The winter solstice has left late afternoons in the common room quiet and drowsier than usual. Sirius is laying with his limbs draped across a sofa, making lazy doodles on a piece of spare parchment while James chews on the edge of his quill thoughtfully.
“How many bloody Greek constellations are there?” he mutters, flipping yet another page in the worn Astronomy textbook.
“Forty-eight,” Sirius says, without glancing up.
James looks over at him, eyebrows furrowing. “Forty-eight?”
“Yes. First recorded by Claudius Ptolemy of Alexandria in his Amalgest – in the 2nd century CE.”
James frowns, shadows from the flickering firelight lapping delicately against the planes of his face. The setting sun has left an amber glaze over his skin, softening the contours of his body so that he looks like he’s in an oil portrait. “I thought you said you haven’t studied yet.”
“I haven’t,” Sirius shrugs, gaze returning to his parchment. He’s so easily flustered around James these days; looking at him for too long always seems to put funny ideas in Sirius’ head. “I just happen to know a lot about constellations.”
“Right. Sirius,” James grins. “The brightest star in the night sky.”
“One of ten in the Canis Major constellation,” Sirius nods. “Along with Adhara, Aludra, Amadioha, Atakoraka, Furud, Mirzam, Muliphein, Unurgunite, and Wezen.”
James’ jaw swings open, vaguely impressed. “Did you just list those in alphabetical order?”
Heat rises under Sirius’ collar at the look on James’ face. “Just got a good memory, I suppose.”
“If I had a memory like yours I’d never study again,” James declares. His eyes shift toward the parchment in Sirius’ hands. “I’d just sit around drawing all the time too.”
“This is studying,” Sirius points out. He flips his doodle over to show James. “I’m drawing constellations, see?”
James is quiet for a few minutes as he examines the image – a casual sketch of the Canis Major embedded against the outline of a large dog. Something in his expression changes, and in the lengthening silence Sirius feels the vague stirrings of embarrassment in his gut.
“The dog,” James says finally, his voice softening with hushed awe. “It looks just like you do, when you –“
“Yeah,” Sirius rolls his eyes. “That’s sort of what I was going for.”
James won’t let go of the parchment. When Sirius reaches to get it back he clutches it closer to his chest. “I want to keep this one.”
“You want to keep it?”
“Yeah,” James looks down again, his words coming out a little slower than normal – as if he’s surprised by his own decision. “I don’t know. I like it, I guess.”
For a whole week James will speak of nothing else. He carries the drawing with him everywhere he goes, like a talisman – whipping it out at every opportunity to show people, insisting that everyone appreciate what an incredibly talented artist Sirius is.
It’s nice that James seems to like his work so much, but Sirius can’t quite tell what about it has gotten James so enthralled. It’s not even one of his best pieces, and if he’d known James was going to parade it around the whole school, he’d have at least spent some time shading it in or something.
“No, it’s perfect like this,” James tells him, when Sirius makes the suggestion. “Simple. Clean. See?”
“Just snog that drawing already, James,” Peter calls from the other side of the hallway.
“Seriously,” Remus says dubiously, eyeing the pair of them. “He loves that thing so much he might as well get it tattooed."
Exam season comes and goes; the bloom of spring gives way to the hazy heat of summer. On the last day of classes Sirius finds James curled up in an alcove, bent over a scroll of parchment and scribbling furiously.
“You don’t have to keep revising once exams are done, you know,” Sirius snorts, bending over James’ shoulder to look at what he’s doing.
At the sound of his voice, James gives a start and drops his quill. Cursing, he crumples the parchment up before Sirius can see what’s on it.
“What?” he mumbles, at Sirius’ affronted expression. “It’s not done yet.”
“What’s not done yet?”
“Just something I’m working on,” James turns around, holding the small, crinkled ball closed in his fist. He looks nervous, almost guilty – a sliver of sunlight illuminates his face and exacerbates the sudden, vivid flush of colour pooling under his cheekbones.
Sirius squints at him suspiciously, annoyed that James wants to keep something from him. “Is that a love letter?”
James grins, sweeping his fingers down along Sirius’ bare arm in a single, silky motion. “Why, are you jealous?”
