Drunk
Sirius:
The bitter scent of alcohol and tobacco hung heavy in the air. Sirius Black, his head drooping slightly over the counter, toyed with his glass of whiskey as if it were a pastime worthy of his attention. The amber liquid swirled with the tremor of his hand, creating small ripples that mirrored the turmoil in his mind.
"Another one?" asked the bartender, a burly man with an impassive expression.
Sirius didn’t lift his eyes, simply nudging the empty glass toward him.
"Why not?" he murmured, his voice hoarse, as though each word had to be dragged from some forgotten corner of his soul.
As the bartender refilled his glass, Sirius returned to his thoughts. McGonagall, the stern yet fair professor whose voice always carried a mix of reproach and maternal concern, had sent a letter that morning. He could practically hear her voice as he read: "Mr. Black, I believe Lyra's project involving the Animagus Ritual could significantly impact the treatment of lycanthropy. We need to discuss how to proceed."
Lyra, always Lyra. Brilliant, determined, and... suffocating.
She doesn’t need me, Sirius thought, taking a large gulp of whiskey that burned his throat. He blinked, as if the alcohol's heat might untangle the tight knot in his chest. But the knot persisted, cruel and unyielding.
She never did, not really.
He could see her clearly in his mind: Lyra seated at the kitchen table, a spellbook in one hand, the other gesturing animatedly as she explained some complex concept with absolute confidence. Lyra, who, from a young age, looked at the world with curiosity, learning far too quickly for her own good, taking charge before Sirius could even react.
Not that she ignored him. No, Lyra made a point of including Sirius in her projects.
"Dad, we need this book from the Library," or "Can you talk to Lupin about this?" or even "Do you think it’s possible to trace residual magic in a Horcrux?"
She wanted his help, yes, but not because she needed him. It was as if he were... a tool. A means to an end. A facilitator, a convenience.
And I let her, he thought, his fingers tightening around the glass. I let her because I’m afraid. Afraid of being like them.
The cold, haughty faces of Walburga and Orion Black surfaced in his mind, judging him as they always had. Never good enough to be the Heir or their son. He hated everything they represented, everything they’d done to him. But, at the same time, he sometimes feared that the only alternative he knew to disciplining Lyra was to be as authoritarian as they were. And that he would never do.
The bartender paused in front of him, a rag slung over his shoulder.
"You alright, mate?" he asked, his tone disinterested but tinged with curiosity.
Sirius let out a bitter laugh.
"Alright?" he echoed, raising the glass to the man as if in a toast. "Yes, of course, everything’s perfect."
The bartender shrugged and went back to work, leaving Sirius alone with his thoughts.
He thought of Harry. Harry was easier. Always had been. A child who needed guidance, care. A boy who wanted a father, who wanted to be loved and accepted.
But he’s not mine, Sirius reminded himself, the thought cutting like a blade. He’s James’.
James, the friend who had trusted him. Who had chosen him to be his son’s godfather. And what did I do? I lost Harry. I lost James. I couldn’t save anyone.
But Harry called him "Dad" now, didn’t he? Sirius smiled bitterly.
"Dad," he muttered with a dry laugh. "As if it were that simple."
Lyra called him "Dad" too, but the weight of that word was different. It felt more like a demand than a comfort, more like a responsibility than a title. She wanted him in her life, made a conscious effort to carve out space for him there, but always seemed a step ahead, as if she didn’t need his lessons, just his presence, his approval. Sirius felt like Lyra had to slow herself down so he could keep up.
He didn’t know how to parent someone like her.
The glass was empty again. How? Why hasn’t anyone invented a self-refilling glass yet? He would’ve bought one.
Sirius pushed it toward the bartender without a word, and the man refilled it automatically.
How do I care for her without smothering her? How do I protect her without taking away her choices? How do I...
He closed his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temples, trying to stifle the thoughts, but they came flooding in.
What if I fail them both?
What if I can’t be the father Lyra needs?
What if I can’t save Harry no matter how much I love him?
The knot in his chest tightened further. The weight of being a father to two children who, in such different ways, meant everything to him. The constant fear of not being enough for either of them.
When he opened his eyes, the bartender was looking at him again, now with a hint of pity.
"Want some advice, mate?" the man asked.
Sirius let out a weary sigh.
"No."
The bartender chuckled softly.
"I’ll give it anyway: whatever’s weighing on you, sort it out when you’re sober," he said, his tone firm. "You won’t find the answer to anything at the bottom of that glass."
Sirius didn’t respond. He simply took the glass and drank another sip. Tomorrow, maybe, he’d face it all again. Tomorrow. But tonight, all he wanted was the fleeting silence the alcohol promised.
