The weather broke over the August bank holiday weekend, in a prime example of typical British luck, and rained all over Lily's plans to enjoy the end of summer with her parents. Still, it was cooler now, and that was no small mercy.
The first of September dawned overcast and cold. Commuters around King's Cross had already made the shift to raincoats, clutching brollies as they stepped gratefully on to the station concourse. Lily said goodbye to her parents outside a small café that faced the departures board – they were hurrying off to visit Petunia in her new flat in Vauxhall. Lily didn't mind heading through the barrier to 9 ¾ on her own: she still got that rush, that same thrill that she had, pushing through at age eleven. But, being alone, she didn't linger on the platform. It was too crowded to spot anyone she really wanted to talk to, anyway.
A seventh year – Ravenclaw, she thought, although she couldn't remember his name – gallantly offered to help her get her trunk on board, and after depositing it (and her) in her usual carriage, bade her farewell with a wink. Intriguing. She really should find out his name.
With a contented sigh, she sank into a seat by the window to await her friends' arrivals…and she didn't have to wait very long at all.
"Look at you," Lily sighed, as Mary MacDonald dropped in to the seat opposite. "I wish I tanned."
Mary looked just slightly smug, adjusting her white t-shirt as if it had been even remotely out of place. "Well, three weeks in France will do that," she replied. "Anyway, don't be daft, you're still gorgeous."
"Pale to the point of translucence," Lily pointed out, "but thanks." She looked out the train window at the platform, still crowded with students and their families – if they didn't hurry up, the train would leave without them. "Have you chatted to many people yet?"
Mary propped her feet up on the cushion next to her friend, stretching out her long legs. "Oh, just Lucy Miller, Tim Hawkins – Dorcas, for a bit, not sure where she got to – ooh!" She straightened, and Lily automatically mirrored her. "Did you hear about Black?"
Lily's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why, what's he done now?" she asked. "Surely even those prats can't get in trouble before the Express has even left London."
"He ran away from home, apparently," Mary replied with the pleasure of someone in the possession of prime gossip. "Heard a whole gaggle of Slytherins talking about it. He lives at Potter's now." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "I heard Rosier laughing about how Black's parents had been using Unforgivables on him."
"Bloody hell," Lily breathed, and felt a strange sensation, one she'd not experienced before – she actually felt sorry for Sirius Black. "That's awful…"
"I saw him getting on the train with Potter and Lupin," Mary added. "He had a face like a smacked arse."
"Well, I think I would, too, if that had been my summer," Lily considered.
"The Slytherins are going to have a field day with this," Mary said, glancing darkly out the window as if Rosier were standing right there. "I hope Black's learned to practise a bit of restraint, or he's going to be in detention for fighting within days."
Lily's thoughts turned, unbidden, to Severus. This was the sort of news which he would relish hearing. She knew exactly how much he detested the Marauders, and Potter and Black in particular. She'd never said as much to him, but she sensed a large part of it was jealousy. Everything came so easily to the pair – they barely had to put any effort in but still sailed to the top of each class. Plus, in stark contrast to Severus' utterly miserable home life, they were both from wealthy, loving families. At least, that had been Lily's impression until about five minutes ago. Apparently, it was just Potter who had devoted parents.
"If you've already caught wind of it, the whole school will know by the time we get to Hogwarts," Lily noted. "Hopefully we've got enough considerate classmates to balance out the cretins."
Mary's expression clearly showed what she thought of that idea, but any reply was cut short as Marlene McKinnon bounced into the carriage. "There's my witches!" she crowed happily, a vision in torn jeans and Bowie t-shirt – Lily felt that, if she had been the one wearing that, she would've looked like she was trying too hard. Marlene, with her cascade of dark curls and infectious smile, would look good in a bin bag. "Slept late, thought I was going to have to hitchhike up to Scotland."
"We were about to send out a search party," Lily teased fondly. "Have you seen Dor?"
"Oh, she's hobnobbing with her Runes Club cronies," Marlene waved a hand airily, sinking into the seat next to Mary. "She'll be along soon." She rifled through her bag, eventually producing a large bag of mint imperials which she offered round. "Ooh, you'll never guess what I heard Bertha Jorkins gassing about out there – apparently, Sirius has – "
"Yes," Mary interrupted, "run away, we know."
Marlene looked put out for only a moment. "Is it true, then?"
Lily shrugged. "I'm not sure it's considered polite to go up to someone and ask if it's true that their family treated them so badly they had to leave."
Mary turned to Marlene. "You two have always been…" She searched for the right word, and couldn't find one. "Well, you know. Maybe you could get the real story out of him."
"What, fuck it out of him, you mean?" Marlene raised an arch eyebrow. "I'll have you know I haven't had that man betwixt my thighs since before Christmas. Remember? I'm not a fan of the whole 'friends with benefits' situation anymore?"
"Oh yeah," Mary frowned despondently. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see, then." She shot Lily a smirk. "I'm sure Potter would tell you anything you wanted to know, Lil…"
Lily rolled her eyes. "Piss off, MacDonald."
"I'm surprised we haven't seen him yet," Mary laughed, "he normally finds an excuse to wander past our carriage a few times before we're even out of London."
