Note: All right, so I was going to publish the fourth and last chapter some time next weekend, but two things happened: a) it grew (it is well past 9.000 words by now), and b) I'm quite happy with the first part (as much fun as multiple POVs are, I just love writing Remus 3 ). I was also feeling a bit guilty about the bloody cliffhanger that's been hanging there for two chapters now. Plus, I rather wanted to post this while Peter's deranged introspective rant in chapter 2 is still fresh in everyone's minds, because this part directly references it.

So, without further ado, here's chapter 4a, with part 4b hopefully posted by next weekend.

(Again, thank you so much for your wonderful comments and other forms of feedback, it makes my day, and makes me write faster ^^)

The Age of Lies 4a/4

Regulus, January 1981

Regulus is not sure how the time has passed, or why so much of it did before he even noticed.

Grimmauld Place used to be timeless. Or rather: It used to be nothing but time, Georgian façade and 18th century Persian rugs and Victorian four poster beds and a six hundred years old oak tree in the garden. It used to be a lifetime of waiting for summer to end. But now time has turned dark and sneaked past unnoticed, like a wicked shadow beneath his feet. The air is poisoned with the waste of it.

Doxies in the curtains, woodworm in the timber. He should have left earlier.

His mother, too, has declined rapidly, like an ancient marble statue finally exposed to the elements. By the looks of it, there has been nothing but unrelenting hail, never-ending frost. Regulus would like to think it started with his father's passing, but it didn't, it started when Regulus returned from certain death and brought that thing with him, that thing that is now three things, in a way: The locket from the Dark Lord's nightmare cave, safe in Regulus's bedroom. The diary in Cissy's library, the cup in Bella's summer residence, both safe there until he's ready to extract them.

Three must be enough, he thinks: Grimmauld Place is dying, and if three things can't weigh up Regulus's sins, then six or nine or twelve won't, either.

(How many are there, even? He'd thought the Dark Lord was insane. But to split his soul into three or six or nine or twelve – that's neither sane nor insane. It's something else entirely.)

The thing is sending black tendrils out, twisting and curling and wrapping themselves around every bit of darkness they can find, and there is plenty of darkness in Grimmauld Place, and there is plenty of darkness in Walburga Black. And Regulus can't say what they're forming, a cocoon or a web or a nest, just that his mother is in the centre of it.

His mother is in her bedroom. She can't stand being in the drawing room, the tapestry depresses her, with everyone dead or blasted off or fighting a war in which there are only losing sides, and everywhere else is too cold. She much prefers the rocking chair by the window overlooking the garden, with its ancient oak tree.

"Mother," he says, coming up to her.

Not looking up, she waves her hand in a now-familiar way, and when that doesn't work, she says, "Go talk to the portrait."

Regulus fights down the impulse to inform her that her portrait's insane. The terrible thing is that he understands why she's had it commissioned: She's doesn't wish to speak to anyone anymore. That doesn't mean a portrait is going to do a better job.

Especially not that one.

"I'm leaving, Mother," he says.

Walburga's eyes are on the oak tree outside. Its crown is full of mistletoe, almost humming with its plant magic.

"The tree is sick," she says. "It needs pruning."

Regulus says nothing. The tree is dying; it's the mistletoe that's killing it.

"Sixteen generations of Blacks had their wands cut from that tree," says Walburga.

Though not the current one, thinned out as it is. Regulus is about to repeat himself when Walburga finally speaks. "Once is not enough?" she says. "You left years ago. You ran away, the shame of it, I cried for a year -"

He lays a hand on her shoulder. "It's me, Regulus."

She huffs impatiently. "You," she says. "You died." She doesn't say, I cried for a year. Strong emotions are for his brother, always have been.

Her bedroom, too, is still filled with Christmas decorations that Kreacher has put up, green fir sprigs, spinning silvery stars, but the beeswax candles have never been lit. Regulus lets the silent seconds tick away, gives his mother a chance to line up her memories.

Then he says, "Not yet."

"You were a good boy." She talks like she always does: As if she's reciting lines she's learned from heart a long time ago. "Pride of our family. You fought for what was right –"

"I am now," Regulus says. "Thank you for your kind words, Mother."

He does hope his family will be proud of him in the end, or what's left of them – his mother, Narcissa, even Bellatrix. He's not sure this is something they are capable of. They will have to change first, and change is not something that comes easy to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

It hasn't come easy to him.

