Moonlight
Sirius Black prides himself on many things—his charm, his wit, his shockingly good looks, and, most importantly, his instinct for trouble that borders on an art form. Which is why, on this fine evening, he feels the way a skilled artist might when admiring a particularly good piece. Quite accomplished.
He usually doesn’t go out of his way to ruin dinner; after all, his hair needs all the protein it can get. But the plan he has in motion is good enough to make the inconvenience worthwhile. And Peter has promised to show him the way to the kitchens afterward.
It’s chicken soup for dinner, and he watches as she gingerly tips the spoon into her mouth, careful not to let any of the broth splash onto her pristine uniform. It’s a bit annoying, really, how someone can be so obsessed with keeping up such a facade of perfection.
It’s so annoying, in fact, that Sirius Black, first of his name and the most mischievous soul in Hogwarts, thinks it’s his absolute duty to put an end to it.
That’s what’s running through his mind as he watches the pot of soup he paid the house-elves to let him charm explode in the centre of the Slytherin table, and more specifically, right in the faces of Snivellus and Garnier, who unsurprisingly wears a remarkably furious expression on her features.
Much better than cold indifference, if you ask him.
"Wicked!" James cheers from beside him, giving Sirius a proud clap on the back. "But how'd you know exactly where to aim it, mate?"
There's a moment of quiet that hangs between them as Sirius is too preoccupied with taking in the fruits of his labour. An angry Snape and a murderous Alexandra. As if the sight of the two is enough to make him the happiest man alive, he turns back to James with the most joyful grin lighting up his face. “Magic,” he says, with that devil-may-care tone in his voice. He shoots James a wink. “And a bit of guesswork. Not my most precise, but it’ll have to do.”
James laughs loudly, the sound booming and warm. It’s enough that most people join in, and even Lily Evans has to visibly fight down the smile creeping onto her own face.
It’s quite the development, really. Sirius never tells James when he notices such a thing, though. Something about letting Evans come forward with her feelings naturally, without being forced, seems ten times more romantic.
It’s the least James deserves, after all.
Anyway, “You’re a menace, you know that,” his friend wheezes, and there's a moment where he coughs so hard that Peter has to pat him on the back.
Sirius is in the midst of flashing him another grin at the compliment, so he almost doesn’t notice her storming toward him.
Almost.
She’d be hard to miss completely, after all. Her hair now hangs loosely, with a few damp strands brushing her neck, and those eyes that remind him so much of burning coals. It’s a rather formidable appearance, really; he ought to be more frightened.
Seeing as he’s seen worse though, he simply straightens as she marches toward him. So close now, that her wand brushes against his chest, and he can see the remnants of the chicken broth dancing across her cheek.
There’s a level of embarrassment in her gaze this time, and can’t really blame her. Not when the whole school has now seen her soaked to the bone in a well seasoned mixture of chicken, celery and other vegetables.
The Great Hall watches the two of them as they always do: the icy Slytherin prefect who manages to maintain her cool with everyone except Sirius Black, and Sirius Black, the most desirable student at Hogwarts, who has made it his life's mission to bother her for as long as he exists.
It's quite the spectacle, one that results in curious eyes and loud laughter. He revels in it, as he always does when the attention is turned toward him. It’s a buy one get one free deal really. He gets to make her hate him and the school gets to watch.
She really hates him today. He can tell because of the way she grips onto her wand as though it is the only thing keeping her stable and away from punching him clean across the jaw. He’d like to see it happen if he’s honest, anything for her to take down the icy exterior she shows everyone.
Unfortunately she is equally as practised and she knows what he wants.
“Careful, Blood Traitor.” She hisses under her breath, loud enough that only he and those in close proximity can hear. “One of these days someone may slip up and end your pathetic existence.”
