A/N: A lot of warnings for this chapter - please read with care. Also, if you want to be as upset as I was writing this, I highly recommend a dose of 'The Moment I Knew (Taylor's Version)' by Taylor Swift. Which is what gave this chapter its name.
TW for underage drinking, underage smoking, drug use, substance abuse, implied/referenced self-harm, suicide ideation, internalised homophobia, minimal period-typical misogyny, referenced child abuse, referenced murder, references to blood purism, referenced bullying of someone with mental illness, stigmatisation of mental illness, referenced cheating, and a non-explicit scene of a sexual nature between two consenting (but inebriated teenagers). Nothing is described in any real detail and the focus is on the emotional landscape of the POV character.
So yes, please read with caution.
Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading, kudosing, and commenting! You guys make my day 3
March 5th, 1976
He shouldn't have been listening.
Peter stared at his copy of A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot, comprehending nothing. The toilet door was a lot thinner than anyone gave credit for. Maybe it was because they were so well-practised in ignoring the sounds from inside; maybe it was because they were so well-practised in determinedly not thinking about the people on the outside. But they weren't troubling to whisper, despite the late hour, and Peter had only caught their words by chance as he swapped textbooks, pushing on with their endless homework and hoping nobody caught him. Remus did his work and did it early, in the library, and didn't care if James and Sirius poked fun at him. James and Sirius often didn't bother with their work at all. If they did, whenever they did it was the right, coolest, most careless time, and wherever they did it was the appropriate place. If Sirius had been caught doing homework at eleven-thirty at night, he'd shrug and make some quip that made it make sense; of course he would revise at eleven-thirty, why would anyone bother revising at any other time?
"It's not that I mind," James said, and there was a pause in which Peter could imagine him ruffling his hair. "I know something's going on. It's – you were in a state the other day."
"You don't have a go at Wormy," Sirius snapped. Peter's chest tightened. Oh, no, no. He didn't want to be dragged into whatever was going on between them. Well, he wanted to know what was going on, and ideally help fix it, but he didn't want to be used like a hex.
"What's Pete done?" What Peter could've done was kiss him for that. "Oh. Sirius -"
"When I do it, it's wrong, but when he does it's fine? What's the difference? I know I'm just – inherently – fucked, I know, I know you're -" Sirius' voice cracked. Peter had never heard him like that. Breathing hard, like he was close to tears.
"Sirius." Peter slowly, slowly pulled the textbook to his chest and began to lower the lid of his trunk. "It's pot."
"Nearly every day."
"Yeah, but -"
"What?" Silence. Peter's fingers strained to hold the weight of the lid, and he prayed they'd talk again, shout even, so he could close it. "Fine, James. Fine. Just fucking -"
"Listen to me!" Peter fumbled at the sudden noise, and the lid slammed. He stilled.
"What was -?" Sirius demanded.
"Someone knocked something off their bed," James said. Peter sighed, and started to edge around the side of his bed. Past where Dale slept, a yellow light shone through the gap beneath the toilet door. "If Pete skipped lessons, or wouldn't get out of bed, or woke up vomiting, I'd be telling him to lay off. He smokes a bit with Dale. I'm not taking him to the hospital wing."
Sirius said nothing – or if he did, it was too quiet for Peter to hear. It was true, what James had said. Since Sirius had turned into a thunderstorm, Remus had dived deeper into his revision, and James had picked up more quidditch practices as well as training for the International Transfiguration Tournament, Peter had sought Dale out a bit more. He just didn't like sitting around aimlessly, while the others were consumed by themselves. There was only so much time he could spend in the library, barely getting what James and Remus were talking about, and only so long he could feign interest in a magazine while waiting to see if Sirius got out of bed that day, so he wasn't alone and furious when he woke up. But it wasn't like he smoked with Dale every day. It did burn a little excitement in Peter's throat though. He was the one doing something rebellious, and illegal, and cool. He was the one with a friend outside the group. Dale didn't think he was useless.
"Look," James said, so softly Peter crept across the room to make sure he could hear. "I feel like… I don't know. It's easy to get stuck up in here. Once you miss one thing, it just sort of…makes you want to miss everything else." James sighed. "Come tomorrow, to the match. Might clear your head a bit. And I want you there."
A pregnant pause. So long Peter worried they were going to leave, and he scurried back to his bed, so he could look as if he'd just got up to pee.
"I always come," Sirius said. "D'you think I wouldn't?"
"I know you will," James said. "I'm only telling you to get your sorry arse down there early and cheer as loud as possible. It'll do you good too. Promise me, yeah?"
"You need me to promise?" His voice was laced with hurt.
"Nah. Not really. It's just to make sure your guilt complex kicks in if it gets to ten-thirty and you've not painted your face yet."
"I'm not promising to paint my face."
"Lazy bastard."
"I promise I'll come. Because you think I wouldn't."
"Sirius."
"I promise. Happy?"
"Don't worry about me, mate. I want you to be."
"Loser."
The door opened, and Peter swore loudly as the light spilled onto him. Sirius stared, and James raised his eyebrows. Shit, shit, shit. Peter grabbed his crotch and began jumping from foot to foot.
"I'm busting!" he hissed, hoping desperately they bought it. "Were you snogging in there?"
"Don't wet yourself in jealousy, Wormy," Sirius said, slinking off to bed. James stepped out and gestured to the toilet.
"All yours," he said. Peter nodded quickly.
"Thanks."
He locked himself in the toilet and scoured the room. There was a wet towel over the rack and an empty vial on the sink, but aside from that, it looked untouched. Usual. His heart hammered as he flipped up the toilet lid, in the name of making things sound realistic (keenly aware of how much he'd been able to hear). James and Sirius were fighting. Or as close to fighting as they ever got. Finally, finally, James could see the way Sirius was acting, and the way he treated everyone else. Hell, James had defended Peter to him. To Sirius. That had to mean something.
But all the same, there was a guilt in his excitement. Overpowering guilt.
March 6th, 1976
The morning dawned hazily, and the Gryffindors were but red blurs criss-crossing the training grounds, toes skimming the parapets below. In the fog, Micky Hoover seemed to fall asleep with his eyes open, staring at James, and crashed into a wall. There was a reason most chose to practice on the pitch rather than the training grounds, but today, there was no hope of that: Madam Hooch had taken control of the stadium, as always, patrolling to ensure it wasn't cursed and preparing for the match. Today, Gryffindor would face Hufflepuff in their second game of the year, and today, Gryffindor had to win.
James touched down and started towards John, slinging his broom over his shoulder. His heart pounded and his veins thrummed from the effort of flying, and his soul soared. He never felt more alive, he thought, than on mornings like these. He only needed a bit of sweat to accompany his sharp pants and a taste of victory and he'd be set. His core burned, and there was the tiniest ache in his shoulder from where Kelsey had thrown the quaffle too hard in his direction. He'd caught it, of course, but it had taken a quick manoeuvre. James grinned as he joined the others in their crimson cluster, and his face hurt with the movement. It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Today, only quidditch mattered.
"Arms." Livia elbowed him. James looked down. She was red-cheeked and breathless, dark hair stuck to her forehead. She lifted her arm and slung it around him. James raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement and threw his arms around Livia and Laura, joining the huddle. The team bent their heads. They all wore their training robes - muddier and plainer than their match kits. Their names weren't on the back and some of the robes scooped upwards at the front, revealing grey breeches and padding underneath. John met James' eyes, and his gaze fell on every one of them in turn.
"Alright," he said, when his inspection concluded. "They're hoping this mist clears, but it may well keep up all day. We have to be ready for it. It's going to make it more difficult to aim and more difficult to throw or hit long. Chasers, I want tight passes where you can - lots of back-and-forth to confuse them, rather than holding it longer and shooting long to send them chasing it. Beaters, you need to be vigilant and quick with your defence. You might not see the bludger until the last moment so you need to be ready at any time. Work on keeping possession of the bludgers and aiming them at targets you can see rather than taking blind bets. Marlene - Alastor too - you need to be on it at all times. Circle the hoops, don't fly idly, and change your pattern often. The quaffle could come out of the mist at any moment. And remember, all of you, that in low-visibility matches there is a tendency to cluster. Beaters, use Hufflepuff's clustering to your advantage. Chasers, don't fall prey to it. Stay close, yes, but not on top of each other. At no point should you be able to touch each other or grab the other's broom. Finally, injuries come up in these games almost as much as in thunderstorms, it's deceptive. Mind your flying and signal to me if you need a break or a change. Reserves, you need to be paying attention - today is not a chance to slack off. Do we all understand?"
"Got it," James said firmly, joining the others in their assent at the end of John's speech. Together, like this, they were one, united by a common goal and a common enemy. He looked around. Even if they only won by a little bit, he'd be proud. He was proud of them now, just for flying warm-ups.
"Good," said John firmly. "We'll go until seven-thirty, then I want you all to have a good breakfast and bring your match robes down to the changing rooms if you haven't already. We'll meet at nine, match is at eleven."
