Run For Cover

LILY

It took them half an hour to find the right house and because the rain was pouring down like a waterfall, Lily and Remus were wet to the skin when she finally rang the doorbell.

“I still think this is an awful idea,” Remus said when she stepped back and both of them looked at the narrow door with the rusty nameplate on eyes level. Lily gave him an angry look.

“I'm open for better ideas, Remus,” she hissed. “But as far as I know, we have nothing but our wands on us and no place to go, but when you happen to remember that you own a mansion in the countryside, feel free to inform me.”

He looked back at her with furiously knotted brows, but kept silent. Lily knew it was a bad idea to come to Spinners End on more than one level. Firstly, it was dangerously close to her own parents, which she could not, under no circumstances, see. And second, her trust in the man they were now consigning their safety to was brittle at best.
There was a noise from the inside of the narrow black door now and Lily turned around to face it. Someone was fiddling with the door chain and then, then it was opened.

The man looking down at Lily was thin and tall. His narrow face was dominated by a hooked nose and a pair of dark, penetrating eyes. Shoulder-long hair fell around it like a black curtain and could use a wash. He was wearing a long black robe, which must ought to attract attention in a muggle neighbourhood like this. But Severus had never cared what others would think about him.

“Lily,” he finally said in disbelief, his eyes widened with surprise.

“And me,” Remus said behind her. Severus' eyes flickered over to him and a small line appeared on his forehead.

“Remus and I need your help, Severus,” Lily said quickly. “Will you let us in please?”

For a split second, she feared he would dismiss them, the expression in his dark eyes was unreadable. But then, he stepped aside wordlessly and let them pass, closing the door behind them carefully. Lily entered the dark corridor but then hesitated. It was windowless and narrow, the only source of light was coming from a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There were several closed doors.

“Straight ahead,” Severus said and walked past her. The corridor was so tight he had to turn his torso to not touch her.

“Okay,” Lily said and followed him. Behind her, Remus' footsteps practically screamed doubts, but she ignored it.

They entered a kitchen that was at least a little bigger than the corridor. It was packed with a weird mixture of magical and muggle items. Next to an old toaster was a mortar and pestle, filled with blood-red paste. Fermented potions were lined up on the shelves above the kitchen counters, carefully labelled with Aconite, Scintillation Solution or Everlasting Elixir. Bundles of herbs were drying on a small line above the sink, almost blocking the little light that might've come through the dusty window. Something steamy was bubbling on the stove.

“Have a seat,” Severus said and pointed his wand at the pot, which immediately stopped bubbling. Remus squeezed on a shaky chair next to a small table and Lily sat down opposite to him. There was no chair left so Severus had to lean against the kitchen counter.

“So?” he asked. “How do I deserve the honour of this visit?”

Lily took a deep breath. “We're on the run,” she said.

Severus didn't bat an eyelash. “I figured you must be,” he remarked instead. “It wouldn't be like you to just give up your wand.”

“No,” Lily confirmed. Severus slowly turned his head and blinked at Lupin.

“But as far as I know, you are not muggleborn, Lupin,” he snarled. “Did you just decide to keep her company out of niceness then?”

“Lily likes my niceness,” Remus said, crossing his arms and leaning back into his chair. Lily rolled her eyes.

“I met Remus at a muggle shop in London when I was hiding from a Ministry funcionary,” she said. “We figured we had a better chance together than alone.”

Severus dark eyes flitted over Remus' face, the scars on his neck and Vernons beat up old jumper. He couldn't have seen him since school and even Lily had to admit that Remus had aged quiet a lot since then.

“And why are you fleeing from the Ministry, Lupin?” Severus asked, mimicking Remus by crossing his arms.

“You know exactly why,” Remus hissed. The corner of Severus' mouth twitched.

“Oh, poor Loony Lupin,” he sing-sang. “Did the Ministry got wind of your furry little problem at last? Who reported you? A well-meaning colleague perhaps? Or did you finally find the dignity to do it yourself?”

