A/N: Trigger warning for this chapter (skip this note if you don't want spoilers!): Character death (canonical death, not someone we've met in this story).

Berlin, June 5, 2020

Our minds are made of steel, we're so hard until the sun drops
Aftershock
Just a tremor, yet for years to come, our hearts are china shops
Aftershock
Watch out for your soul
Aftershock
Watch out for your soul
No prosthetics to fix that hole
Aftershock

"Alright, let's go over the drop D ones," James said and put his guitar pick between his teeth.

Sirius handed Fawkes to his guitar tech, Sonny, who swapped it for his black ESP. Fabian and James also switched their instruments and Gideon used the downtime to take a sip of his water bottle. The air was quickly filled with a jumble of notes as everyone assimilated to their new instruments. Fabian quietly conferred with his techie, and their wardrobe assistant exploited the momentary break to present Sirius with a choice of trousers she carried on hangers. Sirius silently pointed to a pair of black cut-offs, forgoing his usual jeans or leather due to the heat.

The Marauders were in the tuning room at the Waldbühne in Berlin, the clock showing T minus one hour and seventeen minutes. Excitement bubbled in Sirius's stomach. They had never played the forest stage before, but he had seen Rammstein play here several years ago, just as the Marauders' career was starting to kick off, and he had spent the entire show fantasising about one day standing on that stage himself, to be the one making that crowd go crazy. It was one of those places where you could just feel the history emanating from every beam, seat, and wall. Built by the Nazis for the 1936 Olympics, it mimicked a Roman amphitheatre, making for some truly unique acoustics. It had survived the war only to be trashed completely by Rolling Stones fans two decades later, shutting it down for seven years. Since its restoration, everyone who mattered in the world of music had stood on this stage at some point and Sirius felt heady, knowing the exclusive company they were about to join. He tried not to dwell on it too much though, lest his nerves should get the better of him. So, he focused on his instrument, churning out a few quick riffs while he waited for Fabian to get ready.

"Which version of the breakdown do you wanna do tonight?" Gideon shouted from behind his kit, referring to the song Sirius was playing.

"Hmm, I was thinking the one we did in Amsterdam—or what do you feel like?"

"Sounds good, mate," Gideon said and gave his bass drum a few probing kicks and adjusted his seat. James cleared his throat and was about to call to order when Caradoc came up behind him, equipped with his usual clipboard and headset.

"James, can I borrow you for a second?" he asked in a low voice, grabbing the singer's shoulder.

"Now?" James protested. "We still have six songs to go over and none of us are dressed for the stage yet!"

"Sorry, but I need a word."

"Alright." James sighed and pulled his strap over his head. "You lot can start going over the 'Unnatural' bridge. I'll be right back," he told the rest of the band. He left the room with Caradoc and although Sirius was annoyed, he smiled and took over command. They went over the bridge, stopping occasionally to adjust their equipment, and Sirius had just finished a run-through of his solo when James and Caradoc stepped back into the room. They both had sombre expressions on their faces and James looked particularly pale. Sirius and the twins stopped what they were doing and looked at them questioningly. James cleared his throat.

"Sirius, can you come with us, please?"

Sirius didn't like the formal tone he was taking—James only did that when he was nervous.

"What's wrong?" he asked, frowning.

"Just… come outside for a moment," James said and motioned for Sirius to follow him. Sonny was already stepping up, apparently eager to make some more tuning adjustments, so Sirius handed him his guitar and followed James and Caradoc out. James led them back through the bright corridors to their dressing room and motioned for Sirius to sit on the sofa while Caradoc shut the door behind them.

"Okay, now I'm officially worried, Prongs," Sirius said, looking from one man to the other. "What's going on?"

"I'm sorry, Padfoot, but I have some bad news…" James said, sitting down beside him. "It's about Regulus…."

Sirius tensed at the name. He hadn't heard it uttered in years and he preferred it that way. "What about him?" he asked, trying to keep his voice cool.

"He's… well, we don't know exactly what happened, but the media's saying he's been… murdered," James said, looking apprehensively at Sirius.

"The media?" Sirius said, blinking.

"It's all over the news back home…" Caradoc interjected. "The crew are already starting to talk, and we wanted you to hear it from us."

Sirius got the feeling that if it had been up to Caradoc, they wouldn't be having the conversation this side of the show.

"Okay. I appreciate it," he said, getting to his feet.

"Hold on," James grabbed his wrist and looked up at him with big eyes. "Did you not understand what we just told you?"

