Title: 1970 Somethin'
Chapter: 02 – Doing Alright With The Boys
Author: Killaurey
Rating: T
Word Count: 14,253
Notes: Written for Unconventional Courtship 2023 and based on the summary of the Mills & Boon book The Ninefold Key by Rebecca Brandewyne. Title comes from Mark Wills' song 19' Something. Disclaimer: I don't own either Harry Potter or Naruto. I just play with them. Part 2 of ?
Summary: Regulus Black is going into his 5th year at Hogwarts. Quidditch Captain. Prefect. Literally the guy of Ino's dreams. Dumbledore is more interested in Elvis than fighting the war looming on Wizarding Britain's horizon. Voldemort's still handsome but Farrah Fawcett's hair is, like, way better.
Regulus doesn't disagree but he really wishes Ino hadn't felt the need to say that to The Dark Lord's face.
And no, no he's not quite sure how they got to this point either.
It's 1970 somethin'.
It's late enough that the first and second years have been banished to their dorms and most third years have followed of their own free will but, given that exams have ended and the summer is coming fast upon the school, it's not that late and so there's plenty of people around when Severus Snape storms into the Common Room.
Regulus sips his butterbeer, glancing up from his chess game with a faint frown of irritation, and notes that Snape is so pale he looks bloodless, aside from two high spots of colour on his cheeks, and it could be fear but it could also be rage.
Be better for him if everyone thinks it's rage, he decides, after a moment, turning back to his game. Though that benefit of the doubt is... unlikely. Even if it truly is rage.
Unfortunately, it's not his turn.
Even more unfortunately, Julian Rosier is still watching Snape.
"What caused that, do you think?" Julian says, even as Snape sneers at the room—that's not going to go well for him, Regulus notes, seeing the way Evan Rosier and Tavers, two of Snape's yearmates, exchange glances filled with a gleeful sort of venom—and then stomps off towards the fifth year boys dormitories. "Your brother, perhaps?"
Regulus raises one eyebrow expressively at Julian, who smirks at him.
"It's always something to do with my brother," Regulus says. "Unfortunately. Make your move."
Julian frowns at the board. "You're killing me here."
"You wanted to play," he says mildly. "You knew the risks."
Just like I know the risks of Snape in a temper. He'll try to take it out on me, if he can, even though that's social suicide for him. I'm the favoured Black son, after all, for all that Sirius is the heir. And I, I have friends in Slytherin. True friends, not just allies to greed and ambition.
Regulus knows that, should Snape step out of line too egregiously, the sleep he'll be facing is eternal.
Politics in Slytherin are life and death.
Julian makes his move and Regulus frowns. He'd hoped that Julian wouldn't notice that gap in his defenses-but then, the fact that he did just makes the game more interesting.
As the interest stirred by Snape's entrance fades, and Rosier and Tavers get up and saunter towards the dorm room they share with Snape, the common room goes back to the usual level of subdued chatter. Now, given the proximity to summer, there's an undercurrent of excitement as people swap plans and compare travel itineraries.
Regulus keeps half an ear on the quiet conversations, the pulse of gossip, and the rest of his attention on the game.
He makes his move just as Julian shifts, getting antsy.
"You need to work on your patience," Regulus says.
"My besetting sin," Julian agrees cheerfully. "We can't all have an arse of stone. Just because you're all inner fire doesn't mean I'll ever get there."
Regulus snorts. "Just don't let your impatience burn you."
"Burns heal," Julian says. "Better than being frozen, ain't it?"
Regulus casts an eye on who else is left in the common room.
"I suppose so," he says absently. "Are you attending the Delacour wedding?"
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Julian says, and waggles his eyebrows. "There's Veela-blood in the Delacour line, some of the guests are going to be..."
"Prat," Regulus says. "If you make a fool out of yourself, I'll leave you to your humiliations. Mother and Father will both be there and I'd as soon as not embarrass them by association."
They had enough embarrassment to handle thanks to how little Sirius cared for them as it was. It would be one thing if Sirius loathed them in private but, no-
No, he must do it publicly, as loud as possible, so that no one could miss how little he cares for his own blood family. The least I can do is make up for that dishonour to the best of my abilities.
"That's fair," Julian allows. "At least pinch me if I look as if I'm drooling, will you?"
Regulus smiles faintly. "I daresay I can manage that much. Is your brother attending?"
"The whole family is," Julian sighs. "Including my little sister. For all my dreams of a good time, I'm as like to be stuck watching over Natalia as anything. You know, you could help. She likes you."
"She's a child," Regulus says. "So long as you smile, pretend to listen, and occasionally play a game or offer them candy, they'll like anyone. If I need a retreat, perhaps I'll take you up on it."
"Don't do it too often, though," Julian says. "Mum's hopeful of another Black connection."
"Everyone is," Regulus says, his voice very carefully empty of all emotion. He takes a sip of his butterbeer. "I'm not interested."
"Still hung up on a dream, huh?" Julian says. "How are you going to strike while the iron's hot if she doesn't even exist?"
Regulus gives Julian a withering look.
Julian raises his hands. "Okay, okay, I won't mention it."
"Don't," Regulus says.
They turn back to their game and Regulus tries to forget the fact that Julian is right, there's no indication that The Girl who haunts him even exists.
But he'd mentioned it once, to his father, and Orion Black had listened to him, asked a few questions, and then told him to not further concern himself with it.
That it would occur in due course.
And Father doesn't say that things like that without certain knowledge.
It's one of the handful of reasons Regulus has done as he was told and-not concerned himself overmuch with it, no matter what Julian says.
We're like the difference between early birds and night owls. At a certain hour, there's no difference at all.
The game carries them long into the night.
James surveys the train compartment with an utter lack of enthusiasm. Moony's already slunk off towards the Prefect's car, Wormtail's getting sweets for the lot of them, and Padfoot…
He pretends, studiously, that he doesn't notice the way his best mate looks at him. For absolution, for forgiveness, for something—James isn't ready to offer him any of that. He pulls out a book on Quidditch, knowing he'll read approximately three pages before he gets bored as shit and has to find something else to do, and—
"Prongs," Padfoot says.
"Shut it, Sirius," James says. "I'm not done being mad at you."
Not by a long shot. He's barely even begun to process it. He's—okay, he can admit this in the privacy of his own thoughts—he's scared to even begin to really try until he's home, away from Padfoot, away from Moony who looks so betrayed and away from Peter, who doesn't know what to do and so does nothing.
Not that I'm doing anything either, James thinks grimly. Except being pissed. Not even the fun sort of pissed either.
As predicted, the book fails to hold his attention. It's hard to think about Quidditch when his best mate is brooding, staring out the window, and acting like a victim because how dare they all hold his actions against him even though he's said sorry.
He jiggles one foot, bounces a knee up and down up and down. Fuck. He wants to go for a fly.
It's an ugly thing, really, to be smacked upside the head with the fact that—that—this isn't even new behaviour. It's just that, before, James never gave a shite about it. Pranks are funny. Sticking toes over the line is great. Flaunting authority and breaking laws are practically Marauder life goals.
And then…
James glowers at his book, not seeing a single word on it. This is absolute rubbish and they're trapped on the train until it reaches London.
Bloody fantastic. He'd thought the last few days with them all sharing a dorm had been dreadful.
This is shaping up to be worse.
Moony's got Prefect duties but I know he's going to use those as an excuse to not come back at all. Wormtail's odds of returning before we leave are fifty-fifty tops, depending on what else people are doing on the train. And I…
He'd love to bail, just like the others (and he really doesn't blame them—Moony, fuck, the fact that Moony is talking to any of them right now is a treasure and Wormtail's smart to avoid Padfoot when he's in a temper like this—James knows the reasons and understands them, but…
I'm keeping Padfoot out of more trouble.
And it's necessary.
He knows good and well that if he wasn't here, disapproving and furious and terrible company and all, that Padfoot would go and find someone to start a fight with. Maybe even Snivellus.
And holy shite I don't need to be taking Divination to know that would end in someone's death.
Snivellus, who has always been an absolute waste of space, has been giving them absolutely malevolent stares the last few days.
It makes James deeply, violently uncomfortable that he can't even pretend he doesn't understand that either. It feels like all his justifications have been turned to cinders. If Snivellus attacked, he'd defend Padfoot, he knows he would.
But I'd understand why Snivellus wants him dead.
And this is all Padfoot's fucking fault.
