Pale Blue Eyes
Remus
Whatever Remus thought Tonbridge would be like, he was wrong. Spectacularly, hilariously wrong.
Rosalie had tried, to be fair. She’d painted broad, romantic strokes of stone buildings and clever girls, lazy afternoons by the lake, some kind of weird Hogwarts-but-with-actual-trauma energy. But no amount of whimsical description could’ve prepared him for the reality of a proper British boarding school.
Because boarding school, it turns out, is… bizarre.
He hadn’t expected to be news . But from the second he stepped onto campus, he’s been treated like a foreign exchange student from Mars. People don’t even try to hide it. They stare. Openly. Like they’re waiting for him to pull out a cowboy hat and start yeehawing across the quad.
Maybe he’d be flattered—if it didn’t make him feel like a rare zoo animal.
Or a walking, talking novelty t-shirt: I survived JFK and all I got was this accent .
And the whispers? Oh, they’re the best part. Low murmurs behind his back, stifled laughs when he walks by, conversations that clearly pause the second he passes. It’s not mean , exactly. Just… relentless.
As if that wasn’t enough, his roommates ditched him this morning. Left him like some stray dog at the train station, blinking into the fog.
Well—almost all of them.
James, bless his sunshine-soul heart, had hung back long enough to give him a crash course in British education. Remus now knows what “forms” are, that “maths” is plural here for no good reason, and that Tonbridge schedules run on vibes and very little logic.
He’s still adjusting.
“So…” Remus asked over lunch, cocking an eyebrow as he speared a limp chip. “Do people here just not believe in tact or something?”
He’d wandered into the dining hall unsure of where to go, looking a little like a lost toddler in a leather jacket. Thankfully, James had flagged him down, waving him over like they were already best mates.
James didn’t even flinch at the question. “Why? You getting shit already?”
“No. Not technically .” Remus leaned back, glancing sideways. A table of girls was giggling behind their hands like they’d just seen a boy band in real life. One of them whispered something that made the others burst out laughing.
“But everyone keeps staring . I feel like I’m being slowly catalogued.”
Peter, halfway through something flaky and beige that might have been a sausage roll, chimed in with his mouth full. “Well, we haven’t had a new student in ages , mate. Let alone one from across the bloody ocean .”
Remus rolled his eyes, popping a grape into his mouth. “Great. So I’m the foreign exchange freak. Just what I wanted.”
“You make it worse with how American you look,” Peter added, nudging him with an elbow. “Tall. Tanned. Hair like you walked off a magazine cover. And those trainers?”
Remus glanced down at his shoes — today, a pair of crisp white-and-black Nike Blazers, clean enough to blind someone.
“You’re telling me none of you have heard of Nike ?”
He looked genuinely scandalized. “What is this country?”
“I’m starting to think you’re from another universe,” Peter muttered through a bite.
“Who’s from another universe?” came a new voice, smooth and sharp from behind.
Remus didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
Sirius Black, looking like he’d just stepped off a cinematic motorcycle, plopped his tray down beside James without so much as a greeting. Tie loose, hair rebellious, sleeves rolled in that intentional sort of mess that meant he definitely cared how he looked but would rather die than admit it.
“Where’ve you been?” James asked, shoving Sirius lightly with his elbow.
Sirius dropped into the seat like it owed him something. “Had to go talk to McKinnon about something.”
Peter blinked. “Marlene?”
“No, the other one,” Sirius deadpanned, then took a slow bite of toast.
“Funny. You’re hilarious,” James muttered.
Remus watched the exchange with mild amusement, sipping at his orange juice. There was something magnetic about Sirius—like a storm cloud with perfect cheekbones. Brooding in a leather jacket sort of energy. He probably walked through rain without getting wet.
Before he could say anything, a burst of laughter cut through the air behind them, followed by the thud of trays being set down at the edge of their table.
“Budge over,” Rosalie declared, already shimmying her way between James and Peter like she owned the place.
“Oi, Rosie, this is the boys’ table,” Peter teased.
