There was another room, actually

by bonnyta

Sirius and Remus have to share a bed, what could go wrong? Well...

July

Sirius

"Only one room left," Remus says, standing in the upstairs hallway, arms crossed.

Sirius knows that's a lie. There's another room down the hall—one they both know is empty. But neither of them have mentioned it. And they won't. Because that would mean admitting that they don't have to share. And admitting that would mean acknowledging a whole bloody mess of things that Sirius is not about to touch. So instead, he does what he does best. He shrugs. "Guess we'll just have to share, then."

Remus doesn't argue. Of course he doesn't. He just nods like this is the most logical solution in the world and not absolute madness. He's got that calm, resigned look on his face—the one he wears when he's pretending that things aren't affecting him when they absolutely are. Sirius has seen that look a lot in the past year. It drives him insane .

And now they're going to be sleeping in the same room. Brilliant.

They get to the room, and Sirius immediately spots the problem. One bed. One. Not even a big one, either—just a standard, barely-room-for-two bed. It's going to be impossible to share it without touching.

He and Remus stare at it, then at each other, then at it again.

Sirius clears his throat. "Well, this is cozy."

Remus just hums noncommittally and goes to set his bag down by the wardrobe. Typical. He's playing it so bloody cool, like it's not weird at all that they're about to start sharing a bed after avoiding touching each other at all for the past year. Not even so much as a brush of a shoulder. No casual hand on the back like they used to do before—before— before .

Sirius flops onto the bed dramatically. It's lumpy and terrible, but that's not the point. The point is to make it look like he's completely fine with this. "At least it's not my mother's old room. Can you imagine?" He shudders theatrically. "Reckon the sheets would still reek of whatever hell-potion she bathed in."

Remus snorts, shaking his head. He's got that tiny little almost-smile, the one he thinks Sirius doesn't notice. He notices . And he hates how much he likes it.

"We can transfigure it bigger," Remus says.

"Mm." Sirius stretches out, kicking his boots off. "That seems like effort."

"You're just lazy."

"Ah, Moony. That's the nostalgia talking." Sirius smirks. "Missed sharing a dormitory with me, did you?"

Something flickers over Remus' face, too fast to name. He looks away, bending to untie his own shoes. "Haven't shared a room since we were seventeen."

Sirius stops smirking. Just for a second. He hates when Remus does this—when he drops some offhanded little truth that makes Sirius' ribs feel like they're caving in.

He covers it up by shoving Remus with his foot. "You saying you don't want to relive the best years of your life?"

Remus rolls his eyes. "You say that like you weren't up every night complaining about James and Peter's snoring."

"Yours was the worst," Sirius says, flopping onto his stomach. "Like a bloody wolf growling in its sleep."

Remus scoffs. "I do not snore."

"Oh, you do."

"I don't ."

Sirius lifts his head, grinning. "You do, and I have ample evidence to support my claim."

Remus raises an eyebrow. "Do you?"

"Loads." Sirius flops back onto the mattress. "Spent half of fifth year throwing pillows at you to shut you up."

Remus hums again, noncommittal. "Well," he says after a beat. "Hope you're prepared, then."

And—fuck .

Because there it is. The little reminder of what they're actually doing here. Sharing a bed. Sleeping next to each other. Close enough to hear each other breathe. Close enough to—Sirius turns onto his side. "You could take the floor, you know. Might help with the snoring problem."

Remus snorts. "Absolutely not."

"Selfish."

"Lazy."

Sirius smirks again, but this time, it's a little too easy. A little too sharp. Because this is all just surface talk, a game they're both playing. They've spent a year dancing around each other in this house, dodging every moment that feels too much like what they used to be. And now? Now there's only one bed, and they can't dodge it anymore. Not really.

Later, after they've both changed and turned off the lights, it's...awkward. Or maybe awkward isn't the right word, maybe it's just… tense. Sirius lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the fact that Remus is right there. That he could roll over and—no. Not going there.

The bed dips slightly as Remus shifts, and Sirius has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from reacting.

"Stop fidgeting," Remus murmurs.

Sirius glares up at the darkness. "I'm not fidgeting."

"You are."

"Well, excuse me, Moony, but I don't usually share my bed with other people these days."

There's a pause. Then, very quietly: "Yeah. Me neither."

Sirius swallows. Rolls onto his side, away from Remus. He can feel the warmth of him at his back. Too close. Not close enough.

"I can sleep on the floor," Remus says eventually. His voice is soft, tired.

Sirius doesn't know why that makes his chest ache. "Don't be a prat," he mutters. Another pause. A breath. Then the bed shifts again as Remus settles. It's fine. It's fine. They can do this. They're adults. They've survived worse. Sirius closes his eyes. Breathes in. He can smell Remus' stupid tea-and-old-books scent, familiar even after all these years.