Fuck, Sirius.
He needs to stop thinking about this before he starts screaming. It's hard not to, though, when he's got the instigator right across from him and he's left feeling sorry for Snivellus of all people.
Getting murdered by a werewolf would be…
It's not even just Snivellus' life that would be destroyed. Moony would be lucky if being expelled was the only consequence. Most likely the Ministry would want him dead, put down like an animal, and…
That's Moony whose life Sirius played a nasty, awful game with.
Evans calling him an arrogant, bullying toerag still stings but these last few days he's been forced to look at Sirius and realize that, if he, James, is one then… well. Then his best mate, the near murderer, is also one.
And…
If everyone found out, Dumbledore would be sacked for sure, for bringing a werewolf in with everyone, teaching them just the same. But…
It just doesn't sit right that Snivellus is bound to not speak of the whole matter while, of course, Sirius had lost points but points for a student's life? Even if that student is a waste of space?
That thought alone leaves him deeply, wildly uncomfortable in ways he hasn't been able to articulate, not even to himself. Is it possible to find himself at an emotional impasse? If so, he hates it.
Thank fuck that, before he really starts driving himself mad, there's a clattering at the window that gets both his and Padfoot's attention–
"Carl!" James says, honestly super grateful for the distraction as he pries open the window and his owl careens into the compartment looking thoroughly ruffled.
Padfoot snorts, the way he does whenever Carl's name is mentioned ("Who'd name an owl Carl anyway, mate?") but given that Sirius named his eagle owl Vicious, James is well used to ignoring that.
At least Carl is a right proper name.
"Chin up," he tells his owl as Carl settles on the arm he holds out. "You won't have to go back out for at least a day or two."
The talons that close around his arm don't bite into his skin. Carl's pretty careful about things like that.
"Val wrote back, did he?' James murmurs, spying the letter in the familiar handwriting. "You hang on a tick and I'll get your cage out of my trunk."
It really doesn't take long at all since, with Carl on him, he uses his wand instead of his arms to pull his trunk down. Since he never knew when Carl would return, he'd kept the cage folded up at the very top of his things and all it takes is the tap of his wand to expand and another two taps for fresh water and food.
The owl treats, he feeds to Carl, one at a time, with his owl taking them daintily. The entire time, he talks to Carl, telling him how great an owl he is.
It's nice, to have something to do, but also: Carl has seen some shit, going off of Val's letters.
He deserves all the praise and more, so it is only once Carl is well settled, his trunk is back where it ought to be, and James can retake his own seat that he turns the letter over in his hands thoughtfully. Even the parchment feels different and it never fails to leave him bemused about the whole thing.
It's an old, old Potter tradition that, on the eve of their eleventh birthday, they write a letter introducing themselves, chattering on about whatever, and then folding it into a paper boat, and releasing that boat up to sail into the sun.
(James is not quite certain what goes on if it ever happened to be cloudy—his eleventh birthday had been brilliantly sunny; absolutely perfect weather.)
Then, once the letter is sent out, they wait for a response. According to his dad, there always is a response.
His dad still writes regularly to his quill friend and he's been doing it for so long they've both become incredibly ancient.
James had gotten Val. It's been years of letters between the two of them and, he thinks, they understand one another quite well these days. He hasn't said anything—not to his dad who probably knows; not to Sirius, who'd tease him mercilessly—but he hopes that, when he's old and doddery, he still hears from Val. He hopes, even more vaguely, that one day he'll have kids who he can help send their boats off, give them a friend who gets them.
Val's life is almost nothing like his, aside from the fact that his parents love him. For one, Val's got siblings and James, well, he's an only child. Their differences only swerve outwards from there.
He unrolls the missive, eager to get the latest news and lose himself in someone else's problems for a little bit.
And maybe I'll tell Val about all of this… leave out Moony's condition, since I'm not sure they've got werewolves the way we do, but I can tell the rest. Who would Val tell, anyway?
Which, he knows, is part of the blessing, part of the magic that they cast out when they send the letter into the sun. The letter seeks out someone who is a twig on the same broomstick, giving them a chance to correspond with someone who, no matter how far away they are, is a friend. The first letter always is sent through the sun.
After that, owls do the job.
Except when dragons are nearby, he thinks, almost guiltily, glancing at Carl who has fallen asleep. But Carl can face anything.
Possibly that faith in his owl is unwarranted but James was feeling rather disillusioned about the whole faith in people thing right that moment and his owl had, so far, always come through for him, no matter what dangers there were in the transit. Faith in his owl seems safer.
Val's letter is chatty, rambling on about a hunt they'd gone on and how his training was going. Reading between the lines, James knows Val misses his family, but also that he considers it a duty to serve the army he's in. Sword training, squiring for knights, endless errands in a frozen homeland…
James loses himself in these details and very gratefully so.
Reading it gives him something else to think about and helps the time go by. James considers writing a response now but, well, just as he's about to make up his mind on that, there's another tapping on the window.
His mum's owl.
All thoughts of Val vanish from his mind immediately.
Why would his mum be writing him when, in just a few hours, they'll be at Platform 9 3/4 and she can tell him whatever it is then?
"That's Trumpet," Sirius says, shaking his head to get his hair out of his eyes. He sounds alarmed which, well, James knows why. Sirius loves James' mum and dad nearly as much as James does. Probably because his own are such rubbish. "What's he doing here?"
"Help me get the window open," James orders and Padfoot, given the circumstances, listens to him.
James figures that talking to his so-called best mate (actually, no, that's a lie, they're still best mates; he just hasn't managed to wrap his head around all of everything yet) in the moment is an acceptable aberration to the silent treatment.
Since.
Mum.
Sirius gets the window open, James gets ready to hold Trumpet because Trumpet is a Blakiston's Fish Owl, the largest owl in the world, and has a wingspan longer than James is tall. And James is pushing six feet and isn't certain he's topped out yet.
"You're a great ridiculous beast," he tells Trumpet, even as he staggers a bit under impact. Trumpet is a commitment, a comet to the chest. "Hang on, alright—we need to find some place to set you. What's Mum want?"
It takes a few minutes, juggling around giant owl, the shite they've already got out in the compartment, Carl, before they get situated well enough that James can get to the letter.
He reads it and his heart sinks like a bloody rock.
The worst part, the very, very worst part, is that usually this would be great news.
"What's it say?" Sirius asks, his grey eyes sharp with worry. "Your parents—"
"You're coming home with me," he says, holding out the letter for Sirius to read. "Your parents are taking off with your brother for some to-do out in France."
There's more to it, all in the letter, but—
James sees the way hurt chases itself across Padfoot's face at being excluded by his own family.
Sirius, he knows, hates his family as much as he loves them and it's—it's generally better that James keeps out of that mess. He never knows where to step with that.
"Reggie didn't mention anything about this to me," Sirius mutters as he reads, the hurt tucked quickly away under the cold, chill mask he's picked up from his parents. "But good riddance, I suppose. Cheers, mate."
"Cheers," James echoes, lead in his stomach.
Neither of them are nearly as excited about it as they could have been, should have been, last week would have been.
Right. New plan for the summer hols. Do not murder Padfoot. Mum and Dad would never understand.
James has no idea how he's going to process everything, avoid his best mate, not let on to his parents about the whole sodding mess, complete his summer homework, and stay in tip-top shape for Quidditch. He might just start screaming.
In an effort to avoid that, since it would be distressing and draw attention to them, which while he usually enjoys that, now is not the time, he turns to his mum's owl.
"You sticking around, Trumpet? Or you going to go back to Mum? It's supposed to rain so we're not leaving the window open the whole trip."
He keeps up a steady stream of chatter, nonsense really, until Trumpet decides to bail on their warm, dry slice of false utopia and brave the wilds of the winds outside, which are steadily increasing. Definitely a summer storm coming on.
James kind of wants to throw himself out the window, much like his mum's owl. Really, it would just make everything so much easier and he could stop thinking about it.
He snaps the window shut, feeling deeply aggrieved, and tries to pretend he doesn't see the way that Padfoot looks at him with an expression so much like the animal he turns into, hopeful and wary all at once.
James scrubs his hands through his hair, leaving it sticking all on end, and resigns himself to a long, long, long journey home.
"Mother," Regulus says, his trunk on a trolley behind him. "Father."
Mother smiles at him and Father nods in the way he does when he is particularly pleased. Around them, there are more effusive greetings taking place, but Regulus has never needed that, just the knowledge that his parents love him, and he has that.