“And now it’s the cool table,” she shot back, sticking out her tongue. Behind her trailed a line of girls who looked like they had opinions and no time for anyone else’s.
Marlene McKinnon sat down next, throwing her satchel onto the bench and immediately stealing a chip off James’s plate. “Cheers.”
Mary MacDonald settled delicately beside Peter, already reaching for her thermos of tea, while Dorcas Meadows—looking disinterested in that scarily observant way—slid in beside Sirius and nodded at no one in particular.
Remus blinked. Jesus Christ, were they all models?
“So this is the American, then?” Marlene asked, peering at Remus like she was about to conduct a scientific study.
Rosalie lit up. “Yup. This is Remus, my cousin. Girls, Be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” Marlene said, batting her lashes. “When people deserve it.”
Remus raised his brows. “Good thing I’m charming, then.”
That earned a grin from Marlene and a noise of approval from Dorcas, who finally looked up from her yogurt.
Mary smiled gently at him, brushing a curl behind her ear. “I like your accent.”
“I like yours,” he replied, then added, “even if I don’t understand half of what you guys say before ten a.m.”
That got a round of laughter, even from Sirius, who hadn’t said much since they sat down. He was sipping black coffee like it had personally wronged him.
James gestured around the table. “Alright then—Remus, you’ve officially been initiated. You’ve met the queens of Tonbridge.”
“We do not call ourselves that,” Dorcas muttered.
“Speak for yourself,” Marlene said brightly, tossing her hair. “I fully expect a crown by midterm.”
“Don’t listen to them,” Rosalie said, leaning into Remus. “They’re all horrible.”
“Says the girl who brought weed on day one,” Sirius muttered without looking up.
“I bring vibes,” Rosalie corrected. “You bring judgment.”
“And you bring nicotine,” Peter said to Remus, nodding toward his jacket pocket.
“Guilty,” Remus said with a shrug.
“We’re going to get expelled,” James muttered, half amused, half horrified.
“Speak for yourself,” Mary said. “Some of us are aiming for Oxford.”
“Some of us are aiming to survive this year without being stabbed in the back by a prefect,” Dorcas added.
Remus leaned back, watching all of them banter with the ease of years-long familiarity. He didn’t quite feel part of it yet—not really—but the edge of loneliness that had been sitting on his chest since landing in this country felt lighter.
“Rosie’s told us so much about you, Remus. She says you play guitar? That’s so cool!”
Mary leaned forward on her elbows, chin balanced in her palm, eyes wide with genuine awe. Remus got the distinct feeling of being examined like some rare species flown in for observation. He blinked, caught mid-chew of whatever culinary tragedy Tonbridge had dared to call shepherd’s pie, and swallowed carefully.
“Did she now?”
“I did,” Rosalie confirmed proudly, nudging him in the ribs. “Taught himself when he was twelve. Played until his fingers bled. Obsession level: scary.”
He rolled his eyes, half-smiling. “It wasn’t that dramatic.”
(It was. But it was also the only thing that had ever really made sense.)
Laughter stirred around the table, easy and warm, but even then—he felt it. Not the attention of Mary’s fluttery curiosity or Dorcas’ cool appraisal. Not the kind of glance someone gives you when they’re waiting for you to perform. This was quieter. Focused. Intent.
Sirius.
Remus didn’t look directly at him. He didn’t need to. He could see the edge of him just to the left of his vision—long fingers worrying at his lip, posture loose but not relaxed. He wasn’t looking at Remus, not exactly, but he wasn’t looking anywhere else either. The mention of music had tugged something invisible taut between them, and now it hummed faintly beneath the din of lunchtime conversation.
“You were in a band?” Mary asked, oblivious.
“Sort of,” Remus replied, aiming for casual. “Played a few local gigs. A couple shitty bars. Some street corners. My mate’s uncle had a garage we used before the neighbours started threatening to call the cops.”
“Very punk of you,” Marlene chimed in, her grin sharp and amused.