He exhales slowly. Then Remus shifts again, and his knee brushes Sirius' leg, and Sirius has never hated a single bed more in his entire life.

This is going to be hell.

The first time Hermione points it out, Sirius manages to dodge the conversation entirely.

"There's an extra room down the hall," she says, pushing a stray curl out of her face. "Why aren't you using that?"

"Saving it for Harry," Sirius answers smoothly, with the kind of practiced ease that makes even Remus glance at him.

Hermione frowns. "But wouldn't Harry just stay in your room? Or, you know, with Ron?"

"Well, you never know," Sirius says, slinging an arm over the back of the chair, leaning into his best nonchalant smirk. "Boy might want his own space, eh?"

She does not look convinced. If anything, she looks like she's about to start arguing, which is precisely what Sirius does not want. Thankfully, before she can start dissecting his terrible logic, Arthur Weasley calls for her from the next room. She shoots Sirius a long, knowing look—unsettlingly knowing, for a fifteen-year-old—and walks away. The moment she's gone, Sirius glances at Remus, expecting him to say something. Instead, Remus just sighs and shakes his head.

"I don't want to talk about it," Remus says flatly.

Sirius smirks. "Talk about what , Moony?"

Remus gives him a look, and Sirius—wisely—decides to let it drop.

The second time, it's Molly.

"You know, dears," she says, in the middle of setting the table, "there is another room upstairs."

Sirius, who is lazily buttering a slice of toast (despite it being dinnertime), just hums. "Mm, saving it for Harry."

Molly stops what she's doing to level him with a very pointed look. "Sirius," she says, patient in that way that means you're being an idiot, but I'm going to humor you anyway, "Harry is only staying for a few weeks before school starts. You and Remus are here all the time."

"Exactly," Sirius says, taking a slow, deliberate bite of toast.

Molly makes a noise . It's somewhere between exasperation and I am about to shake you . She looks at Remus for backup. Remus, who has had plenty of opportunities to deny their ridiculous setup, just shrugs. "It's fine, Molly."

Traitor.

Molly looks back and forth between them like she knows something is up but can't quite put her finger on it. "If you insist," she says finally, with a sigh that very much suggests you are both bloody hopeless. Sirius just grins.

The third time, even Ron gets involved. He's slumped in a chair, flipping through an old Quidditch magazine, when he pauses, frowning. "Hang on. Why aren't you two using the extra room?"

Sirius doesn't even blink. "Saving it for Harry."

Ron makes a face. "That's mental . You're both grown men."

"And?"

"And," Ron says, looking genuinely baffled, "why the hell are you sharing a bed?"

Sirius, entirely unbothered, leans back in his chair. "Don't be so old-fashioned , Ron. Haven't you ever shared a bed before?"

Ron, remembering his experience sharing a bed with his brothers on holiday, shudders. "Not if I can help it."

"Ah, see, that's the difference," Sirius says breezily, waving a hand. "Moony here doesn't hog the blankets."

Remus, sitting across from them with a book in his lap, makes a quiet noise of disagreement but says nothing. Ron shakes his head like he's trying to rid himself of a particularly horrible mental image and mutters, "Mental," before returning to his magazine. Sirius grins, victorious.

The worst part of it all—the truly horrifying part—is that Sirius and Remus have started cuddling. Not on purpose. Absolutely not on purpose. It happens gradually, in the way these things tend to happen when you've been dancing around something for too long.

The first few nights, they're careful. Deliberately distant. But it's a small bed , and Sirius has always been a sprawler. He rolls over in his sleep, limbs in every which direction, and Remus—being the unreasonable person he is—has the audacity to not wake him up and shove him away. One night, Sirius wakes up to find himself curled directly against Remus' side, nose tucked against his shoulder, their legs tangled together like it's completely normal.

He nearly has a crisis (scratch the nearly). The worst part? Remus is awake.

"You snore," he murmurs, voice heavy with sleep. Sirius freezes . He has never been more aware of how close they are. Remus is warm—too warm, and Sirius' heart is racing. He should move. He should move.

Instead, Sirius—because he is an absolute idiot—mutters, "Liar," into Remus' shoulder and does not move at all. Remus huffs a laugh, and instead of shoving Sirius away—like any reasonable person would—he relaxes . And that's it. That's how it starts.

The next night, Sirius barely pretends. It's easier now, like they've silently agreed that this is a thing that happens and we will never speak of it. And they don't. They never talk about it. But they still do it every night.

A week later, Sirius is in the kitchen when Hermione corners him again. "You're still sharing, aren't you?" she says, arms crossed.

Sirius does not dignify that with an answer. Instead, he picks up an apple and bites into it, looking at her like she's very boring and definitely not making his palms sweat.

Hermione sighs. "You do realize we all know you're being ridiculous, right?"

