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Chapter Text

We love life not because we are used to living, but because we are used to loving.
- Thus spoke Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche

     MONDAY

These kinds of things happen, and Sirius would say they happen unexpectedly, sort of like a fire breaks out or a volcano erupts or the Titanic crashes into an iceberg, except it’s not really unexpected in the slightest. Just like a soft lumos comes out of his mouth and he knows the tip of his wand will light up, just like the sun rises from behind the hazy waves of the hills of Scotland, just like a river rushes down into the sea, intermingling sweet and salt and fishes that die in foreign territory – just like that does James Potter fall in love at least once a week, and just like that does Sirius have to know all about it, for what’s a friend meant to be if not a willing ear (albeit tired, ringing in the cusp of morning).

It’s not even eight in the morning and James Potter, who has been awake since six, at least (Sirius can never tell when it is that he leaves for practice, but every morning his bed is undone and James, nowhere to be seen), is not even in the sort of state Sirius is at – dazed and dizzy, eyes drooping unevenly, as if tied to different puppeteer strings, shirt half tucked in, half tucked out, tie long lost wherever the fuck a tie gets lost at – no, James is but in complete elation at being up, perky and cheerful and flushed cheeks full of food he’s, quite disgustingly, spitting out crumbs of as he talks animately. He sits in front of him, beside Peter, who is halfway through a yawn that sends a fat tear rolling down his face, and waves his hands in grand gestures, glasses crooked and hair as messy as if it is still rolling in bed, sticking out in every direction. James is an untamed hurricane, and Sirius loves him for it. He just doesn’t have the strength to put up with all of its fury so early in the morning.

Thankfully, he doesn’t need to come up with the smartest of answers, for even the laziest of “mhm”s and “oh, really?”s send James into a rant about whoever the hell he’s talking about right now.

Wait. Sirius stops munching on his toast and frowns. Just like that he’s fully awake and the sounds around him filter in: laughter and voices and cutlery clanking and gulps and winter-turning-into-spring-typical coughs.

“Prongs,” he interjects, voice cranky and breaking like a teenager’s. He breathes through his mouth when he sleeps, sue him.

James stops abruptly and swallows, mimics Sirius’ frown as if he’s his very mirror.

“Yes?”

“Who are you even talking about?” Sirius asks.

Then and only then does something shift in the air. A little thing, unnoticeable to anyone except to those that spend twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, hovering around their best friend, the earth around the sun, the moon around the earth, James around Sirius, Sirius around James. The latter shuffles on the space he occupies on the bench, Peter glances at him slyly and quirks his eyebrows, and Sirius squints his eyes.

“Stop scratching your arse on the bench, Potter,” he says. “Who...?”

Someone slumps heavily on the seat to his right and James deflates visibly, while Sirius’ shoulders jump in surprise and remain up to his ears, hyperaware.

“Moony,” James breathes. Sirius is still, very consciously, looking at him, though James doesn’t return his stare anymore. Though Sirius’ own field of vision is blurry, is stargazing through a light-polluted city, is James forgetting to fetch his glasses; is his heart beating faster, is his ribs slamming against one another from the force of it, is wooden chimes fluttering with a soft breeze. Sirius can’t see a thing, actually. “Good morning, what took you so long?”

A voice, low and grumbly, speaks to his right (and, really, Sirius wonders with something like envy burning at the pit of his stomach, is it fair for anyone to sound so good so early in the morning?),

“Lily,” is the only thing Remus offers as an explanation, voice coming out muffled from behind his arms, where he’s drowned his head in.

It is rather self-explanatory, and now Sirius is looking at him (he doesn’t remember how he got there, but his eyes seem to have a mind of their own, one that hates Sirius very much), for there are soft curls in front of him, waving around an ear and down to his nape, flattened there where he lied his head to sleep (the left side of his face, Sirius knows this. Remus is a humdrum creature). Remus’ hand wraps around his own elbow, long and slender fingers, freckled and scarred and stained with ink he never manages to wash away entirely (they cling to him, books and parchment all the same, like elongations of his limbs).

His plate has been pushed to the side to make space for his arms, and so Sirius grabs it wordlessly and begins to fill it up with Remus’ favourites: scrambled eggs and two pieces of toast topped with strawberry marmalade that he always complains about, because no one’s jam compares to Hope’s, but that he keeps spreading over his bread every morning because every reminder of home is bittersweet; and it’s not home but it’s the thought that lingers like coffee grounds (there’s a meaning there, somewhere, but Sirius never took Divination, so what the hell would he know). Remus loves Hogwarts like one loves an organ that was transplanted into one’s body, foreign and strange but enough to keep the body running, the blood flowing. Remus isn’t at home until he can be quiet in his lack of secrecy, so it’s no surprise that he walks down the halls with strained shoulders and stern glances thrown over them.

