Silver Springs
Sirius
The dorm room is quieter at night, when the others are scattered—off to the common room, or dinner, or wherever boys go to avoid the weight of their own thoughts. Sirius lies flat on his back, one arm slung over his eyes, the other holding the Walkman like it’s something alive. Like it might disappear if he doesn’t keep a grip on it.
The headphones press against his ears, just enough to block out the world. The tape clicks softly as it rewinds. Again.
He’s not sure how many times he’s listened to it now. Five? Ten? A hundred?
More than once, that’s for sure. More than he should have, considering he hasn’t even thanked Remus for it.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to. It’s just… how do you say thank you for something like this?
A playlist of someone’s insides. A blueprint of who they are, stitched together in chords and lyrics and static. It’s the kind of thing you give someone you trust, and Sirius doesn’t know what he’s done to earn that. Doesn’t know how to carry it without breaking it.
He hits play.
The tape starts again, that low hiss of blank space before the first track rolls in like fog—guitar-heavy, raw, honest. A song he doesn’t know the name of but already feels like a memory. Like summer at dusk and something unsaid under the surface.
He doesn’t close his eyes. Doesn’t need to. The music floods his chest anyway.
Each song feels like a window, cracked open. Not wide enough to crawl through, but enough to breathe through. He doesn’t know what half the lyrics mean, but he feels them. That aching, restless thing, like wanting to run without knowing where.
The song winds down, a final chord trailing into silence. It echoes in his chest long after the tape clicks over.
Track five, again.
The one that ruined him the first time he heard it.
It plays like longing set to melody—delicate, devastating. A song that sounds like the space between wanting and reaching. It doesn’t matter what the lyrics are. Sirius hears it anyway. In the breath between the strums. In the way Remus must’ve sat down and thought, Yes. This one. Like he’d known, somehow, that Sirius would understand it without needing to ask why.
He drags the headphones off, slow and careful, like setting something sacred down. Lets them rest beside him on the pillow. The Walkman clicks off, but the silence it leaves behind is softer now. Almost companionable.
His gaze drifts to the window. Moonlight bleeds through the glass, painting silver over the edge of Remus’ bed, where the corners are always tucked military-tight. That boy is precise even when he’s a mess, Sirius thinks. Disciplined and unraveling at the same time. A contradiction. A melody you can’t hum after the first listen, but can’t stop hearing either.
He thinks of music class.
Of the way Remus sat with that guitar like it was something holy. The way the room—bored, unimpressed, yawning—had fallen still the second his fingers hit the strings. Sirius hadn’t breathed the entire time. He couldn’t. He’d watched Remus disappear into the sound, into the ache of it. Like watching someone bleed out in slow motion—but beautifully. Voluntarily.
It had left him stunned. And angry, in that quiet way that sneaks up on you. Because how could one person just have that in them and carry it around so casually? Like it wasn’t dangerous. Like it wasn’t unfair to be that honest in front of strangers.
Sirius had walked out of that class with his heart pounding and his hands shaking, pretending nothing was different.
But everything was.
And he still hadn’t said a word about it.
The door burst open with a creak and the familiar sound of laughter tumbling in behind it.
James.
Followed closely by Peter, arms full of crisps and contraband sweets he probably charmed off some third-year. Their energy hit the room like a gust of wind—James’ booming voice already halfway through some story as he kicked his shoes off, Peter trailing behind with the sugar-stained grin of someone who’d clearly lost a bet.
“—and I swear,” James was saying, “the bloke actually asked Fontie if they could do ABBA for the Christmas concert.”
Sirius snorted from the bed, not even looking up. “He deserves to be flogged.”
James beamed when he saw him. “Oi! Our moody prince lives.”
Peter tossed a bag of crisps toward Sirius’ bed. “Eat something before you waste away. You’ve been holed up in here like a Victorian orphan.”
Sirius caught the bag without looking, tearing it open with his teeth. “Was busy.”
James flopped onto his own bed with the grace of a falling wardrobe. “Busy sulking to mixtapes?”