Remus
Remus Lupin pushed open the bar door with a weary sigh, the strong smell of alcohol and smoke almost making him step back. He didn’t like these places, not one bit. Moony — his wolf, whom he was still learning to recognize as a sentient and sensitive being — hated the noise and how confined the space felt. Moony always preferred open areas. But in the past few days, Remus had been frequenting these bars with disturbing regularity, always searching for the same person: Sirius Black.
His eyes adjusted to the dim lighting quickly (thank you, Moony), and he spotted him almost immediately, as usual. Sirius was hunched over the counter, one hand holding his glass and the other making slight gestures as he talked to a young, giggling woman who seemed far too enchanted with the disheveled man. She was suggestively touching Sirius’ arm, clearly oblivious to the fact that he was utterly drunk. Sirius appeared to be delivering one of his practiced pickup lines — the same ones he'd used on countless Hogwarts students during his teenage years.
Remus knew the routine. This wasn’t the first time, unfortunately. He took a deep breath, adjusted his coat, and crossed the space between them with purposeful strides, ignoring the curious looks from other patrons.
"Sirius."
His voice was low, resigned but firm — the tone he used when he needed his friend to listen. It was his famous “Head Boy voice,” as Sirius liked to call it.
Sirius turned his head slowly, his unfocused eyes struggling to land on Remus.
"Moony! No, wait — sorry, sorry... It’s Remy now, isn’t it? Moony’s for the other guy," he slurred with exaggerated cheer, letting out a drunken laugh. "Look who showed up to save the day!"
The woman next to Sirius shot a distrustful glance at Remus but didn’t move.
"Who are you, exactly?" she asked, her voice tinged with irritation.
"The friend who’s taking him home," Remus replied, his tone leaving no room for debate. He was thin, yes, but tall, and he had no problem using that to his advantage to intimidate a woman who thought it acceptable to take advantage of a drunk man.
"He doesn’t seem like he wants to go," she countered, crossing her arms.
Remus tilted his head, exhaling slowly to keep his composure, and allowed Moony to let out a low growl. His wolf didn’t like this place one bit, and the quickest way out was getting this woman out of the way.
"He’s in no state to know what he wants," he said, the growl underlying his words serving as a warning to back off.
The woman hesitated, and he could swear he caught a scent that instinctively registered as fear. Huffing in feigned annoyance, she grabbed her purse and stormed out, muttering something about "meddling men."
Sorry, but you’re not the first woman I’ve had to scare off from this one. I wish, deep down, you’d be the last.
Remus waited until she disappeared through the door before turning back to Sirius.
"Come on, Sirius," he said softly, using a gentle tone so his friend wouldn’t feel worse than he already did. "That’s enough for today."
"I don’t wanna go home, Remy," Sirius mumbled, trying to lift his hand in protest, but it flopped clumsily back onto the counter. Then, with a pitiful, guilty tone, he added: "Harry can’t see me like this."
"He won’t," Remus replied calmly, slipping Sirius' arm over his shoulder. Everything was playing out according to their usual routine: guilt, followed by shame. "We’re going to my place."
Sirius mumbled something incoherent but didn’t resist as Remus guided him out of the bar. He pulled money from Sirius’ pocket and paid the bartender for the drinks without bothering to cover the bill himself — the Black family, he’d learned, was unexpectedly wealthy. Not that he’d expected them to be poor, but the extent of their investments, both in the magical and Muggle worlds, had put things into perspective. He couldn’t even fathom managing that much gold.
The trip back to Remus’ flat was quick: one Apparition and then supporting his friend through the inevitable nausea that followed. Sirius stumbled every few steps along the short distance to the building, murmuring disjointed words about Lyra, Harry, and… James. Always James.
Remus swallowed hard. The name still carried a sharp pang, even after all these years.
Time was cruel in how it passed without permission. It had been years since the Marauders' last prank, since those nights filled with whispered plans in the Gryffindor dormitory when the world seemed so vast, brimming with possibilities and adventures just waiting to be lived.
Now, here they were — the last two Marauders — but what truly remained of them?
What a pair we are, Remus thought bitterly.I abandoned him. I abandoned everyone.
Seeing Sirius like this only made the weight of that decision heavier.
By the time they reached Remus’ flat on the second floor, Sirius was nearly deadweight. Remus guided him inside and eased him carefully onto the sofa.
"Wait here."
He returned with a bucket, setting it on the floor beside Sirius.
"Precaution," he explained, even though Sirius likely wasn’t listening.
