PART ONE - THE RISING
Pads,
Happy Summer Holidays! I know we've got the mirrors, but writing letters is nice, too. I feel like I'm leaving you out when I just write to Moony and Wormtail, and plus, I think Bullet likes delivering letters to London.
How are you surviving so far? Haven't managed to get you to pick up my mirror-calls since we left the platform as of writing this, you twat, so next time, answer me. It's great here. My dad got me a new broom and the dementors recently moved a few towns down. They do that every few months, migrating a little further inland. Makes you wonder what you-know-who is telling them to do. Maybe they're just meant to spook people. That sounds like him, doesn't it?
So anyway, I can fly a lot now, and pretty far out, too, so that's what I'm doing with my time for the most part. My dad's busier and busier at the ministry, and mum's out a lot, too, though she won't tell me where she goes. I figure it's something that'll slip out eventually. It's weird though, isn't it? How secretive everybody gets. That's war, I guess. Knowing your family, they're scheming like nothing else, right? I bet they're plotting my murder right now as we speak. Luckily, you're pretty good at eavesdropping, so hopefully they won't get me down just yet.
My wrist is cramping up, mate. Write me back if your mirror's broken, okay? I'm not worried but it's boring out here on my own. We'd love for you to come over sometime.
Yours,
Prongs.
Pads,
It's been two weeks, mate. It's not really funny anymore.
Did you really break your mirror? Usually I can see the inside of your back pocket when I call and you don't pick up, or your bedroom ceiling, but I haven't seen anything through it in ages. Since before the end of term, I think. Just my own (admittedly very handsome) face. If this is a joke, I'm not laughing. I mean, it's funny. But also, stop.
Moony came over the other day. He hates flying - says it makes him feel sick - so we went down to the lake and swam all afternoon, 'til he saw some big fish in the water and got spooked. He says hi. Apparently he's been sending you letters too. Did you get them? He said he hasn't gotten an answer, either.
Peter says hello, too. He's got a part time job at a muggle shop on his mum's street, so he's busy a lot, but he hopes you're okay, which is about as much as you can get out of him on a good day, so take it.
Please write back. Seriously. No pun intended.
Yours,
Prongs.
Pads,
Thought I'd give it a good long break after the last letter, shake some sense into you, y'know? Make you worried like I am, you git.
Didn't work, apparently. Happy July! And happy one-month-out-of-school. I'm really bloody stressed about you right now. I almost flooed to your house the other day, but my wand isn't keyed into it, so I probably would've gotten stranded somewhere in the floo network because of your damn wards.
Dad told mum to tell me to tell you that if you need to get out of there, you can stay with us. He'll deal with the legal stuff, too, he said, though between you and me, I think he's not too eager to get into it with the Blacks. He wishes you his best, though, and mum's worried about you, too. Remus and Peter both say you haven't replied to any of their letters, either. Remus is really put out about it, really stressed. If this makes him any more worried than usual I think he might just explode.
I keep remembering the beginning of second year, that huge bruise on the back of your neck that didn't go away for months. Dark magic, wasn't it? It couldn't have been natural. I think you thought I didn't see it, but I did. I saw a lot of things you didn't want me to see.
I'm worried. I don't know what you've gotten into your head, if you think we're better off without you or whatever, but fucking write back, please? Please.
You know the drill. One call - one owl - just give me the heads up and I'll fly to London to get you. I'd go anywhere.
Yours,
Prongs.
Pads,
Lily Evans came over the other day, took the muggle bus to Godric's Hollow. She said it was just to review the transfig homework, because she knows I'm the best in the year and she didn't have access to any sources for the essay, but I think she's finally coming around, you know that? She smiled at me a few times, Padfoot! Properly smiled! What a win!
When I told her about you, she wasn't worried. I think she thinks I'm blowing it out of proportion. I guess she might be right - you are a bit of a drama queen at the best of times - but she doesn't know you like I do, and I'm worried, really worried, more worried by the day, and she seemed to understand that. She sends you her best wishes. She said if you're not back for the school year, she'll help us find you.
It's been almost two months. I keep writing letters and screwing them up and throwing them away, because it feels a lot less like chatting and a lot more like survival. I'm scared I'll say the wrong thing and it'll be the last bloody thing of mine you ever read. I don't want my last words to you to be me telling you I think you're a right prick and you smell bad.
I've considered that they might be reading your mail, intercepting your letters back to me. If they are, I guess I've embarrassed myself, haven't I? Being so bloody concerned.
If you can, please write back.
Yours,
Prongs.
Pads,
Did you get Dumbledore's letter? Or did your family not let you read it?
On the off-chance you get a hold of this and not that: Dumbledore sent out a letter to all returning students about the new school year. Apparently there's gonna be 'new security measures in place for the foreseeable future', because he's worried about death eaters and the like. My parents are fretting about it already. I don't blame them. Things are getting really bloody scary out there.
I can't wait to see you again. Only a month to go! I don't know what to write anymore.
Please just fucking stay safe. Promise me you will.
Yours,
Prongs.
Pads,
My mother broke down and told me what she's been doing today. Apparently, she's been out helping to form a group of witches to build overseas safehouses for muggleborn kids, just in case things get ugly, which she thinks they will. Safehouses for muggleborns, Sirius. What the hell? The world is going loopy.
The ministry seems very quiet. All the reports about disappearances and murders are sliding to the back page of the Prophet. I'm worried. Really worried. My dad thinks he might lose his job, too. Personally, I'm not so sure, because anybody with two eyes can see he's amazing at what he does, but...
Anyway. Apart from all that, you're pretty much all I think about nowadays. I've sort of come to terms with the fact that you're probably in a rough situation right now. I wish the world would stop doing that. Putting my best friend between a rock and a hard place and… it seems like you've been through too much bullshit for one person, y'know? I don't need to tell you that. I think you're very, very aware. I keep fucking thinking about that bruise, Sirius, second year, dark on the back of your neck as you got changed in the boys' dorm. I can't stop seeing it in my head.