His smirk is still plastered on his face, and yet now his heart thuds angrily in his chest. She doesn’t have to target him or even attack him, she’s angered him enough. The cold look on her face and the icy arrogance that radiates off every word she grinds out behind clenched teeth is perfectly suitable in making him lose his composure
For a moment, he’s at a complete loss for words. She always drags everything too far; she’s always been too angry, and it infuriates him. She has no right to hate him with such unrelenting passion, to dedicate herself so completely to loathing his existence. It’s as though every decision he’s ever made has been a personal affront to her, every act of defiance or mischief a calculated insult aimed directly at her.
It's infuriating how arrogant she is.
“Keep hiding behind your Prefect badge.” He sniffs and the air around him is one of a nonchalant irritation. As though she is a measly fly he wishes to swat away. “But then again I guess it’s easy to be brave when you plan on becoming a death eater.”
James stiffens beside him as he always does when his followers are mentioned. Like it's taboo and speaking of them will force them into existence. It’s a naive hope considering the news. They’re very much real and Sirius would bet his very last galleon he’s staring into the eyes of one right now.
The thought is validated when her familiar haughty demeanour returns to her, and she looks down at him as though he is nothing less than mud on her boot. As though she is not the one covered in chicken broth, as though she were not the one that was made a laughing stock of the hall just minutes prior.
The rest of the students have lost interest, the novelty of her public humiliation worn off now that her icy composure has reasserted itself. She’s decided the joke isn’t funny anymore, and it’s as if that decision alone has sucked the air from the room. The attention drifts elsewhere, and Sirius feels a spike of frustration at how easily she manages to turn the tides.
She can choose what she wants to happen, and yet she always chooses to be the most infuriating person he’s ever set his sights on.
Her wand digs a little deeper into his chest, and she says curtly, “Detention every night for the rest of the week with Filch. I hear he needs help cleaning the trophies—bring your toothbrush.” She flicks her wand to scourgify her robes, before turning on her heel and marching out of the room.
If he catches the waver in her expression before she turns away from him, he’ll pretend he never saw it.
“Cheer up mate, at least you can walk this time!” James says encouragingly, though Sirius can hear the muffled laughter in his voice.
He rolls his eyes, “Let it out Prongs, I deserve it.”
---
Detention with Filch is just as dreary and unpleasant as he expected, if not more so now that he could potentially be missing something extremely important.
He’s willing to let the words of the old caretaker go if it means he’d be out of the door with enough time to help Remus down to the shack. The full moon is upon them tonight, and even now as the sky darkens he can only imagine the pain his friend is going through. The usual ache of his bones and more so the emotional turmoil he feels as he becomes more and more unlike himself under the hand of something he can't control.
If it were up to Sirius, he’d have stolen the moon out of the sky a long time ago and locked it in a place where it had no room to cause any pain.
There are things that hide in the dark that seem to scare all of them after all.
He shoves a trophy back onto the shelf with a little more force than necessary, the names etched in brass meaningless to him. Each one a relic of a past that doesn't matter now, that has been forgotten with time. It’s a bit unsettling, knowing that will be him one day. That everything he’s lived as will be erased, and he too will be another story. Her gaze won’t matter in a few years, and the way it feels as though she can see right through him won’t either. It won’t matter whether or not she’s somehow seen through every stance in his mind, every fibre in being, and boxed it neatly and moved on as though it were nothing.
He will forget her.
He really does hate that feeling. The one where he feels less than, dismissed. He’d escaped the majority of that feeling the night he left. He’s built himself tirelessly, brick by brick, to be anything but the boy he might’ve once been. But the remnants he hadn’t quite gotten around to taking apart stir up angrily when she’s in his presence.
He’s built himself to be someone that is more than a name he never wanted to carry. He wants to be a brother, a good friend. A fighter, a valiant, someone who runs into the dark without fear of what’s to come.
She doesn’t care about any of that.
He is not Sirius Black, the charming or the funny. He is not desirable nor agitating. He is not an heir nor is he a rebel.
He is nothing.
Nobody makes him feel like that anymore. Except her.
And it infuriates him more than he can ever say.
