Fractures
Sirius had always hated the waiting.
There was a sort of tension that clung to the days between full moons, a quiet, unspoken weight that everyone in Gryffindor Tower learned to live with—except for Remus. Remus never said a word, of course, but it was in the way he held himself. The way he always had a certain edge to him, something raw and carefully controlled, like he was waiting for something just around the corner.
And for once, Sirius wasn’t sure he could shake the feeling that he, too, was waiting.
The days had passed since the common room encounter with little fanfare. Everything had returned to normal—or so it seemed. Remus had continued to act like Remus, quiet and steady, as though nothing at all had shifted. Sirius, on the other hand, was hardly sleeping, and his thoughts refused to stay still for longer than a few seconds at a time. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this restless, caught in a loop of small, stupid moments—of fleeting touches and knowing glances that never quite reached their destination.
It was nothing.
But the longer Sirius ignored it, the more it felt like it was.
As they made their way to the Great Hall that morning, James was rambling on about something Quidditch-related, as usual, while Peter bounced excitedly alongside them. Sirius tried to keep his focus on the conversation, tried to stay present, but his eyes kept drifting.
It was like there was an invisible thread pulling his attention toward Remus, who was walking a few steps behind them, his eyes on the ground, looking every bit the studious, bookish werewolf he always was. But Sirius noticed something else today—the way his shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched as though he were carrying the weight of some unspoken burden.
He had noticed it before, of course, but now—today—it was different. He couldn’t quite place it, but something in Remus’s movements seemed... withdrawn.
Sirius’s thoughts were interrupted by a playful shove from James, who was grinning widely. “Oi, Padfoot, you’re not listening. What do you think about the new Chaser strategy?”
Sirius blinked and shook himself out of his haze. “Er, right, yeah. It’s good.”
James raised an eyebrow. “That’s all you’ve got? You’re usually the one making all the plans.”
Sirius felt a flicker of annoyance. He wasn’t making plans, because his mind was too busy being occupied by a thousand different things he couldn’t understand.
“I’m just... tired,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets as they entered the Great Hall.
James gave him a look of concern but let it go. “Well, don’t stay too tired to help us win this bloody match, mate.”
Sirius only nodded, keeping his gaze straight ahead, but all the while his attention was on Remus again, who had taken his usual seat at the end of the table, barely lifting his head as he picked up his fork. There was something painfully familiar about the way Remus looked when he was lost in his thoughts, like he was worlds away, even though he was sitting right there.
Sirius had spent too many nights wondering if Remus knew how much he noticed—the way his hair caught the light just so, the little creases around his eyes when he was deep in concentration, the way his lips parted ever-so-slightly when he read, as if every word on the page mattered more than anything else.
Remus was so quiet, and yet he held Sirius’s attention like a siren call, impossible to ignore no matter how hard he tried.
But right now, as Sirius stared across the table at his friend, the frustration was building again, heavier this time. Remus had been distant for days now. He hadn’t been avoiding him, but there was a space between them that hadn’t been there before. It was almost like Remus was just... shutting off.
Sirius couldn’t stand it.
And so, he did the only thing that made sense in the moment. He stood abruptly, tossing his napkin down on the table.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” he muttered, before turning on his heel and walking away, leaving James and Peter to exchange confused looks behind him.
The hall wasn’t too crowded, students too busy with breakfast or last-minute studying to notice him slipping away. He made his way through the maze of tables, his heart beating louder with each step. When he reached Remus’s seat, he didn’t give himself a second to overthink it.
“Moony,” Sirius said, voice low but steady.
Remus looked up, his brow furrowing as if he hadn’t expected the interruption. His gaze flicked briefly toward the empty seat beside him, and for a moment, Sirius almost thought he would brush him off again.
But then Remus gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “What’s up?” he asked, his tone neutral, polite even, but there was a softness to it that made Sirius feel, for a moment, like they were the only two in the room.
Sirius didn’t sit down immediately. He just stared at Remus, trying to read him, trying to find the source of the distance he couldn’t seem to close. “You alright?”
Remus hesitated, his fingers tightening around his cup, the lines of his face shifting ever so slightly. It was the smallest of pauses, but Sirius caught it, his chest tightening in a way he couldn’t explain.