Evans came over again. She's worried, too. About herself, about the world, and about you. She seemed like she meant it when she told me to send you her best, so.
Running out of space. I love you, mate. I love you.
Yours,
Prongs.
Pads,
Need anything from Diagon Alley? I'm doing Evans' shopping for her for the new school year, too, because she's anxious about going into wizarding London right now, and Peter's as well. Remus is coming with me. He's fretting about you, so I guess I'm going to have to put up with that all day.
Being in London is gonna suck. Being so close and yet so far, I guess.
Write back, we go tomorrow!
Yours,
Prongs.
Pads,
I got extras of all my books. It's OWL year, and I don't want you failing! If by some miracle you've got your own and you're fine when we get there for the year, then… well. We've got spares.
Only five more days. Then, this stupid, horrible summer is over. Just keep thinking about it, okay? How soon it is.
Yours,
Prongs.
Pads,
We leave for the Hogwarts Express tomorrow morning, and it's already midnight, so I don't know if my owl will get this to you in time. Guess that's fine. You don't really need to read this, I just gotta get it off my chest.
I hadn't really realised how shit everything is without you. How much it all sucks when you're not there. But this summer was horrible, Sirius. And not just because I spent the whole time worried about you and Evans and the war and my parents. It was shit because I did all of that and you weren't there to do it with me.
I don't really know what it all means. The stuff I've realised I'm feeling. It'll probably be super bloody awkward in the dorm again, if you're there, but y'know what, I think we'll be okay. And I think Remus feels the same, if that's any consolation. I think he gets on your last nerve a little less than I do.
I don't ever want you to go back to that house, okay? Next summer you'll be sixteen, and you can come home with me, and it's all gonna be perfect. My parents love you even more than they love me, and that's saying something, and Peter and Remus and Evans can come over, and everything's gonna be fine, even with the war.
I hate worrying about you. I hate not knowing if you're okay. It's horrible.
We all love you. I love you.
Yours,
Prongs.
Remus finds him on the platform, snaring James' wrist as he appears through the steam. "James!"
"Moony!" James drags him in for a short, fierce hug. "Missed you, mate."
"You saw me last week." Nonetheless, Remus grabs the back of his jacket and squeezes back. "Come on, my parents already left. Most of the good compartments are still empty, I think-"
They crowd onto the train together, trunks scraping together as they haul them aboard. In the frontmost carriage, they find an empty compartment and collapse inside, shoving their trunks into the overhead storage. James takes the left window seat and Remus takes the right one.
"You haven't seen him yet?" James asks immediately.
Remus shakes his head, peering out over the platform. "You neither?"
James shakes his head. "No, nothing. Haven't heard anything, still." He doesn't mention last night's letter. There will be time for that later.
"I wonder if he knows how much he worries us," Remus asks absently, more rhetorical than anything. "Bet he'd be delighted if he saw the state of us."
"I'm sure." James sits back in his seat, folding his arms over his stomach. "Damn it all. He's not gonna turn up."
"Don't lose hope yet."
But James already knows it. Dread and resignation wage a war in the bottom of his stomach. He feels nauseous.
The compartment door slides open and Peter shuffles in, round face bright with happiness. "James, Remus!"
James gets up to give him a tight hug. "Missed you, mate."
Peter beams up at him as Remus takes his trunk. Then, just as quickly, his face falls. "I haven't heard anything either, before you ask. Nothing."
"Shit."
"Yeah." Peter takes a seat next to Remus, watching the platform. "We've still got ten minutes until the train leaves, though."
Tense, ugly silence falls. After some time, Lily Evans joins them, and James feels so sick he doesn't even have it in him to compliment her as she shuffles into the seat beside him, looking out over the platform, long hair in plaits.
"Nothing?" she asks Remus. "From Black, I mean."
Remus shakes his head. "Nobody's seen him, and there's still been no response to any of us."
"Oh." Lily stares down at the tabletop between them all. "I expected he'd give up the ghost by now."
"We're pretty sure it isn't a prank."
Lily nods solemnly. "I'm starting to agree. I'll stay here with you all until the train leaves, anyway."
They slip back into silence, all of them looking out of the window with intent. Excited first years and worried parents, and a hoard of Hufflepuffs with broomsticks, and a cluster of tired-looking seventh years. No Sirius Black.
When the train jolts under them, whistling loudly from the front carriage, Lily stands up.
"I'm sorry about your friend," she says awkwardly. "Bye, Potter."
"Bye," James says, not looking away from the window because he thinks he couldn't muster a smile if he tried.
She pulls her trunk upright and leaves, the door sliding closed behind her as she treks off to find Snape, probably. The platform begins to move out from under them, dragged away as the train moves off, and the platform becomes a blur of waving parents and white steam.
And no Sirius.
"I'll start checking through the train," Peter offers, slipping out. Remus follows him, squeezing James' arm on the way out.
James probably should, too, but he feels far too sick, and he already knows everything he needs to know.
Sirius Black is not returning for this year.
No Sirius all through the train ride. No Sirius as they make their way into the Great Hall. No Sirius at the feast. Five or six people ask James where his friend Black is all through the evening, despite how valiantly Remus and Peter try to fend off wonderers. James can't even enjoy the food, despite how hungry he is, because his stomach is in knots and all he wants to do is lie down and rest his aching head.
Even a few teachers seem to be casting their incomplete little group more glances than usual. James catches McGonagall staring at him halfway through dessert. He stares right back until she looks away.
The journey up to Gryffindor Tower feels like it takes years. Other Gryffindors give the three of them some space in the common room, murmuring. James pounds up the boys' staircase to the fifth years' dorm, then pauses, hand on the knob.
Let him be in there. Let him be in there.
Seeming to sense that James doesn't really have the strength for it, Remus pushes the door open, hand on his own. Inside, three beds are lined up against the wall.
Pads,
Dumbledore won't tell us what happened. I marched up to his office on the first night back, when we saw they got rid of your bed, and he said it's 'private family business, unfortunately, so as much as he'd like to tell us what's happening, he is currently unable to give us any answers'. Bullshit. All I know is you're not a Hogwarts Student anymore, and I miss you. What the fuck, I miss you. I miss you so much. It's been two weeks and I think I'm gonna implode because there's this huge you-shaped hole in my life and I can't stand it.