"Yes." Sirius said. "My idiot brother finally went and got himself killed. Can we go back now? We have a show to do, remember?"

"Sirius…" James said, shaking his head and getting to his feet. "We don't know what happened. Don't you wanna—"

"What?" Sirius spat.

"I dunno…." James threw out his arms, grasping at the air as if he could pull a solution from it. "…react?"

"How would you like me to react?" Sirius deadpanned.

"For fuck's sake, Padfoot." James sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not too late to cancel the show. We can get a plane to London and—"

"And what? Knock on Walburga's door with some flowers and a casserole?"

"That's not—"

"I'm not cancelling. We've worked hard to be here tonight, and I made a promise to this band, remember?"

"Yes, but this is different—"

"Doc, do you want me to cancel?" Sirius rounded on their tour manager, who had been following their exchange with wide eyes.

At being addressed, he pulled himself up and cleared his throat. "Sirius, everyone would understand if—"

"Bollocks!" Sirius shouted. "I know how much it would cost, not to mention disappoint the twenty-two THOUSAND fans who are filing in as we speak!" He squared his jaw and pointed in the direction of the stage. "Don't pretend you even wanted me to know before the show, or you would have come to me directly instead of going through James."

"Padfoot—" James began, but Sirius cut him off again.

"I don't want to discuss this. I'm going back to the tuning room—are you with me or not?" Sirius said, opening the door and looking expectantly at him. James exchanged a glance with Caradoc, but then shook his head in defeat. Caradoc walked with them half of the way before veering off to talk to the head of security.

Back in the tuning room, the twins were mucking about on their instruments but stopped when they saw Sirius and James enter.

"Everything alright?" Gideon frowned.

"Yup, everything's splendid. Let's pick up where we left off," Sirius said, quickly strapping on his ESP again. He didn't miss the way Fabian narrowed his eyes and Gideon looked to James for confirmation before picking up his drumsticks. James just gave a curt nod and seated himself at the keyboard, pulling the mic down to his height.

"Right. 'Unnatural'…" he said and started playing the intro.

.

Sirius threw everything he had into his performance that night. The view from the stage was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. The crowd was piled high on the sides of the amphitheatre and the tall pines and oaks crowning the area gave the illusion that the world began at the stage and ended with the trees. As the sun began to set, people started waving lighters and glow sticks around or shining the flashlights from their mobiles, creating a galaxy of winking stars right there in the grove. And Sirius was indeed able to convince himself that the four of them existed in a microcosm made up of only music and the screams from 22,000 fans. At least for a while; whenever he caught James sending a worried glance his way, the illusion shattered momentarily, but he quickly re-emerged himself in the rhythm and the angry harmonies and forgot about the world again. It got harder and harder, however, so for the entire last half of the show, he opted to just avoid interacting with James completely—to not even look at him—and he was fine.

He directed his energy at the crowd instead, loving the symbiotic relationship; the more he gave the more ecstatic they got, and their boiling energy, in turn, made him play even better. It was like a goddamn snowball running down the side of Mount Everest—there was no stopping it. Gideon and Fabian must have felt it too—rhythms were tighter than ever and together they elevated the songs to new heights. By the time they took their final bows, Sirius felt like he could take off from the ground, soar over the screaming crowd and ascend to the starry sky above.

Backstage, they were met by an equally ecstatic crew. Everything had gone without a hitch for the entire show—in itself quite a feat considering the sheer amount of lights, cables, amps, pyros, and screens that all had to be synchronised perfectly for two and a half hours without let-up. Sirius high-fived Sonny and clapped Caradoc on the back on his way to the VIP area where they were doing a meet-and-greet with a few dozen fans and some journalists. Gratefully, he accepted a towel and a clean shirt from an assistant, using the towel to wipe the worst of the sweat off his chest before pulling on the shirt and gathering his curls in a messy bun at the top of his head, glad to get the clinging locks off his neck. Feel the breeze cool him down. Someone handed him a can of coke which he gulped down like he'd just wandered across the Sahara without water.

Fabian came up behind him, throwing his arms around his shoulders, half jumping onto his back. "Fucking epic, mate!" he exclaimed with a whoop.

"I know!" Sirius laughed and swung his towel around before throwing it high into the air. "…Can we do it again?"

"Hell no!" Gideon shouted, in the process of pulling on a fresh shirt of his own. "My arms are ready to fall off!"

"From that little bit of boots and cats?" Fabian jabbed.

"You're getting rusty, old man!" Sirius punched his shoulder.

