Rebel Rebel

Mckinnon Manor, Isle of Skye,  July 27, 1977

Marlene was nervous but excited. Today, the Potters were due to arrive for their annual stay at McKinnon Manor, three weeks of laughter, mischief, and, if history was anything to go by, a little bit of chaos. The McKinnons and Potters had been holidaying together for as long as Marlene could remember—long before she was born, even—and it was always the highlight of her summer. She and James would invariably get up to all sorts.

Still, something felt off this year. Marlene couldn't shake the sense that things were different, heavier. The Potters were late, which was unusual. Marlene, sitting next to her brother Merrick, felt a knot of unease growing in her stomach as the minutes ticked by in the living room. At long last, a loud whoosh echoed from the chimney, signaling their arrival. First through the fireplace was Mr Potter, followed closely by his wife and son, James. But it was the fourth figure who caused the real stir—Sirius Black, looking as though he’d spent the past week trekking through the Highlands in a storm. Or worse. Knowing him, it was probably worse.

Despite the unexpected guest, there were the usual greetings—kisses, hugs, polite murmurs. Mr. Potter, ever the gentleman, apologized for the delay and introduced the surprise visitor. "Sirius is staying with us at the moment," he said. "We thought he could do with some fresh Scottish air."

Marlene forced a smile, though inside she was simmering. Srius was the last person she wanted to deal with, especially after everything this summer was supposed to fix. A bit of warning would’ve been nice. She had taught that James and her would take their time spent together to get over whatever awkwardness they had between them.

"We’ll make sure he has a cracking time," her father replied with a warm smile.

After a round of pleasantries—Ms. Potter even commenting on how tall Max had grown—Marlene’s parents and the Potters retreated to the solar for tea, leaving her with an unwanted task. Her mother, before heading off, had kindly informed her, "Marlene, dear, do show our guest around the house."

With the adults gone, Marlene shot a glance at James, whose apologetic expression said everything. He knew how much these summer holidays meant to her—her one chance to have him to herself without the constant shadow of the Marauders. Her eyes flicked instinctively to Sirius, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since his arrival.

"Where’s my room?" he finally asked, breaking the silence in the most ungracious manner.

Of course, he couldn’t even manage a ‘hello. That was it. Marlene glared at him, refusing to dignify the question with a response.

"I’ll show you," Merrick said, sensing the tension before things got worse.

**

Marlene sat in the damp meadow, watching her brothers and James play Quidditch. Her mind, however, was elsewhere—frustrated by Sirius’s silence since he’d arrived. Normally so talkative, he’d locked himself away, and James pretended nothing was wrong.

She pulled out her journal and began writing.
Sirius is as insufferable as ever. Why does James keep pretending everything’s fine? He brought him here, and now I’m stuck with this.

A shout from Marcus interrupted her. "It didn’t go through!" His fiery temper flared as his messy hair fell across his forehead.

"It bloody well did!" James shot back.

"It didn’t," Marcus insisted.

Max, calm as ever, raised an eyebrow. "You’re just mad you’re losing."

"I’m mad because I’m playing with a bunch of cheats!" Marcus yelled.

Marlene sighed as the argument escalated. James and Max, despite being on the same team, were now bickering with Marcus. Leave it to James to argue with a 14-year-old. 

"Enough!" Merrick shouted. "Take a break."

Marcus stormed off. James and Max stayed in the air, practicing new moves. Merrick sat beside Marlene, who closed her journal and stared at her hands, not in the mood to talk.

"Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to join?" Merrick asked, his tone bordering on exasperation. "We could really use one more."

"I’m fine," she replied curtly.

"Come off it, Marls. You and I together could wipe the floor with James and Max," he teased, knowing full well how much she relished beating James.

"I’m not in the mood," she said flatly, not even bothering to hide her disinterest. Merrick, of course, saw right through her.

"Cut the shit," he said, lowering his voice. "You’re mad at James for bringing Black. We all know it. He probably had his reasons."

"He knows I can’t stand Black!" she hissed.