Taking a seat in the armchair next to him, Remus observed his friend. Sirius was slumped on the couch, head lolling to the side, his eyes half-closed, his expression weary.
Sirius couldn’t find his place anymore, Remus thought, a pang tightening in his chest at the sight. Not even within the family he’d built.
Lyra and Harry — two so different children, and Sirius seemed lost between them. The guilt he carried was eating him alive. It wasn’t just about being a good father; it was about being a good man. Something that, after Azkaban, Sirius seemed unsure he could ever be again.
Remus ran a hand over his face, feeling the weight of his own guilt. He wasn’t innocent, either. Years ago, he had chosen to walk away, always thinking it was for the best. But it hadn’t been. Not for Harry, not for Sirius, not for Lyra.
"You’re overthinking again, Moon— Remy," Sirius mumbled, startling him.
Remus let out a humorless chuckle, meeting Sirius' bleary gaze.
"I’m a disaster, aren’t I?" Sirius asked, laughing bitterly.
"No, Sirius," Remus replied, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "You’re not a disaster."
Sirius laughed again, but this time it sounded more like a sob.
“Lyra... Harry... they deserve better. They deserve someone better than me.”
“They deserve you,” Remus replied firmly.
Sirius shook his head slowly, closing his eyes.
“I’m not enough,” he whispered, as if confessing. “The first thing Lyra said to me when I became a free man? That I wouldn’t be a bad father as long as I didn’t give up on her. It seemed so easy at the time,” he choked out. “It felt like such a cliché thing to say, you know? Tell me, Remy, is life easier when you choose to run away?”
Remus knew the road ahead would be long. Sirius was drowning, and he needed to be there to pull him back to the surface. Perhaps it was too late to fix the mistakes of the past, but he would do whatever it took to be the friend Sirius needed. He had decided to be better...
But would Sirius really do this to him?
“Did I run away? You thought I was the traitor!” Remus made sure to remind him, holding back a growl that threatened to escape his throat. “You kept saying you’d never judge me because of Moony, but in the end, you distrusted me because of him, didn’t you? Because I’m nothing but a filthy, wrong werewolf and—”
“We distrusted you because you were always away—” Sirius shot back, irritated by the accusation.
“Carrying out Dumbledore’s orders to recruit the werewolf packs!” Remus threw his hands in the air, finally realizing he was looming over Sirius in a threatening way, much like he had with the woman at the bar—but far more aggressive. “I’m sorry—”
“Sorry for what? You’re right!” Sirius shouted, shoving Remus’ chest to push him away, tears streaming down his face. And Remus knew this—this argument—was all because of the alcohol. Sirius would never have said these things sober. They would never have gotten into this subject...
“It’s all my fault! Happy now? James and Lily died because I trusted Peter! Lyra and Harry suffered for years because I was more focused on chasing that damned rat than on finding them and ensuring they were safe! And now, even your miserable life is my fault! Are you satisfied?”
“Sirius...”
“I’M SORRY!” Sirius was openly crying, snot running down his flushed face. “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry... I don’t know how to make it better... I’m so sorry...”
Remus hugged him before the thought had even fully formed. He could feel Sirius trembling in his sobs, crying into his shoulder.
Their history was a mess of bitter accusations, fingers pointing blame, deep pain, and wounds that had never healed. Remus held Sirius tighter in his arms, trying to stop him from spiraling further, praying he wouldn’t remember any of this later to avoid more guilt. At the same time, he hoped Sirius would remember, so they could talk about it when he was sober. They couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine—that wasn’t how emotions worked.
Sirius had been pushing all his negative feelings to the back of his mind, refusing to acknowledge them since his release from Azkaban, because he didn’t want to scare the kids. He wanted to seem strong enough for them to feel they could lean on him and ask for his help. Nobody feels they can trust their problems to someone who can’t even handle their own.
Would Lyra, independent as she was, have allowed Sirius to take part in her life and her crazy plans if she thought he couldn’t handle the pressure? If he already played a secondary role, at best, in her life, what would it be like if she didn’t think he was strong enough to be involved?
“Sirius, it’s time for you to see a therapist,” Remus murmured to his friend, who was nearly asleep on his feet, held upright only by Remus’ support. He’d have to bring it up again when Sirius woke up and convince him to go, but things couldn’t continue as they were.
Remus could try to find a Muggle-born or a relative familiar with magic to treat Sirius. In the meantime, he’d look for ways to make Sirius feel useful, like he was truly helping.
Remus would do whatever it took. Anything, even if it meant starting with the simple act of holding the bucket for his drunk friend when necessary.