Deerly Beloved

It’s going to be a mighty hangover. Sirius will blame it on the sugary concoction James has picked up from the bar for their next round, precariously floating four cauldron shaped glasses to the back corner of the Three Broomsticks. It’s a yearly ritual, they take their drunken shenanigans out of London and back to Hogsmeade and reminisce (read: get close to black out drunk in the pub they used to spend their Hogsmeade weekends in, terrorize the regulars with raucous card games in the back corner, and then collapse into what are now their designated beds in the rooms upstairs).

“What happened to beer?” Remus moans. Beside him Peter looks a little bit grim, already several cocktails in and ready to keel over. He’s been a lightweight since they were fifteen, only there’s no common room couch for him to nod off on now. Sirius slaps them both on the back and gives them a good jostle that makes Peter grumble. 

“I think what you mean is thanks for the free drink, Prongs,” he says cheerfully, craning across the table to catch two of the mugs from midair. He slides one to each Marauder, grinning at James across the table, and hoists his up for their fourth cheers of the night. 

It’s properly vile, sickly sweet and reminiscent of the butterscotch icing on the cauldron cakes they used to sneak back to their dorm room, and when Peter opens his mouth three amber bubbles float out from between his lips. 

James nearly doubles over laughing, so Sirius takes a great big gulp of his and does the same.

“Alright James, your go…”

“Ok ok,” James takes a big breath like he’s really considering his decision and then, predictably, says, “Dare.”

Peter taps his chin thoughtfully before pointing to the door. “I dare you to sneak into Honeydukes and steal a week’s supply of Fizzing Whizzbees.”

“Pete!” James exclaims, throwing himself back in his seat with a laugh that echoes off the low ceiling. “I’m pretty sure that’s just a crime, are you trying to have me arrested?”

“We used to do it all the time!” Peter exclaims. Remus shushes him, so he drops his tone considerably when he then says. “Fine. Are you going to chicken out?”

James looks at Peter intently for a moment before standing up from his seat. His hand lands heavily on Sirius’ shoulder and before he goes he holds his hand over his heart in what Sirius thinks James thinks is a Muggle scout’s honor. “I am not a chicken.” He declares. “Any other requests?” 

When nobody pipes up James slips away from the table and right out the front door of the Three Broomsticks. Sirius tracks him through the window, all the way down the sidewalk until he rounds the corner and disappears from sight. 

“Ok Sirius, you pick.”

Sirius snorts into his mug. “Shouldn’t we wait for Prongs to get back?” 

Remus shrugs, picking lazily at the basket of chips in the middle of the table. “He’ll be ages, if he ever makes it. Pick.”

Remus is a diabolical truth or dare player. He always seems to have something premeditated up his sleeve. “Truth.”

“Your crush on James. You know the one, sixth year?” Sirius’ eyes go wide. Remus brushes off his attempt to call him a bastard. “Did you get over it?”

Remus and Peter are looking at him with equal intensity. Remus’ curious and fitted with a small smirk and Peter wide-eyed like he’s only now working out the root of the intensity of his and James’ friendship. 

It’s a cardinal sin to lie in a game of truth or dare, especially among the Marauders. If you’re caught it means punishment, and Remus is looking at him like he already knows the answer. Not that he could have proof, Sirius is exceptionally careful to keep his feelings to himself.

“No.” He slams his eyes shut to avoid the look on Remus’ face and prays the flush in his cheeks dissipates before James gets back. “Merlin, Remus you’re such a dick.” Sirius shoots a crumpled up napkin in his direction. “You keep your mouth shut.” 

Remus draws his hand across his mouth like a zipper, but the silence is broken a moment later by him dissolving into quietly amused laughter.

His cauldron cup is nearly empty when the door swings open again and James appears red-cheeked and laughing, his pockets stuffed obviously full. 

“Oh Merlin,” Remus laughs when James re-takes his seat, “didn’t know you were a criminal Prongs.”

James only grins, divvying candies of all sorts onto the table. Peter’s requested Fizzing Whizbees, Chocolate Frogs piled in front of Remus, and a whole bag of Sugar Mice that wriggle around in their attempt to escape, dropped right in front of Sirius. 

Sirius elbows James firmly in the side. “You know,” he huffs, biting back a laugh. The blush in his cheeks has at least cooled. “Charges are a bit stiffer if you’re caught as an adult.”

James dips his hand into Sirius’ bag of Sugar Mice. “Oh well,” the mouse goes limp when he lifts it to his lips. James bites the tail clear off before he leans in closer and whispers, “I left like three galleons in the register.” There’s a bit of sugar clinging to the corner of his lip. Sirius does his best not to be distracted by it, or the wink James throws at him before he turns back to the table. 