“And maybe you don’t know why he’s here either,” Merrick countered. His voice was unusually serious. "Grow up, Marls"

"Look at him," Merrick added, nodding toward James. "He’s been miserable all day. It’s about time you put him out of his misery and had a word."

She glanced over at James, who was awkwardly waving at her from his broom. 

**

Dinner that evening was unusually quiet. Marcus was sulking over the Quidditch match, Sirius was brooding in silence, and James couldn’t shake the awkward tension with Marlene. She hadn’t spoken a word to him all day. Her silence was worse than her screaming at him.  At least when she was angry, he knew where he stood. Now, all he had was a thick, impenetrable wall of nothingness. Meanwhile, the adults carried on as if nothing was amiss, discussing Ministry gossip, the new potions shop in Diagon Alley, and other inconsequential topics.

James tried to focus on his food, but his gaze kept drifting toward Marlene. She looked distracted, her expression distant as she pushed her peas around on her plate.

When dinner finally ended, James expected her to continue ignoring him, but as everyone began retreating to their rooms, she surprised him.

“Fancy a walk?” she asked, her voice softer than usual.

James blinked, surprised, but quickly nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

They slipped out into the evening air, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the grounds. The manor disappeared behind them as they wandered deeper into the estate, the dense trees swallowing the last hints of light. For a while, neither of them spoke. James could feel the rift between them,  until he couldn’t take it anymore.

“I owe you an explanation,” he said abruptly. The words tumbled out as if they had been waiting all day.

“Sirius ran away from home a few days ago. It got really bad with his family. I couldn’t leave him on his own.”

Marlene stopped walking for a moment, her face unreadable. “Oh, blimey,” she said softly.

James hesitated, his mind flashing back to that night. He remembered finding Sirius on his doorstep, battered and bruised, clutching nothing but a small bag and his wand. His shirt was torn, and he flinched at every sound. His father had suspected that the bruises came from an attempted Imperius Curse, something James hadn’t wanted to believe but couldn’t entirely deny.

Sirius had looked so lost, so small, and when he finally broke down, crying into James’s shoulder, James had been utterly helpless. He remembered patting his back, holding him tightly, whispering the only thing he could: “It’s going to be okay. You’re here now. We’ve got you”.

“Is he going back?” she asked, her voice tentative.

“No. Never,” James replied, his voice sharper than he intended. The thought of Sirius returning to that house—to his parents—made his blood boil. “He’s living with us now.”

Marlene nodded, though she didn’t ask for more details. James appreciated that. It wasn’t something he wanted to talk about here, not when everything still felt so raw. His mum had suggested bringing Sirius to Scotland, hoping the quiet would give him time to heal. James wasn’t so sure, but it was better than staying cooped up in Godrick’s hollow.

“I’m sorry I ignored you all day,” Marlene said after a long pause. Her voice was soft, almost shy, and James felt some of the tension between them begin to ease.

“You’re forgiven,” he said with a lopsided grin, trying to lighten the mood.

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward into a small smile. They kept walking, their conversation gradually returning to the easy rhythm they used to have. Soon, they were laughing again, their voices echoing through the trees as the earlier awkwardness melted away.

“Marcus is such a git,” Marlene said, rolling her eyes as James recounted the disastrous Quidditch practice earlier that day.

“Must run in the family,” James teased, grinning as he dodged her playful swat.

But beneath his laughter, James’s mind kept circling back to something they had been avoiding. Two months ago, he and Marlene had slept together after losing a match to Ravenclaw. It had been impulsive, fueled by too much Firewhisky, Marlene’s breakup and Lily writing him off completely after what happened with Severus, but it had happened. He’d tried to bring it up since—tried to talk about what it meant—but every time, Marlene had dodged the subject. So, he tried his best to bury the memories. But, at night, he would sometimes think about how soft her skin had felt or how pretty she looked. He would remember her crooked smile and red lips just before she kissed him. 

James shook the thought from his head. This wasn’t the time.

They hadn’t noticed how far they’d wandered until James stopped abruptly, a frown crossing his face. “What happened to the cabin?” he asked, pointing toward the clearing where it used to stand.