I don't know how everything can feel so WRONG all at once. Classes feel wrong, pranks feel wrong, quidditch feels wrong. Everything sucks and I'm tired. Even Evans seems sorry for me, and I can't even do anything because every time I try to flirt with her, I just end up thinking about you and I get sad. I started crying in front of her the other day, I've never been more embarrassed in my life. I think Remus is getting very bloody sick of dealing with me. But I don't feel whole without you.
Bullet seems to think you're still at Hogwarts. He gets confused about how to find you, but every letter I give him he eventually flies off with - south, London maybe - and he comes back without, so somebody must be receiving them. It's like you've dropped off the face of the planet, Padfoot. Nobody knows anything.
Regulus isn't back, either. Took me a while to confirm that, but he's missing as well, and Dumbledore won't tell me anything about that, either. I wrote to dad about it and he doesn't know anything, either. Your father is still attending ministry events, still going to work. Your mother hasn't been seen, but that's nothing new. They're carrying on their lives as normal and you're gone. What parents do that?
I swear we'll find you. I'm not giving up on you. None of us are.
Stay safe. Stay alive. We love you.
Yours,
Prongs.
The first month is spent in a mourning, grief-fuelled haze. Everything aches and the nights feel too long now that they're not full of Sirius. James spends a lot of time sleeping. Remus writes his essays for him. Peter hovers. Lily tries to snap him out of it and it doesn't work.
Even the teachers seem a little sorry for him, though McGonagall makes an effort to make it clear she's an unbiased adjudicator and won't be handing out easy O's. She holds James back after a class to ask if he's alright in the first week. Numb like a zombie, James tells her he's fine, and that's the end of that.
Days blur together. It gets colder and colder as autumn sets in. Sirius doesn't reply to any of his letters, still.
Outside the walls of their castle, the state of the world is getting worse, and maybe that's what snaps James out of it - when the Prophet arrives one morning in October and the front page is loud and bold with a headline about some murdered muggleborn. He stares at the page for an inscrutable amount of time and then looks up. Teary-eyed, Lily looks back at him from across the table, and it hits James that this is war. That this is how war feels - this, staring at the paper and wondering how the murdered stranger felt as they stared down the end of a wand and prayed for mercy.
Lily stands up, chair screeching on the floor, rushing out. James follows her.
"I want to help," he tells her, when he finally tracks her down to an empty classroom on the west side of the castle, fourth floor. Facing away from the rising sun.
Lily's got her arms tucked around her chest, head ducked down where she's sitting atop one of the desks. Her legs are swinging a little.
"I want to help," James repeats, and crosses the room to sit opposite her, on a desk by the window. "I don't know how, but I want to."
She wipes her eyes hurriedly. "Potter, I really can't put up with it today, so just… just try again tomorrow-"
"It's not about that." James clears his throat. "This war has already taken a friend from me. I don't want it to take anybody else."
Lily looks up at him through her fringe. "You really think Black's missing? Properly missing?"
James swallows and says the hardest set of words he's ever had to say. "I think he might be dead."
She stills. "I'm sorry."
"Me too." James scrubs at his face with both hands. "I miss him. So much."
Lily doesn't seem to know what to say.
"It hurts. All the time. It really fucking sucks. But I'm trying to be better."
"Right."
"So I want to start again."
Lily doesn't trust it. James can see by the look on her face. A part of her wants to blame her and another part doesn't, but the loudest part is too tired to do much more than sit there in the shadow of the war and wait for her to reply.
"We can do some stuff," Lily offers eventually. "I know some people who think they're going to end up fighting in this war, one way or another. People like me who need to know how to defend themselves."
"Okay."
"We can…" Her eyes brighten ever so slightly. She forces a smile. "We can try."
Pads,
Your disappearance hurt everyone. I think even Gryffindors who didn't know you feel your absence. They hate it as much as I do, the idea that our friends are disappearing before our eyes. Most of them figured out you didn't get on with your family. I think they fear the worst, and it makes everybody so hopeless.
So we're going to try to do something about it. Lily's agreed to help us start a little… duelling club - just people we know we can trust, so we're doing it privately. Without teachers knowing, y'know? Because they wouldn't let us pick and choose who we include. Lily, Remus and I are going to run it together, and we've got a few older Gryffindors' blessings.
Anyway, we don't have a name for it yet, but we had our first meeting last week, in the Gryffindor Prefects' meeting room on the third floor. It was a tight fit, since there's about twenty of us. Mostly Gryffindors, though we've got a few puffs too, and two Ravenclaws and one Slytherin. We did healing spells, which Remus is bloody amazing at, and I think it helps people. Feeling less hopeless y'know. Next week, Lily's going to start teaching potions. She wants everybody to know how to whip up a basic pain relief draft and something offensive, too - something you can chuck that'll explode on impact, or burn or something like that - and after that, she wants to get onto the more complicated stuff.
I still think of you all the time. Remus says he's got a plan to find you, but he won't tell me what it is yet. Peter's gotten all distant on us. I think the realisation that we're really at war has freaked him out a little bit.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Yours,
Prongs.
Slughorn doesn't like fighting in his classroom, so the natural solution is to fight very, very quietly. James has got years of experience in this arena, but he's also been staying up until three every night with Remus for the past week, scouring old ministry case files for anything that might help them with Sirius, so he's not really in the mood for fighting right now.
Unfortunately, Rosier and Wilkes seem to have other ideas. James dodges three jellylegs jinxes in the first half hour of the class, and after that it seems to die down a little. James praises himself for not reacting. Through the purple haze that has consumed the classroom, Lily shoots him an approving look over her cauldron.
In the final ten minutes, however, Wilkes seems to decide to give up the ghost. James is halfway through ladling his finished iron-replenishing potion into a stoppered glass when the Slytherin mutters, from behind him, "Relashio!"