"Look at you," Mother says, reaching out to touch his hair. She smooths back an errant curl. "You've gotten so tall."
"You're just the same as ever, Mother," Regulus says, smiling. "Absolutely beautiful, of course."
This makes Mother laugh and Father too, and he realizes, as he always does, that he misses them. Hogwarts has its own charm, and his family its own problems, but he loves them.
"We'll be going from here to Chateau Noir," Father says. "Kreacher will take your trunk."
On the platform, Kreacher does not dare be visible. It would shame the family. But he can feel his presence at his side, one of Kreacher's hands brushing against his robes.
"Kreacher will do his job admirably," Regulus agrees, mostly for Kreacher's sake, and while he's not thrilled about a portkey right after a train ride, he does love the Chateau. It encapsulates many of the things he admires most about his family.
"We've a tailor coming tomorrow to fit you for new robes," Mother says. "And good that we arranged it-I doubt you could fit into any of your old dress robes."
Regulus smiles. "And if I hadn't grown, would you have had me in last season's robes, Mother?"
She swats his arm gently, laughing.
"Do you have everything?" Father asks. "Is there anyone you wish to speak with before we leave for France?"
"I said my farewells on the train," he says, which is true, and much simpler to do without making his parents wait. Regulus hesitates for a moment, then asks- "What of Sirius?"
"He'll be staying with the Potters," Father says, a coolness to his voice that Regulus knows has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the whole... situation... of his brother and their parents.
Regulus nods and smiles at his mother, like it doesn't bother him at all, just to erase the pinched expression on her face.
"I'll feel quite spoiled," he says, "not having to share either of you with him."
There's enough truth in that, too, to make it real.
It's so much easier when Sirius isn't around.
Mother smiles at him. "What a lovely thing to say."
"In that case, Father," he says, "I'm ready to leave. It would be rude to make a lady wait."
Mother's hand on his arm is gentle and he can smell her perfume. She won't hug him, not here where everyone can see them, but it feels like a hug all the same.
Father looks at his pocket watch. "Alright," he says, pulling out a silver spoon-real silver, of course-with the Black crest on the handle. "Everyone, take hold. Kreacher, you know where to meet us."
In short order, they each have at finger on the spoon and his father says the trigger words: Toujours pur.
With a sudden jolt, they disappear from the platform. They land, neatly, in the front foyer Chateau Noir.
Three house elves pop into existence immediately, their tea towels black with the Black family crest embroidered upon them in silver and gold, and bow as they welcome them.
Behind him, he hears Kreacher pop into place with his trunk.
Regulus directs two of the Chateau's elves to take his trunk, pretending he doesn't hear the way Kreacher grumbles about that being his job-Kreacher won't be staying with them long as he is bound to Grimmauld Place and it's always a bad idea to have house elves quarrel for territory when wizards and witches are about-and shakes his head to clear it off the sepulchral chill that always pervades him after portkey travel.
He much prefers other methods, even the Floo with all of i's potential for indignity.
The Chateau is a vision of golden woods, dark and gleaming paneling, and staircases of black marble swirled through with real silver and gold. When he'd been very young, he'd used to watch the play of light across the steps, trying to see the constellations formed therein.
Now that they're alone, Mother envelopes him in a hug.
Regulus hugs her back. "I missed you, Mother," he says, and it's the truth.
She's a hard woman to get along with, and she runs the household with a voice and wand that turns easily to cruelty. He knows this.
He still loves her and missing her is an honest emotion.
Father claps him on the shoulder, which is as close to a hug as Orion Black ever gets-Regulus cannot recall ever seeing his father hug anyone, not even his wife-and says, "Let the house elves know what you would like for dinner. It'll be your choice tonight, to celebrate your coming home."
The platform is blisteringly awkward.
He manages to catch Moony, says he'll write, and doesn't say any of the other things he wants to—mostly because Moony's parents are fast approaching and he's not getting anywhere into anything with parental units about—but takes a tiny bit of solace from the way Moony smiles faintly at him before ditching them all with alacrity.
Moony doesn't blame him, James knows that, it's just hard for Moony when, well, when Padfoot is standing nearby, pretending he's not listening to every word they say…
Yeah. Yeah, James gets it.
Wormtail makes an appearance, the way he hadn't for most of the train ride, and that's nearly as awkward as Moony. James says he'll write, Pete shrugs easily, casts a troubled look at Sirius, and is gone, trotting after his mum, his trunk on a trolley.
Then they're just two, the fastest the Marauders have ever dispersed from the platform, which explains why James' own mum and dad are over there, conversing with a few of their friends, not looking like they're planning to leave any time soon, and—
James sighs, heavily, as he realizes that Sirius has spotted his family.
He's pretty sure that the only reason the Blacks show up to the platform, rather than sending a House Elf to pick up their children, is because appearances are everything. A loving family would be at the platform, ergo...
Well.
James can't deny that it could be also because they seem to, quite genuinely, be fond of the younger of their sons. He watches critically as Sirius' mum smiles and touches the hair of Sirius' prat of a little brother. James pretends the gesture doesn't remind him of his own mum because that's just unsettling.
Sirius' dad says something that has both his wife and preferred son laughing in that polite, restrained way they've got about them.
(In public. James isn't sure about Regulus, who really does seem like the quiet sort, but he knows for certain it's all an act by Sirius' mum.)
Sirius shifts.
"Don't even think about it," James snaps, even as Sirius takes a step.
Sirius turns to him with a mulish look on his face. His grey eyes are very cold. He looks a lot like his father, at that moment, though James will never tell him so.
"What," Sirius says acidly, "am I not allowed to say goodbye to my dear old mum and dad before they hare off to France?"
James huffs. "If that's all you wanted, Pads, whatever, but you're spoiling for a fight and, just, not on the platform, alright? Not in front of my parents."
He doesn't say 'not because you'll only get hurt', even though it's the truth, because Sirius might deck him then.
"And," James says, "you're an exasperating, infuriating prat and I am very angry with you right now, but you're still the closest thing I've got to a brother so, like, come home, you prick. Don't try to get yourself taken along with them."
"I wasn't," Sirius says stiffly, in a way that James knows, well, he knows. "I just—I shouldn't—"
"You'll break my mum's heart if you don't come," James says. "I think she likes you better than me."
It's more that his mum knows Sirius needs a good mum and so dotes on him. James gets it. He's had his parents his whole life. Sharing isn't a problem for him.
Sirius smiles faintly. "But you—"
Eventually, eventually James will let him finish a sentence but since all of his sentences are really bloody obvious, and patience has never been James' own strong point…
"I'm not saying this summer's going to be fun," James allows, because there's the whole screaming into the void thing when he thinks about all of everything and he still might haul off and murder Sirius himself but this is just right pathetic, his best mate trying to go off to be treated like… like kids shouldn't be treated by their parents just to give him space.
And maybe to punish himself, because Sirius is self-destructive like that.
"But come on, you're Mum's favourite imposition."
Merlin's soggy left testicle but, only three days into summer hols, and James longs fervently to go back to Hogwarts. It's a tragedy of a lifetime, that's what it is, and there's no use talking to That Prat Called Mister Padfoot because, fuck it, James is still impossibly furious with him.
Going to back to Hogwarts, with the regally appointed Gryffindor dorms, wouldn't change the fact that he'd have to live with Padfoot, that utter jackass also known as Sirius Black, but there'd be other distractions. Other people.
It wouldn't be just him, he-who-he-is-not-talking-to, and his parents, who are very confused about the stilted conversations that happen at the dining table, three times daily, unless James skips a meal, which he does sometimes because—
Fuck all of this.
It's before dawn, the third day of summer, and he's hiding up in the air, in a copse of trees, on his old Shooting Star, a broom he'd last rode when he was eight because it was the only one he could get his hands without That Prat immediately noticing.
That one, James concedes, his mostly his fault: if his actual broom wasn't in his bedroom, removing it and himself from Sirius' presence would be a great deal easier but Sirius is a very light sleeper, probably from all those years with his bitch mother, and it had been a whole thing. Doomed to failure from the very start.
The Shooting Star buried in the back of the attic had, despite the physical labour and dust and sweat he'd put himself through, been the easier one to get his hands on and make his escape.
So now… now up on a broom, even though it's far too small for him at sixteen, James feels a bit better. A tad. A smidge. Possibly a smudge.