“Yeah,” Remus said eventually, his voice more closed off than usual. “Just tired, I suppose.”
Sirius nodded, his stomach sinking at the lie. They both knew Remus wasn’t just tired. He was holding something back—something that Sirius didn’t know how to approach. Something that had been building for days, and it was just too much for Sirius to ignore.
“Do you—” he started, but then stopped himself, his mind suddenly drawn blank. He hadn’t planned on any of this. He hadn’t planned on even talking to Remus this morning, not like this. He hadn’t even planned on the way his chest was tight with something—something he didn’t know how to name, or if he even wanted to name.
But here it was, impossible to ignore. The thing that had been lurking between them, between the laughter and the quiet moments, between the way they were friends—and yet, sometimes, so much more.
Remus looked at him then, eyes meeting his with an unreadable intensity. “Sirius?” he asked quietly, almost hesitant.
And for a moment, time seemed to slow down.
Sirius swallowed, his heart pounding in his chest. The words were right there, hovering on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t make them come out.
So, instead, he turned his head slightly, avoiding Remus’s gaze, and muttered, “Nothing. Forget it. Just... take care of yourself, yeah?”
Remus didn’t say anything at first. He only watched him, still quiet, still unreadable. And then, just as quickly as it had all begun, the moment was over.
Sirius turned away, stuffing his hands in his pockets, leaving Remus behind without another word.
But inside, he knew—something had changed, whether he admitted it or not. And he wasn’t sure he could ignore it much longer.
Sirius barely made it through the rest of the day.
Classes felt like a blur, the professors’ voices nothing more than background noise. His mind kept drifting, tugged by something invisible—something pressing, something that had nothing to do with school or Quidditch or the usual chaos of his life. It was like he was walking through a haze, and the only thing that mattered, the only thing that was real, was the aching space between him and Remus.
Every time he glanced across the room, he saw Remus there, his face slightly turned away, shoulders tense in that quiet way he had. It was almost like he was physically withdrawing, pulling himself back more and more with each passing moment.
But the thing that really stung, the thing that gnawed at Sirius’s insides, was the fact that Remus hadn’t said anything to him. He hadn’t even looked at him with that familiar warmth that used to be their constant. There was something unreadable in his expression now, as if he were caught in a world that Sirius didn’t belong to.
By the time dinner rolled around, Sirius was fed up.
He didn’t even wait for James or Peter. He just walked straight to the Gryffindor table and planted himself next to Remus. No preamble, no explanation. Just him, sitting there in that familiar spot.
Remus looked up, startled, but quickly masked it with a thin smile. "Padfoot. What’s up?"
The words felt heavy on his tongue. It felt stupid, just stupid, to keep pretending that everything was fine.
Sirius tried to keep his tone casual, but there was an edge to it that he couldn’t quite hide. "Nothing," he said, a little too quickly. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of the silence between them. "Just... wanted to talk."
Remus didn’t reply at first. He simply took a bite of his food, his eyes briefly flicking to Sirius before looking away again. The movement felt sharp, intentional, like he was keeping a distance—like he was actively trying not to engage.
And that stung.
Sirius’s hand clenched into a fist beneath the table. He forced himself to take a deep breath.
"Remus," he started again, this time the words coming more carefully. "What’s going on? You’ve been... different lately."
Remus paused mid-chew, his eyes flickering up to meet Sirius’s. There was something guarded in his gaze, something Sirius hadn’t seen before. "I’m fine, Padfoot. Really."
The casualness in Remus’s voice didn’t match the tension in his body. His shoulders were stiff, his jaw clenched just slightly. Sirius could see right through it—he knew Remus was lying.
“You’re not fine,” Sirius said flatly, pushing his plate aside. He felt a burst of frustration that he couldn’t keep down anymore. “I’ve known you long enough to tell when something’s wrong.”
Remus’s eyes flickered, but he quickly averted them. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It’s just... nothing, Sirius. Please."
Sirius clenched his jaw. Nothing. That was the word that always came up whenever he tried to get closer, whenever he tried to bridge the gap that was growing between them. And it was always said with the same polite detachment, the same refusal to acknowledge what was really happening.
"Stop lying," Sirius snapped, his voice low but sharp.