They ran the last of their drills, focusing on their tactics for the game. The chasers switched partners regularly - first James was with Laura, for whom short passes were her strength, then with Loretta, who seemed to improve with each training session. Kelsey nearly knocked him off his broom again and had a short row with John about the benefits of longer passes in a foggy match, and that she wasn't bloody blind, and finally James partnered Livia.
"Going to smash them?" Livia asked cheekily, catching his pass with one hand. She tossed it to the other and threw it back. James caught it.
"Definitely," he said. Livia laughed, eyes and nose crinkling. He glimpsed a smatter of freckles across her dark cheeks, lit by the earliest rays of sunlight. She was infectious, and he laughed too, ruffling his hair with his free hand and chucking the quaffle back.
"Don't you believe me?" he asked, as Livia threw the ball into the air. "They're only Hufflepuffs. It'll be an easy win." Livia snorted. James shrugged.
"They're second on the ladder," she reminded him. "We're dead last."
"Yeah," he said, and shrugged again. "We had an off game. We're still better than them. We just have to prove it." As far as James was concerned, that November match was long written-off. They'd all been massively hungover from Halloween and Sirius' early birthday party, and he wasn't going to rule out that Slytherin had taken a bunch of Felix Felicis that morning. This would be different. It had to be. They needed to get ninety points to get off the bottom of the ladder and beat Hufflepuff by a hundred and forty to claim second place, and both of those were perfectly reasonable goals. Ninety on the board was piss-easy if he focused, and they just had to be no more than a goal behind Hufflepuff when John caught the snitch. They could pull it off.
Seven-thirty came, and they traipsed up to their dormitories for their showers. James stopped surreptitiously on the way, holding his wand over his heart and chanting as the sun came up. Any day now, he was sure the lightning storm would come, and finally, finally they'd be able to do something for Remus. The next moon was only a little over a week away; James held out hope that it would pour and thunder before then. Sometimes the whole thing seemed like a dream, the potion and the leaves and those years of research. But at dawn and dusk every day, he felt its truth.
Sirius was still in bed when James arrived, his wand loose on his bedside table, and Dale was too, but Peter and Remus were up. James gave Peter a careful look, and Peter frowned for a moment before giving a quick nod. Remus looked at him – James swallowed – and Peter burst into a babble of speech.
"How'd you go?" Peter asked excitedly, looking up from what he and Remus were working on. A large red banner sprawled across the floor, with three yellow letters charmed to it so far: 'G R Y'. Peter was still in his pyjamas, a long white nightshirt and striped bottoms, but Remus wore robes of deep maroon.
"Brilliant," James said, a little warmth spreading through his chest. "We'll win today. How's the party planning?" Remus rubbed the back of his neck. Peter scrunched up his face.
"I'll have to double check with Dale," he admitted. "But Bagman said he'd go into Hogsmeade yesterday to get the beers, and some of the girls said we could borrow their records if we want."
"Good job." James slapped Peter on the back. He was good at this sort of thing. Yeah, James and Sirius and Remus could pull off some of the magic better, when it came to enchanting decorations or setting up spells, but Pete was surprisingly good at talking to people and getting things organised. It helped that he was on good terms with Dale, of course; Dale was full of connections for a bloke that was happiest shabby-robed and shaggy-haired. "And cheers, Remus, too."
"Go for your shower," Remus advised sagely. "Sirius'll be up if you keep talking, and he'll want to go first."
He was right. At the start of term James would've chanced it and sat down and helped them with the banner, but Sirius' moods grew fouler and fouler each day. Something was pissing him off, and whatever it was, he didn't want to talk about it. Merlin knew James had tried. His guts twisted at the memory of the night before. He rummaged through the bathroom cabinet, looking for a new bottle of shampoo, and encountered too many empty vials. Half of it wasn't even good – the Pepperup was gone, and James didn't know anyone who got a kick out of that. It didn't even help you sleep. Sirius kept complaining of headaches, and Pepperup did all of nothing for that either, but he refused to go to Pomfrey. He hadn't gone back since the morning James had half-dragged him there, and Pomfrey had pulled him aside at breakfast on Wednesday to insist on another check-up after he'd skipped seeing her during Tuesday's lunch.
It was pissing James off. He tilted his face up and let the cold drops hit his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. It wasn't Sirius' behaviour that was pissing him off, though, it was that James couldn't figure out what the fuck to do to fix things. He couldn't even pinpoint exactly how it had started. The boggart had been a bludger to the face, that was for sure, but Sirius had been miserable before that. Since the dance, at least. Or earlier. James massaged the shampoo into his hair. Sirius had been drinking a bit since the start of the school year, and probably the first of his – well, weird decisions – had been on Halloween, when he'd tried to have sex with Marlene. Why, James didn't know. They'd kind of got along, but Sirius had never fancied Marlene and if Marlene had ever taken a liking to Sirius, she'd kept it quiet. Even afterwards, when she'd been upset about it, James had thought the gist of it was just that she felt embarrassed, not that she was heartbroken. She'd been angry, and girls were meant to be sad when the bloke they liked didn't like them back. But then, he didn't really know any heartbroken girls, did he?
But it couldn't have started then, James thought, rinsing his hair and putting conditioner through it. He would've realised and sorted it out by now. Bad moods didn't go on for months. Madam Pomfrey had said O.W.L year was stressful. He knew Sirius didn't give a damn about his marks, but there was beginning to be this strange sense of anxiety in the air, and the water as well. It was probably catching. And it wasn't as if Sirius didn't have anything to be upset about; his parents were bastards, his brother was running around with the worst of the worst, and the teachers piled homework on them like it was their life's ambition to become a library-bound insomniac with cramped, inky hands. And, James reasoned, the Animagus thing wasn't small. They all wanted to help Remus, and each day of fruitless clouds made the moon chafe a little rougher.
He finished up and stepped out of the shower, towelling himself off amidst the steam. Right now, he decided, it was probably the boggart bothering him, and their homework too. James could fix that. Normally he'd be sure a victory in Quidditch and a party would do the trick; a night of dancing and drinking and laughing and a cleverly-crafted dare or two would do the trick to take his mind off it, and nothing would seem too bad in the morning compared to their thumping hangovers. But now Sirius drank every day, and waking up sick in the morning only made him blacker. James had to figure something else out.
But winning the match was the start, he told himself, rubbing ointment into his muscles. Everything was better with a match under his belt. And Sirius had promised him the night before that he'd come watch. He never missed a game, but James was still glad of the reassurance. He couldn't imagine playing without Sirius watching. It'd be like playing without arms. But Sirius had given his word, and so he was going to be there.
Peter and Remus went down to breakfast with him, after deciding it was better to let Sirius sleep, and then they walked him down to the changing rooms. Mist clung to the grass, and the sun filtered through murkily, burning the world orange. A black rabbit bounced across the lawn. James rolled his shoulders backwards and forwards, shaking his hands.
"I'm feeling good about it, boys," he said, jumping from foot to foot as he brought his knees to his chest in turn. "If you're betting, bet on us."
"I always bet on you," said Peter sincerely. James beamed at him and pulled him into a headlock. Remus snorted.
"I'm keeping my knuts to myself," he said. James and Peter stopped dead for a moment, staring at him, and Remus paled as he realised. His head dove into his hands as James and Peter burst into laughter.
"Are you, Moony?" James grinned, elbowing him. "Depriving the girls?"
"Not – swinging them around?" Peter made an obscene circle with his hips. James choked, nearly tripping.
"What – the – fuck, Pete?" he coughed, doubling over. Peter wrapped his arms around his head. Remus stuffed his fist into his mouth, and his shoulders shook furiously. For a minute they were consumed by laughter, wet tears running down James' cheeks, his lungs burning and contracting with each gasp. Peter moaned in a way that probably meant to suggest regret, but in context took on something that bent James' knees and planted him on the grass, positively sobbing with mirth, grabbing chunks of his hair. Every time he rasped and managed to capture a mouthful of oxygen, he thought of Peter swinging his hips around and the way Remus had said 'knuts' and Peter's moan and some craziness overtook him once more. It was completely mad.
"Potter?" The voice cut through, and panting, James managed to look up. Remus squeezed his eyes shut, blowing the last of it into his hand, and Peter was pale and smiling like a maniac, eyes the size of the moon. Kelsey and Laura stood over James, each holding duffel bags and in their match robes already. Kelsey's ponytail swung as she looked between the three of them, and it had been her that had spoken. She grimaced, and then nudged his leg with her toe. Like he was some kind of trampled bug she had to get rid of.
James wiped the tears from his face. "Kelsey," he croaked. "Laura. Brilliant. Feeling good about today, then?" Laura fiddled with her braid. Peter rocked back and forth. Remus pulled his hand away from his face and awkwardly folded his arms.
"Have you completely lost it?" Kelsey asked, brows furrowing. "Have you cracked it?" James spread his arms, willing her to make that decision. Kelsey screwed up her face. "I have no problems replacing you with Livia." James ruffled his hair, squinting one eye at her, and clambered to his feet. Peter offered him a hand he didn't take.
