Chapter 3
Your mother's dead. Before long I'll be dead. And you and your brother and your sister and all of her children. Al of us dead; all of us rotting underground. It's the family name that lives on. It's all that lives on. Not your personal glory, not your honour, but family.
Game of Thrones, Tywin Lannister
*
We have spoken of the boy with the knives, the one that (wakes up screaming, pulls his hair, smiles a crooked smile, like a demon—broken boy, fearless child; tell me what it's like to burn) killed his parents and laughed when the police came, but there is something missing, don't you think? (It's the deep-engraved feeling, the inherent knowledge, the one that every human being possesses—but these days what is human is debatable; is it a monstrous boy with seemingly no conscience? Is it a traitorous boy that ran away and didn't look back?—that there is something wrong.) The boy with the knives and the crooked smiles (and the hidden scars that won't quite heal) has a brother.
(Let's go back in time, then, shall we?)
*
Sirius is fourteen when he shows up unannounced (and just a bit crazy, just a bit broken because it'stoo fucking much) to James' house.
He knocks the door hesitantly—it is late, after all, and he does have some manners, despite what his mother—no, he won't think about his mother (and if he's disowned, then she's Walburga, isn't she?)—and the door creaks open, Euphemia Potter squinting at him, before her brows knit. "Sirius?" she asks, raising a torch to illuminate his face.
Rubbing the back of his neck, "Hello, Mrs P."
She blinks but opens the door completely, ushering him inside and in an instant he is sitting on the couch, a hot mug of chocolate in his hands as she crouches down next to him and patiently asks what's wrong? with worry written all over her face, and he wants to answer everything because everything is wrong and don't you get it? but all he can say (think) is I have forgotten something, I have forgotten something, I have for—
It's like being underwater, those first days out of Grimmauld Place, Number 12—observing everything from under the cool surface of water; all sounds are muffled and distant, and his body feels strangely light like he can float forever, like everything is so far, far away; nothing can touch him now, their words don't matter anymore; he is free; he is out of there; he is—
(It takes him approximately one week and a half to realise he hasn't forgotten something.)
—finally away from his parents' tight grip on his shoulders and the nails that break skin even under clothes and the face of a boy—the boy—that never smiles—
(He has forgotten someone.)
—and hides his pain behind sharp remarks and sarcastic comments, and practises every day the piano, and dances the ballet until his limbs shake and his hands tremble—
(He has forgotten Regulus.)
Sirius wakes up gasping, mind spiraling, the world spinning—why is the world spinning?—and there's the phantom pain, the sting of being slapped with harsh words; an image flashes in his mind, an image of a boy—theboy, his mind says, because somehow, somehow that information is important, you can't forget, you must remember—lying down on a pool of his own blood, on the marble-black floor of his house and—
"Regulus," he gasps and is immediately on his feet. He had thought it impossible to forget Regulus—Regulus in the bathroom, curled into a small ball; Regulus lying on the snow, the snowflakes in his hair standing out like twinkling stars in the black-blue sky; Regulus in front of the huge mirror, expression stoic, posture rigid and regal, his hand gripping the barre tightly, knuckles turning white; Regulus sitting on the bench, pale, slender fingers dancing on the black and white keys of a piano—
Regulus lying down on a pool of his own blood, on the marble-black floor of his house.
There is another voice speaking and he registers himself thinking, James. He never did tell James about Regulus. He never told James he had a brother (I'm an only child, James is saying, you? Sirius hesitates for a minute, then nods, me too.)
"Pads, you alright?" someone is asking now, hovering over him, gaze concerned. "Pads?" Someone is shaking him from the shoulders. James.
Sirius blinks. "I have to go back."
"Go back where?"
He doesn't glance back at James, too busy trying to find his back-pack. "Back to Gr---" no, don't say the name, don't say the name, don't say the name "—back home."
"To your parents?" James seems outraged. "Are you mad?"
Yes. "I have to go—I—you don't understand, Jamie—"
James puts his hands on his hips. Just like Effie, Sirius thinks. "Then explain!"