"Perhaps being eviscerated by the lake last May has made him change his ways," Marlene teased.
"Eviscerated," Lily huffed. "Please."
"Joking, joking," Marlene held her hands up in supplication. "Let's just enjoy the peace, shall we?"
"Besides," Mary added with a grin, "there's still hundreds of miles of tracks to go."
Sirius woke up slowly, the sounds of movement and murmuring filtering in through the closed hangings around his bed. He never used to sleep with them closed. Now, it felt like an almost primal survival instinct – he could not, would not have them seeing him toss and turn every night, thrown sweating and afraid from dreams which always centred on a dark room, the cold fury of his father, his mother's wand levelled at him, prone on the ancient brocade carpeting, the hiss of crucio once again, the pain as real in his subconscious as it was in actuality barely a month ago. He didn't want to be seen trying to catch his breath, swiping at his eyes, waiting for the trembling in his hands to subside. Bad enough everyone in this damn castle seemed to know that he was now homeless, family-less; he couldn't stomach their pity, too.
If night was when fear ran roughshod over his psyche, anger was the over-riding emotion during daylight hours. He'd never exactly been blessed with patience before, but now he found a visceral ferocity, a red-hot grip at his throat always one false step from emerging. Even James, his closest friend, their worst argument never about anything more dramatic than a play during Quidditch, had found himself on the receiving end of a newly vicious temper. Sirius could not have stopped the rage from fighting its way out of him even if he wanted to – and he didn't want to. He wanted to hammer and punch and hack and scrape at everyone and everything around him until it all faded to nothing. And the kinder they were, the angrier he felt.
As he lay there, muffled murmurings between Remus and James barely decipherable, he wondered, not for the first time, why it was he felt this way. "So, you're…free?" Peter had asked on the train, classically wide-eyed and with the expression of someone unsure if they had just stepped on a mine. Sirius had shrugged his reply, fixing his gaze on the blurred countryside rolling past the window. Because the truth of it was, he didn't feel free. He'd thought that getting out of that place, finally saying I won't be returning, would be enough – a severing, a clean cut, and he'd feel like his wings could unfurl at last. But somehow, he was still caged, still bent-backed and downcast under his parents' black thoughts and his own Black name. If this act hadn't freed him…then what would?
"Pads?" James' voice was much closer now; he thought that if he reached out, he could probably poke his friend in the ribs. "You're going to miss breakfast, mate. It's bacon bap day."
Sirius did what felt perfectly natural: glared up at the ceiling of his four-poster. Speaking felt like it would be a bridge too far, even if it was only a reply to such an innocuous statement. Silence was one of the weapons he still had control over, could wield like a knife. He wasn't letting go of it.
There was a pause, then a sigh. "Alright," James said, and Sirius listened as his footsteps faded across the room, until there was no other sound but his own breathing, and the thudding of his pulse in his ears.
It had come as a surprise to absolutely no one when, at the end of their fifth year, Professor Smythe had announced he was leaving. They hadn't had a Defence teacher who'd lasted longer than a year: sometimes, this was fine – Remus remembered Professor Lucas of third year with a distinct lack of fondness – but sometimes, it was disappointing. Smythe had been their best Defence professor yet, with an encyclopaedic knowledge of curses, hexes and the dark arts in general, and a kind, fair approach to teaching that endeared him to almost all his students. He'd told them, though, that he'd decided to get back in to curse breaking – the career he'd battled through before teaching – and wished them best of luck with their N.E.W.T.s. Now, sitting in front of their new professor in their first Defence lesson of the year, Remus felt they would need all the luck they could get.
Dumbledore had introduced her at the opening feast, of course, but that had given them little to note apart from Sirius muttering, "at last, a teacher we can fancy", to the eye rolls of those around him. Professor Merryton had merely nodded her thanks at the head teacher, cast a quick, guarded glance around the great hall, then returned to her glass of pumpkin juice.
Her name, it turned out, was far more cheerful than the woman herself. She was tall and willowy, with blonde hair so pale it was almost silver, scraped back into an unforgiving bun. She had the sort of bone structure that Sirius had lucked into – cheekbones that could cut glass – and piercing blue eyes. These things combined could have made her beautiful, Remus thought. Instead, the overall effect was of an iceberg in human form: cold, hard, all jagged edges that could maim or murder.
"We will," she was saying, her voice calm and quiet to the point where they had to lean forward to hear exactly what she was saying, "be ensuring that any gaps in your prior learning are covered in the first month. It will be intense. It will be demanding. I have very high expectations," she levelled her stare at Remus for a moment, before (thank god) turning it on someone else, "and you will all meet them, come what may."
He heard Sirius mutter something under his breath behind him, but didn't dare turn round to look; he felt as if one wrong move might land him in detention.
"My syllabus is formulated to an exacting standard. Complete all work asked of you, work diligently, and you will find N.E.W.T.s a much simpler proposition." Merryton tapped her wand on the chalkboard, where words immediately appeared – a complicated essay title, by the looks of it, along with a due date mere days away. Remus' heart sank. "If you have a question, you may find me at the end of our lessons or during office hours. I will only answer academic queries or concerns - not personal ones. I am your teacher. Not your friend."