“If I were you, Snape, I'd keep my abnormally large nose out of other peoples business,” Remus growled, his eyes sparkling. “Or somebody breaks it in the end.”

“Enough!” Lily interrupted Severus, who had just opened his mouth to shoot something back. “It's irrelevant. Remus and I are both searched for and neither of us can go back to our normal lives. We stayed with my sister for a few days -”

“The muggle?” Severus asked, appalled.

“- but they found us there. Would you take us in for a little while, just until we made a plan on what to do next?”

Lily lifted her head and looked at Severus. He didn't have much resemblance to the little boy she had played hide and seek with as a child. He looked like a stranger now, the blackness of his eyes and hair contrasting against his greyish-pale skin, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he was looking back at her.

“Please,” Lily added.

Severus ground his teeth. “Fine,” he snarled. “But you're not sleeping in the same room.”

“We're already used to that,” Remus said.

REMUS

Remus was staring at Snapes collection of inserted amphibians in disgust. In an act of chivalry, the greasy bastard had agreed to hand his own bedroom over to Lily, but as he only owned a single bed (no surprise there), there was decidedly not enough room for Remus too. And because Snape himself was claiming the living room couch, Remus had no choice than to accept an old air mattress that had still belonged to Snapes deceased father and pitching camps in the room the slimeball called his office.

The office was a small room with one single, very dirty window and a desk squeezed into it, the brick walls covered in shelves which held a few books, but mainly various potion ingredients in huge glass vessels. Remus was now sitting on the desk, because with his air mattress in front of it, there was not much floor space left. To make the atmosphere even spookier, the only source of light was a table lamp with a green lampshade, lighting the glass vessels and their contents in a dubious green glow.

Spontaneously, Remus pulled out the black wand. He had never done it himself, but it couldn't be that hard, right? He imagined his own wand, its warm hazel colour and the shiny spot at its tip, where the unicorn hair was already starting to emerge. Then, he swung the black wand gently.

“Did you miss me?” Sirius Blacks voice chimed, when the tingling sensation had started to prickle in Remus' hand. He smiled.

“I miss my wand,” he answered. It was only half the truth though. Even if he wouldn't mind having his familiar, pliable wand back, the black one fascinated him. Its ebony material refused to warm between his fingers.

“I can't believe you got away again,” Sirius sighted. Remus grinned. He tried to imagine what Sirius Black must look like now, maybe sitting at home in an armchair or on his bed. What did he dress like in private? The picture of a crimson-red morning robe appeared in Remus' mind.

“I can't believe you let us,” he answered.

“I didn't do it on purpose!”

“You didn't? Kind of felt like it, to be honest.”

“Ha-ha,” Black answered grumpily. It sounded like he was walking around.

“What happened to the Death Eaters?” Remus asked curiously. At eyes level in front of him, a inserted eel was slowly turning in its aspic prison.

“They got away.”

“What? How? You had them practically on a silver platter!”

“Our boss,” Sirius grumbled. “Barty Crouch. He talked to one of them and then all of a sudden, ordered us to let them go.”

Remus stared at the eel. So the Ministry had decided to let go the three criminals who tried to murder him and Lily. He felt cold.

“Any idea where they are?” he asked hoarsely. Sirius laughed, joylessly.

“A pretty precise one,” he answered. Remus remembered that he had called the Death Eater witch Bella.

“You knew them, didn't you?” he asked. The eel was blinking slowly.

Sirius snorted. “The banshee with the dark hair? That's my cousin, Bellatrix. And I reckon the tall one must've been her husband, Rodophus.”

Remus and the eel stared at each other. “Your cousin? But then – can't you -”

“I'd love to,” Sirius answered. “But how? Crouch was there, he saw them, and he decided to let them go. How much more arrested could I get them?”

