The record spins.

It has been spinning for hours, repeating the same song over and over again, echoing in the small, candlelit room. It is a phantom in the tobacco smoke and the cannabis mist, a sound so constant it's become nearly hypnotizing.

"Don't cry,
Don't raise your eye,
It's only teenage wasteland . . ."

Teenage wasteland indeed.

Long fingers comb through rich dark locks, fingers stained marigold from holding too many cigarettes, calloused and splintered from ceaseless clawing at an old wooden door. The door traps him each month. This month is no different — though it's the second time. He supposes that is unusual.

"Thanks for staying here with me," Remus says. "I know twice in one month isn't ideal."

"Ah, don't fuss yourself, Moony. There's nowhere else I'd rather be." Sirius tips his head back, and the fingers drag out from the depths of his mane. "Besides, they shut you in here far too early."

Mercuric eyes meet those of amber, but the taller boy's gaze is drawn to the forehead now exposed to him. The dark locks have fallen away from Sirius's forehead, revealing the garnet crust of blood.

"Ah, I missed some of the . . ." Remus trails off and licks his thumb before scrubbing at the red stain. It diminishes with ease, yet something about it doesn't feel easy at all — not to Remus, anyway.

"There you are," he says once it's gone.

Sirius clears his throat, eyes darting towards nothing in particular. "Thanks."

"It's the least I can do," Remus replies quietly. "After what you did for me tonight."

"I said I'd do anything, didn't I?" Sirius says, his voice just as small, the honesty palpable.

Remus nods. "That, you did."

Silence befalls them.

Sirius lays his head in Remus's lap and reaches across the weathered floor. A joint is resting on the lip of the same ashtray they always use here — a Scourgified spittoon they stole from the Hog's Head in Year Four. Remus remembers the day well: The barkeep chased them halfway down the High Street, one of his goats in tow.

Sirius seizes the stick of marijuana and lights it with the tip of his wand.

He takes a long drag and inhales the smoke, his lids falling closed, long eyelashes scraping rose-tinted cheeks as he succumbs to the sweet release. He has been tense ever since he did the deed — Remus feels it emanating from him.

After a long moment, Sirius whispers four words.

"He yelled, you know."

He passes the joint up to Remus, who accepts it tentatively and sucks down a drag. The flavor is earthy, sour, something a bit like sulfur and burning. He passes it back, and Sirius takes another puff.

"It wasn't a scream, like you'd think," Sirius continues. "You know, that shrieking sort you assume people make when they die." He gestures Remus lazily. "That one you make right before the change."

Remus nods. He knows the one.

"It was weird, really. Straight from his gut. Like he didn't care if he died at all, so long as he killed me too . . ."

Remus holds his silence, wiping his thumb on the front of his robes.

Sirius then spins around on his bottom and crosses his legs so they resemble something like a pretzel, looking up at the boy in the chair. His silver irises are sparkling, yet there is something dark in them too. Something as entrancing as the song that restarts in the background.

"You didn't have to do it," Remus says finally.

"We said anything — and I don't know about you, but I meant it."

"But I don't want you to do anything if it means you'll have regrets," Remus replies, making air quotes on the emphasized word. "If a thing you do for me weighs on you, it wasn't worth it. Not to me."

"I don't regret doing it," Sirius replies with haste. "It's not that. It's only . . . I suppose I've never met a werewolf that scared me before . . . It was strange."

"Am I not scary?" Remus asks drolly.

"I'm being serious. It made me wonder about you — and what a monster like that must've been like when he was — well, when you saw him last."

The joint smokes away between Sirius's fingers. He doesn't bother raising it to his lips.

"Ah, you know that story already," Remus murmurs, waving him off. "No need to repeat old news."

"I've heard it. I don't know it. Not firsthand, anyway."

"And hopefully you never have to," Remus says sternly. He leans forward and wraps his arms around Sirius, resting his chin in his dark, sweat-soaked hair. "You have your own problems to worry about, Pads. You don't need mine too."

" My problems won't matter anymore once I'm seventeen." Sirius pulls his head away and cranes it to plant a chaste kiss on Remus's mouth. "After that, I'll collect my things and I'll never go back to that pit."

