Chapter Text
He’s a good liar.
Sirius feels it the moment they meet. There's something shifty in the way Remus Lupin holds himself, as if strange secrets slink beneath his imperturbable calm. Not that Sirius cares, of course. He has plenty of his own secrets to keep.
"You've probably heard of me," Sirius says with a vague air of derision. "Or at least you've heard of my family. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."
“Never heard of them,” Lupin replies dryly, glancing out the Hogwarts Express’s rain-slick window. “Should I have?”
At this, James Potter laughs in Sirius’ general direction. “All I know is your family is famous for being sorted into Slytherin, mate. The lot of you!”
Slytherin. The word slithers over Sirius’ skin, but he doesn’t shiver. The train is trundling along loudly and the coach is bright and his belly is full of cauldron cakes. He’s far from home now—far from those narrow hallways and covert arguments in fractured French and dead relatives watching on the walls. With every passing moment, he gets further still. He's on his way to Hogwarts for the first time, which means this is a new start. A new everything. He need not think of his parents and their hopes for his future now.
Slytherin, Slytherin, Slytherin.
Sirius pulls his clear blue gaze from Remus, who’s still focused determinedly out of the window. He looks at the other boy, a Potter. Contrary to this Lupin, Potters don’t make for good liars. Like all Potters, this one is boisterous and passionate and built to be on a broom.
“That’s right,” Sirius replies, unsmiling and defiant. “The lot of us are sorted there so far…"
“Think you’ll be Slytherin too? Blimey, I thought you seemed all right—”
“Maybe I’ll break tradition,” Sirius replies, as blasé as possible. “I’m clever and confident and charismatic, as you can all clearly see.”
“Cheers,” James grins. “Gryffindor is where I’ll go, I’d say.”
Remus's reflection in the window flickers. He rests his head against the dark glass and closes his eyes as if he’s not excited about the prospect of being sorted at all.
Lupin looks sort of old, Sirius thinks. Much older than most eleven-year-old boys. Maybe it’s the bags beneath his eyes or the scrunched way he sits or the raised scars that seethe across his sepia, pimple-dotted skin.
Sirius sort of wants to ask him about those. The scars. But he has a feeling Lupin would just lie about that, too.
~
“So much fear. So much reckless anger,” says a sly voice in Sirius’ ear. “Such stubborn strength in the face of it all. But where to place you?”
Don’t know, Sirius thinks back in a wild, rushed answer. I don’t bloody well know.
“You remind me of…ah, you’re a Black. I’ve sorted your family for centuries…”
Memories of family flash in Sirius' mind. A silver snake brooch. Sirius punching his pillow until the down feathers explode around him, some sticking to his wet cheeks. A glittering ballroom. A full moon cloaked in clouds. Mother—her teeth wet and gleaming white as she raises her wand. Flashes of color and pain along the breadth of his back. The feel of the floor against his chest, his cheek. Regulus, quiet and withdrawn, sneaking in after to patch his big brother back up. Sirius kicking out at a stooped house-elf. Sirius and Regulus tiptoeing past the family tree tapestry.
“Hm,” the Sorting Hat muses thoughtfully.
Sirius raises a hand and lifts the brim of the old, saggy hat. The Great Hall gazes back. Everyone's eyes glint in the gold candlelight. Sirius feels the weight of a thousand stares and hears the high-pitched jeers coming from the Slytherin table. Sirius trembles on the wobbly wooden stool. He won’t look at his cousins, no matter how loudly they call for him.
You can call me all you’d like. This is my sorting. Mine. I won’t come to your table just because you’ve called.
The hat chuckles in his ear lowly, knowingly. “Ah, now I see. Better be…”
Sirius begins to open his mouth. Hang on, he wants to shout. Hang on! I want to go somewhere good!
The hat sends him to Gryffindor.
Silence swallows the hall whole. Then, there’s scattered clapping. There’s a random whistle. It echoes like a scream on an empty battlefield. Sirius walks to the red and gold table in a cold, clammy daze. He sits down next to Lupin.
Mother is going to do me in.
“Alright,” Lupin nods, half-greeting, half-question.
Sirius looks at the scarred boy and smiles a second too slowly. “Alright.”
~
During the first few weeks at Hogwarts, Sirius finds himself making private little promises. Prissy, poncy, protective little promises to himself like— always write to Regulus even if he doesn’t write back, or always go to the Owlery before breakfast so your Howlers can be received in private. Sirius quite likes how impressed everyone is with him at Hogwarts. The teachers all say his name in somber tones, girls like to look at him, and he has his pick of people to pick on. He doesn’t need the whole school to know his mother shouts obscenities at him via the post every day.
So, visiting the Owlery in the morning becomes part of his routine. Going sort of feels like an adventure. He’ll wake when the moon is still up. He’ll dress, quietly, quietly. Then, Sirius leaves Gryffindor Tower. He’ll run to the Owlery—a drafty, solitary tower atop a distant hill—and be back in bed before the other boys sit up from their slumbers.