"Have you heard from your brother?" she says suddenly. His mother does that sometimes, when she doesn't take him for Sirius altogether. She just perks up and asks after him, and Regulus doesn't know if it's because she thinks Sirius is still writing him letters, or because she wants to know if the Death Eaters have finally captured him.

"Not recently," he says.

"He came to the funeral, you know."

"Did he?" says Regulus. "That's good, isn't it?"

There's just one funeral she could be referring to. Regulus's memories of it are hazy, and not because he had been blinded by grief at the time. Well, he had been, but not for his late father. Still, he's quite sure that Sirius showing up would have registered through the mental fog. The ensuing riot alone would have been hard to miss.

"As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly," sniffs Walburga. "Like Polyjuice could deceive me. He was always such a daddy's boy –"

He really wasn't, thinks Regulus. He just hated you even more. His mind is reeling softly. It's laughably easy to believe Sirius has done something so tremendously stupid as to walk into a funeral full of the relatives he'd snubbed, guarded by Death Eaters who were after his head. It's harder to think of a reason why. Not to honour their father. Certainly not to console their mother. Which meant -

"Of course, he was weak," says Walburga. "Always weak, always soft-hearted," and he can almost see her mental focus skipping a few years, to the summer of 1976 - he knows before she says it: "I had to do it, you see. I didn't have a choice."

Weak. Sirius had returned to the snake pit only to see how his Death Eater brother had been faring. It's an oddly comforting thought, even if it's almost certainly one of Walburga's false memories, one of her paranoid ideas. She sees Polyjuice on every stranger, Dementors under every drawn hood, Veritaserum in every cup of tea. She sees Sirius whenever Regulus enters her room.

He'll have to ask him if it's true.

"I know, Mother," says Regulus. "Let's hope you're right. Let's hope he is as weak as you think."

Walburga sighs, a long drawn-out exhale like she doesn't ever want to take another breath again. But even she can't fight her cerebellum, that pesky reflex that makes her breathe and breathe and breathe, dead air and dust and memories. "Tell the portrait," she says dramatically. "Tell her where you've gone. She'll bear witness. She'll be all that's left of us."

Regulus thinks back to a time when the only thing that would be left of him was a scribbled note in a fake locket. He should have been more careful. He should have been a lot of things. As it is, he's pretty much fucked. But.

Still.

If that one-finger salute to the Dark Lord is going to be his legacy, then he's okay with that.

His first impulse is to go directly to Sirius – it's an age-old impulse, dating back to a time before Hogwarts, before he could lie, hell, before he could speak – and he dismisses it. There's no time for first impulses, neither his nor Sirius's. It's how Regulus will end up Stunned or killed the second he shows his face.

Who, then? An image of his old Headmaster flashes in his mind. He doesn't trust Dumbledore any farther than he can throw him, and he doesn't trust anyone in Dumbledore's phony Order not blab to the Dark Lord's most priced spy, but since he has to pick one anyway -

Potter, he thinks. Sirius's chosen brother. He can keep Sirius's first impulses in check. Plus, the choice is undeniably practical: At least he knows where Potter lives. The spy has seen to that.

London has been drizzly and windy, but out here in Cornwall, it's pouring. Regulus doesn't bother with a rain-repellent charm – nothing else he's done to the Horcrux has dented it, he's fairly sure it can withstand a bit of water – and is careful to trip all of the wards around the Potter's cottage. Inside, alarms should be going off like the Muggles' New Year Eve celebrations a couple of days ago. Good. He doesn't mean to sneak in, after all.

The last barrier can only be lifted from the other side, so he waits. Across the lawn, the door opens and a woman appears, a wand in her hand. The first thing he remembers is her name. Evans. The second thing he remembers is Muggleborn.

The third thing he remembers is his mother's rant when Evans was made Head Girl. Blood is the glue of wizarding society. The fourth thing he remembers isagreeing. He still would, if he hadn't done more to bring down wizarding society than Evans's mere existence ever could. Irony? A lesson? Both?

There's still time to flee. She has no reason to trust him, every reason to hate him. Every reason to kill him where he stands. Regulus wills himself to stay where he is.

Then Evans laughs. "Finally, something's happening around here," she shouts across the lawn. "Hey, Sirius, how big is your wand?"

Regulus has not expected that.

He hasn't seen Sirius in years, hasn't been mixed up with him by anyone but his mother for even longer. But of course, they've always looked alike, and in the dark, with the pouring rain, and himself allegedly dead… "Fourteen inches," is what he almost answers, but no way would Sirius Black give a straight answer to a question as loaded as this.