Remus wondered which poor, misguided student in the past had made the mistake of considering this arctic shelf of a woman their friend. Surely no one would make an error that glaring.
"Here is your first assignment," she gestured to the board, "which will build on our learning today. Make sure you're paying attention, take careful notes, and this essay will be straightforward."
James leaned ever so slightly towards Remus from his desk to the left of him, and murmured, "I'm not sure an essay can be classed as straightforward when it has the words treatise, metaphysical and Dark-adjacent in the title."
Remus hummed his agreement, his quill moving as quickly as possible across the parchment in front of him. Hopefully the discussion today would illuminate the matter, because, although he recognised all of the words individually, he had no clue what it meant when they were strung together like this. And he was good at Defence.
Merryton's words evidently had the desired impact: the whole cohort spent the lesson furiously scribbling notes. For a woman with very few facial expressions, she wasn't dull to listen to – that, at least, was a relief. By the time the session ended, Remus felt like his brain was over-saturated, but he'd definitely learned something. Whether he could translate it into an essay, well, that was the next challenge.
"Merlin's sainted arse, that was a lot," Peter sighed as they trooped out of the classroom, pressing through the crowded corridor to head down to the greenhouses for their last lesson of the day. "She's going to take one look at my essay and turn me to mincemeat."
"You haven't even written it yet, Pete," James pointed out. "Don't give up before you've started."
"First wank-worthy teacher we've had," Sirius added, a look on his face like he was daring them to chastise him, "and she turns out to be some kind of ice-queen sadist."
Remus held back his desired reply. "She's just a hard taskmaster, that's all. Nothing we've not had before."
"'Nothing we've not had before'?" Peter repeated painfully. "Moony, I sneezed and she looked at me like she was going to garrotte me."
"That's what happens when you wipe your nose on your sleeve, mate," James grinned.
Remus shrugged. "Just try not to make any sudden movements, I'm sure we'll survive the year."
Sirius snorted. "'I survived the year in her class.' High praise indeed."
They had made it outside by now; it was cooler, the sun having sunk behind the trees, although the sky was still a clear, unending pale blue. Remus looked up, almost against his own will, to seek out the soft glow of the waxing gibbous moon already in the sky. The full was in two days. He hated it when it fell so early in a new school year – it felt like he was starting already on the back foot, already behind on classes, already exhausted.
James caught his stare, and gave him a friendly nudge with his elbow. "At least it'll be a Thursday," he said. "You'll only have to get through Friday and then you can recover all weekend."
He nodded, a small but grateful smile tugging his lips. "Yeah, true."
"I'm looking forward to it," Sirius said nonchalantly. "Fuck knows we could do with a night letting off some steam."
Remus looked over at him, feeling that familiar lump in the pit of his stomach at this sentiment. His friends knew all too well how he hated them making light of it, hated the very implication that him having to turn into a slavering, bloodthirsty monster once a month was a chance to 'let off steam'. It was thoughtless, it was infuriating, it was painful; it made him feel sub-human, 'other', all over again.
But Sirius was going through some things, he reminded himself. Sirius was struggling, and so the filter between his brain and his mouth had taken a sabbatical.
It was only this repeated mantra that stopped him from telling his friend, his close friend, his friend he had had strange, unquantifiable feelings for now for at least two years, to kindly fuck off. Instead, he drew in a deep breath, and marched ahead to the door to greenhouse six, just about hearing Sirius mutter behind him, "what have I done now?"
Not that James would've ever admitted as much to anyone, but being friends with Sirius was starting to feel like one of those tedious Ministry admin jobs he'd always been desperate to avoid: thankless, with little renumeration and veering wildly between dull, worrisome and terrifying (the Minister himself was displeased with your filing, or Sirius had disappeared into the Forbidden Forest with a terse "don't fucking follow me, Prongs", for example). The stress of trying to gauge his best friend's moods pressed down on him from every angle – if it wasn't for Quidditch, a chance to get away for a few hours and lob quaffles with increasing ferocity, he thought he'd have gone mad by now. He'd even written to his mum on the second day back (something he hadn't even done when he was a firstie, for fuck's sake), essentially begging for some advice, some heal-all that would fix everything. Her reply had been gentle, loving, and utterly devoid of solutions.
The morning finished with double Charms, and although he was hungry, he took his time sorting his parchment and textbooks as Remus and Peter wandered on. Sirius had decided to skive off lessons that morning; his "I'm charming enough as it is, mate" had been delivered with a smile, but it was a strange one, a mocking smile that James couldn't look at for long. He had no idea what it was going to take to get the old Sirius back – if it was even possible, at this point – but at this rate, there wouldn't be anyone left willing to interact with him.
He got up and finally took stock of the world around him. The class had emptied save for Lily Evans, who had been asking Flitwick some earnest-sounding questions. He wondered half-heartedly if she thought he'd engineered this, so that they left the class at the same time. He hadn't, but he wasn't about to miss an opportunity – even if it was going to be as awkward as all hell.