He loves to run—he loves the wind in his long hair, the splash of the squashy grass beneath his feet, the heave of his thin chest, the sweet smell of mist, and watching it lift from the lonely ledge of the Owlery. Sirius hardly ever gets to run at home. Running is not allowed in the hallowed halls of Grimmauld Place; they are too crowded with delicate portraits, magical baubles, and expensive fabrics. Running out of doors is not permitted either because the family lives in a muggle area. And muggles are like mongrel dogs—dangerous, diseased, and dead stupid. Thus, leaving the house is hardly ever allowed, which Sirius thinks is silly.
You hate having me here, he'd always think at his parents. So let me run away. Let me go so we can both stop suffering.
But they never did. This is the freest he’s ever been.
This morning, Sirius wakes to a nearly full moon. He can see its silvery light leaking in through the crack in the hangings of his four-poster. Yawning thickly, Sirius dresses. He ties his hair away from his face—all the better to run with it back. And when he pulls his hangings apart, he nearly lets out a yelp of surprise.
Lupin is sitting upright on the edge of his own bed, looking out of the steamy little window. He’s in nothing but his shabby underwear and his left leg is jumping wildly. The back of his neck is shiny with a sheen of sweat. His mouth is hanging open like a loose hinge. And his torso…it’s just as scarred as the rest of him. The moon is reflected in the brown of Lupin’s eyes and his head is set at a crooked angle. It reminds Sirus of how dogs might cock their heads to squint at something they don't understand. Something about the sight makes Sirius uneasy.
Don’t be a sissy, Black.
“Oi,” Sirius whispers loudly, looking Lupin up and down. “What are you…”
Lupin’s face twitches. In fact, his whole body twitches. No, not twitches. It ripples like his skin is rolling over his muscles of its own volition. Like his skin doesn't quite fit his frame.
Sirius must make a sound because Remus blinks himself back to reality. Their eyes meet and Remus looks momentarily horrified. He tugs a blanket over his body. “Oh, hi. Sorry. I sleep with my eyes open sometimes, Mum says—”
“Right,” Sirius grunts, not wholly convinced…but at least a touch calmer.
Oh, Remus really is a good liar.
Lupin reminds Sirius of Regulus in this way. Regulus was always the one who was smart with words. He could weave a tapestry of white lies more tangled than the Black family tree. And Sirius…well, Sirius doesn’t like to lie. This does not mean he doesn't do it.
Remus, blushing now, tucks himself back into his bed and beneath the covers. He leaves a patch of sweat where he’d been sitting. “I’m a shite sleeper. Have been since I was, say, five? It’s…hang on…where are you off to?”
It’s Sirius' turn to invent some excuse. “Nowhere. Out. Fresh air. Hot in here.”
Remus blinks slowly, steadily, searchingly. His eyes are quite large and liquid and lonely. “You’re sneaking—”
“Not sneaking,” Sirius whispers fiercely, annoyed now. He’s losing valuable time. Besides, who does this boy think he is? Remus is not a prefect. He’s not a teacher. He’s not Mother. Sirius doesn’t have to answer to him. Still, Lupin just keeps looking, looking, looking at Sirius. His face is rather placid and kind behind the ropey scar tissue. Not for the first time, Sirius wonders how he came by the deep cuts.
Parents, probably. How else does a kid end up like that?
Almost as if on cue, Sirius' back begins to itch. He does not scratch it. He lets it hurt. Feeling a bit abashed and sentimental, Sirius amends his attitude. “I’m… if you must know …I’m going to the Owlery. My mother…well, I’m always sent rotten mail that I don’t want everyone—”
Remus crooks a shabby smile. “S’fine. I wasn’t asking. You don’t have to tell me.”
Sirius can’t help but categorize the lad’s accent. It’s so different from his own aristocratic lilt. Lupin might be from Cardiff, at best. The way he rounds his vowels evokes images of a single shared bathroom, labor-hardened hands, and ugly muggle laundromats. With such images of abject poverty dancing in his head, Sirius' first impulse is superiority. This poor, smudgy boy would be an easy target for teasing, in truth. But that’s mean and meanness reminds him of Mother. Sirius will not be mean this time. He will not be like Mother.
Sirius nods with a sophistication one can only be born into. “Alright. Thanks.”
There’s a tense pause. Wary as circling wolves, they watch each other. Someone else snorts in their sleep. Outside, an owl hoots. Something deep within the castle moans.
“Well, wanna come to the Owlery or what?” Sirius shrugs, submitting.
~
Sirius frowns. “Is there something wrong with your leg?”
Remus grimaces, clutching his left hip as they lope towards the isolated Owlery. “No.”
Another lie.
“Er, you sure are limping—”
“I said there wasn’t anything wrong, alright?”
“Merlin, no need to get touchy! Alright? ”
The boys go quiet and continue their climb. Sirius would like to run, sprint, and bound through the night. But it’s clear that his companion can do none of those things. In the glow of the moon, Remus is looking slightly green. He’s wheezing and trying to disguise it. His mousy hair is plastered to his forehead. He drags his left leg behind him a bit—the knee doesn’t bend too well, apparently.
Sirius wonders why he hasn’t noticed this before. Maybe it’s a new injury? Maybe Lupin hurt himself stumbling down those stupid shifting stairs? Maybe he has an old ache that gets worse before it rains? Uncle Alphard has something like that with his elbow…
Or maybe it’s his scars. Maybe they hurt him real bad in a way I can’t even see, Sirius thinks.
