The Prodigal Brother

30th June 1977.

Remus Lupin. Marauder, Werewolf, Prefect.

The heat is unbearable. Remus finds his robes sticking to his skin, and not for the first time, finds himself fervently wishing Hogwarts was a bit laxer with uniform rules. He pulls on his collar, trying to cool himself down. He always runs warm; usually, it's okay, especially in Scottish winters, but his body once again becomes his tormenter during heatwaves like these.

“Moony! Oi Moony!” A posh English accent disrupts his internal hatred of the sun, and Remus turns around, a grin already working its way onto his face.

Sirius Black is standing before him, wearing the standard robes, a far cry from the inexplicably expensive robes he donned the years prior. The Potters are firm believers in not flaunting their wealth, so James and Sirius are clothed in the same robes that everybody else wears. Sirius prefers it; Remus could tell even before he had been told. He could tell by the way Sirius holds himself now and the pristine condition he keeps his new uniform. The only allowance Sirius has made for the heat is with his hair. His heavy, black waves have been loosely tied at the top of his head, some stray hairs have fallen across his face, and Remus wants to sweep them away.

“We’ve been looking all over for you. Come on, we’ll end up with the dodgy carriage if you don’t hurry up.” Sirius says, grabbing Remus’ wrist and pulling him along.

His hand is warm and clammy, and he’s holding it too tight. Remus doesn’t want him to let go.

Reluctantly though, he peels Sirius’ fingers off his wrist. “Can’t sorry. Got a meeting with Dumbledore.”

Sirius looks at him with wide eyes. All thoughts about leaving are instantly forgotten. “What about?” He whispers, “Is it about… you know.”

There are about a million things that Sirius could mean, and although he likes to convince himself otherwise, Remus can’t read the other boy’s mind. He settles for shrugging. “Not sure. He’s not told me what it’s about.”

Sirius looks unsatisfied with this, and he narrows his eyes. Remus knows enough to tell when Sirius won’t let something go. He’s seen it too often. So, he holds his palms up placatingly, “I’ll tell you about it after… alright?”

He watches Sirius brighten instantly, a sunny demeanour appearing once more. “Alright, I’ll wait by his office for you.” As he speaks Remus steals a glance into Sirius’ eyes, he’s afraid of looking too often and getting caught out. But right now, the sun is shining against Sirius’ face, the sunlight has caused the blue streaks in his grey eyes to almost brighten, it almost looks like heterochromia. He can see remnants of the eyeliner the girls had put on Sirius last night, it's smudged from Sirius’ bad habit of rubbing his eyes so vigorously he almost blacks out. He manages to make it look intentional. The fit prick looks like a Muggle rockstar. Fantasies of Sirius playing the guitar for him take over Remus’ mind, and he forgets to reply to the very person he is distracted by.

Sirius waves a hand in front of Remus’ face, breaking his train of thought.

He smiles awkwardly, hoping he doesn’t look guilty. “Sorry, er… no, it’s fine. I’ll just see you on the train.”

Sirius scowls again but nods and turns to leave before turning back and waggling his eyebrows. “Give Alby my love, yeah?”

Remus snorts as he rolls his eyes, walking away without commenting. As he jogs to Dumbledore’s office, he distantly wonders if he would laugh at Sirius’ jokes if he wasn’t half in love with him. It’s a fucking head trip... loving Sirius Black. Some days he doesn’t know if he’s in love with him or the idea of him. He hopes it’s the latter. He doesn’t want to love him. There is no universe where Sirius could ever like him back, he could do so much better than Remus, and Remus wants that for him. He needs someone calm, someone, who’s not fucked up. Who doesn’t have all of Remus’ issues, Sirius is destined to marry a cool and pretty girl who gives him lots of beautiful little babies and who doesn’t turn into a fucking monster once a month and who can’t even afford to buy new robes. He hasn’t stepped foot into Madame Malkins for over four years. His mother has been adding yards of fabric onto his hem and sleeves. But as awful as loving him is, Remus can’t remember how not to love him. All his love has been carried with him for seven years now. It’s a familiar friend.

Before he realises, he finds himself on the steps to Dumbledore’s office. He pushes all thoughts of Sirius from his mind. He wouldn’t put it past the old bat to be able to read minds, and his headmaster is the last person he wants to know about his stupid crush.

“Jelly babies,” Remus says to the guards once he feels less melancholy. They shudder and move apart without comment, and Remus swallows before making his way up the stairs. The closer he gets to the top of the stairs, the more apprehensive he feels. He’s wondering if this is a prank, and Dumbledore hasn’t told him to come.

The door opens before Remus even knocks, and Remus steps into the room with a heavy heart. 