Remus hushed. He had been naïve. He had really thought that, at core, the legal system would care if fanatics were walking around, murdering people for fun, even if these people were muggles or werewolves.

Obviously, he had been wrong about that.

“So we're fair game?” he asked angrily. “Anyone can try to kill us without fearing any consequences?”

Sirius remained silent. Remus fought the impulse to take the eel vessel from the shelf and smash it.

“Don't you see it now?” Remus pushed. “How unfair it is? This has nothing to do with me or Lily not being registered. They want us dead, not only the Death Eaters, but the whole Ministry.”

“Yeah,” Sirius finally answered. “I see it.”

Remus would love to pace the room, but there was no floor space for that. Instead he pulled up his legs to the table top and wound his arms around them.

“Then do something,” he demanded.

Surprisingly, Sirius didn't negate. He only said, “What could I do?”

“You – I don't know -,” Remus pondered. “First, you could stop chasing us.”

“I can't. I'm an Auror and there's a criminal proceeding against you.”

“Cases are dropped all the time.”

“Yes, but that's not my decision. The Wizengamot Administration Service instructs us who to pursue.“

Remus sighed. “And don't you know anyone who works at the Wizengamot Administration Service?”

“Actually, yes,” Sirius answered in surprise. “I do.”

Remus stared back at the eel, briefly wondering how long it already lived in the small vessel on Snapes shelf.

“Will you try then?” he asked.

There was a moment of silence during which Remus looked around himself, as if he would find a box labeled Eel Food. Of course there was none.

“Alright, I see what I can do,” Sirius finally said. “But I can't promise anything.”

“Thank you,” Remus said. He was actually surprised, he would never have thought that he could sweet-talk the Auror into actually making an effort.

There was a moment of comfortable silence during which the eel slowly spun in his glass vessel and Remus yawned into the sleeve of his old Rugby Jumper.

“Did you get into trouble?” he asked. “Because we got away again?”

“Surprisingly not,” Sirius answered. He sounded tired too. “Crouch scolded us for a little, but he was not in peek form. His offences didn't even rhyme.”

Remus chuckled.

“Did you get healed?” Sirius asked, his voice soft with sleep. “Your arm was bleeding, back at the muggle house.”

“I healed it myself,” Remus answered. It had been more tedious to mend the cut up jumper.

“Oh, you know how to do that?” Sirius asked, mildly surprised.

Remus tried to hide his smile at the others sleepy voice. Then he remembered that Sirius couldn't see him anyway.

“Yes, I had to. I am pretty beat up after the moons and I usually need to take care of it myself. It was a luxury that Lily was there with me afterwards.”

“That's shit,” Sirius murmured. “How'd you learn it?”

“I took a few courses back in Hogwarts,” Remus answered. “There was a very nice matron working in the Hospital Wing. She took me in and let me help her. She also was the one patching me up after the moons back then.” Remus hummed. “I wonder where she is today, now that Hogwarts is closed.”

“Maybe Mungos,” Sirius suggested.

“Nah,” Remus said. “She wasn't the type to work at a hospital.”

“Maybe she works for a wizarding family then,” Sirius mumbled. “Some of the richer families have -,” he yawned, “have personal Healers to take care of their children. I remember we had one back when we were little. Reggie used to call her Medusa, because she was such a snake.”

Sirius voice softened with every word. Remus fought a smile, then remembered that no one could see him. He waited for a moment if Sirius would add anything, but nothing came.

“Sirius?” he whispered into the empty room, but it seemed the other had fallen asleep. Remus' lips curled into a small smile as he listened to Sirius' calm breathing. An odd feeling was forming in his stomach, warm and dangerous.

From across the room, the eel was ogling him with pity.