"Not even for Reg?"

"Sure, if he comes round to the right side of things —" He leans back and finally puts the stick of cannabis to his mouth, deeply inhaling the smoke. "But unfortunately, I fear my brother may be a bit of a lost cause."

"Because of your mother?" Remus questions.

"Yeah, she's foul, but you know how he is with her. Will do whatever she says."

"That could change, though, couldn't it? What with being away from her most of the year and all."

Sirius snorted. "Doubt it. The git's far too attached to her. And being in Slytherin, he's just surrounded by all the pure-blood rubbish she shovels down his throat . . . If anything, he's gotten worse than he was before he started school."

"Really?"

Sirius flicks some ash into the spittoon. "Really. Walburga's happy about it, of course. He's behaving exactly how he's expected to."

Remus arches an eyebrow. They have had similar conversations in the past, but back then, Sirius still had hope for his younger sibling.

"May be able to talk some sense into him once he's older," Remus suggests.

"Considering my darling mother has dubbed me the family heretic, it's safe to say anything I tell him will go amiss. He's always been too close with her . . ." Sirius takes another puff. "Ah well, things will be better once I'm gone for good. Preferably that happens before Walburga finds out I'm dating a werewolf. Not keen on my head joining the others on the wall."

Remus shudders. "Don't remind me about those bloody things."

"You never had to live with them."

"And I don't want to . . . Why does she do that again?"

"Tradition is important to dear old Mum," Sirius says. He pauses to blow a smoke ring. "My lovely Auntie Elladora started doing it at some point and it just sort of stuck."

"But why?" Remus asks in horror. "Surely, it's not just for fun."

"Oh, no, no. There's a reason. Once they get too old to carry the tea trays, they're no good anymore, you see. Then, heads must roll. That's what Walburga says, anyway."

"Heads must hang would be a better line."

"I'll tell her. She'd probably love it." Sirius chuckles. "Quite the family legacy, eh?"

"Quite the legacy indeed," Remus breathes, reaching for the joint. He draws in the smoke and blows a ring all his own. He's always been better at it than Sirius has.

"Show-off," Sirius mutters, grinning.

"I have to take my wins when I can. James will put us both to shame, if he ever shows." Remus hands the joint back to Sirius. "Suspect he won't, though."

"Would it be the worst thing if he doesn't?" Sirius asks, flicking the lengthening ash into the old spittoon.

"I suppose not," Remus replies stiffly. He slides off the chair and onto the floor to join the other boy, anxious as he considers all that could happen on that night.

Without James, Sirius will be alone with him — during a blue moon.

His counterpart watches him intently.

"You have nothing to worry about. It'll be fine."

"And how can you know that?"

"Because it always is, and because you're you and I'm me." Sirius takes another long drag and tries to pass it to Remus to finish, but Remus waves him off. With a shrug, he drops the smoking roach into the depths of the old spittoon. There, it joins the graveyard of cigarette butts and blackened filters. He sighs. "You don't trust yourself enough, love. You're not like him — and don't play stupid, you know who I'm talking about."

Remus scoffs. "I'm more like him than anyone else in this school is."

"And I'm more like an alley dog than you, doesn't mean I am one — no matter how much I want to be."

A laugh escapes Remus. The song replays.

"Really should kill that charm," he says. "I'm starting to get a bit sick of this track, never thought I'd see the day."

"The only other good song is on the B-side if you want to flip it."

"That's not true, the last track on this side is ace," Remus argues.

"It's all right, I suppose." Sirius sniffs. "Moon'll be out soon."

"Technically, it's always out. Remember that time I changed at eight in the morning? You and James weren't even up yet."

Sirius snorts. "Yeah, that was certainly a surprise."

"Good thing I had the decency to chain myself up. Might've woke up to one of these across your face — if I hadn't." Remus grimly gestures the scars lining his nose.

"Stop that."

