Remus
He didn't think of them as friends that first year, not really. Sure, they'd met on the train and united against Evans and Snape; and it followed that they'd sit together in classes, talk at meals and in the common room, together plan the occasional prank. But they didn't know each other then—Remus, at least, only got the surface view. There was Potter, the ideal Gryffindor: self-confident, top of the class, prankster extraordinaire, the height of popularity. Black was from the same mold, though absolutely the wilder of the two—better-looking, flirtier, more reckless, less conscientious. While Remus hung around them and didn't speak out against their antics, he was much more impressed by Pettigrew, who was clever, kind, and modest with Remus alone—though these traits, unfortunately, vanished in the presence of his hero-worshipped fellow Housemates.
It wasn't that he thought there was nothing more to any of their characters. If Remus was anything, he was observant; he noticed how Black crumpled up his parents' letters unread every time he received an owl, and how Potter's face fell after Evans delivered him a particularly nasty insult, and how Pettigrew only stopped speaking his mind in the group of four when Black put him down again and again (and again).
He only hoped that in return, they wouldn't question his feeble full-moon excuses, or wonder why his mother looked so well when she met him at King's Cross for Christmas holidays.
Black he was the most worried about. He'd catch him staring sometimes when they were both supposed to be sleeping; Remus would roll over and glance nervously at an almost-full moon to find Black's eyes boring into his. They'd both blink and turn away and not mention it again—until it happened again, in a day or a week or a fortnight; and it was never, Remus noticed, longer than a fortnight before he'd see him staring again.
He'd always been the quiet, observant type. It was how he had grown used to getting by without mates—because his parents, afraid for Remus's privacy, had never let him get close enough to anyone to have friends as a smaller boy. Instead of getting caught up in the action, the drama, the gossip, he'd watch others' stories pan out instead: even now, with the potential of friendship all his, he had that lingering fear of being found out, and thus personality traces of a reader, not a writer; an audience, not an actor.
So he stuck by the sides of his roommates, and he didn't comment, and he watched.
He was always watching, it seemed.
Sirius
He'd always been a little on the fringe.
It had started at home, where his mother scolded him for spending too much time with Andromeda and not enough with Bellatrix at family reunions, and why couldn't he be more like his brother, and why did he have to ask so many questions, and why couldn't he wait until he was older when he'd understand better about blood purity and those filthy Mudbloods? Only Andy told him that Muggle-borns were better people than their family, and sometimes, when he thought about how the Muggles next door were nicer to him than his parents, and how Bella and her hexes and her ideas scared him, and how he wasn't cunning or resourceful or clever like a Slytherin—sometimes, he wondered whether they were really the crazy ones and he had the right idea.
And if he took away anything from his family, when the Hat placed him in Gryffindor and he had to fend for himself, it was to trust only himself. So he took Lupin's claims that he visited his sick mother monthly with a grain of salt and hoped he wasn't being paranoid when he started tracking his absences and noticing that he didn't quite go monthly, not by a few days; and then one night when Lupin wasn't there he heard howling in the Shrieking Shack and glanced out the window and looked at the moon…
He wasn't the smart one—that was Potter in spellwork and creativity, or Lupin in studying and intellect—so Pettigrew was suspicious when he flipped through his Defense textbook for confirmation, but he didn't say anything, because nobody ever said anything that needed to be said here at Hogwarts. At least back at home they'd been honest with each other—only Sirius himself was never honest with anyone, not even himself, except maybe Andy sometimes (and never when she said she had to leave soon, because then he'd be alone, all alone).
The first time Lupin left that second school year, Sirius brought up his theory to Potter and Pettigrew, who, surprisingly, didn't think he was losing touch (on the fringe). So they confronted him a day before the October moon—Potter charmed the door locked, and Sirius told them they'd figured it out, and from the look on Lupin's face he thought they would abandon him for what he was.
But Sirius knew what it was like to be alone, and he wasn't going to let that happen, not to Remus—not to the quiet one who hid the weight of the world behind his back and whose torso had been covered in scars the last time he'd sneaked a glance.
They hadn't been mates before, but they were now—they had to be, Sirius knew, they just had to be, or else they'd each have no one at all.