They’re so different and so similar at the same time, Sirius thinks every once in a while. Sirius, who carries bricks with him everywhere he goes and tries to build a roof over anything that’s stable enough to hold it; Remus, who is empty-handed unless his palms are warmed up by a docile fireplace in northern Wales, like he cups fire itself and lets it slide within the creaks of his fingers, through the hairs of his arms, under his skin.

“Cheers,” Remus says, and Sirius blinks back into reality – just a boy in front of him, head now tilted towards him. A gentle morning smile, full lips contorting into something sweet, something like a load-bearing wall, the skeleton of a house. Sirius blinks again and the illusion is gone, and Remus is just a seventeen-year-old boy who is smiling at him. His best friend. His best friend.

His best friend.

“Hey, you didn’t answer my question!” Sirius turns to James again, accusingly.

“What question?” Remus asks, straightening up and pulling his breakfast towards himself.

“James has fallen in love, again,” Peter fills in, taking a sip of his pitch black coffee and grimacing. He’s been trying to get used to the taste, since milk doesn’t settle nicely on his stomach. It’s not going well.

“I have not fallen in love,” James groans.

“You fall in love every single week,” Remus says as he digs into his eggs. He lets the bread of the toasts cool down, first.

“My week wouldn’t be the same if it didn’t start with a report on James’ new love interest,” Sirius says, and Peter nods solemnly, “who he does absolutely nothing about.”

“That’s the thing, though,” whines James. “I need advice.”

At this, Sirius perks up, smirking.

“Advice? Just who is this girl?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“What?!” Sirius shrieks, rather dramatically, gaining attention and glances from people around them who, at this point, should be used to his exuberance, so Sirius isn’t really to blame here. Remus kicks his achilles tendon under the table and Sirius barely winces. His foot stays there, almost enveloping ankle with ankle but not quite, tennis shoes that threaten to slip with any slightly hazardous step. “Why? You always tell us who you fancy.”

James frowns, “And you always make fun of me. I’m not telling you this time. You’ll know when the time comes. But,” he raises a finger, effectively shutting Sirius up, “I do need some sort of advice on how to talk to them. Get them interested.”

“...This jam tastes worse with each passing day.”

“I thought you just liked admiring them from afar,” Sirius points out.

And he did – he had had a crush on Margaret “Margo” Byrne, after seeing her protect a first year Hufflepuff that was being tormented by older Slytherins. He had developed ‘deep’ feelings – his words, not Sirius’ – for Emily Cox, who picked up his quill from his hand when he fell asleep over some parchment in the library and it began to stain. He had stared longingly after Cynthia Cole for at least three days (this emphasis is very important to James, since he tends to forget who it is that he fancies every morning) when she managed to send a Quaffle flying through the middle ring and knock Ravenclaw’s keeper off his broom in one single pitch. (Sirius was, as a retired Quidditch player – retired more like banished from the team – quite impressed by this too).

He had never spoken a word to any of them.

The only girl he had managed to strike conversation with was no other than Lily Evans, who just happens to be able to talk nineteen to the dozen, especially when she tries to avoid someone she dislikes – in this case, this person turned out to be James. They had, eventually, found middle ground, and the present places them on slow walks to class together, on leaning over History of Magic textbooks that they both share some sort of strange passion for, on doing rounds as Head Boy and Head Girl every night. It is the right kind of love for them, James had shrugged when Sirius asked. It was always supposed to be friendship, nothing else.

Remus keeps cursing under his breath even through a mouthful of toast when Sirius sees a flash of red, Lily Evans in the flesh walking past them on her way to sit by Mary, who stiffens. James turns and gives her a wave, Lily ruffles his hair affectionately. Each gesture is fond and comfortable, and Sirius’ achilles tendon is burning.

“I’m done with that,” James finally answers, turning back around. The shadow of a smile lingers in his face, strawberry-pink like Lily’s scent.

And Sirius wants to ask so badly, but then James clambers to his feet, claiming he’d like to take a shower before heading to class (he, disgustingly enough, goes straight to breakfast after morning practice, sweaty and exhausted to the bone) and shooting stares avidly over his shoulder, looking for something Sirius can’t decipher. He gives them one last smile before he spins on his heels to walk down the Great Hall, a spring in his step. Sirius watches him go, glowering, until he’s completely out of sight.

“Did that seem weird to you?” he asks, eyes still nailed to the doors like James is going to come back through it and run to reveal what he’s keeping secret.

“What do you mean?” Peter replies. Sirius’ head snaps back to him. He’s given up on the coffee, which sits still and cooling down in front of him, and has resorted to tea. Remus grabs the discarded mug and gives it a sip, then hums pleasingly.