James' hand unfurls, fingers crunching backwards, and the ladle tips over, spilling hot potion over his robes and staining them bright white in a streak. Laughter blooms through the classroom like flowers, but the man-eating type that could strangle you if they wanted. James' face burns.
"Ah, Mr. Potter," Slughorn laughs jovially, burbling his way over. "Had a little accident, have we? No trouble, no trouble at all, my boy, it appears there's no harm done-"
James scowls over his shoulder at Wilkes. I'll get you for that one, he wants to say, but then he remembers Lily and his promise, and he shuts his mouth.
"Congratulations on holding your tongue there," Remus says mildly at the end of the lesson, as the two of them pack away their things. "If we hurry, we should be able to grab you a spare change of robes before Charms. You up for it?"
"Of course," James says, though all he really wants to do is lie down and sleep off his headache. "Yeah, Remus. Let's go."
They're halfway out the door when Rosier calls after them.
"Bet Black would've fought back!"
James feels himself go very still like he isn't fully in control of his body. Remus' hand steadies him and he just stands there in the doorway for a second, trying to remember how to breathe.
"What did you just say?" he asks eventually, turning around and stalking back to Rosier.
His smug little face doesn't change. "I said, I bet Black would've fought back. Guess he couldn't now, could he?" He leans in close. "I heard they snapped his wand, Potter, I bet he's pretty bloody pathetic now-"
James goes to lunge across the desk. Remus and Peter barely manage to hold him back.
"Don't you dare talk about him!" James shouts. "Don't you fucking dare-"
"James- James!" Remus hisses into his ear. "James, it's not worth it. Come on, let's just go-"
"He knows where he is! Let go of me-"
Rosier holds his hands up, grinning. "I don't know what you're talking about, Potter. Come, Wilkes, we've got a class to get to."
Pads,
Did they take your wand? Rosier knows something, he let slip in potions and I wrote as quickly as I could. He said they snapped it. Your wand, I mean. He sounded like he meant it.
Who's 'they'?
I don't know why I keep writing. I fucking hate this and I'm starting to forget what your stupid face looks like.
Yours always,
Prongs.
James leads his first week of instruction at their club at the beginning of November. Most of them have some experience with duelling, but only in formal settings. He wants to fix that.
"Okay," he says, at the beginning of their session. All eyes turn to him. "Today, we're gonna be duelling. I'll be leading the session-"
There are scattered laughs. James clears his throat and pushes on. He still feels mildly mediocre, but the last few weeks have been crammed with research, and he grips his new sword of knowledge like a very inexperienced, sweaty-palmed knight.
"I'll be leading the session," he continues, a little too confident for how he feels. "And today, I want to teach the best techniques for duelling on the fly. Uh, holding your own in a wandfight without any warning. No bowing, no rules. How to get the upper hand and escape if you're cornered."
The group looks slightly more interested at that. From the front row, Remus grins at him.
"So." James clears his throat. "For this session, we're gonna be laying the groundwork for the spells we'll be working with. There are three main jinxes I want everybody able to perform by the end of the night, even if it's not very powerful yet."
Beside him, Lily flips their stolen blackboard over, revealing each incantation for the impeding, knockback and tripping jinxes: impedimenta, flipendo, itinera.
"This'll be basic stuff for some of you," James instructs, and wipes a sweaty hand on his trousers. "But I want you to practice anyway - get used to casting quickly and forcefully. Like this." He jabs his wand at Remus, hard, snapping, "Flipendo!"
Remus goes tumbling out of his chair and half the room jumps. James burns with pride, feeling like a first year for the first time in a while. The last time he felt sure of the way people see him was when Sirius was still here. A tinge of familiar, prideful vindication lashes up inside of him.
"Merlin, James," Remus grunts, tugging himself back into his chair. "Got some anger to get out?"
"Always," James confirms gravely, and tries his best to make it sound like a joke. "So, find somebody from your year - gender doesn't matter, nor does build or anything like that, just somebody you're not in an argument with or anything, someone who can take a hit from you, and try not to hold back. None of these should be lethal so long as you're not mangling the incantations that badly. Let's get going."
Everybody gets up, pushing their chairs to the back of the room and splitting off into pairs to start practicing. James slumps against the wall, mildly out of breath.
"You were good," Lily compliments him. "Less full of yourself than usual."
"Thanks," James says, though he wants to say, it's really hard to be full of myself right now, not when he's not here to laugh at my stupid jokes, and a part of me still wants to be the best person in the room, but it doesn't bloody matter much anymore, not when my friends are dying.
He says none of that. Lily smiles tentatively at the ground, then partners off with Remus, leaving James to wander around giving critiques to people's form and wrist movement, straining to remember everything from The Intermediary Guide To Offensive Jinxes.
The session passes quickly. By the end, almost everybody has got a pretty good grip on each of the jinxes, and James promises that in their next session, he'll get onto the good stuff.
"It's badass, I promise," he says, not sure he's getting the word usage right. He heard it in one of Sirius' favourite muggle movies last summer. The thought of it makes his heart hurt. "But that's for next time. For now, clear off, before McGonagall finds us and murder us all."
The group filters out. A Ravenclaw James doesn't know very well - Elias something-or-other - stops to tell him he's glad they're doing this.
"After your friend disappeared, I think it hit me that this is really happening," Elias tells him. "So… thanks. This makes it all feel a little less scary."
"No problem." James smiles faintly.
"Any news on him at all?"
"Nothing." Remus takes the reins. "We've still got hope, though."
Have we? James wants to ask, but he manages to bite his tongue. "Yeah. Yeah, we do."
"Good. That's the spirit." Elias grins. "I didn't know him very well, but I hope he's alright, wherever he is."
Everything aches. James sort of wants to lie down and never get up. "Yeah."
Elias seems to realise it's a painful subject, because he nods to each of them and then shuffles off, making himself scare as he heads west towards Ravenclaw Tower. Remus squeezes James' arm in his hand.
"You okay?" he asks.
James forces a nod. "The name," he says. "For the club. It should be… something for him."