And where to start from? What to say, or, more importantly, what not to say? What to hide? How much? (He has hidden so much, lied so much in his life that he has become a master of it.) He wants to scoff, huff, scream and hit something. Not necessarily in that order. Sirius settles down for a bit of truth. "I have forgotten something, something important; I have to go back, I have to—"
His friend throws his hands in frustration. "Everything important you have is here, Sirius—you yourself have said so. You are home, you idiot. Here, with me, with us, with mum and dad. So sit down."
"James—"
"Don't 'James' me," James says, folding his arms. "Whatever you've forgotten back there can't be more important than your happiness, your safety—fuck, your damn well-being, you absolute moron. So shut the hell up and put that back-pack down." He waits, raising an eyebrow. "Now."
Sirius puts the back-pack down and tries not to think.
*
It's a year later, when another boy arrives in the institution for deranged kids.
Remus sighs and looks at his new roommate—the kid is just fourteen, a year younger, what the fuck—then sighs again, supporting his chin on his palm. When they brought him here the boy was laughing despite the seriousness on the situation, despite being surrounded by at least five nurses who looked wary and a bit sad.
Whatever.
And then he'd learnt the unhinged killer-boy was apparently going to be his roommate. Yay.
Not really.
But Regulus hasn't done anything weird—at least, for Remus' standards. In fact, he hasn't done anything at all other than talk about murdering his parents in cold blood—what the fuck—and calling the police to admit his guilt—also what the fuck. (And lie down and stare at a wall with vacant, dead eyes and a blank expression. And scream at night until a nurse runs inside their room and doses him on medicine and whatever-the-fuck they're giving him.) No one has visited Regulus either, other than a black girl named Dorcas that comes here every fucking day with her parents and talks to him about ballet—apparently they went to the same academy or something.
Which is why Remus is a tiny bit surprised when it's him Regulus wants with him when he calls his brother. He shrugs and says, "Sure," although he doesn't know why Regulus chose him. (He doesn't know what he's getting himself into, either. Not just yet.)
"It's because you are discreet," Regulus replies when Remus asks, his voice void of any emotion and raspy, because he usually refuses to talk to anyone but Dorcas. "And you have no idea about my family or my past or—well, you get the point."
Remus nods. He does.
And that's how they find themselves in a room with a nurse standing guard beside the door, a phone laying on the white table. Regulus types a number. The phone rings. Someone picks it up. "Hello? Who's there?" It's a nice voice, a bit muffled, Remus thinks, deep and pleasant, beautiful. British accent, the hint of French. He wonders how its owner looks like.
For a moment, Regulus doesn't say anything. He blinks, then— "It's me," he says quietly and it's the first time he talks to anyone else other than Remus or Dorcas. His tone is emotionless, uninterested, but the voice from the other line is anything but that.
"Regulus? I—" they hesitate, speechless "—areyou okay? Where are you right now? You won't believe the things I've heard; I was so fucking worried, you idiot, never do that again—they're saying you killed mum and dad which is hilarious because you wouldn't hurt a damn flie—" they chuckle nervously "—that they locked you up in a place for crazy kids—where are you, by the way?"
Silence. Regulus doesn't say anything; he stares at the phone like he's wondering how to destroy it best.
"Regulus?"
The boy opens his mouth but nothing comes out; he turns to look at Remus helplessly, gesturing for him to say something. Remus sighs. This won't end well. He takes the phone anyway (because . . . frankly, he's not sure why.)
"Hi," he says, trying to sound cheerful when he's anything but that. "I'm Remus Lupin, Regulus' roommate—he can't talk right now, but he's listening."
"Alright . . . " the voice trails off, unsure, reluctant. "I'm Sirius, a pleasure to hear from you. Are you sure he's listening?"
He looks at Regulus. "Yes, he is."
Sirius takes a deep breath. "Okay, okay—fuck, how am I supposed to do this?—look, Regulus, I'm sorry for leaving you, okay? I should have remembered, I should have done better, I should have asked you to come with me—I'm sorry I didn't see you before, but we can do this. I don't care what you did."
The silence is deafening. A clock is ticking from somewhere else; Remus shifts on his chair—this is way too personal. Way out of his depth. The nurse standing guard beside the door coughs. He glares at her. She glares back.
"Regulus, please, we should have left together—you know we should have," Sirius is saying now, tone pleading, desperate. "I had to leave. And I understand your anger, Regulus. And your pain, and the sadness, and—fuck, I understand fear, too. But the least you can do is talk to me. You owe me at least that."