Remus sighs and lays on his back, watching the lingering clouds of smoke dissipate into the atmosphere. The minutes are ticking on, and in the wee hours of the morning, he will be the worst of himself, a monster unworthy of existing in a world shared with Sirius Black. During the last moments leading up to what James affectionately calls his "time of the month", Remus will suffer crippling, tortuous pain. He sometimes thinks of it as penance — penance for what he is, for what he's capable of.

"You give me too much credit, Sirius. I am what I am, and if you're going to do this with me, you have to accept that. Each month, there will be a time you must put yourself first."

"Wrong again, love. That is when it's time to put you first."

"No," Remus says harshly. "You have to protect yourself. Promise me you will — the way Peter does. I may not always be able to make the right choice, he sees that."

"Peter is a coward," Sirius hisses.

"Peter has sense. You're not in my mind when it happens. You don't know what it's like — what I'm like," Remus taps his temple. "In there."

"I'm the closest thing to in your head as humanly possible," Sirius growls. "You're not an animal, Remus. No matter how much you want to pretend you are."

Silence sweeps over them after that. The white noise of Baba O'Riley still dances on the air with the stench of blood and stale marijuana. Neither of them move to change the song.


Slick with sweat, Remus awakens in a puddle of his own vomit. Grimacing, he scrambles onto his aching legs and plucks his wand from his pocket to clean himself up. His heart pounds as he builds the courage to look at Sirius. These moments are the most daunting after the full moon — the moments when he must see the damage he has done.

To his relief, the other boy is safe — or appears to be. He rises and falls in his slumber, a rogue cigarette on the floor beside him, half-smoked.

Remus admires him for a moment before he leans down and gently shakes him. As he always does, Sirius groans and covers his head, muttering on about wanting to sleep in. Sometimes, Remus lets him, but today is not one of those days.

"It's Halloween," Remus reminds him.

"Like I give a Peter's ass," Sirius grumbles.

"He hates that joke," Remus notes bemusedly.

"Good thing he didn't bloody show up then, isn't it?"

Remus wonders if he had been particularly difficult during his transformation. It was a blue moon, after all, and history was rich with superstitions of such a rare occasion leading to werewolves becoming more powerful — more dangerous than usual.

"I can't blame him for being careful," Remus says. "Maybe you ought to try it sometime."

"So you've suggested." Sirius rolls onto his back and stretches. "Sadly for you, you'll never be rid of me now."

The corners of Remus's mouth pull into a grin. Even at his grumpiest, Sirius is a perpetual flirt.

"And why's that?" asks Remus.

Sirius sits up and raises a bushy, black eyebrow, almost as though Remus already should have known the answer — as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He leans forward, his next words a low utterance.

"You know where I left the body."


Sirius reaches for the cigarette he's sharing with James. The other boy passes it to him automatically, his face pale in the starlight, features slack from the nicotine release. Their fingers brush with the motion. It feels as empty as it always has — emptier, maybe.

Despite his time on the Quidditch pitch, James's hands are softer than Remus's. James knows nothing of hard work — and he knows especially little of hard times — so perhaps Sirius is wrong to expect him to understand what he is about to tell him. He understands so little, after all.

Yet, Sirius decides to confide in him anyway.

They have always told each other everything — they made a pact for Merlin's sake — and while Peter cannot be trusted with every secret, he knows James will hold this close — even if he disapproves.

"I need to tell you something, Prongs," he says.

"Yeah, anything, mate," James replies, reaching for the cigarette. Poorly rolled, it is hard to pass back and forth, though Sirius supposes that is what happens when James is trusted with the tobacco. After fumbling with the thing, James pinches it between his fingers and asks, "What is it?"

"You won't like it," Sirius warns.

James shrugs and passes the ronnie back. "Can't be that bad."

Sirius makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "Remember you said that when you hear what it is."

A frown then tugs at James's mouth. He is not prepared for what Sirius is about to tell him, but how could he be? Sirius isn't ready to tell him either — but he has to. He cannot keep this away from his best friend. They made a pact: No secrets, not from each other.

He emits a sigh and closes his eyes. "I found Greyback."

"You . . . found Greyback," James echoes. "The Greyback?"

"Yeah. The Greyback."

"How?"