Sirius scowls and slaps James’ hand off. He does his best not to think about the sensation of James’ fingertips slipping over his skin – the way the touch feels as though it’s still lingering there on his arm, like a ghostly echo.
“I can’t believe James and Sirius get to live together,” Peter whines, that evening. “They get to spend all summer with each other.”
The four of them are crowded in a small, tight circle on James’ bed, drinking through the last of their collective alcohol supply. Their dormitory is dark and mostly bare; all their possessions have been packed up for the summer, and the resulting tidiness surrounding them has made the room unrecognizable from its usual state of chaotic disarray.
“At least you’ve got a real home to go back to,” Sirius tells Peter. He’s still on edge from this afternoon, and the alcohol has made it hard not to continuously ruminate over the thought of James composing long, secretive sonnets to give to someone else.
“You do have a real home now,” James turns sideways to frown reproachfully at him. “Or do you not feel that way anymore?”
“Think he meant the house he grew up in, mate,” Remus says.
“Yeah. What Moony said.”
“I think Sirius is just grumpy because I wouldn’t show him that thing I was working on today,” James confides to the others.
Sirius meets his eye for a brief moment and then looks away, pouring himself a drink and downing it in one scalding gulp. “I don’t really care what you write in your sappy love letters, James, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Peter’ face splits open with a delighted smile. “Oh, he doesn’t know.”
“Know what?”
“Nothing,” James snaps suddenly, kicking Peter’s knee and eliciting a high yelp from him. “It’s nothing you need to worry about yet.”
“Pads,” James hisses, hours later in the middle of the night. “Padfoot!”
“What?”
“Are you still awake?”
“I am now,” Sirius says irritably, sitting up and squinting into the darkness. “What is it?”
“I can’t sleep,” James whispers.
“Congratulations,” Sirius whispers back, already laying down.
“Want to come sit on the roof with me?” James asks, his shadowy silhouette shifting around the room noisily until he’s found his way to Sirius’ bed. “Just for a bit, I promise.”
Sirius heaves a long sigh, staring up at the black ceiling. James gives him a few seconds to decide, and then Sirius is pulling himself up again in resignation. He’s exhausted, but saying no to James has been getting more and more difficult lately, for reasons unknown to him.
As he gets to his feet, he realizes he’s a tad more drunk than he’s anticipated, stumbling and knocking right into James.
“Ow, that was my toe, dickhead –“
“It’s not my fault I can’t bloody see!”
“Quiet, we’re going to wake the others,” James shushes him, but he’s shaking with laughter. His hands reach around in the dark, searching for Sirius. “Where are you? Stop moving.”
“You stop moving,” Sirius huffs, as an arm smacks him hard in the chest. “I’m right here, stop fucking flailing like that –“
James staggers again and grabs both of Sirius’ shoulders to steady himself. “Pads, I think I’m drunk,” he breathes, his voice suddenly sounding much closer than it had been a minute ago.
“A little, yeah,” Sirius agrees. “Still want to go up to the roof?”
“Obviously. I just need – wait, come here,” James slides his hand down and closes it over Sirius’ wrist, tugging him in the direction of his own bed. “The cloak should just be laying somewhere around this mess, hold on – aha!”
Triumphantly, he holds the silvery material up. He lets go of Sirius’ hand and ducks under the invisibility cloak, lifting the fabric a little to give Sirius space to slide in beside him.
Afterwards the two of them don’t so much navigate as blunder incapably around the labyrinth of corridors and staircases that lead toward the castle’s turrets. It takes a while, what with James getting distracted every other minute and wandering off in the wrong direction, but eventually they make their way there, gingerly helping each other up from an open window onto the high, slanted rooftop.
James slides the cloak off once they’re both comfortably seated. His body materializes under the pale crescent moon, eyes bright with laughter. “Shit. That was so much harder than I thought it would be.”
“Worth it, though,” Sirius says, tilting his head upwards.
The sky above them is a wonderland, rippling and bursting with stars. Sitting here on the roof, it looks closer than it ever has; as if he’d be able to reach up and pluck the stars from the darkness, like celestial berries. And there are so many of them, as far as he can see in every direction, an endless kaleidoscope of constellations all etched onto the charcoal canvas of night.