He doesn’t bother scrubbing as hard as he was at the beginning of the session. There’s too many to clean, and he doesn’t much feel like wasting his time trying to make progress. There’s a few cups he skips over entirely, the section surrounding the 1940s particularly, and if he happens to flip the cup that says Walburga Black on its head, it's because he doesn’t quite feel up to the emotional turmoil he might face if he looks at it for any longer.
The name will also be forgotten to time soon enough.
He’ll die making sure of that.
Filch wanders into the room, his usual stench of cat milk and sweat wafting from him like a blanket that Sirius can’t quite unwrap himself from. He barely looks at him when he enters, just waves a gnarly hand in the direction of a stack of cauldrons that Sirius hadn’t noticed were sitting in the corner.
He sighs very loudly.
There’s no way he’ll get around to seeing Remus off at this rate. He ought to be resting up for the night to come, looking after his friend as he goes through what might be the most torturous moments of his life. He should be listening to James as talks about the latest Evans drama, and he should be laying quietly beside Peter as he shares his chocolates before offering to set him up with a girl for the hundredth time.
He should be doing anything but sitting here with only Filch and his loony cat as company.
“You can’t actually expect me to clean those too Argus.” He says hoping to whatever humanity the catman might have left. “It’s almost curfew and I'm bloody tired.”
Filch does not seem very happy by the use of his first name and makes sure to send him a scalding look to emphasise this. “If it were up to me you’d be hanging from your ankles in the dungeons Black.” He growls, and Sirius has to send him a concerned look. “That Garnier’s too lenient with you lot.”
Here we go again.
It’s not very surprising really. That she has some strange connection with Filch, very fitting of her creepy frigid personality if you’d ask him.
He grabs another cauldron and runs a halfhearted rag across its belly. “Yeah well she’s got a thing for rules.” He mutters, biting back the yelp of disgust that builds up in his throat when his bare hand makes contact with something particularly slimy. “And creepy old men apparently.”
Filch in his anger stands up to give him what will no doubt be a long list of threats poorly disguised as a stern talking too. Unfortunately Sirius isn’t feeling very chatty at this particular moment, considering the height of the moon in the sky and the fact that there is a very large amount of cauldrons waiting for his attention.
He stands up, crossing his arms over his chest and shooting Filch the very grin he uses to woo many members of the general public with. Seeing as the caretaker is not any ordinary member of the wizarding community, he isn’t impressed at the attempt.
“Stop looking at me Black and get to scrubbing.” He grumbles, shooting what is quite offensively a dirty look.
Sirius withdraws his smile somewhat reluctantly. “How about we make a deal?”
He says keeping the irritation out of his tone, “I’ll be back tomorrow to finish the rest off and you can go bathe Norris over there, she smells particularly strong today.”
“You’re not going anywhere Black.” Is his reply, and he strokes the cat in a way that Sirius definitely doesn’t want to interpret as comfort. “Get back to cleaning before I get the chain out.”
Sirius is pretty sure that the practice of whipping a schoolboy became illegal when Dumbledore rose to leadership, but now that he really thinks about it, he can't actually recall a rule clearly forbidding it. And judging by the look of Filch, Sirius wouldn’t be surprised if the man was willing to take the risk.
He isn't about to stick around to find out. So, when the caretaker turns around, distracted by a hungry Mrs. Norris clawing at his ankle, Sirius whispers a quick, “Sorry, Argus, but I don't exactly have much of a choice,” before pulling out his wand. He aims at a stack of trophies, sending them tumbling down onto the oblivious Filch, who is promptly buried beneath the pile.
Unfortunately, Sirius isn’t lucky enough to evade the clutches of an angry Mrs. Norris. Seeing her owner collapsed and likely concussed under a heap of forgotten achievements, the cat leaps onto Sirius, digging her claws into the sleeve of his jumper.
What happens next is a blur, but for the sake of filling in the gaps in his memory, Sirius will later claim he heroically gasped—as one might when a particularly angry feline is attached to their person—and exited the classroom in a manner befitting the nobility of the name Sirius Black.