But the words seem to have no effect on Regulus, until he leans closer to the phone and murmurs, "No, Sirius, you don't understand shit. You don't know how it is to be there alone with them, how the house falls silent until it drives you insane, until the only thing you can do to feel anything is imagine how it would be to fly away from reality, until you relish in every beating because you felt something and it makes you want to die—day after day after day, it never fucking stops."
"Reg, listen---"
"It's Regulus," he hisses with contempt. "That's my fucking name and the least you can do is use it."
"Regulus—" Sirius corrects himself, swallowing hard "—you know how I felt in there—"
Regulus lefts his chin, grabbing the phone, and says, "Lucky for you, you're not the one who's dead." His expression darkens. "I murdered dad first. He was sleeping in the armchair, the drunk piece of shit; it was so damn easy—he made it so damn easy. I slit his throat and left him there."
"Regulus, stop this; this isn't you."
A laugh escapes Regulus and Remus finally understands why exactly the boy is here. It sends a shiver down his spine. "I murdered mum second, the same way, before I called the police. They came within an hour—really good at their job, aren't they? Don't you think?"
"Regulus, I couldn't stay anymore—fuck, you know that."
"I never asked you to stay. I never asked you for anything. Find solutions, Sirius, not excuses." His voice cracks, before Regulus slams the phone shut and the line dies.
The phone rings. Once, twice; it doesn't, won't stop. Remus looks at Regulus, who stands up and closes the door behind him with a thud that makes the glass wall and shake.
The phone rings again. Remus picks it up.
"Hello?" Sirius is saying from the other line. "Regulus, is that you? Don't you dare hang up."
He lets the silence stretch until it's suffocating.
"Helloo? Who's there? Regulus?"
Remus still doesn't say anything. He's waiting—for what? Why am I doing this? He doesn't know. It scares him.
"Regulus, listen; I'm sorry, I'm sorry; say something, please, damn it—I'm so fucking sor—"
He puts the phone back and leaves. Sirius never tries to call again. (A beautiful voice echoing in his mind like a sacred prayer chanted by thousands, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sor—)
*
He has the opportunity to talk to James so many times. He never takes it. It feels wrong to speak of a brother that won't talk to him, won't acknowledge him, won't say anything at all. Besides, wouldn't it come out as a bit strange? How this conversation woulg go, exactly? Hey, Prongs, I have a young brother I never told you about. He's fucking deranged and killed our pa—
Abruptly, Sirius stops thinking how this conversation would proceed. Who really cares, anyway? It's not happening. It doesn't matter. Regulus has made it clear; he wants nothing to do with him. And Sirius wants nothing to do with Regulus either. (Wrong.) Itwas Regulus who called you, a voice whispers. And when Sirius called back, someone answered. But was it really Regulus? He's not sure; the breathing was nothing like Regulus'. Regulus' breathing is controlled; this one was a chain smoker's breathing, he is certain of it. And, despite his flaws, his brother wouldn't take up smoking. He is (was?) a damn ballet dancer. And what the hell do you know about him anymore?
He thinks back to that voice. Hi. I'm Remus Lupin, Regulus' roommate—he can't talk right now, but he's listening. This Remus . . . Sirius is convinced it was him who picked it up the second time. But why didn't he say anything? (Perhaps it was because he'd heard just how bad Sirius was. How awful of a person.) He thinks he would have liked Remus to say something. He'd liked that voice with the thick, Scottish accent; it was smooth and pleasant, reassuring and calm in a way few things are for Sirius. He wonders how its owner looks like, then shakes his head. Stupid. To think he'd gotten the idea that Remus liked him . . . stupid. He will be more careful. He has to be. (A broken heart isn't something he can afford.) Besides, Sirius isn't gay. Why would he care about Remus liking him? (Not now, when it's already cracked with grief and raw, hot anger.)
*
Remus gets permission to leave the institute. A life with his mum . . . without his father . . . It seems like a dream come true. It feels surreal. It isn't. This is real. This is happening. After a whole fucking year.