And this would've been an absolutely beautiful summer if Padfoot hadn't tried to feed Snivellus to Moony.
It isn't that Snivellus was anything but an absolute wanker (and the one cheering spot in this whole mess was that Evans had finally seen sense and removed Snivellus from her life, hopefully for good) or that James didn't think it wasn't a jolly good time to prank the pants off of him (quite literally, ideally, and with an audience) but—
But how could he do that to Moony? If he'd succeeded he'd have turned Moony into a murder weapon.
And that, James found, he is having a lot of trouble coping with.
Snivellus dying… James tries not to think about that too hard. If he'd had his way, Snivellus would just disappear off the face of the planet, everyone would forget about him, and all would be absolutely grand, just grand.
Murder, though, and planned by his best mate… using another good mate as the weapon…
James dragged his fingers through his hair, cursing as his glasses are knocked askew and flies a few loops half-blind because how is he to cope with all of that?
The really, truly damning thing about it, that definitely buggers the whole mess up even further is that The Prat isn't actually sorry about it. The Prat is sorry Moony's upset, The Prat is sorry that Dumbledore had learned of the attempt, and The Prat is sorry that James is absolutely furious and staying that way.
But, James is pretty sure, Sirius still doesn't understand why the fuck he is so angry.
After all, Sirius had gotten away with it with hardly more than a slap on the wrist while Snivellus had been forced to swear he wouldn't reveal Moony's condition and had had points taken from Slytherin for snooping, but Sirius…
Sirius had just had to say he was sorry.
Most of the time James appreciated that Dumbledore had a good sense of humour and got that brilliant lads like he and the others couldn't be expected to behave all the time, but this, no matter what Dumbledore had said, hadn't just been good spirits gone awry.
(And, since he's hardly thought of anything but, it's kind of fucked up that Snivellus had lost points for snooping when he'd nearly been killed. James shelves that for now. He's got enough complicated things to think about without adding in the moral quandary raised by Dumbledore and his points.)
Merlin, James decides sourly, wouldn't have had to deal with shite like this because his best mate wouldn't have been such a bloody idiot. At that, despite himself, he cracks a reluctant grin—Merlin had had quite enough shite to be getting on with by anyone's estimation.
Wouldn't want to give him mine, he thinks. He might just get rid of Padfoot permanently and consider that the best solution.
Which… look…
He is absolutely, blindingly, breathtakingly angry with Sirius but, much like James had told him to not be even more of a stupid prat when Sirius had muttered about maybe finding somewhere else to stay the night they'd come home, there are things James isn't ready to do.
Like throwing Sirius back to that cesspit he calls a family. His parents might be in France but James doubts all of them are out there.
James is almost dizzy by the time he gets his glasses in order and stops flying futile loops around the trees half blind. Probably best his parents didn't catch that but then, that's why he's out here so early anyway.
Mum was excited about something last night and if I'm not in, at least, a vaguely decent mood at breakfast today Dad might actually make good on his threat to drag me to St. Mungo's since I'm not telling them what's wrong. And it's my bad mood. Mine.
But there are so many illegal things tied up in the whole murder attempt that James can't tell, can't even begin to explain it, unless he wants to betray Moony and the rest of the Marauders.
I hate you so much right now, Padfoot, he thinks, aiming the thought in the direction of his bedroom.
Sirius won't hear it, of course, but it makes him feel the tiniest bit better.
He takes a deep breath. Then another.
He's not going to let his entirely justified bad blood towards Sirius ruin whatever it is that his Mum's so excited about. James knows his parents spoil him, in the same sort of way he knows the sky is blue, but he also knows that his parents are a lot older than the parents of most of his peers and he knows that one day they won't be around.
They're great parents, in his opinion, so he tries to be a great son to them.
So get your act together, Potter, and go and prove it.
He takes another deep breath and then flies down and lands. He watches the sun rise while sitting under the boughs of the trees and, by the time he judges that it's about due for breakfast, he's actually in a pretty decent mood.
Tired, but decent.
"Good morning!" he says briskly, upon striding into the dining room. He kisses his mum on the cheek and- "Where's Dad?"
His mum smiles.
"He's just waiting for an owl," she says. "It should be here shortly. Look at you-you're all damp! Were you and Sirius outside?"
James laughs. "Sirius get up early to go out for a fly? Mum, please."
"I suppose I do know better," she says, though she frowns a little at him. "Whatever is the matter between the two of you, darling? Your father and I hate to see you two fight."
... He'd flown right into that one, hadn't he?
Still, like his dad was fond of saying, it was best to treat today like it was a rough draft of tomorrow, so there was nothing to do but soldier on. James busies himself with making a cup of tea. He's parched, after being outside for so long.
"We'll get over it," he says, once he's sure he can sound reassuring and not annoyed with the question. "Just prats being prats, Mum."
"You or Sirius?"
"Honestly, Mum," he says. "I know you like Sirius better—" this makes her laugh, "—but you wound me."
"And you're avoiding the question," she says. "This is why you've been demoted, darling."
James presses a kiss to his mum's cheek as he takes a seat.
"Well," he says, "I never wanted to be first born anyway. He can have all that nonsense—and it works out, even, as he's older than me. Congratulations, Mum, on your new heir. Please let me know when you and Dad are planning to toss me out on my ear with naught but a knut to my name."
"Why are we disinheriting James?" Fleamont Potter looks vastly amused as he enters the room. A bit of rolled up parchment is held in one hand, slightly crumpled, and he looks windswept. "Effie, what has he done now?"
"Oh, you know, love," Mum says. "The usual."
"Existed," James says pertly. "Tragic, that, given I had no say in the matter."
This makes both of his parents laugh and, for a moment, James is quite honestly delighted that something feels good and right about the day.
"Mum says you were awaiting an owl," James says once Dad is settled with his own cup of tea. "Did the owl find you, sir, or did you get hungry?"
"Starvation," Dad muses. "A tactic we should've employed when you were younger. Perhaps you'd be less—"
Mum giggles, the traitor, as Dad trails off with a half-hearted wave of one hand.
"I'd certainly weigh less," James says. "I'd likely be shorter. It would be terrible. Pete would be taller than me. Thank Merlin this universe is not that one."
"Like that," Dad finishes, with the air of one desperately put upon. "Yes, I did get my owl. Shall we get breakfast going? Has anyone seen Sirius?"
"Oh, he's still asleep," James says, since, if left to his own devices, Sirius would never rise before eleven at the earliest.
He should, and usually would, offer to fetch him. James finds he can't bring himself to do so even with the good mood he's found the dregs of today. Instead, he takes a sip of tea.
His parents exchange glances.
"I can hear you," he says. It would come out sharply but there's no heat or bite to it. He's just tired.
"Then go play fetch," Dad says. "Chop chop."
James heaves a deep sigh that's only, maybe, about fifty percent faked, and abandons his tea for the exile he's been summarily dismissed to.
"I will return," he says, "and, should a good faith effort not rouse the slug upstairs, that will be on your heads. Know that I come not between a man and the sweet temptation of slumber willingly. It is a place where only fools would tread without fear."
Mum dimples at him.
"Muffy's making pancakes," she says. "Best hurry before they're served."
"A low blow," he says, but he goes.
As he leaves, he hears:
"Are the rumours true?" Mum asks.
Dad's voice is a low murmur and, well, pancakes. Muffy's pancakes. So James doesn't linger long. He does catch, though, the 'yes' his dad says, about something 'being in the works'.
James dismisses it, the words forgotten as he hits the stairs, as it's probably just some boring shite that couldn't possibly affect him.
(How very wrong he is.)
"Pete!" Daisy laughs, reaching for him with her chubby little hands, and Peter laughs too as he scoops up his little sister.
She promptly burrows her face against his shoulder.
"Hard day, hm?" he asks her.
She giggles and presses a kiss to his cheek and, again, Peter decides that younger sisters, while absolutely a pain in the arse and usually more trouble than they're worth, are occasionally pretty great. At not-quite-two, Daisy's the youngest of them.
"Come on," he says. "Let's sign you out of here and go pick up Caro, next door, alright?"
"Ice lolly?"
He laughs again, a warmer sound. "I'll think about it. Were you good today?"
Checking his youngest sister out of the baby daycare and then picking up Caro from the day camp next door is made easier with how his sisters are so excited to see him.
"We were pirates!" Caro tells him enthusiastically. On her head is a newspaper hat. "Pirates of the playground! Captains of the sandbox!"