"I'm always ridiculous, Granger," Sirius says, mouth full of apple. "It's part of my charm." She does not look charmed.

"Why?" she asks.

Sirius shrugs. "Why not ?"

She looks at him. That terrifyingly intelligent, deeply unimpressed look she's inherited from McGonagall. The you are an idiot, and I know it look. Then, to his absolute horror, she says, "Are you in love with him?" and Sirius chokes on his apple. Actually chokes.

Hermione, entirely unbothered, raises an eyebrow. "You are, aren't you?" Sirius, still choking, shakes his head violently.

"Alright," she says, entirely unconvinced. "If you say so."

And then she walks off. Sirius stares after her, horrified. Then he marches back upstairs to the room he shares with Remus, flops onto the bed, and buries his face in a pillow.

Remus, looking up from his book, doesn't even question it, because of course he doesn't. Sirius groans into the pillow. This is getting out of hand.

Sirius has absolutely no excuse for himself. None. It had started with subtle things—accidental things. Or at least, that's what they'd told themselves in the beginning. A hand brushing in sleep. A foot nudging against another under the blanket. Sirius waking up to find himself closer than he remembered, pressing into Remus' warmth.

It should have been strange. It should have been something worth mentioning. Instead, it had very quickly become the norm. The moment they get into bed, Sirius just grabs Remus and pulls himself in, curling around him like he belongs there.

The absolute worst part? Remus lets him. No, worse—Remus doesn't even react anymore. Doesn't twitch. Doesn't tense. Doesn't even look up from his bloody book.

The first time Sirius does it consciously, he half-expects a reaction. A huff. A question. A raised eyebrow, at the very least. Instead, Remus, still reading, just hums. Amused. And that's it.

Sirius scowls. "You don't even care."

Remus turns a page. "Not particularly."

Sirius frowns, shifting a little—pressing closer, just to see—but Remus just turns another page, utterly unbothered.

"Do you even notice ?" Sirius asks, suspicious.

"Mm," Remus says, utterly relaxed. "You do it every night."

Sirius stares. For a moment, he considers pretending otherwise. Making some excuse, like oh, I must have shifted in my sleep —except they don't even bother with that anymore. No, they've skipped straight past the pretense and landed squarely in yes, I'm grabbing you, and yes, I'm staying here, and no, I don't have a single thought in my head about it beyond 'this is comfortable, and you're warm.'

So instead, Sirius narrows his eyes. "You let me?"

Remus turns another page. "Clearly."

Sirius frowns harder. "I could be stealing your body heat."

"You are," Remus agrees.

"I could be hogging the bed."

"You do."

"I could be—"

"Sirius." Remus finally looks at him, a slow, deeply unimpressed glance. "Are you going to complain about it, or are you going to settle down?"

Sirius shuts up, grumbles under his breath just for the sake of it, and tucks himself deeper into Remus' warmth. He is smaller—shorter, at least. But not by much, damn it. Not that it stops him from pressing his face into Remus' shoulder like some sort of oversized dog, stealing warmth and shifting until he's perfectly comfortable. And Remus—utter bastard that he is—just lets it happen, entirely unbothered, like Sirius hasn't just clung onto him like a bloody koala.

After a few minutes, Sirius sighs. "This is a terrible idea," he mutters.

Remus doesn't even glance up from his book. "Mm. Dreadful."

Sirius frowns into his shoulder. "I mean it."

"Of course you do."

"Moony."

"Hm?"

"This is going to end badly."

Remus hums, utterly unbothered. "Probably."

Sirius sighs again, pressing closer. He should move. He should get up, put some distance between them, stop pretending this is normal. Instead, he mutters, "Move your arm, it's digging into my ribs."

Remus shifts slightly, accommodating him without a word.

Sirius glares at him. "You're not even fighting me on this."

Remus finally looks down at him, raising an eyebrow. "Do you want me to?"

Sirius opens his mouth—then promptly shuts it.

Remus smirks. Smirks. "Thought so."

Sirius scowls. "You're enjoying this."

Remus just turns another page. "Good night, Sirius."

Sirius huffs, but he doesn't move. Not even a little.

August

Sirius had been looking forward to Harry's arrival all summer. Really, he had. He'd counted down the days, snapped at anyone who so much as hinted that Dumbledore might change his mind, paced like a caged animal until finally, finally, the moment came—Harry, safe, standing in Grimmauld Place, looking a little tired but otherwise here, where Sirius could see him and talk to him and—

"Oh," Harry says, looking between Sirius and Remus. "You two are still together, then."

Sirius nearly short-circuits. "What?" he demands.

Harry just shrugs, entirely unfazed. "I figured you were married, but then Hermione said you might be divorced and trying to work things out, which also made sense."

Sirius' mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Harry frowns at him like he's the one being unreasonable. "You live together ."

"That doesn't mean—"

"You bicker all the time."