That earned him a sharp glare from Sirius—sharp enough to slice glass—but James, being James, wore it like perfume.
“What?” he grinned, far too pleased with himself. “I just think it’s adorable that the new boy let you borrow his Walkman. That’s, like, relationship milestone number two, yeah?”
In one swift motion, Sirius snatched the Walkman from the mattress and stuffed it beneath his pillow like it was contraband. “Say that again and see how cute my foot looks up your arse!”
Before James could react, Sirius launched himself off the bed, tackling him to the ground with the reckless enthusiasm of someone who had no business being that strong and wiry.
“Unhand me, you hooligan!” James shrieked, halfway between laughter and defeat as Sirius twisted his arm into a tight headlock.
“I don’t swing that way, lad!” he wheezed through laughter, which only earned him a sharper tug, Sirius grinning like a madman above him.
Peter didn’t even look up from his drawer of snacks. “Boys, boys. For the love of all that is holy, relax. One of you’s gonna snap a wrist again, and I’m not playing nursemaid twice in one term.”
Sirius finally let go, chest heaving from laughter, his hair wild, a curl falling into his eyes. “You’re just jealous you’ve never had a man fight you out of affection, Wormtail.”
“I’ll live,” Peter deadpanned, holding up a half-crushed packet of crisps like a white flag. “Preferably long enough to enjoy these.”
As Sirius flopped back onto the bed, trying to catch his breath, he blinked at the ceiling and asked, “Where’s Hollywood, anyway?”
James, still brushing grass off his jumper from the impromptu wrestling match, raised a brow. “No idea. But I swear to God, everyone’s talking about him after your music block. Was he really that good?”
There was a pause—just a beat too long. Sirius shifted, propping his arms behind his head.
“Bloke’s got talent,” he said finally, voice low, reluctant. “I’ll give him that.”
And then—like the timing had been written by a playwright—there was a knock at the door.
James moved to open it, mock-stern, like he was about to lecture a younger student. “I swear, if this is Filch again—”
But it wasn’t Filch.
It was the girls.
Rosalie waltzed in like she owned the corridor, flanked by Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas, who all wore matching expressions of determined chaos. And sandwiched between them, eyes wide and full of betrayal, was Remus Lupin.
“Oi!” James exclaimed, stepping back as they poured into the room like perfume smoke. “Aren’t you lot tired of getting detention for sneaking into the boys’ dorms?”
“And I love how you just stroll in,” Peter added, hugging his crisps protectively. “Remus, you encourage this behavior? What if we’d been starkers?”
Rosalie breezed past him, already ruffling Peter’s hair like he was a small, angry dog. “Please. There’s nothing in this room any of us haven’t seen on a Greek statue.”
Peter blushed scarlet and muttered something about modesty and boundaries.
But Mary was already clearing off the desk, waving her arms like a film director on set. “Move. Emergency. We’ve got a certified celebrity in our midst and a once-in-a-lifetime chance to mold him into a proper rock star.”
“You can’t be serious.” Remus was trying to get off the desk, but Marlene pinned him right back down.
He looked to the boys for help, desperate.
They did not deliver.
“Sorry, mate,” James said, hands raised in surrender. “They’ve got that look in their eyes. It’s already too late.”
“You’re on your own,” Peter added solemnly, “May God have mercy.”
Sirius kicked back on the bed, folding his arms behind his head. “You’re lucky, really. Last term, I was their makeover victim. Took me weeks to recover from the trauma of velcro rollers.”
He watched with idle curiosity as Marlene marched up to Remus and grabbed his face between two perfectly manicured hands, tilting it this way and that like he was a gemstone under appraisal.
“Let me look at you—oh my god, those eyes!” she cried. “They’re, like, honey when the sun hits them. And the freckles! Why do you have freckles in winter? I could punch you.”
“Yes, eyeliner!” Rosalie chimed in, already digging through her tote. “Someone give me a black kohl pencil and a reason to live!”
Remus looked positively panicked now, half-perched on the desk like a reluctant model. “You’re all unwell.”