“There,” James says softly, pointing out the brightest star. Its liquid heat creates a distinct sphere in the sky, composed of dancing, glowing diamonds. “That’s my favourite one.”
Sirius’ heart feels twice its normal size now, but it’s weightless in his chest. Surrounded by all this silence, it’s as if nothing exists but this moment: sitting beside James’ elegant outlines, the satin gleam of his skin, pearls of starlight flaring against his glasses.
James digs around in his pocket and pulls out two small, rolled-up pieces of parchment. Sirius recognizes one as the drawing he’d given James, but the other is unfamiliar to him. James hands him the second piece, nodding at him to unravel it.
It’s another drawing – James’ this time, recognizable by the same rushed, heavy-handed strokes that characterize his handwriting. It takes Sirius a few moments to work out what exactly the image is. What initially appeared as an amorphous blob, on closer inspection, turns out to be a clumsy, childish sketch of a stag riding a motorcycle, and a big dog running alongside it.
Oh.
“I was thinking about what Remus said,” James says, opening up the parchment with Sirius’ original drawing on it. “And I’d like to get this as a tattoo. But then I thought – maybe we should both get one, so I’ve been trying to put together this drawing for you, and -”
Sirius stares at him, suddenly aware of the accelerated drumming under his ribs. He feels slightly numb all over, as though he can no longer tell where the borders of his own body are, and is simply untangling like a ribbon, becoming one with the night.
James wants to get a tattoo of Sirius’ sketch – a tattoo of Sirius is what it essentially is, since it was his own Animagus form that Sirius had drawn. James wants that immortalized on his body. And now he’s giving Sirius one he’s drawn of them together, so that they can have matching tattoos, like badges they can show the whole world. Yours and mine.
James looks flustered. “I know it’s shit, and I can’t draw like you can, so you don’t have to get it inked if you don’t want to, but –“
“I love it,” Sirius says, still staring at the parchment.
James’ eyebrows rise in surprise, and then he’s grinning. “Really?”
Sirius nods. Speaking is impossible; his throat has locked up with a rush of effervescent emotion. It’s not a new feeling, nor an unfamiliar one – but Sirius has never felt it with such intensity, such clarity before. It seems to expand inside him, an iridescent wave that washes everything else away and covers Sirius’ entire being in dazzling strobes of colour and heat.
It doesn’t matter that the drawing is objectively terrible, with all its clumsy lines and irregular shapes – only that James had done it for him. It’s a piece of Sirius’ favourite person in the world, one that James wants him to wear on his skin for the rest of his life.
And to Sirius, it’s nothing short of perfect.
“And you’re sure that you’re both eighteen?”
James nods, stamping on Sirius’ foot to do the same.
The tall tattoo artists considers them apprehensively, her eyes narrowed as they rove over the ridiculous Muggle outfits James has insisted they put on for the occasion. James is wearing a suit in the most violent shade of purple, while Sirius has chosen to combine an oversized black coat with a pair of jeans that has so many rips and tatters that he’s surprised it was being sold at all.
For a long, strained moment they hold their breaths, staring back at the tattoo artist in defiance. Then she shrugs, waving them through the door of the cramped tattoo parlour and letting it shut with a thud behind them.
“We’re not supposed to let people in without IDs, but seeing as you’ve – er, both forgotten yours,” the artist says, wearing a quizzical expression as she regards the pair of them, “and that you’ve insisted on paying twice the usual rate, I’m just going to let it go this time.”
“Very kind of you,” James says cheerfully, sliding the two parchment pieces over the countertop toward her. “These are the drawings we would like done.”
She nods with a hint of appreciation at Sirius’ work, but pauses to frown at the formless scribble James has designed. “What – uh, what exactly is this one meant to be?”
“A stag,” Sirius says, using his finger to trace the vague shape with some difficulty (it’s easy to lose track of where each item in the drawing is), “and he’s riding a motorcycle. And there’s a dog here, look, it’s running; you can see the little paws.”