“Moony, your turn…”

“Truth.” Remus almost always chooses truth. There was a time when they were young when he was the king of dare, but there’s a certain level of trust now that didn’t exist when they were kids, and they’ve spilled most of their big secrets anyway. 

James makes the same frustrated noise he always does, a low grumble at the back of his throat. 

“So boring,” he tsks and after a careful moment of consideration adds, “Did you or did you not fuck Benjy Fenwick in the shared loo last Wednesday night at the-” he mouths ‘Order meeting’ instead of saying it out loud, so clearly he still has some of his wits about him.

Remus’ flushed face is answer enough, but James balances his chin on his hand and watches expectantly until he answers. 

“I did fuck Benjy in the shared loo.” He at least has the wherewithal to sound a little bit remorseful. 

The confession is met with a chorus of noise, mostly from James who is probably hamming it up for the game.

When Sirius’ next turn rolls around the lot of them have their last cocktail in their hands (after a desperate plea from Remus that they switch to beer) along with (at the bartender’s) water. 

“I dare you to propose to the next sorry prat who comes through that door,” Peter says. He’s spent the better part of the last twenty minutes trying to make a ring out of the paper napkins on the table, and has wound up with something that resembles a long skinny worm. 

“Oh come on you’re not going to make me make a fool of myself,” Sirius complains, but he’s already up and out of his seat because if there’s one thing pub nights are good for it is in fact making a fool of oneself. He’s primed, ready to drop to one knee the next time the door swings open, but it’s half-passed one in the morning and the regular patrons of the Three Broomsticks are already here. He hovers stupidly for what feels like a long time before Peter lets him out of it, tugging on his sleeve and accusing him of looking like a loon stalking around like he is.

“It’s for the best,” Sirius snorts, throwing himself back down into his chair. “I am so not marriage material,” under normal (sober) circumstances it might make Sirius’ chest ache, but now it seems endlessly hilarious, whatever was in his last round of drinks making it particularly easy to laugh along at his own misfortune. James is the only one who looks somber about it, Remus and Peter muffling their snickers in their cocktail glasses.

“Oh stop that Pads, you so are marriage material.”

Peter, who seems to have inhaled the vibrant blue concoction in his glass, snorts liquid out his nose. Maybe that should offend him, it’s funny but it isn’t that funny.

“Oh c’mon Prongs,” Peter giggles. “I mean when’s the last time he held down a long-term fling? Kept the same bloke around for more than a week or two? He’s sort of a wreck- ow!” There’s the distinct thunk of something hard, James’ shoe probably, colliding with Peter’s shin under the table. 

“He isn’t a wreck.” James argues.

“Good Godric,” Sirius pipes up this time, throwing his hands up with an exasperated huff. “Can we finish our game and stop debating my marriage-ability? It’s getting offensive.”

“Fine,” Remus swivels in his seat to face James. “Truth or dare?”

They all know James is going to say “dare.” At least he’s stopped following it up with ‘truth is for cowards.’ Except maybe he should have picked truth this time, because the smirk that spreads over Remus’ face is positively wicked. 

“Marry him then.”

Peter laughs loudly, smothering it in his fingers. 

“I’m serious - don’t - I dare you to marry him.”

“Come on Moony,” Sirius is well on his way to following Peter into his fit of giggles, except when he looks up from his drink the rest of the table is terribly quiet. Remus and James are locked into some sort of staring stalemate that ends in James downing the rest of his drink, tipping back in his chair, and saying, “Fine.”

Remus swallows the rest of his drink too, before shooing Peter up and out of the booth.

That’s how they end up stumbling over one another in a drunken flurry of limbs, pouring out the door of the Three Broomsticks and around to an alley stinking of piss and farm animals. 

“Where the hell are you taking us?” Sirius hisses, but Remus only shushes him. 

Where the Three Broomsticks is bright and lively, the Hog’s Head is dim and raucous. There’s a table of wizards in the back right corner huddled closely together with a game of something probably not-quite legal between them, given the galleons scattered between their cards. There are other clusters of people too, they glance up curiously and then away when they deem the four of them uninteresting. 

“Wait here,” Remus pats him on the arm and then ushers the three of them into a booth like he expects them to bolt right out the door before making his way to the long grubby bar. He seems to know just who to talk to, seems friendly with them even, his laughter echoing off of low ceilings when a man with a long white beard shuffles over and says something under his breath. 

“Merlin,” Peter mutters under his breath. “Doesn’t he look a lot like Dumbledore?”