"The Black Brigade?" Lily suggests from where she's wiping down the blackboard, sarcasm laden heavy on her tongue.
Even Remus grimaces. "He'd hate that."
James considers. "Something more like him. Sirius'... something."
"Sirius' squad?" Remus offers.
"That's horrendous," Lily says flatly.
"Padfoot's Regiment," James tries, tasting the words on his tongue. "Padfoot's…"
"Padfoot's Army?" Remus tries.
Army. It feels solid. Real. Like something that'll last. Not much in the world feels like it'll last right now.
"Perfect," James says. "Padfoot's Army."
Pads,
We named it after you. 'Padfoot's Army', we're calling it. The group of us who are learning to fight. Everybody seems to like it well enough. We know it's not literally for you, it's for all of us, but if you hadn't gone missing, I think most of us would have kept ignoring the war until the end of school.
I taught my first lesson the other day! It was amazing. I think people actually listened to me. A year ago, you would have laughed at me for doubting they would, but a lot's changed, so… I don't know. I'm glad they took me seriously. No pun intended.
We're still trying. Still not giving up hope. Someday I'm gonna see you again, if it's the last thing I do. I swear it.
Hang on for me. And for Remus. And for Peter. And for Lily.
Yours forever,
Prongs.
As the Christmas holidays near, Remus finally reveals what he's been working on.
"It's… it's nothing special," he warns. "And I'm sure they've got wards against forgery, so I've been researching spells to bypass them, but…"
He trails off. Then, he shuffles the parchment in his hands over to James carefully.
James picks it up, forcing himself to be delicate with it. It's pristine, expensive stuff, pure white and faintly scented. It's already written on, but the hand looks nothing like Remus'.
Dear Walburga,
How long it has been since we've last spoken! My family offers you their sincerest well-wishes, especially in light of recent events. I won't keep you too long, as I know that things are rather busy at the Black residence, but Narcissa was eager to get in contact; she does so miss you all, and waits in eager anticipation for our Christmas do, I'm sure, as do all of us. Your dinner parties are truly beautiful.
Communication has been rather stilted for us as of late - not in the least due to the fact that my position at the ministry often eats up my time - so it's been rather difficult to ascertain the situation regarding your sons. If we can offer any support to you during these changing times, please do not hesitate to reach out. Family is of immense importance to me, as I'm sure you know, and if I can do anything to ease this stressful process, I would like to fulfil that privilege to the utmost extent.
Yours faithfully,
Lucius Abraxas Malfoy III
"You," James says, looking up after a long pause, "Are a maniac, Lupin. You know that, right?"
Remus stares at him. "You don't think it'll work?"
"I don't know." James tries very hard not to smile and fails miserably. "But it's the best thing we've come up with yet. God, you genius."
"I'm going to take Bullet to send it," Remus clarifies. "And he's smart, he'll listen if we instruct him to bring the response back to us, not to Malfoy himself. And he looks expensive, too, like a proper pureblood owl. At the very least, they shouldn't be able to track it back to us, right?"
James grabs his shoulders. "You're the best person I know."
Remus smiles weakly. "I know."
"And I… I think this might work. I really do think this might work. You've thought it all through so much-"
Remus shrugs off the praise. "Sirius used to read me letters from his family. They were formal like that… y'know. In that weird, underhanded way where they won't say things directly. I just did my best to copy those."
"And your best is amazing. Truly. You're a genius."
"Then let's hope I'm genius enough to succeed." Remus takes the letter back very gently, like it's made of glass. "You have no idea how expensive the parchment was, by the way. I had to take out a mortgage to get it."
"I'll pay you back."
"I was joking. I'm fine."
James shakes his head, grinning properly now. "I'm gonna be paying you back for the rest of my life."
They send off the letter that evening, by nightfall so it'll be harder to track if anybody tries. James watches Bullet vanish into the blue midnight, stares after the tiny owl until he's a speck against the sky. Peter's already asleep. Remus hovers by his shoulder and watches, too.
"Merlin, I hope this works," James murmurs. "I hope to god it works."
It was Sirius' birthday the other day. Neither of them mentioned it at the time, presumably because it feels less like it should be celebrated and more like the wake of an awkward funeral.
Remus says it now, though. "We'll have him back before his next birthday. I promise."
James snares his hand. "I hope you're right."
"I'm always right."
"Of course."
They carry on watching the sky for a while. Sometimes, James thinks that'll be how Sirius comes back - swooping over the horizon by broom, dark hair blowing back off his face, grinning like a maniac, shoulders thrown back like a returning war hero.
But Sirius doesn't appear. Not then and not the next night, either, when their Padfoot's Army meeting runs late, Lily passing around handmade leaflets of different common potions ingredients that react violently with one another, useable as flammable or explosive weapons if one is in a hurry.
"Next week, we're going to try brewing shelf-stable flammables," she calls out over the milling crowd as the meeting draws to a close. "The type you can light on fire and throw. Like magical Molotov Cocktails."
Nobody seems to know what those are, and scattered laughter ripples through the room. James grins at Lily fiercely. A little startled, she smiles back, and then turns away to watch their attendees file out.
When it's just the three of them left, Remus and James sit down to tell Lily the most recent development in their plan.
"That was stupid," Lily says almost immediately. "Really stupid."
"We're aware," Remus sighs. "But we're willing to do it."
"And if they track it back to you?"
"They won't-" Remus starts.
"If they do," James cuts in, "I'm gonna take the blame. What can they do to me? I'm fifteen."
"And you're from a wealthy family," Lily adds, vaguely derisive.
James winces. "Right. That too. They'd, uh, be way worse to you or Remus."
Lily furrows her brow. "Isn't Lupin a pureblood?"
Remus kicks James under the table. "Blood traitors," he tells Lily. "My family. I mean."
"Right."
Awkward silence falls for a while. Eventually, after seeming to bite her tongue for a while, Lily looks up again, scanning both of their faces.
"If this is a thrill to you," she says, mostly to James, "I think we should just end it now."
That came out of nowhere. James says as much.