Sirius looks back at Lupin lagging behind and stops abruptly, pretending to cough. It’s the right thing to do, he thinks. A lot is riding on that. The right thing to do should come easily to Gryffindors, shouldn’t it? Gryffindors are chivalrous and noble and righteous. Sirius has never thought of himself as these things. When he thinks of himself, he thinks in his mother’s voice.
Arrogant. Lackadaisical. Ungrateful.
I did not want you, she’d told him once, swilling a half-empty glass of red wine. I did not want you, but I am a good wife. I did my duty for this family. You are not exempt from making sacrifices, Sirius. You’re a Black before you are anything else. The House wins, always.
That one sticks with him. That's the one he hears whenever he looks in the mirror, for some reason. It’s so tame, as far as insults go. And yet nothing has ever made him feel worse.
I did not want you.
It shouldn’t hurt so much. Sirius doesn’t like his mother, anyway. Why would he want someone he hates so much to want him?
He tries not to think about it. Sirius tries not to reflect. He can’t stomach the sound of her voice in his head. He doesn’t want to decide if he really did let the family down by breaking tradition. Maybe he’s just starting a new tradition instead? The Sorting Hat said it saw …and then it put him in Gryffindor. That will have to be enough, even if he doesn’t feel like a good Gryffindor.
After a moment, Lupin catches up but he doesn’t meet Sirius' eye.
He knows my cough wasn’t real. Bugger. I need to get better at lying around him. Or maybe not. Lying is a Slytherin thing…isn’t it? Isn’t it?
“Sorry. I’m usually more…” Lupin pants, trailing off.
“Whatever, mate. I’m not allowed out much at home. Never walked this much in my life. Ha! My legs hurt too.”
For this, Lupin looks grateful. “Yeah. I…my legs are normal. I just get stiff sometimes. When I was small I got sick and they still get sore…it’s weird.”
Sirius averts his eyes real quick. He itches his back covertly. “I said whatever, mate. It’s fine. Let’s keep going. There’s a long way to the top.”
When they make it there, the sun is nearly up. In the purple light of dawn, Lupin seems a bit better. He’s not so ill. Sirius tells him to wait outside on the ledge, for all the good that will do. Then, Sirius pads across the Owlery and finds his screech owl, laden with letters. As ever, he opens his Howler first—rips into it, shaking and cursing.
“SHAME OF MY FLESH,” Mother shouts over his swears. “STAIN ON THE BLACK FAMILY NAME. BLEMISH OF A BOY. HEIR IN TITLE, NOT IN SPIRIT. YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED! MY ELDEST SON, A GRYFFINDOR? ‘TIS A HOUSE OF BRATS AND BLOOD TRAITORS—”
Sirius takes the Howler and shoves it down the back of his trousers. Mother can kiss his arse.
~
During their return to the castle, the boys talk about it a bit.
“Your mum sounds sweet,” Lupin says dryly.
“Charming woman,” Sirius agrees sarcastically.
“Is she always like that?”
“That? Oh, that was fine. She’s worse usually.”
Lupin spits out a little laugh. “So that's where you get your bad mouth, is it?”
Sirius lets loose a low whistle. “Was that a joke, Lupin? Didn't know you had it in you. I'm impressed.”
Lupin blushes, looking pleased with himself. “I can be funny.”
“Prove it,” Sirius laughs. “No hurry, though. You have the next seven years of school.”
“Fair enough. I'll do my best to keep you entertained.”
Beneath his blush, the scars scattered across Lupin's face look like pale white worms. Sirius wonders, once again, who hurt him so horribly.
“Do you…” Sirius stops. Thinks. Tries again. “I mean, do you have your parents? Are they any good?”
He has never spoken to anybody but Regulus about parents. It feels like a very private topic.
But maybe he has bad parents, just like me.
“They’re good,” Lupin answers squarely, like he’s sure of their infallibility. Like he really means it. “Pa worked in the Ministry. He quit to take care of me when I got sick. Ma works cleaning big houses like the one you live in.”
So maybe it wasn’t his parents who scarred him. Maybe it was somebody else.
“Must be nice,” Sirius snorts, feeling a little lonely all of a sudden.
“S’okay,” Remus mumbles. “They get tired of me sometimes. They avoid me a little. They think I don't notice…but I do. I think I freak them out—”
“How could you freak them out? You’re harmless—”
Lupin clears his throat loudly. He changes the subject. “Er, what do your parents do?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what your parents do for work?”
Sirius blinks blankly. “Work. What? They’d never work. What a waste of time.”
Lupin is quiet for the rest of the walk.
Sirius likes the silence.
Remus seems to enjoy it, too. But back in the common room, Remus takes Sirius' elbow roughly in his big, scarred hand. He glances at his left hip and then back again. “Don’t say anything to the others. Please don’t. I…would rather—”
Sirius nods, startled. His arm is burning beneath Lupin’s touch. “Oh. Yeah. It’s no bother.”
Lupin lets his hand drop. He is rolling more words around his mouth, deciding what to say.
Sirius watches, amusement rising in his belly. It seems like this boy isn’t used to talking—isn’t sure how to orient himself in a conversation or accept answers easily. The way he moves through the world—the way he clings to the fringes of their friend group—betrays an intrinsic truth. Lupin is a lonesome boy learning about friendship as he goes. But isn’t that what Sirius is doing, too?