“Thank you,” Dorcas said without missing a beat, reclining on Sirius’ empty bed like she paid rent there. “We try.”
And as the girls swarmed him with brushes and liner and plans for his musical future, Sirius let himself watch. Just for a moment. The way Remus sat there—half-smiling, half-terrified, blinking as Marlene lined his waterline with something sparkly—his cheeks flushed, curls mussed, and posture taut with the kind of energy that couldn’t decide if it was fight or flight.
Just then, there is a commotion that can be heard outside in the hallway, like a stampede of people.
Everyone looks at each other for a moment, and James opens the door to see what’s going on, he sees all the boys rushing out of their rooms, all chittering and James stops one of them grabbing them by the arm.
The shouting grew louder before they even reached the berm.
By the time Sirius shoved through the last row of gawking students, it was chaos—raw and electric, like a thunderclap about to crack the sky. The crowd was thick, a circle of shouting boys and wide-eyed girls all jostling for a better view.
And there, at the center of it—Regulus. Jaw clenched, hair mussed, blazer askew. Rage etched into every line of his face. Across from him, Severus Snape, dark and wiry, wearing that sneering mask he always wore when he knew he’d cut too deep. Blood already streaked the corner of Regulus’ lip.
“Take it back, you snake!” Regulus shouted, voice hoarse with fury.
Snape didn’t flinch. His expression twisted into something crueler than a smirk, but not quite a grin.
“I’d rather choke on my own bile,” he spat. “I meant every word.”
The air snapped.
Regulus lunged like something feral, fists swinging. It wasn’t clean—it wasn’t trained. It was desperate, ugly, full of history.
Sirius barely had time to react before they hit the ground in a blur of limbs and snarled words. The crowd roared.
“Regulus!” Sirius dove in, grabbing for his brother’s shoulder. “Get off—fuck—Reg, stop—”
James was already there too, arms locking around Snape’s middle to drag him backwards, nearly lifting him off the ground.
“Get the fuck out of here, Snape!” James bellowed, as Snape spat a bit of blood onto the grass.
“You lot don’t scare me,” he hissed, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his robe. “Typical, really. One of you starts crying and the other runs in to save him. The Black family soap opera—what a thrill.”
“That’s enough!” Lily’s voice sliced clean through the noise.
She pushed through the crowd, cheeks flushed, green eyes burning. “Severus—go. Now.”
He looked at her, just for a moment, something like betrayal passing through his features—but then he scoffed and backed away, brushing dirt from his trousers with theatrical disgust.
“Enjoy your circus,” he muttered. “I’m sure it’ll make for a great bedtime story.”
He turned and disappeared through the parting sea of students, muttering curses under his breath. The crowd began to buzz again—low and eager, feeding on the leftover violence like flies on a carcass.
“Alright, that’s it, show’s over,” Marlene called out, already waving her arms like a bouncer at a club. “Clear off!”
“Go!” Rosalie snapped, elbowing some lower form kid who was still staring slack-jawed.
“Don’t you all have homework to do or something?” Dorcas added, starting to push people gently but firmly toward the path. Mary grabbed the nearest few girls and turned them by the shoulders, steering them back toward the main building.
Within minutes, the crowd began to thin, the excited whispers trailing after them like smoke.
Regulus was still breathing hard, shoulders heaving under Sirius’s grip. He looked wild and much too young—like the boy he’d once been, hiding under a blanket with a busted lip and shaking hands.
Sirius pulled him aside, out of earshot. They stood facing one another, hearts still pounding, lungs clawing at air.
“Reg,” he said, low, catching his brother by the shoulder. “Regarde-moi. Qu’est-ce qu’il t’a dit?”
Look at me. What did he say to you?
Regulus didn’t answer at first. His breath was ragged, eyes glassy with fury, hair a mess from where Snape had clearly yanked him backward. He looked young again—thin wrists and knuckles scraped raw.
Then, finally, he muttered under his breath, voice shaking.
“Il a dit… que nos parents nous frappent. Que tu as toujours des bleus parce que Maman ne sait pas aimer autrement.”
