Rebel Rebel

Mckinnon Manor, Isle of Skye, August 9, 1977

Days later, Marlene stood outside the door, hesitating for a moment before turning the handle. She had to do this.The room was a disaster—dirty clothes and empty bottles strewn across the floor, the stench of stale alcohol hanging thick in the air. It smelled like something had died in there. She wrinkled her nose and began pacing around the room, picking up discarded trash. Sirius, half-awake, groaned loudly at the disturbance.

“Fuck off,” he muttered, his voice rough from sleep. The stench of alcohol and cigarettes clung to him. She had always wondered where he had picked up the muggle habit. Perhaps from Remus. Or perhaps it was just Sirius being Sirius, rebelling in every way he could manage.

“Whatever this is,” Marlene said, her voice sharp with frustration, “needs to stop”

Sirius shifted under the sheets, barely opening his eyes. “Why do you even care?” he shot back, irritation thick in his tone.

“You’re right, Black,” she replied, her voice steady but pointed. “I’d let you drown yourself in firewhisky if it wasn’t for the fact that you’re hurting one of my best friends.” She paused, fixing him with a hard stare. Sirius didn’t react, not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

“He’d have my head if he knew I was here,” she continued, her words gaining urgency. “But I can’t let this go on. James is bending over backwards trying to give you time and space, and what do you do? You push him away.”

“James is fine,” Sirius said flatly, his nonchalant tone only fueling Marlene’s frustration. She had forgotten just how infuriating he could be.

“I don’t know what happened to you,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him, “and I can only guess it was something terrible. You don’t have to talk about it—not to me, of all people—but don’t punish your closest friend. Stop ignoring him. You need him as much as he needs you.”

For a long moment, Sirius said nothing, his expression unreadable. Marlene couldn’t tell if any of her words had pierced through the thick fog of his self-destruction. With a couple of empty bottles in hand, she made her way to the door.

“One last thing,” she added, glancing back at him. “Take a shower.”

Without waiting for a response, she left, closing the door behind her.

**

The Wizard Highland Games were held every summer on the Isle of Soay, just off the coast of the Isle of Skye. Since the Statute of Secrecy had been adopted, the Games had become one of the primary gatherings for Scottish wizards. It was always a festive occasion, filled with dancing, drinking, and competitions. While the events could be fiercely contested, the Games were above all a celebration of Scottish wizarding culture.

For Alastair McKinnon, the Wizard Highland Games were a tradition impossible to miss. His family participated every year without fail. Though Alastair had never cared much for the competitions, his father, Enroll, insisted on the importance of their performance—the McKinnon name was at stake, after all. As a child, Alastair had felt the crushing weight of his father’s expectations, and when he inevitably failed to place high, his rage had been swift and unforgiving. What his father never understood was that the real significance of the Games wasn’t in the contests themselves, but in what happened afterward.

The after-party was where the true magic lay. Here, clans put aside rivalries for the sake of alliances. Deals were struck, disputes settled, and old grudges soothed—at least temporarily

After taking a Portkey, the McKinnons, the Potters, and one young Mr. Black arrived on Soay, amidst rolling green pastures and wild sheep. There was little time to breathe in the fresh island air or take in the stunning scenery before they had to hurry off to the Games, the opening ceremony already upon them.

By the time they arrived at the field, the massed pipe bands were already in place, preparing to begin their parade. Dozens of spectators were seated, watching in anticipation. Mr. McKinnon glanced at Flora, offering a brief silent farewell before heading toward the stage set up at the edge of the field.

The men assembled there were all wearing their family kilts, standing tall with pride—except for MacLaird, who sat slumped in a chair. As Alastair approached, MacLaird shot him a filthy look, clearly displeased at the McKinnons’ tardiness.

"Forgot you were chieftain this year, eh?" MacLaird snapped.

Before Alastair could respond, the old man grumbled, "For fuck's sake, get on with it."

Not wanting to prolong the exchange, Alastair raised his wand to his throat and muttered, "Sonorus." His voice echoed over the field as he addressed the crowd.

"As your chieftain this year, I want to extend a warm welcome to all our participants and a huge thank you for coming! The Wizard Highland Games have officially begun!"

**

Under the rare hot Scottish sun, men in kilts lined up on the field, each clutching a hammer—a long metal weight attached to a wooden pole that had been enchanted. The first contestant, a young lad named McLaggen, stepped forward and spun the hammer around his head, his face taut with concentration. The crowd held its breath.