"I know." Lily looks back down at her hands. "I was talking to Sev the other day- I know you hate him, don't look at me like that. He thinks you're only doing this because playing revolutionary gives you… a thrill. A kick."
James scoffs. "He's a blood purist."
"You can't-" Lily cuts herself off, seeming to realise she's not going to win this argument. "I'm not saying I believe him. I just know it wouldn't be out of character for you, Potter. Not after all this time."
I've matured, James wants to say, but that would be a lie and he knows it. I'm tired would be closer to the truth, but it feels a little too pathetic.
"I don't know," he says truthfully. "A part of me likes it. Leading something. Teaching people."
"I thought as much."
"But if I don't do anything, he's going to die out there, and even…" James swallows and forces out the next words. "Even if he's already dead, he'll stay unavenged. And I can't let that happen."
Lily looks him up and down. "You really care about Black, huh?"
"So much," James admits, the words escaping like water through a dam. "So fucking much."
Hesitation. Then, Lily leans in close. "Then take this seriously, and we won't lose anybody else." She bites her lip. "Pun not intended."
James can't help it; he laughs, a tiny thing. It's nice, though. Real.
Pads,
Can't say much, but we're working harder to find you. I doubt that you ever receive any of these, but I don't want you to feel alone, so even if it's a tiny, tiny chance you do, I want to keep writing anyway.
Hang in there. As always, I love you.
Yours,
Prongs.
It's midnight a few days later when Bullet returns. James is awake, staring at the ceiling and thinking through the last time he saw Sirius, trying to remember what the last thing he told him was. He does this a lot. It's a fucked-up coping mechanism, but he thinks if he tried to stop he would fall apart.
There's a sharp tapping on the window. A few seconds of silence pass and then Remus and James shoot out of bed in unison, staring at each other through the gloom.
Awake too? James mouths. Remus nods. Then, they both rush for the window.
There's a small, white envelope tied to Bullet's leg, pristine and sweet-smelling like the expensive parchment of before. Remus scrambles to untie it, hands shaking hard, while James casts lumos and drags Remus onto his bed, drawing the curtains.
"Open it," he hisses. "Come on-"
Remus tears the envelope open. Under the stark white light, the parchment is blinding, and for a moment James can't make out any of the writing. Then, his eyes adjust and he shuffles around to squash himself in next to Remus. Together, they knock heads and read.
Dearest Lucius,
It was truly wonderful to hear from you, especially so close to the Christmas period. Send Narcissa our love; we heard from Bellatrix recently that you both begun attempting to conceive again, and if so, Orion and I are delighted to hear it. Narcissa is still young, but at seventeen, she is observably quite ready for this responsibility. I trust you are aware of her necessity to bear child, as such is our sacred duty as the hereditary representatives of the Noble and Ancient Houses, despite how they have fallen from grace as of late.
Orion and I have been further pleased to hear of your success at the Ministry. Direly needed overhauls are surely safe in your capable hands. Please do wish the Minister our best. From what I understand, he admires our family greatly.
Regulus has successfully integrated into Durmstrang. He finds the culture to be agreeable, and his grades, of course, are exceptional. Orion and I deeply regret not sending him sooner, but we are optimistic about the veracity of the school's claims of disciplinary success. If anybody can beat some stomach into our only remaining son, it shall surely be the Nordic.
It is, of course, at the Dark Lord's discretion how much we share of the situation with our recently disinherited. From what we know, He is still keeping the little stain under His thumb. This is perhaps inappropriate to share beyond immediate family, but if you must know, the last time I saw the boy, it appeared that the Dark Lord has been successful in subduing his arduous spirit - by our own relative experience, of course, as thorough training of the morally incapacitated could surely only be achieved by such a remarkable figurehead of Pureblood liberation, such a magnificent symbol of the strength of Pure Magic.
I have shared far too much, forgive me. I suppose I simply wish to impress on you the importance of a strong-minded, ethically sound heir, which is, by my understanding, best achieved when the mother is youngest and most fertile. Or perhaps I am merely superstitious. It is in my nature, after all, to remain traditional in all that I do.
By all means, keep up your fantastic work at the Ministry. You have our full support in your valiant effort to purge the magical world of treachery. And hear me when I say this: we shall win.
Yours faithfully,
Walburga Irma Black
By the end of the letter, James is trembling with anger. Not really in control of his body anymore, he shoves himself back against the headboard, curling his arms around his stomach, and tries to remember how to breathe right.
Beside him, Remus is in a similar state, rigid and shaking as he scans the letter over and over and over again. They sit in silence like that for a while, neither able to speak, quiet nighttime spearing the air.
"He's got him," James breathes, when he's able to speak again. "You-know-who. He's got Sirius."
James is still in his pyjamas as he sprints through the halls, past multiple startled portraits and one surprised teacher on patrol. He bounds up multiple flights of stairs and over a high outcropping that overlooks the east wing, flying through the darkness like the devil is on his heels. The devil, in this instance, is only Remus, who barely keeps up, panting and pale, but urges James on every time he starts to slow.
By the time they make it to the gargoyle outside of the headmaster's office, they're both out of breath. "Please," James gasps. "Bit of an emergency."
"I don't open for emergencies," the gargoyle tells him cheekily.
Remus shoves him aside. "Peppermint toads," he says to the gargoyle sternly.
The gargoyle glares, then lets them pass.
"Lucky guess," Remus stays, by way of explanation. "Come on." He tugs James up the stairs.
Dumbledore is still awake, evidently, despite the late hour. Behind his desk, he looks surprisingly pale by the candlelight, and when Remus and James burst in, he stares at them for a moment before sighing very heavily.
"Come in," he says simply. "I suppose we must have this conversation eventually. Like most things that we are unprepared for, it has arrived far too soon."
James and Remus exchange long looks. Together, they sit down on the other side of Dumbledore's desk. The headmaster's chairs are surprisingly soft, cushioned in bright green velvet.
Dumbledore clears his throat, putting down his quill. "I suppose you're here to discuss young Sirius Black's absence?"