Well then. Time for amateur dramatics.

"Well, one of them's fourteen inches," he drawls, "and the other is even harder to believe."

There is a pause. "Correct," says Evans at last. "Come on in, insufferable git. Kettle's just boiled."

He walks slowly across the lawn. Stepping into the square of light from the house feels like crossing the Rubicon, and he raises his empty hands as soon as the light hits his face.

Evidently Evans is not only in the Order because she is so damn decorative. A flick of her wand sends Regulus's own wand flying towards her before her face has even settled into the shocked expression it is wearing now. The silence stretches between them.

He wonders what she sees. Does she start out with Sirius, note all the ways he doesn't quite make sense? Does she recognise the Prefect he used to be? They'd worked together once, after all.

"What do you want?" she says, finally.

He keeps his hands where she can see them. "Help," he says.

He's quite an accomplished Occlumens, and he knows when someone isn't. Regulus can almost see the myriads of thoughts running through her head. Her confidence wins out. Maybe her boredom, too. "You can have tea," she says noncommittally. "And I'll contact Sirius."

"Thank you."

"Come in, it's pouring." She steps backwards into the house, never letting him out of her sight, and he follows at a safe distance. "Shoes off," she says, when they're in the corridor. "And if you so much as touch my son," she adds, "I will eat you. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear," he says, and lets her direct him into the kitchen.

Remus, January 1981

In the brief instant where everything is possible, between the noise and the flash, when he recognises Peter's face through the kitchen door window, exactly two thoughts go through Remus's head:

One: How much time, exactly, has passed, since they've given Regulus the Veritaserum? At a guess, an hour. More or less.

Two: When, exactly, has he started to trust Regulus over Peter? When he said, "Yorkshire accent"? Or before?

So, admittedly there's a bit of uncertainty attached to the entire situation, but fortunately for all of them, Remus is a quick thinker, and he has even quicker reflexes, honed and, frankly, reshaped, by his recent four-week stint in a forest full of wolves.

And wizards barging in with their wands raised are an excellent trigger for those reflexes.

He goes for the throat.

And the wand arm.

Green light flashes all around them, there's shouting, noise, bodies hitting the ground. Only when Remus has Peter securely pinned against the wall, hand clamped around his wrist, does he dare to look around.

James and Lily have dived under the kitchen table, looking utterly shocked. Taking up the space between them is Minnie, bored already after a burst of feline self-preservation.

Part of the far wall and ceiling have caved in, and the January night sky peeks through, incongruous in the bright, friendly kitchen. Sirius has thrown himself across his brother; both are lying motionless on the tiles, their wands rolled far away. Through the expanding cloud of dusty mortar, he can't see more than their outlines.

Deceptive and calm. Like a snow day.

Remus can't dwell, not now. He wrestles his attention back onto the man in front of him.

"Let go of that wand," he snarls, and pushes down on Peter's wrist with only a fraction of the force at his disposal, and oh, Peter has no idea how much force that is.

Remus can feel the flux of magic in Peter's wand arm, prickling under his fingers, like he's touching badly insulated wire. Peter's wand is pointed up and he can still blast the ceiling off the kitchen if he so desires, bury them all in bricks and mortar and scuttle off down a drain, but will he? And then the flux surges and -

Remus twists. The snap is unfathomably loud in the silence.

Peter's wand clatters to the floor, smoking faintly from short-circuited magic. A shocked second passes and then Peter howls, cradling his broken wrist. Remus kicks the wand under the oven.

"How many warnings did you think you were going to get?" he says hoarsely.

It's like a spell has lifted. James and Lily look at each other, and say "Harry!", identical expressions of terror on their faces. They're out of the kitchen in a flash and they can hear them in the next room, Lily and James shouting and then the cries of a grumpy, woken-up, healthy baby -

"Sirius, say something," Remus commands, careful not to let even a hint of emotion enter his voice.

For a long, murderous second there is nothing. Then -

"Oof," says Sirius. The first part of him that moves is his finger, to poke Regulus in the ribs.

There is no yelp. There is merely a dignified response of "I will break your wrist if you do that again."

"Oh good, you're alive." Satisfied, Sirius slowly gets off the floor, collects his and Regulus's wands, then extends a hand for his brother.

"Thanks," says Regulus quietly, clambering up from the floor to stand on legs that hardly shake at all. Then he addresses Remus, his eyes flickering towards the still hysterical Peter. "Bad day?" he says.