“James? He always tells us who he likes, and he never, ever, under any circumstance, wants to do anything about it.”

“Maybe he’s just desperate,” Peter suggests.

“It’s James. I can’t imagine him being desperate. He could snap his fingers and girls would come rushing in.”

“We all know the others weren’t serious,” Remus dismisses. Sirius opens his mouth. “If you make that joke, Sirius, I’m spreading jam all over your hair. I’m not kidding.” He stops, sending daggers that fall right into Sirius’ open mouth. He closes it with a click.
“Thank you.”

“I don’t think they weren’t serious,” Peter argues. “I think James just falls in love easily.”

“I think it might be quite the opposite,” Remus hums, stretching his arms in front of him and curving his back until it pops once, twice. “I think this might be the first time he’s really falling in love, so he doesn’t know what to do about it.”

“He did like Lily, though,” Peter says, lowering his voice and looking around conspicuously, although Lily is well out of hearing range.

“It’s Lily. Of course he liked her.”

Peter tilts his head to the side, conceding that.

“We should help him,” suggests Sirius quietly, looking at the open doors again. “If he really means it.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees.

They let the silence stretch between them, contemplating. Sirius’ mind is running – granted, it’s been a while since he’s tried flirting, but he wants to give it his all, if it’s for James. Not that he ever needed to try too much, back when he was interested in those sorts of things; girls weren’t desperate per se, but if Sirius held his wand with his right hand he kept charm as an ace up the sleeve of his left arm. It came ridiculously easy to him, the smiles, the compliments, the act. The masquerade ball, the dance; a choreography of words, a poem of touches. The way to make knees quiver into submission. Sirius knows three unforgivable curses and one more.

He’s got better. Learned. Become kinder. It’s easier when he can think clearly, when he knows his thoughts aren’t being pried on. He ventures a glance towards the Slytherin table and there he is, alert and stoic, a shorter-haired version of him. He’s sixteen, fifteen and ten at the same time; the little boy Sirius left behind when he left for school, the wide-eyed teenager that couldn’t put a sentence together when Sirius left their house, the shadow he tries to avoid when their paths cross in the hallways. Hogwarts is big but not big enough. Hogwarts is kilometres of insolvable distance between two brothers.

Regulus doesn’t look at him – he never does, hasn’t for a long time – but Sirius feels the weight of his gaze where it lands on Barty. His brother doesn’t talk but words aren’t needed when you are already powerful. Wand sheathed and eyes tired, Regulus is the corpse of a soldier that never quite learned to let go of his fusil.

“Sirius,” Remus nudges him with his thigh, just a brush of the fabric. Sirius’ eyes tear from his brother. “Let’s go to class,” he tells him, the end of his words tilting up like a question.

“Yeah,” Sirius answers absentmindedly. Another glance that isn’t returned (Sirius keeps expecting, hoping, like he wasn’t the one to bomb all of their opportunities) and Sirius clears his throat. He smiles at Remus, whose forehead creases with concern. “Shall we?”

A brief pause. Peter finishes his tea hurriedly and Remus searches for something in Sirius’ eyes.

“Yeah,” he ends up saying. “Let’s go.”

Whether he’s found anything at all, Sirius doesn’t know.

⋆⋆⋆

Eleven in the morning finds Sirius Black drooling over a piece of parchment as Professor Binns slurs words that take at least five minutes to come to an end. Like walking through a labyrinth, that’s what listening to this class feels like. A very boring labyrinth, at that. A labyrinth that is just one straight passageway into its core and one straight passageway to its exit.

“Sirius,” Remus whispers. Sirius doesn’t know whether he’s looking at him, image blurred due to how heavily his lids droop, or if it’s rather that he’s looked at him for so long that his silhouette is engraved on the inside of his eyelids.

“Mmgh,” he answers smartly.

“Sirius,” he hisses insistently.

“Find someone else to entertain you, Moony, I’m napping.”

“James isn’t here.”

It takes him a moment. But then. The needle in a haystack. It nails its way into Sirius’ nape and pierces down his spine, straightening him like a bolt. He blows the hair out of his face and searches frantically, and indeed, Peter sits alone, bored out of his mind, watching ink drop from his quill and on top of his hand. He has a stain on his cheek that looks like snot.

He scans the rest of the room. James is nowhere to be seen.

“Do you have the map?” Sirius asks.

Remus shakes his head, “James borrowed it from Peter last Friday. I haven’t seen it since.”

“Shit.” Sirius bites down on his lip. “Has he been missing classes?”

“I don’t know,” shrugs Remus. “We only have a few together. You’re the one he shares most of them with.”

“I sleep my way through the majority.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“How have we not realized?”