"That's just—"

"You finish each other's sentences."

"We do not —"

Harry raises an eyebrow. "Okay, say something. Anything."

Sirius glares. "This is ridic—"

"—ulous," Remus finishes from the armchair without looking up from his book.

Harry crosses his arms. "Case in point."

Sirius points an accusatory finger at Remus. " You're not helping."

Remus, the traitor , just shrugs.

Sirius turns back to Harry, feeling wildly unprepared for this conversation. "Why the hell would you think we were married ?"

Harry blinks at him. "Because you act married."

"We do not ."

"You really do."

"I'd know if I were married, Harry."

Harry just shrugs again. "Dunno. Maybe it happened before Azkaban. Or you forgot to tell me. Either way, I just assumed."

Sirius stares. "Assumed ?"

Harry nods. "I mean, you are sleeping in the same room."

Sirius' brain sputters and dies. "That's because there weren't any other rooms " he says, far too quickly .

Harry tilts his head. "There's literally an empty room on the next floor."

Sirius turns to Remus. "Moony."

Remus, the utter bastard, doesn't even look up. "Mm?"

"You said we weren't telling him about that."

"I did say that."

"And?"

"And I didn't tell him," Remus says, calm as ever. "He figured it out on his own."

Sirius glares. "That's worse."

"I fail to see how."

Sirius rounds back on Harry, desperate to regain some control over the conversation. "Look, we're not married. That's insane."

Harry, infuriatingly calm, just says, "Okay."

Sirius narrows his eyes. "…Okay?"

Harry shrugs. "Okay, you're not married now. But you were at some point, right?"

Sirius sputters. "No."

Harry squints at him, clearly not believing a single word. "So you're telling me you never —"

"Never," Sirius cuts in, firm.

Harry frowns. "…Not even in secret?"

"Not even in secret."

There's a beat of silence. Then Harry turns to Remus, who is annoyingly unbothered as he turns a page. "Professor?"

Remus finally looks up, expression perfectly neutral. "Hmm?"

"Are you sure?"

Sirius grabs his own hair in frustration. "Why would Remus be sure? Do you think I wouldn't know if I'd married him?"

Harry doesn't look convinced. And worse—worse—Remus just smiles slightly and says, "No, Harry, we were never married."

Sirius sighs in deep, soul-crushing relief.

"…But I understand why you'd assume that."

With that, Sirius' relief dies a violent death. "Remus!"

Harry looks entirely too pleased with himself. "So you admit you act married?"

Remus hums noncommittally. "We do live together."

Sirius glares at him again. "You're supposed to be on my side."

Remus finally looks at him, raising an eyebrow. "You're the one who insisted on sharing a bed."

Sirius gasps. "I did not."

Remus looks entirely unbothered. "Oh? So I imagined all the times you climbed into my space?"

"I—" Sirius flounders. "That's different."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"Mm," Remus says, unconvinced.

Sirius turns back to Harry , who is watching this all with the air of someone who has definitely already made up his mind.

"Okay," Harry says.

Sirius' eyes narrow. "…Okay?"

Harry shrugs. "Okay, so you're not married. But you're, like, divorced and working it out, right?"

Sirius makes an incoherent noise of pure agony. Harry just pats him on the arm. "It's okay, Sirius. I support you both."

And with that, he walks away , leaving Sirius fully spiraling. He rounds on Remus. "Fix this."

Remus smiles at him , that infuriatingly small, amused smile. "I don't think he's entirely wrong."

Sirius chokes on air. Remus simply turns a page. "Good night, Sirius."

Sirius stares.

Then, horrified beyond belief , he realizes—he's actually not horrified.

…Oh, fuck .

Sirius does not dwell on it. He absolutely does not spend the rest of the evening pacing around Grimmauld Place, Harry's words rattling around in his skull like a loose Snitch.

(You act married.)

He definitely does not glare at Remus whenever he sees him, like this is somehow his fault, and he certainly does not, at any point, wonder what it would actually be like—if they had been married, if they were married, if they—no. Absolutely not .

Except then he goes and does something stupid .

They're in their room—because it is their room, now, no use pretending otherwise—and Sirius is still stewing, flopping onto the bed in deep frustration while Remus, as always, is unbothered. He's sitting in the armchair, book in hand, the dim light from the bedside lamp casting soft shadows on his face. He looks annoyingly peaceful, like nothing about this whole situation has gotten under his skin.

Sirius scowls at him. "Would you?"

Remus pauses. And thank Merlin for that, because Sirius is pretty sure he would die on the spot if Remus had just hummed like this was another nothing. Slowly, Remus lowers his book, studying him with quiet curiosity. "Would I what ?"

Sirius shifts, suddenly far too aware of what he just said, of where this conversation is about to go. Well. Too late to back out now.