Daisy reaches for the hat and Caro dances back. At seven and a half (and don't ever forget the half) Caro is all bouncing energy and going through a possessive stage.
"Don't touch it!" she insists.
"But hat!"
"No fighting," he says. "When we get home, Caro, may I look at your hat and see if I can make them for the rest of the family?"
"Make me?" Daisy asks eagerly. "Please?"
Caro scrunches her face up a little in thought, then shrugs. "Well, alright. But you've gotta make me one too! Then I'll have two hats, since I was a pirate first!"
That was about what he'd expected.
"A fair deal," he says, doing some mental math on times and costs. There's not a lot of money to spare but he thinks they can swing a treat today. He'll be paid on Friday in any case. "Now, Mum's at work, so how about we pick up some ices and take them home? Lottie's waiting on us there."
"Yes!" Daisy cheers and Caro claps her hands together, beaming a gap-tooth grin up at him.
"I'll lead the way!" Caro announces and, since the ice cream parlour is on the way home, Peter lets the captain take the (metaphorical) wheel as they walk down the street. Daisy squirms and he puts her down, though he does make sure she holds his hand.
It's a normal, ordinary sort of day. He's tired from his part-time job at the bakery and from studying and he knows he'll be making supper too (though, at ten years old, Lottie will help out) and it'll be a battle through bath time and bedtime and... it's a lot.
He knows it's a lot.
But, mostly, Peter wishes days like this would go on for forever. He loves the normal, ordinary days away from Hogwarts.
"We're gonna steal the moon!" crows Caro, and he shakes himself out of his reverie.
He quickly reviews the last few moments but, no, he has no idea how Caro got to that particular declaration or why she'd even want to.
"Thieves don't get ice cream," he says. "Nor do pirates or bandits or brigands."
"But Peter!"
"No moon stealing," he repeats, lips twitching up in a smile. "Besides, where would you keep it, anyway? It's awfully large."
"Under my bed," Caro tells him.
"My moon," Daisy pipes up.
"The moon stays up in the sky," Peter says.
This routine, when he's back from Hogwarts over the Christmas hols, means that by the time he's corralled the girls and gotten them home, it is to the tune of dwindling sunlight.
In the summer, it feels like the afternoon stretches on endlessly.
"Lottie!" shrieks Caro as she flings open the door to their home. "Lolly for you!"
And she's off, kicking shoes off and dashing further in, pirate hat askew. Peter catches the door before it can slam back in his face and helps Daisy get her shoes off – she hates having them tugged off; the laces absolutely must be undone, every time, or else tears will follow and she's not quite able to do it herself yet – and, once she's toddled off in the direction of the rest, clutching her lolly, only then does he take off his shoes.
Peter takes a moment to tidy the front hall, lining everyone's footwear up neatly, hanging bags dropped on the floor up on their designated hooks. Then, with a deep breath to gird himself, he wades into the chaos that is his family.
On the fireplace mantel, in a new frame, is the picture Mum took of all the kids, the second day he was back from school. It's the same thing every year, a snapshot of how far the family has come. A tradition started after he'd returned from his first year at Hogwarts. Daisy, of course, hadn't even been born back when he'd first started Hogwarts. This was only her second family picture.
On the back of it, he hasn't looked, but he knows will be their names, from oldest to youngest. Peter, Charlotte, Caroline, and Margaret Pettigrew, followed by the date.
There's a crash though, followed by gleeful shrieking, and he stops his woolgathering and hustles to deal with whatever it is.
"Are you studying again?" Lottie asks, much later, after Mum's Floo'd home and Daisy has been put to bed. Downstairs, he can hear Caro valiantly arguing that she doesn't need a bedtime.
Peter wishes her luck. He's never won that argument himself, but maybe she'll manage it.
"I have to," he says, though he puts his pen down as Lottie leaves the doorway behind and comes over to sit on his bed.
"Why?" she asks, and he looks at her. Her blonde hair is wet from a shower and her eyes are troubled. Whatever this visit is about, it's not just what he's doing. "Can't wizards just... flick their wands and do whatever they want?"
"I wish," he says fervently, thinking of how easy homework would be, if that were the case. "Magic is more complicated than that."
Then he takes a seat next to her. She leans into him.
"You're worrying about if you're going to get a letter again, aren't you?"
Lottie scrunches her face up miserably and nods. "Mummy hasn't said, but I know she hopes I'm a witch."
Peter smooths his fingers through his sister's hair and wonders what to say to that. That's... more complicated that it seems too. He's yet to find anything magical that isn't double-sided. Even this. Maybe especially this.
"Do you want magic?" he asks.
She shifts. "Honestly?"
"Honestly."
"You won't tell anyone?" she asks and, in tandem, they both glance at his open door.
He squeezes her shoulders reassuringly and goes to shut it.
"Do wizards have oaths?" Lottie asks, while his back is turned.
"...Yes," he admits, glancing at her as he takes his spot on the bed again. "But if you want an oath of secrecy sworn, let's stick with one you know already, okay?"
She bites her lip, blue eyes stormy, then nods. "Okay."
"Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye..."
Once they're sworn, they look at each other for a long moment.
Peter waits.
"I don't want any," she says, in a rush, the words tumbling over themselves as she gets them off her chest. "But, but if I don't then, what'll Mummy do? But I want to go to the same school as all of my friends and I know—I know..."
She falters, looks down at her hands, twisted in her lap.
"Mum might be disappointed," Peter says, because saying otherwise, a lie like that, has never served anyone well. Everyone always knows. It's better to be upfront and admit it.
For his part, though, he's relieved.
Peter has never seen any accidental magic from Lottie, so it's good she's not hoping for it, but that's also...
Again, more complicated, for all that this is a bridge crossing they can't put off for much longer. Lottie's eleventh birthday is coming up soon, in autumn.
"But I think," Peter says, "that it just means you're more like Dad and Mum's the one that married him, even though he had no magic either. It'll be alright. You'll see."
"I wish you'd be here for my birthday," she says, sounding forlorn. "Caro's already talking about all the magic I'll be able to do when I get my letter."
When, not if.
Like Mum, he suspects that Caro is going to be disappointed. It's possible that Lottie will get a letter but... she's never been like Caro, who shatters glass when she gets mad and makes sparks fly when she waves his wand.
In Lottie's hands, his wand is just another stick.
It could be just a compatibility issue. It's possible she still has magic. He knows these are the things Mum tells herself.
He? He hopes it really is, to Lottie, just a stick.
"Me too," Peter says, and that's the truth. "But I'll make sure to send you an owl, alright?"
"And a present," she reminds him.
He laughs. "I'd never forget. A present too."
Lottie looks at him. "Is... is it okay with you if I don't..."
"I don't care if you have magic or not," he says. "No matter what, you're still my little sister. A total pain in the arse."
"You love me," she says, and leans against him again.
I'm supposed to be here, he thinks, but magic won't let him stay either.
"What are you studying?" she asks, later. "Didn't you just do your A-Levels? Did you get your results?"
"Ordinary Wizarding Levels," he corrects. "O.W.L.s, for short. And no, I don't know how I did yet."
"But what are you studying now then?" she persists, asking again.
"Healing," he says, after a moment of hesitation. He doesn't talk about what he wants to be very often.
It's not often he's asked.
"I want to be a Healer. That's a magical doctor."
And he's smart. He knows he can do it. He's not like James or Sirius, who effortlessly absorb and remember, but he's not afraid of the hard work.
"Wow!" Lottie says, her eyes wide. "You're gonna be super at it! You always are when Caro or Daisy hurt themselves."
"Suck up," he says, but smiles, touched by her easy belief in him.
She giggles.
Remus is glad for the way Scotland is cool enough for most of the year that he can get away with wearing a sweater or a light cardigan and the most people will usually do is look askance at him, if they bother with him at all.
It's hotter, in France, where his mother's family lives and they leave him alone these days about the sweaters, but only because he'd sarcastically told Renee, his closest cousin in age, that sweaters, like consumption, were always in style.
That was a low blow, given that their shared great grandmother had died from consumption but she cares more about that than he does and Remus... Remus is tired and overheating and honestly he'd rather boil himself in acid than deal with any of what he'd left behind.
Even now, there's several letters in his room that he's steadfastly ignoring. The only person whose letters he's answered this summer have been Peter's.
He likes hearing about Peter's sisters and his work at the bakery.