Remus shrugs and keeps taking notes on whatever the fuck Binns rants about – something about 18th century witches being burned alive – and Sirius peeks over his shoulder. He finds Remus relaxing when he focuses like this. His handwriting is messy and dirty, almost, like he cannot grasp his quill comfortably. It’s tiny and his ‘m’s and ‘n’s are inverted, mixing with the ‘u’s and the ‘w’s. He underlines those terms he finds relevant and circles those he would like to read more on. Little scrabbles decorate the margins; the shape of the stakes, the general depiction of the witches, the symbols the churches went under. He’s not an artist by any means but they help to clear his head.

He used to do them on Sirius’ arm, too, back when his body was fussy and his brain antsy, right before the moons.

“Just draw whatever it is that you think about. Whatever’s on your mind. Whatever is keeping you awake,” Sirius had suggested one night, sat against the foot of Remus’ bed while its owner propped himself up on the window sill.

“I don’t have any parchment on me.”

Remus opened the window to lit a fag. He had just begun to smoke. It was early February of their fourth year and a cold breeze of air filtered into the room and in between Sirius’ clothes. He wrapped his duvet, which he had dragged from his own bed, tighter around himself.

“Sorry,” Remus had whispered, leaning over to pull the window closer towards himself, leaving it only slightly ajar, barely enough for the toxic fog to rush outside, as to not allow the wind to find Sirius.

“It’s okay,” Sirius had told him, willing his teeth to stop chattering, determined to make him feel better before heading to bed. “Draw them on my arm.”

“A quill won’t feel great against your skin.”

“I don’t mind,” he rushes to say. Then, a bit more gentle, eyes and mouth softer, “Really.”

Remus looked at him and exhaled burning smoke. He blinked when it got into his eyes. Sirius was ready for the argument, for Remus was nothing short of dyed-in-the-wool when it came to allowing others to help. It was easier when it was James, who helped even those that needn’t any help. It was harder when it was Sirius, who could be as much of helpful as he could be of destructive. It was harder when it was Sirius, in general. Sirius couldn’t really pinpoint why, or understand the reason behind it, but he was certain of that.

The blow never came.

“Okay,” Remus had said. Hopped down from the ledge, put out the unfinished cigarette against it and threw it out of the window, closed it behind him. Took the quill from his nightstand, closed the distance between them and crouched in front of Sirius, who just watched. “Make some space for me.”

And Sirius did, enveloping Remus in his sheets like they were inside of a cocoon. A bed on the floor.

And Remus did, Sirius’ forearm on his lap, pale skin whiter under the blue moonlight, shivering where Remus’ hand cupped Sirius’ elbow, although it was the warmest point of his body.

He drew seventeen dots, one thicker than the rest, connected by a thin, unsteady line. It formed the shape of a howling animal, head tilted upwards in a frozen call, a horse, a wolf. A dog, perhaps.

Sirius hadn’t inquired.

Nowadays Remus keeps himself in line, or perhaps he’s just more guarded, discreet, wary when it comes to sharing what he feels. How much he wants to share of himself, of the wolf. Sirius’ arm has been naked for almost two years.

But the problem at hand is more pressing, so Sirius shrugs those thoughts away, mutes them into a murmur at the back of his head (for they never truly leave him; thoughts are ghosts attached to a consciousness).

“James isn’t the type to miss classes for someone,” Sirius observes, at which Remus arches an eyebrow, amused.

“Is it okay only when it’s for a prank?”

“No,” Sirius bites back, “I’m merely pointing it out.”

Remus “aha”s one of his infuriating “aha”s, like he knows something about Sirius that even Sirius doesn’t know. It’s enraging because he turns out to be right most of the times. Not that Sirius will ever admit that.

“Who do you think it is?” Sirius asks.

“Weren’t you napping?”

“You woke me up.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“You couldn’t have been paying that much attention if you were taking fucking attendance, Remus.”

Remus thins his lips but doesn’t answer. Binns has gone off track, as he usually does, and is now talking bitterly about a witch he met back in 1893.

“Remus,” Sirius insists.

“Sirius,” Remus answers plainly.

“Either pay attention to me or I’ll get us both in trouble and out of class.”

“You’re seventeen years old, Sirius, I think you can manage to sit through a lesson…”

“…Professor Binns!”

“…All right, all fucking right, for Merlin’s sake.”

“Yes, Mr Black?”

“Remus over here was wondering whether this witch rejec–”

“–rejected magic out of fear of prosecution, Professor!” interjects Remus hurriedly.

“Oh,” drawls Binns. “Interesting question, Mr Lupin. This sick, twisted witch rejected magic not due to fear, but because of her own uselessness at it…”

“I’m going to choke you with my bare hands,” grits Remus through his teeth, nodding at Binns.

“Didn’t know you were into that, Moony, you dirty slag.”

“I am if it means I’ll get you to shut your fucking mouth–”

“Anyways. Who do you think it is?”