Remus shrugged. “We were teenagers with guitars and too many feelings. That’s all punk really is, right?”
He felt Sirius still watching. Not intensely, but steadily. Like he was reading something only he could see.
“You’ve got the look,” Dorcas added around an orange slice. “Like you know too many Velvet Underground lyrics by heart.”
“I do, actually.”
That made a few of them laugh, and Remus found himself leaning into it, the rhythm of this odd British lunch crowd settling more easily than he expected.
“You’ll have to play something for us sometime,” James said, bright-eyed and already halfway through a sausage roll.
Remus hesitated.
Performing in front of strangers wasn’t high on his to-do list. Especially not on day two of being the foreign exchange student turned hallway sideshow attraction. Still, he gave a noncommittal shrug. “Yeah, maybe.”
Marlene leaned in, conspiratorial. “I can’t wait to hear you play. Honestly, we’ve been trying to get a proper music night going at Tonbridge for ages. Something with actual taste, not just sixth formers singing Dancing Queen like it’s gospel.”
Remus snorted into his mashed peas. “That’s bleak.”
“You brought it, right?” James asked. “Your guitar?”
“Obviously.” He scoffed like it was the dumbest question he’d heard all week. “Not like I was gonna leave my soul in New York.”
That earned a few chuckles, but it was Sirius who reacted differently. A flicker of something passed over his face—interest, maybe. Or something deeper. Remus couldn’t quite place it.
“What kind?” Sirius asked, his voice quieter than before, like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.
Remus blinked. “What?”
“Guitar.”
He looked up, properly now. Met Sirius Black’s eyes for the first time that lunch. They were grey—not steel or storm, but soft like fog at dusk, layered and endless. The kind of grey you could get lost in if you weren’t careful.
He cleared his throat. “Fender Mustang. Red. Beat to hell, but still sings like a dream.”
Sirius nodded, slow and unreadable.
Rosalie’s eyes flicked between them, one brow raised like she’d just caught the scent of something interesting.
Remus looked away first—not because he was embarrassed, but because he wasn’t sure what would happen if he didn’t.
He took a sip of water, trying to slow the drumbeat in his chest. Sirius’ stare still pressed at the edge of his vision, unsettling and magnetic all at once.
Then, as if on cue, Rosalie broke the silence.
“We should start a band.”
Peter perked up instantly. “I call tambourine.”
“No, Pete,” James declared. “You’re triangle. Maximum impact, minimum effort.”
“I’ll be manager,” Marlene announced. “Or groupie. Depending on the talent.”
Dorcas rolled her eyes. “You? A groupie? Please.”
Mary giggled into her juice. “I’ll bring snacks.”
“And Remus can be our lead guitarist,” Rosalie said proudly, nudging him again.
“I’m not auditioning,” he muttered, but the half-grin betrayed him.
“You wouldn’t have to.”
The words landed softly—barely above the hum of chatter—but Sirius said them.
Remus turned. Their eyes locked again, and something flickered in the space between them. Something unspoken. Charged. Not quite flirtation, not quite challenge. Just… possibility.
A glance that lasted a second longer than it should have.
Sirius looked away first, pretending like nothing had happened.
But Remus didn’t. Not really.
He smiled—small and to himself—and let the warmth bloom low in his chest.
There was something about Sirius Black that tugged at the edge of Remus’s mind like a song stuck just out of key. Not in a loud, obvious way—but in that quiet, insistent hum you can’t quite name. The kind that settles behind your ribs and won’t leave you alone. He couldn’t read him, not really, and that bothered him more than he cared to admit.
Giving him the Walkman had been half peace offering, half… something else. He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was guilt over their rocky start, or maybe he just couldn’t understand how someone could be so indifferent about music. That kind of apathy felt like blasphemy. He figured Sirius just hadn’t heard the right bands. Probably hadn’t been exposed to anything beyond dreary weather and drearier radio.