"You do, though," James said. "Is a match as important as this the time to play around with the starting line-up?"
"She's as good as you," Kelsey said. "And not fucked in the head."
"Yeah," James agreed. "But she's not me. So she won't start."
Laura sighed. "Come on. We've got one minute and another two hundred yards."
"I'm not being late for you, Potter," Kelsey said flatly, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "Hurry up." She and Laura started off for the changing rooms.
"Right," James said, stretching his arms out, muscles tugging slightly. "Be good. Come to win. No more knuts or…hip-shaking," he instructed. Remus smiled.
"No more," Peter promised, touching his shoulder. "Good luck. You'll be great. I can't wait to watch you!"
"You'll do well," Remus agreed. He hesitated. "We'll find Sirius," he said, and his eyes dropped to the ground. "We'll make sure he makes it."
"Cheers," James said, but he knew Remus wouldn't need to. If anything, Sirius would be the one leading them down to the pitch. With that, he followed Kelsey and Laura's path, stopping about halfway to look behind him. Peter and Remus waved, and Peter started a motion with his hips that forced James to look away, lest he be murdered by John for being late.
As it was, he skidded in just as John said his name and swirled towards the door, finger pointed. James ran his fingers through his hair.
"Missing me?" he asked brightly. John pointed at the benches.
"Sit." James took the end, by Micky Hoover, who eyed him nervously. Probably still the shit with Alastor and Lisbete. James knew if he had to sit by the bloke who was going out with a girl one of his friends fancied – and if he happened to be an introverted third-year who was only a reserve – he'd probably give him a weird look too.
As usual, the clock seemed to work on triple time as the game approached. John went over strategies for what felt like a minute, then they were being sent to shower and change if they hadn't already, and then James was sitting on the floor, holding his toes as his spine stretched. They had a good chance today. Yeah, they'd lost last time, but there was no way they could lose twice in a row. It'd humiliate them. And they'd been working hard and putting in the effort. More than that, they'd been working on playing as a team. Hufflepuff, despite their lacklustre players and lack of tenacity, was immediately a threat because of how well they worked together. Hanning, their captain, had a habit for horrible team-building exercises James loved to laugh at, but it did make a difference on the pitch. But now, without humiliating themselves, James was sure they could match it.
He jogged back and forth with the others, tossed a quaffle with Laura, and gave Loretta, who was hugging herself tightly after John reiterated that the weather might require the reserves to come on, a fudge fly out of his bag. She took it hesitantly.
"Erm," she said, frowning. "Sorry. I don't really like them. But thank you."
James laughed. "Me neither. Eat it, though. The sugar will help." She complied, and screwed her face up at the taste. They were Peter's favourite.
"The Hufflepuffs play pretty fairly," he told her. "They won't send a bludger towards you unless you've got the quaffle." In their first match, Abbott from Slytherin had sent her a particularly fierce bludger the moment she joined the game.
Loretta swallowed. "Great," she said, before trudging off to the corner to put her head in her hands. James drummed his fingers against his leg. At least she'd gained a few pounds of muscle – less chance of the breeze blowing her off her broom.
Finally, John let Hooch in, and it was time. James grabbed his Comet and joined the line, behind Laura. John cleared his throat.
"Don't be scared of the fog," he ordered over his shoulder. "No fouls, because the Hufflepuffs won't go there and they'll call you on it. We have to be unimpeachable there."
"Unim-what?" Alastor asked, scowling.
"Just don't do it," John reiterated. "Remember what we've done in training. And no throwing up this time."
"I haven't touched alcohol in a week," Marlene said proudly. James reckoned that boast only had a few hours left.
"And please welcome the Gryffindor team!" cried Meredith Diggory, Flo Diggory's older sister and a plump, rare example of a halfway-decent Slytherin. Her magically-amplified voice pierced the changerooms, and John led them into the tunnel and then slung his leg over his broom and took off onto the pitch. "Brown, captain and seeker! Brown! McKinnon! Wood! Vickers! Potter!" James pushed himself into the air, following Laura's tail. The crowd roared. As he flew, following the circuit through the stands, the wind rumpled his hair. His eyes skimmed the seats below. Gryffindor screamed as they passed overhead, a wave of crimson banners rolling. He caught sight of Peter and Remus' and his smile nearly split his face in half. "And – Bagman!" His heart hammered in his chest, excitement sparking in his fingertips. John led them to the centre of the pitch, where James took his place hovering in a semi-circle. John turned his broom around to address them.
"We can win this," he told them, and then dove down to the grass, where Madam Hooch stood with the chest of balls. James' gaze raked over the scene. The fog was so thick that it obscured the stands, making it harder to see the signs. He glanced towards the reserves' bench, and couldn't see any sign of the other half of their team. He could barely see the ground, and he thought that it wasn't just because his glasses were stowed away in Gryffindor Tower.
"And here come the Hufflepuffs!" said Diggory, pulling his attention back.
The other team burst onto the pitch, yellow robes flapping behind them, like a streak of sunlight through the mist. He counted them off in his mind as Diggory announced them. Wilbert Hanning was their captain, a windswept blond who played beater. Paul Smith from James' Care of Magical Creatures class was their keeper, and their chasers were Gilbert Harkiss, the eccentric but fair half-Chinese Head Boy; Anne Abbott, a sullen girl whose twin was the ferocious beater on the Slytherin team who'd tried to take Loretta out; and Daniel Thomas, a tall black sixth year who moved elegantly on his broom. Harrison Mitchell, a muggle-born whose floppy brown hair fell into his eyes, was their seeker, and pale Christopher Yaxley from the year below played opposite Hanning, rounding out the starting team. All of them, James thought, weren't as good as their Gryffindor counterparts. There was a key to winning John had neglected to mention. It wasn't pretty. But it would work.
The fog grew so thick that there was little point peering at the ground, so James shook the tension out of his arms and waited for the whistle. It came, and the crowd howled as the balls flew into the sky. Marlene rushed towards the hoops and Amy and Ludo brandished their bats. James fell into formation with Kelsey and Laura, hanging back to receive Kelsey's pass while Laura kept to his right, free for him to throw the quaffle to, should Hufflepuff's beaters bear down on him. James flexed his fingers against the handle of his broom.
A gold glitter shot through the sky, completely silent. The wind blew. John burst through the mist, the crowd shrieked, and he shot up in a vertical scarlet blur, hunting the snitch into the heights of the sky. James cheered. Mitchell fumbled before following clumsily. James' body thrummed with excitement, veins trembling, and then Kelsey hollered.
"Potter!" And the red quaffle barrelled towards him.
There was nothing like flying. Nothing like quidditch. They moved through their first set on instinct, on pure adrenaline. He and Laura tossed back and forth, he passed to Kelsey who flew straight at the Hufflepuff chasers, smashing through their line (she knew it too, what James had figured out). He went high while Laura went low, skimming over Thomas' curls, and rolled out of the way of a bludger before his brain properly registered the threat. Kelsey threw it back with two hands and James caught it with one, though the force spun him to the side. Yaxley aimed a bludger at him, but Ludo flung himself in front and smacked it towards Mitchell, who was half-shrouded in mist and hovering by the staff stands. James looked down, but Harkiss flew beneath him, blocking Laura. He had no choice but to lean forward and accelerate. He rapidly approached the goals, and Smith zipped between the hoops. Kelsey shouted, but Abbott hung by her. James dummied towards her. Sure enough, Harkiss lurched left, and James dropped the quaffle. He sharply pulled himself left, cutting Harkiss off, and Laura zoomed out of the fog. The Gryffindors chanted, the Hufflepuffs shrieked, and Smith was too late. Laura threw the quaffle through the right hoop as Smith jerked towards the middle. James shouted in elation; Laura beamed. There was a distant ding.
"Ten points to Gryffindor, the first score of the match by Vickers!" Diggory's voice rang.
In fifteen minutes, they got two more goals on Hufflepuff – one by Kelsey and one by James, who sent the quaffle soaring through the middle hoop after Kelsey flew hard at Abbott until she fumbled the quaffle into Thomas' hands, who tried to pass to Harkiss but was intercepted by Laura, who flung the ball towards James.
Hanning called a time-out, bewilderingly, but it was granted. The Hufflepuffs flew into one cluster while the Gryffindors half-heartedly headed into another.
"Stop flying into them," John ordered Kelsey. "That's what Hanning will complain about. We have to be above fouls, alright?"
Kelsey's shoulders heaved. "Yup."
The whistle blew, and James returned to his position. Hanning flew towards the ground and John followed. James ran over the plays in his head and watched the Hufflepuffs. Thomas and Harkiss nodded at each other; Mitchell frowned, and Abbott flew out of position to talk to him. Yaxley swung his bat aimlessly. Smith drifted towards the hoops, shaking his head.
The whistle blew again, and play resumed.