James... Remus has tried, but he's not up to dealing with the whole guilt and panic and overwhelming way James goes about trying to fix things. James on a mission is a James that is very much too much when Remus still feels raw and bitter about it all.
At least he's read James' letters, though, which is more than he's done for Sirius.
Truthfully, Sirius ought to be glad that Remus hasn't burned his letters, rather than just shoving them into the back of his sock drawer, the way he has, but it goes against everything Remus has in him to burn a letter unread.
And I can always burn them later, once I'm up to reading them.
It's an obscurely comforting thought.
He leans back in his Mum's armchair, his head resting against the antimacassar and takes a breath. He can smell her hair oils in it, and Dad's too, and that's comforting as well, a reminder of people who love him and have never, would never, betray him the way Sirius had done.
The downside to that, though, is that he doesn't dare tell his parents what had happened to upset him so.
They'd pull me from Hogwarts, on the grounds of if it happened once, it'll happen again, and the worst part is that they're not-they'd be right to do so. I cannot argue their logic.
So he avoids the topic entirely.
"I'm running down to the village," Mum says, bustling into the living room with her hair up in a flyaway bun. "Is there anything you need, darling?"
"I'm good," he says, then shakes his head. "Actually, can I come?"
Perhaps the walk will do him good.
Mum looks startled for a moment, then she smiles at him. "Of course," she says, then grins at him, a smile that lights up her tired face. "You can be my bag carrier."
"A job any peon would be honoured to have," Remus says, standing and stretching all in one motion. He feels stiff but it's the good sort, the sort from sitting around too long rather than from having turned into a ravening beast. "Provided that you can put up with my clumsy fingers and toes."
"Just don't drop the eggs and all will be well," Mum tells him. "Go get changed. That jumper's about to walk off of you."
He laughs and does what she says.
Outside, the sun beats down on them, and he's glad he's switched from a jumper to a long sleeve shirt. "It's a hot one this year," he says. "I heard on the radio it's the hottest it's been in years."
Mum hums a little at his side. "There's hot years and cold ones," she says. "What goes around comes around. I daresay come winter we will all be missing this."
"Oh, probably," Remus agrees. "That's the way people are, isn't it? Never happy with what they have."
Or what they think they have, which is a whole different thing entirely.
"What are we getting in town?" he asks, rather than have her answer that. "You mentioned eggs?"
Mum rattles off what's mostly a grocery list, aside from some pins and thread from the seamstress and some stationary from the book store.
"And," Mum says, then stops, hesitating.
Remus glances askance at her. "And?" he prompts, when it looks like she's gotten lost in thought about whatever it is.
Mum sighs a little, her shoulders drooping. "It's almost your father's birthday," she says. "I was hoping we could look for a present for him, since you've decided to come along."
"Ah."
It would be futile to pretend that his stomach doesn't roll with nerves at that thought. Lyall Lupin is a devoted, loving husband and, well, Remus cannot say he's a bad father. In fact, he's a rather excellent one. He's done all he can to help with Remus', ah, furry little problem.
But it's complicated, too, because Remus knows deep in his heart that he's not the sort of son that his father deserves.
And it's because of him and his furry little problem that Lyall is so rarely home, working around the clock to search for solutions and answers, as if it's still possible when people have been looking for literally thousands of years. It's because of him that his mum spends so much time missing her husband.
If he wasn't around, his parents would have much simpler, happier lives.
Remus buries that thought deep, deep down. He's not going to give into the darkness of those thoughts. It would make a mockery of everything his parents have ever done for them. Turn all their sacrifices into wasted jokes.
His mum's looking at him hopefully, though, and he doesn't have the cruelty in him to disappoint her.
"Of course," he says, and dredges up a small smile. Despite it feeling like a poor effort, his mum's answering smile is blindingly bright. "Will Dad be home for his birthday?"
"That's the plan," Mum says happily.
"Then we've got to make him a cake," Remus says. "Only chocolate will do."
His... well... his friends, he supposes that they still are, at least until he's worked through his feelings about everything and decides what he's going to do about it, after the storm... well, when it comes to chocolate, they tease him about his chocolate addiction and Remus has never had the heart to tell them that, no, he doesn't like it.
He eats it because it helps with the pain. There's a reason Mediwitches and Healers prescribe chocolate in the hospital wing and at St. Mungos.
Remus has never tried to explain that, even on the days where he doesn't transform, there's pain lingering underneath his skin, even in the dark of the moon, when he is the most human he can be. It's a different sort of pain from open injury and far more difficult to treat.
Easier to just eat candy he doesn't like.
"He's not a fan of French baking, your dad," Mum says, musing. "I suppose we'll need to make him something good and old-fashioned and thoroughly English with chocolate, what do you say?"
"It's more fun to bake than to buy anyway," Remus says, because he might not like eating sweets, but he does enjoy making them on occasion, and Hogwarts doesn't have much time or space or room for people to practice that sort of skill. The House Elves would lose their collective minds. "Maybe while we're at the bookstore we can see if there's any interesting recipes that fit the bill that we haven't made before."
Dad would love whatever they made, chocolate being honestly his favourite thing, but Remus never minds experimenting with cooking. It's safe, in a way that most experiments aren't. The worst that can happen is the dessert doesn't come out quite right.
"Then," Mum says, as they round a crest and there's the village, spread out in sleepy, picturesque glory, "we have a plan. Just keep your eyes peeled for a present or an idea for one at the same time. Dad deserves a gift to unwrap too, even if it's just a small thing."
"It's the thought that counts," he agrees. "There's an antique store, right? We could check."
That's what they do.
By mutual agreement, groceries are left for last, so they get stationary and search for cake recipes in the bookstore (coming away with three that they think sound intriguing enough to try-even better, they're all in the same book, so they just buy it).
Then they go antiquing. The store they step into is like a lost slice of time, filled with bits and bobs shorn from their proper places and homes and put up for sale. Remus loses himself in the selection, inspecting gears and wondering at the use of some instruments he cannot name, while his mum talks in a low, earnest voice to the shopkeeper.
Mum, he knows, will find a perfect present. Remus is mostly here just to confirm her always excellent taste and to enjoy himself.
It's cool in the shop, cool enough that he's glad of his long sleeves, and he knows that this is because the cool air preserves things better than hot does. Hot breaks things down quickly.
And everything here, from the lace to the lamps to the mirrors to the-everything, is old enough already. Breaking them down would be detrimental to the shop.
He's honestly lost track of time before Mum comes to fetch him out of the depths of the store, where he's inspecting rings and bracelets, wondering if the gems are real. She beams when she finds him.
"I trust you've accomplished your goal," he says, affecting a snooty voice just to make her laugh.
She does. "Yes," she says, swatting at his shoulder gently. "Not that you were of any help."
"I'm helping by staying out of the way," he says. "And, besides, I'll bake the cake. That can be my gift to Dad. You take full credit for the present that way."
They banter about credit and names as they leave the store-Mum already having paid for the present-and all the way through the grocers as they debate the merits of their three potential recipes and decide what they need to obtain.
Once they've properly hashed out what they need to get, Mum rips the grocery list in half, gives him the top half and they separate, off on their parallel journeys through the aisles as they hunt for their sustenance.
They meet up in short order, at almost exactly the same time, as if it's a pre-planned dance, though it's not, at the front of the store. Solemnly, Remus takes the basket from Mum, and they go stand in queue.
By the time they've paid, the sun is starting to make its way down towards the horizon. The walk back is a smidgen (or perhaps a smudge) cooler, but that's counteracted by the way he's laden down with their groceries because he refuses to let his mum carry them.
"Honestly, Mum," he says. "They're not heavy. That's one of the few good things about my condition. Don't take it from me."
Increased strength isn't all that helpful for many things, not when they've got magic at their disposal, but when they're just walking back, it's silly to levitate the groceries when he's carrying them fairly easily, not even breaking a sweat from the effort.
(He is, though, breaking a sweat from his unseasonable shirt. Alas and alack.)
She laughs, though he regrets having said that and drawing attention to his furry little problem. He points out how one of the clouds in the sky is forming a circle, like the ones blown by smokers, and they step around that conversational misstep without ever bringing it up again.
It's a good day, after all, and even the chore of putting the groceries away is... it's nice. He's almost happy, for real, and not just acting by the time Mum shoos him off to get out of his sweat-soaked shirt.
His good mood wavers when he sees he's got an owl waiting for him in his bedroom. Almost grimly, he reaches for the letter.