"Oh, I'll show you rusty…." Gideon swung an arm at Sirius, who quickly ducked, causing him to hit Fabian instead. The three of them brawled and laughed the rest of the way to the courtyard where a small crowd was waiting for them. Cameras flashed at them as soon as they stepped out, and they stopped for a moment to wave and let people take proper pictures. James had joined them as well now, but Sirius took care not to make eye contact. He was feeling way too good and didn't want that to end. They split up and went to greet the fans—the journalists could wait a little longer.

Time passed by in a blur as Sirius signed records, t-shirts, guitars, and various body parts in a never-ending flourish of his pen. He joked and laughed, asked and answered questions, taking his time to get to know their fans, some of whom had come all the way from Brazil just to see them. He posed for pictures and gave hugs, going along with crazy requests for video messages and dedications, but he couldn't avoid the journalists forever. He recognised a few of them—especially the British ones, who James was thankfully already entertaining. So, he turned his attention to a German reporter instead, who mostly asked about the set and their itinerary for the summer. Sirius made sure to insert compliments about Germany into his answers as often as possible, which always made these interviews go over much more easily. It might've also helped that he was able to do the whole thing in German.

When their limo pulled up, gravel crunching beneath its tyres, they began saying their thank-yous and goodbyes, signed a few last-minute autographs and made their way to the car. Sirius was maybe five feet away from the door when a voice cut above the din.

"Sirius! Sirius! Any comment on your brother's murder? Know who did it?"

He stopped dead in his tracks. He made to turn around, but suddenly James and Caradoc were on either side of him, herding him towards the car.

"Sirius! Will you be going back for the funeral tomorrow?"

"What do you have to say to the people who did this?"

"Will you be reconciling with your parents, now that you're the sole heir to the Black Family fortune?"

Before he could even think of stringing two words together, James pushed his head down, forcing him to enter the limo.

Caradoc shut the door behind Fabian and Gideon, and the world became eerily silent, the heavy padded walls of the luxury car instantly blocking the sounds of cheering fans and inquisitive journalists. A ringing lingered in his ears, echoes of those callous words…. It only lasted a fraction of a second, though, before Peter, who had already been in the car, opened a champagne bottle with a resounding 'pop'.

"You really outdid yourselves, lads! Show of the fucking century!" he cheered and started pouring the foaming liquid into a bunch of flutes standing on the small table. Most of it missed since the car had started to move now. No one said anything. They were all just staring at Sirius. All except Peter, who kept babbling on about his personal highlights from their performance.

"…truly spectacular, James, I must say, and Sirius, when you got to the solo in—" he paused when he looked up, finally noticing that he was alone in celebrating. "What's wrong?" he asked, shifting his eyes between the others like he was watching a game of football.

The only sound was that of champagne drizzling onto the carpet.

"Is it true, Sirius?" Gideon broke the silence after a while.

"I—" Sirius started, but he didn't know what to answer. Was it true? Or was it some crazy media story? Some scheme thought up by his twisted parents? To what end? He looked out the window. A few dedicated fans were running alongside the car, waving and banging on the windows, but as soon as the car left the gravelled courtyard and hit tarmac, they fell back, no longer able to keep up. All he could see now were dark tree trunks stretching up into a pitch-black sky. The driver was taking the small, unlit service roads, avoiding the traffic jam that inevitably followed when you stowed thousands of people together in one place.

"Pete, do you have my mobile?" Sirius asked.

"Ah yes, I've got them all here…." Peter jumped and pulled four phones from his jacket pocket, handing them out to their respective owners. "Yours have been ringing quite incessantly," he told Sirius as he passed him his. Sure enough, it had barely switched hands before it started buzzing. He didn't recognise the number. That was never good. He declined the call. He opened his logs and saw that he had fifty-three missed calls. Most of them unknown numbers, but a few were from journalists he knew. He didn't bother looking past the last ten logs, just resolutely switched off his phone and threw it on the seat next to him.

"Fuck…!" He groaned and sank down in his seat, letting his head fall back. He did not want to be trapped in this car right now.

"Sirius, what's this about your brother?" Fabian asked.

"How should I know?" Sirius replied, throwing his hands up in resignation. "I'm not exactly on the Christmas card list of anyone in my family, am I?"

"Mate, it's all blowing up…" James said, sliding his thumb repeatedly over the screen of his own phone. "It's breaking news from every British outlet, even some international ones…. There's not a lot of details, but apparently it happened four days ago and your—the family has kept it quiet until today. Or yesterday that is," he added, checking his watch.