To their credit, the Hufflepuffs played better. Hanning aimed a bludger at him, and he passed to Laura, to Kelsey, who overshot as Yaxley closed in on her. Laura chased the ball, but Thomas was quicker and started down the pitch. Mitchell circled higher and higher. The mist thickened after twenty minutes, and James was lucky to see halfway down the pitch. More than an hour passed in a fog-made stalemate, James going for a goal half a dozen times to be thwarted by Smith. It was frustrating, by exhilarating, too: a proper battle.
Laura took a bad bludger to the shoulder, and John exchanged her for Livia, who broke through and got another lot of ten points. James grinned at her when she flew past, and she let go of her broom to give him two thumbs up. It was clear the Slytherins were worried, because they struck up a choir and started shouting.
"Healer, healer, tell me who's that?" They shouted. James rolled his eyes and mimed gagging to Livia. "That's Brown, you see, in the knitted red hat!" Merlin, they even had their stands split in half, doing some call-and-response thing. James had to figure that out for next time Gryffindor needed to slag someone off. "Healer, healer, why's he here?" Hufflepuff had the quaffle, and came racing down the pitch. "His girlfriend, you see, has gone a bit queer!"
James briefly searched the sky for John, and found him pulling into a dive. That was it. Not because Livia had scored; because John had seen the snitch. They wanted to distract him.
"Turned red wine into beer, proclaimed she's a seer, and starts to scream when people get near!"
James could handle that.
He whistled, grabbing Livia's attention, and pointed vigorously hoping she understood. She sped off in the opposite direction, and his heart soared. Yaxley's bludger was already heading in the direction James had pointed. Amy met it and bashed it towards Harkiss, who fumbled a pass to Abbott; Ludo got the bludger as it sailed past and redirected it towards her. Livia swooped in from below and got in front of Thomas, and Kelsey, cottoning on, marked Harkiss, so Abbott could only go forwards, the bludger hot on her tail with nobody to pass to.
The moment she could, she made the shot, bound to fail but destined to put the ball back in play and give them another chance. Marlene locked eyes with James and threw the ball to him. He knew where to go at once; he raced over the top of the main play, towards Mitchell. Naturally, Hanning hit a bludger towards him, with Ludo and Amy both hanging by, doing nothing. James shouted in alarm; Mitchell twisted on his broom to look.
"Shit!" he shouted. James dropped the quaffle.
The bludger skimmed his shoulder and Mitchell hurled to one side to avoid it. John flew higher. Livia had the quaffle and passed it rapidly back and forth between her and Kelsey. James ducked and drew Abbott into marking him. Once she had him, he moved closer. Her eyebrows flitted up. He kept by her side, so close he could've reached out and touched her. Mitchell stopped his chase of John to scowl. They only needed a little more time. Hanning hunted one bludger, while Amy got the other and punted it towards Thomas, who was gaining on Kelsey.
James flattened himself against his broom as he descended, heading, believably, towards Kelsey. Thomas skirted around her warily. James shouted in surprise and let one hand slip from his broomstick. Then, clenching his thighs, he rolled. The crowd gasped; Hanning mishit the bludger in Harkiss' direction; Thomas and Kelsey flew out of James' way. Ding!
Livia scored. James barrelled through where Thomas had been moments before and righted himself, pumping two fists in the air victoriously. And someone screamed. James looked up. John's fist closed around the snitch, glistening gold as the clouds parted for the afternoon sun, and Gryffindor won for the first time that season.
James bolted towards Livia, who glowed with the thrill of the winning goal, and threw an arm around her.
"You did it!" he exclaimed, and she shrieked in delight, throwing her arms around him. Laura and the other reserves met them, and then came Ludo and Kelsey and Amy and Marlene attempted to engulf them all, and finally John arrived teary-eyed and trying to ruffle his sister's hair.
The crowd screamed and chanted their names, and somehow, they made it to the ground, brooms and limbs tangled. James and Ludo grabbed John and hoisted him onto their shoulders. They paraded John like he was a king, and the Gryffindors spilled onto the grass, screaming and clapping, as the other houses dispersed. Hanning came over and offered John his hand, and congratulated them on a match well-played. The rest of his team followed, and they spent some time shaking and offering platitudes. Then they left and James searched for his friends. Peter and Remus came forward with their banner; no Sirius. No Lisbete.
"Nice flying, Potter," said Lily, as she and Marlene and Macdonald intertwined. Her green eyes sparkled with humour. "I loved the bit when you went upside-down. I thought it showed off your expertise."
He winked at her, and she frowned. "I know it did, Evans. I know you loved it, too. Jolly good show?"
She made a face. "Bad ending. You stayed on, after all."
"Good ending," he corrected. "We won, didn't we?" She had no retort for that, simply rolling her eyes and taking off with Marlene. He waved at her retreating figure pleasantly. "Farewell, dear Evans!"
Peter and Remus congratulated him thoroughly on his plays, which was nice and all, but he couldn't turn his mind from Sirius. Lisbete, too, but she was as likely to have been distracted by Cathy or a magazine or a passing butterfly. Peter chattered to fill the silence, but eventually James looked at them both. Peter gulped. Remus smiled.
"He'll kill me," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. James' spirits plummeted, icy cold.
"You didn't wake him?" Sirius couldn't have missed the match. He couldn't have.
"No," Remus said quickly. "I woke him." But. James dreaded the but. Remus looked at Peter, asking a wordless question. Peter wrung his hands.
"I don't know…" Peter teetered and opened his mouth, but Remus forged ahead.
"Some third-year let off dungbombs in the row behind us," he said. "Scared the shit out of Sirius and smothered him and…you know what he's been like. He stormed off." Peter said nothing, twisting like an eel. James' mind worked to understand.
"He missed part of the game?" For the sake of a dungbomb? James felt sick, and lost, and heavy with disappointment.
"No," Remus said, and James' frown deepened. "No, it - it was when John caught the snitch. Everyone jumped up and in all the commotion…" Remus pushed his hand up his face. "He hexed the third-year badly. He's in a state. He just…"
"Yeah," James said. Remus went quiet. How badly did he hex the kid? Who was the kid? Where is he now? Has he been drinking? Is he coming to the party or sulking all night? What did he think? What did he say? James wanted to grab Sirius by the shoulders and go through a play-by-play; wanted to demand his opinion, honestly, of every move. And Sirius always tore into the other players, fairly or not, and as mean as it was it made James laugh so hard he'd nearly wet himself, because of how ridiculous and absurd the criticisms were. He and Sirius had done it after every match of quidditch they'd ever watched at school since they'd been eleven years old. The walk back to the castle was empty without him.
But at least he'd seen the match. They could talk about it later on, once Sirius calmed down, or hell, even in the morning. It wouldn't be the same, but they could salvage it. Yeah, that's what they'd do. They'd go over it later. That would work.
It didn't stop the crushing feeling of betrayal threatening to collapse James' organs, but it would have to do.
March 6th, 1976
James could never know.
The thought crystallised. Nothing else mattered – not the drone of music, the boys swinging their hair as they sung along, the lines of brown and green bottles on the table Connor O'Neill and some blond manned, the maroon and gold drapes and banners, the swirl of smoke and the thick scent of marijuana, the girl retching in the corner or the hole Sirius dug in the arm of the couch, ripping into the soft fabric. Only that James couldn't know. Not ever. That was it.
But Remus knew. The reproach in his eyes stung worse than his mother's curses. Being a failure of a fuck-up to his best mate was something different. Worse. It needled at his raw stomach. Remus had looked at him like he was worse than shit. He was worse than shit. Of everyone in this goddamned fucking room, Sirius was the worst. Fucking useless waste of piece. Fucking privileged, entitled, idiotic fucking alcoholic. That's what they said behind his back, he was certain. They looked between him and the stash under his bed and the circles under his eyes and the smell he was acquiring – he smelt it too, when he crawled into his bed, shaking, palms clammy, face hot, mouth dry until the sick came up, catching in his teeth. Fucking useless fucking fuck.
He tried to stand. His legs didn't move. Something pressed against his shoulder – some guy's body. The couple on the sofa beside him were intertwined, snogging furiously, red-faced and blind to the world. The girl's hair shone yellow, sticking to her pink cheeks. It was Renee Walker, he realised dimly. She'd lost her top, and the bloke – Roper, maybe – glistened with sweat, his robes gone too, just in trousers. He was thin and wiry, but tall; built like Remus, but gawky rather than graceful. He seemed oblivious to Sirius as he leaned back, holding Walker's hips. He was blond, too, pale where Remus was tawny. And he had a rather large chin. But the muscles in his stomach contracted, and his fingers were long, curling around her. His Adam's Apple bobbed. Sirius' eyes trailed down absently. There was a suggestive tightness in Roper's trousers that pulled at Sirius' throat.
He had to get up. He clutched at the arm of the chair but his nails met his palm instead, drawing blood. His beer was gone. The common room shook with sound, someone's record on. Roper had the right idea. That was what a normal teenager did. Normal ones, not fuck-ups. They found girls and they shagged them and then they went off and did fucking Charms homework or something and they watched quidditch matches and their friends didn't fucking hate them. And they could stand.