Oh, good. It's Pete.
Relief, cool and smooth, glides through him. He offers the owl some treats and puts the letter aside.
"I'll answer it after dinner," he promises.
The very worst part of coming back to London, after the wedding and their extended stay at the Chateau, has nothing to do with Grimmauld Place itself.
Regulus loves the tall, narrow building. The stairs that wrap around on themselves, the dark draperies and ancient silverware. He does not, perhaps, love the House Elf heads on the wall but he is long used to ignoring them.
He loves the library, piled with books to answer any question he might have—and if it doesn't, he loves that he can mention that to his father and his father will make sure that flaw is corrected—and he loves the portraits of his ancestors. Some are unpleasant to speak with but that's familiar and comforting in its own peculiar way and most of them are willing to weave the stories of their own knowledge for him to use.
No, the worst part is the way Sirius breezes in the day after their return and Mother's mood immediately goes dark and Father locks himself away in his study and Regulus is left to either follow Father's example, attempt to placate Mother (which is never, ever worth it; he's learned that much and pities, in retrospect, his younger self) or to abandon his own home for that of other family or friends.
It would help if Sirius would at least try, Regulus thinks peevishly, reading a book in his bedroom, with the door locked and his keep-out sign up. It won't stop Sirius, should he decide to invade, but it will make it obvious that it is an invasion and unwelcome.
But the only thing he tries at is to be as loudly and obnoxiously the opposite of anything Mother and Father would like him to be. Merlin knows he's even sunk so far as to drown himself in coffee simply because Mother and Father prefer tea. Idiocy.
He thinks about Natalia and the other children who'd been at the wedding. How some of them had been so like Sirius, into trouble the moment they were given instructions on what not to do.
But they had the excuse of being young. The eldest was what—five? Six? Sirius is nearly of age.
Regulus tries to go back to his book but the topic isn't holding him. He's too on edge, busy listening to see if Mother is screaming at Sirius for provoking her again (nothing, for the moment, but that means very little), and wonders where all of Sirius' defiance even comes from.
If he wants their attention, it's easier and safer to get it by toeing the line. He doesn't have to agree with all of their views, Regulus didn't, at that, though he knew to keep his mouth shut on it, but he's like a cat sometimes, I swear. Utterly and implacably determined to eat poinsettia leaves or holly berries just for the mess it will cause everyone. No differentiation between good attention and bad attention.
With a snap, Regulus closes his book, dropping it on his bed and gets up.
I'll go see if Father will talk to me. He's been busy with something to do with the Ministry. Perhaps I can assist him.
It's just a matter of getting down to the study from his room without encountering Sirius.
I wouldn't mind a nice tea with Mother but I know better than to wish for that with him here.
It's like he's a discordant note and Regulus grimaces.
I don't understand. Once upon a time, he could have had everything. Grandfather won't allow Mother to formally disinherit him even now. Had Sirius toed the line even a little more, everything would have been fine. Once he was seventeen, he could have moved out, and then gone about expressing his own beliefs and not playing to Mother and Father's tunes. Instead, he brings problems down upon himself and ruins everyone else's time too.
Regulus shakes his head, giving up on the matter of his brother—and how does Sirius do that, consume peoples' thoughts when he's not even doing anything—and after listening at his door for a moment, decides it's safe enough to venture out into the hall.
Sirius' room is right next to his, but if his brother is in there, there's no sign and Regulus eases past it on silent feet, fully alert.
He pads down the stairs, pausing before the landing, but the second floor is quiet, aside from Kreacher muttering to himself while he cleans something. Regulus hurries onwards, not wanting Kreacher to rouse himself to ask if Regulus needs anything.
That would defeat the purpose of quiet.
The main floor is ominously silent as well and he discovers the reason for that when he sees the sparkling lights of wards engaged across the parlour door.
I'd wager my broomstick that Mother and Sirius are behind those wards.
Regulus eyes them soberly. It's a bad sign, when Mother engages those wards.
Sirius probably brought it upon himself.
And even though that's true, it still leaves a bitter taste in the back of his mouth as he walks past the parlour without doing anything and heads straight for Father's study.
Here, thankfully, the wards are just the normal ones and the lock is engaged but when he knocks, quietly, and says it's him, Father opens the door after a moment, and waves him inside.
Regulus steps into the study and, as Father locks the door behind them, he takes a deep breath, some of the bitterness subsiding.
Sirius makes his own choices. He knows the risks.
If he tells himself that often enough he can almost believe it. He doesn't understand his brother.
The study smells of ink, wax, and new parchment. Father's cologne, too. There's nothing but a trace of Father's preferred tobacco on the air, as Father doesn't smoke in his study. Doing that risks ruining ancient books.
"I thought I might see if there's anything I can do to assist you with, Father," he says, by way of explanation.
Father's smile is faint and understanding. Father has always understood the things people don't actually say aloud.
His father nods, as amiably as he gets, and gestures for Regulus to take a seat.
Regulus does, feeling the tension draining out of him. People say his father is cold and hard to understand but Regulus has never found it to be so. Orion Black is merely quiet and self-contained and Regulus only admires that.
He pauses as he takes in the state of his father's desk. There are... ribbons... and bows.
"Presents?" he guesses, though he's not sure whose birthday his father would care for. From the colours represented, it's several different people. Blues, pinks, whites...
"Welcoming gifts," his father explains. "You've seen in the papers that Britain is hosting some young delegates from Japan this coming year."
It's not a question.
Regulus nods. He's been reading the paper seriously since before he started at Hogwarts.
"Yes," he says. "Though the papers haven't mentioned how many are attending."
Orion Black smiles faintly.
"Four," he says. "All young ladies of good standing. Two of them are pureblood as we mark the term, one half-blood, and one muggleborn."
"As we mark the term, sir?" he asks. "Does Japan have a different classification system?"
"Quite so."
Regulus studies the colours of paper and bows and ribbons. Four. He can see it now, in the colours on display.
"The blue and purple and the white and gold are the pureblood families?" he guesses. There's little to base it on, except that he knows how his father handles the presentation of things and the way these colours are laid out is similar to how he handles gifts for, say, the Malfoys or the Rosiers.
"Well done," Father says. "The white and gold are the Hyuuga Clan's colours, while the blue and purple are the Yamanaka Clan's colours."
"Clans?" Regulus asks with interest. "Not families?"
"They are families but they use different terminology," Father explains. "The Hyuuga Clan is the most akin to the Black family, in terms of stature and power, but while smaller, the Yamanaka Clan as old and as powerful in their own way. They wield their power more gently, though. The stiletto over the bludgeon."
Regulus nods thoughtfully.
"Both would be considered to be part of their country's 'Sacred Twenty-Eight', had they bothered with that," Father adds. "And it will be the Yamanaka delegate that is in charge of the rest."
"Even over the Hyuuga?" he asks, taking care in his attempt to pronounce the name.
"Yamanaka are frequently ambassadors," Father explains. "She'll have had actual training at it, rather than the others who were picked on status and presumed merit alone."
"And who are the others?" he asks. "Do we know their names as well?"
There's pretty paper, ribbons, and bows enough for two others too, though he is hesitant to decide which belongs to the half-blood and which to the muggleborn.
His father smiles faintly. "The red, white and brown is for the half-blood," he says, "while the pink, white and red is for the muggleborn."
But he does not share their names and Regulus does not ask again.
"What are they being gifted?" Regulus asks curiously.
His father scoffs. "The Ministry has offered their suggestions."
Regulus smiles at that. "You're ignoring them."
"Of course," Orion Black says with the arrogance their family is known for. "They left it in my hands and in my hands, I make the decisions. Come, assist me."
Regulus smiles.
He worries about Sirius, of course he does, but he'd rather spend the time with his father, discussing what girls from Japan would like. Especially as his father seems to welcome his opinions, for whatever reason.
After an hour, they fetch their cloaks (it has started raining) and they head out into the summer's wet.
The door to the parlour is still warded shut as they leave.
It's past one in the morning and Peter ought to be sleeping but Mum's not home yet, when she'd been due back at eleven, and he knows what that means.
Something happened.
He restlessly practices wand movements, careful to keep from thinking of the incantations, as he listens.
Eventually, eventually, the Floo sounds and he's up, off his chair and leaving his room. Absently, he casts a few silencing charms at his sisters' doors on the way down and he's glad for them when he finds Mum in the kitchen, her scarlet Auror robes doing absolutely nothing to disguise the blood dripping onto the floor.