"Four days?" Sirius swallowed to try and manage the sandpaper in his throat. His brother had been dead for four days and no one had thought to tell him? Not even a lousy email?

"I'm sorry, Sirius…" James said, and Sirius could tell he really meant it. He actually sounded sorrier than Sirius was. Why wasn't he more affected by this? Sure, it had been almost ten years since he last saw his brother, and any news he'd heard of him since then, had all been bad. But wasn't he still his brother? He tried to recall some good memories, but nothing came to mind.

"What would you like to do, Sirius?" Caradoc asked tentatively. "I can get you on a flight to London tonight, and you can be back in time for the Hamburg show on Saturday—"

"Don't bother…" Sirius said, rubbing his eyes. He suddenly felt immensely tired. "There's no point…."

"It says here that the funeral will take place in St. Paul's at four tomorrow," James said, scrolling down his phone.

"You know I can't go."

"Fuck that, Sirius, if they have a problem, they can—"

"Can we close the subject, please?" Sirius snapped. His eyes darted across them all before landing on James, trying to communicate how much he really didn't want to be having this conversation in front of everyone. He wasn't even sure he wanted to have it, full stop. The only thing he could think of right now was the soft bed waiting for him at the hotel. Where did the euphoria from not ten minutes ago disappear to?

They were all silent the rest of the way back to the hotel. The car stopped a street away, and Caradoc pulled Sirius out and guided him to the back entrance of the building. Sirius was grateful, since he knew a swarm of paparazzi would be waiting for them at the main entrance. Obviously, James wasn't keen on letting him out of his sight, but they both knew that James was the only one who could keep the leeches occupied long enough for Caradoc and Sirius to sneak in undetected.

When he was finally alone in his room, he didn't know what to do with himself. He didn't bother turning on the lights—he just stood there in the dark, staring into space, head completely empty except for the ringing silence in his ears.

Someone knocked on the door.

He became aware of his sticky skin and aching muscles. His dry mouth and stiff fingers.

Another knock.

He ought to take a shower.

More knocking, and a muffled voice.

His feet felt like lead as he dragged himself to the bathroom, and he winced when the ceiling lights came on. He must have been standing in the dark longer than he realised. He went through the motions of undressing and turning on the water, letting it get scolding hot before stepping under, soaking his hair and lathering it with hotel shampoo.

Rinse and repeat.

Smearing the suds over his body, his fingers grazed the puckered scars on his chest, hidden by the phoenix tattoo. It had been his first tattoo. He had got it the day he turned eighteen, as a celebration of how far he'd come since he got those scars. Those two perfectly round scars, each exactly the diameter of a Cuban cigar. But hadn't it also been an attempt at erasing the past? Naïve thought, really. Nothing could ever lessen the weight of his formative years. Not tattoos, not music, not drugs…. Had Reggie felt the same way? Probably not. He was their parents' son through and through. Sirius had tried to get Reggie to come with him, to leave it all behind, but even at fourteen, he had been so deeply entrenched in the 'family values', that it had been a lost cause from the start. He hadn't wanted to be saved by Sirius. He didn't need saving. He was proud to be a Black and had found plenty of kindred spirits at school. Together, they had taken things further than their parents ever had. Open hostility, discrimination, degradation—even violence, though that was never talked about—against anyone they deemed lesser. Which didn't take much: the wrong colour of skin, the wrong parents, the wrong opinions, or the wrong sexuality….

Sirius had often wondered what made him different from them. He liked to believe that there was something inherently good in him, keeping him from getting pulled in, but, frankly, he didn't know if he deserved that much credit. Perhaps it was merely self-preservation; even as a kid with no idea of what it meant to be gay, let alone that it applied to him, his instincts had told him that these people were his enemies. Perhaps it was simply luck? Luck that his parents had mistreated him from the day he was born, ensuring that spite would become one of his prime qualities. Luck, that he happened to meet James on his first day of school. Luck that James had no idea who he was; if he'd known, he never would have spoken to him in a million years. Luck that he hadn't been put in a different house; then his best friend could have just as easily been a Lestrange or a Mulciber or a Dolohov—and not a Potter. Then perhaps he would have joined Reggie. And perhaps he would be the one lying on a coroner's table now.