He said our parents beat us. That you always have bruises because Mother doesn’t know how else to love.
The words hit Sirius like a punch to the sternum. He staggered back a half-step, his mouth a hard line, jaw flexing.
He didn’t look at anyone else. Didn’t care who was watching.
“Connard,” Sirius breathed, eyes flashing cold. Bastard.
Regulus dropped his gaze, fingers trembling at his sides.
Sirius placed a hand on his shoulder—not rough, not brotherly, just… steady.
“You alright?” he asked, quietly. “Forget what that tosser says! You know what will happen if you get written up for something like this!” sirius hisses “They’ll call home!”
Regulus gave the smallest nod.
“Where the fuck were your friends? Barty ? Evan?” Sirius looks around then to see if they’re lurking like they usually always were
“They’re in detention,” Regulus wipes at the blood from his lip once more.
“Of course they are” Sirius scoffs. “Useless”
From behind them, Remus hovered near the edge of the slope, eyes uncertain. He hadn’t spoken since arriving, but now he took a tentative step closer. His expression was unreadable, but his presence alone was grounding.
Then, from the top of the hill, Rosalie shouted, “Come on! I am not getting detention over a fight I didn’t even get to enjoy!”
That broke the tension just enough. James clapped Regulus on the back. Peter muttered something about missing pudding.
And Sirius looked once more toward the path Snape had taken, then toward Remus—and turned back toward the dorms.
He wasn’t done with this.
“I’m gonna walk Regulus back—” Sirius started, voice low, but he didn’t get the chance to finish.
“No, it’s fine!” Regulus snapped, springing to his feet like he’d been burned. He shoved Sirius off with a jerky arm, as if suddenly aware of just how close they stood. “I said I’m fine.”
“Reg, come on—”
“I don’t need you walking me around like I’m five years old.” The words hit sharper than they should’ve. Regulus didn’t wait for a reply—just turned on his heel, shoulders squared too tightly, and stalked off in the direction of the dorms like the pavement might splinter beneath him.
Sirius watched him go. Didn’t follow. Just sighed, dragging a restless hand through his hair, raking it back as if that might clear the fog behind his eyes.
“Was that your brother?”
The question came from behind, easy and unassuming, but it startled Sirius anyway. He turned and found Remus still standing there. Everyone else had already peeled off—James chasing Peter, the girls laughing somewhere down the hill. And yet here he was. Still. Steady.
“Yeah,” Sirius muttered. “My little brother, who enjoys making my life a living hell. As you could probably tell.”
He tried to lace it with humor. A smirk tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Remus stepped closer, fished a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds from the pocket of his denim jacket, and tapped one loose with his thumb. He held it out, nonchalant.
“Looks like you could use it.”
Sirius took the cigarette with a half-laugh that felt more like a sigh. “Cheers.”
The Zippo followed—Remus flicked it open with a practiced hand, flame dancing between them. Sirius leaned into it, shielding the ember with his palm, and inhaled like it might fill the space under his ribs that Regulus had just carved out.
They started walking, neither one saying where to.
“So, who was that Severus character?” Remus asked, tone careful but curious.
Sirius scoffed instantly. The name alone curdled something in him. “Some absolute wanker who’s been obsessed with me and my mates since we were twelve. Thinks he’s got a monopoly on suffering.”
Remus blinked. “Tosser… wanker… those are insults, right?”
The look on his face was so genuinely puzzled, Sirius couldn’t help it—he barked a laugh. It was brief but real, enough to cut through the tension like a pocketknife through rope.
“Yes, Hollywood,” he said between exhales, smoke curling around his grin. “Those are insults.”
“I’m trying to think of the American equivalent, but I think you Brits have us beat in the cursing department. You’ve got a word for everything.”
“Cursing’s an English delicacy,” Sirius said, tapping ash from the cigarette with a little smirk.
The sky above was ink-black now, constellations sharp and humming. A wind picked up across the lawn, cold and bracing. Sirius didn’t mind. The chill felt good, grounding. Like something was finally matching the temperature inside his chest.
