “It’s not over. It just… won’t hurt anymore. After the surgery, I’ll still remember your name, your voice. I just won’t feel the way it burned in my chest. But I’ll know that once, I did. And that it was the best thing I ever did.”
Remus’ throat worked, but no sound came. He sat down on the edge of the bed, hands trembling. “You think losing the pain will save you. It won’t.”
Sirius’ eyelids drooped. “Maybe not. But at least it’ll save you from me.”
“Don’t you dare,” Remus whispered. He caught Sirius’ hand, cold and fragile in his own. “You don’t get to decide what I need to be saved from.”
Sirius tried to answer, but the cough took him again. Remus held him upright until it passed, until the trembling stopped. When it did, Sirius sagged against him, breath whisper-thin.
Remus pressed his forehead to Sirius’, voice barely a breath. “Please stay. Just… stay.”
Sirius smiled, eyes half-closed. “For a little while longer.”
Outside, thunder rolled over the lake, and the petals scattered across the sheets quivered in the draft. The air smelled of rain and fading roses. Remus didn’t move. He just kept holding him, counting the beats that meant there was still time left.
Remus held him until the trembling slowed, until the coughing faded to shallow breaths. The room was quiet now except for the rain at the windows and the faint crackle of the dying fire.
Sirius was a dead weight against his chest, skin too cold, heartbeat fluttering against his ribs like something trying to escape.
“Pads,” Remus whispered, fingers tangled in the dark hair at the back of his neck. “Please. Don’t do this.”
Sirius’ lips curved in the ghost of a smile. “It’s already done, Moons.”
Remus shook his head, tears spilling freely now. “No. You don’t get to give up on me. You don’t get to decide you’ve had enough.”
Sirius tried to speak; the sound that came out was half-breath, half-laughter. “You deserve someone who isn’t falling apart.”
“I deserve you,” Remus shot back, voice cracking. “I don’t want anyone else. I want to hold you at night without sneaking around. I want to make you laugh in daylight again. I want to love you without watching you walk away from me every morning.”
Sirius blinked slowly, as if the words were light too bright to look at. “You’ll forget, after. It’ll be easier that way.”
Remus gripped his face, forcing him to meet his eyes. “No. I won’t. Werewolves don’t get Hanahaki, remember? I don’t get to forget. I’ll have to live the rest of my life loving you—with every breath, every damn heartbeat—knowing you won’t love me back.”
Sirius’ expression crumpled. “Moons—”
“So don’t you dare take this from me,” Remus said, voice breaking completely now. “Don’t take us. Stay. Let me love you. Let me hold you and make you remember what it feels like. Please.”
Sirius’ hand found his cheek, trembling. His thumb brushed away a tear, leaving a smear of red where it passed. “You already have all of me,” he whispered. “Every bit worth having.”
Remus pressed their foreheads together, shaking with sobs he couldn’t contain. “Then stay alive long enough to let me prove it.”
For a moment, Sirius didn’t move. Then his arms came up, weak but certain, drawing Remus closer until there was no space left between them. The smell of rain and smoke and fading roses filled the room.
“I’ll try,” he murmured, the words barely sound. “For you, I’ll try.”
Remus closed his eyes and held him tighter, counting each uneven breath like it was a prayer.
Outside, the storm broke open above the castle, wind sweeping through the cracks of the old windows. Inside, they stayed pressed together, two hearts tangled in the same impossible promise—
one trying to remember,
the other trying to forget.
———————————————
*Dawn*
The storm had emptied itself against the castle walls, leaving the world rinsed clean. In the soft blue before sunrise, the dormitory was quiet again — just the low murmur of the dying fire and the distant rhythm of rain dripping from the eaves.
Madam Pomfrey pushed the door open, candlelight trembling in her hand. James followed a few steps behind, eyes heavy with worry and sleeplessness.
They both stopped at the same moment.
Sirius and Remus were still asleep, curled together under the blankets. At first, it looked like the bed held only one figure, but as Pomfrey stepped closer, she saw the truth: Sirius folded entirely into Remus, his head tucked beneath the other boy’s chin, Remus’ arm wrapped protectively over him. Their legs tangled, their breathing perfectly in sync.
Pomfrey’s face softened into something rarely seen on her: a smile. “Finally,” she murmured. “He’s resting.”
James covered his eyes with one hand. “If I watch that any longer, I’m going to cry, and he’ll never let me live it down.”