JAMES

Of course it was raining again when James apparated to Devon the next day. The tiny muggle village named Ottery St. Catchpole was full of colourful brick houses and ivy-covered walls - also it seemed deserted, except for a few teenagers lingering under the roof of an ramshackled bus-stop. Cursing internally because he couldn't cast an umbrella charm, James hurried through the pouring rain towards his destination: a small shopfront with the mysterious word Cobbler written in flaking letters on the glass. He was wearing muggle clothes for the occasion, but as always, James was not quiet sure if he did it right. The teenagers pointed at him and laughed as he rushed past them, but maybe his bottle-green coat and the flare-legged curderoy trousers were just too fashionable for a hicksville like this.

A dusty bell informed the shopkeeper of James' arrival when he closed the door behind him. Cobbler must have something to do with shoes, James realized, as the shelves on the walls of the tiny room were stuffed with all kinds of them. The heavy smell of wax and leather was hanging in the air.

“Good day, Mister,” a friendly voice said and James stepped away from a pair of bright red women's shoes to find that a man had appeared behind the counter. He was wearing a pair of framed glasses and a full three-pieces muggle suit, waistcoat, trousers and jacket all made of the same blue flowered fabric. His tie was of a soft shade of pink that did not match at all with his strawberry blonde hair.

“Caradoc Dearborn?” James asked, stepping closer. The man looked at him with wide, appeled eyes.

“N-no,” he choked. “My name is Billy Dav-”

“I know that's not your real name,” James said, rolling his eyes and opening his own coat with a quick hand movement. Dearborns pale eyes darted down, where James' Auror batch was pinned to the lining of his coat.

“I'm James Potter,” James informed him. “Auror of the Ministry for Magic.”

Dearborn laughed nervously. “Well Mr. Potter, if you didn't come to get your shoes fixed I really don't know how-”

“I came because of this,” James said, reaching inside his coat and pulling out a copy of the Quibbler. Crumple-horned Snorkack: new breed found! read the headline, and just underneath that: The five best answers if the Ministry asks about your muggle parents occupations.

“You know what that is, Mr. Dearborn, don't you?” James asked sweetly. Pink patches were blooming on Dearborns cheeks, but he bravely shook his head.

“Funny,” James said. “Because before you decided to dedicate yourself to other peoples shoes, you were known to be quiet a talented publisher in the wizarding community. Didn't you edited the latest issue of Dumbledores manifesto, two month before he got life-sentenced to Azkaban?”

“I am retired,” Dearborn croaked. His eyes were flitting to the door behind James and then back to his face. James smiled friendly.

“Of course,” he agreed. “How old are you, forty?”

“I had enough,” Dearborn rushed to say. “The literature business – the pressure -”

“Shame,” James said, leaning against the counter. “I read your books, Mr. Dearborn. Well your last one. As well as some of the articles you edited for the Daily Prophet, back in the day when they still employed muggle-borns. I liked your work a lot I must say. Very good style, as far as I can judge that as a lay.”

Dearborn stared at him, suspecting that this compliment would come with an edge. James grinned.

“The thing is,” he continued, nodding to the Quibbler on the counter between them, “Reading this felt awfully familiar after reading your work. Could you explain that?”

“Chance,” Dearborn whispered. “I used well-known editing techniques everyone in the field-”

“Don't hide your light under a bushel, Mr. Dearborn,” James interrupted him. “This magazine wears your trademark as clearly as if you'd signed it. The question is only if you'll spare me the hustle of raiding your little shoe-shop and just tell me what I want to know.”

Dearborn stared at him in horror, but James continued mercilessly. “Or do you think I wouldn't find a trace of magic in here, not even the tiniest spell? The Ministry broke your wand, Mr. Dearborn, but we are not so stupid to think that no muggle-born would be able to get hold of another one.”

Dearborn was shaking now, hard enough to make his framed glasses slip to the tip of his nose. But he lifted his chin pridely.

“You can search my shop,” he said. “And whatever you find I will take the responsibility for.”