"Like last time, sir," James says. "But we know more now. And you have to listen this time."
He expects Dumbledore to laugh at him for that, but the man just nods good-naturedly. "As I will, Mr. Potter. However, I think I must be transparent with you in saying that - and you may be disappointed with me to hear this - I am already aware of Mr. Black's current situation."
James feels himself stiffen. "You are?"
Dumbledore sighs heavily. "Yes, Mr. Potter. I'm afraid I've been aware since Mr. Black was first taken into Lord Voldemort's captivity in June."
Shock-horror, cold and thick like a cracked egg, trickles down James' back. He stares off at nothing, stunned. He can't find anything to say. Apparently neither can Remus, because they both sit in a silence that feels almost obedient as Dumbledore pushes on.
"You see, Mr. Potter, Mr. Lupin, it was to me that young Sirius turned when he felt he had attained knowledge of one of Lord Voldemort's great weaknesses. In fact, I might say, his single greatest." Dumbledore, apparently having determined that his ink has dried, files his parchment away in his desk, slow and methodical. The candle flickers and the walls ripple with light. "You see, Sirius Black is nothing if not perceptive. I mightn't presume, but it appears his upbringing has made this a necessity. When he discovered something he felt might aid the war effort, he attempted to bring it to my attention."
"And?" James demands.
Dumbledore fixes him with a piercing blue stare. "He returned to the school three days after the end of the term. He found me and told me everything he knew. Immediately, I knew that he had stumbled on something… something quite spectacular. And quite foolishly, I might say, I allowed him to return home."
It hits like a slap in the face. "You knew he was captured. You knew. And you didn't do anything. You didn't tell us." James slams a fist down on top of the desk. "You didn't tell us! You left him there to die-"
Dumbledore holds up a hand. "A group of very powerful wizards in my employ, Mr. Potter, work under me in their attempt to stall the Dark Lord's ascension. They, too, were quite concerned to learn of Sirius' captivity. We have attempted to return him…" Dumbledore seems to count. "Half a dozen times, now, I believe."
"And?!" James demands again.
"And each time, I am deeply ashamed to inform you, we have failed."
Remus is shaking his head slowly. "It doesn't make sense," he murmurs. "If he knows something you-know-who doesn't want getting out…?"
"Why has he not killed Mr. Black?" Ignoring James' flinch, Dumbledore considers Remus for a moment. "An admirably level-headed question."
"Yeah, I've sort of had to be level-headed, sir. My best friend is missing."
"Point taken." Dumbledore stands, crossing the room to the window. Silhouetted against the night sky, outlined in the stars, he might as well be an omen of death. "We believe he has yet to kill Mr. Black for risk of… contamination. When a wizard is killed, particularly in a violent manner, there is always the risk of their return as a ghost, and in that instance, Mr. Black would have access to his pre-death memories. If, by a variety of causes, the Dark Lord's wand was to be forced to present its priori incantatem, even dead, Sirius would live to tell the tale, despite how briefly." Dumbledore's eyes glaze over for a moment. "There are other methods of conversing with the dead, and the Dark Lord, I suspect, finds himself quite fascinated by them."
"Then why not obliviate him?" Remus asks.
"Memory alterations are, regrettably, imperfect. A strong legillemens could plausibly break them. And there is only one legillemens, by my knowledge, more powerful than the Dark Lord."
Remus inhales sharply. "You, sir."
Dumbledore nods. "Indeed."
"There are other ways." Remus stands up and starts to pace. James is about an inch from hyperventilating by this point - dark bruise on the back of his neck; the smile Sirius shot him as he got off the train last year; that blueish-white, blotchy curse scar Sirius always said looked like a cloud on his knee; whispers in the Ministry about torture and prisoners of war and brutality; the taste of bile rising and rising in the back of his throat - and he wants to grab Remus and shake him, hard, and ask him how in Merlin's name he's even functional right now.
"Indeed," Dumbledore repeats again, in that infuriatingly calm way of his.
"Torture." Remus pauses, then keeps pacing. "They could torture him until he… until he cracked, sir. Then, even if you could get to blocked memories, they would be unreadable. Or he could-" Remus' voice shakes. "He could torture Sirius until Sirius cracked, sir, and then kill him, so his ghost couldn't share."
"Perhaps." Dumbledore seems to consider that, nodding. "And perhaps if it had been you, Mr. Lupin, who had discovered his secret, he might have resorted to such brutality."
"But Sirius is a human pureblood from a Noble and Ancient family," Remus puts in fluidly.
"If my approximation is correct, it appears that Lord Voldemort is predisposed to find the needless brutalisation of Pure minds... tasteless, yes," Dumbledore agrees. "I don't doubt he might be willing to torture the body of a Pureblood, but the mind… in Blood politics, it is quite a distinction to make."
James leans over and vomits on the floor. Remus rushes over to rub his back. He wants to throw punches, wants to break something. All he can do is curl up in Dumbledore's soft, green chair and retch.
"You're okay," Remus whispers into his hair, hugging him very tight around the shoulders as he waves his wand to clean up the throw-up. "You're alright. I promise."
"How can you be so calm?!" James explodes, and Remus flinches even though it's directed at the headmaster. "My best friend is a captive of you-know-who and all you can do is sit here and theorise about how best he could kill him?!"
Dumbledore hesitates. "I've disappointed you, Mr. Potter. I understand that quite well. I would only offer in explanation that…" He trails off, then continues. "That if Sirius Black's information was less important than it is, he would already be dead. There is still hope. That's why we're discussing this."
"Then why aren't we trying harder?" James spits. "Why aren't we sending more people, telling the ministry, telling anyone?!"
"Because it's… James, it's leverage," Remus says into his ear softly. "That Dumbledore has this over you-know-who."
"This isn't politics, this is life or death!"
Dumbledore inclines his head slightly. "Which is, one might argue, what makes it especially political, Mr. Potter."
James stares at him. "You've been trying to get him back, then?"
"Yes. Persistently."
"Well, you haven't been trying hard enough," he snaps. "You-know-who is probably bloody torturing him, or-" He hears his own voice tremour. "Or hurting him. Or something else awful."