"You have no idea," says Remus. He returns his attention to Peter, who is now squirming in his iron grip. "I didn't even know a silent Avada Kedavra was possible," he says conversationally.

"Let go of me, you blinded idiot," says Peter. "That's Regulus Black, he's a Death Eater, you know that!"

"I know what he is," says Remus. "But what are you?"

"I said let go!" Peter's face reflects impatience, which appears deliberate, and too many thoughts at once, which doesn't. "What is your deal, attacking me and protecting him? Unless –"

Peter's face lights up. Not quite lightbulb, but he's making an effort. That wrist must hurt.

"It's you, isn't it?" he whispers. "Of course – gone most of the time, secret missions you can't breathe a word about, lies and lies and lies –"

Sirius strolls up to them, covered in dust and bits of wallpaper, all posture and poise and playing up the posh heir. It may not even be intentional, just something he falls back on when he's stressed. "Are you perhaps implying Moony is the spy?" Sirius inquires politely. Remus quietly thinks that this is a bit rich, coming from him, but right now he won't argue the point.

"Have you maybe missed the part where that maniac just broke my wrist!" shouts Peter.

"You fired a Killing Curse at a room full of people," says Sirius. "It's a fair reaction."

"I fired a Killing Curse at your Death Eater brother! That's a fair reaction, I should say!"

"I think we're going round in circles," says Remus. He lets go of Peter, all but shoves him onto a kitchen chair. "And don't you dare turn rat," he adds in a friendly voice, "I don't think Minnie has been fed today."

The cat prowling at their feet gives an affirmative yowl.

Over Peter's head, Sirius catches his eyes. His expression is carefully guarded as he lets his gaze flicker subtly to the vial he's left on the kitchen counter. Remus shakes his head in response. No Veritaserum. Not yet.

There is value in lies, if you know how to read them.

"A question, Wormy," says Sirius. "How did you know to come here today?"

Peter looks up at him like he can't believe he's even in this situation. But between Remus's hand on his shoulder and Sirius's cool grey eyes boring into his, he hurries to explain himself, as if they're still at Hogwarts. As if he did nothing more than botch a prank.

"I went to check on Moony but he wasn't home," Peter says, slowly regaining control over his heavy breathing. "I got his note at Headquarters, said he was back, said he was fine, but, you know –"

No-one volunteers to fill the pause Peter leaves for them, so he is forced to carry on.

"I was worried!" he says. "Moony comes back a week late, he's spent the full moon in the field and you know what can happen, and he didn't even report back in person, highly irregular, what was I supposed to think? Dearborn went ballistic, it was all I could do not to have him written up."

He looks up to Remus, musters him very, very carefully, and Remus knows he notes the heaviness of his shoulders, the asymmetry in his posture. "You don't look fine, by the way," Peter says, his voice a careful mix of concern and suspicion. "What happened?"

"You must know already, you were on communications duty," says Remus. "You got all my messages."

"Messages?" says Peter. "I don't remember any –"

"Then let me remind you," says Remus. "On the 22nd, I notified the Order about Death Eater activity in the forest and asked for intel. No response. On the 25th, I requested urgent reinforcements. No response."

He circles the table to face Peter directly, and Peter all but shrinks under his glare. "We were outnumbered against the Death Eaters, trapped, and helpless. Twelve men and women died on Christmas Day. Slowly." He pauses to force the tremble out of his voice, the silver wire, the poisoned darts. "Four children, too."

At that, he looks away from Peter, if only to keep himself from counting all the bones Peter has left to break. But elsewhere isn't better. He can barely stand the new look of concern on Sirius's face, nor the flicker of – shame? Guilt? – on his brother's.

When he turns his attention back on Peter, he sees the one thing he hasn't expected. Horror. Remus's resolve falters. Has he got it wrong after all?

And then Peter opens his mouth again. "But you survived," he says. His eyes are glittering with what Remus supposes is intended to reflect Holmesian deduction skills, but comes across as pure malice. "How come you always end up in these impossible situations? How come you always survive?"

It's not as if Remus hasn't asked himself the same thing. And, because he's clever, he has figured out the answer, or parts of it. Because he's a Werewolf with a wand and a Hogwarts education, less ruthless than Greyback, but more persuasive. Dumbledore isn't the only one who values these skills.

It is not an answer he is intent on offering right now, and Peter smiles with a hint of triumph, and turns to Sirius. As he does it, he clasps his hurt wrist, instantly looking just a hint pathetic. Just a hint incompetent.