"Asked around Knockturn Alley. Growled at some hag til she told me," Sirius admits. He takes a long drag and hands it back to James.

"Where was he?" James asks.

"His house," Sirius answers. "Near Bilshire."

"And you . . . went there?"

"I did."

Rather than placing it between his lips, James makes a noise of disapproval and waves the ronnie around in that way he always does when he's stressed. Sirius wants to snatch it back from him.

"That seems pretty reckless, Pads," James notes. "Even for you."

"Probably was."

"Right, so why didn't you just owl the Aurors?"

"Aurors would've sent him to Azkaban," Sirius says, snagging the tobacco back. He sucks in a deep inhale. "He deserved worse than that."

"What could possibly be worse than Azkaban?" James inquires, not quite catching Sirius's use of the past tense.

"A Cutting Curse to the throat," Sirius deadpans.

Suddenly, James's expression changes. "That's not funny."

"You're right. It wasn't funny. It was a lot of things, but funny wasn't one of them."

James is drawing away from him. He looks confused, uncertain. Sirius cannot blame him. He would react the same way.

"That's what I wanted to tell you," Sirius goes on. There is no going back now. "I — I killed him, James."

James stares at him for a moment, awestruck, as though he did not register what Sirius has told him. They are frozen in time, frozen to this sick thing that is hanging in the crisp, autumn air — this thing that lives inside Sirius, that he's now shared with James. The only person besides Remus that accepts him as he is, wholly and fully.

The explosion follows the silence.

"You did bloody what?"

"He didn't deserve life, Prongs. Not after what he did to Remus," Sirius says, his voice thick between drags. "I know what you're thinking right now and —"

"Whether he deserves life or not is not up to you!" James exclaims. "Sirius, if this is some kind of sick joke, I swear it'll be me killing you next — "

He is shaking, but whether it is with rage or fear, Sirius is unsure.

"Look, mate, you didn't see what I saw," Sirius explains. "That place? Where he lives? It was bloody deplorable. The worst thing I've ever seen — and that's saying something, considering I grew up with Walburga. Here, take this, you need to calm down."

He tries to hand the cigarette back to James, but he does not accept it.

James is backing away now, shaking his head. "You know, I used to think that meant fuck all, her being your mum, but I guess the apple really doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?"

"You're comparing me to her?" Sirius repeats, aghast.

"You killed someone, Sirius. That's evil."

"Greyback is evil. Greyback is the one that made Remus the way he is — not me! I didn't do that!"

"No, you didn't. When you go after someone, apparently they turn up dead," James says coldly.

"Keep your voice down!" Sirius hisses. "It's not like I'm doing it all the time. It was once — to someone that bloody deserved it. Had you been there —"

"I would've stopped you," James said sharply. "I never would've stood by and let you kill someone — no matter who it was."

Sirius closes his eyes. "You're my best mate. That's the only reason I told you. I thought you'd understand —"

"I'm not mates with murderers, Black."

Sirius stares at him in disbelief. "That's how you see me, then? A murderer?"

"Well, it's what you are, isn't it?"

They are the last words he speaks before he heads back to the giant, oak doors, not sparing Sirius a second glance. The sound of the Halloween celebrations drains out into the atmosphere as he opens one, until it promptly shuts behind him.

Sirius stands in the courtyard alone, bathed in the waning moon.


Decay.

It stinks of it. A cemetery of human flesh and boyish innocence. Where there are children, there is no laughter — only scars and hiding places, hiding places Sirius will never give away.

They tuck beneath tables and into cupboards — dirty, caked in blood, though Sirius isn't sure if it's their own. Index fingers press against tiny mouths. "Shh," they say.

He presses his finger against his too.

"Shh," he says.

As he stalks into the house, dilapidated and bare, he hears the creaking of the floorboards above him. The weight is far too great to be that of another child, and Sirius knows it belongs to him — to their captor, to the monster that mutilated his Remus.

"I smell you down there, Animagus!" he growls. "Smells like wet fucking dog!"