Remus’s gaze hardened for a moment, and for a heartbeat, there was tension in the air between them. But it was gone just as quickly, and Remus let out a short sigh, looking down at his half-eaten food. "I’m not lying," he said, his voice softer now, quieter. "It’s just... easier this way."
Sirius’s heart skipped. Easier. That didn’t sound like Remus at all. It didn’t sound like the Remus who always talked to him about everything—even the things that hurt. It didn’t sound like the friend who never kept secrets, who never withdrew like this.
“What’s easier?” Sirius asked, his voice a little gentler now, but still full of confusion. He felt a sense of dread building in his stomach, something heavy, but he couldn’t quite place why. “What the hell are you talking about, Moony?”
Remus didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took another bite of his food, his hands unusually steady, his eyes still not meeting Sirius’s.
Sirius leaned forward, his frustration boiling over. "Remus, you can’t keep avoiding this. You can’t just keep pretending nothing’s wrong when everything is changing."
The words came out before he could stop them. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. He hadn’t meant to bring up what had been simmering inside him for weeks. The uncertainty, the ache, the frustration. He hadn’t meant to make it real.
But Remus finally looked up, and for the first time in days, their eyes met head-on. There was something vulnerable in Remus’s gaze, something raw that Sirius had never seen before.
"I’m not pretending nothing’s wrong," Remus said quietly. "I just don’t know how to fix it, okay?"
Sirius’s heart stuttered in his chest. Fix it. What the hell did that mean?
Before he could ask, Remus stood up abruptly, pushing his plate away and giving Sirius one last look—something caught between frustration and sadness. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice thick. “I just need some space right now.”
Sirius watched him walk away, a sudden coldness settling over his chest. Remus didn’t look back.
And in that moment, Sirius realized—whatever was wrong, whatever had been building between them, was a lot bigger than he’d ever anticipated. And it had only just begun to unravel.
The days following the dinner felt like they were stretching on forever, each one dragging with a suffocating weight. Sirius couldn’t focus on anything. Every glance at Remus was like a jab in his chest, the familiar warmth replaced with something distant, something cold.
It was strange. The silence between them felt almost tangible, like an invisible wall that neither of them knew how to break. It was in the way Remus no longer met his eyes, in the way he sat further away at meals, in the way he’d laugh with James or Peter but wouldn’t say a word to Sirius. It was like Remus had somehow erased himself from the world they shared, retreating into something Sirius couldn’t understand.
The worst part was that Remus never seemed to want to talk about it. Every time Sirius tried to reach out, tried to get beneath the surface, Remus would shut him down.
It was becoming unbearable.
That night, the full moon loomed on the horizon, but it wasn’t just the familiar anxiety of the transformation that had Sirius on edge. It was the sense that something was wrong, something in the air between him and Remus that had nothing to do with the moon.
Sirius paced back and forth in their dormitory, unable to sit still. He tried to focus on his books, on the homework that was sitting untouched on his desk, but it all felt so insignificant compared to the mess in his head. His mind kept returning to Remus—how he'd looked that morning, how he’d practically run away from their conversation at dinner. The ache in his chest tightened every time he thought about it.
He didn’t even know what to say anymore.
The door to their dormitory creaked open, and Sirius stopped pacing. He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
Remus stepped into the room, looking tired, a little pale from the coming full moon. His face was drawn, his usual calm expression replaced with something quieter, something weighed down by unspoken thoughts.
Sirius swallowed hard, trying to push down the frustration that surged within him. He had no idea why it was so hard to just talk to him. Why the distance between them felt like it was too vast to cross. But Remus’s silence had only fueled the confusion.
"You okay?" Sirius asked, his voice almost too casual. He didn’t want to sound desperate, but it was hard to keep it from creeping in.
Remus nodded slowly, eyes flicking to the bed, where the usual preparations for the full moon were laid out. His fingers brushed over the edge of the sheets as if seeking comfort in the familiar routine. "Yeah," he said, his voice low, almost too quiet. "Just... tired."
Sirius noticed the way his words didn’t quite match the tension in his shoulders, the slight trembling in his hands. But he said nothing. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably. He had to stop this—stop pretending everything was fine.
He had to fix it.