After all these years, he's finally turned it into a weapon.

"We talked about this, Padfoot," Peter says. "You know it's him. You did the maths, you said it couldn't be anyone else. You tested him, for fuck's sake. Guess what? That information got leaked. You said you understood. You said he has no perspective here, he has no reason to be fighting for our side – you said you pity him, really -"

He takes a deep breath. "You know the Dark Lord's trying to recruit Werewolves," he adds. "You know what he's promised them. And God knows Moony likes to roam free –"

Sirius pales, and that's all Remus needs to know this is true, he really has said all of these things. To Peter.

"I was an idiot," Sirius whispers.

"No, Padfoot, you're an idiot now," says Peter, and now that he's finally found his footing, his voice is calm, understanding. "I'm sorry, but it's the truth. Look, I understand, Padfoot. Your brother is back from the dead, now wonder you're not thinking straight. I can't even begin to understand what you must be feeling right now. But listen. Listen to me, all right? Yes, he's here, but he's a Death Eater. I can only assume he's fed you a bunch of lies, likely on the Dark Lord's orders. They must have noticed you were catching on to Moony, so they gave you a mad new idea and you ran away with it."

Peter sighs, sadly, his pale blue eyes turning watery. "I understand, I really do. You think the world of Moony. You never liked me much. It's okay, I get it."

His voice is breaking slightly at that.

"But this is a war, and if you let your wishful thinking get in the way, you're helping the spy."

Sirius, as Remus before, is momentarily speechless. Regulus, on the other hand, has watched the whole thing play out impassively. But he, too, is extremely alert.

There's shuffling behind them. Lily, cradling a crying Harry in her arms, remains in the hall, never letting go of her wand, but James enters the kitchen. Who knows how long they have stood listening in the open door.

"James, finally," exclaims Peter. "Talk some sense into our idiot friends, will you? And if I could bother Lily for a quick healing spell, I'd much appreciate –"

"No," says James.

Peter starts sweating. "Look, mate, I get that today must have been stressful for all of us, but –"

"You tried to kill Sirius," says James flatly.

"Oh, not you, too," says Peter. "Okay, I overreacted. I admit it. It was his brother I aimed for. I see a Death Eater, I attack, okay?"

"Weren't you even the tiniest bit surprised to see him alive?" inquires Remus, who has finally found his voice.

"Yes, but, hello? Death Eater!" says Peter.

"He was unarmed!" snaps Sirius.

"He's a Death Eater!" says Peter. "For fuck's sake." He crosses his arms, and winces.

Regulus's smooth, soft voice drops into the argument like sealing wax. "So are you," he says.

"They were right next to each other," says James, "and you didn't take time to aim." He takes a step forward. "You didn't care. You blasted away half the house -"

"That's because Moony –"

"My son was sleeping in the next room. You didn't care."

"I said I was sorry!" shouts Peter. "Look, no harm done! It was a reflex! You've forgiven him for far worse!"

And he gestures to Sirius.

Which, Remus reflects, is an understandable reaction. Also, at this moment, it's entirely the wrong one. Maybe James is a hypocrite, maybe he's only human, but it obviously makes a large difference to him whether someone endangers the people he loves – or Severus Snape.

"Silencio," says James, and Peter shuts up involuntarily.

"Sorry, mate," James says bitterly. "Your Yorkshire accent was coming through."

He picks up the vial of Veritaserum from the kitchen counter and hands it to Remus. "Do it," he says, and his voice is full of Head Boy and Dad and Prongs, king of the forest.

"Ooh, let me," says Sirius.

"No," says Remus. "You had your fun. I'm doing this."

"But –"

"Trust me," says Remus, with so much emphasis he feels the words may explode in his mouth. Sirius has the decency to look sheepish.

"Besides," he adds, as the entirety of the whole situation is starting to catch up with him, "do you realise how lucky we just got?"

He gestures at the hole in the kitchen, at Peter slumped over at the kitchen table, at the dust still dancing in the air. "No, you take your brother to safety. The two of you go straight to Dumbledore, and you tell him everything you know."

After a moment, Sirius nods grimly. His brother appears less convinced.

"Are you, perhaps, insane?" says Regulus politely. "We can't just waltz into Hogwarts -"

Sirius laughs. "You'd be surprised."