Marlene’s smile faded. “It burned down a while back,” she said quietly. “Lightning strike.” She hesitated, then added, “Let’s head back.”

James wanted to ask more, but something about her tone stopped him. Instead, he nodded, falling into step beside her as they made their way back to the manor.

**

Despite the grandeur of McKinnon Manor, Sirius couldn’t shake the claustrophobia gnawing at him, reminding him of his own former home. Three whole days had passed since he and the Potters had arrived, and he had barely left his room. It wasn’t that he disliked the McKinnons—they were perfectly amicable, if a bit uptight. Mr. McKinnon had largely ignored him, only once inquiring about his family. Mrs. McKinnon, had tried harder—fussing over him incessantly, asking at least three times a day if he needed anything. She was kind, certainly, but not warm like Mrs. Potter. There was an air of duty about her, probably owing to the fact that her cousin was married to his uncle Cygnus.

Then there were the McKinnon siblings. Sirius had managed to avoid most of them, especially Marlene, who had done nothing but stare at him every time they crossed paths.

Though Sirius was deeply grateful to the Potters for taking him in, he couldn’t shake the feeling of shame that clung to him. He vividly remembered James's expression when he’d appeared on their doorstep—shivering, in pain, his face barely recognizable. Bloodied and covered in cuts, Sirius had collapsed into James’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Mrs. Potter had gasped at the sight of him and immediately set to work tending his wounds while Mr. Potter hurriedly summoned a local healer. 

Each time Sirius looked at James, or the Potters, he was reminded of that night—of the pity in their eyes. It made him feel exposed, like they saw right through him. When he slept, the memories played over and over: his father’s furious voice calling him a failure, his mother cursing him, and Regulus standing aside, horrified but silent.

The thought of it made his chest tighten, and he let out a sharp breath, rubbing his hands over his face. It was hard to reconcile the boy who had once shared his bed at night, their whispers filling the dark, with the stranger he now faced in his memory. The Regulus who had been so eager to follow their parents’ every order. The Regulus who had made no attempt to stop their mother from torturing him. The Regulus he had left all alone in that wretched house. 

And now, here he was, stuck in the bloody Highlands of Scotland, miles from any proper civilization. If only you were here , Remus. The thought was a constant ache in his chest. He loved James, but Remus had always been different—calm, patient, the one who truly saw him, without judgment. Remus understood the weight of pain. He never had to speak about any of it; he just knew.

He wanted nothing more than to drown himself in Firewhisky until he forgot everything—his family, his pain, even who he was. Drink, drink, and forget.

After dinner, the manor felt more suffocating with each passing hour, and by nightfall, he’d had enough. Slipping out unnoticed, he wandered on the road with just his leather jacket on for what felt like hours before stumbling upon a small Muggle pub on the side of a road. It was a far cry from the lively streets of London, which he found himself missing suddenly, but he pushed the thought aside. This would have to do.

The pub was nearly empty, save for three old men huddled around a table in the corner, a waitress, and the middle-aged barman sporting a long, ginger beard. Sirius made his way to the counter, where the barman gave him a wary look.

“What’ll it be, then?” the man asked after Sirius had offered a curt greeting.

For a brief moment, Sirius hesitated, realizing he didn’t know a single Muggle brand of liquor. His eyes flicked over the bottles behind the bearded barman, hoping for some clue. It didn’t take long for him to decide it didn’t matter.

“The strongest you’ve got,” he said, quickly recovering his composure.

The barman rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed. It was the kind of request he’d probably heard a thousand times before. Still, Sirius refused to feel embarrassed, even though he knew how clichéd he sounded. Pride had a way of keeping a man steady, even one as young as sixteen.

A moment later, the barman slid a tumbler across the counter—a dark brown liquid swirling inside. “Scotch,” he grunted.

Sirius took a sip and immediately felt his throat ignite. It burned like hell, but he kept going, gulping the rest down with a grim determination. It tasted awful, like fire and death, but it was exactly what he needed.