Dumbledore nods wearily. He looks older than his years in that moment. "And it pains me every day to think of Sirius in that situation, it does. I fear it is both a blessing and a curse that, had he had a different upbringing, he might not have made it this long. It's strange, isn't it? The unequal dissemination of suffering."
James' heart throbs in his chest. "I just want to see him again, sir."
"I know." Dumbledore's face softens like mould. "And I can only apologise, Mr. Potter, for how you and your friends have undoubtedly suffered."
"An apology isn't good enough."
"I know," Dumbledore says simply. "I know."
Pads,
Not sending these anymore. I know you won't get them. I'm gonna keep writing, though, and save them for when I see you again.
We found out what happened to you. Remus is a genius, truly, and we went and confronted Dumbledore about it and he confirmed our fears. I don't think I've ever felt the way I did that night before. Like I wanted to.. Break something. I don't know. Hurt someone. Throw something. Punch a wall. I don't have a temper - I'm not like you - but I might as well have had one. I don't like who I was at that moment. But I still feel like shit now, anyway, but instead of angry I'm just sad again, which is sort of worse, so that's that, I suppose.
In my head it's red like a nightmare. You're chained up in some basement cellar somewhere and nobody's there to rescue you, and you're all bloody like a prisoner of war. I have nightmares about it. Remus has told me it's stupid to think like that, because you-know-who has no reason to put you through the wringer, but I can't get the image out of my head. Dark bruise on the back of your neck. I can't stop. I can't stop. I'm trying but I just can't.
Remus is worried I'm getting sick. He keeps saying I should talk to a mind-healer, keeps trying to diagnose me with muggle illnesses that are all these letters he doesn't ever spell out (something beginning with a 'p', I can't remember, full of consonants and scary in that medical way some words can be) and I just sort of let him do it, because I think fussing over me is the one thing keeping him from going completely fucking manic, if I'm honest with you.
Peter doesn't talk to us much right now. He gets nightmares, too - he's shit at silencing charms and they always fall the moment he goes to sleep so I hear it all. I'd like to say it's because he's worried about you, mate, but I don't know. He worries about everything. He doesn't come to Padfoot's Army meetings. I wonder sometimes where he goes at those times.
There's so many things I want to say and I don't think any of them are worthy? If that makes sense? I don't know. Every moment of every day it's like, oh, he would want to hear about that. He'd like to know about this. He'd laugh if I told him about that other thing. And then I sit down to write you a letter and it all clots like a nosebleed.
I love you. I'm gonna try to write more often. If we find you next week, it'll be bloody awkward to give you just one letter to read, won't it? Sort of defeats the object.
Yours,
Prongs.
Eventually, school lets out for the winter holidays. Most students go home. More go home every year since the war started. Some students never come back, parents too anxious to let them out of their sight.
James remains, Remus too. They spend most of their time huddled on the sofa in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room, scouring the papers for any hint at you-know-who's location. It's an exercise in misery, because even if they were to track him down tomorrow, they still wouldn't be able to do anything about it, but they still try, probably to grasp at some semblance of control.
The castle goes quiet and cold over the winter period. They're two of the only Gryffindors who stay behind. Sirius used to stay most years, and he loved Christmas, loved the excuse to lavish increasingly ridiculous gifts on his friends like a git. Without him, and without Peter, and without most of the rest of the castle, it feels hollow and grey like an old picture. A parody of what it's meant to be this time of year. James isn't religious in the slightest, but he thinks that surely Christmas is supposed to feel holy, not cursed.
"You need to stop torturing yourself like this," Remus tells him on Christmas Eve. It's probably Christmas Day by the time he finds him, actually - James, after another nightmare, shuffles down into the common room to bundle himself into a blanket and stare into the dying embers of the fire, and Remus, as he always does, follows him there.
James shrugs from within his tight little cocoon. "I can't help it. The nightmares."
"I know." Remus stares at him, hovering like he doesn't know whether he's allowed to sit down. "I know you can't."
James shuffles over. Remus comes to sit beside him and they share the blanket.
For a while they just watch the fire. Snow is piling up against the glass of the window and Christmas morning has brought thick, cloudy skies that look like they'll drain away the ice with rain by the time dawn arrives. Midwinter feels cruel in that way. Even when there are beautiful moments, they melt and die too quickly. The nights are too long for comfort. Everything feels too long for comfort, actually. The world is composed of waiting and waiting and nothing much else.
Remus lays his head tentatively on James' shoulder. He's not a particularly touchy person usually. Perhaps tonight is the exception. Rules are made to be broken, but James wonders if they'll be able to put this one back together.
"I wonder if he knows it's Christmas," Remus murmurs. His eyes are blind by the light of the fire, glazed white.
"I'm sure he does," James says, though he's not sure, he's not sure of anything. "Bet he's thinking of all the stupid things he's gonna get us next year. When we're all back together again."
"Yeah."
"Though it'll be harder for him to go crazy with it, not if he doesn't have access to his family's money."
Remus laughs croakily. "He'll land softly. I'm sure your family would buy him a house if he asked nicely enough."
"They're worried, too," James agrees.
"I haven't told my folks yet."
"No?"
Remus shakes his head. "They worry enough about me. I don't wanna… make them fret. Y'know. They don't deserve that."
James leans over and kisses him. Remus seems to expect it, which isn't much of a surprise. He's smart like that, smart enough to know when something is breaking.
It's short and soft, less like a kiss than it's like a house fire. When they break apart, it's a little wet.
"Sorry," James murmurs. "Didn't mean to do that."
"It's okay." Remus shuffles down to rest his head on James' shoulder again. "I don't mind."
"You liked it?"
"Yeah."
James smiles faintly. "It's not the same. Not without him."
Remus hesitates. "Then we'd better get on finding him."
That's about as close to a confession as either of them is going to get. James nods. Christmas Morning dawns like a plague, and they fall asleep there, and they sleep all the way through breakfast and lunch, and it's nice, James thinks, to be able to rest for once.