"Um, hello," he spoke up, stepping into her line of sight as she turned away from the professor to leave the room. He gestured for her to go through the door first, which she did, shooting him a wary glance. "Don't worry, I'm not going to…be a prat or anything." He paused thoughtfully. "Not on purpose, anyway."
She let out a world-weary sigh. "What do you want Potter?"
He stopped walking, and somehow, against all odds, she did too; they turned to face each other. James rammed his hands in his pockets, largely to avoid the temptation to touch his hair and give her a chance to accuse him of being a vain idiot yet again. "Look, I…just wanted to apologise." Surprise flickered across her face, but she stayed quiet. "For, well, lots of things. I know I've been a huge – how did you put it?" A smile! Well, a fragment of a smile, but he took it as a victory nonetheless. "'An arrogant toe-rag'?"
She flattened out that hint of a smile, and nodded. "You have been," she agreed evenly.
"I'm sorry," he said, almost a little embarrassed by the weight of sincerity in his own voice. "I'm sure it doesn't mean much, and I'm not expecting forgiveness. I just…wanted you to know that I'm really sorry." He cleared his throat uncomfortably; he hadn't thought this far through the whole apology scenario.
She pursed her lips, and for a moment he thought she might be thinking up a fresh new way to call him a twat. But, then: "Thank you."
"Oh." He blinked. "Um. Of course. Thank you for hearing me out."
She held his gaze for a second, then looked away. "Well," she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Lunch beckons."
"Ha, um, yes," he agreed. "I just need to – I'll see you down there, I mean."
"Right you are," she nodded, before beating a hasty retreat down the corridor.
Well. That could've gone a lot worse.
Lily had managed to avoid her former best friend for a full week – pretty impressive, she thought, given how many classes they were in together. Marlene, Mary and Dorcas had all stepped up to shield her from having to deal with Severus in any way (including a memorable passing in the corridor when they formed a bubble around her, steering her firmly away by her elbows) and she was eternally, thoroughly grateful for it. That combined with the incident in May having fallen off everyone's gossip radars – replaced, of course, with Black and his family woes – meant that she had had a rather peaceful, pleasant first week back at Hogwarts.
She had cause to wonder if that was over, though, when Slughorn stood proudly at the front of the class for double Potions and announced a group project to kick off the year. Not only a group project, but a project in a group of three – surely the least useful pedagogical number. Last year, she'd wound up doing a project on Polyjuice potion with Peter Pettigrew and George McMillan: both passably decent potioneers, but any hope for a fair and even spread of workload vanished when they'd discovered a mutual, fervent and abiding obsession with the same much-maligned Quidditch team (the Chesterfield Challengers, apparently bottom of the league every year) – they spent every session discussing their chances against this team or that team, or how so-and-so was recovering from his excruciating groin injury.
They'd passed, of course, but entirely due to Lily's efforts. Not that she was bitter about that.
But old Sluggy loved a group of three, and especially loved a spell of his own creation which pulled names at random from a pearlescent glass jar, meaning they couldn't even soften the blow by grouping up with their friends.
"Lily Evans," he read out with a fond smile. "Ah, a lucky group indeed…and she will be joined by…" A flourish of his wand, and another scrap of parchment appeared. "Sirius Black. Narcissa, of course, a fine potion-maker. Good family stock there." Lily caught a glimpse of Sirius' face – if looks could kill – before she looked back over at their teacher. Please, not Severus, repeated through her mind. "And lastly…ah." Slughorn looked uncertain. "James Potter. Well…I suppose you two will be sensible, won't you, with N.E.W.T.s and all. And of course, the Potter name, synonymous with potions success and pedigree. Yes, yes, a fine group – one to beat there, I feel!"
Slughorn moved on to the next group, keeping up his running commentary on the compatibility and academic qualities of each pupil – just choosing the groups was going to take most of the first hour, at this rate – while Lily stared down at her parchment. Well, at least it wasn't Severus; that wish had been granted. And Potter had apologised…still, she wasn't feeling particularly thrilled at the thought of having to corral those two into doing any work at all just so she could keep up her grades.
As predicted, it was at least forty-five minutes later before Slughorn finished the groups, and then he spent another ten explaining the assignment itself. Finally, the class could get moving, and students shuffled their seats to group round a bench each.
Black slouched on to a stool to Lily's right, Potter close behind and moving to the space on her left. She wondered how long it was going to take to get them to concentrate on the task at hand – and was surprised, then, when Potter spoke up: "So, an ingredient that interacts differently depending on the potion, producing three different results." He paused thoughtfully. "Well, we don't want to go middle of the road with beetle eyes, do we, that's too obvious."
Lily blinked. "Oh – yes, I agree."
"Not sure the potions with valerian sprigs have enough of a marked difference," he added, flicking through his textbook. She watched with interest as he shot what seemed like an almost nervous glance at his best friend. "Any ideas, Pads?"
Sirius had been staring blankly at the cauldron in front of them, but tore his focus away to look quickly from Potter, to Lily, then back at the cauldron with a shrug. "Lethe river water?"
She didn't understand the dynamic here: something had obviously changed. But it wasn't her business, and she wasn't going to deny she was pleased they were just getting on with their work instead of pratting around like they usually did. "The potions themselves won't be very interesting for us to make, though, at the practical stage," she offered. "If we're doing this, let's at least make it fun."
