Prelude
Thursday, 7 February 2002
Oh, how wrong we were to think
That immortality meant never dying
The lyric had been turning over in his head for weeks. Sirius knew it was good; really fucking good, actually. The line had come to him unexpectedly when he was still with the Boys in Black. He was never one for songwriting, really. Most times he thought a moody fourteen-year-old could’ve produce the stuff he wrote. But something within Sirius told him to keep the line, to wait for the right moment to unleash it, and thank god he did. If his killer line was left up to the fates of those assholes, Sirius might just have to reconsider his morals regarding murder.
But, he had saved it. Instead of being in jail for killing his former lead singer, he was sat on the sofa of his best friend with his guitar trying to figure out a rhythm to a chorus. Suddenly, the front door to the flat opened with a bang. “Pads, you are not going to believe who I saw today!” James announced with wide eyes.
“Better be the Queen herself if you’re this excited.”
“Better,” James promised with a grin. “Wormtail.”
Sirius didn’t know who he was expecting James to say, but it certainly was not that. He hadn’t heard the name Wormtail in years. “Wait, Peter? From school?”
James made his way into the kitchen, plastic grocery bags in hand. “Yeah, he lives in London now, apparently. Ran into him heading to Tesco. He’s got some finance job—looks like he’s doing well.”
“Blimey, that’s insane,” Sirius murmured as James unpacked the groceries. Scenes from his school days played over in his head. There had been four of them: Sirius, James, Petter Pettigrew and Remus Lupin. They had been the biggest band of misfits Hogwarts had seen. Individually, they were all losers in their own rights, but together, they were a force to be reckoned with.
James sat next to him on the couch. “He said he was free Saturday and I thought the three of us could go out for a few, catch up.”
Sirius nodded. “Yeah, sure. Seems like a good idea.” It would be weird though, with only the three of them, one missing.
“Whatcha working on?” James nodded to the guitar in Sirius’ lap.
“You know that line I told you?” Sirius asked. “I’m playing around with it. Trying to get a good enough song to build around it.”
“What do you have so far?” James questioned, leaning into the back of the couch and resting his feet on the coffee table.
Sirius played the chords of the chorus he was working on and blended it onto the bridge, which contained his oh so precious line. “I got some lyrics, but they’re rusty. And I want to go over to Frank’s and see how it’ll sound properly.” Sirius still only owned his old black acoustic guitar from his school days. Good instruments were expensive and he didn’t see the point in shelling out the money to buy them when he could utilize good ol’ Frank Longbottom who worked at a studio space with a plethora of old instruments collecting dust in a closet, and who had a profound desire to help a friend. Or something like that.
“This thing with Pete,” Sirius started, never being able to conceal anything from James, “Might be weird, don’t you think?”
James was genuinely confused. “Why?”
“Well, not all of us are going to be there. Might feel like something’s missing.”
James’ face broke into a bright grim. “Jesus, you sentimental fucker, Pads.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Sirius laughed, kicking him in the shin. But James gave it some thought, his eyebrows creasing together on his forehead.
“We could call Moony. See on the odd chance he’s in London. Get a full Marauders reunion.”
“How, though? I haven’t heard from him in years.”
“Oh, don’t you worry, my nostalgic friend,” James said, tapping his temple. “I have my ways.”