It was Wednesday — Sirius thought it was, anyway. Time had become a bit of a blur since the band stopped touring, but he did know it felt like it'd been a long while since he'd met the new neighbors. Really, it couldn't have more than a few days.

Boredom had a way of stretching the hours.

He awoke in a puddle of drool — or bile, he couldn't be sure — with his usual midweek headache and an empty bottle on the nightstand beside him. At least he'd made it to his bed; he'd chalk that up as a win.

He groaned and rolled over. A rather ample pair of breasts welcomed him — well, a picture of ample breasts, but he found them pleasing, regardless. What was less pleasing was the way the magazine cover stuck to his cheek. As if it weren't punishment enough to rely on drunken wanks to get his rocks off, the universe was now serving him up with a faceful of his own seed.

"Fucking hell," he groused, tearing the old Hustler off of his face. He flung it across the room and rubbed his temples. "KREACHER!"

The butler only came a few days a week anymore, due to Sirius's dwindling finances. Sirius prayed it was one of the miserable old man's workdays, because he desperately needed an aspirin — and a full English.

"KREACHER! GET UP HERE, YOU BLOODY, OLD CUNT!"

Sirius rolled onto his back and squeezed his eyes shut, irate at the offending sunlight that poured through his window. He knew he should've boarded up the damn thing.

"KREACHER! I SWEAR, IF I HAVE TO —"

The door creaked open. Kreacher was staring at him, lack of amusement evident in his tired, round eyes. In one hand, he had a bottle of pills; in the other, a glass of water.

"Good morning, sir," Kreacher mumbled, sounding particularly unenthused. To be fair, he always sounded that way. "I presume you were looking for these?"

"You read my mind, old chap."

Sirius swung his feet over the side of the bed and held out his hand, more than ready to heal his wounds from the previous evening. Kreacher rolled his eyes and passed him the glass of water; the pills quickly followed.

"Is there anything else I can do for you today, sir?"

"Yes," Sirius answered. He swallowed down an aspirin and screwed the lid back on. "Full English, extra eggs. Maybe put some tea on, as well."

Kreacher — whose first name still remained a mystery to Sirius, despite his many years of service — let out an annoyed sigh.

"It will be my pleasure, sir."

"You're damn right it will, for what I pay you," Sirius bemoaned, handing both the water and the pills back from whence they came.

Kreacher accepted them and gave him a thin smile. "I'll be downstairs, sir."

The butler trudged out of the room. Sirius swore he heard him mutter something unsavory under his breath, but Sirus was too hungover to care. He cradled his head, grimacing at the sound of each creaking stair as Kreacher descended to the lowest floor.

"Christ," he grumbled, reaching for his discarded trousers. His knees cracked as he slowly pulled them on. Standing to button them was an almost impossible chore.

Considering the fiasco with the Hustler magazine, he supposed he probably should've changed his underpants, as they were undoubtedly sullied. But he couldn't be bothered. Maybe he would after he had a shower — if he had a shower.

He groaned and stretched, feeling no better after doing so. In fact, his neck felt stiffer, all of a sudden. The drinking was catching up with him in his later years. His stomach felt like he'd downed a tub of battery acid.

Nothing a full English couldn't fix.

Yes, a bit of fat to grease the belly, a good nap, and a couple of bines, and he'd be right as rain. He patted his gut and finally headed down the stairs. By the time he finished his morning business, Kreacher would hopefully be done, and he could eat away his troubles.

He slipped into the bathroom by the old elephant leg umbrella stand — a gaudy heirloom from his mad Aunt Druella — pulled down his trousers, lowered himself onto the toilet, and —

Ding-dong-ding!

"Oh, bloody hell," Sirius swore. "KREACHER!"

He heard no response. Perhaps the old man couldn't hear him all the way from the basement kitchen. Sirius could imagine he was going deaf in his old age, but that wretched doorbell was loud enough he reckoned you could hear it from the ruddy Weasleys' house.

Ding-dong-ding!

"KREACHER!" he shouted again. "ARE YOU GOING TO GET THAT?"

Again, silence.

"Bloody old man," Sirius grumbled, pulling his trousers back up. He supposed his bowels would have to wait until after he turned away whatever miserable solicitors decided to curse his doorstep that day.

Ding-dong-ding!

Whoever it was might as well have taken a sledgehammer to his skull. The awful noise felt about the same.

"Coming!" he announced loudly, quickening his step. The sooner he got rid of them, the better.

He reached the mudroom, fully prepared to shout at whatever cretins plagued him with their presence. With a turn of the knob, he pulled the door inward with unnecessary force.

His eyes widened in surprise.