But because he can't stop thinking of the fourteen-year old that will be left behind (again, a voice murmurs, he will be left behind again, and this time it's you who's letting him down and you know how it is to be let down again and again and again untilyou stop expecting anything from the world) he leaves his number to a silent Regulus that refuses to look at him, jaw set. His heart clenches. This isn't right. This isn't fucking right. (This has never been fucking right.) These people aren't helping the boy. If anything, he has become more withdrawn, more lost in his own head. Remus almost doesn't want to leave, but sometimes being selfish is necessary. Sometimes it's good. Regulus isn't his responsibility, after all.
The next time the Meadowes visit, he talks to the dark-skinned girl, Dorcas Meadowes. She nods and asks her parents. They nod. It's how he finds himself leaning on the doorway of their shared room.
"Hey, kid," he says softly.
Regulus fixes him with a wary gaze. He says nothing.
"I talked to Dorcas' family," he says. Regulus hums. "They've agreed to take you in and so does the institute if your behaviour is okay."
A blink. The world holds his breath in anticipation. Regulus shifts, looking at him with a question in his silver-grey eyes. There is a newfound sparkle in them, Remus thinks. A fire that fights against the ice that surrounds Regulus' heart. And the ice has started to melt. It's progress. It's more than he could have asked for. In silence, they study each other—the boy that managed to get him out of here and the boy that made Remus' stay in the institute more bearable. It's only because of duty that he is doing this. He owes Regulus. (He cares about Regulus.)
The car-ride is awkward. The institute had agreed to let Regulus go with the Meadowes if they agreed to drive Remus to his mother. It was a beneficial deal, a win-win situation. But the silence stretches until it's deafening and Mr. Meadowes starts whistling. Remus is sitting on the back seat, between Regulus, who has purposedly turned his gaze outside, watching the landscape change, and Dorcas, who keeps fidgeting with a knife in her hands.
A knife. It should be concerning, he thinks, it ought to be, but somehow it's not. Because he realises he would like one too. Something to defend himself with. (To feel safe again.) Regulus turns his head to watch Dorcas with fascination and Remus thinks he would like one as well. And that can be arranged.
He feels his lips tug up in a weary smile.
*
He is sixteen when he sees Regulus for the first time in two years. But that's a matter for another time. Because he sees Remus first.
Sirius never tells James about that meeting.
At this time of the day, the beach is full of tourists and locals that have come to either enjoy the hot sun or swim. As he walks shirtless among the lying-down people and tries to avoid stepping on their feet—which he should get a prize for; it is extremely difficult—he does end up face down on the sand when he trips over someone's long foot. Sirius groans, feeling the tiny granules of the sand stick on his cheek. And—oh no, they are stuck under his nails as well, fuck. It will take hours to get them out and then he will have to repaint his nails. In other words, he is pissed. Just a tiny bit. But still.
Pushing himself from the ground, he loudly swears, then stretches his arms over his head. His back cracks and Sirius winces.
"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"
Startled, he looks down at the guy he tripped over, ready to tell him to fuck off. But he stops. And stares. Sirius feels his lips part in surprise, because—
The guy—the boy, really; he can't be older than Sirius—is . . . well. He's looking at Sirius behind his lowered sunglasses, an eyebrow raised, an amused quirk on his lips. He is shirtless, too, on his lap there is an open book; his torso is lean, a number of scars marking his freckled skin. He has the strange urge to trace them with his fingers and—
Sirius shakes his head. The boy has scars on his face as well, but what catches his attention are his gold-amber eyes, dark circles under them. His hair is tawny brown, sort of limp and shaggy that goes past his ears. He has long bangs that almost hide his eyes, but not from Sirius. He feels a tug on his chest and wonders how it would be if he ran his hand through the brown curls, how would it be to trace those freckles with his hands . . .
His answer is almost mechanical. "I can do more with that mouth."
Shifting to support himself on his elbows, the boy lifts another eyebrow. "Is that an offer?" he asks and there is something familiar with that smooth voice.
"Wha—what?" he stumbles with the word, then with his balance, because he almost falls again. Sirius blushes furiously, then starts fidgeting with his hands. "I am not gay," he says.
The boy blinks. "Okay."
This came out wrong. He tries again. "I don't have a problem; I fully support LGBTQ+ rights, but I'm not gay. Really."
"Okay, love." The boy blinks again, his eyelashes fluttering and oh, is he beautiful.
