*
James
*
It was the same evening.
Everything exactly like the other five years.
The Gryffindor dormitory was bathed in warm, golden-orange light. The last sunbeams filtered through the high windows, mixing with the flicker of the common room fire, whose crackling echoed faintly up the stone staircase. The air carried the familiar scent of old wood, ashes, and something faintly like lavender. Trunks lay half-open, cloaks draped over chairs, beds creaked in familiar protest under the weight of James and bags.
James Potter lay on his back. The red velvet curtains — patterned with the subtle silhouette of lions — enclosed his four-poster bed like a heavy stage curtain. It was both shelter and prison.
Downstairs, muffled laughter floated up. Sirius, Remus, Peter — they’d gone to the common room a while ago. James had said he was tired. Said he needed a quick rest. A lazy grin, a fake yawn — no one questioned it. Why would they?
He was James.
James, who always laughed.
James, who made everyone laugh.
James, who never let anything get to him.
And no one thought that didn’t mean things didn’t get to him.
He stared at the ceiling, stars dancing in front of his dark brown eyes, his glasses buried somewhere under the blankets. He didn’t mind. The blurred edges made things feel further away. He breathed evenly — on the outside. Inside, everything was shifting.
A slow, restless pressure, like stirred-up dust beneath a sealed lid.
He tried to line up his thoughts, but they scattered like moths.
Too many.
Too fast.
His mind danced a bloody waltz he hadn’t asked for.
One image kept pushing through.
That summer.
That day.
Sirius.
It had been late afternoon. The sun hung low and warm, the air buzzing in that heavy, lazy way it does just before a storm. James had been flipping through old Quidditch flyers, half-considering whether to play Chaser or Seeker that year.
Then came the knock, that almost sounded like a scratch.
Dull.
Just once.
Not urgent. Almost… shy.
He crept downstairs, careful not to wake anyone. His dad had nodded off in the armchair, the wireless mumbling softly in the background.
And there it was.
A large black dog, dripping wet despite the cloudless sky.
Eyes locked on his — eyes far too human to ignore.
James had known. Instantly.
No hesitation. He opened the door. Let him in.
The dog padded inside, dripping all over the hallway floor. And then — in a blink — Sirius stood there. His shirt clung to his skin, soaked through. His long black hair hung in wet wavy ropes, sticking to his pale face.
His features were sharp. Drawn. His usual spark gone. Just tired — deep-down-in-your-bones tired.
He looked like he’d been running for days.
“I… I couldn’t stay,” Sirius whispered. That was all.
James didn’t ask. Didn’t speak. Just stepped forward and pulled him into a hug — tight, silent, solid. Sirius held on like the world might collapse if he let go.
Later, they sat in the lounge. Sirius on the couch, slumped like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore. James on the floor beside him.
His mum had walked in, rubbing her eyes, still half-asleep. She took one look and suddenly she was wide awake — no questions, no hesitation.
Straight to the kitchen.
Toast.
Yorkshire tea.
Blankets.
“He stays. As long as he needs to,” she said softly, firmly.
Later — much later — Sirius spoke.
Just bits.
About cursed doors. About silence that screamed louder than shouting.
About Regulus.
Slipping further and further into shadows, mirroring their mother’s footsteps.
And then, colder than winter:
“She said I’m dead to her.”
James had never seen that look on Sirius’ face. So distant. Like the words weren’t real. Like they didn’t sting anymore — not because they didn’t hurt, but because they had already bled him dry.
James hadn’t said anything.
Not because he didn’t care — but because he felt too much.
Shame.
Anger.
Guilt.
How did I not see it?
Why didn’t I notice?
I’m his best mate. I should’ve bloody known—
But he buried it. Like he always did.
James Potter didn’t break.
Didn’t waver.
Because if he did — if he let even one crack show — the whole thing might fall apart.
Since that night, everything had been different.
But no one could tell.
He was still loud. Still cocky. Still grinning over toast and charming anyone within five metres (Lily very much included).
But inside?
Heavier.