“Let him rest, Mr. Potter,” Pomfrey whispered, adjusting the blanket around Sirius’ shoulder. Her diagnostic charm glowed faint green for a heartbeat, then faded clean. “His lungs are clear. No thorns, no bloom. Love’s stubborn that way.”
James nodded, voice rough. “Yeah. Guess it decided to stick around.”
They left quietly, the door closing on the faint sound of even breathing.
⸻
Sirius woke slowly, to warmth instead of pain. The light was gold now, painting the room in soft edges. For a long, disbelieving moment, he just lay there, listening — his own heartbeat, steady; the soft breath beside him.
He turned his face into the hollow of Remus’ throat, inhaling the familiar scent of soap and parchment and something wild. He breathed again, deep and easy, and froze. No burn. No pressure. No petals waiting to rise.
He took another breath just to be sure. Still clear.
“Morning,” Remus mumbled sleepily, the word rumbling through his chest. “You’re breathing.”
Sirius laughed — a small, astonished sound. “I am.”
Remus opened his eyes, blinking against the light. “It’s really gone?”
“Feels like it.” Sirius rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Feels like I could run to the lake and scream about it.”
“Please don’t,” Remus muttered, smiling. “You’d wake the whole castle.”
Sirius turned his head, eyes glinting. “Let them wake. Let them see.”
Remus’ smile faded a little. He traced the edge of the blanket with his finger. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Sirius frowned. “What do you mean?”
Remus hesitated, searching his face. “Now that you’re better… is it just back to the way it was? You avoiding me by day and sneaking into my bed at night?”
Sirius sat up slowly, wincing at the stiffness, and reached for him. “You think I’d go back to that?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Remus admitted. “I just know I can’t do this halfway anymore.”
Sirius took his hand. “Neither can I.”
Remus looked up sharply, hope flickering beneath the worry. “You mean it?”
Sirius nodded. “If I’ve learned anything from nearly coughing my heart out, it’s that hiding love hurts worse than dying from it. I want to live in daylight with you, not behind curtains. I want to hold your hand in the corridor, laugh in the open, make the whole world jealous of how lucky I am.”
Remus blinked hard. “Pads—”
“I’m serious,” Sirius said, smiling faintly at his own joke. “No more secrets. No more sneaking.”
Remus’ voice cracked. “Promise?”
“On my last petal,” Sirius whispered. “No more hiding. Ever.”
Remus leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Sirius’. “I was so afraid I’d lost you.”
Sirius’ hand slid up, cupping the back of his neck. “You saved me, Moons.”
Remus shook his head, tears spilling now. “No. You saved yourself. You finally let someone love you.”
Sirius smiled through his own tears. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It can be,” Remus whispered. “If we let it.”
Sirius brushed his thumb along Remus’ jaw, tracing the wet path of a tear. “I love you.”
Remus met his gaze, steady and fierce. “I love you too. Always.”
Sirius breathed it in like air, the words filling the spaces where pain used to live.
And for the first time in months, his chest didn’t hurt at all.
⸻
*The Astronomy Tower*
That night, long after the castle had gone still, James climbed the stairs to the Astronomy Tower. The air was cool and smelled of rain. He sat on the stone ledge, pulled a small golden snitch from his pocket, and let its wings flutter against the wind.
“You’d like this, Reg,” he said softly, watching the stars. “They finally figured it out. Moony and Pads. Took them long enough.”
He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Sirius is actually sleeping now. You’d be proud of him. I think you always were, even when you pretended not to be.”
The snitch spun lazily in his palm, catching the moonlight.
“They’re good together. They make the world feel… lighter. Watching them makes me happy.”
He paused, smile fading into something gentler. “But it makes me think of you, too. We could’ve had that, couldn’t we? If things had been different.”
The wind lifted his hair, carrying his words upward. “I loved you, Regulus Black. Since I was fourteen and you nearly killed us both trying to outfly me. I loved you every year after, through every stupid argument, every time you looked at me like you wanted to hate me and couldn’t.”
He looked down at the snitch, its wings trembling against his fingers. “I would’ve loved you ‘til I was ninety.”
James drew a slow breath, eyes bright with tears that didn’t fall. “And I still will.”
He opened his hand.
The snitch darted upward, catching the starlight, a glint of gold against the dark until it vanished among the constellations.
James watched it go, whispering to the sky,
“Still will.”
The stars above him seemed to shimmer in answer. The night breathed, and somewhere deep in the castle, laughter echoed — alive, unbroken, carried forward.