American Pie
Sirius
The first day back at school always feels like an omen. A kind of quiet prophecy, humming beneath the stone and ivy like a warning written in an old tongue. Sirius can’t explain it—it just is.
This year is no different.
Especially not as he slips back into the dorm room, finally free of the stiff, suffocating presence of his parents, who had insisted on walking him to the very edge of the school before making their way to ensure Regulus was properly settled into his own dormitory, all polished and perfect for the younger years.
The room is still and familiar, touched by dust and memory.
Empty—for now.
But even in the silence, it carries their ghosts.
The faint carvings along the bedposts catch the light, worn smooth by time and the constant restless fidgeting of boys too big for their secrets. Sirius moves toward them instinctively, fingers brushing over the initials and half-sentences they’d gouged into the wood with stolen pocket knives over the years.
J+S+P=Chaos
Eat Shit Filch
If lost, return to James Potter’s ego.
He smiles faintly, then winces.
A flash of pain sings through his knuckles. The bruises are still faint, but blooming. He pulls his hand back quickly, massaging it with the other, jaw tightening as the ache settles into his bones. He’ll have to be more careful. He can’t have James and Peter asking questions—not more than they already do.
Just as he’s hoisting his suitcase onto the bed, the door slams open like a storm arriving.
“THE TRIO IS INTACT!”
Sirius doesn’t even get the chance to react before James is on him, arms flung wide, tackling him back onto the mattress with all the subtlety of a freight train. Peter follows half a second later, launching himself on top with a whoop.
It’s tradition. Has been for years. The back-from-summer dog pile that always ends in someone bruised and someone winded and all three of them laughing too hard to care.
“You lot must’ve been eating good this summer,” Sirius wheezes, pinned under limbs and muscle and poorly-distributed weight. “Because holy shit, I can’t breathe.”
They untangle with the clumsiness of boys who’ve grown half an inch since the last time they wrestled like this.
James straightens first, brushing curls out of his eyes and grinning like sunshine. He’s even darker than usual, skin sun-warmed and golden, his Spanish blood kicking in like it’s finally caught up with him. His curls are cropped close at the sides now, tighter on top, and he looks sharper, older somehow.
Peter’s tanned too, in that beach-washed way that speaks of time spent outside, probably up north with his cousins, playing football or swimming or riding bikes past curfews. His sandy hair is still doing that thing where it falls into his eyes no matter how many times he pushes it back.
Little signs of lives well lived. Summers well spent.
Sirius hates the way envy knots in his gut—not of them, never them, but of what they get to have. Family dinners. Laughter. Places where people want them around.
His own summer was spent locked behind closed doors and expectations, flipping pages of textbooks he’d already memorized, the world passing by through glass.
“Hey, don’t be mad that I’ve put on the muscle of a man now,” James says, flexing with mock seriousness. And to be fair, he’s not lying. The rugby team’s going to be insufferable with him back.
“You look good, Pete,” Sirius says, clapping his friend on the shoulder with genuine warmth.
“Wish I could say the same for you, pasty wanker,” Peter shoots back with a grin.
Sirius laughs—really laughs—and for a second, the ache behind his ribs doesn’t feel so sharp.
“As much as I’d love to sit around and get emotionally vulnerable with you tossers,” James says, pulling his jacket on with a flourish, “we’ve got a mission to complete before this place fills up with nosy prefects and prying eyes.”
Sirius’s grin sharpens. “To the stash boys!”
Outside, the light has begun its long descent, stretching gold across the pitch, catching in the trees like something divine. They move across the field like they own it—long strides, careless joy, voices rising in bursts of laughter that scatter birds from the hedges.
The oak tree waits at the edge of the woods, its massive trunk half-swallowed by ivy. The air is damp with the scent of leaves and old earth.
James drops to his knees, dirt already clinging to his hands, and digs just beneath the third root.
“There she is,” he breathes. The red mark is still there, faded but visible. A promise kept.
He pulls out the tin lunchbox like it’s treasure, pops the lid, and reveals what they’ve been counting down toward all summer: a handful of tightly sealed bags, foil-wrapped pills, and little capsules of escape.
“Aha!” Sirius says, eyes alight. “Salvation at last.”