“Relax,” Sirius chuckles, pushing down his immediate impulse to tease. “You’re wound so tight it’s making me nervous.”
Remus blinks and nods. “Sorry. Night, then. Or good morning, I guess.”
Sirius watches Lupin limp off to bed, wondering: What does he not want me to tell them about? The weird moon gazing? His parents and their employment? His wonky leg? He can’t mean my Howlers...why would he care about those?
Sirius laughs a little, pleased that he’s not the only one with a secret to keep.
~
As teenagers fall quickly into love, children fall quickly into friendship.
Remus is observant, sensitive, secretive, and dedicated to his studies. He’s prone to bouts of bad moods, which he tries to hide.
James is jocular, kinda clumsy, and well-liked. He always does his best to make sure everybody is okay.
Peter is unsure, jittery, and eager to please. He sometimes paces, wringing the fingers of his fleshy hands.
Sirius is suave, rebellious, impulsive, and loyal like a dog. He does his best not to be introspective.
Their dispositions blend well, even the teachers say so. And so the four first-year boys of Gryffindor Tower find an easy way with each other as the weeks blow by. Yawning and disheveled, they walk to breakfast every morning. They eat together, knocking shoulders and spilling pumpkin juice. During class, they sit and whisper in the back. Homework gets traded, socks get shared, and their dormitory is eternally disheveled. Other students vie for their attention. The crowds in the halls part for them. Girls giggle loudly when they’re around. The classes are so easy it’s almost a joke, in Sirius' opinion. His family is easy to avoid—Lupin knows a lot of shortcuts, for some reason. The castle is all theirs to rule.
So rule is what they do.
~
“Wotcha,” James bellows, thundering joyously down the sunny castle hall.
People shriek and lunge out of the way.
Sirius is not on James' heels, robes flying, scraps of parchment fluttering from his satchel with the speed at which he runs. Sirius gives a great shout of laughter—a loud and ludicrous sound that would never be allowed at home. It’s strange to feel so free.
James, glasses flashing, beams back at Sirius before scrambling around a sharp turn, scattering a gathering of sparrows pecking at the flagstones. James throws up his hands as if to catch the little birds mid-flight. His innate freedom of will is infectious. His careless, unencumbered chaos is refreshing. Sirius would be jealous of James if he didn’t like him so much.
“Hurry up, Black,” James shouts over his shoulder.
“I’m gonna beat you there, Potter!”
It’s not like the boys are late for anything, but the sunshine is calling and they want to be the first to get a nice sandy patch beside the Black Lake.
Sirius rounds the corner at breakneck speed, nearly stumbling over the hem of his robe. The wide hall is almost empty but for a gaggle of sullen first-years. They look around, eyes narrowed at all the noise. Snake insignias glint from their chests.
Slytherins.
That’s all Sirius sees. He hardly wastes a moment cataloging their faces or their expressions of surprise. Like a bull seeing red, Sirius just knows he can hurt these people—embarrass them. It’s not that he really even wants to embarrass them—he just knows that he can. And what's the worst that would happen? He’d get detention? A stern talking to? That’s nothing compared to what would have happened back home. Why not test the boundaries and see what sort of punishment bad behavior will get him here?
Grinning and feral, Sirius charges their little gathering. Some Slytherins move aside. The smallest one, a greasy boy with floppy hair and a beaky nose, is too slow.
As Sirius sprints by, he yanks the boy’s bag from his shoulder. The greasy kid grunts in surprise and pain. His bulging bag bursts across the floor—inkpots smashing, quills splintering, books skidding away. Sirius cackles and pumps his lanky legs faster. He looks back as he goes.
The boy stares after Sirius, black eyes brimming with angry tears. Sirius feels the lad’s gaze boring into his back. Burning.
It takes only a moment for Sirius to catch up with James. They bound out of the doors and skid down the sloping grass towards the lake. It’s a lovely day—the sun is putting on a rare performance and the lake looks as blue as a robin’s egg. They crash down into the sandy bank, gripping at each other and laughing breathlessly.
“Did you see his face?” Sirius pants. “And his bag! It went BOOM— ”
“He’s going to snitch,” James grins, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “He’s a slimeball, that one. Snap? Snort? Snape…I think his name is—”
“I don’t care. Serves him right for not getting out of my way,” Sirius chuckles, throwing himself down on his back. “I was running! Oh, ouch, ah—”
A rip of pain sings up Sirius' spine. He shouldn’t have thrown himself down so carelessly. His shoulders feel like they’re splintering. It’s pain he’s felt before, face down on the drawing room floor back home. For a moment, his eyes blur. Everything oozes around the edges.
“You okay?” James sighs, not paying too much attention. His eyes are set on a red-haired girl a few paces away. She’s chatting with some mates, her freckled hands swaying as she speaks. If Sirius could see straight, he’d probably consider her pretty.
“Laid down funny,” Sirius grunts, cringing.
“What are you? An old man?”
Sirius won’t admit it to anyone—least of all James, who seems to have such a limited understanding of pain—but his back does hurt like an old man’s would.
“I’m four months older than you. Old and wise,” Sirius winks, putting on a brave face.
It’s what any good Gryffindor would do.
~
Later, Sirius returns to his dormitory.