Remus has only been inside Dumbledore’s office twice. The first was the first day of Hogwarts, bright-eyed and eager, clutching Bertie, his toad, the only pet his parents could afford, with fingers sticky from the sweets his new friends had shared. 

Dumbledore had smiled down at him and assured him that the school had taken safety measures and planted a ferocious tree to protect him at his most dangerous. Remus had ducked his head down, embarrassed and ashamed, but Dumbledore had been unfailingly kind. He had left with a smile and a pocket full of sherbet lemons.

The second time was bad. Really bad.

It was the day after the prank. 

After Sirius had told Snape. 

There was shouting and tears and blame.

Dumbledore didn’t shout. He never even raised his voice. Remus was sure he would be expelled, him and Sirius both. But they hadn’t been.

Remus left with James’ arm slung protectively over his shoulder, with dried tear tracks down their faces and uneaten bonbons in their pockets.

Sirius left with his mother’s hands digging into his arm so hard her knuckles turned white. He didn’t seem to notice, his neck bent, staring at his feet as they shuffled away. 

The shrill cry of a bird interrupts Remus' train of thought, pulling him back into the present moment. He finds himself in a room, seated across from Dumbledore, without even remembering how he got there. Remus feels his face grow warm with embarrassment. "Sorry, Sir," he stammers. "I got distracted."

To his surprise, Dumbledore's face lights up with a gentle smile. Despite having been made to wait, his face has no hint of annoyance. He sits regally in his throne-like chair, adorned in violet robes that would make even Bowie take notice. "That's quite alright, Mr Lupin," he says kindly. "Reflections should never be rushed."

Remus flushes a deeper shade of red, feeling slightly foolish for being caught in his own thoughts. "Remus," he corrects himself, feeling a bit awkward.

Dumbledore nods in understanding. "Remus," he acknowledges. "I'm sure you're anxious to rejoin your friends, so that I won't keep you long."

Remus shakes his head quickly. "No, no, I don't mind, Sir- I mean, Albus," he stammers, unsure of himself. It's a strange feeling to address a professor by their first name. He half-expect Dumbledore to admonish him for his informality and expel him on the spot. But the Headmaster merely twinkles his eyes at him.

Taking a deep breath, Dumbledore turns his gaze to Fawkes for a moment before returning to face Remus with a grave expression. "The reason I called you here today is because...well, I will not sugar-coat it, as muggles often say. Voldemort is perilously close to winning the war. And if he does,… it cannot end positively for anybody. I have received information that Voldemort is calling for recruits… casting his web, and he’s catching individuals like yourself.”

Remus feels a ringing in his ears. "Other werewolves?" he whispers hoarsely.

Dumbledore nods gravely, and Remus feels like he might be sick. He should have known that Voldemort would want werewolves on his side. They're dark creatures, after all. His stomach clenches at the thought. None of them really know what's going on from Voldemort's perspective or with their own side. They only know the aftermath - the bodies, the devastation, the news articles. But he should have known and shouldn’t have been so naive. 

"I'm sorry, Remus," Dumbledore says calmly.

"It's not your fault," Remus mutters, staring down at his lap.

"Regardless," Dumbledore replies, his voice careful and measured, "I am sorry. However, I must ask something of you."

Remus looks up, feeling wary. He owes Dumbledore a great deal, and he's already resigned himself to agreeing to whatever is asked of him. But that doesn't mean he isn't cautious. He nods his assent.

"There's a group of werewolves in the Tanus Mountain range in Hesse," Dumbledore explains.

Remus stares blankly, unsure of what he's supposed to do or why he's being told this.

"In Germany," Dumbledore adds, sensing Remus' confusion.

"I'm sorry, Si - Albus, but what do you need me for?" Remus catches himself just in time. The armchair he's sitting in is oversized, and he feels like a child playing at being an adult. He'll take any opportunity to feel grown-up.

The amusement in Dumbledore’s eyes makes Remus think he’s noticed. For a split second, Remus worries if Dumbledore can read his mind. He doesn’t think he can, but sometimes the professor really acts like he knows exactly what’s going through Remus’ mind. 

Dumbledore’s face sobers, and he looks down at Remus through his crescent moon glasses.  “I have reason to hope that this particular pack… could be amenable to supporting our cause.” He lowers his voice, and unconsciously, Remus leans forwards. “I have formed a dedicated resistance group, the Order of The Phoenix. A group of people dedicated to thwarting Voldemort. I would like you to join the Order… if you would like.” 

Remus nods before Dumbledore finishes speaking. He’ll do anything to help the cause, anything.