He snatches the box and slides it into the duffel bag with practiced ease. No one says it, but the relief is palpable.
When they finally make it back to the room, they’re mid-conversation—half-joking, half-planning, already imagining the term ahead. James is going on about throwing some kind of welcome-back rager before the prefects settle into their routines, Peter’s trying to figure out how much they could sell to the younger years without getting caught, and Sirius is just laughing, letting the buzz of it all settle in his chest.
But then the door swings open—and everything stops.
There’s someone on the fourth bed.
The bed that’s never been touched. Not since the school’s scheduling hiccup first put the three of them together years ago. The fourth bed had become something of a myth: coat rack, storage unit, extra seating for poker nights. A permanent fixture of their chaos. A symbol of their luck.
And now there’s someone sitting on it.
For a moment, Sirius honestly thinks the boy must be lost. Some confused first-year who’s wandered into the wrong room. Maybe a late transfer who was meant for another house entirely. A mistake.
But then he sees him properly.
The boy is stretched out across the mattress like he’s always belonged there—one knee bent, back against the wall, flipping lazily through a book. He’s wearing a windbreaker that looks like it was stolen from a rainbow—bright teal and pink and something that might be neon orange. His jeans are light-wash and cuffed just so, and his trainers—white, boxy, spotless—look like they’ve never seen a puddle in their life.
And he’s wearing sunglasses. Indoors. In England. In September.
He looks like he’s stepped straight out of an American TV show. The kind with palm trees and saxophone-heavy theme songs.
Sirius blinks. His breath catches. Something short-circuits in his brain.
He just stands there, staring, unable to make sense of what he’s seeing—of who he’s seeing.
“Oi, mate,” James says after a second, stepping in front of him. “You might be in the wrong room.”
The boy looks up at the sound of James’s voice, slow and deliberate, like he’s in no particular rush to explain himself. Then, with a casual flick of his hand, he pushes his sunglasses up into his wavy, golden-brown hair—like it’s a scene he’s played a hundred times before.
He flashes a grin, lopsided and full of mischief. “Mmm… no. I definitely have the right room.”
His accent lands like a slap—broad, unmistakably American. Not the faux-posh, boarding-school kind you hear on imported telly. Real. Drawling. Effortlessly cool.
Peter gawks. “No fucking way. You’re American?”
The boy slides the sunglasses off completely now, hooking one arm into the collar of his windbreaker. There’s an amused look on his face—half ‘busted’ and half ‘couldn’t care less.’
“Is that gonna be a problem?” he says, smooth as anything.
It’s so effortless that Sirius feels a sudden, irrational spike of irritation in his chest. Like the guy’s swaggering into a story he hasn’t earned.
James blinks, thrown but trying to play it cool. “Er—no? I guess not.”
“Dope,” the boy replies, already turning back to his unpacking, as if that settles it. Like this is some flatshare in Brooklyn and not Tonbridge, one of the oldest boarding schools in England.
The sight of him casually peeling a Walkman out of his bag and uncoiling the headphones is what finally kickstarts Sirius’s brain.
“Let me see your room assignment,” Sirius says, stepping forward, voice clipped.
The boy glances over his shoulder, then fully turns, eyeing Sirius like he’s trying to decide if he’s worth the time.
“Who the fuck are you? The principal?”
Sirius scoffs, arms crossing tight across his chest. “First of all, we don’t have ‘principals’ here—whatever that is. Second, I just want to make sure you’ve not wandered into the wrong building. This school’s got duplicate room numbers across houses.”
The American raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “No offense, dude, but I’m not trying to start shit. I just want to settle into my room and not get interrogated by the vibe police.”
He turns back around like that’s the end of the conversation.
But Sirius isn’t done.
He steps forward, fingers curling around the boy’s shoulder as he turns him back around, firmer this time.
“No offense, dude, but no one’s ever been assigned to that bed. So forgive me for wanting to make sure this isn’t some admin cock-up.”
The boy stiffens slightly, then shrugs Sirius’s hand off, stepping in close—not threatening, exactly, but definitely not backing down.
“I ain’t showing you shit. So why don’t you back the fuck off?”