Regulus doesn't respond. Reluctance to go is written all over his young face. James slips out of the kitchen, and returns after a minute with the silvery Invisibility Cloak under his arm. He presses it into Sirius's hands.

"I don't trust him," says Regulus, when it has become quite clear that they're going, and that they're going now. His expression has evolved and, for the first time this evening, he looks scared.

"Don't worry, Kiddo," says Remus. "Dumbledore will listen to you. You have exactly what he values in people."

"Which is what, exactly?" says Regulus.

"Utility," says Remus.

Sirius whistles through his teeth. "You really are grouchy today, Moony, aren't you?" To his brother he says, "Don't be scared. I'll be with you all the way. He'll listen to you."

"I'm not scared," says Regulus, a sure sign the Veritaserum has finally worn off. "I just don't trust him."

"Oh, come on," says Sirius. "Be a Gryffindor."

"Be an idiot, more like," says Regulus. "Out of the snake pit, into the –"

"If you want to be coddled, take it up with the badgers," Sirius snaps.

Regulus shakes his head free of emotion, the mask of Occlumency settling in once again, and he doesn't protest when Sirius takes hold of his arm. Still, he looks like nothing so much as a lamb led to slaughter when Sirius nudges him forward, whispering into his ear in a low voice – no, not to slaughter, Remus reminds himself, and certainly not a lamb, either. Finally, Regulus nods, giving in, or giving up.

In passing, Sirius gives Remus a look, which is unreadable. Remus gives him a look in return, which says Later. Then Sirius leads his brother outside, to the Apparition point beyond the wards.

Remus steels himself for a moment.

Then he says, "Finite," says Remus, and Peter gasps audibly.

"Moony, my friend," he says, as if he hadn't just tried to prove Remus was the spy, "you're not – you're not going to poison me, are you?"

Remus carefully measures three drops of Veritaserum into a shot glass full of tap water. "Of course not," he says sharply. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Unless, of course, you lied to us."

At this, James startles, visibly pale. "I don't want to be here for this," he says, and turns to be with his wife and child, leaving Remus and Peter to untangle the Marauders' last, and worst prank.

Tough luck.

"You stay where you are," says Remus.

"It's my house," James points out. "I go wherever I want."

Remus sighs deeply. "Tell him, Lily."

Lily, too, hesitates – she's watched this friendship grow from the side-lines, and if she's even half the woman Remus thinks she is, she wants to spare her husband from watching its destruction. But she's also a Muggleborn, and there are some things she understands a hundred times better than him.

"Peter's confession won't hold up in court if the only witness is a Werewolf," she says. "Or a Muggleborn. Stay, James. You owe him." She doesn't say who.

"We made this, James," says Remus. "People aren't born spies. This grew among us, and we were blind, or ignorant, or criminally negligent. Don't you turn your back on him now."

James looks at him for a long moment. Then he nods.

Peter squirms and wriggles and is not having it, coming close to knocking over the priceless potion. Remus looks up at James, nods at him, and finally, James gets it, gets the whole terrible truth of it: That Remus is a Werewolf, and he can't afford to step out of line. Not now.

James can, he always could, and he casts a silent, transient Imperius on Peter, just enough so he drinks the potion without spilling it.

And Remus thinks. Three questions, he thinks. He can do it in three questions.

One. "Do you work for Voldemort?"

"Yes."

Two. "Have you been passing information to him?"

"Yes."

Remus hesitates, because he doesn't want to know. And who would? This is their childhood friend, and he's been working to get them killed, or framed, or thrown into Azkaban. Who'd want to know?

Except Sirius, he realises with sudden, mind-blowing clarity. Sirius has never hesitated to poke where it hurts. Even if it took him a while to understand that not everywhere he finds hurt, there's betrayal.

Remus draws breath, he knows this is the final moment, the last time he can still justifiably pretend they're friends – maybe Peter has been forced, maybe Peter has been scared, maybe he has been tortured, or deceived, or bribed. Maybe he'd thought it was the lesser of two evils.

But the moment passes, and here they are. No more denial. No more lies. Only answers.

Three. "Why?"

Peter opens his mouth, and he looks so defeated right now that Remus has half a mind to jump up and take him in his arms, the way he saw Sirius with his brother, but no. Because Peter has gone the other way. Because he's not wrecked with regret. He's just scrambling to justify himself.

"I am not a psychopath," Peter says. It sounds like he's reading from a script. "Not like Sirius is. I've never just woken up one morning and decided I'm going to break the Marauders."

From there, it just comes spilling out.

To be continued.