Dumbledore smiles, “Your enthusiasm is heartening. However, are you sure you wouldn’t like some time to mull it over? I understand how fond you are of thinking.”

Remus fakes a chuckle as he straightens up, wanting to look more grown up. “No time needed. I just want to help.” He says, looking the headmaster in the eyes. He pretends he’s James, full of confidence, the confidence of somebody who has never had anything denied him, but with the heart and sincerity of James, the kind of love to share that comes from a life that has not gone by without it. “I can help.”

Dumbledore looks at him silently, his gaze assessing. Finally, he seems to find want he wants because he smiles, and his eyes do that thing they do, the twinkle that reminds Remus of his grandad. “That is a very noble thing to do, Remus, and you will be aiding the Order in ways you cannot know.”

Remus fights a smile, not wanting to look too giddy. He didn’t think he would be allowed to help, the combination of being still in school and turning into a dark creature once a month. He didn’t think he would get a chance to fight. He had readied himself for a life of watching on the sidelines. James and Sirius, he knew, would fight. They’re far too brave not to. Too headstrong to be perfect soldiers but so powerful that they’re worth any struggle. Although not smart or brave enough to be approached, Peter would follow the other two wherever they went, so Remus figured he would join eventually. He’s smarter than Peter, and years of obsessive studying have paid off, but Peter isn’t innately dangerous. He doesn’t turn into a monster once a month, unlike Remus. 

“What am I going to do?” He asks.

“I would like for you to make contact with this pack this summer and spend the next full moon with them.” He replies simply.

Remus feels his eyebrows raise. Does Dumbledore mean the whole month? Remus can’t do that. His parents won’t like him spending a whole month away from home, school excluded. And how’s he going to make contact? What does he expect Remus to do – just stroll up to a werewolf pack, and as for a place in the pack for a month, he’ll get murdered.

However, Dumbledore doesn’t feel the need to elaborate as he simply nods and stands up. “Very well, I will send you the details by owl. I’ll let you get back to your friends now.” Dumbledore walks around his large desk, Remus following him. “Just floo to Hogsmeade Station. The train is scheduled to leave soon.”

Remus nods a little bewilderedly. He grabs a handful of the glittering dust from the jar, which looks like an empty coffee jar, on closer inspection. Before he can throw it, Dumbledore clears his throat.

“Mr. Lupin, in my old age, my memory sometimes floats beyond my grasp, I have forgotten to urge you of the secrecy needed for this meeting. You cannot share the details of today with anybody, even if they are our friends.” Dumbledore has a solemn look on his face which causes a burning wave of panic to encompass Remus.

He stands frozen in the spot for a while, unsure if he should speak up and reveal that he’s fucked up this early. “Er… sorry, sir... I’ve already told Sirius that I’m meeting with you now.”

Dumbledore smiles beneficially and raises his palms in the air, “Not to worry, Mr Black must content himself with knowing we have had a meeting and that only.”

Remus nods, and Dumbledore’s face relaxes into his usual cheerful expression. He stares into those blue eyes and watches as they stretch and swirl around the room in rings of emerald fire. Remus understands why you-know-who fears the headmaster as he watches those unblinking eyes.

Regulus Black. Son of Orion and Walburga Black, Heir to the Noble House of Black.

The smoke from the train settles around the station, settling on each shoulder and curling its way into each lung. 

Regulus coughs as he breathes in, and when he stops, his handkerchief is spotted with small grey speckles of smoke and dirt. He hears somebody tsk in front of him. Before he can vanish away the dirt an immaculately manicured nail pulls the handkerchief down. 

“Sick again, Regulus? Well… you always were a sickly child.” Narcissa says blithely, in her cool, uninterested manner. She glides away without another remark. Clearly, she’s been sent to collect him. 

Regulus follows, silently praying he won't succumb to another bout of coughing. As they leave, he steals a moment to really look at Narcissa. It's been over a year since their paths crossed—she was off on her honeymoon last summer, and he conveniently remained at Hogwarts during Christmas, supposedly buried in exam prep. 

She still carries herself with the air befitting a Black, although he supposes now it’s a Malfoy. Whatever the name, she doesn’t look to be weighed down by her sister's recent imprisonment. Regulus felt the weight of every stare, the sting of every whispered insult. They left him bruised, emotionally battered, marked by sleepless nights and a perpetual gloom. Regulus hasn’t smiled this year. 

Narcissa, on the other hand, looks every part the perfect pure blood. Her dark brown hair is folded into intricate patterns and secured with an ornate silver hairpin. It narrows off thinly at the end, so thin the tip is almost translucent. She’s wearing jade green robes, golden threads of magic used for each stitch. Protective magic, it would seem. Not even the great Narcissa Malfoy is brave enough to leave the house with only her wand for protection. It humanises her a little. He still hates her. 