Before Sirius can respond—before things tip past the point of no return—a voice cuts through the tension.
“What’s going on here?”
They all turn.
Rosalie’s standing in the doorway, one brow raised, arms crossed, chewing on the inside of her cheek like she’s walked in on a play mid-scene.
“Rosalie!” Peter exclaims, already moving to wrap her in a hug.
“Rosie,” the American boy says, pointing at the lot of them. “You know these guys?”
She laughs, pulling her arms around Peter before looking back at her cousin. “Yes! They’re cool. Well… mostly.”
“Oi,” James says, indignant.
Rosalie waves him off.
“Sirius, James, Pete—this is my cousin Remus. He’s just moved here from New York. Got assigned to your dorm. Guess that mysterious fourth bed finally gets to feel useful.”
Remus wiggles his fingers in a mock-wave. “Surprise.”
Sirius just stares, jaw tight, brain still trying to recalibrate.
He can feel it already—this boy’s not just taking the fourth bed.
He’s going to change everything.
The room feels off-axis. Like someone’s come in and moved all the furniture three inches to the left when no one was looking.
Rosalie’s still chatting away, plopping herself onto James’s bed like she’s done it a hundred times before, which, to be fair, she has. Peter’s beaming, already pelting her with questions about her summer and who’s dating who on the girls’ side of campus. James lounges back with his arms behind his head, pretending not to hang on every word.
And Remus is already halfway through unpacking like he’s settling into a dorm at NYU, not some ancient British institution where time moves funny and tradition hangs in the air like damp.
He’s got a few records in his duffel that Sirius sneakily tries to make out—Velvet Underground, Bowie, something that looks suspiciously like a mixtape in a cracked jewel case. A worn stack of paperbacks appears next, titles Sirius doesn’t immediately recognise, though one of them is Catcher in the Rye and of course it is. A denim jacket gets slung over the bedpost. A small tin of rolling papers is set discreetly in the drawer like it belongs there.
Sirius watches all of it from the corner of his eye, still pretending to be busy with the zipper on his duffel, like he isn’t trying to decode Remus Lupin in real time.
It’s not that he’s trying to be dramatic. It’s just that Remus moves like he’s already got the rhythm of this place, even though he’s barely been here twenty minutes. Like he’s written into the floorboards already.
"Hey—sorry about the rocky start earlier,” James says, stepping forward like he’s the welcoming committee of the entire British Empire. “It’s mad you know Rosalie. Small world. I’m sure we’ll all get on fine.”
Classic James—diplomatic, noble, always the first to smooth the tension.
He extends a hand. Remus takes it without hesitation, flashing a smile so bright it practically has its own lighting. It’s the kind of smile that belongs on a movie screen. Effortless. Charismatic. Infuriatingly good-looking.
“No harm done,” Remus replies, giving James’s hand a quick shake before releasing it. Then he glances around the room and wrinkles his nose, half amused, half unimpressed. “But uh… if you guys are planning to keep weed in here, you might want to invest in something airtight. The room reeks, man.”
“He’s not wrong,” comes Rosalie’s voice as she drops dramatically onto James’s bed, limbs flung like she’s in a perfume ad. “You lot couldn’t be more obvious if you tried. But—let me see it!”
With an exaggerated sigh, Sirius tosses her the duffel. “Knock yourself out.”
She dives in without hesitation. The zipper hisses open—and her eyes nearly bulge out of her skull.
“Holy shit. What the fuck are you planning? A full-scale drug ring?”
The bag is yanked from her hands before she can stick her face any closer.
“Yeah,” Sirius mutters. “Might as well borrow Filch’s megaphone while I’m at it. Make an announcement. Come one, come all, bring your own rolling papers.”
Rosalie sticks her tongue out. “Touchy.”
He’s barely listening.
Because Remus is looking again.
There’s that same glint of curiosity in his eye. Still too calm, still too cool. And now—yep. He’s walking over. Just great.
No hesitation in his stride. No shame, either. And of course he smells good. That infuriating blend of citrus and warmth, clean laundry and something darker underneath, like sandalwood or maybe cloves. Sirius has half a mind to ask what the hell he uses—and half a mind to shove him back across the room.