"Moony," he said, his voice a little more urgent than he intended. Remus didn’t look up. "Come on, just... talk to me."
Remus hesitated, his eyes darting briefly to Sirius before they flicked away again. For a long moment, the room was silent, and Sirius felt that familiar ache in his chest return. It was the not talking, the distance that hurt more than anything.
Finally, Remus sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s not something you can fix, Sirius."
Sirius frowned, his mind racing. "What do you mean?" He took a step closer, trying to close the gap between them. "What’s going on, Moony? Why have you been shutting me out?"
Remus turned his face toward the window, the soft light from the moon casting shadows across his features. He didn’t answer immediately, and for a moment, Sirius thought he might say nothing at all.
But then Remus spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t want to hurt you."
The words hit Sirius like a punch to the gut. He stared at Remus, confusion mixing with something else—something unsettling.
"How could you possibly hurt me?" he asked, his voice low but thick with emotion. "We’re friends, Moony. We always work through stuff."
Remus closed his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face. "It’s different this time," he said, the words so soft, so filled with quiet resignation that it made Sirius’s heart tighten in his chest. "I don’t know how to fix this. And I don’t want to drag you down with me."
Sirius’s heart pounded in his chest. Drag me down? What the hell was Remus talking about?
Before he could say anything more, Remus turned, his back to him now, as though he couldn’t bear to face him any longer. "You should go, Sirius. It’s... it’s better this way."
Sirius’s mind whirled, a thousand thoughts colliding, none of them making sense. He felt the rush of emotions bubbling up inside him—hurt, confusion, frustration—but most of all, fear. Fear that this might be it. That whatever this was, this distance between them, might be permanent.
"No," Sirius said, his voice almost a growl. He moved forward, reaching out a hand to place gently on Remus’s shoulder, forcing him to turn around. "No, Remus. We can talk about this. We can fix it. I don’t care what you think. I’m not going anywhere."
Remus looked up at him, his eyes bloodshot, the weight of exhaustion and something more heavier than Sirius had ever seen before. For a second, their eyes locked—there was something there, something unspoken, but the moment was shattered the next second when Remus pulled away, stepping back.
"You don’t get it," Remus said, his voice shaky, his hands clenched at his sides. "You can’t fix me. I don’t want you to try."
Sirius stared at him, feeling the air between them crackle with the tension of everything left unsaid. "Then what do you want from me?" he asked, his voice thick, barely contained. "What do you want me to do, Remus?"
Remus didn’t answer. He just stood there, his back rigid, his face pale. And in that moment, Sirius realized—he wasn’t going to get any answers tonight. He wasn’t going to fix anything.
But something in his chest told him that he wasn’t going to give up, either.
Sirius took a deep breath, his hand still lingering in the air, uncertain of what to do next. "I’m not going anywhere," he repeated, his voice quieter now, but firm. "You’re not alone in this, Moony. You never were."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and uncertain, but they were enough for now. Remus didn’t respond, but he didn’t walk away either.
For the first time in days, they stood in silence, the unspoken words between them lingering like the full moon on the horizon, inevitable.
The moon was nearly full, its light streaming through the window of the Gryffindor tower. The room felt like a world away, too far removed from the chaos of the school and the tension that still simmered between Sirius and Remus.
Sirius lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, restless and filled with a sense of helplessness that he couldn’t shake. His mind kept returning to the conversation they’d had—no, not a conversation. Remus had practically shut him out. Every time Sirius thought he might be getting close to some sort of breakthrough, Remus would pull away, closing off like a locked door. And the more Sirius tried to push, the further Remus seemed to retreat.
But Remus’s words from earlier echoed in his head, piercing through the fog of his thoughts. "I don’t want to hurt you." It was like a spell, a constant hum in the back of his mind. What had he meant by that? Why was he pulling away if he cared?
Sirius sat up, his fingers running through his hair in frustration. Remus had never been this distant before, not even during the hardest times they’d been through. So why now? What had changed?
Sirius glanced over at the bed opposite his, where Remus was sitting, preparing himself for the transformation. His hands moved mechanically, setting up the usual protections, but his movements were slower than usual. He looked like a shell of the person Sirius knew—tired, lost in thought, utterly withdrawn.