The tattoo artist’s frown deepens as she peers at it, looking doubtful. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something a little more –”
“No,” Sirius taps the drawing again. “I want this. Exactly the way it is.”
Her gaze swivels between their eager faces, then lets out a breath. “It’s just – tattoos are permanent, you know.”
“Exactly,” Sirius gives her an encouraging nod, grateful that she finally understands.
“Alright, fuck it,” the artist sighs, taking James’ drawing and feeding it to a strange Muggle machine that begins whirring ominously as it swallows the parchment.
Sirius steps forward, his mouth opening in alarm, but James pulls him back and shakes his head. A moment later the tattoo artist produces a perfect copy of James’ drawing, now printed over some sort of translucent papery material, and hands the original back to Sirius. He folds it up and keeps it securely in one of the many pockets of his overcoat.
“Who wants to go first?”
They both shout “I do!” at the same time, shoving each other as they fight and scrabble their way to the seat. James gets on it before Sirius can, prising the latter’s fingers off his shirt as he settles onto the navy leather.
The artist waits for Sirius’ long, expletive stream of insults to come to an end, then finally takes a seat beside James. “You’ve decided where you want it to go, right?”
James glances at him, suddenly perplexed. “Oh. Yes, of course.” He gestures near his collarbone. “What about here?”
Sirius shakes his head to intervene. “Your mum is going to see that at once.”
“If you want it to be discreet, you should get it somewhere your clothes will hide,” the tattoo artist suggests. “Like your back, or your ribs –”
“What about over my heart?”
“James, don’t be a sod.”
“The left side of your chest? That works too.” She gives him an expectant look. “You do know you’ll have to take your shirt off for this? I can’t tattoo over clothes.”
James rips his blazer off and discards it. Grinning at Sirius, he undoes the buttons on his shirt, then slips it off and lays back. The fluorescent light lathering over his torso makes it difficult for Sirius not to stare – his eyes immediately hone in over the convex of James’ tensed chest muscles, the deep grooves running down his abdomen. Even the sight of all of James’ old, faded Quidditch scars is enough to make Sirius’ mouth run dry with longing.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” James says, beaming. “Remus and Peter are going to be so jealous.”
Sirius leans in closer so he can watch as the tattoo artist gets to work. James’ expression tightens the instant the needle lands on him – within minutes his whole face has paled to a starchy shade, and he lets out a single long, uninterrupted groan:
“Oooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.”
“Stop squirming,” the artist snaps at him.
“Are you nearly done yet?”
“I’ve just started!”
Sirius can’t help his smirk when James whimpers again. “Do you need to hold my hand?”
“Yeah, actually, that would help.”
“What, really?”
“Yes, you wanker,” James grits his teeth. “This really fucking hurts – give me your hand. Now.”
“Try not to break my fingers,” Sirius mutters, reluctantly offering it to James, then immediately regretting his decision when James crushes all his knuckles in an iron grip. “It can’t possibly be that bad, the needle she’s using looks tiny.”
“You’re not helping,” James grimaces, the pain causing him to shudder and squirm. “How does it look? Good?”
Sirius’ gaze descends toward the inchoate tattoo. The artist is nearly finished with the dog’s outline, and has begun to pepper pieces of the Canis Major constellation onto it. Sirius has to admit that something about James’ skin makes the ink on it appear deeper, more velvety – clinging to the honey warmth like the shadowy strokes of a Renaissance painting.
“It suits you,” Sirius says, and means it. He can’t stop thinking about how that’s his drawing, polished and shining against James’ flesh, how every time James takes his shirt off he’s going to have this little reminder of Sirius to look at. “Now you won’t be able to forget me, even if you try.”
“I’d never want to, anyway.” James gives Sirius a watery smile, his cheeks flushing pink, but it comes out contorted with discomfort. When the needle touches him again he lets out another sharp gasp. “How long more?” he asks the artist. “Is it done yet?”
“Almost,” she says. “Just keep holding still. Talk to your friend, try not to focus on the pain.”
“He’s my best friend,” James corrects. “Actually, no. Remus and Peter are my best friends. Sirius – he’s more than that. Aren’t you, Pads?”