He swallows. "Would you—" His throat is dry. "—marry me?"

There is a silence. A long, deafening silence.

Remus blinks. Tilts his head. And then— "…Are you proposing?"

Sirius nearly chokes. "No," he says, far too quickly.

Remus raises an eyebrow.

"I mean—" Sirius sits up, running a hand through his hair, flustered in a way he refuses to acknowledge. "Not really. I just meant—" He waves a hand, trying to make the question seem less insane than it is. "Hypothetically."

Remus makes a soft, thoughtful noise. "Hypothetically," he repeats.

Sirius nods, too quickly. "Yeah."

Remus watches him for a long moment, unreadable. Then, finally, "I don't know," he says simply.

Sirius blinks. "You don't know?"

Remus shrugs. "No one's ever asked before."

Sirius gapes at him. "That's not true."

Remus raises an eyebrow.

"It can't be," Sirius insists. "You—you were attractive in school, Moony."

Remus' lips twitch, like he's holding back a smile. "Thank you?"

Sirius scowls. "I mean, people must've asked. Someone."

Remus just shrugs again, infuriatingly casual. "Not really."

Sirius stares at him, something twisting uncomfortably in his chest. Then, after a pause, "…What if I wasn't asking hypothetically?"

Remus does react to that. It's small , just a flicker of something in his expression, but Sirius sees it; the way his fingers tighten slightly around the book, the way his lips part, like a reply is forming but won't quite come out.

"…Are you?" Remus asks, voice quieter now.

Sirius should lie, should back out, should roll his eyes and laugh and say, don't be ridiculous, Moony, I'm just messing with you .

Instead, he holds Remus' gaze and says, "Would it be so bad if I was?"

Another silence, and this time, Remus doesn't look away. Sirius' heart is hammering.

Remus exhales, slow and measured. Then, with something that almost sounds like awe —"You're actually serious."

Sirius swallows. "I am always Sirius."

Remus groans. "For fuck's sake."

Sirius grins, relieved by the break in tension, the small return to normalcy—but then Remus sighs, looking down at his book like he suddenly can't focus on it, fingers tapping against the cover.

And Sirius realizes—

Oh.

Oh, he's really considering it.

Sirius' throat feels tight. He doesn't know what to do with this realization. "Remus," he says, quieter now.

Remus looks up again. And Sirius—reckless, terribly restless Sirius—presses forward, because he's already here, already far past the point of return. "If we had been married," he says, voice careful, deliberate, "do you think we'd have made it?"

Remus studies him for a long moment.

And then, finally—soft, thoughtful—"I think we would've tried."

Sirius' breath catches. The answer isn't yes , but it's not no , either. And that—more than anything—feels like something Sirius could hold onto.

Sirius does not sleep. Not that it's anything new. Sleep has never been particularly kind to him, and in Grimmauld Place—this miserable, rotting mausoleum of a house—it's even worse. Tonight, though, it's not Grimmauld, or Azkaban, or even the weight of the war pressing in around him that's keeping him awake.

It's Remus.

Specifically: the hypothetical divorce of Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, which would have taken place within a year of their hypothetical marriage.

Sirius stares at the ceiling. Next to him, Remus is asleep, or at least pretending to be. He's facing away, but close enough that Sirius can feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath. Sirius shifts, letting his gaze drift downward. Remus' hand is resting on the mattress between them, palm up, fingers slightly curled. The scar on his thumb is visible—one of many, scattered across his knuckles like remnants of old wars.

Sirius stares at it. Thinks, A ring would look good on that hand.

And then immediately wants to hex himself. It's Harry's fault.

You act married, he'd said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it was normal to share a bed. Like it was normal to curl around Remus the way Sirius always does, like he can't help himself. Like it's normal to think about rings and promises and—

Sirius scowls at the ceiling. Because if they'd ever married—if they'd ever been honest with themselves about what they were—none of it would've mattered. It would have broken the second Peter's betrayal hit them.

The moment James and Lily died. The second Sirius was dragged to Azkaban, screaming, wild-eyed, Remus, I didn't—

Sirius' jaw clenches. That's the thing, isn't it? If they'd been married, would it have changed anything? Would Remus have fought for him? Would he have believed him, even when the evidence said otherwise? Would he have gone to Dumbledore, demanded a trial, tried to save him?

Sirius wants to believe the answer is yes, but he knows it isn't. Because Remus hadn't believed him. Not even a little.

Sirius closes his eyes, the phantom weight of chains settling over his wrists.

You're the only one who ever doubted me, Moony.

His breath shudders out of him. Next to him, Remus shifts in his sleep, brow twitching like he's on the edge of a dream.

And Sirius—pathetic, desperate—does what he always does, he reaches out—just barely—fingertips brushing against Remus' wrist. It's nothing, but it's enough. Remus hums, the sound barely audible, and then—without opening his eyes—he moves closer. Just a little. Just enough that Sirius can pretend. That Remus would have fought for him. That he would have tried.