He felt too much. And when that happened, everything just… went numb.
That was the pattern. Had been for years.
Too many thoughts. Too many feelings.
Then: nothing. Just static.
Sometimes he wondered if something inside him was broken.
But he’d never say that. Not out loud.
Not to anyone.
Because when you’re the strong one, you don’t get to fall apart.
They needed him. Sirius. Remus. Peter.
And no one could ever know that some days, James didn’t think he could keep himself together.
A gust of wind rattled the window. James barely reacted. He rolled onto his side, one hand tangled in his curls — a repetitive motion he didn’t even notice anymore.
He just wanted to sleep. Or think less. Or something.
But his mind spun.
Again and again —
Sirius, soaked and shaking in the doorway.
The weight of it. The silence that screamed louder than words ever could.
He hadn’t asked questions. Didn’t need to.
But now — weeks later — the questions screamed at him.
Should I have seen it sooner?
Was I too caught up in my own crap?
What if I’m not actually a good friend?
The door creaked.
Footsteps.
He didn’t look.
Didn’t need to.
Sirius.
The curtain shifted.
“You’re not asleep,” Sirius said.
James smirked. “Horizontal meditation. Very advanced magic. Bet even Dumbledore doesn’t know about it.”
Sirius sat at the edge of the bed.
The quiet stretched.
“I was thinking about that summer,” Sirius said finally. Voice low. Rough around the edges.
James shrugged. “Ah, yes. The infamous toast incident. Can’t believe you put honey on burnt bread. Monster.”
Sirius huffed a quiet laugh.
“I meant… the day I showed up.”
James didn’t answer at first. He picked at a loose thread on his blanket.
“Dog shows up, steals my mum’s heart and my bed. Not sure what you’re on about, mate.”
“You never asked,” Sirius said, watching him. “Why I came.”
James turned his head slightly. Still smiling. “Didn’t need to.”
“You’re hard to read sometimes,” Sirius muttered.
“Artistic choice,” James replied too quickly. “Adds to the mystery. Girls love that.”
Sirius didn’t push. He never really did.
The silence sat between them, thick as fog.
“Go on,” James said eventually, waving a hand. “Back downstairs with you. Moony’s probably halfway through a lecture on Latin verbs, and Wormtail’s already losing the will to live. Be a hero, Pads.”
Sirius stood slowly.
“If you ever… I dunno. Need to talk or whatever—”
“I never do,” James cut in, smirking. “Don’t get all Sirius on me now.”
Sirius rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his mouth.
“Oi, don’t let Moony hear that. He’ll hex us both.”
The curtain swayed shut again. Footsteps faded.
James lay still, staring at the canopy.
That same ducking fake smile still stuck on his lips.
Because the moment he stopped pretending,
He wasn’t sure what would be left.
⸻
*
Regulus
*
He stepped into the dormitory, the familiar scent of dust and old wood mixing with the lingering scent of Floo powder. His mother had insisted he travel by Floo this year, claiming she’d worry if he disappeared on the train. But Regulus knew it wasn’t concern—it was just her way of pretending she cared. It was probably the only time she’d ever shown the slightest bit of interest in him (or the bloodline).
He dropped onto the bed with a heavy sigh, the sheets cold against his clammy skin. His hair was disheveled from the tumble through the fireplace, and the fine dust of Floo powder clung to him like an unwanted reminder. He barely noticed when the pillow sank beneath his head, his exhaustion dragging him closer to sleep.
But just as his eyes fluttered closed, the door banged open with a noise that echoed off the stone walls.
“I’m just saying, he’s bloody fit!” Barty’s voice rang out, obnoxious and too loud.
Regulus groaned. The last thing he needed was Barty’s endless chatter. He pulled the covers over his head, trying to block it out.
“Barty, for the last time, no one cares about Potter,” Evan’s voice followed, clearly tired of the conversation already.
Regulus’ heart skipped a beat at the mention of Potter, his mind immediately returning to that summer. The thoughts he’d worked so hard to suppress surfaced, unwelcome.