"Sirius." James held his hand out. He towered, robes loose. He was offering the arm that had been broken. When had he got here? Sirius took his hand and then he was standing. The room spun. Fireplace, with roaring flames, a carpet, the roof, that tapestry with the woman, a record spinning.
"Good game," Sirius tried to say, just because he was a piece of shit, just because he deserved to be fed to a fucking chimaera. Look at James. Smiling, shiny eyes. A girlfriend. Annoying girlfriend, but a girl all the same. Why hadn't Sirius slept with Marlene? She'd been willing. Maybe if he had he would've fixed himself and been a fucking normal person. His head hurt. Why was the Pepperup in the dorm? The stairs stretched out, endlessly spiralling, the size of a mountain.
"Woah, mate." James caught him as he stumbled. You should hate me, Sirius thought, speechless. You should loathe me. Hit me.
"Stop." Sirius leaned against the wall, a beer in his hand. Half-empty. James gripped his shoulders. His head rolled back. He needed to understand.
"I'm not going to punch you, mate," James was saying. Where was Remus? Hiding from him. He was the clever one, wasn't he? He saw. He knew the disgusting thoughts that swirled through Sirius' mind, that infected him. He'd seen it in the toilet that night. In the washed-out tiles. Sirius pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.
"What's going on?" Peter.
"He's had a bit much, I reckon."
"Should we take him up to bed?" Giggle. "Not in that way."
"How much have you had, mate?"
"Nothing." Giggle. "Two or three cones."
"More, I reckon."
"About to."
Sirius fell forward, reaching blindly, and grabbed a handful of Peter's flesh. The lights flashed against his skull. Thudding. Pete knew. Pete had been there. The little rat couldn't keep his mouth shut. He'd tell James. And then James would know and Sirius would lose the only thing he'd ever had. Except his blood. Oh, yes, he had his blood, cursed, burning him from the inside out. What a way to go. Burned alive from the guts out. Bellatrix would love it. What was she up to, these days? If he asked her, she'd make a go of it. She'd like nothing better. Bloodier. Prune the tree. But Peter couldn't tell. It was important. Sirius had to tell him. He had him, now, it was just a matter of a quiet place. Where, where, where? James' girlfriend was dancing with some kid. Sirius swigged at his beer but half of it spilled. Cold and wet on his robes, seeping through to his chest. He gripped Peter harder.
"You can't," he breathed raggedly. "You – Peter, Wormy, Wormy, Wormy, you -" His voice cracked. Pain, in his arm, that would bruise.
"Sirius, you're hurting him!" James. James James James. There was something harsh in his voice. He swum before Sirius, two people or one or maybe three. Could he see? Did he know? Sirius couldn't read his look. His stomach dropped away. James must've known. Sirius let go of Peter and his bottle. It shattered against the floor, technicolour beneath the swirl of lights. Sirius needed a joint and Pepperup and fucking –
Where was Remus?
"Fuck off!" Sirius hurled, eyes burning. James let go and Sirius fell through the crowd. Marlene in a witch's hat and jeans. Evans and Macdonald and some prefect. James' girlfriend getting awfully fucking close to some bloke. Quidditch players, a group of them, with their knowing gazes. No Moony. Sirius needed him and he wasn't fucking here. No, he was probably off being normal, probably wrapped around some girl with her tits and her arse and grabbing her, his lips velvet against hers, tongue probing, breath hitching, body firm, warm, pulsing –
Everyone just had to fucking leave him and hate him, didn't they? Regulus had left him. Regulus had fucking run like a dog with his tail between his legs, slipping into Slytherin, nodding along to Mother, and he was going to become just like her. But Sirius probably deserved that. Wasn't she right? His hands were bloody, mauled by nails or broken glass, and Remus wasn't there, and his mother wasn't there, and if she was, she'd be laughing at him, poor little whinging bitching fucking Sirius, all on his own, abnormal, and the crowd was suffocating, the smell off flowery perfumes and cherry scents. People singing. Someone slammed into him, and he half fell, grabbing someone's hair to steady himself. She slapped him but he couldn't think of her name, only the stinging red handprint on his cheek. The muscles in his stomach spasmed as he thought of Remus, leading a girl up to their dormitory, like fucking Roper, hands on her hips.
Dale was in an alcove with his sister, and Sirius ripped the bong from his hands. And then he was sitting on a cushion and they were halfway through a conversation but there were spots dancing in his eyes. Sirius had another bottle of beer and he finished it in a mouthful.
"You're going to vomit again," Cathy told him, nose wrinkling. Bitch. But it was half-hearted. He didn't remember throwing up the first time, but he looked down and his robes were splattered. He felt for his wand but someone had fucking stolen it, probably Peter. He pulled his robes off but they got stuck around his head. Dale tugged them off.
The crowd cheered. Sirius looked over his shoulder. James was on a table with one of the reserves, pumping his fists. He had his wand.
"Levicorpus!" he shouted, the spell Snivellus had used on Remus. The girl flung upside down, hanging by one leg, and the crowd laughed and cheered. In a flash, he had her down, and someone caught her. Sirius was walking, now, and he stood on something sharp. No Remus. Peter took his place with Dale and Cathy but Remus was nowhere to be found. The common room tilted.
"Do you want to play with us?" How had some fucking Hufflepuff ended up here? But he took her hand and followed her to a back corner. She was pretty and blonde and gave him a shot of vodka. They all had shots. There was a group of them sitting in a circle, mostly Hufflepuff girls, but a couple of boys from Ravenclaw. Hadn't they beat Ravenclaw? Or was it Hufflepuff? One of them, probably. But if they were both here…maybe it had been Slytherin.
They all took a shot of vodka. And another. Someone's wand – not his – was in the middle of the circle and spinning. One of the girls passed out and they shook her awake. They cited rules, but Sirius couldn't understand what they were. But then some blonde – the one that had taken his hand and pulled him over – was sitting cross-legged facing him. She pushed her hair behind her ears.
"Do you mind?" she asked, rubbing her arms. Matilda. That was it. "I don't want to if you don't want to."
"It's the rules!" Another girl shrieked.
"But if you're too drunk," she added. Sirius frowned.
"No," he said. "I can't even feel anything." His face was going numb. "I don't get drunk easily." The alcohol from the night before had never worn off.
Matilda hugged herself. "Are you sure? If you're…"
"Nah. I'm sound of mind." He would hate himself in the morning, but that wasn't new. Maybe it would be a little less. Because he'd be matching Remus. How could Remus beat him? If James hadn't managed it…
She was in his lap, smelling of coconut, and her hands cupped his cheeks. He did the normal thing and put his hands on her hips and then he kissed her. She made a breathy sound of surprise and kissed him back. Was this how Moony felt right now? After a bit his tongue was in her mouth. Hers in his. No, the slag snogging Moony probably felt better than this. She probably liked it.
But Sirius did like this. He did. He had to. He was holding her hips and everything. She rolled against him, and the girls gasped and the boys guffawed. She climbed off him.
"Done," she announced, face burning. Sirius leaned back on his hands. They'd all seen. He was like Roper. He needed another shot. He must've vocalised it, because someone thrust one of whisky into his hand. He poured it down his throat. Piece of shit. She would hate him too. Matilda. If she didn't now, she'd learn to.
The wand kept spinning. Someone pressed a kiss to one of the Ravenclaws' cheeks. Someone drank an Elfwine Kiss from a shoe. One girl lit a cigarette and coughed so hard she threw up a bit. The soberest mumbled a spell and cleaned her up. Sirius was only in his pants, he realised. He'd not been cold in bed, so he hadn't bothered with trousers. They were a bit muggle, anyway.
Which was a good thing. Muggle was a good thing.
His mother would be laughing at him now. It was her poison.
Another girl ended up in front of him. She had frizzy dark curls and a very short, sparkly dress. She'd kissed two of the Ravenclaws already. Now she was teary.
"Is it true?" she asked, chin wobbling. "Is James still with that blonde girl?" Sirius turned his head. James was jumping around in a circle with some of the quidditch team. Lisbete was sitting on the arm of a chair with a freckly boy in it, the same one as earlier, her legs draped over his lap.
"Not for long," Sirius grunted. The girl's eyes widened.
"You think?" she demanded excitedly. Sirius shrugged, head lolling in a kind-of nod. She grabbed him, propped his head up, and kissed him on the lips. She pulled back quick enough, but left slobber. He wiped it off and she crawled back to her place in the circle.
The game went on for a bit without any more drinking, long enough that feeling came back into all of Sirius' limbs. He could think a bit better – his thoughts were water, maybe, not smoke. He wanted a cigarette. Who'd had them?
"Could I," he started, reaching over and brushing his fingers against Curly Hair's bare arm, "borrow a cigarette?" She gave him two. He staggered to his feet and traded them in for a cushion in the corner, back against the wall. No wand. Fuck. But then Peter was at his side and lit Sirius' cigarette and his own joint, and they breathed like dragons.