By the time the radio had looped the same song for the third time and he’d polished off his fourth Scotch, the barman gave him a look.

“You’re not from around here, are ya?”

“No,” Sirius replied, his voice flat.

“Heartbreak?”

Sirius let out a short, bitter laugh. “Something like that,” he muttered, before his gaze drifted to the pretty waitress across the room.

**

The late afternoon sun bathed the McKinnons’ garden in a golden glow, the air rich with the scent of blooming roses and neatly trimmed hedges. The garden stretched wide, rows of vibrant flowers interspersed with perfectly manicured topiaries. A small fountain bubbled serenely in the center, surrounded by wrought iron chairs and a table set for tea.

Flora McKinnon smoothed a nonexistent crease from her skirt, her sharp eyes flickering over the table’s arrangement. Across the table, Fleamont Potter—or Monty, as everyone seemed to call him—topped up his teacup. His silver-streaked hair and air of casual charm lent him an unassuming presence, but Flora wasn’t fooled. Behind his affable demeanor lay the precision of a man who had built a potioneering empire and commanded respect in the Wizengamot.

Euphemia Potter, seated beside him, was a contrast in every sense. Her wavy, silver-white hair framed a serene face, her clustered geometric necklaces clinking softly as she reached for a biscuit. Everything about Euphemia exuded calm—a trait Flora admired, though she would never admit it aloud. Euphemia had a rare gift for understanding people, even Flora herself, who prided her own stoic reserve.

“How’s our James faring these days?” Alastair broke the silence as he reached for a biscuit. 

“He’s doing well, all things considered,” Monty replied with a wry smile. “A good lad at heart. But…” He shot a knowing look at Euphemia.

“He’s a lot of trouble,” Euphemia admitted, sighing fondly. “Always has been. But he makes up for it by being sweet when it matters.”

Flora nodded absently, her thoughts wandering to her own children. Marlene had been sweet once—her inquisitive little blonde daughter, always following her around, brimming with endless questions. All four of her children had been sweet, once. Now, they had their own lives. Maxwell was the only one who seemed to linger in her company now, and even that felt like a fragile thread, ready to fray at any moment.

Monty chuckled. “Sweetness doesn’t make up for a complete lack of restraint. I dare say we’ve indulged him too much.”

“Perhaps,” Euphemia allowed, her bracelets jangling softly as she adjusted them.

Alastair laughed heartily. “Sounds like our lot. Us, four children, my father all crammed into this estate. It’s… lively, to put it politely.”

Euphemia tilted her head, her eyes twinkling. “Even with just Marlene, you must have your hands full.”

Flora chuckled despite herself. “No one manages Marlene,” she said, shaking her head. “Not even me.”

“She’s a lovely girl,” Euphemia said gently. “Just a bit… unfocused.”

Flora arched her brow, smirking. “A bit? You’re being generous.”

The laughter that followed was genuine, but it couldn’t mask the subtle shift in the atmosphere. Alastair broached the topic that Flora had both expected and dreaded.

“Sirius staying with you,” he began, looking at Monty. “That can’t have been an easy decision.”

Flora’s grip on her teacup tightened, though her face betrayed nothing. Alastair had the audacity to voice what she had only thought.

Monty’s smile faded, and his voice took on a weight that silenced the breeze. “It was easy. You should have seen the state of that boy,” he said quietly. “No one should have to endure what he has.”

Euphemia’s hand settled on his arm, her touch steadying him. “No one,” Monty repeated, his voice softening. “We’re just glad he’s with us.”

Flora cleared her throat delicately, carefully selecting her words. “The Black family might not relinquish their heir so easily,” she said, her voice steady, though a flicker of unease lingered beneath the surface. “They’ll see you taking him in as a betrayal.”

She knew all too well how the old families operated. They weren’t like the Potters. Where the Potters were warm and open, these families were driven by ruthless pride, quick to sever ties with anyone who didn’t adhere to their rigid expectations. The Blacks, in particular, revered oaths, loyalty, and bloodline above all else, viewing them as sacred—and betrayal, even by association, as unforgivable.