For a second Sirius has flashbacks to Hogwarts and detentions spent hand-polishing toilets. The Dumbledore impersonator looks at the lot of them over Remus’ shoulder, and Sirius can feel the judgement so viscerally that his skin crawls with it. After a moment or two he gives a gruff nod and something that’s almost like a laugh, and then Remus is gesturing for the rest of them to follow. James, Remus, and the unnamed man are tall enough that they need to duck their heads under the low doorway. Beside him, James is buzzing with nervous energy and it isn’t until they’re pushed in front of an ugly wooden arch that he realizes what exactly is happening. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake Remus you’re not actually going to make him go through with it?” He squawks, which is odd because surely his gut reaction should be: ‘You’re not actually going to make me marry James Potter.’

 “I don’t see him complaining,” Remus says cooly. Four sets of eyes swivel to James, who looks just drunk enough that he’s wavering a little on his feet. Peter, bless him, looks the most horrified. Remus looks like he’s trying very hard to stifle his laughter, and the Albus impersonator has a strange glint in his. 

“A dare is a dare,” James declares, shrugging. “And I’m not a wimp, Padfoot…” James is already standing underneath the wooden arch, leaning against one rickety post for balance. Once again, he should ask if he gets a say in this. But James is right, a dare is a dare, so he stumbles over his own feet to take his rightful spot in front of him. 

“Aberforth,” Remus hisses in his ear when the previously unnamed man turns his back to rifle through a dusty old crate, procuring a very old book and then his wand from the pocket of his old brown robes. 

“Rings?” He asks. 

James frowns deeply. “Oh fuck,” he says, smacking himself on the forehead (and narrowly missing sending his glasses to the floor) like this was the plan all along and he somehow forgot to pack them.

“Won’t work without rings,” Aberforth grumbles. 

“I have rings.” When those eyes turn toward him instead he laughs tightly and says, “A dare is a dare, right?”

The only ring that will fit James’ finger is the one he wears on his thumb, silver and engraved with a tiny roaring lion. He wiggles it off, finding that his hands are suddenly quite sweaty, and deposits it and another into Aberforth’s waiting palm. When he takes his place one step above them he’s looming and broad in his robes. The book sits open in his right hand, the rings balanced on top of it. The room smells just as much as the alleyway did of farm animals, it’s barely lit, most of the light coming from the streetlamps and half-full moon streaming from the high-up windows, suggesting they’re in some sort of basement. The floor is littered with remnants of straw and crates of old bottles, all pushed to the side to make space for the rickety wooden arch. With the five of them crammed in here, there’s hardly room to move around. 

Aberforth clears his throat.

“I don’t have all night, not gonna do anything frilly for you,” his eyes narrow at the two of them. James hides his laughter behind his hand, sobering himself up enough to nod solemnly. 

“Got it!” He says, seeming all too delighted to carry out this stupid dare. “Nothing frilly.”

Sirius can feel his pulse thumping away in his ears, in his teeth, in every inch of his skin. He’s watching Aberforth’s mouth move around marriage vows, real, Magic-honored marriage vows, and like he can’t stop himself his own lips move to follow suit.

And so do James’, grinning cheekily at him in the dim, dusty cellar.

Aberforth finishes with a rather grand sounding  “Mìle fàilte dhuit le d'bhréid, Fad do ré gun robh thu slàn. Móran làithean dhuit is sìth, Le d'mhaitheas is le d'nì bhi fàs.”

“See Padfoot,” James grins at him and snatches up his hand. “Marriage material.”

Just as he slips the ring onto his finger a great golden light erupts from Aberforth’s wand, enshrouding the two of them in a glassy bubble not unlike the ones they blew from their fourth drink of the night. For a second the entire room is illuminated and warm, and he can see James across from him in perfect clarity. He reckons James can see him too, the way his eyes widen briefly and his smile stutters.

And then Aberforth snaps his book shut and the light disappears. 

“There. Official. Now will you sods get the fuck out?”

They don’t, actually, get the fuck out. The Three Broomsticks has shuttered for the night, so they clamber back up the stairs to the main room where the sketchy card game is still going strong in the corner but most other patrons have cleared out. Aberforth rolls his eyes when he sees them at his bar, but he’s happy enough to take James’ galleons when he slaps them down on the table and declares a celebration is in order. 

“Excuse me Peter,” James snorts, elbowing his way between Peter and Sirius when he returns with their new tray of drinks. “I think it’s only right I sit next to my husband.”

And it was just a game, but his heart does something funny when James scoots into the space next to him and slips a solid arm around his waist.

Peter’s face is all scrunched up, and at first he thinks it might be disgust. But then Peter leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “you guys didn’t even kiss. Like… you’re supposed to kiss at a wedding, doesn’t that seal the deal?”

“Seal the deal,” Remus scoffs, but he’s still wearing that amused little look as he surveys Sirius and James pressed snugly together in the booth. “He’s right you know. By Muggle standards at least it’s a kiss that really marks a marriage.”