"Oh! Hello," he said.

"Hi," said Remus.

Sirius's new neighbor stood before him, his handsome features even more sunken than the last time they'd met. He looked sheepish there as he wrung his hands, clearly feeling out of place.

"How are you?" Sirius asked, unsure what else to say.

"Just fine, you?"

"Fine," Sirius echoed. He cleared his throat. "Can I er — can I help you with something?"

Remus rubbed the back of his neck. "Actually, yes — if you don't mind, that is. I erm — I have a rather large couch that needs moving . . . Unfortunately, Hermione's not in the best position to help . . ."

"Ankle's still out of order then, eh?"

"Yeah . . ." Remus breathed. "Yeah, it's er — it's been a bit of a setback, with all the boxes and such."

"I can imagine. How bad was it?"

"High-grade sprain according to the doctor, whatever that means. She's in a boot to get around, but she's meant to be laid up with a bag of ice. It's been near impossible to get her to stay put . . ." He waved off what seemed to be the edge of a rant. "Anyway, I was wondering if I could get a hand? With the couch?"

Moving a couch sounded like hell. In fact, any manual labor sounded like hell to Sirius. There was a reason his mother paid others to do it growing up, he assumed, and the roadies never seemed too pleased about it.

Yet, he had found himself strangely interested in Remus since the very day they met. It was how he remembered the days of the week now, for God's sake: He'd met Remus on a Sunday and it'd been three days since, so it had to be Wednesday. The last time he'd had a day-marker outside of basic services had to have been when the ice cream van still made its rounds in the neighborhood.

Sirius supposed moving a couch was, in some sense, as good a time as any to get to know Remus, and to him, that was a thrill all its own it.

Manual labor or not, he'd be there with bells on.

"Just a couch?" he asked.

Okay, he'd be there with bells on so long as it wasn't some trap to get him to move a bed, a dining table, and whatever else the bloke had put in Old Man Slughorn's gargantuan house.

"Yes, yes, I've moved the rest on my own. Was a right nightmare with the mattresses." Remus's honey eyes danced past Sirius, taking in the interior of Number Twelve. "Twenty quid's in it for you . . . though I see that may not be rich enough for your blood."

"Completely unnecessary. Just let me get my shoes and a shirt."

"Really? I mean, it's truly no trouble —"

"No, no," Sirius said, putting up a hand. "This is what neighbors do — I think it is, anyway . . . I'll just be a moment, yeah?"

Sirius decided he wouldn't tell him that he had never once in his life done neighborly duties of his own accord, and moving sofas came about as naturally to him as speaking Finnish.

Hopefully, Remus wouldn't find out the hard way.

Leaving the door open, Sirius rushed back up the steps to his room, fished through his closet, and cursed.

"Shit!"

Endless robes and blazers and leather jackets had positively swallowed whatever casualwear he owned, which was, admittedly, very little. More often than not, being Sirius Black was a chore. Other people — normal people — had more than two tee shirts to choose from, but Sirius was a rockstar, a showman. He had no interest in being normal . He never had.

He tossed yet another pair of pinstriped trousers onto the floor.

"Aha!"

An old Sex Pistols shirt peeked out from the deepest corner of the spacious closet. He seized it and pulled it on.

Unfortunately, finding a tee shirt was far from his greatest feat yet. He still needed shoes.

It felt like he spent ages rummaging around in that closet, until finally, he found a pair of dirty, white trainers he used to wear on the tour bus. They had to be ten years old, those trainers. He had plenty of leather boots, house-shoes, and even a pair of high heels from one of his more provocative shows in Amsterdam — but trainers? They just weren't his style.

Clearing his throat, he stepped into them and hurried down the stairs. He was almost surprised to see Remus still waiting for him, rocking on the balls of his feet.

"Sorry about that, my closet is less equipped than some, I suppose," Sirius confessed. He gestured outside. "Shall we?"

"We shall."

Sirius slipped out onto the small porch and closed the door behind him. He suddenly felt quite close to Remus, on that crowded little stoop. He stretched his collar as heat bloomed in his cheeks.

Of course, he wasn't blushing . It was bloody hot — that was all.

"I hope I didn't interrupt your day too much," Remus said, jerking Sirius from his thoughts. He ambled down the steps, completely unaware that Sirius was watching his lanky legs rather closely. "It shouldn't take us long."

"You didn't interrupt anything," Sirius said all too quickly.

"Oh, good. I'd just thought I'd heard someone fumbling about the house as we were leaving. Wasn't sure if I was butting in."

"You weren't," Sirius replied. They stopped to let a car pass, then started across the street. "What you heard was probably Kreacher. Old bloke was making my breakfast."