It didn’t help that they shared most of the same classes. Same form, same hallway schedules, same string of near-collisions and half-glances. Sirius seemed to orbit close enough to feel but never close enough to touch—like a planet spinning just outside gravity’s reach.
One class, though, had been circled on Remus’s timetable like a lifeline. Music.
The moment he stepped inside, his shoulders dropped a fraction. That familiar smell—varnished wood, brass polish, old sheet music—settled into his lungs like home. Instruments lined the back risers in neat, dusty rows, all waiting, all silent. His fingers twitched at his sides. It had only been a few days since he’d played, but it felt like a lifetime.
Around him, students chatted like they couldn’t be less impressed. No one touched the instruments. No one even looked at them. Back in New York, at Laguardia, they’d have been tuning by now, warming up, testing riffs, stealing glances at each other’s fingering. There, it had been chaos—but the kind that made you feel alive. Here, it was like the room had forgotten what it was for.
Sacrilege, honestly.
“Ah! You must be our new student.”
The voice drew him from his thoughts. The teacher—Mr. Fontaine, according to the timetable—approached with a kind face and a cardigan that looked like it had survived the seventies.
“Yeah. Remus Lupin. Pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand, and the older man blinked like no one had done that in years before shaking it.
“Well, aren’t you polite. But in here, we don’t do ‘Mr. Fontaine.’ It’s Fontie.” He smiled, conspiratorial. “Unless the headmaster’s within earshot, of course. Gotta keep up appearances.”
A grin tugged at Remus’s mouth. “Fontie it is.”
“Go ahead and sit wherever for now. If you’ve made any mates, feel free to sit by them.”
Spinning on his heel, he surveyed the room. Most kids still trickled in, tossing their bags down and settling in with the distracted ease of routine. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to the exchange, which he appreciated. He liked blending in when he could, even if it wasn’t working out so far.
He made his way to the back, nearest to the instruments. Closest to the comfort.
There was a seat with its own shadow, half-tucked behind the stack of music stands. Perfect.
Sliding into it, he let his eyes drift to the guitars. They were hanging on the wall like museum pieces. Forgotten. Unplayed.
He could practically hear them begging for attention.
From the corner of his eye, the door swung open again. Heavy, casual footsteps crossed the floor—unhurried, a beat behind the rest.
In came Sirius, he walks by the teacher, clapping him on the back
“Alright, Fontie?” He smiles at him, and Mr. Fontaine just shakes his head fondly.
“Mr. Black, i trust you had a good summer?” He says turning to face him.
“Oh, only the best” Sirius plasters a smile on his face with all his teeth visible, and then turns to see remus sitting in the back already.
He walks over to him immediately, sitting beside him.
“Hollywood” he regards, nodding his chin at him.
“Im. From. Manhattan” he reminds him once again.
“Until I figure out a better nickname for you, Hollywood it is” Sirius smirks
“Why can’t I just be remus?”
“What is in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Before Remus can respond, Fontie begins speaking at the front of the class.
Fontaine ignored it with a veteran’s grace. “Let’s start this term off with a little courage. Anyone want to show us how you’ve improved over the holiday? Maybe some vocals, a solo on your instrument of choice?”
The class collectively recoiled as though he’d asked them to recite poetry naked.
Someone mumbled “Hard pass.” A girl at the front groaned dramatically and flopped her head onto her desk.
Remus stared, disbelieving. In the States, this class would’ve been alive with tuning notes and pre-rehearsed riffs. Music wasn’t just a subject—it was the heartbeat of the day. And here, they were acting like it was a math test.
Without even meaning to, his hand shot into the air.
He didn’t look at Sirius, but he could feel his reaction. Something like interest. Maybe surprise.
“Ah!” Fontie’s face lit up. “Our new student—Remus Lupin, yes? Do you play?”
Every face turned. A sharp flush crawled up the back of Remus’s neck. He felt it prickle under the collar of his shirt.
A voice from somewhere in the middle: “Leave it to the Yankee to want to show off.”
Laughter crackled across the room like static.