Potter smiled slightly, nodding his agreement. "Very true," he conceded. "What do you reckon, then?"
"Well, when he told us the focus…my first thought was aconite," she admitted, pointing down to where she'd even scribbled it in the corner of her parchment followed by three urgent question marks. She didn't know why she felt sheepish – she certainly wasn't embarrassed to be good, better even, at Potions than two of the cleverest boys in their year. Maybe it was because she was still getting used to Potter's personality transplant. He'd apologised, he'd given her space, he hadn't once heckled her across the common room or made some smart-arse comment in her direction down the dinner table. Apparently he now was hard-working and focused, too. To call it unsettling was putting it mildly. "Then we get quite a lot of differing choices, from healing potions, up against that one which paralyses the drinker, and the ones where it's used to make someone bend to your will…"
Potter quickly found the page in the textbook for aconite, nodding with enthusiasm. "Christ, yeah, I hadn't noticed the range of uses before," he said. "Good shout, Evans."
"Praise be," Sirius muttered.
Potter ignored him. "Right, let's get stuck in, shall we?"
Maybe it was the lingering confusion over not wanting to shout at him, or cast a hex on his unmentionables. But she found herself smiling, just a little, and straightening her parchment with an officious nod. "Yes, let's."
James' first year as Quidditch captain was off to an inauspicious start. After three evenings of try-outs, he'd managed to fill the three gaps on the team, but their first practice together had been…well, not what he had hoped. The new chaser was a fourth-year, Kasim Choudry, an amazing flyer with lightning reflexes – but who flinched when he saw the bludger anywhere near him. They'd ended up spending the last twenty minutes playing Dodge The Bludger in a desperate attempt to get the boy to relax a bit. Given the game had ended with Charlotte Swift limping off to the hospital wing, it was possible that it hadn't had quite the effect he'd been after.
But he wasn't one to get disheartened. Or, at least, not for very long.
The others had trudged back up to the castle by the time James had put the equipment away, and so he made his way back alone. The sky had darkened rapidly even since they'd finished practice, and he quickened his pace, knowing that it wouldn't be too long before he would have to be sneaking back out of the castle and out to the shack.
He wasn't sure how Sirius was going to behave. If the dog version was going to be anything like him as a human, it could be a long night. He'd tried to have a conversation with his friend about it earlier in the common room while Remus was sleeping – the days leading up to the full always seemed to wear him down – but didn't get very far. "Relax, Prongs, it's not like we haven't done this plenty of times before," Sirius had said blithely. James doubted that he hadn't truly understood what he was trying to say, but pushing it wasn't worth it. He only had so much energy to expend, and he wasn't going to use it up talking in circles with someone determined to miss the point.
Remus hadn't said much about it – typical Moony, who'd rather stick his head in a bowl of bubotuber pus than express a strong emotion – but he could tell his friend was struggling. James knew he had his oblivious moments, he was only human; however, even he had noticed a shift in Remus and Sirius' friendship last year. Neither of them acknowledged it, or even seemed to know what it was themselves. To go from…whatever that had been, to this strange, strained eggshell-parade must have given Moony whiplash. Maybe he should try to talk to him about it. It wasn't like Pete was going to step in to offer counsel. His talents lay elsewhere.
James made his way up the steps and into the castle, along the dimly-lit hallways back towards the prefect's bathroom. His promotion to captain meant he now officially had the password, rather than having to pester Moony until he caved and handed it over. Sweaty and covered in mud, all he was interested in now was a hot bath and maybe some of those bubbles that smelled like chocolate eclairs. He was so single-mindedly focused on this prospect, in fact, that he barely noticed someone leaving the bathroom until he walked into them.
"Shit! Sorry, mate," he stumbled backwards, a ready, apologetic grin on his face – until he saw who it was. Severus Snape was not the sort of person he had ever imagined testing out the bubble bath taps (although, in all fairness, he was vehemently against even thinking of the boy in that context), and yet here he was, swamped in robes too big for him, glaring at James like he'd just insulted his mother.
"Watch where you're going, Potter," Snape bit out. "Strutting around like you own the place…"
"Christ, I was just in my own head, it's not like I did it on purpose," James' eyes rolled automatically. "Calm down." He paused, eyebrows raised, waiting for Snape to shift out of the doorway. "Anyway, if you don't mind, I've got things to do…"
Snape narrowed his eyes, his hand moving slightly to hover over his pocket – presumably where his wand was. "More schemes with Black and Lupin?" he guessed, voice heavy with malevolence. "Don't think I'm not on to you."
James just sighed. "Look. I'm sorry about – well, what happened last summer, and I suppose things that have happened before," he replied, quite reasonably, in his opinion. It wasn't like Snape didn't give as good as he got, or instigate things at random himself. "Let's have a clean slate, eh? Won't it be more fun to go round just ignoring each other's existence instead of trying to get deeper into this strange blood feud? I like a grudge as much as the next person, but, fuck, let's move on."
Snape took a step closer, his eyes hooded and dark. "I'm going to find out what you're all doing," he hissed. "And then you'll be sorry."