Then, softer, almost tentative: “So…” Remus glanced sideways, not quite meeting his gaze. “Not rushing you or anything, but—have you listened to the tape yet?”
Sirius froze for a beat, fingers tightening just slightly around the cigarette. Of course he’d listened to it. Played it so many times he could hum the track order backwards. But somehow, telling Remus that felt… vulnerable. Like confessing something private.
He bit his lip. Shrugged. “Not yet. Meant to, though. Soon.”
Remus didn’t call him out. Just nodded like he understood something unspoken. “No rush. Take your time.”
But Sirius felt it then—the quiet weight of the lie, the space it carved between them. Because he wasn’t just taking his time.
He was stalling.
And he didn’t know why.
That night, long after the laughter had faded and the dorm had settled into the soft murmur of sleep, Sirius reached beneath his pillow. His fingers closed around the Walkman like it was something sacred, something alive. He’d waited until the others had gone to bed on purpose, waited until the room was still, blanketed in shadows. It was strange—the way he still felt his mother’s presence, even now, miles away. Like her voice clung to the corners of his mind. That’s no music young boys should be listening to—pure drivel. He could almost hear her sneer curling at the edges of the words.
He shook her off. Pressed play.
The tape whirred to life with that familiar hiss of static, and then a guitar slid into the room like smoke—bluesy, heavy, full of bite. Lynyrd Skynyrd. Free Bird. He blinked at the ceiling, letting it wash over him, then glanced across the room toward Remus’ bed. Curtains drawn. Silent. Asleep, maybe. Or pretending to be.
Sirius didn’t know why this mattered so much. Why it meant something. But it did.
He wanted to say thank you. Properly. Give something back. But how do you repay someone for a thing like this? A collection of songs handpicked like bones from a body, strung together in a way that said: Here. This is who I am. Remus didn’t even know what he’d given him—how sharp it was. How rare.
The music settled into Sirius’s chest, thrumming beneath his ribs. It wasn’t unlike the high he chased sometimes—those pills tucked beneath the floorboards—but this felt cleaner. Like it dug at something deeper. If he wasn’t careful, it might unearth things he’d spent years trying to bury.
His fingers drifted to his knuckles. The bruises were mostly gone now, yellowing faintly beneath the skin, but he could still feel them. Phantom aches. Ghosts of where hands had struck. What Regulus had told him echoed loudest in the quiet—Severus noticed the bruises. So who else had? Sirius thought he’d been careful, always shoving his hands into his pockets, always rolling his sleeves just right. But maybe not. Maybe the cracks had been showing for longer than he realized.
Would their mother care if someone found out? Hardly. She’d be more concerned with the shame than the damage. More worried about image than injury.
Still. Sirius would take it. A thousand bruises if it meant keeping Regulus out of their line of fire. He’d always taken the hits for both of them—drawn the spotlight, worn the villain’s mask, let himself become the lightning rod. Because Regulus was still soft in some places, still trying to be perfect, still trying to be loved. Sirius had stopped hoping for that a long time ago.
The tape shifted. A new song slid in—Silver Springs. Fleetwood Mac. A voice like smoke and starlight, like loss soaked in honey. Sirius blinked at the ceiling again, stunned by how beautiful it was. He never would’ve chosen a band like this for himself—too polished, too American, too… honest. But Remus had. And now it was his favorite on the whole tape.
He let it play. All of it. From the first haunted note to the final breath of silence. When it ended, he didn’t press rewind. Just sat there in the dark, letting the echo of it settle into the corners of the room. The Walkman was warm in his hand, the kind of warmth that lingers after being held.
He placed it back under the pillow like tucking in a secret, then rose quietly and padded across the creaking floorboards. In the corner, beneath the loose plank they’d pried up months ago, he found the stash. Fingers trembling slightly from cold—or something else—he pulled a single pill from the silver strip and swallowed it dry.
Sleep came slowly that night, but not before he dreamed.
Dreamed of silver springs. Of free birds. Of bruises fading and songs that stayed. Of soft amber eyes just on the other side of the curtain, wide open in the dark. Listening.