He thinks it’s empty. The air is undisturbed and all the beds are made. The bathroom door is closed and there’s quiet behind it.
Moving furtively to his four-poster, Sirius takes off his robe. He unbuttons his shirt and shucks off his red tie. Then, he sidles up to the speckled mirror on his bedside table.
With his back turned to the mirror, he takes off his starched shirt.
His shoulders are a mess of scarring. The slashes are raised and concentrated. Layered, like they were meant to scribble out his skin. None of the skin is broken…but the scars have an ache to them after the exertions of the day. He flexes his arms, feeling his muscles tighten painfully. The scars resist such movement; they become all flat and shiny.
It’s ugly, Sirius thinks savagely.
It’s not that Sirius thinks he is ugly. He knows he’s very handsome—everybody says so. It’s just that he’s never seen a boy as scarred as he is. It makes him feel alienated. Odd. And to be odd is to be ugly. Sirius scowls and bends to pick his shirt up off the floor. When he straightens back up, the bathroom door is open. Someone is standing there, framed in drifts of silvery steam. Sirius' stomach drops.
Lupin.
Blue eyes meet brown.
It happens very quickly, but it happens. Lupin’s eyes dart to the reflection of Sirius' shoulders in the mirror and then back again, wider than they were before.
Sirius, gruff and flushed, yanks on his shirt.
Lupin is stiff as a statue. He seems lost for words. No, not lost for words. Lupin is just watching, weighing everything he sees with those big brown eyes.
“Sod off, you,” Sirius snaps meanly.
But before Lupin can turn tail, Sirius is already pushing roughly past him, stomping down the stairs, away, away, away. Like a coward. It takes Sirius hours to remember that he has, in fact, seen a boy more scarred than he.
~
“Hold your wand just so…now, watch my wrist,” chirps Professor Flitwick. “Swish and…flick!”
“Swish and flick,” James repeats, a comical little inflection in his voice.
Sirius sniggers, slapping his wand against James' wand to send the charm askew.
Instead of floating, the feather James should be charming emits a loud, ghostly squawk. As if on cue, James and Sirius begin to bat at each other with their wands. Charms class is clearly the opportune time for a swordfight. Peter, ever a keen audience, bursts into applause. Lupin hides a smile behind his hand.
“Boys,” Flitwick blusters, turning to their table. “Concentrate. Please!”
“But it’s simple,” Sirius whines, lifting his wand high. “Wingardium leviosa!”
Instantly, Sirius' fluffy feather begins to float through the dustmotes in the air. Puffing out his chest, Sirius bats his eyes around the room. “See? Simple.”
Still smiling covertly, Lupin flicks his own wand in James' direction. James' squawking feather zooms toward Sirius' face. It begins to tickle him beneath his nose.
“Oi,” Sirius yelps, sneezing. “Oi! Call it off! Call it—”
But Lupin doesn’t. He just watches Sirius, placid and wry as ever.
“What’s your wand, Lupin?” Sirius demands later, on the walk to lunch. “I didn’t know you could do magic like that.”
“It was so cool,” Peter and James say together.
Lupin sighs, looking rather pleased with the gang’s enthusiasm. “I…oh, you know—”
“We don’t actually,” Sirius says archly.
“Pa was always having me read up on things when I was…I got sick when I was little so we would read a lot,” Lupin says, something defiant flicking about in his face. “He has…he had…me study all sorts of languages and history and magic stuff. Guess he figured I was too sick to ever go to Hogwarts properly. Ma being a muggle didn’t help…”
There it is again, Sirius thinks. He’s lying…or leaving something out.
“What a load of bollocks,” James declares with finality. “Parentage doesn’t decide your magical abilities. Anyway, it’s not like that stuff even matters.”
James might not mean anything by it, but his eyes settle on Sirius for a weird beat.
Oh, right, Sirius thinks. He wants to make sure the purity of blood doesn’t matter to me in particular. Because I’m a Black before I’m anything else blah, blah, blah. But I’m not like that, and what I am not is more important than what I am.
“Yeah. That stuff doesn’t matter,” Sirius agrees, raising a brow at James until the other boy looks away. “So, let’s see this wand then, Lupin—”
Lupin holds it out to him, their shoulders bumping. “Cypress and unicorn. Flexible, I think. Ten and a quarter inches.”
A pause.
“Bigger than yours,” Lupin adds impishly.
Sirius snorts, but it’s true. “Aw, Lupin! Meek at heart! Unicorn hair, you dear thing—”
“And you?”
Sirius presses his dark wand into Lupin’s scarred hand and jerks his jaw at it. “Dogwood. Dragon heartstring core. Sturdy.”
“What’s that? Like three inches, Black?” James jokes, peering over Lupin’s shoulder at the wand.
“You’re one to talk,” Peter jests, nudging James. “I’ve seen it all. Remember when we were kids and you ran into the pond in the field behind your house totally starkers—”
“Peter,” Sirius gasps, faking horror. “What do you mean, you wretched little beast? We’re discussing wands— ”
“We’re all being serious,” Lupin adds, playing along cautiously now.
Sirius shakes his head soberly as they enter the Great Hall. “Actually, I’m Sirius.”
James rolls his eyes with an exaggerated moan. “Never make that joke again, please. Please. Please. I seriously can’t bear it—”
“You what ?” Lupin chuckles.