Another sigh. Well, nobody could say he hadn't tried. "Blood feud it is, then," he said cheerfully, stepping round Snape to get to the bathroom door. "If that's what you want."
He considered it personal growth that he hadn't drawn his wand and hexed the balls off the bloke – in fact, that possibility hadn't even occurred to him until he'd sunk into the steaming water. Maybe maturity had come for him at last. His mum would be pleased.
When Remus woke, it was with a start; his heart pounded in his chest and he blinked rapidly, letting his eyes adjust to the pitch-black of the room. He wasn't sure what had woken him – often, so soon after the full, it was either dreams or pain that did it. A quick assessment of his body told him he wasn't in pain, or at least, no more than he'd been in before he'd gone to bed. Dream it was, then.
He heaved on to his side, propping himself up on his elbow to grope blindly for his watch and his wand on the bedside table. Just gone three in the morning. No wonder he still felt like he'd been run over by a lorry.
It was only as he sank back into his pillows, preparing to switch his busy brain back off, that he noticed a faint, blue-ish glow from under the closed bathroom door. Wand light. He sat up, glancing back towards the other beds, but couldn't make much of anything out.
Part of him – a large part, the part that was still recovering from his body being ripped out of itself and reformed by force just a day or so ago – wanted to just leave it. Chances were, it was Pete taking a leak. But a small part of him, a tiny sliver, didn't think it was Pete at all.
He wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep now, was he? His mind had kicked into a higher gear and wouldn't be satisfied until he did some digging.
His feet found the cold stone floor and he swallowed a shiver, grasping for his frayed but warm dressing gown at the end of his bed. With a whispered lumos, he slowly padded over to the bathroom, pausing for a moment at the threshold. He wasn't frightened – it wasn't nearly such a simple emotion as that. He couldn't put a name on the tangled mess that sat behind his ribs.
He tried the door handle; it opened with its customary creak and he followed the pale blue light of another wand to its source.
Grey eyes, rimmed red, stared back at him.
"Padfoot," Remus whispered, feeling for all the world like he was shouting into a storm, like he wouldn't even be heard over the din of his own heartbeat, his anxieties and frustrations and, okay, yes, fear, at seeing Sirius like this. Raw, wounded, beaten down: he was hunched over against the far wall, knuckles white around his wand, toes pressed into the tiled floor like he was scared of being wrenched away. It hurt, to see it. "Are you…why are you on the floor?"
Sirius just looked at him for what felt like hours, looked without really seeing, as if there was a whole other world between them, opaque and bleak. Then, he blinked, and glanced down at himself. "Not sure," he murmured; his voice scratched and scraped. It sounded like he'd been crying.
Remus took a tentative step forwards, then another. "Are you hurt?" he asked next, because he wasn't sure what else to say. "Are you okay?"
At that, Sirius let out a huff of air that could have been a laugh, could have been a sob. "I don't think I am, actually."
He couldn't stop himself from closing the gap completely, slipping to the floor next to his friend. Sirius had been touch-averse lately, so he resisted the temptation to reach for his hand, or wrap his arm round his shoulders; instead, he placed his lit wand on the floor, and folded his hands neatly, pointlessly, in his lap. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "That was a stupid question."
Sirius didn't nod; he wasn't even sure he'd heard him, until the boy spoke again. "Nothing to be sorry for."
Remus frowned, glancing up at the bathroom door – he was torn between wanting to make the most of the now-rare time alone with Sirius, and desperately wanting James to come in, to help him navigate this extremely choppy water. To help them all find a way through this storm. "I wish I could help," he said, and was embarrassed by the need in his voice, the way he sounded stripped bare, frantic. "How can I help?"
Sirius shrugged just barely, and wiped at his eyes. "'m sorry," he mumbled. "Been a shitty friend, haven't I?"
"It's fine," Remus said quickly, hating himself for having thought that many times in the not even two weeks of term so far. "Don't worry about it. We understand."
Sirius tilted his head, finally looking at him properly, squinting in the dim light. "You look knackered, Moony," he noted. "You should go back to bed."
He pursed his lips. "I will when you do."
They sat in silence for a few more minutes, both staring down at the floor: Remus wished, not for the first time, that he had the right words. The right words, in the right order, which could wipe clean the look of quiet, dulled devastation on his friend's face. But if the words were in there, they were buried under years of coping mechanisms and polite repression and blank lies that covered ugly truths. He felt useless. Small. Ill-equipped.
"Alright," Sirius breathed, eventually, and pulled himself to his feet. "Bed, then." He reached to help Remus up, tugging him to standing just a few inches away from him. Remus met his gaze and noted the smallest, saddest smile there. "Thanks."
"Of course," Remus whispered, and could only exhale when Sirius turned and silently padded out of the room, back to his bed.
It ought to have been a happy occasion - a free period, no professors insisting he pay attention or stop doodling or not roll his eyes when they speak (Slughorn, a grumpy sod even on a good day). Fifth-year-Sirius would've been leaping around like he had springs in his shoes, bothering every single person in the common room who'd dared to try to study.
Sixth-year-Sirius didn't have the energy. Or particularly want the company.