Sirius rests his head on his hand, facing Remus with his whole torso. He plays with the rings in his fingers and Remus’ eyes drop to watch them.

“I have no clue,” he murmurs. “I thought he liked that girl- what was her name? Sandy?”

“Sandra, yes. That was like, a month ago. I vividly recall talking about her during Christmas.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“It could be any girl,” Sirius says, sending suspicious glances around the class. “Are there any girls missing?”

Sirius looks back at him to find Remus already staring at him, a frown etched on his face. The room is quiet around them, save for Binns’ voice, cold and dark in the cusp of winter; the warming charm they threw at the beginning of the lesson is fading away, and ice creeps up Sirius’ nails. But Remus’ eyes are an eternal autumn, brown with flickers of green and gold under the right lightning, and they bore into Sirius’ with some sort of clarity, an open field illuminated by the moon, or the sun, or the stars – perhaps all of them, a fucking blinding eclipse.

“What,” he says slowly, stopping for a beat, and Sirius holds his own respiration like it can stop his heart from hammering, “makes you think it’s a girl?”

Oh.

Oh.

His heart sinks as if it’s swallowed by his own digestive system, torn into pieces and spread around his whole body. He hears it everywhere and Remus keeps looking at him.

He’s about to answer – what exactly, he isn’t certain, for there’s not a single thought running through his head, and at the same time there are hundreds – when Binns dismisses them and everyone begins to gather their things. Chairs slide and shriek and the world is loud again, obnoxiously so. Sirius’ ears ring.

Peter rushes to their desk and drops his books heavily. Remus doesn’t spare him a glance.

“James isn’t here today!”

⋆⋆⋆

What makes you think it’s a girl?

What makes you think it’s a girl?

What makes you think it’s a girl?

What makes you think it’s a girl?

The question echoes in Sirius’ mind all morning and remains there well into the afternoon like a bloody leech. It feels like it, too, like it’s sucking his blood and depriving him of energy. He got to the common room at four and slumped heavily on one of the armchairs, and he’s been sitting there ever since. People come in and out, some greet him and some don’t, some he greets back and some he just ignores. He feels as scattered as his limbs over the arms of the couch, like water spilt on concrete.

The fireplace is lit, all of a sudden, fluttering flames full and alive, creaking and licking at wood that never consumes.

“Hiya, Sirius.”

Sirius raises his head to find Mary, who offers a smile. Her hair is wild in her natural afro, messy like she’s been running, and she’s panting, breath coming in and out in short incomes through her parted lips, chapped and tainted pink. Gold glitter shines on her eyelids when she blinks. Sirius looks away.

“Mare,” he breathes. “You okay? You look…rushed.”

“I was flying with Marlene,” she says as she sits down beside him. It’s tight, not a sliver of space between them, but it fills Sirius with a warmth he didn’t know he was missing. She smells of flowers, what kind, Sirius can’t really tell. Perhaps a whole bouquet of them. “She’s nervous about Friday’s game against Slytherin.”

“Marlene’s great. She’s got it.”

“She is,” Mary nods and then sighs. “But it’s her first match since she broke her radius, so I reckon she’s a bit frightened.”

“Hm. Well, I’m sure it will be okay.”

“Are you okay?” Mary asks hesitatingly.

“Me? Yes, I’m peachy. Great. Having the time of my life, actually.”

“Sirius, it’s six p.m. and you’ve been staring at the wall for over two hours. You can barely sit still for five minutes straight on a good day.”

“That’s James.”

“That’s you, too.”

James. Game against Slytherin. Friday.

He gasps.

“Is Marlene also skipping lessons to practice?”

Mary scowls, “No, she’s not. What’s with the accusations?”

“It’s not an accusation. James just missed class today, that’s all.”

“I saw him in the dungeons, outside of Potions.”

“Potions?” Sirius repeats. “We don’t even have Potions today!”

“I know, it’s Slytherins today. I only went there because I needed to talk to Slughorn about an assignment.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Well, the dickhead told me that he couldn’t give me an extension because apparently period cramps aren’t a valid excuse to stay in bed, resting…”

“No, Mare, James!” Sirius pauses. “What an arse, though. You always get such painful periods.”

“Right?” Mary screeches. “Thank you!”

“Get Lily to talk to him. He has a soft spot for her and she’s Head Girl, he’ll have to listen.”

Mary’s eyes widen enough for Sirius to see the little brown mole beside her right iris, and she looks away quickly, playing with her hair.

“Lily and I…well…”

“What?”

Mary clears her throat and rubs her knees with her knuckles, scrunching her nose. The piercing on her left nostril, golden like the rest of her, reflects the flames, turning amber. Her brown skin glistens beautifully, blending in with their warmth.