They all shove into their seats at the Gryffindor banquet table, laughing. They only stop laughing to eat. The food is gorgeous. There are roasted cornish hens, buttery carrots, golden buns, stacks of biscuits miles high, and enough tea to hydrate an army.
Tucking into an array of biscuits (ginger, shortbread, and chocolate-coated marshmallow) Sirius sneaks a peak at Lupin.
Even days later, Sirius feels slightly ashamed of his behavior in the bedroom. He shouldn’t have snapped like that. Lupin has scars too which is why, out of everyone, Sirius is relieved it was Lupin who saw his shoulders. And Lupin doesn’t seem to have said anything to anyone, thank Merlin.
Lupin catches Sirius staring across the table and hastily returns Sirius' wand. “Oh, right. Sorry, Sirius—”
“Wait! That’s it,” James says, thumping his teacup down on the table. “That’s a prank!”
Peter squints at James. “Sorry?”
A manic sort of energy enters James' body. “I mean, wouldn’t it be a great prank to swap everyone’s wands out? The whole school! Nobody would be able to do magic properly with everybody's wands all mucked up! It’d take ages for them to sort everyone out, too. No lessons for weeks—”
Lupin snorts into his forkful of carrots. “And how would you swap out everyone’s wands?”
“Not just me, us. The four of us! Together!”
The boys all look around at each other, eyes gleaming. It feels like the start of something.
~
An hour later, on the way out of the Great Hall, Bella stands from the Slytherin table and stalks towards Sirius. Her dark hair is frazzled around her face. Her green and black robes billow. Her hooded eyes shine as she waves a rolled-up newspaper at him. “Sirius,” she crows. “You’re in the paper, cousin!”
Bellatrix Black smacks Sirius in the chest with the thick roll of newspaper.
The hollow sound of the smack startles Sirius more than the impact. Peter squeaks in fear. James twitches, hand groping for his wand. Lupin keeps staring straight ahead and swats James’ hand away from his own pocket.
“Jealous, Bells?” Sirius chortles, snatching the paper out of her thin hand. “When was the last time you were in the Daily Prophet ?”
In truth, Sirius is worried. He believes her, of course. Bella is many things—annoying and loud and fierce—but she’s not a liar. Which means he really is in the paper, but why?
Bella only smirks at him nastily and gives him a hard pat on the head. “Thought you ought to know. You’ll like what they say about you in there.” She pushes through their gathering, bashing Lupin’s shoulder aside.
Sirius unrolls the paper and scans the headlines. There are three: Broomstick Malfunctions Spike After New Trend of 'Custom Pinstriping' Sweeps Nation and The Shrieking Shack is Shrieking Again—Ghosts To Blame and there, squashed in the bottom, is the third headline. Black Heir Sorted Into Gryffindor House—Mistake or Meant To Be?
Sirius feels sick, but he reads some snippets: ancient family historically sorted into Slytherin…parents decline to comment…harbinger of changing tides for the Black household…Hogwarts School rejects rumors of Sirius Black using extortion to secure his sorting…
Sirius' face flushes. He curses, furls the paper closed, and tosses it aside. It rolls beneath a table and out of sight.
~
After that, pranks commence in earnest with James and Sirius at the helm. They set snakes loose into the Slytherin common room. They release a swarm of Cornish Pixies in the Library. They replace all the dittany in the greenhouses with poison ivy and transfigure Mrs. Norris into a turtle. Sirius finds himself in detention with James almost every weekend. Peter sometimes joins them. Remus rarely.
Wild pranks aside, autumn slides into winter. The foot-worn trails across the Hogwarts grounds get frosty. The air smells of snow and evergreen boughs. The boys get a little older and the castle gets colder and Christmas gets a little closer.
“Think you’ll go home for it?” Sirius asks Lupin one evening. “Christmas, obviously. I was thinking of staying here, but I don’t know how Mother would take it. And I don't want to be alone, that'd be boring.”
The boys are in front of the crackling fire in the Gryffindor Common Room, laboring over a long Defense Against the Dark Arts essay.
Lupin is curled up on the couch, James at his side. Sirius is sprawled out on the worn carpet and Peter sits in a squashy armchair.
Lupin looks up from his roll of parchment, his eyes all distracted. He looks a bit ill, actually. His neck is sweaty again. His leg won’t stop shaking. He’s paler than he should be. He has funny turns like this sometimes. Something to do with that mysterious illness of his. With his childhood. With his family.
Sirius never presses him on these topics lest Lupin press him right back. Some things are better left undiscussed.
Lupin opens his mouth to reply but James answers first. “I can’t wait to go home. Mum always does the house up. It’s like a party that lasts for days. You should all see it sometime!”
“He’s not joking,” Peter notes, sage as an oracle. “It’s great.”
“There’s caroling and snowflakes fall from the ceiling and there are these little pink cakes…oh, and presents," James continues. "I wanna broom. A proper good one, lads. I’m going to make the Quidditch team, mark my words. And anyway, Mum does a huge feast for Boxing Day too—”
Lupin and Sirius share a covert look. When James begins waxing poetic about his parents there’s no stopping him.