"Kreacher?" Remus asked, sounding bemused. "Interesting name."

"It's his surname. He's my butler," Sirius explained.

"I see. Well, I don't mind waiting for you to eat —"

"No, no, we're going to get this couch of yours moved. I pay him by the hour, so he can stand to make me another plate if he's so worried." Sirius then frowned, realizing there was no couch in front of Remus's house. "Where is the couch?"

Remus waved vaguely towards his door — deep navy and complete with a custom brass knocker. Old Man Slughorn really did have expensive taste — not as expensive as Sirius's, of course, but it was certainly ostentatious for a single, retired pharmacist who'd never had a single guest.

Perhaps the old-timer and Sirius could've been grumpy, reclusive friends if either of them had made the effort. They were more alike than one would think.

"Inside," answered Remus. "The furniture company dropped it in the mudroom and took off. I tried to scoot it, but with the hardwood floors . . ."

"Right, right. No sense in ruining the hardwood." Sirius rubbed his throbbing head and gestured the steps. "After you, then."

Remus nodded and ascended. Sirius watched with interest as he cracked open the door with a wince, sinking every ounce of his lean strength into trying to force the door all the way open. Realizing it was as far as it would go, Remus made a face and maneuvered himself sideways. He managed to squeeze through, though not without great effort.

"It's a bit tight," he said.

Sirius mirrored Remus, scraping his midriff on the doorframe as he sidled into the mudroom. He saw what the other man meant: A large suede couch was blocking the better portion of the front door, cornering several stacks of boxes.

"You weren't kidding," he said, closing the door behind him. He crossed his arms and pressed his back to it. "No sense, the way they left that."

"I paid for dropoff, but I assumed that meant where I wanted it."

"It should ," Sirius said. He looked down at the couch. "It's bloody big too."

"Bigger than I thought," Remus replied. "Suppose I misread the measurements in the catalog. Perhaps it won't be such a bad thing, though . . . The living room's a bit echoey, might make it look a bit less bare . . ."

"I'm sure it will." Sirius took a deep breath. "Well, no time like the present, I suppose."

"Yes," Remus agreed. He nodded in Sirius's direction and grabbed the end closest to him. "Er — you take that end and I'll take this one? You'll need to guide me around the corner there —"

"Would be happy to," Sirius said at once.

Remus watched him as he reached down to squat by his end. It was obvious Remus had much more practice with this kind of thing, based on the way he stood by the sofa end with great purpose. Sirius must have looked like an absolute ponce in comparison.

"Ready?" Remus asked.

No, Sirius thought.

"Whenever you are," he replied instead.

Remus bent over to pick up his side of the couch. "On three?"

" On three, or after three?"

" On three."

"Right, good. People always say on three but mean after three. My band's old drummer —" Sirius cleared his throat, deciding he'd rather not discuss his band's rather depressing downfall. "It's bloody confusing is all. Count us down, then?"

"Yeah," Remus said. "On three: One. Two. Three!"

Both men picked up their ends of the giant couch. Sirius's knees nearly buckled under its immense weight.

"Back up, back up, back up," he said. "Keep going, keep going — stop! Turn to the left —" Remus bumped into the wall and grimaced. "Sorry, I meant my left. Your right — yes, that's it."

Sirius kept scuffling forward, leading Remus around the corner in question. Remus must have caught on that Sirius had no idea what he was doing, because he kept twisting his neck to look behind him. Fortunate for him too, considering Sirius nearly led him straight into a stack of boxes. It was complicated, making sense of the differing rights and lefts — especially hungover.

Finally, they turned into the living room. Sirius almost sighed in relief, thankful that he wouldn't have to do any more directing, but something wild and bushy caught his attention in the adjacent hallway. There stood Hermany? Hermene? Hermes? Remus's ward. Her arms were crossed, and her mouth was pulled downward into a scowl.

"You could've just told me you needed help," she said.

"No, I couldn't have," Remus panted, still backing up. "You would've pushed yourself too hard. And you're supposed to be wearing your boot!"

"I'm fine . It's just a sprain —"

"Stop!" Sirius shouted over their bickering. A stack of boxes loomed inches away from Remus, threatening to topple onto him if he took even one more step backward.

Remus came to a halt and lowered the couch to the floor. He then put his hands on his hips and edged around it, stopping in the center of the room to get a good look at their work.

"Looks pretty good, I think, in spite of the size."

"It's not even," the girl pointed out. "The right side needs to be pushed back."

Sirius rolled his eyes and adjusted it. How Remus lived with that girl, he hadn't the faintest. If he ever needed a reminder not to have children, all he had to do was pay the two of them a visit.