He knew Moony was up there - probably already a few inches into his Defence essay, fingers stained with ink - and usually that was all the impetus he needed. Over the past year or so, he'd felt a growing compulsion to seek out Remus' opinions, to engage him in conversation even if it was only about what, exactly, was his favourite number and why, or which was the best Beatles song and why was it Blackbird? It was as if someone had flicked a switch, ignited a need that he couldn't name or even admit to out loud. Even now, living within the shadows of his mood since the events of the summer, he felt the urge, down in his guts, in the very core of him, to seek Moony out. To draw comfort from him. To be distracted by him. To just…be near him.
But he couldn't seem to move. He just sat, slouched in an alcove in the Transfiguration corridor, staring out the window across from him, thinking about doing something instead of actually doing it.
Part of it, maybe, was that he didn't want to inflict this darkness on his friend. He knew all too well that he wouldn't be able to joke around and chat and act as if everything was perfectly normal - that ability seemed to have vanished from his skillset. At best, he might have sat there, feeling morose, weighing his friend down with sadness and pain until he was suffering just as much. At worst, he would become a bastard again.
That was how James phrased it. "You're being a bastard again," he'd taken to saying, as warmly as he could, when Sirius had thrown out a remark that cut Peter into shreds, or belittled Remus' worries, or any number of prick-ish, bastard-y things that he would normally never think of saying out loud. He knew when he was being a bastard - he felt it rise up inside him like acid, immutable, overwhelming. He didn't need James to act like his moral counsellor - of all fucking people - and he didn't need anyone to excuse him away, either. Hit me, he wanted to shout in Pete's pale, hurt face. Just fucking punch me, you coward!
In a way, it actually made him angrier that they wouldn't lash out at him in return.
So, the alcove it was. The corridor was hardly a public thoroughfare once most students are in lessons; all the better to avoid human interaction. He could sit there, the cool stone leaching the warmth from his body, for as long as he needed to.
Or so he thought.
"If it isn't the runaway reject himself..." He glanced up, finding himself face-to-face with Avery and his usual cluster of suck-ups and idiots. Regulus stood just behind his friend, determinedly avoiding eye contact. "Can't take a curse, I hear."
Sirius stared blankly at him. "Not sure if it counts as rejection if I take myself out of the situation," he replied, quite calmly, he thought. "But don't worry, Avery, words can be very tricky. You'll get there."
The other boy's eyes narrowed. "Thrown your lot in with the traitors and Mudbloods, eh?" he spat. "Reg, how long was it before they burned his useless face off that tapestry of yours?"
Sirius' gaze flickered to his brother; the coward was still staring at the wall. Regulus almost swallowed the words, only just audible. "Ten minutes."
"Ten minutes!" Avery crowed. "If I was that easily expendable to my family, I'd throw myself off the Astronomy Tower."
"Do it anyway," Sirius suggested. "Do us all a favour."
Avery just smirked. "Poor little rich boy, homeless and alone," he twirled his wand in his hand idly. "I'd keep an eye out if I were you, Black. Won't be long before you find yourself under much worse than mummy's crucio."
Regulus dared to look at his brother then: Sirius just stared back, cold, empty. Why give him the satisfaction - why give any of them that satisfaction - of knowing how this felt like a kick in the teeth? He'd be damned if he gave them that kind of gift.
"Well, thanks for the warning," he replied eventually, boredom weighing down his voice. "I'm trembling in my boots."
Avery raised his wand, about to say something - probably not something particularly intelligent, Sirius thought - but the sound of approaching footsteps halted him. He narrowed his eyes, pocketing his wand again, and glanced back over his shoulder. "C'mon, I've got better things to do than talk to blood traitors and cowards," he told his group of lackeys. "Let's go."
"Great catching up, Reg," Sirius called after them, noting with pleasure how his brother's shoulders stiffened.
The alcove had lost its appeal. The corridor was quiet once more, but now it was the place where his thoughts kept returning, magnetised, to the mental image of his name being burned off the family tree. This is what you wanted, he told himself. This is it.
He hauled himself to his feet, and set off at a trudge back towards Gryffindor Tower.
Those thoughts wouldn't stay in the alcove, though. They were going to linger.
At four o'clock that day, as Lily had been trying to take in the finer details of the Patronus charm – it was coming up soon, she knew it, and she was damned if she was going to fail in front of everyone – Sirius Black found out that it was Alison Tratt's birthday. Despite the fact that Alison was a fifth year, and someone Lily had only ever heard him refer to as "what's-her-name with the hair", by four thirty he was arranging a blow-out party for the common room that night. Given how utterly shirty the boy had been for every lesson she'd shared with him since term started, Lily was somewhat surprised by this turn of events.
At first, she could ignore the preparations – people trooping in and out of the Common Room, someone struggling to decorate with streamers and a banner – but after dinner, once the alcohol came piling out, she felt she should step in. Remus had been watching the scene unfold with an unreadable look on his face; she knew because she'd twice had to interrupt his lost-in-thought stares to ask his opinion on this wand flick or that word emphasis, and found him with the shutters down behind his eyes each time. "Okay," she said at last, and he looked round, like he'd only just noticed she was there. "We need to do something."