When Peter thought of it, Sirius felt a little guilty that it hadn't occurred to him first. People wrote him off, Peter, as the incomparable tagalong without any brains or brawn of his own—but their best plan, the one that couldn't come out to earn him recognition, came from him. He brought it up that same night—within minutes, before James unlocked the door, for fear of someone overhearing and exposing the secret. "Remus," he dithered, because Peter never had self-confidence before someone else validated him, and Sirius almost knew what that was like, too, "werewolves only target other humans, right? Would it be any help if—if you could have animal company when you transform?"
He had to admit that he was skeptical at first and scoffed, "Like buying him a pet?" But then, it was his role to be cynical—he, Sirius, the brooder of the four.
Peter just shook his head, trembling with nerves. "Like—becoming Animagi," he suggested instead. Sirius was at a loss for words; James had an excess of them—a plan, they all knew, had been hatched.
Remus approached him once about it that year, a few months into their research. "I hate that you're doing this for me," he confided, perching on the edge of Sirius's bed and shutting the drapes around them.
Shrouded in darkness, he let go of his reservations. "Don't be stupid, Remus, we're not going to pull out."
"I don't mean because of that." He perked up and sat up himself, crawling closer. "I mean—you're doing this brilliant thing for me, and risking your lives and your clean records, and I'm not giving anything back—"
"What, so you want to break the law? You want to become an Animagus?" Sirius snapped, but he softened at the look on Remus's face.
He just mumbled, "You're—coming together over this for me, and I'm not even there to see it—you don't even let me in the dormitory when you're working on it—and—"
He tilted Remus's chin up, unsmiling—just sitting, just looking. Remus never brought it up again.
James
He never cared how it made him look, not even when she came back in September all bones acne and braces and still had the nerve to turn him down. The whole year, he couldn't shake his interest in her, even though Mary Macdonald had breasts and Dana Madley had hips and all that Evans had were her glasses-covered eyes and her hair.
Oh, her hair. It was what had drawn him to her before he got to know her; back in first year, he'd sat behind her in History of Magic and pulled it because he'd known Binns wouldn't be looking. It was red—he'd never seen a naturally redheaded girl his age before. Two weeks later, she'd learned to tie her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck for classes, but the damage had been done: he'd get whiplash just following the source of her voice.
The whole year knew about James Potter's crush on Lily Evans—knew, and discussed, but didn't understand. Girls eventually stopped asking him out once word got out that the answer would always be no, and his popularity would have faded if it weren't for Quidditch and pranks and Sirius's determined company. It became clearer and clearer that he didn't want to rule the school: he just wanted to have the Gryffindor freak who probably got up to Dark magic and who-knows-what-else with Snape.
He knew, too, that Sirius never liked Evans and was flabbergasted when James kept after her that year—the year Evans fell from grace, in the public's eyes. She'd been rather well-liked, at first, and had gathered a handful of friends by the end of her first year; but no one liked the forced company of Severus Snape that came with her, and it caught up to her when her looks left her. "She's not worthanything, mate," Sirius told him again and again (and again), but James wouldn't listen.
He treasured his friends, of course—the Marauders, as Peter had named them. Peter… Sirius, he knew, had never liked him, either. He wasn't cool or funny or bright, Peter, except for where it mattered; and Sirius hated that he couldn't compare at the most pivotal of times. James loved them both, though, for no reason other than that he should, that you love the people loyal to you—and by that logic, he loved Remus, too, even though he often told him that the world didn't want idealists, that he couldn't keep his head in the clouds forever.
But it didn't matter; James liked his friends, but he liked Evans more, however it looked. And weren't his mates supposed to stand behind him no matter what?
Remus
Fault lines, Sirius called them—years later, when he snuck under Remus's canopy and cast Muffliato when he thought James and Peter were sleeping, and he tangled himself up in Remus (too close, too far) and traced the scars across his face, his arms, his chest. Fault lines threatening to burst with the secret they contained, surface manifestations of the inner self he couldn't control, couldn't communicate with, couldn't even remember being when the moon wasn't full. Remus wasn't the earthquake, his disease was—and Remus, then, couldn't help but be victim to himself.