He sighed and shut off the water, wrung out his hair, and stepped out of the shower. Not caring that he dripped all over the floor, he went over to the mirror and wiped off the fog from an area just large enough for him to see the reflection of his own his face: the sharp cheekbones that he'd inherited from his mother and the grey eyes and straight nose that his father had passed on to him; the raven hair that seemed to almost be a trademark of the Black Family. There were other traces too, not genetic, but still tying him to his parents: his straight posture, the way he always held his nose high and—he loathingly admitted—the angry spark in his eyes, betraying an explosive temper. Other legacies were less visible. Some expertly covered by tattoos; others purely mental. Memories that could never be erased, fears that refused to be eradicated, coping strategies that were doomed to fail. Restlessness, ambition, paranoia, vindictiveness, self-absorption—all these traits that made him who he was, for better or for worse, could all be traced back through his family tree. The gnarled, twisted (and too often intertwining) family tree. Was this the final storm that made it keel over? Would it finally be able to lie on the forest floor and rot in peace as it should have done centuries ago? He was now the only one left to carry on the name. And he would never do so. He had sworn long ago that he wouldn't have children. The world would be better off without more of the Black bloodline infesting it.

Turning his back to the mirror, he walked straight past his discarded clothes and out of the bathroom. When his knees hit the bed, he let himself fall headfirst into the soft covers, and just lay there until it became hard to breathe. He turned his head, watching the headlights from the cars on the road outside pass across the wall, making the shadow from the chandelier dance and distort until it disappeared entirely. Moments later, the pattern repeated. He suddenly remembered lying in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place, watching similar shadows form and dissolve on the wallpaper. It hadn't scared him, but he knew that Reggie was afraid of the dark and the unfamiliar shapes it produced, so he used to sneak into his room after their parents had gone to bed to comfort him by telling stories or sing songs. Reggie would never admit to being scared, but he always fell asleep soon after Sirius had joined him in his bed. Sirius usually returned to his own bedroom then, but one night he had fallen asleep too. All hell broke loose the following morning when his mother had found him in there…. Sirius hadn't dared go back after that. It pained him to see the dark circles under his brother's eyes, which meant he wasn't sleeping at night, but the bruises on Sirius's own body had seemed worse at the time. Perhaps that was the beginning of the end for them. He had let his little brother down.

His throat constricted as the memories overwhelmed him. He coughed and raised himself up, crawling into the bed properly, pulling the crisp sheets over his naked body. He just needed to sleep, that was all.

Another shadow passed across the ceiling. Had Reggie been scared four days ago? How did he die? Had it been quick? Did he know what was coming? Was he killed by friend or foe? Had he cried for help? Had he thought of Sirius? Or had he not crossed his mind at all for the past decade? Had he regretted his choices?

"Fuck…" Sirius muttered to himself. He had to go. He could not bear the thought that Reggie had died thinking that he hated him. He didn't believe in the afterlife but if there were even the slightest chance that he could set things straight… he had to tell him.

His joints cracked as he got up and rummaged through his suitcase for something to wear.

Five minutes later, he was knocking on Peter's door. No one answered, so he tried again, this time a bit more forcefully. The door finally opened, and a gruff-looking Peter squinted at him, tying a fluffy white dressing gown around his belly.

"Padfoot?" he croaked.

"I need to go to London," Sirius said.

"Alright. I'll find you a flight in the morning…."

"Now, Wormtail."

"Okay…" Peter muttered, blanching when he looked at Sirius. "Alright, come in, I'll make some calls."

Sirius made himself comfortable on Peter's bed while the manager started calling around. He wasn't listening. He was much too busy trying to check the thoughts whirling in his head, threatening to break to the forefront. He didn't want to think anymore. If only he could—

No. That wasn't an option. He was going to deal with this like an adult. He was going to… he didn't know what exactly. A plan would come to him once he was on his way. It always did. James was sure to have some choice words for him, about going by himself, but that was exactly was why he didn't go to him. Or to Caradoc. Caradoc would alert James immediately, but Peter would be sufficiently torn between his loyalties to James and Sirius to buy him some time. This was something he needed to do alone.

"Alright, Padfoot, I managed to get you a seat on a private plane taking off from Tempelhof in an hour. I've called a taxi and asked the reception to print the necessary papers. Do you have your passport?"

"Erm…" Sirius muttered, patting his pockets.

"Of course, you don't…" Peter said, shaking his head. "Which is why I have it. You always leave it lying around," he admonished and shoved the burgundy booklet into Sirius's hand.

"Thanks, Wormtail, what would I do without you?" Sirius said, squeezing his shoulder before hurrying out the door.

Lyric credits:

Alligatoah - Nachbeben (Author's translation from German, liberties taken for rhyming)