That if Sirius had only asked, had only let himself want—maybe things would have been different. And maybe they still could be.

Sirius swallows. Turns his head. Watches Remus' hand on the mattress. Thinks, a ring would look nice there.

It starts with Hermione. Which, in hindsight, should've been expected, because of course Hermione Granger, bright, terrifying, entirely too perceptive, would notice.

It's breakfast when she brings it up. The house is fuller now, packed with Weasleys and Order members and one very grumpy teenage Harry, who, after arriving last night, has spent most of the morning aggressively buttering his toast like it personally wronged him. Sirius is next to Remus, because of course he is, and Remus, oblivious, unreadable, is flipping through the Prophet, sipping his tea like he's a civilized person and not a traitor who's perfectly fine with letting Sirius spiral over hypothetical divorce proceedings that never actually happened.

Sirius is scowling into his coffee when Hermione, thoughtful and serious, suddenly says: "How long have you two been married?"

Silence.

Total.

Absolute.

Horrifying silence.

Sirius chokes. Across the table, Ron makes a noise like a dying cat. Harry, meanwhile, doesn't even blink. He just swallows his toast and says, "See? Told you."

Sirius is too stunned to be furious, which is a rare and terrible feeling. "You what?" he says, voice several octaves too high.

Harry shrugs. "Well, you act married."

Sirius gapes at him.

"We do not," he says, indignant.

"You really do," Hermione says, and why is she agreeing with him, whose side is she on? (Hint: It's never been Sirius')

Sirius gestures wildly to Remus. "Moony, tell them."

Remus calmly turns the page of his newspaper and says, "We're not married."

"See?" Sirius says, triumphant.

"Anymore," Remus adds, absently.

Hermione's eyes light up, fascinated. "Wait, really?" she says, leaning forward like this is the most interesting piece of information she's ever encountered.

"We were never married," Sirius says, betrayed beyond reason.

"I don't know, Sirius," Remus murmurs, still not looking up. "Feels like something we'd have done."

"What does that even mean?"

Across the table, Ron—who has been silent up until now —finally throws down his spoon and scowls. "This is mental," he says.

"Why?" Hermione says.

Ron makes an incredulous gesture. "Because they're not married ."

"But if they were," Harry says, "it'd make sense."

"No, it wouldn't."

"Yes, it would," Hermione argues.

Ron gestures wildly. "They're not even together."

Hermione scoffs. "Not technically."

Sirius slaps a hand over his face. "For the love of—"

Harry frowns at Ron. "Why are you so against it?"

"I'm not," Ron says, scowling. "It's just insane."

"It's not," Hermione insists. "They live together, they sleep in the same bed, they—"

"That doesn't mean anything," Sirius protests, desperate.

Ron points at him. "See? Even he thinks it's insane."

Hermione sighs, exasperated. "Ron, look at them. Really look."

Ron looks. And Sirius regrets everything in his life leading up to this moment, because the second Ron actually stops to look, to really look, something flickers in his expression—confusion, realization, something almost like suspicion. His gaze darts to where Sirius' and Remus' chairs are just a little too close together, to where Sirius is leaning towards Remus without thinking, to where their stupid, obvious body language has given them away. And Sirius can see it —the second Ron clocks the way Sirius looks at Remus. The way Remus never really looks away.

"Oh," Ron says, and Sirius wants to die.

Hermione folds her arms. "Well?"

Ron hesitates, then scowls at his eggs. "Fine," he mutters. "Maybe. A little."

Hermione beams.

Harry nods, satisfied. "Yeah. Thought so."

Sirius, meanwhile, has never regretted a conversation more in his entire life.

He turns to glare at Remus. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Remus turns a page. "I really am."

Sirius groans. Harry grins at him. "So, what's the wedding gonna be like?"

Sirius throws his toast at him.

It all comes to a head, because of course it does. Sirius should have seen it coming—should have expected it—but in his defense, he's been too busy losing his mind over Harry and Hermione's insufferable conviction that he and Remus are married.

("We're not married," Sirius had told them for the millionth time, only to be met with Harry's knowing little nod, like he was indulging some sort of denial. The audacity.)

The moment the idea entered the air, it was everywhere, unspoken, lingering, stretching into everything.

And it's Remus' fault, because he'd let it happen—even encouraged it, with his stupid, unreadable, deliberately maddening calm, with his long-suffering hums and amused glances and that tiny, betraying twitch of his mouth whenever Sirius ranted about it later. Like he knew something Sirius didn't, and Sirius cannot stand it.

Which is why, obviously, it all comes to a head at night , in their room, because of course it does. Sirius is pacing, his brain caught in some awful loop of what ifs and maybes and wasn't it always going to end up here? Meanwhile, Remus is reading. Because of course he is . It's been like this for days , ever since Harry's frankly insane declaration , Sirius hasn't been able to think straight.