“Nothing, don’t mind me. I don’t want to bother her. She already has too much on her plate.”

“You’re not a bother, Mare, especially when you’re struggling. She adores you.”

She smiles bitterly, “That she does, Lily.”

She says her name like a charm, like the flower itself will burst from her mouth at its mention. Sirius is almost surprised it doesn’t.

“James didn’t say anything, if that’s what you wanted to know. I could barely get a word in before Slughorn tried to sneak away. I had to chase after him. It was embarrassing.”

“What was he even doing there? Did he need to talk to Slughorn, too?”

“Not that I know of.” Mary shakes her head, curls bouncing around her face. “He might have been there to talk to someone from the team. He ran after the Slytherins when they came out.”

Sirius frowns.

“Oh!” Mary exclaims. “Your brother was there. Perhaps he wanted to have a word with him? He’s their seeker, after all.”

Regulus?

“I doubt it,” Sirius dismisses, “Regulus doesn’t do much talking.”

Shrugging, Mary says, “Then, I have no clue. Just telling you what I saw.”

Something across the room catches her eye, then, and she curses under her breath.

“I have to go. You didn’t see me, Black.”

“What?”

“See you later!”

She bends in half and rushes out of the common room through the portrait, almost bumping into Remus, who steadies her with both hands on the sides of her arms. They talk briefly and a moment later she’s gone, leaving behind her nothing but a trail of questions and sweetness. The room is a tad warmer, at least.

“Sirius.” Remus stands in front of him. He never says hello, like a normal person, just addresses whoever he’s speaking too. It’s sort of unnerving, today. “Where were you? I thought we were meeting in the library.”

Shit.

“Shit, sorry. It completely slipped my mind.”

Remus watches him weirdly for a second, in which Sirius refuses to meet his eye.

(What makes you think it’s a girl?)

He seems to struggle internally (to ask further or to remain quiet?), and then he drops it entirely. Disappointing, though Sirius doesn’t know why – this is what they do, in the end: they are all the conversations they never get to have, because Sirius doesn’t even know what they have to talk about, although he knows that they must. They are a concept without its definition in a dictionary, an equation that no one tries to solve. They’re Gryffindors who don’t have the courage to talk to each other. They’re boys. They are boys. Seventeen-year-olds with feelings spilling everywhere and a mop they refuse to use. A mess they don’t try to organize.

Unlike Mary, Remus sits in front of him, dropping a stack of thick books beside his legs.

“For Ancient Runes,” he says as an explanation.

Sirius nods, the fire picks at the wood that doesn’t falter, and nothing changes.

“I think you’re right,” Remus says quietly.

“What?” His head snaps up so hard his neck pops.

“I reckon we should help James. There must be something we can do.”

There must be something else and Sirius wonders what it is. Remus doesn’t do anything without a reason. He helped them with a prank in first year because they promised to leave him alone if he did (a promise they, evidently, didn’t fulfil); they had been trailing after their mysterious roommate, who sometimes crawled into bed wounded and patched up, for three months. He befriended Lily because he wanted to spite James (which, in turn, took a lot of convincing on her part that not all of James’ friends were as arrogant and airheaded as him; an honest friendship only began to bloom during forth year).

“Right,” Sirius nods, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and finger-pads pressed together, business-like, “what do you suggest?”

Remus blinks like he’s said something stupid, or like he’s failing to understand.

“Do I need to remind you that it’s you who barely has enough days in the week to shag all the girls you want to shag?”

This takes Sirius aback; his cheeks burn and he can only stare at Remus because surely Remus has noticed, hasn’t he? Surely he’s realized by now that he hasn’t slept with anyone in well over a year, that the moment a girl tries to talk to him he heads for the door, that he just doesn’t have the energy for it anymore. That he can smile and show kindness without it meaning anything else.

Surely Remus has noticed, because Sirius observes these things about Remus – knows that he is guarded and a secret romantic (he sneaks novels out of the library amongst the tons of textbooks he keeps checking in and out, he hides them under his mattress. Sirius knows this because he reads them when Remus isn’t in the room, and then makes sure to put them back in the exact same place). Sirius knows that Remus has kissed before, though not as much as he has, knows that he doesn’t need to flirt; meaning he doesn’t need to put up an act in order to be liked. Knows that he exudes confidence in spite of how rooted his insecurities are (his veins are just branches that pump sap of self-doubt); he lights up a cigarette and watches it burn until it reaches his forefinger and thumb. He doesn’t let the sear stop him.

So Remus can certainly tell the difference, right? The shift. Because Sirius Black is no longer who he used to be, back in fifth year, when he was reckless and uncaring and would step on an open tomb to get his way. He’s doing enough. He’s doing enough. He’s doing enough for Remus to see it. See him.