Remus nods toward the duffel. “Mind if I…?”
A pause. Then a reluctant nod.
With the care of someone handling a vintage record, he kneels and unzips the bag again. One vacuum-sealed pouch. Then another. A bottle of pills. He inspects them all like he’s doing quality control.
A low whistle. “Jesus. This has got to be, what—three ounces?” He turns one of the pouches in his hand, gives a small smirk. “Though—no offense—I’ve seen stronger stuff in California.”
That’s it.
Sirius’s head snaps up. “Well you’re not in California, are you?”
The words come out like a slap, fast and sharp.
Across the room, James sighs and shoots him a look. Peter winces like he’s just been hit in the crossfire.
Though, Remus doesn’t so much as flinch. “Chill out, man. I get it. You’re territorial about your dorm or whatever. I’m not here to mess anything up.”
“Right,” Sirius mutters, jaw tight. “You’re not messing anything up.”
Even if it feels like everything’s already off balance.
Remus shrugs, unbothered, and tucks everything back inside the bag like he’s been doing it for years.
James steps in—always the mediator. “No one’s mad. It’s just been the three of us for a while, yeah? Bit of an adjustment.”
Remus straightens, still relaxed. “Fair enough. I don’t bite, you know.”
A beat.
“Unless asked nicely.”
Peter snorts so hard he chokes on his own breath.
“Brilliant,” James groans. “We’ve let in a menace.”
Sirius drops onto his bed, arms folded behind his head like the ceiling might hold answers. His heart’s still beating louder than it should. It’s fine. He just needs to breathe. He just needs this day to end.
And maybe, if the universe’s feeling kind, he needs the bloody American to stop talking for five minutes.
A few minutes later, there’s a knock — sharp, efficient, and far too early to ignore. The dorm monitor, clipboard in hand, pokes his head in just long enough to verify the boys are present and vaguely in the process of unpacking. As expected, Rosalie is swiftly ushered out with a curt reminder that girls aren’t allowed in the boys’ dorms.
She sticks her tongue out as she backs through the door. “Misogyny in action.”
As the door clicks shut behind her, the room settles. There’s always some ritual to kick off the year at Tonbridge — a prank, a fight, a party someone pretends they didn’t host. This year, it begins in a quieter way.
James leans against the bay window, fingers smudging the glass as he peers out over the damp grass and ivy-draped paths. “Let’s see who’s already headed for the woods,” he murmurs, scanning the grounds like he’s planning a military maneuver.
Across the room, Remus is casually sticking posters on the wall above his bed. The tape’s already pre-rolled — practiced, deliberate. Sirius watches in silence as a spread of Blondie, Bowie, and The Clash takes shape.
“So tell me,” Remus says, not looking up, “are things strict here?”
Peter answers without missing a beat. “As strict as they pretend to be. But we always find a way.”
He’s kneeling by his bed, organizing his snack stash into neat little rows, like he’s preparing for siege.
Remus turns, holding up a pack of Marlboro Reds and flipping them between his fingers like a coin. “So would I get kicked out for this?”
James raises a brow. “For having them, or for actually lighting up on school property?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Sirius cuts in, not bothering to meet his eyes. “He’ll get in trouble for both.”
Remus frowns — not dramatic, just thoughtful. A thin line etches itself between his brows. “Well, fuck. Does that window open?”
He crosses the room and gives the old bay window a tentative push. It doesn’t budge.
“Turn the lever,” James says, already stepping in to help.
Together they manage it. With a reluctant groan, the latch gives, and a breeze tumbles into the room — cool, damp, unmistakably English.
Remus grins, satisfied, and lowers himself onto the ledge like it’s a throne. A silver Zippo appears from his pocket. He flicks it open, lights the cigarette, and exhales smoke into the early evening like he’s waited all day for this one exact moment.
Sirius watches him for a beat too long.
“Alright,” he says, standing, tone clipped and amused. “I’ve had enough of this wholesome bonding. Gentlemen, let’s officially christen the school year.”
He unzips the duffel and lays out the stash like an offering. Pills — blue, yellow, white — nestled in plastic baggies, the collection a delicate balance of chaos and calm.
Peter is on his feet in a flash. “Finally. Upper, please.”