What he wouldn't admit to himself until years later was that Remus distracted Sirius from himself—when he was with Remus, Sirius wasn't the one with problems. But the way Remus saw it, he'd rather be a werewolf than have been born into the Black family.
Though he never said anything, Peter suspected them—and Remus knew it was just another tie the boy was left out of. James and Sirius's pranks, James and Remus's class marks—now Sirius and Remus's whatever-they-were—and Peter was the odd one out, the only Marauder whispered about in the corridors.
Marauders—the name had been of Peter's creation, too, when the group gained greater notoriety for their misdeeds. James and Sirius usually got the credit, and Sirius in particular was quick to take it: though James was defensive enough of Peter to make up for it, Sirius had been at odds with him from the start. But then, it couldn't make up for it when James was always right at Sirius's side.
James held them together, Remus knew that, by being so far away. He couldn't understand them—Peter's rejection with friends, Sirius's with family (and Remus's loneliness). The thing about James was that it didn't matter that he didn't relate: mates were mates, and that was reason enough. If it weren't for James's particular brand of loyalty, Remus thought, they'd have fallen apart months ago—ripped themselves up at the seams.
Fault lines.
James
Looking back later, it felt like a turning point. The year Snape showed his colors, the year Evans turned him down, the year he became Prongs…
Mostly just the year Sirius tried to use Remus to kill Snape, though, and for forgiving him James was disgusted with himself.
But wasn't he supposed to stand behind his mates no matter what?
He was at a loss, though, because he didn't know whether the rule applied when mates turned on each other. He stood by Remus for a while, because Remus was the victim—Snape not so much, because like Sirius said, he hadn't been hurt—and between Sirius and Remus, the latter was the one wronged. But it didn't last long—it couldn't last long, when James wasn't bothered by it.
They became a foursome again soon enough, but with cracks in the foundation this time; there had to be, after a betrayal like that (even if to James it didn't feel like much of one). No one noticed it—they were still the Marauders, living legends, always a step ahead on their pranks and their spellwork alike—but then, no one else noticed the way Remus looked at Sirius when he thought no one was watching, or the way Peter had stopped looking at Sirius at all.
So he got bolder, crueler, to keep his mind off his mates' problems, because it was worth Evans's wrath to get Sirius's laughter, Peter's admiration, Remus's… well, Remus claimed he was changing for the worse, but at least it meant he was watching James and not Sirius.
Evans was just a sacrifice he'd have to make until he got things to be right again. And he would get things to be right again—just as long as he kept carrying a Snitch in his pocket and hexing the Slytherins whenever they got in his way.
No matter what, right?
(Right?)
Sirius
He made three stops on the way to the Potters' the night he ran away from home—three stops that he never told anyone about, not even Regulus, not even Prongs.
It was raining—what kind of a sick joke of nature was it that it was raining on Christmas Eve? He was soaked to his skin by the time his motorbike landed in Andromeda's driveway, but he didn't care—he needed somewhere to go.
It seemed he was always looking for somewhere to go, never for somewhere to stay.
She answered the door in her dressing gown and implored him to keep his voice down, and from the moment he saw little Nymphadora asleep in her mother's arms he knew he couldn't do this to her. He hovered in the doorway just long enough to tell her that he'd had enough—he was halfway back to the bike by the time she called after him, "Sirius—"
He stopped but didn't turn around, and he listened even though he knew it would hurt. "She'll burn you off the tapestry, you know," Andromeda said, though Nymphadora stirred in her arms. "I know what it feels like at first—but it's not so bad, estrangement, if you treat it like a clean slate. Make it a fresh start; don't let it be a bitter ending."
Reckoning that he'd make good on her advice when he was ready to let go of the all-consuming anger, he just nodded curtly and flew away.
Mary Macdonald was next—she was Muggle-born, so he parked in her backyard. He knew from stealing over here all last summer which window lead to her bedroom, and he wasn't afraid of falling as he climbed up the siding and tapped on the glass.
She took a minute to wake up before opening the window, rubbing her eyes blearily. "Sirius, what—"
"It's over. I'm sorry, Mary," he choked, jumping down. He didn't bother telling her why—that Bellatrix wouldn't be afraid to send her Lord after him now, that Mary didn't deserve the shock of having thathappen to the bloke she was casually snogging. Had been casually snogging.