He hates all of them: his mother, Dumbledore, James Potter, Lucius Malfoy, every single one of them.

He hates Sirius the most.

Some nights he lies awake, eyes closed and thinks of everything he hates about his brother. The way he eats with his mouth open and elbows on the table. Hates the Gryffindor and the beater and the muggle-loving and the pristine uniform. He lies there, and he hates and hates and hates until the hate leaks out of his eyes and forces itself from his throat in heavy sobs. 

They make it all the way to the floo point before running into Sirius. Regulus wouldn’t put it past Sirius wanting to rub it in Regulus’ face. He can almost hear the high-pitched whine of eight-year-old Sirius teasing Regulus. Look at me, Look at me, I got out, and you didn’t.

Sirius is grumbling behind him, so maybe it’s not the case. Potter delivers platitudes, whispering into his ear whilst the other two stand back, the werewolf rolling his eyes. Sirius has scraped his hair into a messy bun, and pieces of hair are falling out, making him look scruffy. Mother would off herself if she could see. That’s probably why he’s done it. It’s what motivates most of his actions.

Sirius’ eyes flick over to Regulus, and he sports Regulus sneaking a look.

They remain frozen for a beat before Sirius’ face contorts into a scowl, and his eyes harden with anger. “Want a picture?” He snarls nothing but hate in his voice.

Regulus physically turns his body towards the front. He can see his face in the reflection of the glass floo cubicle. He stares in shame at his gaunt reflection. He stares at Sirius in the glass as well, watches as he snorts and turns away dismissively.

“Thank Merlin, I don’t have to deal with that pathetic coward anymore.” He announces, loud enough for everyone in the line to hear.

Regulus tries to stop it. He really does. But his face crumples, he’s too tired to stop it. Luckily Sirius has turned away, so he doesn’t see, but to Regulus’ abject horror, a glance at the reflections shows a steely Narcissa and a pitying Potter staring right back at him. They saw it – even if Sirius didn’t. He doesn’t know which is worse, Narcissa can make his life hell, but Potter will tell Sirius, and they’ll have new ammo against him.

The rest of the wait is held in excruciating silence, save for the hushed whispers of Lupin trying to get the attention of Sirius, to no avail. It’s an interesting flip of the start of the year when Sirius would follow an angry Lupin with apologies rolling off his tongue with each step.

He still hasn’t got a response by the time it's Regulus’ turn, he and Narcissa step up to the box and step in. The floo powder is on a continuous tap. All they need to do is step in and call out for 12 Grimmauld Place, which doesn’t happen.

“Malfoy Manor,” Narcissa calls in a clear and distinctive tone, no mistaking what she said.

They’re whirled away before Regulus has time to react, arriving in the reception room with an ungraceful stumble.

Narcissa glances at him disapprovingly, “Really Regulus. You’re stumbling like a mudblood.”

“I was shocked. I didn’t know we were coming here.” Regulus grumbles, fixing his hair half-heartedly.

Narcissa doesn’t say anything, although she does brush his hair with her fingers. Once he’s deemed presentable, she steps back and admires her handiwork with a nod. The look in her eyes is new. Regulus has never seen that look. “So young…” She mutters, almost to herself, her lips pressing together.

“Narcissa?”

She quickly composes herself and nudges him toward the door leading to Lucius' office. "They're waiting for you," she says, her tone brusque.

He doesn’t need to ask who. He already knows.

He thought he’d have more time. Foolishly he thought he had until after Hogwarts, but he was naïve. They couldn’t afford to wait. Everyone knew that Voldemort was slowly becoming outnumbered. Death Eaters were being arrested faster than they could draw their wands. Their side is losing, and they need more numbers. Lucius probably petitioned for him to join, trying to weasel his way into the Dark Lord’s graces with a pitiful offering of Regulus’s soul on a silver platter.

Later, he will lie in his own bed, staring at the roof of his four-poster bed, and surreptitiously cast a silencing charm.

He will test the strength of his magic with his screams, daring it to snap under the volume. It will not. No one will hear him.

Once his screaming has died down, he will have only one thought in his mind. Before the next school year ends, he will be a Death Eater. There’s no chance of escape. Sirius made sure of that. He will be a Death Eater, and it’s only a matter of time now.

And he will do his ritual of hating his brother, but for now, Regulus Black takes a deep breath and knocks on the heavy oak door, a mask of neutrality carved onto his face as the door swings open and Regulus steps in.

You’ll see I don’t really have a choice – The way things are.