“I don’t do that anymore,” Sirius mumbles, hating himself for how vulnerable he sounds, how exposed. It’s like his chest has been stabbed and torn open, from his left shoulder to his right hipbone, a clean cut that smells rotten, that spits fire and blood and venom and chaos. A mess of organs and a mess of feelings, dead butterflies and contorting worms. He’s trying. He’s trying, for fuck’s sake.

Remus notices it too, but he doesn’t seem to see the wound like Sirius does (he can hardly breathe. He’s bleeding out and his heart won’t stop pounding, not even for a moment, to slow down the process). Various emotions flicker across his face, before settling on confusion.

The question never comes, of course. Remus is a man of affirmatives – whatever he cannot tell for certain he pushes aside to investigate later. He doesn’t ask until he knows the answer beforehand.

It will be the death of Sirius, yes, though he doesn’t yet know, not quite, what the spell for it will be or what the dagger will be made out of.

“You used to do it,” Remus says instead, and it’s careful. Walking on eggshells, albeit the truth of his statement doesn’t waver. There it is: the harsh truth. Remus is blindfolded justice holding a balance. A universal idea.

Sirius swallows the lump in his throat and throws his legs over the armrest in fake nonchalance.

“What about you?” he diverts. “You’re popular around here, you know?”

“Popular?” Remus arches a brow.

Maybe he’s just blind.

“Everyone kisses the floor you walk on, Moony. Licks it, in fact. Intently.”

The boy scrunches his nose, “Stop that, you’re being gross. I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

He is blind.

“You’re so oblivious,” Sirius says, dumbfounded. “You really don’t notice, do you?”

“Notice what, Sirius?”

“Half of this room is in love with you, you blind wanker.”

Remus sighs. “If you’re going to make fun of me when I’m trying to help, Sirius-”

“I’m not making fun of you! For Merlin’s sake, Moons!” Sirius chuckles, disbelieving.
“Does everyone need to drop down on one knee for you to know they’re into you?”

“You’re being an arse.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment longer, before Remus scoffs and looks away.

“That’s not the point, in any case. We’re here to help James.”

“Help me with what, exactly?”

Sirius feels him before he sees him: James Potter throws himself carelessly on top of Sirius, who groans as the armrest nails painfully into his back.

“Get off, Prongs! You’re heavy!” he screams as he shoves him. James barely moves an inch.

“Not until you tell me what it is that you’re helping me with,” he singsongs.

“Potions,” smirks Sirius, at the same time Remus says, “Flirting.”

James’ head moves between the two, squinting his eyes at Sirius. “So which one is it?”

“Flirting,” Remus says, sending a warning glare Sirius’ way. “We want to help you with this mystery person you like.”

Arms thrown around Sirius’ neck like they’re newlyweds, James and Remus have an unspoken conversation that Sirius cannot tag into.

“I don’t need help. I just wanted advice. There’s a difference there.”

“But you could use some!” argues Sirius.

James tilts his head up to look at him, just a few inches away from his face. His nose is red and runny from the biting cold outside, his eyes teary, and his fingers feel like icicles on his nape, but his cheeks are warming up fast. He is, overall, like a tornado to look at – tie a tad crooked, like one of his incisors, hair an untamed, raven field that sticks up in all directions, lips bubblegum pink on the middle and getting progressively browner on its surroundings, a beard that he never manages to shave correctly (always leaving a small section hairy, somehow).

“I have it under control, lads. I don’t want you messing with them.”

“We won’t go near them!” Sirius complains, feeling, against his will, a pang of childish betrayal in his chest. “We don’t even know who they are. We’ll just…give you some suggestions. That’s the advice you wanted!”

“Because you two are such good flirters.”

“Because we’re your best friends in the entire world,” Sirius corrects. “And your only friends, actually, aside from Peter. This is what we’re here for! Just give us a week. We won’t mess around anymore after that, if you don’t want.”

Red burns, incandescent, in James’ mahogany eyes. They watch Sirius, brown and grey, silver and lava. A question, and an answer. James always seems to have one of those.

“I could always ask my mum,” James whispers petulantly, but a smile tugs at his lips. Sirius grins.

“You do that,” Remus intervenes, but he’s smiling as well. “We’ll give you some suggestions, and if you don’t like them, you can always ignore them.”

“We’ll have a step-by-step list ready by tomorrow,” Sirius rushes to say, giving him no other choice.

“Do not make it sound like a fucking list, Sirius, it’s not a recipe.”

⋆⋆⋆

“Number one,” Sirius voices, watching his quill write down exactly what he commands it to. He learned the spell for a prank, back in fourth year, where they charmed everyone’s quills to write an article from A Witch’s Secret, an anonymous school gossip magazine, covering Slughorn’s rumoured romance with Filch, instead of the answers to a Transfiguration exam. Sirius had to duck under a table to avoid McGonagall’s piercing eyes as he recited the column word for word as quietly as he could.