Barty, undeterred, flopped onto the bed beside Regulus, his weight sinking the mattress further. “Regulus, come on, let’s talk about Potter. I mean, he’s got those eyes, right? Don’t tell me you’re not a little—”
“No,” Regulus interrupted sharply, his voice flat. He didn’t want to talk about Potter. Not with them. Especially not now.
Barty, not one to give up easily, leaned closer. “You sure? I mean, he’s got the looks, right? And…”
“I don’t care,” Regulus said, his voice cold and biting.
Barty paused. “I just want to know what makes him tick. He’s bloody perfect.”
The words felt like a slap, the perfect potter, the potter who stole HIS brother. Regulus clenched his jaw and fought the urge to lash out. It wasn’t about Potter— not really, it was about everything else. But Barty wasn’t going to stop until he got a reaction. And that was the last thing Regulus needed.
He turned away, trying to shut them out. But his mind had already drifted far from the present.
He was drowning.
Drowning in his own thoughts.
He was thinking back to that morning—the one that had changed everything.
It had been early, just as the sun was starting to rise, and Sirius had shaken him awake. Regulus had groaned, desperate to escape the reality of his life for a few more moments.
“Reggie, please, wake up,” Sirius had pleaded, his voice urgent.
Regulus had grumbled and tried to ignore him. “Why should I? It’s bloody early.”
But Sirius wasn’t giving up. “Let’s run away.”
The words hit Regulus like a punch to the gut. Run away? Regulus had shot upright, his heart pounding. “What? You’re mad. You can’t just leave everything behind.”
Sirius had been undeterred. “We can go to the Potters’. They’ll probably take us in. We can leave this place behind. I don’t want this life, Reg. You don’t have to either.”
Regulus had felt a surge of panic, a tightness in his chest. “I can’t just leave Mum and Dad. J-J'ai besoin eux.”
“You don’t need them,” Sirius had said, his voice sharp. “You need me. You need someone who cares. You need a life, not this.”
The words stung. Regulus had turned away, a surge of anger flooding his chest. “Go to your real brother,” he spat, the words more vicious than he intended.
Sirius had recoiled, the hurt in his eyes unmistakable. For a moment, Regulus had regretted the words. But before he could apologize, Sirius had turned and left, slamming the door behind him.
Regulus had sat there, frozen, the weight of what he’d said settling like a stone in his stomach. His words echoed in his mind: Go to your real brother.
The sound of Barty snapping his fingers pulled him back to the present.
“Earth to Regulus, you listening?” Evan’s voice interrupted, louder now, clearly annoyed.
Regulus blinked, his vision blurry for a moment. He pushed Evan’s hand away, irritation flaring. “What is it now?”
Evan threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Bloody hell, mate. You’re really not here, are you?”
Regulus closed his eyes, trying to drown out the noise, but his mind kept circling back to that morning, to those words. Go to your real brother.
He couldn’t shake the thought, the feeling that perhaps Sirius had been right all along. Maybe he didn’t need this life. Maybe he didn’t need the family who had never really cared about him—not the way Sirius did.
“Just leave me alone, Evan,” Regulus muttered, his voice colder than he intended.
Evan, clearly annoyed, stood up and shrugged. “Fine, mate. But if you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.”
Regulus didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His mind was full of what-ifs, questions he didn’t have the answers to. The room around him was silent now, but in his head, the noise was deafening. Sirius’ words, his own guilt, the weight of family expectations… It was all too much.
And yet, Regulus knew, he had no choice. He couldn’t escape. Not yet.
This was his life. The one he was stuck with.
But part of him—deep down—wondered what life could have been like if he’d taken Sirius’ offer. If he’d left. If he’d chosen something else.
But for now, all he could do was close his eyes and pretend it didn’t matter.
*
Remus
*
“Peter, it’s not that difficult to spell proditor!”
Remus’s voice rang through the Gryffindor common room, sharper than intended. He’d spent nearly two hours trying — and failing — to explain basic Latin to Peter, who now sat on the edge of the sofa like a kicked cat.