Sirius knew better than to disturb Remus during the full moon preparations, but tonight, there was something else at play, something that made it feel impossible to just sit idly by.
I can’t keep pretending everything is fine, Sirius thought, frustration coursing through his veins. I need to know what’s going on.
With a final, firm decision, Sirius pushed himself off the bed and made his way across the room. Remus didn’t even look up as he approached.
"Moony," Sirius said softly, his voice low but insistent. "Please, just talk to me."
Remus froze, his fingers tightening around the blankets. He didn’t look at Sirius right away. There was a long pause, and Sirius felt his heart begin to pound in his chest, the uncertainty gnawing at him.
"I don’t know what you want me to say," Remus finally replied, his voice hoarse. He spoke without turning, without offering any kind of eye contact, like he was talking to a wall instead of the person standing right in front of him. "I told you, I can’t fix this, and I don’t want to drag you into it."
Sirius was done. Done with the half-answers, done with the avoidance. He stepped forward, gripping Remus’s shoulder gently but firmly. "You don’t get to decide what’s worth dragging me into. That’s not how this works."
Remus stiffened under his touch. His eyes closed, and for the first time, Sirius saw the vulnerability there—the real vulnerability, the cracks in his calm, steady façade. The mask was slipping.
"It’s not that simple, Padfoot," Remus said, his voice barely a whisper.
"Then make it simple," Sirius urged, his voice quiet but intense. "You’re not alone, Remus. You never were, and you can’t be now."
Remus let out a breath, shaking his head slowly. "I’m not... not trying to push you away, I promise. But I need to do this on my own. I can’t... I can’t keep dragging you into my mess."
Sirius’s chest tightened. He saw Remus’s struggle, the way he was trying to hold on to some kind of control. But Sirius wasn’t going to let him go down this path alone—not again.
"I’m not going anywhere," Sirius said firmly, his hand still resting on Remus’s shoulder. "We’re in this together, Moony. Always have been."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken truths. For a moment, there was silence. Then, Remus finally looked at him, his eyes dark with unshed emotion.
"I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending everything is fine," Remus admitted, his voice breaking on the words.
Sirius felt the breath catch in his throat. Pretending everything is fine? Had that been what Remus had been doing all along?
Before he could respond, Remus stood up quickly, pulling away from Sirius’s grip. "I need to get ready for tonight," he said, his voice clipped. "Let’s just—let’s talk about this later."
Sirius wanted to argue, to push him to stay, but he could see it in Remus’s eyes—the wall was back up, and no amount of pleading was going to bring it down tonight.
With a heavy heart, Sirius nodded. "Alright. Later, then."
Remus didn’t respond. He just turned back to the bed, resuming his preparations. And though his movements were practiced, mechanical, Sirius could see the tension in his posture—the way his shoulders hunched, the way his jaw clenched. Remus was still holding himself together, but just barely.
Sirius felt a sharp pang of helplessness. But he had to let him go. For now.
The night passed in an eerie quiet, the usual tension of the full moon night mixed with the undercurrent of what had been left unsaid between Sirius and Remus.
Sirius stayed in the room, keeping his distance but unwilling to leave. He didn’t want to be anywhere else, not while Remus was fighting his own demons in silence. He knew better than anyone how exhausting it was to face the moon alone, to face everything Remus had to go through each month. And yet, despite knowing all of that, something felt off—a disconnect that had nothing to do with the usual rituals.
The transformation had been brutal, but that was nothing new. By the time the sun began to rise, Remus was exhausted, his body spent from the agony of the change. But when he stumbled back into the dormitory, barely able to stand, Sirius was already waiting for him.
Remus looked up at him, his eyes weary but soft. "I told you... I don’t want to keep dragging you into this." His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "I don’t want to hurt you."
Sirius shook his head, taking a step closer to him. "You’re not dragging me into anything, Moony," he said quietly. "You’re not alone."
There it was again. The thing that had been holding them back. The unspoken truth between them. "We’ll get through this together," Sirius added, his voice low and steady. "No matter what."
For a moment, Remus didn’t respond, only staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and longing in his eyes. But then he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement that felt like a victory, even if it was only the smallest one.
And for the first time in a while, the space between them seemed a little less vast. It was a start—just a start. But it was enough.