James and Sirius think being an Auror is cool but Peter knows better. It's all strange hours, being away from your family, reports upon reports, and now, these days, the rising risk of horrible injury and death.
His blood runs cold at the thought of Mum not coming back one day. They've already lost Dad and he's not old enough to take care of all of them.
"Out of those robes," he says. "Let me see."
Mum complies, which… they both know he's not supposed to do magic outside of school. He's not of age yet.
But she says nothing of the silencing charms she'd have heard him casting upstairs. Not does she say anything at all as he casts first the diagnostics needed to see what he's dealing with here–nothing too bad, it turns out, just some basic cutting curses; no tricks or hexes to resist healing or worse–and pulls potions out for treatment once he's run his wand along each of the cuts, washing and cleaning them.
Only once she's been bandaged up, and he's begun casting the spells to clean the kitchen–Mum's robes, he leaves for her to do–and the trail she's left from the fireplace, does she say anything, her voice low.
"You're a good lad, Pete. We'll need more of you, mark my words."
There's a war coming, everyone knows it.
"You should shower," he says, in response. "I'll make you something to eat, then you'll need to sleep."
She kisses him on the forehead.
"Healer's orders," he tells her. It's easier to say that than I love you, Mum.
From her smile, one that lights her weary eyes, she understands.
It creeps in slowly, like ivy spiralling upwards along the trunk of a tree, but by the time Sirius leaves to go back to Grimmauld Place, at the start of the third week of summer, something has taken root.
James doesn't really notice it, other than his dad being busy and his mum being excited about something when she has the other old gals she pals about with over for tea.
But—his mum is easily excited and his dad is frequently busy.
And he, er, well, he's rather preoccupied.
Pads being around for two weeks hadn't fixed anything—they couldn't exactly have a conversation with his parents underfoot—but it had worn the edges off the worst of his fury, blunted the sharpness of it, and so when Sirius leaves it's with mixed feeling because they hadn't exactly gotten anywhere but they're also not as badly off as they'd been to start with and it's...
It's weird.
Being able to spend that first day without Sirius around, though, up in the air without regrets or regards for keeping anyone else company, and flying and screaming until his face is raw from the wind and his voice is raw from the noise, that helps a lot too.
It's no endless void, and his parents glance worriedly at him over dinner when he drinks tea and swallows mashed potatoes and avoids anything crispy or crunchy like the plague, but it'll do. It helps.
He's got a list, now that he's all screamed out, of shite to work through and it's an intimidating list and most of it he doesn't want to do. James, not used to having to do the things he doesn't want to do, is rather disgruntled by the fact that he doesn't want to do this list.
And that he's going to do it anyway.
Growing up is utter rubbish, he writes to Val. Who decided being an adult was having to make yourself do the things you don't want to do?
It's not Val who is going to have to find an answer to that, though, and he knows it.
James regrets a lot of things—and then, as he gulps scalding hot tea too fast, regrets yet another—but he likes to think he's willing to face up to rubbish when confronted by it. Especially when the one doing the confronting is himself, whose judgment he trusts like no one else.
So.
His list.
A lot of it, he recognizes, isn't anything he's done so much as what he's going to have to deal with and also things that, James is pretty sure might not be directly his fault but, also, that kind of are.
It's complicated, even writing it out in his head and then, in the dead of night, by light of a lantern, on parchment he's charmed to show their words only to him. He's not sure how to work around some of it either. But that's... also something he's going to deal with.
The first point on the list is:
1. Am I an actual prat?
Now, this may be a sideways way of coming at it and a way of making it all about him (except this, his life, is all about him) but James looks at this first point and it's so uncomfortable to see the words there, in his own writing, and then the three questions that follow it too:
2. Is Sirius an actual prat?
3. Is Remus an actual prat?
4. Is Peter an actual prat?
Well. That's just even worse, isn't it, when coupled with the fact that Pete and Remus had nothing to do with the prattishness that caused this whole incident but-
But it's fine. It's fine. This is wide scope. Taking in the whole forest. The trees can wait.
Especially since James has forced himself to admit that, yeah, alright, he can admit it:
They're all definitely actual prats of varying severity.
He'd deny it if anyone asked or insinuated such a thing but—to himself—he can admit it, given the circumstances. It's like he's grabbed himself by the ankle and given him a good, hard shake and rubbish like this has fallen out instead of lint, old sweet wrappers, and crumpled bits of parchment.
Which means that this forest, to run with the idea, is already looking pretty pathetic and weedy and probably half on fire and smoke everywhere and...
He needs to stop that. Hysteria and histrionics aren't actually going to help him here and they're not making him feel any better either.
(Beside the point, but he thinks they're making him feel worse. Lovely. Great.)
With points one through four being so direly acknowledged in the affirmative of their prathoods, point five is really kind of damning.
5. Is Snivellus a prat?
Right. Obviously, Snivellus is a prat. That's not even in question.
But-
James hates that thought always comes with a but, actually these days and, for now, shelves the whole Snivellus issue, and wonders, instead, what he's supposed to do with his friends and, by extension, himself.
He has no idea how to put the fire out and regrow the trees.
Sirius bolts off to the Potter's home a few weeks later-he doesn't bother to say that to anyone, of course, just disappears but while Mother rages, it's so much more peaceful with him gone.
It's so strange, Julian writes, how you and your brother don't talk at all even when you're in the same house.
Regulus burns that letter and doesn't bother to answer it, though he answers the one that comes a few days later that's full of everything but observations on his family.
The letter, and the response, are their way of apologizing.
Regulus didn't answer because it made him mad but, rather, because the only answer he could think to put to quill was: why would I? and that's far too raw a thing to share even with Julian.
Father busies himself with the upcoming delegation-and, once Regulus helps pick out presents, he's discouraged from taking further part in any of it, though he does find a book of Japanese history left on his desk-and Mother throws herself into helping with the preparations for Narcissa's upcoming wedding to Lucius Malfoy.
Regulus does his summer homework, reads the book on Japanese history and is unsurprised when another book appears once he's done with the first, Floos out to the Black's summer home for flying practice, and is entirely unsurprised when he is appointed both Quidditch Captain and Slytherin Fifth Year Prefect.
They throw a party for that and Regulus doesn't mention the way Sirius is not invited or how he doesn't show up.
Honestly, he's not sure what to do with the problem of Sirius but he hopes, vaguely, that Sirius finds the healing hands of the Potters to have what he needs. It stings, a bit, to know he's not wanted by his brother-but then, Regulus doesn't particularly want him either.
In this way, his summer passes.
Even the way The Girl shows up in the newspaper, as the Yamanaka delegate, only makes him more eager for summer to end and school to start.
He does not mention to Julian, either, the way that The Girl has shown up and that he knows who she is now.
Regulus is not anxious, exactly, nor is he particularly worried about her liking him-if she's haunting his dreams, he figures he's got a solid chance of him haunting hers and, if that's the case, she'll have already made up her mind about him-but he wants the space to think of how to react on his own without any supposedly helpful comments about how to strike while the iron's hot.
Nor does he particularly want to hear Julian's opinions on how lovely she is to look at-which is very, especially when she smiles, and he better understands the way Father had added a long strand of jewels in the shapes of flowers to her presents.
She probably wears that sort of thing in her hair all the time, he decides, carefully cutting out one of her pictures from the newspaper and sticking it in his journal, where he can admire it at will.
I wonder where they'll be staying until school starts? Father mentioned host families. Mother was fuming about how he didn't put our name forward.
But Regulus thinks he understands.
So, I will meet her at Hogwarts. I wonder what House she'll be Sorted into?
Hope, like a candle in the wind, wavers and Regulus quietly nurses it.
Sirius shows up back at his place a few weeks after he'd left it, with hardly any explanation for why he's returned, just a new collection of bruises that he goes tight-lipped and furious about.
James doesn't mention that.
In fact, James doesn't quite know what to do with Sirius. He's still been working out his list of absolute prats (they're all prats, unfortunately, and he's not sure how to fix that) and it doesn't help that Mum's gone absolutely barmy with glee.
Something that comes to ahead one morning when James rouses Sirius and they head down for breakfast. Rather than be at the table, where she ought to be, she's... she's...
James stares at his mother as she bustles around with armfuls of linen. "Mum?"
"Four daughters," Effie Potter says blissfully. "I can't wait!"