“Sometimes I think he’s secretly in love with me,” Sirius whispers to the tattoo artist.
James laughs, squeezing Sirius’ fingers in response. “Where do you want to get yours? Same place?”
Sirius thinks for a second, then shrugs. Why not? The idea of a tattoo over his heart is ridiculous, but so is James’ drawing itself. He doesn’t really care where it goes on his body, it doesn’t make a difference, and there’s a certain continuity to the two of them getting their pieces done in the same location. Like matching family crests.
At last, the artist lifts her needle off and straightens up. “All done. Let me clean it up a little and then you can have a look.”
James lets out a breath of relief, glancing down at the tattoo and glowing with excitement. “It’s perfect! It’s just like the drawing!”
“Alright, now move,” Sirius says, pushing James off the chair. “It’s my turn.”
The tattoo artist returns to wipe James’ new tattoo clean and cover it with a protective plastic film. Then she sits back down, her face falling as she looks at the drawing James has made again. “I’ll be honest, I don’t even know where to start with this one. It’s a little – er, complex.”
While she gathers her materials, Sirius throws off his coat and T-shirt. “James drew it for me himself,” he boasts, when he sees her still staring at the image with dismay.
“I can see that,” she purses her lips, then sighs. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
“Here, you can hold my hand,” James offers, taking hold of Sirius’ fingers again. “Squeeze it as hard as you need – it’s going to hurt, so don’t worry, I won’t laugh. It’s okay if you cry a little too.”
“I think I’ll be alright, but thanks.”
The loud buzz of the Muggle device she’s using to create the tattoos makes him feel slightly nervous, but he’s not too worried about the pain. His body tenses when the needle sinks into his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. It’s not nearly as bad as James was making it seem; it causes more of an annoying kind of stinging than any actual pain.
James stares at him, bewildered at his lack of a response. “You’re not even squeezing my hand.”
“We’re only holding hands because you wanted to, James.”
James reddens, but doesn’t let go. “How are you just sitting there right now? Doesn’t it hurt?”
“I’ve got a high pain tolerance.”
It had been a necessity, growing up at Grimmauld Place, to learn to withstand pain. Sirius has never been particularly fond of remembering the details of his childhood, during which he’d learned, over and over, his first lessons in fear. His mother’s hailstorm fists and the earthquakes in his father’s voice, taking the shape of monsters under his bed and in his closet. Bruises that never healed, but only continued to spread and calcify under his skin as he got older.
James’ gaze softens, and he tightens his grip on Sirius’ fingers. “Well, can you at least pretend to cry a bit? Because this is turning out to be quite embarrassing for me.”
Sirius pushes thoughts of his family away, focusing on James’ presence and the steady, grounding weight of his hand in Sirius’ own. “I won’t tell the others what a baby you were, if it makes you feel any better.”
His tattoo takes far longer than James’, and when it’s finished, the image is no more decipherable than it had been in the drawing James made. It rather looks as though someone has overturned a large bottle of ink on his chest, but Sirius doesn’t care – he loves it.
Afterwards, they stand side by side in front of the tall mirror in the parlour, grinning at their reflections.
“Now we’ll always be a part of each other,” James tells him, knocking Sirius’ shoulder with his own. “No matter how far apart we are.”
Of course, it only takes a few hours for Euphemia Potter to notice what they’ve done. Their stupid outfits are a dead giveaway, and also, James won’t stop smiling to himself as he repeatedly peeks under his shirt, no matter how many times Sirius reminds him in a furious whisper to act normal.
After dinner she pulls them both aside in the living room and looms over them with her arms crossed tight over her chest. “What’ve you got under your shirt there, James?”
James exchanges a guilty look with Sirius. “Nothing.”
“Nonsense. I know that look – you’re hiding something from me.”
James widens his eyes innocently. “Frankly, mum, I find it offensive that I can’t even smile without you thinking that I’m up to something.”
She turns to Sirius, fixing him with a somber gaze. “It’s alright, Sirius. James is incorrigible, but you’re not. You can tell me what he’s up to, dear. It won’t get you in any trouble.”
James opens his mouth, affronted. “Incorrigible?”