"Better now?" he asked her.

Pursing her lips, she admitted, "Yeah. It's fine."

Remus plopped down onto the sofa and regarded her. "Want to give it a try? Plenty of room."

"I'm fine, thanks . . ." With a faux smile she added, "I'll be upstairs whenever you're done."

She flashed Sirius one final look of disapproval before disappearing into the hallway. Footfalls on stairs sounded as Remus lay his head back and closed his eyes, basking in what was likely his first break in some time.

"Comfortable?" Sirius asked.

Remus patted the spot beside him. "See for yourself."

Sirius did not sit in the spot Remus patted, as it would obviously be quite unusual to sit right beside him when the sofa could easily fit five grown men. He did, however, take a seat a cushion away. It was much more comfortable than that stupid chair he always sat in back at Number Twelve. Maybe he was due for some redecorating.

A door slammed upstairs. Remus rubbed his forehead.

"You've got your hands full, it seems," said Sirius.

"She has a lot to adjust to. New house, new school. Living with me ."

Sirius nodded, suddenly feeling a pang of guilt for his annoyance with the girl. Adapting to such a situation had to be hard.

"Tough luck, that is," he said. "At least she's got you. Better than the system, yeah?"

"I suppose . . . I just hope she can make some friends here." Remus let out a laugh. "She's not had the best of luck with that in the past."

"You don't say?"

"She used to sit in my classroom at lunch just to avoid the other students," Remus explained.

If I were a student, I might sit in your classroom too, Sirius thought.

Naturally, he couldn't say such a thing, though.

"Bloody hell. Was she being bullied, then?"

"I have no idea," Remus admitted. "She'd come in and read the encyclopedias I had on the shelf. One right after the other. Once she finished those, she was onto something else . . . A History of Scottish Castles , I think. Not exactly the social sort."

So she was a swot. Sirius couldn't relate, but he recalled Lily Evans — Potter now — was the same back in school. Suddenly, he felt a bit bad for poking fun of her back then.

"There's kids in the neighborhood she might get on with," he said, hoping he could help. "The Weasleys have a couple around her age. The Potters too."

Remus snorted. "After meeting Weasley, I think I'd prefer she doesn't make friends with theirs."

Sirius chuckled. "He's a good bloke, but by God , is he annoying. Did he ask you about your toilets?"

"Wouldn't shut up about them!" Remus shook his head. "Wanted to see the lot. I let him, of course, but then he started going on about sending his children over when his were full? Lost me at that, he did. No way on God's green Earth am I letting his herd of kids clog up my toilets."

"Of course not, it's bloody weird."

"Right! Can you imagine? Waking up in the morning and discovering you can't take a piss because some ginger little cretin is . . ."

Sirius was beginning to tune Remus out, for an idea was blooming in his head and he couldn't listen and think at the same time — not in this state. His new, unlikely friendship was bringing him some joy he hadn't known in a long while, and while he wasn't entirely sure, he had a feeling Remus felt the same way. But they had to keep it alive. There wouldn't always be giant couches to move around, or distressed wards in need of saving.

There was, however, a sad ward in need of friends — and it seemed to be important to Remus.

"You know, I just had a thought," Sirius said.

The rant died on Remus's tongue. "Yeah?"

"I have a nephew I reckon is Herm — Hermy — her age . . . or close to it, anyway. A cousin, technically, but I call him my nephew."

"Oh?" Remus asked, seemingly interested. "Where does he go to school?"

"Smeltings, I think."

"Smeltings?" Remus repeated. " That must cost his parents a pretty penny."

Sirius shrugged. "My great-uncle paid for a building for them or something. Everyone in the family's gone ever since."

Remus raised his eyebrows. "Paid for a — wow." He shook his head. "I think we come from very different backgrounds, my friend."

Regret bubbled in Sirius's stomach. Why did he have to mention the bloody building?

"It's just a school," he said casually.

" Just a school? It's the best in the bloody country! Hermione'd kill me in my sleep if it'd get her in there."

"Well, it'd be a wasted effort on her part. I hated the bloody place." Sirius cleared his throat. "My nephew, though, he's a good lad. I'm sure he'd like to make a little friend . . . If you'd like me to set up an introduction, I'd be happy to."

"That'd be brilliant, actually," Remus replied. He chuckled. "A Smeltings boy might actually be able to hold a conversation with her. Lord knows I can't."

"That insufferable, is she?"

"Not insufferable, no," Remus said, though the strain in his voice told Sirius she very much was insufferable. "Hard-headed, and more mature than her peers, I reckon. Smarter than I am, by far."