Wait—what?
Of course Sirius has nothing against gay people. In fact, he loves gay people. He admires them. There's nothing wrong with being yourself. Sirius just isn't. Gay, that is, because he is himself. In fact it's a particularly difficult job, being Sirius Black. They should give him an award for the best hair.
Sirius stares a little more, because it's not bad or forbidden to admire hot people, is it? He can appreciate someone hot. It doesn't matter if the someone is a boy. It doesn't. Really.
"Oh God, sit down, idiot," the boy says, rolling his eyes and moving a bit to make some space. "C'mon, I won't bite. Sit."
He blinks. "Wi—with you?" he stutters.
The boy's demeanor instantly changes. "Got a problem, honey?"
"What? No, I—"
"Sit down, weirdo."
Sirius sits down.
He rubs his neck awkwardly; the boy watches and it makes Sirius shudder. (There is something in his expression that Sirius particularly likes, a hunger---he shakes the thought away. This is strange.) His eyes meet Sirius'; amber-gold meets silver-grey and the boy grins. "I've scared you, eh?"
"I—you—what?" He straightens his posture. "That's ridiculous."
A wrinkle appears between the boy's brows. He narrows his eyes, leaning towards Sirius. "You are kind of familiar; do I know you?"
Frowning, Sirius says, "I would remember you."
"You would?" Two arched eyebrows.
He flushes red. "It was an observation."
"Thank you for your observation, I suppose, whatever-your-name-is." The boy leans back to his elbows.
"Sirius," he says without thinking.
The boy stiffens. "What? What did you say?"
"It's my name," Sirius quickly explains, scratching his nose. "Sirius. I'm Sirius. A pleasure to meet you."
"Sirius what?"
It's his turn to tense. Does the boy recognise him? The Blacks used to go to galas; it's not unlikely for someone to have taken a photo of him. Sirius feels dread fill his chest. Voice clipped, he chooses his words carefully. "Do you care that much? Just Sirius. That's all that matters. I am nobody."
"Well," the boy says, "okay."
That was easy. (Too easy, a voice whispers. Too easy. He ignores it.) "What's your name?" he asks.
For a moment, the boy hesitates, then— "Remus."
Hi. I'm Remus Lupin, Regulus' roommate—he can't talk right now, but he's listening.
"That's a nice name," Sirius says, watching Remus' expression for any changes, watching the suspicion, the realisation hit, "an unusual one."
A raised eyebrow. "So is yours," he says, calmly. Admirable, really, the way he holds himself. The patience. "Sirius. The Dog Star."
He huffs. "I would prefer to be called the brightest star in the night sky. Fan of astronomy, are you?"
"Not really," he says, shaking his head. Remus averts his eyes. "My friend, though . . . He loves it, astronomy that is. He seems to hate Sirius in particular—strange, don't you think? Hm?"
No. Not really. I'd hate me too. "What's your friend's name, then?"
"Let's not play this game any longer, Sirius Black," Remus says, tone suddenly gone icy-cold. It's frightening, the shift in his mood, how he goes from light to dark in a minute. Frightening, yet he finds himself fascinated. (Because, he realises, it's not the dark that frightens him, it's how quickly he's enraptured by it.) And Sirius remembers that he was Regulus' roommate. Regulus, who was in a psychiatric institute. Regulus, who killed mum and dad. (He should be scared. He should leave. He stays.)
Sirius shrugs. "Sure, Lupin. How's Regulus?" He doesn't care. He asks anyway (because he has spent nights and nights wondering.)
Crossing his arms, Remus Lupin huffs. "Better without you. Stay away."
"What?" he scoffs. "Are you his new keeper?"
Something undeniably violent and dark and fascinating passes from Lupin's expression and it stays there; he pushes himself up and sits on Sirius' lap, playing with—is that a knifein his hands? He gulps and tries not to wonder why he doesn't really mind that. The knife thing, that is. Instead, Sirius watches Remus twist the blade between his slender, scarred fingers and the second tilts his head, as if questioning the best way to stab him. Which should be concerning but somehow is not.
"Listen to me, handsome," Remus hisses, leaning close. "You don't get to talk about Regulus in any way. Certainly not in a disrespectful way. Got it?"