“Dare me to?” James asks. Maybe he should be offended that James needs a dare to kiss him, they’re husbands now after all. But then James is moving, dare or not, and he doesn’t have time to think about it.  

“Right then,” he says, plucking a shot glass off the table. The Hog’s Head doesn’t do fancy cocktails, so they’re stuck with firewhiskey. James is undeterred, twisting in his seat to hold the glass up to Sirius’ lips. “Bottoms up.”

He has to move quickly, bowing his head and opening his mouth. Amber liquid splashes past his lips, warm and smooth, and followed so suddenly by James’ own lips that he thinks he might have ascended to the heavens, or maybe the the earth has fallen away from under him. James kisses like he does everything, with enthusiasm and care, the hand still clutching the shot glass bracketed on his jaw and his tongue lapping up the residue of firewhiskey from the backs of his teeth. It’s euphoric, it has Sirius’ insides twisting all up, breath stalling in his chest. 

“Fucking hell,” he chokes out when James’ lips slip off of his. His eyes are wide and he knows his cheeks are flushing, all the blood in his body confused about which way it should rush. Some to his head making him feel just a bit faint, loads to his cheeks, and the rest heading abruptly south. When he pulls back James has a funny look on his face, but he gives his head a quick shake soon enough and turns back to the table. 

“Moony,” he declares, “The next rounds on you.”

Several rounds later and Sirius is seeing stars. James is diligent in his role as new husband, plastered to his side to keep him from toppling over in his booth seat (though to be fair it isn’t so different from the hands-on approach he usually takes to minding Sirius when he’s drunk). And it’s nice, pleasant to really lean into the joke and simultaneously lean into the strong arm around his waist. Nice to be able to lean his head against James’ shoulder - because what are new husbands for, if not to nap on?  

When the world around him jolts Sirius opens his eyes and is greeted with Remus and Peter’s snorting laughter. James, on the other hand, is looking at him fondly. “Nice of you to rejoin us.” The world narrows to James Potter when he lifts his hand up and winds a finger around one of Sirius’ curls. “Sleepy?”

“I - sorry, it’s late.”

James snorts, but declares, “Well… If you don’t mind,” he wobbles considerably even though he isn’t actually moving, it’s the one real hint that he’s just as intoxicated as Sirius is. Sirius does his best to steady him with an arm around his waist, even though he isn’t faring much better, “My husband and I are going to bed.”

The declaration earns them a few curious eyes, expressions that turn odd when James has to stifle a loud snorting laugh behind his hand. 

“Alright,” Sirius grumbles, “Come on then dear.” This only serves to make James laugh harder, and it should probably be annoying but the sound is so endearing, so bright and hearty, that Sirius finds himself grinning in kind. 

The rooms above the The Three Broomsticks are plain. Old wooden floors that creak when they walk and comfortable double beds with scratchy wool blankets. Theirs has a window that overlooks the street, and a trunk on which they’ve both dumped their backpacks. It takes almost everything in him to wrangle James into the bathroom to brush his teeth, forcing a glass of water down him in the process, and by the time they’ve both peeled out of their t-shirts they’re marginally more sober. 

“Ugh,” James still says when he hits the mattress. Sirius makes a quiet noise of affirmation at the back of his throat, because ugh indeed. The room is swimming around him, the bed feels like it’s rocking underneath him, and it’s a monumental effort to get his legs underneath the blanket. It’s an awkward shuffle of limbs and laughter, Sirius giving James a shove behind the knees and James finally cooperating enough to get settled. When he does, turning onto his side to face him, the tone has shifted.

“So,” James’ voice has a teasing note. He rolls over too, until their noses are close to touching. “Was it your life long dream to marry me?”

“Oh shut up,” Sirius snorts, but both of their voices are much softer now. He shoves James lightly on the chest, but leaves his hand curled up between them, knuckles pressed against the soft fabric of his t-shirt. 

“I mean,” James wrestles his right hand out from under the covers and gives one of Sirius’ curls a gentle tug. “Didn’t see you trying to get out of it.”

He’s glad for the dark of the bedroom, because he can feel blood rushing to his cheeks. 

“A dare is a dare,” Sirius grumbles, nudging James a bit harder. 

It’s quiet for some time. Long enough that Sirius is sure James has fallen asleep, until he says “Sirius?” 

He feels it more than he hears it, James’ voice is so soft.

“Hm?” Sirius hums sleepily.

“Truth or dare?”

Sirius freezes, trying to study James for any sign of motive. But it’s too dark, he can’t properly make him out.

“Go on - truth or dare.”

“Fuck off,” Sirius says instead of picking. James opens his mouth, probably to complain, but Sirius pokes him sharply in the ribs to shut him up. “Go to sleep you wanker.”