“Let them,” Euphemia said firmly, her usual softness replaced by steely resolve. “The boy needed a loving home, and we’ve given him one. James is happy to live with his best friends. We’re happy to have him with us. If they take issue, that’s their problem.”

Alastair nodded thoughtfully, but Flora knew he would caution her later, as he always did. It wasn’t Sirius who concerned her; it was the Blacks. Their patience, their cunning—they could afford to wait. She feared what would come when they stopped waiting.

Alastair shifted the conversation. “Have you settled on what to do with your Wizengamot seat?” he asked Monty.

Monty nodded. “James has no interest in politics, and frankly, I think that’s for the best. He needs to make his own way.”

Flora couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow inwardly. It was ironic, really. Monty had inherited his own seat—his family’s seat—and here he was, suggesting James should forgo the very same privilege. It struck her as almost amusing how easily Monty had forgotten the advantages that had allowed him to "make his own way." Why should James be denied what was rightfully his by birth? 

“Legacy isn’t about holding onto some seat,” Euphemia added. “It’s about the mark you leave on the people you care about, not in politics.” 

Euphemia, always the idealist. 

Monty smiled faintly. “Besides, why should we hold more sway than anyone else? Let them turn it into an elected seat after I’m gone. Might even do the Wizengamot some good.”

The words sat uneasily with Flora. To her, legacy wasn’t some idealistic notion—it was a duty, rooted in tradition, upheld by action. The Wizengamot had functioned well for centuries precisely because some positions of power were held by those who had inherited them—people who understood the weight of their responsibilities. These were not just seats of influence; they were sacred trusts, passed down through bloodlines. The old families were supposed to be stewards of tradition and history, not opportunists looking to win popularity contests.

But this wasn’t the time for a debate.

As the conversation shifted again—this time to Crouch Sr. and his relentless campaign for the passing of the Magical Security and Enforcement Act—Flora let her gaze wander over the garden. The roses were perfect, the sunlight soft and golden. Yet even the beauty of the moment couldn’t completely chase away the quiet unease stirring in her chest.

**

It quickly became Sirius’s routine: getting pissed at the local pub, staggering back to the manor, and shutting out the world. If Mr. Mckinnon and Mrs. Mckinnon were bothered by his behaviour, they were rather good at pretending otherwise, carrying on as though everything was perfectly normal—even having a perpetually sozzled Black heir as a houseguest. Deep down, Mrs. Mckinnon was probably mortified, but she wouldn’t let it show. Instead, she quietly instructed their house elf to take Sirius's breakfast up to his room, sparing him the embarrassment of facing the other guests in the grand dining room.

James’ parents were, naturally, worried. His mother had wanted to report the Blacks to the Aurors, but Sirius had put his foot down. So, instead, his father had sent an owl to 12 Grimmauld Place, informing the Black family that Sirius would be staying with them. The letter had been delivered, but there was no reply.

One night, after another evening down the pub, James decided he’d had enough. He sat waiting in the sunroom, chewing his nails, until he heard Sirius stumble in through the door.

“You know,” James started, trying for a light tone, “if you’re planning to spend the whole time getting drunk, the least you could do is invite me along.”

“I’m not in the mood for your moralising, James,” Sirius muttered, rolling his eyes.

“You don’t have to shut me out,” James said, more earnestly this time. “You know you can talk to me… about that night.” The memory of Sirius turning up on his doorstep, looking utterly shattered, still haunted him.

“Piss off, James,” Sirius snarled, his temper flaring. “You wouldn’t understand. Your parents love you.”

James went quiet, stung by the words. An only child, born after years of trying, he’d been adored by his parents from the moment he came into the world. He couldn’t begin to imagine parents treating their own child so cruelly.

“I’m your mate” James said softly. “Your best mate. I saw what they did to you...”

“And that’s exactly the problem!” Sirius barked. “Poor Sirius, right? I can’t stand the way you look at me.” With that, he turned and stormed off to his room, leaving James alone in the stillness of the manor.