"Fifteen yards," announced one of the game markers, his voice amplified by magic. The crowd groaned in disappointment.

"I could throw thirty yards with my eyes closed back in my day," grumbled the grandad, but his family paid him no mind.

"Go on, Merrick!" shouted Marcus from the sidelines. "Show them these bastards what you are made of!"

Even Sirius felt the weight of Mrs. McKinnon's silent glare, though she said nothing. It seemed even the ever-elegant Mrs. McKinnon had caught the competitive spirit of the Games.

One by one, the competitors took their turn, the air filled with the sound of hammers whirling and thudding into the earth. A massive Scotsman, who looked like he could give Hagrid a run for his money, stepped up next. He twirled the hammer with a deafening roar and launched it into the sky.

"Forty yards," declared the game marker.

"Bloody hell," puffed Marlene’s grandfather  through his white beard,  "That lad’s a monster."

Finally, it was Merrick's turn. From the sidelines, Sirius could see the slight tremor in his hands. Merrick wasn’t the biggest or strongest, but Sirius had seen him knock Simon Whitehorne, Marlene’s ex, in his leather pants to the ground with a single punch for breaking his sister’s heart. There was no shortage of grit in him.

"Twenty yards for the young McKinnon!" the marker called out.

The McKinnon family erupted into cheers as if Merrick had just won first place. Even Mr. McKinnon, usually so reserved, cracked a smile. Last year, they had finished dead last, and the improvement was enough for a small victory.

When the Games finally concluded, the group made their way onto the field toward Merrick, who stood with the other competitors. The towering Scotsman had, unsurprisingly, won first place, and Merrick hadn’t even placed in the top three. But none of that seemed to matter—their little group remained in high spirits. Marcus ran to Merrick, pulling him into a bear hug while the latter struggled to break free.

Despite the lighthearted mood, Sirius lingered on the edges of the group. Watching their camaraderie felt like gazing through a window at a world he didn’t quite belong to.

"Let’s go! We’re having lunch in the tent!" said James, startling Sirius out of his thoughts. The McKinnons were already heading toward their camp.

"Wait," James paused, turning to Sirius with that same concerned look he’d been wearing for days now.

"I—" Sirius faltered, the words catching in his throat. He’d tried to say it three times before, but it never came out. He took a breath. "I’m sorry for being such an arshole."

James blinked, then shrugged, as if it were no big deal. "You were going through your own stuff," he said. "And you were only a arshole for a week or two."

Sirius snorted. Those first weeks had been hell—for both of them, probably. 

"Still, I wasn’t very nice to you," Sirius admitted.

"You’re my brother," James replied, throwing an arm around Sirius’s shoulders. "No need to apologize. Just talk to me next time. Let me in, yeah?"

"I’ll try," Sirius said quietly, feeling the weight of his friend’s arm—a solid reminder that he didn’t have to carry everything on his own.

**

The night had fully settled over Sorray, and with it, the fierce competition of the day had given way to laughter, drinks, and dancing. The real festivities had begun. The joyous sound of bagpipes filled the air as people finished their meals and clinked their drinks, spirits high under the Scottish sky.

As their families and friends celebrated, the clans gathered somewhere in the dark woods around a circle of rock with a fire in the middle. On each rock sat the leader of one of the clans along with their advisors beside them. The Leslies from Islay. The MacLairds from Lewis. The McLaggen of Arran and others. Alastair had brought, as always, Lachlan Wood—his trusted advisor and keeper of the Isle Skye and its creatures.

The firelight cast flickering shadows on the rough faces of the gathered leaders. This wasn’t just a meeting; it was a war council.

“There have been dangerous reports from some of our centaur sources,” Chief MacLaird, with a long red beard and thick Scottish accent, grunted. “We hear rumblings in the Forbidden Forest. Stories of creatures, werewolves and giants, gathering. We believe that him and his followers are actively recruiting for what we do not know.”

The Highlands were full of dark creatures. It had long been a sanctuary for them.

“They’re building towards open war,” Young Leslie interjected. “We all know it. We’ve all heard of the reports—of the Muggles butchered. Just a couple of weeks ago, a family up in Edinburgh was murdered.”

“We don’t know for sure what they have planned,” McLaggen replied.

“You might not remember, but I do recall the days of the Great War. The same tension in the air, my chiefs,” Wood interjected.

“We need to tell the Auror Office of this gathering of dark creatures,” Leslie argued. “His followers are growing strong; we all know it.”