"James thinks you're mad at him," Peter said plainly, going cross-eyed as he puffed.
"He should be mad at me," Sirius said, a hot flare in his gut. Piece of shit. And what for? What had he gained?
"He's not, though," said Peter. "I think he probably just wants to talk." Sirius dragged hard.
"If you fucking -"
"I'm trying to help," Peter snapped, inching away. Sirius recognised something in his eyes. He burned.
"I don't need your help," Sirius spat venomously, heart pounding, hating himself. Go back to Dale. Run back. Stop wasting your time. Peter's lips parted.
"Fine," he said shakily. "Keep burying yourself!" He clambered upwards and stormed away, parting the crowd. Eyes pricked Sirius' skin. He sucked down the last of his cigarette and stubbed it out on the rug.
When he stood, the room was warmer. People were getting drunk, now, properly, past the point of dancing, and the floor was littered with bottles and cushions and conversations. The stairs to the dormitories, too. No chance of escaping up there. Even if he got past, he suspected he'd find Remus in bed, robes off, lithe and panting and approaching a precipice. He would be. He wasn't James, who got drooled over, but there was a beauty to him if you looked. And these days, the girls were looking. Hard.
Plenty of people do it at our age, Remus had told him, on Halloween. When Sirius had first blustered himself up to do it. If the four of them hadn't done it by the end of the year, they'd be the strange ones. Of course Remus was going to fuck a girl at some point. They all were. Even now, as he stood shaking in the middle of the common room, there were a few couples interlocked, hands in hair, smiles, wandering touches.
It seemed to work well enough for them. Maybe that was it. Once you did it, it made sense. It felt good enough when Sirius was on his own; why wouldn't somebody else be just as good? If he could get it fucking over with it and get out of his own head, he'd be fine. Normal.
But it was sweltering. And he was alone. He put the second cigarette in his mouth, got someone to light it for him, and hoisted himself through the portrait hole and into the corridor.
The draughty air was cool on his bare skin. Torches burned along the walls, and a little of the party had spilled outside. A girl cried on a bench, her friends flocked around her, and Alice Rhysfeld and Frank Longbottom's heads bumped together as they whispered. It was much quieter. With no direction, he left. The portraits slept, snoring gently. Where there were several of them, they rested heads on each other's shoulders. Soon, there was only the gentle pad of his bare feet on the stone floors. And the shadows. At first, he wished he had the map,, but he was too high for it to work anyway. As in, they hadn't mapped this part of the castle yet. The weed hadn't got to him that much. His heart stilled, nestling behind his ribs. It was strange at night. He felt like the ghosts were closer, waiting around every corner. Not just Nearly Headless Nick and the Bloody Baron, but all the students that had gone before. His parents. Had his mother ever snuck out like this? Had she ever got so drunk she felt like she was outside of her body, watching herself ruin everything? He felt like that more and more, and he wasn't sure if it was only down to the alcohol. It felt like his consciousness was slipping out from underneath his nails. Time certainly was. It curved in on itself. Caved in. Maybe he was caving in.
There was something wrong with him. He'd known it all his life, but now it seemed to watch him from the picture frames. It kept him in bed. No amount of potions eased the headaches. His friends' voices grated. Food revolted. Remus chased him through his dreams, cornering him in the toilet, brown eyes penetrating, and Sirius' fingers lingered on his scars, man- and wolf-made, all self-inflicted. And in the convex of his chest lived a black pit he couldn't fill. Gaping. And jokes, and maps, and spells, and gossip, and quidditch couldn't staunch the empty, flowless wound. He couldn't verbalise it. James wouldn't understand. None of them could.
Part of him wanted to write to his mother. She'd recognise it. James got the best of him (not today, though, he'd fucked it all up today), but she knew the worst. She'd seen it in him a long time ago, he realised. That something was shattered. Unfixable.
His feet took him to the Clock Tower. It wasn't empty. A girl stood, lit by her wand, reading a letter. He swore. She looked up. It was Rose Striding, a Ravenclaw from his year. Considered one of the pretty ones. Tonight, her eyes were puffy and swollen. Her eyes fell to his lips. Sirius pulled the last of his cigarette from his mouth and gave it to her. She inhaled. Smoke came out her nose.
"They murdered my dad," she said, dropping the but over the railing. She folded the letter with one hand. Sirius stared.
"Did you like him?" he asked, finally. They. Bellatrix, or a friend of hers. Someone who had been to dinner at his house. Someone whose house Regulus had stayed with, playing quidditch in the backyard. Rose Striding was a muggle-born. Everyone knew.
Rose gazed over the railing. "Not really," she said, fingers closing around the wrought iron. "But I loved him a lot."
Sirius had pictured his parents dead plenty of times. There was a freedom associated with it. Once they were buried, that was it – his mother's words would only exist in his memories. He'd burn her letters. And his father's apathy would fade into the grey swill of the lake at Uncle Cygnus' in the country. The torment would end.
He hadn't thought about loving them. It bloomed rose-red, shared blood seeping. Once they were gone, he could wash his hands of them. Once they were gone, their lives were chiselled in stone, woven into the family tapestry. Walburga and Orion Black. Unchangeable.
Once they were dead, their relationship would never change. Not that it could now – his mother hated and pleaded with him, his father tapped his foot until Sirius did something reckless enough for them to make Regulus the heir – but still. While ever they were all alive, Sirius could convince himself, at one in the morning, that there was the tiniest chance they might wake one day with something less violent in their hearts. They would half-realise, groggy in the grey dawn, how stupid and bigoted and awful they'd been. They hadn't killed anyone, not yet, not with their own wands. They hadn't crossed that threshold. They would always be garden-variety purebloods (not exceptional, no matter what they wanted to believe), shaking their heads at muggle fashion and music and protesting that a muggle-born just couldn't be a Head of Department at the Ministry, they just couldn't understand the complicated history of the position. But Sirius could grit his teeth for Christmas and send a vague owl on birthdays without needing to string himself from the Astronomy Tower. He could read the paper without sick gagging him as he tore through the pages, terrified to see their name printed and confirmed and desperate to be the first to know. In a world like that, Regulus would never let his children take Muggle Studies, but a rebellious grandchild might, and he'd do nothing more than tut.
He hadn't known how much he clung to that stupid, futile hope. They couldn't be better. They would never be better. And their 'better' would still lay the path for Rose's family to be murdered. It would still be trying to drive the muggle-borns out. They might just whisper 'mudblood' instead of shouting it. In the big scheme of things, the only thing that would really change would be his guilt. Sirius wouldn't have to feel so much like he was committing a crime just by the last name he bore.
But the muggle-borns still would.
He swallowed hard.
"Do you have any alcohol on you?" Rose asked quietly. She was pretty, he supposed. Korean, hair only recently dyed back to its natural black after a blonde state of mind. Despite the dye, it looked soft enough. She was dressed like a muggle, in one of those button-up dresses that skimmed the top of her thighs over some white shirt with long, tight sleeves. She was a few inches shorter than him, and had to tilt her whole head up to meet his eyes. He'd seen that look before. Only earlier that night, Matilda had worn it.
Sirius shrugged, an uneasiness curdling within. "Nah."
She slid closer to him, teeth working her lower lip.
"Do you want to shag, then?"
Sirius froze.
Remus is probably shagging someone right now.
Are you going to lose?
Maybe that was it. Once you did it, it made sense.
"Yeah," he forced out, casual as you like. "If you want to."
She laid a hand on his bare chest, nodded, and stood on tiptoes, her lips meeting his. He was almost surprised by it. His mouth fell open, and he started kissing her back, slowly. She was gentler than Marlene, and it was different in the dark and the quiet, rather than in the middle of the Party Room, crowded and in full swing. Her lips were softer. Her left hand snaked up his back, and he didn't know what to do with his. He copied what he'd seen in the common room and held her hips. Did Remus know what to do, he wondered? Did he run a finger across her stomach, rub circles into her skin with his thumb, did he know when to break apart to breathe? Sirius followed Rose's lead, mimicking the noises she made, trailing his hands over her when she did the same to him. Eventually her fingers knitted behind his neck, and she pressed into him. Nothing had happened yet, and a spark of nervousness flared inside him.
Come on, he thought, urging himself to react. He thought of what he imagined when he was alone. A bloke and a girl, his hands on her body, palms softer than you'd expect, nails short. The angle of his jaw when he kissed her, the flutter of his eyelashes as his body moved, his fingers deftly unbuttoning a shirt, hooking around a waistband, quietly strong. It seemed to be working; something stirred within. His mouth open, cheeks flush, chest rising and falling, soft grunts as he worked into the girl. A knot tightened. He shut his eyes, following the lines of his fantasy, and let Rose do as she wanted. It was fine, he thought, as they started to go further. He was enjoying himself, and she seemed to be having a good time. Had Remus felt like this? What had his faceless girl done to him? Sirius imagined his face screwed up, blinking fast, groaning. The image was uninvited, but he couldn't get rid of it. It spurred him towards his end quicker, but they hadn't even started anything properly yet. But the thought was consuming. He wanted – he wanted –
Rose knew what she was doing, it seemed, and when he moved things further she took to it happily, smiling at him, talking softly all the while. He murmured things back, half-fixed on his fantasy. They ended up pressed against the railing, and he was thankful that she wasn't looking at him anymore. He steeled himself as the moment approached – get it over with – and once he'd done it, a terror flared inside him. He clamped down on it.