He holds out his hand with the solemnity of a priest accepting communion.
Sirius laughs under his breath. “You sure? You never sleep well on this stuff.”
“Yes, Mum,” Peter deadpans, rolling his eyes.
A small yellow tab is dropped into his palm.
James flops back onto his mattress, one arm over his eyes. “Downer, please. You know I’ve already got golden retriever energy.”
“Too right,” Peter mutters.
Sirius tosses him a blue one, then takes his time deciding what to take himself.
He’s just reaching for something when he glances up — and finds Remus still perched on the window ledge, gazing out like he’s reading the sky.
“Oi. Hollywood.”
The nickname lands. Remus turns, smoke curling from his lips, expression amused.
“You know I’m from New York, right? Like. The complete opposite side of the country.”
“All the same to me,” Sirius replies with a shrug. “You coming or what?”
Remus pauses like he’s considering something bigger than a pill. Then, with a shrug of his own, he flicks the cigarette out the window and hops down from the ledge.
He crouches beside the duffel and lifts the baggies, examining each one like a jeweler appraising stones.
“You sure this stuff’s legit?” he asks, inspecting a benzo with narrowed eyes.
“For fuck’s sake, Hollywood,” Sirius mutters. “You gonna take one or file a report?”
Remus grins. “Fine.”
He hands the rest back, fishes a water bottle out of his rucksack, and tips his head back.
“Bottoms up, boys.”
The pill disappears in a single swallow.
Just like that, they’re four.
And whether they like it or not, the year has officially begun.
***
Sirius sinks into the mattress like it’s swallowing him whole.
It doesn’t hit all at once, not like a slap — more like a tide rolling in. Slow. Heavy. Gentle in a way that borders on sinister. He knows this feeling now, recognizes the way it coats his limbs in syrup and pulls the air thin around him. Like gravity’s been turned down and up at the same time.
This is what forgetting feels like.
Weed never did this. Not really. Weed softened the corners, sure, but it never silenced the noise. Not like this. The first time he felt a pill click into place behind his ribs — like turning down the volume on every voice that ever told him to sit up straighter, speak more properly, be better.
Especially when it didn’t leave a smell.
His mother would murder him if he came home stinking of weed. But pills? She’d never smell the silence they gave him. She’d never see how they made his body light and his mind quieter. How they dulled everything to a manageable hum.
He doesn’t think about the cost. Not right now. Not when he’s floating. Not when the mattress beneath him stops being a bed and becomes a cloud, a lake, a void. He lets it take him. Lets it pull him under.
God, he’d follow this feeling off a cliff. Probably will.
That’s the terrifying part.
But that’s a worry for another day. For a clearer head.
He doesn’t know how long he’s gone — five minutes or an hour, maybe more — but when his eyes finally peel open again, the room has changed. The light is gone. The air is cooler. Only the desk lamp remains, casting everything in a soft amber hush.
He’s alone.
The laughter is gone, the chatter. James and Peter must have gone to dinner. The dorm feels too still without them, like the silence is trying too hard not to echo.
He rubs a hand down his face, slow and clumsy, then glances at the clock. 5:32 pm. His limbs are heavy with absence.
Then — a flush. The door creaks. Light spills out from the bathroom and slices across the floor in a narrow golden beam.
Remus steps out.
He pauses when he sees Sirius awake, thumb hooking behind his neck like he’s unsure if he should say anything.
“Oh — hey. We tried to wake you. Your friends… they told me to let you know they’d gone to dinner.”
He sounds sheepish, like he’s intruding on something.
Sirius blinks up at him. He hasn’t really looked at him yet. Not properly.
Remus is tall. Not just tall — long. Limbs and lines and softness in all the places that should make him clumsy, but don’t. He’s changed — joggers and a sweatshirt this time, something printed and strange across the chest. American, probably. His hair’s a little mussed. His face washed, skin glowing under the dim light.
Sirius’s mouth is dry. His limbs still feel a mile away.
“Mm. Yeah. I can be hard to bring back once I’ve… you know.” He gestures vaguely toward his own head, like that’s enough explanation.
Remus chuckles, then flops onto his own bed like he’s always belonged there.
“Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect on my first night here. But this definitely wasn’t it.”
Sirius drags himself upright, legs like jelly beneath him. He stretches, trying to remember how to be a person.
“So why didn’t you go?” he asks. “To dinner.”
Remus shrugs, already digging through one of his bags. “Wasn’t hungry. My body’s still on New York time. I only got here, like, two days ago.”
He pulls out a tangle of headphones and a silver Walkman, fingers already working to untangle them with practiced ease.
“You like music, then,” Sirius says, nodding toward the posters. The way he holds the Walkman like it’s fragile. Sacred.
He doesn’t know why he’s still talking and trying to make conversation. He doesn’t usually bother. But this boy — this bloke, this bloody American — doesn’t feel like something he can ignore.
Remus’s face lights up like someone turned on the moon inside him. “Yeah. I love music. I play guitar. Had a band, back home.”
But something dims behind his eyes when he says it, like he’s tugging the blinds back down over a window.
“Must be quite the change,” Sirius offers.
“It is.” Then, after a beat, “Do you like music?”
The question catches him off guard.
Sirius thinks of fingers slammed into piano keys. Of scales drilled into bone. Of a mother’s voice like a tuning fork struck too hard. Music, to him, has never been a gift. It was punishment in the shape of song. Another way to fail.
“It’s alright,” he says instead, with a shrug he hopes passes for indifference.
Remus sits up like he’s been electrocuted.
“It’s alright? Dude, music is the greatest gift existence has to offer!”
He’s already on his feet, diving under his bed to pull out a battered crate full of plastic cases and cardboard sleeves and homemade covers. Sirius watches with a kind of stunned fascination.
“What kind of music do you like?” Remus asks, not looking up.
“I don’t know.”
He doesn’t mean to say it like that. Doesn’t mean to sound so… small. But it’s the truth. He was never given the room to like anything for himself. The only music he ever knew was tied to pain. Composers. Dead men. Pieces meant to be mastered, not felt.
Remus freezes. “You’re joking.”
“No.”
“You’re telling me you’ve made it to 16 years old and you don’t know what music you like?”
“Guess not.”
Remus stares at him like he’s a painting hung upside down.
“This country is a tragedy.”
And then he finds what he’s looking for — a cassette tape, cracked on one corner, a label half-worn off. He grabs the Walkman and strides across the room like he’s delivering a holy relic.
“Here,” he says, holding it out.
Sirius blinks. “What do you mean, ‘here’?”
“I mean I want you to listen to it. No one should go through life not knowing the beauty of music.”
The Walkman hangs between them, heavy and delicate.
Sirius doesn’t take it. He can’t.
“Why would you give me this?” His voice comes out too raw. “I…don’t even know you.”
“But you will.”
The grin Remus gives him is soft. No expectation. No pressure. Just… offering.
“This is a mixtape I made back home. All the bands that raised me. Stuff that made me feel like a person before I knew how to say it.”
Sirius takes it like it might crumble in his hands. The headphones are worn, the foam on one ear peeling slightly. The tape inside is labelled in thick, smudged black marker:
Better With Headphones.
His thumb runs over the words like they might shift under his touch.
It’s not the tape, really. Not the gift. It’s the gesture — the quiet implication that someone, for no reason at all, wants to give him something kind. Something real. That’s what stuns him.
“But— I don’t have anything to give you,” Sirius says, because it’s the only thing his mind can reach for.
Remus shrugs. “It’s not about that. But I do expect a full report when you’re done.”
Another smile. And then he’s grabbing his trainers and pointing toward the door.
“You coming to dinner?”
Sirius shakes his head. Still holding the Walkman like it might disappear if he lets go.
“Nah. Not hungry yet.”
“Alright.” Remus flashes one last grin over his shoulder. “I’ll see you in a few.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
Sirius remains exactly where he is, staring at the cassette in his hand. The headphones dangle from his fingers, soft and stretched from use.
He wonders what they’ve heard. What memories are tangled in the tape. What it means to choose the songs that made you.
He doesn’t know what Remus Lupin is yet.
But he feels it. Humming under his skin like the start of something.
Like the first note in a song he’s never heard before.
And for once… he wants to listen.