Suddenly, the creaking is fast and loud. He is running — no, sprinting — towards the staircase, towards Sirius! Panting, Sirius slices his wand through the air —

He wakes in a cold sweat. He is in the Gryffindor common room, Peter in the bed across from him, remnants of pumpkin in his hair. Remus snores softly in his four-poster, a hole burned in the duvet where he dropped a roach. James is nowhere to be found, likely off somewhere smoking something of his own.

Sirius closes his eyes and draws in a breath.


Remus sits beside Sirius like he does every morning, yet something has shifted. Across from them, James is pushing food around on his plate, occasionally glancing up at the other Animagus.

Sirius is quietly cutting into a large sausage. He does not look up.

Remus understands that something has happened between the two of them, but he does not know what it is. Rather than press, he starts filling his plate and begins to eat. It is nearly twenty minutes later that Peter shows up, yawning.

"Morning, mates," he says.

"Morning's almost over," James says stiffly. "It's nearly eleven."

"Right, well I had to take a bath," Peter replies. He ruffles his sandy mane. "Someone got pumpkin in my hair."

"No idea who that could've been," Sirius mutters.

"Right, you have no idea," scoffs James, fully glaring at Sirius for the first time. He then looks at Peter and points his fork at Sirius. "He charmed a jack-o-lantern to break over your head. Laughed for ages, thought it was hilarious."

Sirius is staring at James, something akin to both betrayal and annoyance in his features. He sucks on his teeth and starts to cut another sausage.

"I must've been real bloody drunk, then. I don't remember that at all," Peter says. He chuckles awkwardly. "Unless Padfoot hit me with a Memory Charm after."

"Wouldn't put it past him," James growls, wiping juice from his upper lip. He stands up. "I've got Charms."

With that, he stomps out of the Great Hall, leaving Peter to blink with confusion, and Sirius stabbing his breakfast.

Remus clears his throat. "Your birthday's coming up soon, Pads. Sixteen, eh?"

"Right, you are. Then it's just one more year 'til I'm out of Grimmauld Place." Sirius scrapes the fork against his teeth. "Then I'm never going back."

"We'll charm your pocket watch to count down the hours," suggests Remus. "Won't we, Wormtail?"

Peter grins and nods. At least someone is acting normal.


"I shouldn't have told him," Sirius tells Remus.

"No, you probably shouldn't've."

Together, they are standing in the Shrieking Shack, though Remus doesn't need it on that night. It is Sirius who needs to yell, and Remus leans in the corner of the room, arms crossed, listening with full attention.

"He would've done the same if it were Lily," Sirius continues, throwing up his hands. "Can you imagine the curses he'd utter if someone did to her what Greyback did to you? And they're not even dating!"

Remus chews on his lip, wondering if Sirius has made a mistake. The world is irrefutably better without Greyback in it, but at the cost of Sirius's sanity? Nothing could be worth that.

"D'you regret it now, then? What you did?" Remus asks.

Sirius is quiet. For a long moment, he stands there, staring at the floor as though he's thinking quite hard. After a time, he shakes his head.

"No. I don't."

"You're sure?"

Sirius looks up at the other boy. "I saw what that place was like, Remus. I did it for you, yes, but — it wasn't just for you. That house he has . . . It was horrible ."

"I still can't believe that place is real," Remus mutters, more to himself than to Sirius.

"Trust me, I wish it wasn't. The kids there . . ." Sirius shakes his head again. "When I saw them, I knew he deserved to die. I thought he deserved to die when I went there that night, but by the end, I knew it — and James can't take that feeling away."

Remus exhales. "I've heard stories but — well, like I said, I never thought they could be real. Everything I heard seemed too awful to be true."

Sirius leans against the dusty coffee table and taps his fingers on the edge. "Awful doesn't even begin to describe it. There had to be a dozen boys there."

"A dozen," Remus echoes quietly. "All werewolves?"

Sirius nods. "I could smell it on them."

"So he really was growing that army of his."

"Not a willing army. Seemed feral almost, the lot of them. Reminded me of Reg, actually — the way he'd look when Walburga would give me a good cursing when I got into trouble . . . Just staring all helplessly, trying to hide before she saw him . . . Greyback had them scared beyond their wits —" He falters, eyes glistening like liquid mercury. " — because he did to them what he did to you."