"Alright?" he asked, still, almost scared to move. Fucking coward.
"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, just – go on."
For a second he thought he wasn't going to be able to do it. Stupid, idiot fucking coward. But he couldn't turn back. That would be worse than not starting. He let the images come to him, desperately not thinking of what they might mean. Remus' shirt falling open, Remus' hands, Remus' mouth, the scars that lined him from nights beneath the moon, the lean lines of his frame, this momentum, and the way Remus had looked in the bathroom light, tawny hair, brown eyes, the blaze in them when he was furious –
And it was done. For a moment, he felt euphoric. But it subsided like a tidal wave. The life ebbed away from him, and he stared dumbly at the body in front of him, at his hands.
What the fuck had he done.
His face dropped. He wanted to run. He wanted to throw himself over the edge. But Rose straightened and fixed her hair, and even worse, he realised what he had done to her. Her father had been murdered and he'd fucked her. He hadn't even had the common fucking decency to think about her.
Instead he had thought of –
You piece of shit. You piece of shit. What the fuck is the point of you? You're a selfish, taking, endless pit.
He needed to fix it. He wanted to run. James would kill him if he ran. That was the kind of wizard James was: the one who stayed and fought.
Sirius was the coward who ran. He was no better than Peter.
He almost asked her what she wanted, but he couldn't seem inept. He suspected she knew he hadn't done it before, and he couldn't risk confirming it. He ran through everything he'd ever overheard girls say and then he closed the gap between them and kissed her. As if he wanted it. He started with her lips, and then down her neck, to her collarbone and across the rest of her body, alternating pressure, trying to say I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know I'm a fucking piece of shit, I know, I know, I'm sorry. He continued all the way down, and when she knotted her fingers in his hair, he thought, I'm not going to fucking run away, her dad's been murdered because of my fucking family and I'm too much of a fucking coward to fix it. And he tried to do what she seemed to want. He tried to bring her to the point he had reached, and wondered who she thought of, but in the end she took over.
Then it really was done. Even. They dressed, and Sirius could barely breathe. You piece of shit. You piece of shit. What the fuck is wrong with you? What have you done?
"Thanks for that," Rose said, cleaning up with a wave of her wand. "Have a good night, Sirius."
"Thanks," he managed, somehow. She kissed him on the cheek. "You too."
She headed down the corridor towards the eastern side of the castle, and Sirius found a hidden passageway behind a tapestry and sat down, secure in the knowledge that very few knew about it, and of those who did, they weren't likely to go roaming down it at two in the morning. He sat on a stair about halfway through the corridor, where it started heading upwards. He didn't have any cigarettes on him. And his packet was dead; he didn't know where he could summon one from. Hell, he didn't even have his wand. He was so much of a fuck-up he couldn't even smoke a fucking cigarette.
You piece of shit.
Sirius cried.
He didn't know how long he spent there, rasping, burning, double over as his gut ached, his chest ached, everything just – fucking – hurt. He had no shirt or robes with which to muffle the tears, and so he wiped furiously with his palms until his cheeks were raw. He laid down on the stone, ice sweeping through him, his ribs bare on the uneven surface. It would kill in the morning. He sobbed until his mouth dried and his eyes crusted, and then he laid there, staring into the darkness, convinced he couldn't go back to the common room. He couldn't go anywhere. If he left the corridor, he'd run the risk of getting caught; if he went back, he would have to face James and Remus. He could try for the Party Room, but sometimes it wouldn't open if others were inside. He could try a disused classroom, but if they were locked he was fucked. But if he stayed, in the morning James would come looking for him, and it would be even worse to have to face him then. If James bothered looking. Maybe he'd realise what Sirius had done and not bother. Condemn him to rot. He just wanted it to end. He wanted to not exist. He needed to disappear.
Finally, he gave up. It had to be past three, and anyone still awake would be too plastered to ask questions or remember him the next day. He'd crawl into bed and say he'd been there all night when James came frowning in the morning.
It was a colossal effort to haul himself towards Gryffindor Tower, and he probably killed another fifteen minutes in the walking. The Fat Lady was loathe to wake and scowled something furious, but he remembered the password and she flung herself open with a sniff. The candles in the common room burned low, sending the leftovers of the party into a half-light. Pong lay abandoned, as well as a cluster of brooms. Someone made out on the sofa; a few people slept in armchairs; Sirius stepped over Dale's favourite bong. James. Sirius' stomach rolled. He sat in an alcove with Lisbete, whispering softly, eyes fixed on her. Sirius lurched to the side as quietly as possible, dancing across the floor, feet light. It was the way he walked at home, heart swollen and blocking his airways.
He crept up the stairs, now mostly vacant, and past the ruckus of some rooms. Their dormitory was on the fifth landing. He opened the door and found three empty beds. Peter's and Dale's, side-by-side, had their curtains closed. James', Remus', and Sirius' were open. Sirius couldn't even be bothered to change. He instead crossed the room and carefully opened Dale's top drawer. Layers of tins and paper bags and half-crushed packets lay inside. Sirius found a pack of cigars and considered them for a moment. It was a cheaper brand than his father smoked. But he couldn't do it. He kept digging and found a packet of wizarding cigarettes; fruit-flavoured. He screwed up his face. But it was better than the cigars. He took two, went back to his bed, and lit with the end of his wand. The first inhale felt like fresh air. He leaned back on his cushions, eyes closing. Finally.
The door opened. Sirius bolted upright.
James stared. He ran his fingers through his hair. There was a red smear on his cheek, and the top of his cloak was unlaced. Sirius stared back, comprehension dawning. His muscles contracted painfully. He thought he was going to cry again.
"You too?" he said instead, as casual as possible, and settled back. James gave a tiny shake of his head.
"Where have you been?" he asked, voice thick. Fear beaded in Sirius' muscles. He shoved the cigarette in his mouth. The sweetness of the fruit taste turned sickly.
"Same place as you," he breathed, quieter. James kept staring. Sirius' fingers clenched around the cigarette. Words fled him. "Or near enough."
James shook his head again, eyes glassy. He sat on Sirius' bed. It dipped slightly. His back brushed Sirius' hip.
"Sirius," he said, hoarse. "I thought -" Empty air hung between them. James stared at his hands. Sirius suddenly threw his covers off; he was burning, and the weight on his lungs was too much.
"I fucked her," he blurted, shame stalking through his voice. It was a confession, not the boast he had planned. James looked up. "Rose Striding. I fucked her in the Clock Tower." And then he couldn't not say it, and his voice was a plea for James to understand. To absolve him. "They killed her father. The Death Eaters. They murdered him." James just stared, blinking slowly, unnaturally stiff. Say something. Please say something. James didn't move. He looked at Sirius like a creature from his nightmares. Sirius furiously inhaled smoke and coughed on it. The sound jarred James' jaw into working.
"What?" Devoid of anything. Sirius couldn't stand it.
"You and Lisbete, too?"
"What?" At least it elicited something. James wiped at his cheek. "Some girl asked to kiss my cheek on a dare. I let her." He put his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. "So she snogged Gumboil."
Sirius felt weightless. "You're free of her?" James turned slowly, unfurling.
"I -" he pressed his fists to his forehead. "I can't." He smacked Sirius on the shoulder, hard. His handprint stung. "Congratulations, mate. I know you wanted to be the first. I hope you're happy. I really do."
It frightened Sirius more than anything. More than his mother. James started to stand and Sirius scrambled, smacking his cigarette into his bedside table and crumpling it with his palm.
"James," he said desperately, feeling the world crash around him. "James, James, James, I'm -"
The door swung open again, and Remus appeared, tawny hair mussed, robes sagging on his frame. He had dark circles stamped beneath his eyes, twin waxing moons. Sirius' lips parted, and a soft breath escaped him.
"Moony," he said, transfixed. Remus stopped, framed by the light and noise of the stairwell, a haze of smoke and distant drunken laughter ringing his pale head like a halo. He had to understand. He was like Sirius. He knew it was like to want to be consumed. "Moony," he said again, and his voice broke.
Remus' gaze wordlessly passed to James. James trembled, but his tone was measured.
"Don't worry," he said, like he was lounging by the Black Lake. "He was only off in the Clock Tower, fucking Rose Striding."
Remus' eyes returned to Sirius'. His face hardened. No, Sirius begged, no, please, please, Moony, please, please, I –
I thought about you.
Remus looked away.
