The first time Remus sees blood on Sirius’s hands, it’s not from a prank gone wrong or a fistfight behind the greenhouses. It’s real, war touched, staining the delicate skin between his fingers as he stares at it like he can’t quite believe it’s his.
“It’s not mine,” Sirius mutters, shaking his head as if that changes anything.
Remus wants to ask whose it is. But the answer won’t matter.
They were never meant to be soldiers. That was never the plan.
There was a time when it was all late-night runs through Hogsmeade, stolen bottles of firewhisky, and the feeling of invincibility humming beneath their skin. A time when war was a headline in The Daily Prophet that they skimmed over at breakfast, when danger was sneaking back to the dorms before McGonagall caught them, when the only thing that mattered was who could hex each other the fastest.
Now it’s real.
Now James flinches at sudden noises, and Sirius sleeps with his wand under his pillow. Now Peter can’t quite meet their eyes when they talk about battle plans, and Remus just watches it all happen, like a bad dream he can’t wake up from.
They are eighteen when they take their oaths to the Order. Eighteen when they sit in a dimly lit room and listen to Moody talk about ambush strategies, about how many bodies the Death Eaters have already left in the streets. Eighteen when Lily, bright and furious and barely more than a girl, says, Tell us what to do. We want to help.
No one tells them they don’t have to. No one says, You are too young. You should be worrying about N.E.W.T.s and summer plans, not how to disarm an enemy before they kill you.
Because they do have to. There’s no one else.
The war has come for them whether they are ready or not.
It happens gradually, growing up, this losing of innocence. But Remus notices the little things first.
Sirius stops joking as much. He still laughs, still teases, but there’s something bitter under it now, something sharp. He used to set off fireworks in the Great Hall just to watch McGonagall sigh, used to challenge James to duels at three in the morning, used to exist with the kind of reckless joy that only came from knowing you had nothing to lose. Now, he carries himself like someone who does.
James is still James, still a golden boy, still brilliant and bright and untouchable. But sometimes, Remus catches him looking at Lily like he’s memorizing her, like he’s terrified she’ll disappear.
And Peter is quiet. Watchful. He sticks closer to them than ever, like he knows something they don’t.
And Remus doesn’t know what to do with any of it.
One night, they’re in an abandoned field outside of London, waiting for Dumbledore’s orders. It’s cold, damp, the sky stretched wide and endless above them. James is pacing. Sirius is leaning against a tree, turning his wand over and over in his hands. Lily is sitting cross-legged in the grass, staring at nothing. Peter is biting his nails.
Remus exhales, breath visible in the night air. “Do you remember that time we snuck into Slughorn’s office and stole all that mead?”
Sirius snorts. “And you nearly threw up on his desk.”
“I did not.”
“You did.” James grins, but it’s tired.
Lily tilts her head back. “Feels like a lifetime ago.”
No one says it, but they’re all thinking the same thing.
They should still be there, still be in Hogwarts, still be worrying about exams and Quidditch matches and whether or not they’ll get caught sneaking out after curfew. They should still be kids.
Instead, they’re here, wands drawn, waiting for the next fight. Waiting to find out which one of them won’t make it home.
Remus wonders when the dream of youth died. If it ever really existed at all.
The second time Remus sees blood on Sirius’s hands, Sirius doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t try to wipe it off, doesn’t even look at it. Just stands there, expression unreadable, as James presses a shaking hand to his shoulder and says, “It wasn’t your fault.”
Remus doesn’t ask whose it was.
Because the answer still won’t matter.
Dumbledore plays the game like a grandmaster, moving them across the board, whispering half-truths and good intentions. He speaks of sacrifice, of righteousness, of the greater good, and they nod along because they have to believe in something.
Voldemort plays it differently. There is no pretense, no soft-spoken wisdom. Just raw, unfiltered power and the promise of a world where fear reigns. Where the strong dictate the rules and the weak are nothing but collateral damage.
And Remus, watches as the two of them shape the world in their image, waging war with pawns who still believe they have a choice.
They tell themselves they’re fighting for something good. Something worth all this loss.
But Remus watches as Sirius hexes a Death Eater without hesitation, as James casts a spell that nearly kills, as Peter clenches his fists so tight his nails leave marks in his palms.
They’re not just boys anymore. They’re weapons.
The war demands it.
Remus hates it.
He hates the way it’s changing them, hates the way he’s changing, too. He doesn’t just fight to protect anymore. He fights to win. He fights to make them pay. And that scares him more than anything.
Because he doesn’t know who he’ll be when this is over, if it ever is going to end.
Sirius corners him one night after a mission gone wrong, blood drying on his collar, anger burning in his eyes.
“You hesitated,” he accuses.
Remus swallows. “I didn’t.”
“You did. And you almost got yourself killed.”
There’s no concern in Sirius’s voice. Just frustration and cold efficiency.
Remus looks at him, at the boy he used to know, at the soldier he’s become, and something inside him cracks.
“This isn’t who we were supposed to be,” he says quietly.
Sirius exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “No, it’s not. But it’s who we are now.”
And maybe that’s the worst part of all.
Years later, Remus stands in the quiet wreckage of another war, watching children (because that’s what they are, really) throw themselves into battle, just like he and his friends once did.
He sees the way Harry carries the weight of something too heavy for a boy his age, the way Neville sets his jaw like he knows he might not make it through the night, the way Hermione and Ron look at each other, holding onto something fragile.
It’s the same. It’s all the same.
He thinks about James and Lily, about Sirius, about Peter, about all the dead boys he grew up with, who thought they were fighting for a future that would be different. And as he watches Harry stand in the middle of it all, weary but determined, Remus feels time fold in on itself.
The war never ended. It only changed its face.
And maybe, just maybe, it never will.