“—there are always these Yorkshire puddings Dad loves and edible holly and fat mince pies that weigh you down—”
“Sounds dead jolly,” Sirius drawls, sinking his chin glumly into his hands. “As for me, I’m sure to get a lump of coal in my stocking, a smack, and a lecture about how my sorting goes against the values of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Toujours Pur. Or whatever…”
He’d meant to say it comedically, but his voice has an awful forced ring to it that the other boys notice. Sirius feels them staring at him, the mood dropping.
It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned anything about home life to his new friends as a group. The vulnerability is crushing. He wishes he could snatch the words back. Cringing inwardly, he looks around at them. He hopes his grin isn’t hollow. “What? Don’t tell me you thought the Blacks would be cozying up to each other and reading Christmas stories. We have a reputation to uphold. Fearsome dark wizards—”
“But Sirius, that sounds awful,” Peter says, looking genuinely sad.
“C'est la vie, pet.”
“You really should stop speaking in French,” James interjects, trying to lighten the mood once more. “None of us can understand a word—”
“Toujours Pur. It means always pure,” Lupin says, looking into the fire blankly. “C'est la vie means such is life.” His head is hanging low between his shoulders now. He really looks quite unwell.
James' head swivels. “Merlin. When did you start speaking French? Am I the only one who doesn’t know French?”
Lupin straightens his spine, shrugs, and looks at the window. Outside, it's lashing rain and the sun is setting in earnest. Night will cast its black blanket across the sky soon. A full moon is due to rise.
“There are plenty of things you don’t know,” Lupin mutters.
Now it’s James and Sirius' turn to exchange a meaningful look. When Lupin gets into one of his bad moods he goes from bad to worse quite quickly. It usually ends in him quietly slipping off to the Hospital Wing and disappearing for days.
“I, er, are you going home, Remus?” James tries.
Lupin shakes his head without looking. “I’m staying. Pa wouldn’t want…Ma deserves a break from…”
“Well, I could write to my parents,” James presses bravely. “There’s a spare room or ten. I could ask Mum to make one up for you…if… you know …you wanted to stay with me?”
Jealousy flares in Sirius like a fever. What about me, he wants to wail. What about me? Do you like him more than me?
Sirius is too proud to ask these questions though. He swallows them. Shoves them down into the acid of his empty stomach. He won’t act all weak and needy in front of his mates. He won’t complain anymore. He’ll go home. He’ll suffer. He’ll be brave about it. Maybe when he comes back to the castle he’ll finally feel like a good Gryffindor. Absently, Sirius itches the scars on his back.
Lupin stands up sharply. “I’m gonna be sick,” he grumbles. “Stomach. I need the Hospital Wing.”
“I’ll walk you,” James offers.
“No,” Lupin rasps harshly. Then, softer, “No. I’ll be fine.”
Suddenly, Lupin looks at Sirius. His eyes are soft and pleading at the edges. He puts a hand gently on his hip.
Without knowing how he knows it, Sirius realizes that Lupin will need to limp away from this scene. He’ll need to limp, and Lupin doesn’t want the other boys to see him as weak. Which means Lupin wants Sirius to distract them so they don’t see him limping.
Oh…
Sirius is momentarily startled by the sudden presence of this silent, secret language. He’s never shared such an understanding with anybody but Regulus.
When did this happen?
Still, it’s an excuse to cause some chaos. Happily, Sirius raises his wand and levitates Potter’s glasses right off his nose. “Right, Potter, dear! You want to be on the Quidditch team so badly? Catch your glasses! Let’s see if you’ve got the makings of a seeker, shall we?”
Sirius sends the glasses zipping away. James and Peter jump up and flounder over each other in a mad attempt to catch them.
Lupin’s soft eyes soften even further. He offers Sirius a thankful nod. Then, he limps away, away, away.
~
“What do you reckon he’s sick with?” Peter asks later when they’re all tucked under their covers.
Sirius, James, and Peter all peer at Lupin’s empty bed.
“It’s not our business, is it?” Sirius drawls, gracefully pulling his covers up over his head.
“Maybe not, but we can still take bets—”
“Shut it, Peter.”
“Stuff it, both of you,” James yawns, ruffling his hair. “I just wish there was something we could do to help him. He seems so miserable sometimes.”
There’s a pause. Outside, a wolf howls.
“Do you think his parents gave him those mad scars?” Peter asks lowly. “They look so scary— ”
Sirius whips his blankets back and launches a pillow at Peter.
~
His first Christmas as a Gryffindor, Sirius spends alone in his bedroom.
He’d expected horrors upon returning home—bruises and tears and split skin and long angry lectures. Reality is worse.
The first day home, Mother had taken him inside by his ear. She’d marched him to his bedroom, snatched his wand away, and shoved him inside. The door had snapped closed behind him, a key turning in the lock.
Naturally, Sirius had shouted. He’d banged on his own door. He’d tried to break his windows but she’d charmed them. He’d scratched the paper off the walls. He’d rattled his cage as best he could.
No use. Nobody came for him but Kreacher, who’d brought him a soggy cheese sandwich and a few choice words about purity and duty and the honor of their House. It was like they wanted to tuck him away—hide the heir that brought such shame.
For a while, this felt like a relief. Hidden away, Sirius was not expected to attend any stupid balls. He wasn’t expected to go to dinners, dressed to his best. He would not have to dance or behave himself or even smile. He could just sit in his room and seethe.