"I lied," he said, flatly, and James frowned. "This afternoon. There were no dungbombs." And without looking at Sirius, he went to his bed and pulled the curtains so violently they tore clean from the frame. Peter gasped as he woke, and Dale peeked out. Remus simply withdrew his wand, performed a complicated mending spell, climbed onto his bed and drew them shut. Peter and Dale retreated behind theirs. Sirius and James were alone once more.
"James," Sirius started, but James quieted him with a shake of his head. For a moment, he seemed to teeter on the verge of saying something. But he shut his mouth and glanced to his bed.
"Goodnight," he said, and left him. Sirius stood alone, the pain of the burn on his hand building.
Somehow, he climbed into his bed.
Sirius stared at the ceiling.
He hadn't gone to the match. He hadn't watched James fly.
He'd never missed a match.
He'd promised James he'd be there.
He'd fucked Rose Striding.
She'd told him her dad was dead and he'd fucked her anyways.
And he'd thought of –
He'd thought of -
He wanted to die.
March 10th, 1976
Remus' dream slowly petered into the reality of the morning, his nose squashed against a pillow. Yellow light spluttered through the window. He registered the date. He turned his head, looking for evidence of night-time visitors, but his bed was empty. No confetti, no banners, no sweets, no presents. The dormitory was dead silent, but he was almost certain James was up. He stretched out, muscles pulling gently, and poked through the hangings on his left. He glimpsed the clock on the drawers by the toilet door. Three past seven. They had lessons today, but not until after nine. Defence.
Nevertheless, Remus woke properly, rubbing his eyes and gathering his uniform. James was up, wet-haired and sitting awkwardly with his curtains open, reading 'Which Broomstick?' He smiled at Remus.
"Happy birthday!" he mouthed. Remus weakly returned his look. Sirius' curtains remained shut. He hadn't been to a lesson since the previous Friday. James begrudgingly put it out that he was sick, and McGonagall gave him until today to show up or have a letter sent home. Peter had been the one to pass this on, whispering through the curtains to no response. He'd done it several times, in case Sirius was sleeping. It was more than he deserved.
Remus showered quickly, dragging the soap across his skin. Hot water stung fresh marks on his wrists and thighs. He determinedly did not think of Sirius, dancing with Marlene, eyes fixed on him. But it played like a television show. Sirius brushing his hair from his face, Remus standing in the Great Hall, stomach dropping around his ankles, realising that he was destined to be doomed. Sirius bent over the sink. Cheeks flush, face pale. Moony. His cheek cupped by Sirius' hand, soft and cool. Moony. That hoarse, desperate cry the night of the party, when Remus had come through the door. It had unbuckled him. After everything that night, it had nearly destroyed him.
Remus turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, drying himself off. It had been too much for him. He had skulked off to the library of all places instead of the party and stayed until closing, where Madam Pince had been surprisingly gentle with telling him he really had to leave. Homework and revision finished, he came back and grabbed a beer and after seeing Sirius with some Hufflepuff in his lap, his chest had hurt so much that he'd stormed up to bed. He put on 'Flutterby Harvest' by Miriam Wakefield, a record so anguished they hadn't taken it down to the party, and laid in bed smoking cigarettes and eating chocolate and generally feeling like the lowest person in the world until he drifted off to sleep. In hindsight, it was pathetic, but then he supposed he was just a pathetic person.
James shook him awake, a crazed desperation in his eyes, and said the words that shot a curse through Remus' heart.
"We can't find Sirius," he'd said raggedly. "He's not anywhere in the Tower." And they'd all jumped to the same terrified conclusion. Remus had spent two hours looking for him, stumbling out of a dead sleep, only to race back up the stairs to the dormitory in the hopes of finding James with good news. And then he'd seen Sirius, and Peter in bed, and James looking like he'd been hit with an Unforgivable.
It was unforgivable.
Peter showered after Remus, who silently tied his laces. The three of them went down to breakfast together. Once they were in the corridors, James swung his arm around Remus' shoulder.
"Happy birthday, mate," he smiled, patting him. "Sixteen! You're getting old!"
"Only one more year of being a kid," Peter agreed. "And then you can buy us firewhisky from anywhere, not just the dodgy off-license in Hogsmeade." They laughed, but it echoed. Remus' skin crawled. In a year, he would be an adult. In a year, he would be required to register himself as a werewolf to the Ministry. And in a little over two years, he would leave Hogwarts behind forever, and the rest of his friends would move into jobs and flats and girlfriends and Saturday afternoon drinks and Remus –
He honestly had no idea what he was going to do. He couldn't work, not for any length of time before they realised why he got ill and disappeared every month. His parents would give him a bit of grace, probably, but they couldn't afford to keep him forever. They had struggled enough before he came to school, and now their sickles sufficed for the summer because they had nine months to save for it. Their house, truthfully, was too small for three adults, and he didn't want to live with them forever besides. He couldn't stand that look in their eyes.
But he didn't see what else he could do. If he couldn't work, and they wouldn't have him, he had nothing.
What was the point of getting his OWLs again?
But it was his birthday, so he plastered on a cheery face and had five slices of toast for breakfast. They were off to Hogsmeade on the weekend, and Remus was pleased with that; getting drunk in the back of a pub sounded better than throwing another big party. He wasn't Sirius. He scanned the table, and Sirius still hadn't come down. He was fucked if his parents got owled.
"Happy birthday, Remus!" said Lily brightly as she passed by, and Marlene and Mary Macdonald gave him their best wishes too. "If you feel like proper company today, you can come sit with me. Join the ranks of the mature and all."
"Let him be, Evans! He's not geriatric yet!" James said. She pulled a face.
"Thank you," Remus said politely.
He got a parcel from his parents. They wrote how much they loved him, how proud they were, and to be careful with the moon coming up. James and Peter egged him on as he unwrapped his present. A brand-new quill, the grip charmed to mould to his hand and prevent blisters, and a few bottles of fine ink. He warmed. It wasn't cheap, and it was more than practical; he went through quills and ink nearly as often as he changed socks. He gripped the quill in his right hand, and at once the shaft shifted, curving around his skin and cushioning the red callous on the edge of his knuckle.
"I wish I had one like that," Peter sighed.
"It makes sense for Moony," James said. Remus flinched. "He writes the most of any of us." The nickname jarred. Moony. He heard Sirius' voice in every sound. James appeared to think using the nickname was helpful. Like it might plaster over the wound.
It gaped.
James and Peter gave him their presents. James gave him far more than he could ever take, in a way that made it clear that James had no notion of feeling guilty for being alive. Quills, two novels, a cleaning kit for his records, Sleekeazy's newest shaving cream ("Comes out next month, but Dad nabbed some early,"), and a packet of extremely expensive cigarettes, supposedly 'smooth as silk' and charmed to simply Vanish once it reached the filter, rather than needing to be stubbed out.
"James," Remus croaked, overcome. James shook his head.
"No," he said. "It was a good excuse for me to go shopping. You know I'm like a girl with catalogues." James nudged him. "Just enjoy them. That's all I want." Remus turned over the cleaning kit.
"Do you think they're dusty?" he asked. James just raised his eyebrows and smiled. Remus was making light of it, but he knew that his weren't in as good nick as James' or Sirius'. They weren't the special editions, charmed to mend themselves if broken, or to be scratch-proof. They were fished out of the knut bin with sleeves held together by spellotape.
Peter gave him a rather bright, mismatched collage of photographs and a block of Honeydukes' Finest, along with a hug that hurt Remus' arms. James joined in, and for a moment, it was enough. Remus was enveloped in two of his favourite people in the world. Nobody else could touch him. He was secure. He was safe.
When they broke apart, he saw Sirius.
He kept his head down, hair hiding his face, but Remus knew the look of his hair and the way his arms swung when he walked and the sound of his footsteps. They'd lived together for five years. Sirius twitched, and for one paralysing second, Remus thought he would join them. But Sirius kept on. He passed the girls and the dungbomb-less third-years and grabbed a handful of grapes. He parted the second-years and sat.
"Remus," James said quietly. Sirius didn't look at them. He fed himself red grapes, ignoring the scowls from the younger children. He was thinner and paler, cheeks gaunt. He was in his uniform. He finished the grapes, licked his fingers, and slid off the bench. He only took a few steps before he clapped his hand over Alastor Gumboil's shoulder. The freckly boy looked up. James swore.
"Buddy," Sirius said, with a lilt to his voice that suggested inebriation. "Don't snog other people's girlfriends. Understand, you ginger cunt?"
One of the girls sucked in her breath. Cathy Roshfinger laughed. Gumboil stood, but Sirius left, sucking on his fore and middle fingers. Remus watched him disappear into the Entrance Hall, a knot tightening in his stomach. The doors swung shut.
"Moony," said Peter, pushing a cup of tea towards him. James swallowed and stabbed a grapefruit quarter. Remus stayed fixed on the doors, his breath shortening.
Sirius wasn't coming back to them.
It was done.