Sirius nodded, deciding not to tell Remus that his nephew was, in fact, insufferable too, but mostly because he was a spoiled little shit.

"Sounds like they'll get along great. The boy visits me sometimes," Sirius fibbed. "I'll check with his mother when I'll see him next. We can set up a play-date of sorts."

"I think they're a bit old for a play-date ," Remus mused.

Sirius waved him off. "Or whatever you want to call it."

"Yes, sure . . . Yeah, that'll be good for her. She could certainly use it . . ." He tilted his head to the side, regarding Sirius. "Are you hungry at all?"

Was Remus about to invite him to lunch? Sirius's stomach flipped at the thought. He'd not had lunch with a good-looking man in well over a year, and he'd not had lunch with a good-looking man that wasn't a stripper in at least a decade.

"Extremely."

"Oh, I forgot. You were eating at home, weren't you . . ." Remus remembered. He deflated a bit, only making Sirius more nervous.

Was this man about to ask him on a date ? A real, legitimate, not-just-lunch-between-mates kind of date?

"No, no, it was just a little something," he said quickly. "Honestly, my butler's probably eaten it himself by now." He cupped a hand around his mouth and whispered, "Between you and I, he's not a very good butler."

Remus laughed a little at that. Suddenly, Sirius felt dizzy, like the room was spinning and he needed to empty his stomach onto his shoes. He'd prepared to move a couch and maybe a dash of light flirting, not for a full-fledged lunch date.

"Well, if that's the case, I suppose I owe you for helping me move this monstrosity," Remus said. "I was thinking of ordering a pizza, if you'd like to stay?"

"Pizza sounds ace," Sirius said. He wasn't sure of the protocol. Frankly, he wasn't even sure if it was a date yet. Maybe it was all Remus said it was: Payment for a job well done. On the other hand, if it was a date, he surely couldn't let Remus pay. Judging by his scratchy sweater, he was as house-poor as Weasley was. "But I'm happy to pay for it — or we can go halves, if you like."

"Don't be ridiculous. Like I said, I owe you." Remus rose to his feet and started down the hall. "Think about what you want! I'm going to go ask Hermione for her order."

Despite all the grandeur, Sirius was a simple bloke at times. He just wanted mushrooms.

He hummed to himself, awaiting Remus's return. It couldn't be much of a date, he supposed, if the girl was going to be involved. Though, she seemed rather attached to her bedroom. Perhaps, they would get some alone time, after all . . . Sirius chewed on his lip. It was becoming abundantly clear to him that he wanted his newfound friendship to be more than that.

It had been a long time since he met someone truly fascinating , and to him, Remus was just that. He was handsome and simple, but bookish and bright — and there was something mysterious about him that Sirius wanted to untangle for himself.

"Of course I still want to go!"

The voice belonged to the girl. Sirius frowned.

She and Remus were arguing — at least that's what it sounded like. He couldn't make out all of the words, but Hermany — Hermine? Sirius would never remember her name. Anyway, the girl didn't sound pleased.

After another moment, he heard creaking stairs. Remus emerged from the hallway and offered a weak smile.

"Hermione has reminded me we have plans to go to the library today," he said. "Could we reschedule for tomorrow? Maybe around six?"

Sirius's heart sank a bit, but he tried to see the bright side: Rescheduling for tomorrow meant he would be seeing Remus again. Another day he wasn't going to be stuck at home, drunk and alone was a win in his book, especially if it was another day with Remus.

He really was getting in over his head.

"Tomorrow works for me," he answered.

"Sorry. I completely forgot —"

"Nothing to be sorry for!" Sirius interjected, standing. He smiled and clapped Remus on the shoulder. "Enjoy the couch, mate. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Thanks. And yeah, tomorrow. I'll er — I'll walk you out."

Remus tagged behind Sirius as he made his way to the door, close enough Sirius felt his heart rising into his throat. If he'd told himself he'd be near-infatuated even remotely interested in a neighbor five days before that, he would've said he was barking.

He took a shuddering breath as his hand found the doorknob.

"I'll erm — I'll call my cousin, and see if I can arrange that play-date — or . . . whatever you want to call it."

"Brilliant," Remus breathed. "Thanks again — and er — thanks for the help today. No way in hell could I have done it alone."

"Bloody right you couldn't've," Sirius poked. He opened the door and stepped out onto the stoop, preparing for their afternoon farewell. At least, it wouldn't be for long. "It's a damn big couch."

"Too right, mate, too right." Remus raised his eyebrows. "Tomorrow, then?"

Sirius nodded. "Tomorrow."

The door closed in his face. He was still smiling.