With a heavy sigh, Remus collapsed into the nearest armchair, the deep red cushions swallowing him as he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. The fire crackled beside him, casting flickering light across the worn stone walls.
Peter fidgeted. “Sorry, Moony. Didn’t mean to get it wrong…”
“For Merlin’s sake — just shut up!” Remus snapped before he could stop himself.
Silence.
Peter froze, clearly hurt, then scrambled off the couch and bolted for the staircase, tripping slightly on the last step in his hurry. He didn’t look back.
A moment later, Sirius came clattering down the stairs, to save his rat of a friend, shirt half-buttoned and looking thoroughly unbothered as always. He paused as Peter brushed past him, eyes narrowed in brief confusion, but Peter didn’t stop to explain.
Sirius sauntered into the room, spotted Remus, and made a beeline for the sofa opposite him.
“Alright there, Moony? You look like you’ve been hexed by a history textbook.”
Remus waved him off. “I’m fine.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You sure? You’ve got that look again. Broody. Haunted. A bit dramatic for a Sunday.”
Remus didn’t answer. He just sank further into the chair, jaw clenched tight. The pressure in his chest was back — that familiar, horrible weight he could never quite get rid of during the week before the full moon. His whole body felt like it was bracing for something, every muscle held too tight, his thoughts buzzing just beneath the surface.
“One week,” he murmured, mostly to himself.
Sirius clicked his fingers in front of his face. “Oi. Earth to Lupin.”
Remus blinked. “Sorry. Tired.”
Sirius leaned forward, grinning. “Let me guess. That time of the month?”
Remus gave him a dark look, unimpressed. “Don’t.”
Sirius held up both hands, still smirking. “Alright, alright. No jokes about the Great Lupin Lykos Lunar Apocalypse then.”
Remus closed his eyes for a second, trying to settle his breathing. He hated this part. The days before. When it all started to twist up inside him — not the pain, not yet, but the anticipation of it. The knowing.
“I shouted at Peter,” he muttered, more to the fire than to Sirius. “Over a Latin word.”
“Yeah, well, he did look like he’d just walked in on Snape undressing” Sirius said with a slight smirk. “Probably needed the fright.”
Remus huffed a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh.
But the weight didn’t shift.
“I can feel it already,” he said quietly. “Everything getting… tighter. Like it’s building up under my skin. Makes me snappy. Like I’m already halfway gone.”
Sirius tilted his head. “Bit early for the angst, mate. You’ve still got a good week before the full moon drama kicks off properly.”
Remus didn’t smile. Just stared at the flames.
Sirius got up and dropped onto the arm of Remus’s chair, nudging him gently with his foot. “You know what I reckon? Anyone who doesn’t get a bit of a temper before turning into a sodding werewolf probably needs to get checked for sociopathy. You’re doing alright, considering.”
Remus raised an eyebrow. “That’s meant to be comforting?”
“Obviously. That, and maybe hold off on murdering Peter ‘til after he’s finished your essay.”
“You’re insufferable.”
Sirius smirked. “You love it.”
Sirius was right.
He loved it, more than he would ever admit.
They sat in silence for a while. The good kind. No pressure to speak. Just the soft pop of the fire and the distant murmur of voices from upstairs.
Then, quietly, Sirius said, “You don’t always have to hold it all in, you know. No one’s asking you to be made of bloody stone.”
Remus didn’t reply. He wasn’t good at that sort of thing — opening up, being soft. Not when it mattered. Not when it hurt.
But he glanced sideways, just once. “Yeah. Well. Some days, I wish I were.”
Sirius didn’t push. He never really did. Just leaned his shoulder against Remus’s, warm and steady.
They stayed like that for a bit.
Eventually, Remus said, “I should apologise to Peter.”
“Definitely,” Sirius said. “After breakfast though. He’ll probably be up all night trying to translate curses into Latin now.”
Remus groaned softly.
And Sirius grinned.
It didn’t fix anything — not the moon, not the pain, not the mess inside him — but it made it bearable. For now.