“When has the Ministry ever done anything for us?” Murray interjected. “We are Scot’s; this is the land of our ancestors. It’s ours to protect, ours to govern.” The authority of the Ministry was still contested.

“The Ministry is aware of these rumblings, Leslie,” Mr. McKinnon interrupted, sounding almost bored. “But Minister McMillan does not want to make too much noise and instill panic when everyone is already on edge with all of these muggle killings”

“What are we going to do then?” Leslie asked. “If you and your useless Ministry won’t do anything to protect us? You such a lackey”

Chaos erupted. Alastair defended himself, explaining that his hands were tied despite his pleas. Cleaning up these attacks, healing survivors, modifying memories, searching for the perpetrators, and attempting to prevent future attacks occupied more and more of the Ministry's time and attention. The government desperately needed to pass the crime bill so they could allocate more resources and cut the red tape.  

“We protect our own,” MacLaird tapped his cane loudly. “Like we always have. Each of you needs to put up the protective wards. Help your neighbors and those under your care to do the same.”

“Wards can only do so much,” Leslie interjected.

“The Highlands are the safest place, not just for us, but for all magical beings. It is time to remind the werewolves, the giants, and the others that we have left them alone as long as they did not cause trouble,” Maclaird continued.

“And what if they don’t listen?” Leslie said, his voice low but sharp as a dagger. “What if they’ve already thrown their lot in with him? You’ve heard the tales from the western isles—giants seen moving in the dark. There are whispers that Fenrir Greyback himself has been prowling near Inverness, turning innocents. How do you reason with monsters drunk on promises of power?”

“They’ll listen,” MacLaird said gruffly, but even his tone lacked conviction. “This is their home, too.”

“Is it?” Leslie countered. “Or has it become their hunting ground? Two herders were found dead near Fort William last week—throats torn out, blood everywhere. Werewolf attacks, clear as day. What did the Ministry do? Sent some lowly Obliviator to make sure the Muggles didn’t remember. Not a single patrol, no follow-up.”

“It’s not just the werewolves,” McLaggen muttered darkly. “There are banshees wailing in the glens again, and we’ve had reports of inferi in the lochs. These aren’t random stirrings. This is a rallying cry.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Alastair snapped, standing suddenly.

“And while the Ministry waits,” Leslie pressed on, “he’ll turn the Highlands into his fortress. Have you seen the giants moving in the west? The werewolves gathering near the Glencoe pass?”

“They’re not the ones we need to worry about,” McLaggen muttered, his tone dark. “It's the ones who are already with him—the ones who’ve traded their loyalty for promises of power. You’ve heard the rumors. Some of them... they’re already wearing his mark.”

“We need to act now,” MacLaird said, banging his cane again. “The Ministry has its own struggles, but we know this land. We’ve always known it. We’ll protect our own.”

“We’ll do what we must,” Alastair said finally, his voice low but firm. “But we mustn’t forget that we also have allies in the Ministry. We can’t burn all bridges.”

MacLaird looked at him, nodding slowly. “We’ll stand together, then. Prepare for what’s to come.”

“Yes, Chief MacLaird,” the others nodded in agreement.

**

Marlene sat at a long wooden table, wedged between Merrick and James, who was still devouring his plate of food. Across from her, for the first time since arriving in the highlands, Sirius Black wasn’t scowling. In fact, if she didn’t know any better, she might’ve thought he was in a good mood.

“Another round?” asked Duncan, holding up a half-empty bottle of firewhisky. The group answered with an unanimous cheer. As Duncan poured into each cup, he waggled his eyebrows at Marlene.

“Trying to get us pissed, Wood?” she laughed, already feeling the warm buzz from their earlier drinks.

"Isn't that what we're here for?" Duncan grinned.

Her father used to say the Woods “kept the monsters out” of their estate. Duncan, the only son of Wood Sr., had always drawn Marlene’s attention. His intense blue eyes, sharp features, and rugged charm made him both fun and mysterious. Flirty when drunk, he carried a weight about him, a seriousness that only deepened his allure. Living in the woods with his father added to the enigma, and though Marlene didn’t know exactly what he did for her father, she knew he handled things discreetly. And if she were honest, he was undeniably easy on the eyes.

"Aye, I'll drink to that," Merrick said, knocking back his whisky, which only made Duncan laugh. They drank and joked, the conversation as free-flowing as the drinks, until Mrs. McKinnon sent their younger brother Marcus with a stern warning. Their mother likely thought it improper for her daughter to get sloshed among a group of young men. Naturally, Marlene ignored it.