“Shut up, Barty.” Sirius’ voice cracked through the room, casual but sharp. “Didn’t see you volunteering. Maybe you’d like to go instead.”
Remus turned slightly to glance at him, surprised.
Remus turned his head just slightly. He wasn’t expecting that. Not from Sirius. But the boy wasn’t looking at him—just casually examining his fingernails like he hadn’t just silenced the room with one sentence.
“Boys,” Mr. Fontaine warned, hands lifted. “Let’s not discourage bravery. Mr. Lupin? You said you play?”
“Yes,” Remus replied, quieter this time. “Guitar.”
Fontie clapped his hands together like it was Christmas morning. “Ah, wonderful! A guitarist—we’ve needed one of those for years. We’ve got a lovely Martin just up here. Barely used.”
He moved toward the back, digging out an acoustic guitar resting untouched in a stand. The moment it was handed to him, Remus could tell—this thing had been waiting for fingers that cared.
He ran his thumb across the strings lightly. Tuned up. Let the quiet settle.
The guitar settled into his lap like it had always belonged there. Familiar weight, smooth wood, cool metal. He adjusted it with practiced ease until it fit against his body just right—like slipping back into skin that had gone unused for too long.
One deep breath. Then another.
And then—he played.
Going to California by Led Zeppelin. His favourite. The one he always returned to, no matter how far he strayed.
The first chord slipped from his fingers like it had been waiting in the silence all morning, waiting to crack open the air and let something better inside. The world narrowed to just that sound. The room, the awkwardness, the homesickness he was pretending not to carry—all of it blurred at the edges and disappeared.
He didn’t feel the eyes on him. Didn’t care. All that existed were strings and sound and something inside him finally exhaling.
Music had always been his tether. The only time he ever felt real was like this—his fingers painting the air with melody, each note a brushstroke against the canvas of the moment. He played like it was a truth spilling out of him. Like he didn’t have a choice. Like it wasn’t even performance—it was release.
And when the words came, they followed like muscle memory. Effortless. Honest. Low and rasping but steady.
“Spent my days with a woman unkind,
Smoked my stuff and drank all my wine…”
Every syllable came with breath. With weight. He didn’t perform it—he lived it, cracked and sun-washed and full of aching.
“Made up my mind to make a new start,
Going to California with an aching in my heart…”
Each lyric unspooled the distance from New York to Tonbridge, the summer to now, everything he hadn’t said out loud.
“Someone told me there’s a girl out there,
With love in her eyes and flowers in her hair…”
By the time the last chord hung suspended in the air, shimmering and soft, he hadn’t even realized he’d played the whole damn song. It had just…happened. Like breathing. Like dreaming. His mind hadn’t been here, not really—it had been in the warm dust of some imagined west coast horizon, guitar slung across his back, singing to the sea.
And when he finally lifted his head—when the spell broke—every pair of eyes in the room was on him.
Wide. Speechless.
Silence held the room for a breath too long, like the walls themselves were catching up to what they’d just heard.
Then—applause. A soft ripple at first, then louder. A wave.
Even Fontaine—Fontie—was clapping. And not just politely. There was something in his face. A shimmer. Something too emotional to name. He turned slightly and wiped at the corner of his eye, playing it off with a clearing of the throat.
“That was… wow,” he said after a moment. “Just beautiful, Remus. Thank you.”
He gestured to the class, then looked around meaningfully. “And that, class… that is the magic of music.”
Remus could feel the heat rising in his face. His ears were on fire. He wanted to melt into the chair. Surely it hadn’t been that good. Surely it was just the novelty of someone giving a shit.
They probably weren’t used to anyone playing something with a pulse. A soul. Not after years of whatever bland choral arrangement passed for curriculum here.
He let out a shaky breath and passed the guitar back to Fontie, hands still humming from the strings.
And from somewhere off to his left, Sirius Black was still watching him.
Not clapping. Not blinking. Not saying a word.
But something in his eyes—grey and unreadable—looked like it might never see him the same way again.