For the sake of accuracy, however, it should be noted that upon contact with the cat, he screamed as loudly as his lungs would allow before frantically trying to throw the creature off him. He’s not scared of cats. Merlin, no. Sirius Black fears nothing. He simply acknowledges them as his natural enemies, considering his own nature as a dog. Nothing more.
Anyway, after flinging the cat away—quite violently—Sirius bolts out of the room. He doesn’t even pause when the cold night air hits him square in the chest. Moments like these make him grateful for James Potter and his infuriatingly early morning runs that Sirius is forced to join.
He reckons Mrs. Norris will be in for a bit of a surprise when she realises she isn’t chasing down the usual plump third-year. This is Sirius Black she’s dealing with, and one thing many can agree on is his extreme stamina in all places….
He doesn’t actually expect to enter the building stealthily, so when he wakes up a few slumbering portraits and crashes into numerous suits of armour littered around the corridors, he already has his signature smile ready to melt their irritated hearts and keep them quiet—hopefully quiet enough to avoid alerting any teachers on patrol.
Escaping an angry cat is one thing. Escaping an angry McGonagall after curfew is another matter entirely.
Not that he hasn’t done it before, of course; it’s just that he barely survived that one time.
---
Later, back in the common room, Sirius is still nursing his wounds from the encounter with Filch and Ms. Norris. He was met with a wave of warmth when he’d entered, the roaring fire, and his three best friends sprawled out on the couches. James is tossing a Snitch up into the air, catching it lazily every time it flutters back down. Peter is nibbling on a handful of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, making faces whenever he gets a nasty one, and Remus is, well, he’s how he always is when the full moon is upon them. Trying desperately to keep himself whole.
“About time, Padfoot,” James had said, not looking away from the Snitch, he doesn’t sound annoyed but Sirius can tell he’s not happy about the time he’d strolled in. Remus needs them the most on nights like these. “Thought you’d be stuck with Filch for the rest of your life.”
“Almost was,” Sirius mutters, flopping into an armchair. “The man has it out for me. I swear, if I had let that cat of his claw my arm to shreds, I’d probably still be scrubbing those damn trophies.”
“Another successful detention, then,” Remus says dryly, sitting gingerly on an armchair. Sirius can tell the position hurts him, he doesn’t try to help him readjust. Remus doesn’t like feeling any different to them, even when it physically pains him.
“Glad you survived, mate,” Peter adds, though he’s clearly more focused on picking through the beans in his hand, carefully selecting his next victim.
Sirius stretches his legs out, wincing as he feels the soreness from his narrow escape. “You know, I might just pick another target. Garnier’s getting too predictable. It’s no fun when all she does is give me detention.”
Peter looks up at that, raising an eyebrow. “You mean, you actually plan your pranks on her?”
“Of course I do, Wormtail,” Sirius replies, feigning offence, his pranks are always elaborate and well thought out thank you very much. “I don’t just attack her because I’m bored. I attack her because—”.
“—because you hate her and want her to know that,” James and Peter chime in together, the familiarity of the phrase making them laugh.
Sirius is about to tell them that he wasn’t going to say that (he definitely was) when Remus rolls his eyes, a slight irritation coating his tone, “Honestly, Sirius, you’re so immature. What did she do to you that was so bad? You’ve never really told us.”
“Isn’t being a Slytherin enough of a reason to hate someone?” James asks, still toying with the Snitch. He catches it deftly in his hand and looks at Remus as if daring him to argue.
“No,” Remus says flatly. “And that’s exactly how we got into that whole mess with Snape, remember?”
James shrugs, unconcerned. “I’d hate Snape even if he were a Gryffindor.”
Remus sighs, choosing to ignore the comment, and turns his attention back to Sirius. “Come on, then. Speak up. What’s the real reason you can’t stand Garnier?”
Sirius shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to deflect. “Am i not allowed to hate anyone because i feel like it anymore?” He says, not entirely happy with the sudden twist in conversation.
“Be serious, Padfoot,” Remus says, exasperated. Then, catching himself, he adds, “And don’t you dare make that ‘but I am Sirius’ joke.”