He feels himself nod. Are all knives that sharp? This one seems particularly dangerous—he swears it does. Or maybe it's because he's the one at the other point of it. Sirius swallows hard.
"Nowt out of my sight."
Despite everything, he feels the corners of his lips quirk. "You are literally on top of me."
Remus looks down, snorts, then moves. "Regulus is right. You are far more annoying than I would have ever thought," he comments, running a hand through his hair.
"Awwh," Sirius crows, putting his hand on his chest. "You think about me."
"Yes. Very annoying, indeed."
He winks. "I can make it up to you."
"So you are queer."
This makes Sirius return to reality. He rolls his shoulders, getting up, straightens his posture, lifts his chin. "I don't know what you're talking about."
And Remus—
Remus Lupin throws his head back and laughs and Sirius tries not to observe the carve of his neck and the fine muscle. He gets up and leave before the other boy notices him blushing furiously. It's not wrong to admire hot people, after all.
(From somewhere in the depths of his mind, a faint, small voice riots.)
*
Heavy footsteps echoing in the long corridor. Running—he should have never given up his knives; he should have fought harder, should have done more, should have been prepared, should have realised nowhere is safe, run runrun—then a breathless voice, "Hey, wait, damn it!"
He goes unnaturally stiff, because he recognises the voice. That British accent. That French hint.
Sirius Black.
Remus stops and turns around, arms folded. Voice clipped: "What do you want?"
Sirius is bent in two, hands on his knees as he catches his breath. "Jesus Christ, you are fast," he pants.
"No shit, Sherlock. Years of running can do that to a person."
He raises his head, black hair falling in front of his silver-grey eyes. (Remus wants to tack the hair behind his ear. He shakes his head.) "Running from whom?"
Everyone. Myself. My father. The darkness in my mind. "It was a hobby," he says with a sigh. Shrugs. "I went running." Pretty lies, lies to obscure the ugly truth, (because that's what they've all been quietly doing forever), even though Sirius would probably understand. Remus just doesn't want him to.
But perhaps Sirius understands anyway, because he nods, expression darkening. "I've never had the luxury of running."
A raised eyebrow. "Some would say that you've been running for quite a while those past years."
"Regulus isn't exactly a reliable source of information."
"No one is a reliable source of information. Not Regulus and certainly not you," Remus fires back, crossing his arms. "People usually see just what they want to see. But I secretly hope you already knew that."
A curt nod. "Look—"
He interrupts him: "What do you want, Sirius?" Remus thinks there are a lot things Sirius wishes for. Heaven knows, all of them do.
Sirius huffs. "That's a long list—"
"Let me clarify," Remus says, sharply. "What do you want from me? I can't fix your relationship with your brother, I can't be your bloody messenger and I don't know what do you want. So talk."
"I . . . " Sirius trails off, lips pressed into a thin line. He takes a step forward, and then another, and then another. They are mere inches apart. Years of light apart. They could touch. Sirius smells of autumn evenings and the odour of the rain falling softly against the window and—
Without realising it, he gets closer. Looks down at Sirius' silver-grey eyes that glitter and gleam. Beautiful. "Go on," he says and thinks his voice sounds hoarse. Maybe it's the smoking. He doesn't think so. He can't think at all.
Sirius' lips are soft and pink and when he goes on his toes Remus feels his heart race because they are so close, so, close, tooclose and—
A brush of their lips, a gasp, breathing the same air just for one moment (and there is something very intimate about that), the smell of autumn evenings, silver-grey meets amber-gold, long black eyelashes flutter shut and—
It's Sirius who backs out first. He looks down, looks up, avoids Remus' gaze. (Look at me, he wants to say, scream, grab Sirius and kiss him senseless. Look at me and did this even mean anything at all to you? and are you disgusted with yourself now? and do I disgust you?)
"Take my number," Sirius says, breathless, blushing. "If Regulus wants to talk . . . "
When the tension becomes unbearable, when the silence becomes deafening—the ultimate paradox, he thinks with a bitter smile painted on his lips—Remus takes the number, says, "I will talk to Regulus. But you should talk to him, too."
He leaves behind a heavily-panting Sirius who looks confused and devastated.