“That’s all I’ve got, actually,” Sirius admits. Remus holds his head between his hands.

They’ve relocated to their bedroom: Peter is studying on his bed, as he tends to do, even though he knows he’ll fall asleep and wake up with words plastered on his cheek; James is still in the common room. Sirius and Remus are in front of each other, Remus cross-legged, Sirius lying on his stomach, heels kicking his own arse every so often, toes bumping against the floor. Remus has discarded his sweater and Sirius is trying not to stare at the way the muscles of his arms flex, white lightning surrounding honey skin.

“What have you done in the ten minutes we took to think about this?” he groans now.

“You go first, then, if you have such great ideas. Let’s hear it, go on, go on!”

Suddenly bashful, scratching behind his ear, Remus looks down at the notes he scribbled, tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

“Number one,” he clears his throat, “trick them into smelling Amortentia.”

“Amortentia? That’s your fucking idea?”

“It’s a classic!”

“A cliché, more like,” Sirius scoffs.

“At least I came up with something, you empty-headed arsehole.”

“Where would we even get Amortentia from?” Sirius goes on, before he stops dead in his tracks. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Mary had to do some sort of assignment for Slughorn, I think. I could ask her to brew us some, or help her with it.”

“Slughorn loves Amortentia.”

“I know.”

They stare at each other, and then,

“Scratch everything,” Sirius says. “Number one: Amortentia. Get them to take a good ol’ sniff.”

“Number two,” Remus reads. “Initiate some sort of casual physical contact, unless they seem to be uncomfortable with it. Enough to create some tension, but not too much to the point where it’s overwhelmingly obvious. Give them space to question your actions, think about you.”

“That’s a good one, actually,” Sirius says.

“Cheers.”

Remus nicks the quill from the air and sets down the parchment to write it down himself. Sirius watches, watches and watches, entranced by something he can’t put his finger on.

“Any suggestions at all for number three?”

His eyes, without reason or cause, out of chance or luck, fall upon the stack of books beside Remus’ bed.

“Find out what they like,” he says, “and gift it to them.”

Remus’ eyes follow his to the books, and then four eyes meet halfway. He gulps and Sirius gapes. (What makes you think it’s a girl?)

“Okay,” Remus says softly. Heat creeps up Sirius’ neck, settles in his cheeks. He writes it down, scratches his chin, pursing his lips. “Ask them to spend time together doing something you both like. Is that okay for number four?”

“Sure.”

“Great.”

“Okay.”

Peter snores behind Sirius’ back.

“One more, and it’s a wrap, I think.”

He thinks, inexplicably, of Regulus (or is there always a reason to?), somewhere in the same castle and yet miles away from him. Wonders where he is. The map is still with James. He avoids it, the map, like the plague, unless it’s absolutely necessary to use it. He doesn’t want to ask where he is. Doesn’t want to imagine. Back at home, Sirius knew – knew that Regulus hid in the kitchens when he wanted to be left alone, knew that he crawled into bed when he wanted company, knew that he fit into the tiniest of alcoves when he was afraid, when he tried to escape the screams, the heavy ring on their mother’s hand, only a bit sharper than her knuckles, the wand in her other palm. Sirius knew that he covered his ears so tight that he couldn’t hear Sirius approach him, and then Sirius had to crouch in front of him, cup the sides of his face, place his index over his lips. Help him breathe, distract him with anything else. Regulus closed his eyes and tried not to think of Sirius aiding him, in case this put his brother in danger later.

And then Sirius asked,

“Do you want to talk?”

Regulus would say yes, sometimes, no, others. The answer wasn’t what mattered. What mattered was the question itself – being asked a question at all. Being given a choice, a decision to take for himself. A chance to figure out what he really wanted, rather than what he should want, safely speaking, so it didn’t get him in trouble.

A question. Just a question.

This situation is entirely different, but Sirius can’t shake away the importance of it.

“Number five: James asks them what they want.”

His eyes snap to him, and Sirius holds his gaze carefully. Gently, as if it’s delicate. It is, perhaps, though he isn’t sure who its daintiness belongs to. Remus, who can’t ask. Sirius, who can’t find an answer.

What if it’s not a…?

This isn’t about him – about them – but Sirius holds Remus’ gaze like it is. Like it might be. He doesn’t know what it is, but there’s a what.

“Okay,” Remus mumbles. “Okay. He asks.”

                 a guide to flirtation (for james potter)

1. amortentia (get them to take a good ol' sniff ask them what they smell on it as naturally as possible)
2. casual physical contact (without making them feel uncomfortable!!!!!!!!)
3. gift them something they like
4. ask them to spend time together doing something you both like
5. ask. just ask