Peter snickers, but Sirius just rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. The truth is... well, it’s long gone now. Doesn’t matter.”
“What are you on about?” Remus presses, not willing to let it go. It’s moments like this that Sirius hates the moon the most. When it transforms his usually understanding friend into a crossbreed of a dementor and an angry professor.
If he was awaiting a court sentence, he’d have just gone to Azkaban for merlins sake.
Sirius sighs, looking around the room as if hoping for an escape. When he sees none, he states. “It’s a pureblood thing. You wouldn’t get it.”
James perks up at that, raising an eyebrow. “A pureblood thing? Don’t tell me it’s just because she calls you a blood traitor. You ought to develop a backbone, mate. We both get called that about three times an hour.”
Sirius elbows him in the ribs. “Do you want an explanation or not, Prongs?”
James falls silent, though he’s clearly intrigued.
Sirius mutters something incomprehensible under his breath, but none of them catch it. Peter leans in, squinting. “What did you say?”
Sirius sighs, louder this time, and repeats, “We were supposed to be married back in fifth year.”
The room goes still. Peter’s eyes widen in incredulity, and the others exchange looks of shock before bursting into laughter.
“No way,” James says, clutching his sides. “You and Alexandra Garnier? You’re joking!”
Sirius glares at them, clearly not amused. “I’m serious. Before I ran away from home, I was supposed to be betrothed to her. My family set it up. Didn’t know much about her at the time, but I knew I wasn’t planning on marrying anyone they picked.”
Remus, no longer laughing, leans forward. “Ok so what happened?” The tension in his shoulders are clearly still there, but Sirius can see that the pain has been pushed to the back of his friend’s mind. That’s what forces him to continue.
He thinks if it were anyone else asking him, he’d have told them to sod off by now.
Sirius shrugs, trying to sound casual, but his tone betrays his discomfort. “Her father—bloody scary man, by the way, always scowling—looks like he’s just slaughtered a dragon or something—”
James’ eyebrows shoot up. “Sorry mate, but you’re going to have to elaborate on that.”
Sirius shrugs nonchalantly. “He reminded me of how Bellatrix used to come home after she’d butchered something in the garden. Like it was the best thing ever.” It’s a bit quiet after he says that. Everyone knows about his crazy cousin, nobody cares much for mentioning her. “Anyways, he said the whole idea of a betrothal was an insult. Said my family was beneath theirs, not to mention the blood traitor Gryffindor son they expected to give.”
Peter whistles lowly, and Remus’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Sounds intense.”
“Yeah, well,” Sirius continues, “my mum was particularly furious about it. Took it out on me, as usual. Insults, maybe a hex or two. You know the drill.”
“And you think Garnier told her father to break it off?” James asks, finally catching up.
Sirius nods, his expression darkening. “Her father’s never around, so the only way he’d know anything about me is if she told him. That’s why I can’t stand her. Bloody coward she is”
The room falls silent again, this time in a more thoughtful way. James, always the one to break tension, cracks a grin. “Well, I suppose that’s a decent reason to hate someone.”
Sirius smirks, though the bitterness lingers in his eyes. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I dwell on it or anything.”
Remus gives him a sympathetic look, but Peter still seems baffled. “So you hate her because your parents wanted you to marry her, but her parents thought you weren’t good enough?”
Sirius nods. “In a nutshell, yeah.”
James leans back, shaking his head in disbelief. “Man, pureblood families are messed up.”
Sirius snorts. “You’re just figuring that out?”
The banter returns to normal after that, the weight of the revelation slowly lifting as they move on to lighter topics. But every now and then, Remus catches Sirius staring into the fire, his expression more sombre than usual, as if the past isn’t quite as far behind him as he’d like to pretend.
He doesn’t get much of a chance to ponder upon this any longer though, his neck is tensing in the familiar way it always does, the way it does when the full moon is on its way. When he rubs his neck, Peter, beady eyed, steps forward abandoning the packet of Bertie Botts on his chair and offering him a hand. “Come on mate.” He says softly. “Let's get this over with.”