Remus does not know what to say.

"When I saw them, my mind was made up." Sirius rubs his chin in that anxious way he so often does. "I didn't feel a pixie's pin of remorse, Remus. I still don't. And I never will. I did the right bloody thing, whether James thinks so or not." His gaze is locked on Remus now, watering and uncertain. "It doesn't scare you , does it? What I did?"

Remus laughs. "You couldn't scare me if you tried to to kill me."

Sirius laughs too, wiping the snot running from his nostrils. "Reckon I could say the same, though that's probably obvious."

"It's been a long while since I tried to kill you," Remus points out. "And it was your own fault."

"Oh, this again! The chains looked uncomfortable. What was I supposed to do? Let you suffer?"

"Yes! If I, in my wolf form, am trying to escape my chains, that's a bad sign, Sirius!"

"We live and we learn," Sirius says airily, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a spliff, which he promptly tosses to Remus. "Take it easy on that. I've got to lay low stealing from Sprout, she nearly caught me last week. Been mixing it with tobacco to make the most of it."

Remus lights the end and takes a long drag.

Sprout will be none the wiser.


Sirius follows James to the greenhouses, but James doesn't say a word to him. Trailing behind, Sirius decides to wait for the final bell before he joins him in Herbology. The longer he does not have to sit beside the other boy, the better.

He slows to a lackadaisical stroll, watching from afar as his classmates fill Greenhouse Three.

"Oi, brother!"

Sirius is startled by the nasal voice, though he recognizes it well.

When he turns, he sees his younger sibling waving at him wildly, seemingly excited they had run into each other — which is odd, considering they rarely speak. Regulus is alone for once, and in his left hand is a wide box, shallow and rich violet in color with a large, beige bow on top. Frowning, Sirius wonders what may be inside. His brother has friends in Slytherin, but it did not seem much like his housemates to give him a gift.

What the younger boy wants is a mystery, and Sirius is inquisitive enough to solve it.

He steps towards Regulus slowly, maintaining caution as the young Slytherin runs towards him in a near-sprint. It isn't long before the he slides in front of Sirius, sucking down air, grip still tight on the box.

"Hey Reg," Sirius says casually. "What d'ya have there?"

"It's for you, actually," pants Regulus. "From Mother."

"From . . . Mother." Sirius reaches for the box, skeptically. "Why didn't she send it directly to me?"

"She wasn't sure how to get something to Gryffindor."

"Of course she wasn't," Sirius mutters, examining the box closely, half-expecting to be hit with a jinx.

To his shock, there is indeed a name tag tied to the large bow. Plain as day, in Walburga's looping handwriting, is his name.

He cannot recall the last time she gave him a gift of any sort — yet for the first time in years, she has actually remembered his fast-approaching birthday — or perhaps it is just the first time she decided to acknowledge it.

Either way, Sirius is curious to see what she has sent.

He reaches for the lid, but before he has the chance to remove it, he notices some of Regulus's less desirable Slytherin friends loitering at the crest of the hill. They smirk at the two brothers and wave, though they seem to be doing it in a mocking manner.

"Awoo!" one howls.

Sirius frowns. Surely, the boy knows nothing and it is a mere coincidence he is making the sound. The only people he has told about Greyback are James and Remus, and no matter how angry James is, he will not spill the secret. Sirius knows he won't.

"I've got to get to Transfiguration. Enjoy those, brother," Regulus says.

He then climbs the hill and follows his friends back towards the castle. Still frowning, Sirius nervously palms the box, wondering just what the boy meant by the noise, and just what Walburga has in store for him.

He winces as he lifts the velvet lid, fully prepared for her nasty spellwork to cut into his skin. Yet, he feels nothing, and he opens his eyes, preparing for something macabre like an amputated elf ear or a Dark artifact.

Instead, he finds an assortment of chocolates.

They are decorated masterfully: colorful little bites with the Black crest stamped onto some, and Gryffindor red-and-gold swirling on others. Sirius raises his eyebrows in surprise and pops one into his mouth.

It's delicious.