He didn't trust himself to say anything at the third stop. He knew where the key to the front door was hidden and let himself in, locking it behind in from the inside and heading up the stairwell. After coming in the house every holiday at the full moon, he still didn't know where Moony's bedroom was—he only ever met him in the cellar.
So he tried doors at random, striking luck with the second. There was so much that he wanted to say—mostly that he'd never wanted to use him, that he meant more to him than he showed—but he couldn't bear to wake him up, not after so many monthly sleepless nights or after always sneaking back into his own four-poster while Moony was still awake to see it. He just brushed the hair away from Moony's sweaty forehead and hoped he wasn't imagining his mate's smile.
He lost track of how long he sat like that before it occurred to him: Prongs. He couldn't stay here, not after what he'd done to him, everything he'd put Moony through.
How much longer would it be like this?
Peter
He wasn't surprised when James was named valedictorian, but he was when said valedictorian asked him to take a look at his graduation speech. "I don't know, Prongs," he said, biting his lip and looking anywhere but at James's face. "Isn't Moony usually better at this stuff?"
"Wormy," answered James, throwing a genial arm around him, "Moony scores well on his essays because he knows the material. You score well on your essays because you know how to write."
It was ironic, since Remus was the one constantly reading; but then, there was never much else for Peter to do all summer, every summer—Sirius staying with James, Remus vacationing with his parents whenever there wasn't a full moon. For an instant, he wished he weren't a good writer, because what was the use of having a skill that wasn't appreciated in the magical nook of the world, unless you wanted to write Ministry memos for a living or help your mate look good at the expense of a good night's sleep?
Knowing his talents went unrecognized, to Peter, was far worse than having no talent at all.
"'Course, Prongs," he said next. "Meet me back here in an hour, and we'll work out some revisions."
It wasn't his mates—it was everyone else. It didn't matter to them that he'd envisioned the Marauder's Map, or that he was the first of the three to become an Animagus. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs: the order wasn't accidental. No, he was just poor little Pettigrew, who passed his classes on his own but didn't succeed in them, only popular because of his chosen company, no girlfriend, no assets, no pride.
For the most part, he believed it. Who else would keep the threats quiet, even when Snape never seemed to make good on them?
(Three years from then, he wishes he'd spoken up while he could.)
James's speech was hopelessly written but brilliantly conceived. "The concept is nice, but you didn't do a very good job executing—well, that's not to say it isn't—I mean, I like what you have to say, just not how you—"
James just waved a hand to silence him, and it worked, since Peter didn't have any more time to make a fool out of himself.
The past seven years had been long enough.
"I just want to restructure a bit," said Peter next, when James indicated for him to go on. "Don't just—drone about Hogwarts. Make it more colloquial—"
"More what?" asked James, because for all his magical skill, his vocabulary could do with an overhaul.
"Conversational. It's too formal; it doesn't suit you." He dips a quill in an inkpot and flips over the parchment—a fresh start, at least for James. "Just talk to me about what you wrote. Throw in a few jokes; keep it light. I'll copy it verbatim—that'll give us something to work with."
Starting over—if only life were that simple.
(Later, when he tries to justify it to himself—emotionally, not just knowing he would have died and he didn't have a choice—he tells himself that it was they who turned on him, not he on them. James left them for Lily, Remus and Sirius for each other—)
(It doesn't work. It never works.)
He caught up with Lily that night, too—though this was to be expected when you hung around James a lot. It was only after James went up to the dormitory that Lily looked at him properly and said, "I hate being salutatorian. However proud of me my mates claim to be…"
Oh, how Peter knew the feeling.
Sirius
"It's awful to be the last Marauders left," he tells Moony in 1996, tangled up together like before on the floor of the Grimmauld kitchen. Both know, but neither will mention, that the Marauders died alongside James. "Isn't it?"
A/N: For Layla—happy birthday! I don't really like R/S, but I think it works in this, however you interpret it. Leave a review to let me know what you think! Find more of the Marauders over at my profile or in my WIP, Through A Glass Darkly.