Sirius swallows and stares at his feet, unwilling to meet her eye. He’s a terrible liar, and has always disliked upsetting Euphemia anyway. He can still feel the slight itch of the fresh tattoo on his chest, now burning hot as he stands under her suspicious glare. “He’s not up to anything, Mrs Potter. Promise.”
“Pinky promise,” James adds.
She sighs, regarding both of them. “I didn’t want it to have to come to this, but you’ve left me no choice. Off with your shirt, James, quickly.”
“Mum, I don’t want to take my shirt off in front of Sirius. That’s embarrassing.”
“Do you really expect me to believe that?” Euphemia raises her eyebrows. “You sleep in the same bed.”
“With our shirts on!”
“Sometimes,” Sirius clarifies helpfully.
“All the time,” James glares at him.
Euphemia sighs. “Boys, I’ve had a long day. Do either of you have any idea how exhausting it is to run a household all by yourself, cooking and feeding four people, without having to also deal with your ridiculous antics? If you don’t show me what you’re hiding, James, you can kiss that nice new broomstick of yours goodbye.”
“Hey, that’s not fair!” James shouts, panicked.
“I’m not feeling very fair at the moment,” she says severely. “Now stop being ridiculous and take your shirt off, unless you want me to turn it invisible with my wand!”
Glowing scarlet, James tugs his shirt off. He drags the act out for as long as he can, moving the fabric off his body with exaggerated slowness. “Before you say anything,” he tells her, holding the shirt against his chest to keep the tattoo covered, “I think you should know that Sirius has one too.”
Sirius’ mouth drops open at the sheer, scathing betrayal. “James, you bloody snitch –”
“Language, Sirius!” Euphemia cuts him off sharply. “Has one of what?”
James gives her a sheepish smile and lets the shirt fall. Euphemia’s gaze alights on the tattoo and she lets out an audible gasp, hands flying to her mouth. To Sirius it looks as if she’s bloating, ballooning with rage; he can almost see her growing taller as she stares down at James’ chest, her eyes turning livid.
“A tattoo!” she screeches at him, all her teeth bared as she wrings her hands around. “You’ve gone and gotten yourself a bloody tattoo!”
“Language, mum!”
“This isn’t funny, James! And you’ve got one too, have you?” she whirls on Sirius, fuming.
Sirius chews his lip, pulling his collar down to show her his own.
Euphemia’s eyeballs look perilously close to popping right out of her skull at the sight of it. “What have you done? Was your tattoo artist drunk? I don’t even know what that one is supposed to – oh, Merlin,” she moans suddenly, massaging her forehead. “This isn’t some sort of cult thing, is it? Because it’s really starting to look like a cult thing.”
“It’s not a cult thing!” James protests, bouncing on his feet.
“Explain yourselves, then!” she hisses. “Both of you! What on earth possessed you to go and – I mean, Sirius, honestly, I expected better from you, at least –”
“Did you?” James asks, in a tone of genuine surprise. “Because really, that would’ve been your first mistake.”
She ignores him. “Tattoos are permanent! And I’m sure it’s very funny to you now, having gotten that – that blob done on yourself – but one day when you’re older –”
“It’s not just a blob!” Sirius interrupts. “James drew it for me!”
“It’s meaningful,” James insists. “It represents our friendship, the eternal bond of our souls –”
“I don’t care what it represents!” she shrieks. “You are far too young to be making these decisions, and especially without telling me first!”
Something in her thunderous tone finally seems to hit James. He quails a little, shoulders shrinking with embarrassment. “Alright, alright. There’s no need to yell.”
“NO NEED TO YELL?”
Sirius suppresses an eye-roll – James, who has been living with his mother far longer than Sirius has, clearly still has no idea how to handle her when he gets in trouble. He has an annoying tendency to keep poking at her, denying responsibility and making excuses for himself, which only serves to piss her off even more. Sirius, on the other hand, learned very quickly that the best thing to do in these types of situations is just to tell her exactly what she wants to hear.
“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you, Mrs Potter,” he says, in as grave and mournful a voice as he can muster. “We were just so excited by the idea, and we were afraid you’d say no if we asked –”
She lets out an indignant huff. “Too right!”