It's in his head now—the idea, the possibility , the unbearable thought of what could have been. Because Sirius has been thinking about it—about rings and promises and everything they never got to be—and he hates it. Mostly because he doesn't hate it at all .

Sirius scowls, Remus turns a page.

And Sirius—completely unraveling, unable to take it anymore—whirls on him and snaps: "Are you enjoying this?"

Remus looks up. Calm. Infuriating. "Define 'this,'" he says.

Sirius throws up his hands. "This! The—" he gestures between them wildly "—the whole bloody house thinking we're married !"

Remus hums. Thoughtful. "Technically, only Harry and Hermione think that. And possibly Arthur."

Sirius gapes at him. "Arthur?"

Remus tilts his head. "He did say 'about time' under his breath earlier." Sirius groans. Remus watches him, unreadable. "It bothers you."

"Of course it bloody bothers me!" Sirius snaps. "It's ridiculous!"

Remus just looks at him, steady and awful, and says, "Is it?"

Sirius stops. Something twists in his chest—something raw, something dangerous, something that feels too much like hope .

And Remus is looking at him like that.

Like he knows. Like he's always known.

Sirius swallows, his heart hammering, and Remus only watches him.

And then, softly, finally, inevitably, Sirius croaks : "Would you?"

Remus pauses—thank Merlin—and actually looks at him.

Sirius' brain short-circuits, his stomach drops and he can only stand there, staring at the way the light from the bedside lamp catches the gold in his eyes.

Remus tilts his head. "Are you proposing? Again?"

Sirius makes a noise, a horrible noise. "I—" he starts, and then stops, because what the fuck is he supposed to say to that? Because no, obviously not, except—except maybe? He has been thinking about it, hasn't he? About rings and hands and everything they never got—everything they could have had—

Remus just watches him, quiet and waiting and so very, very still . And Sirius—cornered and utterly doomed—blurts, helplessly that, "I would have."

Silence. Real, aching silence. Sirius doesn't breathe .

And Remus looks at him, like Sirius is saying something else entirely, like Sirius is saying everything .

Then, finally, voice steady, Remus asks: "Would you still?"

Sirius' heart stops. His throat is dry.

Remus is too close now (when did he stand up?)—close enough that Sirius can see the way his lashes flicker, the way his mouth twitches, the way his hands are gripping the book too tightly.

Sirius swallows. And then, quiet, desperate, honest :

"Yes."

The book slips from Remus' hands, hits the floor.

And then—finally, finally, finally —Remus kisses him.

Sirius doesn't even know how it happens.

It's horrible.

It's amazing.

It's desperate and messy and long overdue, Sirius barely remembering to breathe, Remus tilting his head and sinking into him, his hands coming up to tangle in Sirius' hair, Sirius gripping at his shirt like he's afraid to let go.

And Sirius, overwhelmed, undone, unable to believe this is happening, thinks, dazedly, maybe we really are married, and then promptly forgets how to think at all.

Remus

The book is gone. Not gently placed down, not marked for later, not even an absent-minded drop onto the covers.

No—Remus threw it. Over his shoulder, careless, reckless, with absolutely no thought for where it landed, because the book was not important.

Because he needed his hands. Because he needed them in Sirius' hair. Sirius yelps into his mouth when Remus yanks him closer, startled and unsteady, his hands grabbing desperately at Remus' shirt like he's afraid of slipping through his fingers. And Remus, long-overdue, aching, wants nothing more than to sink into it, to memorize it, to keep it.

He can taste Sirius, the faint lingering of something sweet from whatever he had before bed, the warmth of him, the sheer Sirius-ness of the way he tilts his head, leans into it, makes it so easy for Remus to grab at him, pull him closer, feel the slight tremor in his breath.

It's unbearable.

It's perfect.

Remus only pulls back because he has to, because they both need air, because Sirius is so bloody breathless it's a miracle he's still upright. And maybe it's a cruel thing, maybe it's too much , but Remus stays close, so close that their noses brush, that Sirius' breath stutters against his skin—because he can't help himself, because he needs to say it, because it's been caught in his throat for years.

So he murmurs it against Sirius' lips, soft and unshaken and real: "I love you."

And Sirius—Merlin, Sirius—makes a sound that's nothing short of helpless. It's a quiet thing, a breath, a hitch, a tiny, shattered exhale, but Remus feels it.

And then, because Sirius has never been able to take anything without cracking a joke or breaking something, he hides his face in Remus' shoulder. Which Remus simply cannot allow, so he grabs Sirius' face kisses him again, just to save Sirius' dignity. And because he needs to. And because Sirius lets him. Because Sirius leans into it, lets Remus steal the breath from his mouth, his fingers tightening in Remus' shirt, and it's everything, it's too much, it's not enough, it's finally, finally, finally .