Hogwarts is . . . the word to describe Hogwarts doesn't really exist. Perhaps it would be 'home' but home is with people, not places, he has come to realise. It's about the memories you creat with someone somewhere and the challenge is to create new ones in different somewheres. Parting with places is hard, of course. But parting with people . . . that's devastating. (Not always, especially if the person is Lyall Lypin, but. Well. Not everyone has an arsehole of a father.) Still, when Remus thinks of the long corridors—joyful and crowded with students during the hours of the day, silent and dark at night—of the warm dormitories, of the classrooms with the weird but mostly friendly teachers that don't look at him like he's about to set a bomb wild, of the nights he spends with Regulus and Dorcas exploring the huge school premises, he can't help but feel content. He thinks his friends feel it too, the aura that Hogwarts emits—stinks of, Regulus would say, just to be dramatic. For Regulus, real, concrete happiness has been beaten out of him from such a young age that Remus is afraid he may never find what was lost again.
(Parting with places is hard, of course. But parting with people . . . that's devastating. Especially when one has been forced to part from themselves. Young boys shouldn't haveto be ghosts in their own home.)
Night has fallen over the castle. Sitting on the window, he hugs his knees protectively close to his chest and looks outside. Remus can feel his friend's' gaze; he refuses to meet Regulus' eyes, though. They are far too similar to Sirius' for comfort—silver-grey and glittering in the dark, cat-like, an icy fire burning. Instead, he watches the faint and dark outline of the tall and towering trees, the vast blackness of the night sky that stretches for as long as the eye can see, meeting the distant mountains that loom threateningly over the valley. Chilling, cool air blows his hair around, howling; his eyelashes shut as he enjoys the feeling of the cold wind caressing his cheeks. From afar, a small, flickering and alien blinking light is glowing like a twinkling star. Remus stares at it for long until is fades away in the vast darkness. A sigh escapes him.
(He thinks of pink lips and autumn evenings.)
Just like that, the silence is broken; he feels the charged with electricity and tension atmosphere between them stretch and thicken, idly wonders if he can literally cut it with a knife, then chuckles, shaking his head. Dumbledore ded establish the no-knives policy for a reason and he doesn't want to be the reason the three of them will be kicked out of school. God only knows how hard they've all been working (—Regulus playing piano until he falls asleep, his head landing with a thud on the keys, dancing with Dorcas the ballet until their limbs shake and their toes bleed crimson-red rivers, and of course Remus himself with his photographs. All refusing to eat or rest, because that's a luxury for normal teens and society has made it clear that they aren't normal—) for this. He won't be the reason they are kicked out of school.
"Lupin," says Regulus—Regulus, who is far braver than he lets on, far braver than he lets others believe, far braver than anyone Remus has ever met, far more broken than a fifteen-year old boy ought to be.
Another sigh. "That's my name."
Regulus glares at him. "Stop messing around. Did he talk to you?" He leans closer just a bit and their eyes lock—gold-amber meets silver-grey. "What did he say?"
He runs a hand through his hair. "Fine! Yes, he talked to me; yes, I didn't tell you; no, I wasn't required to tell you. I'm not your damn spy, Regulus."
"When it is clear you talked about me, I am entitled to know."
"You know what he wants."
Regulus purses his lips. "He wants to meet. To reconcile." A scoff. "Like we can do that; we can't even hold a civilised conversation without bloody arguing—you know we can't. But, still . . . "
"Look," Remus says. "This—" he gestures wildly "—is precisely why I didn't want you to know."
"You don't get to obscure such things from me, Remus!" Regulus hisses, standing up. He folds his arms. "I need to know if there is any chance of—" abruptly, he shakes his head, sits on the bed. "This is stupid. You're right."
"About what?" He raises a sceptical eyebrow.
"If he wants to talk to me, he can do it on his own. He can approach me. That's where you're right. Fine?"
Remus nods. "I have his number—he gave it to me in case you wanted to arrange a meeting."
"He gave you his number?"
"Yes. What's wrong about that?" he asks, ducking his head to hide a blush.
Shaking his head, Regulus says nothing.
*
There is a boy with apparent scars, you see, and there is a boy with invisible scars. Both scars are real and valid. Trauma shouldn't be compared. Trauma shouldn't be glorified. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but, still, they should have never been close to death to begin with. You get it, don't you?
(Don't you?)