He raised an eyebrow. "You aren't suggesting we try to stop this?"
"Christ, no, I'm not suicidal," she cast her book to one side and looked around the room: clusters of younger pupils were studying, or chattering happily, or – most worrying of all – eyeing the firewhiskey with far too much interest. "We need to make sure this is age appropriate, that's all." She shot Remus a grin. "Unless you particularly enjoy getting hung, drawn and quartered by McGonagall?"
"Best avoided if possible," he agreed, and stood up. "I'll take firsts and seconds, you take thirds and fourths."
Fifteen minutes later, their prefect-ly duty was done: through careful application of chocolate frogs and fizzing whizbees, they'd managed to bribe everyone in the fourth year or below to stay in their dormitories for the rest of the evening. Sirius had bemoaned the "lack of respect for the lost art of mentorship" on hearing this news. Typical Black.
It turned out to have been for the best, unsurprisingly. By eight, most of the remaining Gryffindors were well on their way to being drunk, and as ten to eleven rolled around (not that she was checking her watch, waiting for a less square time to go to bed), things had really taken a turn.
"I don't think I've ever seen Black this drunk," Lily remarked, taking a seat on the sofa next to Remus. He, too, had evidently decided to carry on his earlier task of observing, rather than joining in. "And that's saying something. Remember the party after Gryffindor-Slytherin last year?"
Remus nodded, but didn't take his eyes off Sirius, who was now flirting shamelessly with Mary. She, at least, seemed to find the whole thing entertaining if nothing else. "Yes, I'd thought that would be hard to top."
"And yet…"
"And yet," he agreed.
"I didn't realise he even knows Alison," she added thoughtfully.
"He doesn't," Remus replied, and she could hear an edge to his voice. "I think it was a case of, as good an excuse as any."
"Dulling the pain with booze?" she wondered. "How bourgeois."
"Terribly plebeian," he nodded.
"Not drinking yourself into oblivion, then?" she nodded to his bottle of Butterbeer.
He shrugged. "Someone has to make sure nothing gets set on fire."
"That and it's a Tuesday?" she smiled.
"Exactly." He managed a smirk. "I save my binge drinking for weekends."
"Very wise – "
"Evans!" Somehow, despite only moments ago having been staring down Mary's top, Sirius appeared in front of them, grinning a rakish grin before sliding himself into the small gap between Lily and the arm of the sofa. From this distance, Lily could see how glassy and bloodshot his eyes were. "You avoiding me?"
She gave him a remarkably patient smile, given the circumstances. "Why would I need to avoid you, Black?"
"Why indeed." His voice had the slightest slur to it - he was obviously highly skilled at almost holding himself together, even in the face of gallons of booze. "You look fit as anything tonight, did'ya know that?"
She paused, swallowed. On her other side, Remus stilled. She wasn't entirely sure why this made her feel even more uncomfortable. "Oh. Thanks."
Sirius reached out to give her thigh a squeeze, a brazen move matched with a brazen smirk. "I've got an idea."
They were drawing attention now. Lily glanced round awkwardly and found herself looking at Potter, staring over at them with a look of great confusion on his face.
She removed his hand gently; he hmphed, then slipped his other arm round her shoulders. "You. Me. Astronomy Tower," he wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully. "I'll make you see stars."
Lily rolled her eyes, and glanced over at Remus for assistance – he seemed to have lost the power of speech, though, and was no help whatsoever. "How about you, a glass of water, and being tucked up in bed?" she suggested lightly.
"Tuck me, baby," Sirius cackled. "Tuck me all night long."
"Okay." Remus had found his voice at last (and not a moment too soon, as far as Lily was concerned), and stood up, reaching for his friend. "Time for some sleep, Pads."
Although it looked about as easy as hauling a sack of bricks off the sofa, Sirius went willingly enough. "No one has a sense of fucking humour anymore," Sirius sighed, leaning against Remus heavily. "As if Evans and I…she wishes, eh love?" He leaned back to give her one extremely suggestive wink, before Remus managed to get him over to the dormitory stairs. "You don't need to put me to bed, you're not my mother."
Remus, who had managed to rope in Potter to help, somehow, even though the boy looked shell-shocked, replied calmly, "I'm well aware of that, thanks."
Lily watched them go, Mary joining her on the sofa. "You okay, Lils?"
"Yeah, fine," she replied, with a small shake of her head. She managed a smile. "I think that's our cue for bed, don't you?"
James came back to himself by the third or fourth step, which was a relief as the stairs were hard enough to drag their drunken friend up even with two of them. Pete seemed to have disappeared, which, Remus thought, was probably a wise decision. Once in the dormitory, Sirius fell into his bed, made an off-colour joke about blow jobs, and promptly fell asleep.
Remus and James stood at the foot of the bed, quiet for a few moments. "He's…he was plastered," Remus offered eventually, and chanced a glance at the other boy. He was watching Sirius with a faint frown.
"I know," he replied, and tore his gaze away to meet Remus'. "It's fine."
Remus let out a soft, pained laugh. "It's not really, though, is it?"
"No," James agreed sadly, looking back at the snoring figure in front of them. "It's not."