And this time, Sirius kisses back like he means it. Remus groans, tilting his head, opening his mouth, pressing in, and Sirius matches him, greedy and eager and clutching . It's nothing like the fumbling, uncertain thing they were before . It's desperate, hungry, aching .

Like they've both been starving for it.

Sirius shifts, presses closer , one knee digging into the mattress that he'd inevitably pressed Remus into as he climbs over Remus without breaking the kiss, and Remus has the fleeting thought that he should say something, that he should stop this before they—

Except—

Except Sirius pulls back just barely, just enough to rest his forehead against Remus', and whispers, voice wrecked and raw: "Say it again."

And Remus—helpless, ruined, completely and utterly Sirius'—complies.

"I love you."

Sirius makes that same helpless sound, pressing his face back into Remus' shoulder, clutching at him like a lifeline.

Remus smiles. Soft, easy, exasperated. And then, gentle, he runs his fingers through Sirius' hair and murmurs, "You absolute idiot. Did you think I didn't?"

Sirius huffs out a breath—something close to a laugh, almost a sob—pressing closer, refusing to let go. Remus lets him stay there, feeling the weight of him, the warmth of him, the sheer miracle of him. Because of course he did, of course Sirius Black , spectacular disaster that he is, would never believe he was loved.

Remus has known that for years. And now, he thinks, as he kisses the top of Sirius' head and feels Sirius' breath steady against his skin—now, maybe, he'll finally believe it.

Epilogue

Sirius

Sirius has faced many things in his life.

Dementors.

Az— That Place .

His mother's screaming portrait.

Bellatrix.

But none of that—not one of those things—compares to the absolute humiliation of sitting in Grimmauld Place's kitchen while Hermione Granger and his godson grin at him like a pair of Kneazles that got into the cream.

Ron, in contrast, looks absolutely miserable.

"You—" Sirius starts, glaring at Remus, who looks far too amused by this, "—are never allowed to tell them anything ever again."

"Noted," Remus says, which is a damn lie because he's still grinning over the rim of his teacup.

"Pay up, Ron," Hermione says, holding out her hand expectantly.

Ron groans, slouching down in his chair, mumbling, "This is so stupid."

"We told you," Harry says, smug as hell, "we told you."

Ron pulls out a handful of Sickles from his pocket and begrudgingly slaps them into Hermione's palm.

Sirius blinks. "You bet on us?"

"I didn't bet on you," Ron corrects with a scowl. "I bet against you."

"And lost," Hermione adds, looking insufferably pleased.

Harry leans back in his chair, arms crossed, wearing the same distinctly unimpressed look Lily used to give him whenever he tried to charm his way out of trouble. "I knew you two were married."

Sirius sputters. "We are not married."

Harry shrugs. "Might as well be."

"Might as well be? " Sirius repeats, voice high and offended, because excuse him.

Ron gestures vaguely at him and Remus. "I mean…yeah?"

"You literally share a bed ," Hermione says, unimpressed. "And don't even pretend it was just because there were no other rooms. We all know about the empty one."

Sirius opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"Point is," Harry continues, "Ron refused to believe you two would ever get your act together, and Hermione and I knew better."

"By all means," Remus says lightly, "continue discussing our personal affairs as if we aren't sitting right here."

"Thank you," Sirius huffs, because finally.

"Oh, don't be dramatic , Sirius," Hermione says, giving him a look. "It's not like this wasn't incredibly obvious to everyone."

"Not to me," Ron grumbles.

"That's because you have the emotional range of a teaspoon," Hermione tells him.

Harry just shakes his head. "Honestly, though? I'm just glad you finally figured it out."

Now that—that catches Sirius off guard. He looks at Harry, really looks at him—the way his shoulders are looser, how he's smiling, how there's actual warmth in his expression.

"Why?" Sirius asks before he can stop himself.

Harry shrugs. "Because you're happy."

Sirius blinks. Harry keeps going, glancing at Remus. "Both of you. You—" he hesitates, then sighs. "You deserve it. Both of you do."

Sirius doesn't know what to say to that. (He does, actually, but Merlin, his chest feels too full, his throat too tight.)

Remus places a hand on his arm, steady and warm, and Sirius glances at him. Remus just smiles, small and fond, eyes full of something steady. Sirius exhales. It's fine. It's good.

And, despite everything—despite how embarrassing this whole thing is—he supposes Harry and Hermione deserve their smugness, o Sirius rolls his eyes, shoves back his chair, and mutters, "I need a drink."

And if Remus follows him out of the kitchen, shaking his head in quiet amusement, reaching for Sirius' hand in the dimly lit corridor—

Well.

Harry was right.

(And Hermione, but he'll never admit that.)