As the night wore on, Duncan stood, his kilt swaying, and suggested they join the others already dancing to the lively folk music. Sirius and James immediately shook their heads in unison, insisting this wasn't their scene.

“Marlene?” Duncan extended his hand with a smirk.

"I thought you'd never ask." She smiled, taking his hand.

**

It was late, but none of them were ready to call it a night, even though Duncan had finally parted ways, heading back to Mckinnon's camp for a night of sleep. 

Now a foursome, they ended up on the edge of the island’s cliffs, gazing at the moonlit water. The boys had decided a midnight swim was in order and had plunged into the cold, dark water, leaving Marlene behind to admire the half-moon.

Sirius was the first to emerge from the water, dripping and in his boxers. Marlene couldn’t help but notice the fading scars and bruises on his ribs. She wondered about the stories behind them, the secrets they kept. Were they from that night? Could parents really do that to their own flesh and blood? A wave of guilt washed over her for the way she had reacted to his arrival at the McKinnons' home. He quickly pulled on a black t-shirt, as though sensing her gaze.

Without a word, he slid down beside her, the two of them watching in silence as Merrick and James play-fought in the water, their laughter carrying through the night. 

Sirius lit a cigarette, the brief flare of the flame casting his sharp features into relief. “I apologized to James,” he said quietly, exhaling a stream of smoke into the cool night air. “Thought you should know.”

Marlene hadn’t realized how close Sirius was sitting until then. She could smell him—cigarettes, alcohol, and something else she couldn’t quite place. He was watching her, his expression unreadable, and for a fleeting moment, something stirred in her chest. She shook it off.

“You’re good to him,” Sirius added, matter of factly. 

Too good at keeping his secrets, she thought, though she didn’t say it. Instead, she shrugged, brushing off the compliment. Sirius opened his mouth as if to say something more, but then hesitated. Awkwardly, he shifted, putting a little distance between them.

“The bastard won’t remember any of this tomorrow, will he?” Sirius asked, his smirk returning as he nodded toward James, who was now attempting to dunk Merrick underwater.

“Hopefully not,” Marlene chuckled.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Despite knowing each other for years, they had rarely been alone. James had always been the link between them, the one who made Sirius’s sharp edges seem more bearable and Marlene’s quiet intensity feel less intimidating. Without him, their conversations tended to falter, awkward and edged. But tonight was different. Tonight, the silence wasn’t brittle—it was almost easy.

“You don’t like me much, do you?” Sirius asked, breaking the quiet, his voice low as he brought the cigarette to his lips. 

She blinked, startled, though his tone carried no accusation—just curiosity, maybe even amusement.

Her eyes flicked to the cigarette in his hand. She’d always wondered where he got them. Did Sirius Black casually stroll into some dingy corner shop near 12 Grimmauld Place, leaning on the counter with his usual devil-may-care grin, and ask for a pack of Marlboros? The thought was absurd, laughably so. 

Marlene raised an eyebrow at the classic line. “Arsehole with a drinking problem? What’s not to like?” she teased.

“Touché,” Sirius smirked, as he held out the pack, “But the same could be said about you, McKinnon.”

“Wrong,” Marlene shot back, plucking a cigarette from the pack and putting it between her lips. She spoke around it with practiced ease. “People just think I’m a bitch—or a slag, depending on who you ask. Us women don’t get the luxury of being ‘bad boys.’”

Sirius chuckled at that, lighting her cigarette with an old zippo. The flame illuminated his smirk, sharper now. “Unfair, isn’t it?”

“Bloody right it is,” she said, exhaling smoke and leaning back. Lily was always on her case about this “nasty habit,” but Marlene couldn’t help herself after a couple of drinks like tonight. She craved it. Cigarettes forced a certain stillness she rarely allowed herself—no magic, no rushing. Just the deliberate inhale and exhale. There was something soothingly Muggle about it.

Sirius watched her for a moment, his grin softening into something almost contemplative. “I don’t think you’re a slag. A bitch, maybe.”

Marlene snorted, rolling her eyes but unable to hide the smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Cheers for that, Black. High praise, coming from you.”

He leaned back, the cigarette dangling from his lips as he shrugged. “Just calling it how I see it.” 

Marlene let herself smile.

The boys finally emerged from the water, shivering and dripping. Merrick was grinning despite his chattering teeth. “We should probably call it a night, like Duncan. It’s late.”