The anger comes easy.
I should have stayed at Hogwarts. Why did I bother coming home? This isn’t brave…this is just boring.
His restlessness finds him sitting by his door, listening to the rest of the house. The guests sashaying in and out. The clink of glasses. The muttering of the dead people's portraits. The sound of Reg’s distant conversations with Kreature.
With nothing to do and nothing to distract him, Sirius thinks in lazy, uninspired circles—dreaming about burning the Black house down or running away or hitting his mother or strangling Kreacher or kicking his father or hexing Regulus or, or, or…
He wonders if he’ll be allowed to return to Hogwarts. If his mother keeps him caged here, surely Dumbledore will come to collect him. Surely someone will come. He has so many friends. They won’t leave him locked up to rot.
In these idle moments, Sirius can't help but think of his friends. He wants to be back with them—see the sunlight glint of James' glasses, hear Peter’s lumbering footfalls and Lupin…and Lupin…and Lupin…
Sirius misses him the most, but he doesn’t know why. He thinks of the sweat on Lupin’s neck, the secrecy of shared eye contact, Lupin’s hand burning through his arm, down to the bone.
Whatever.
Sirius won't reflect on it too much. Except for when he’s pacing the length of his bedroom. Except in those hazy moments before waking. Except for when he’s eating or pacing or shouting or stretching or brooding or crying or shouting again.
Laying all alone in his bedroom and staring at the ceiling, Sirius imagines Lupin all alone in Hogwarts, staring at the ceiling. It's not that Sirius thinks Lupin misses him. Not sensible, wry, secretive Lupin. It's just that there are times when Sirius would like very much to be missed.
He wants his absence to be felt there as acutely as his presence isn’t felt here.
~
The day before he’s due to return to Hogwarts, a slip of parchment slides beneath Sirius' bedroom door. Sirius jumps out of bed, smelly and disheveled. He falls to his knees before it.
I tried to tell Mother to let you out. She’s just sad about your sorting, which you’d know if you ever bothered to write her back. I still think you’ll make a good heir.
It’s Reg’s handwriting—curly, refined, and girly.
Sirius only reads the note once.
This is all? After months of silence, this is all he has to say to me?
Sirius balls the parchment up and throws it across the room as hard as he can.
One day, when I’m old enough, I’ll leave this family behind for good, he tells himself. I’ll never let them lock me in this house again—never let anybody lock me up anywhere—never—not ever again—
~
They reunite on the train. The compartments are all packed and everything smells like freshly washed robes and Sirius sees James first, haggling with the trolly lady.
“James,” Sirius shouts, his voice hoarse from misuse.
James perks up instantly. He gallops straight for Sirius with Peter in tow.
Sirius runs towards them too.
Oh, it’s good to run again.
They all hug there in the hall. It’s a silly, warm, smiling tangle. Sirius hasn’t been touched in so long. But now it’s as if home never happened.
He’s back.
~
Sirius doesn’t see Lupin until later. It happens like this: Sirius is slogging up the narrow spiral stairs on his way to an early bedtime. Lupin is limping down. They meet, and suddenly the stairs to the boy's dorm feel very steep and narrow indeed. Lupin looks less sick—there’s some color in his cheeks, he’s holding a half-eaten chocolate frog, and he’s wearing a new brown jumper.
It never occurred to Sirius to get his friends holiday gifts. He’d been too busy feeling sorry for himself.
“There you are,” Sirius pipes up, abruptly awake and ready for another hug. “Long time no see! Why didn’t you come to supper? We missed you!”
Lupin looks him up and down, guarded and grumpy. “I wrote you.”
Inside, Sirius shrinks. He shrivels.
He wrote to me? What did Mother do with my letters? Did she read them? Who else was writing to me?
Outwardly, Sirius sighs with extravagant, regal exasperation. His mouth sweeps into his signature smirk. “Ugh. Sorry. It was a busy Christmas. I couldn’t catch a moment to open my mail. There was that benefit in York, a little get-together in Shropshire, and then the Minister would just not leave the house. My father is making a fat donation to the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures…”
He tells these little lies about himself and these little lies stack up so high that Sirius can climb up atop them and make himself larger than life.
“I wonder what would have happened if you had stayed here instead. Would you have ignored me then, too?” Lupin asks, failing to disguise the hurt in his voice.
Sirius feels suddenly wrong-footed and let down. He’d been so excited to see Lupin. And now, though it’s only been a few weeks, he feels as though he must relearn how to navigate the boy before him. And it's not fair. While he, Sirius, was locked in his room with only the echoes of Christmas for company, Lupin got to lounge around the castle. Lupin was fed pies and ham and mulled butterbeer, probably. Lupin got a gift for Christmas. Lupin has no right to brood. He doesn’t understand suffering.
“Aw, I’m flattered,” Sirius smiles. There’s nothing sweet about Sirius Black’s smiles. His smiles start fights. “Didn’t expect you to lay around the castle thinking of me, Lupin. Bit pouffy of you.”
Blue eyes meet brown. The intensity of their stares could singe the dustmotes bobbing between them.
Sirius looks away first.
“Forget it,” Lupin says lowly, rubbing his temple and brushing by. “It’s fine.”
Sirius just watches Lupin walk away. His stomach hurts. It feels like a warning.