The other two boys share a look and they move almost methodically. They stand next to Remus the way they do every full moon, they rope their arms around his shoulders, as they do each full moon, and they help him leave the common room, as they do every full moon. There’s gravity in the gesture, an almost sacred ritual they perform in order to achieve something that never comes. The warmth of the fire becomes a dull echo and the cold air of the corridors bite at their exposed skin
It’s a silent rebellion, that all four of them pound against the very folds of the universe. He is not alone, he will never be alone. The hand he has been dealt is a cruel one, an unjust one, one that they will slight every chance they can get. Nobody can separate the brothers that walk interlinked across the lonely grounds of the school, not even the stars Sirius is named after, they can watch for all he cares, as they carve their own fates.
Destiny cannot always be denied however, and they are yet to know this. Their rebellion is only a shadow that has been allowed to dance in the wake of the furnace that is fate. It is evident in the way, no matter the potion or cure, Remus’ body betrays him every month, taking the material of his soul and moulding it into something monstrous, something so unlike him. It’s in the way they have to watch this happen every time, knowing there is nothing they can do about it.
The night is a cathedral, and the moon reminds him so much of the cold deities he had once read about as a boy. It will punish them one day, they are not supposed to be monsters, not meant to tear through the very embers of the atmosphere in a bout of teeth and claws. They are not supposed to reject the purity of their humanity with so much fervour in the cover of a darkness that wants nothing else but to see them swallowed whole.
They have become heretics, choosing to reject the natural order of things in favour of their own path. They disobey the world's laws, human laws, sacred laws. They have bound themselves to Remus in a way that they will never be bound to anyone again. In a covenant of blood and fur, bone and sinew. It’s a pact made in the shadow of the moon, a vow to sin together so that one of them doesn’t have to sin alone.
As Remus convulses on the floor of the small shack inside the whomping willow, Sirius is forced to recall the stories his father had once told him, when he were still small, and the words blood purity had meant very little. Gods and men alike were punished for trifling with fate, for interfering with a path set by the heavens. But now that the screams of agony as his friend transforms grace his ears, he thinks there is very little punishment that could harm him more than this has. This is enough to convince him that whatever punishment he might receive for their coming together as a congregation under Remus’ liturgy of pain, it's completely and inextricably worth it.
When Remus’s transformation is complete, and the wolf stands in the place of the boy they love, they fall into their usual routine. They had long ago made peace with all that is wrong with letting go of their human instincts, and so they let go once again. James becomes the stag, his antlers proud and defiant, a crown for the king of their midnight rites. Sirius becomes the dog, close enough to the wolf that he can dance on the edge of savagery without falling into it. And Peter, small and quick, slips between the cracks, a silent shadow who bears witness to the three monsters without fully embracing them.
Perhaps it is he who is the biggest monster of all, as he watches them run free without truly letting go of his own inhibitions.
In the quiet after the transformation, when the wolf’s growls have softened into something more primal, more peaceful, they run together through the night. The forest becomes their sanctuary, a place where the boundaries between man and beast blur until they are indistinguishable. They move as one, a pack bound by something stronger than blood, something darker than love. They are creatures of the night, denied by the world but accepted by each other, and in this fleeting freedom, they find solace.
The moon watches them, cold and distant, a reminder of the fate they cannot escape. But in these hours, they defy it with every breath, every step, every beat of their monstrous hearts. They know the night will end, that dawn will come and with it the return to their human forms, to the lives they are supposed to lead. But for now, they run, they laugh, and they deny the stars.
And perhaps that is the greatest irony of all—that in trying to escape fate, they have bound themselves to it more tightly than ever. Their sin is not in the transformation itself, but in the belief that they can outrun the consequences. They know, deep down, that they cannot. But until the day comes when fate demands its due, they will continue to run, to sin, to deny the stars and the heavens above.
And in that denial, they find a kind of twisted grace.
Through thick and thin, this brotherhood shall never be divided.