“And I know you’re angry,” Sirius continues, eyeing James. “But that drawing he made meant so much to me, because it reminded me of all the kindness your family has shown me this year. I just wanted to do something special, to remember that for the rest of my life.”
James snorts in disbelief, and Sirius kicks his ankle.
Euphemia is still vibrating with anger, but a type of righteous tenderness floods her face as she considers Sirius’ words. “Look – that’s really very sweet of you, Sirius, but there was no need to do something so extreme. You’re a part of this family now, you shouldn’t need a tattoo to prove that!”
“I know, but I wanted something I could look at everywhere I go,” Sirius says, lowering his voice. “It’s not your fault, Mrs Potter, but sometimes, I still feel like I’m intruding here –”
“Oh, please,” James interrupts loudly. “Now you’re just being –”
“Quiet, James!” Euphemia throws him a dangerous look, before turning back to Sirius. “You should know that you’re every bit my son as he is, dear, and that this will be your home for as long as you want. You’re not intruding here, not at all, and honestly –” she glares at James again, “I’d kick him out before you.”
“Mum!”
Her eyes vacillate from James’ face to Sirius’, appearing supremely disappointed. “Regardless of your intentions, this was a very stupid, very irresponsible thing to do – the two of you certainly know better. I hope you realize that neither of you can be trusted to go gallivanting about anymore, Merlin knows what you’d get up to! No, you’re to stay home for the rest of the summer –”
“The rest of the summer!” James gasps. “All summer?”
“Yes, all summer,” she snaps. “You are both under house arrest as of this very instant.”
They immediately start protesting, both their voices clashing as they try to argue, plead, and grovel their way into changing Euphemia’s mind.
“No, I don’t want to hear it!” she says firmly, over their collective cacophony. “If you want to act like troublemakers then you will be treated as troublemakers!”
And that, really, is the end of it.
James spends all night complaining about being stuck in the house.
“It’s not fair,” he laments to Sirius, pacing back and forth in his bedroom. “What are we supposed to do for two whole months? Weed the garden? Maybe if we talk to my dad, he’ll –”
“I don’t know,” Sirius says doubtfully. In all honesty, he does regret causing that look of unbridled dismay on Euphemia’s face. “Your mum seemed really mad.”
“Well, at least there’s no way for her to remove our tattoos,” James admits, after a moment. “I suppose I should be thankful for that much. But the fact that we’re to stay home all summer is taking it a bit far, in my opinion –”
“I think it was worth it,” Sirius shrugs. He glances at the shining ink on James’ bare chest, and even though he’s already been staring at it all evening, it still kindles a warm, giddy feeling in his bones each time he does. “And I’m glad we did it.”
James smiles, catching his eye. He takes a seat across him on the bed, pulling his knees up to his chest. “Me too. Sorry for telling on you, by the way.”
Sirius waves a hand at him. “She was bound to notice eventually. Telling her was probably the smartest thing to do.”
“Hey.” James touches his wrist. “What you said earlier, about feeling like an intruder – you didn’t actually mean that, did you?”
Sirius looks around the bedroom they share, stuffed full of all his belongings, and shakes his head. This is his home now, the best home he’s ever had – and it’s where James is. Sirius wouldn’t care if Euphemia had put them on house arrest for a whole year, or even a whole decade. He’d go anywhere with James, suffer any punishment with him. Grounded or not, they’re here, together. Sirius would take that any day over the long, hollow loneliness he had once been stuck with during his summers at Grimmauld Place.
“Good, because she was right. You are a part of this family, and you always will be,” James tells him, reaching across the space between them to pat Sirius’ heart. “All your life, just like this tattoo.”
That summer, both of them take to strutting around the house without their shirts on, so that they can gaze at each other’s tattoos all day long. Sirius feels himself swelling with pride each time he catches sight of his drawing on James, or James’ drawing on himself. He never gets tired of looking at it, because it’s a physical reminder that the two of them share something no one else does.
A reminder that they each now have a piece of the other to carry around with them – forever. One that will always keep James connected to him, like the invisible lines that bind stars in a constellation.
***