That was not at all what James had in mind. He couldn't care less about a muggle-born still performing magic illegally and he dreaded the paperwork of a raid. He gave Dearborn a amiable look and leaned down on the counter. “Mr. Dearborn,” he started. “For both of us it would be better if-”

He froze. Leaning forward had allowed him a better view of what was behind the small counter space. A box full of tubes and bottles next to Dearborns feet, undoubtedly filled with shoe cream and polish. Next to it stood a woven basked, covered in a fishnet. The net was domed up, withholding a dozen of small, orange balls inside the basked. They seemed to float upwards like a herd of tiny balloons.

“Are these Dirigible plums?” James asked, frowning. Dearborn blinked in confusion and followed James gaze. James remembered an article in the Quibbler he had just read two nights ago. It would take an striking amount of Dirigible plums for us to believe the Ministries explanation that the deaths of those muggle families were caused by a gas-leak. James remered asking Sirius what on earth a Dirigible plum was. “They enhance the ability to accept the extraordinary,” Sirius had answered. “In a concentrated form they send you on wicked trips too.”

“Accio basket,” James said, having drawn his wand out of the back pocket of his flared pants. The woven basket flew up compliantly, landing in James hand.

“That's – that's an invasion of privacy!” Dearborn stuttered indignantly.

“Yeah? Report me to the Ministry then,” James muttered, plucking a small card out of the basked that was tied to one of the floating plums. There was an orange bird, hand-drawn on top of it, emerging from a scribbled green flame. A phoenix.

James turned the card around and read. The text was short and very trivial: Dear Caradoc, Xeno wants me to send you these plums as a thank you for your help with the latest issue. I put a bottle of firewhiskey underneath, in case you don't fancy getting a ladder to pluck them from the ceiling. Do stop by soon, will you? If you don't want to risk apparating, just send an owl and I'll pick you up. There won't be an Order meeting for another week and we'd really like to see you before. Lots of love, Pan.

“Who's that from?” James asked casually, glancing up at Dearborn who looked as if he had swallowed a mouthfull of Bubotubler pus. James rolled his eyes.

“Oh fine, don't tell me then,” he said, putting the card into his coat pockets. “There can't be that many wizards called Xeno with a wife named Pan around here. What Order is she talking about, by the way?”

Dearborn had his lips pressed together in a thin line, his eyes sparkling with rage. James had pity and put the basket of Dirigible plums back on the counter.

“Don't worry,” he said gently. “I won't tell them how I found them.”

With these words, he carefully pointed his wand at Dearborns forehead and whispered, “Obliviate.”

He was surprised by the pang of guilt in his chest when Dearborns eyes went foggy. This was different from charming some muggles, Dearborn was a wizard and if he still had a wand, James would surely not be able to get to him that easily. It was simply not fair.

James wrestled down these unwelcome thoughts and pushed the wand back into his coat. Dearborn blinked, his lips slightly parted.

“Great job on the shoes, Billy, as always,” James told him with a gentle smile and took a random pair of red patent leather boots from the shelf. They looked roughly Sirius' size.

“I gotta go now, ta!” James said and gave Dearborn a friendly wave, then turned around and left the shop, rushing back into the rain.

When he threw a glance back over his shoulder, he could see Dearborn through the showcase of his shop, staring at the basket full of Diligent plums in confusion.

REGULUS

It was 9 p.m. on a Thursday and Regulus had seeked shelter in the kitchen. Books and rolls of parchment were spread over the entire kitchen table and a cup of tea gently floating next to his head, from time to time refilled by Kreacher, who was mending socks on the other side of the room. The only sounds were the gentle cracking of the fireplace and the nursery rhymes the old house elf hummed under his breath. Regulus was just re-reading a particularly complicated passage in a muffling old tome when his gaze dropped on a unremarkable piece of parchment next to his left elbow.

Thin lines of ink appeared on the parchment, forming words by itself in a spidery, narrow handwriting. Regulus lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise and put away the tome in order to consult the parchment.

“I know where they are.”

Regulus stared at the words, then took his own raven quill to scribble right under that line: “You know where who is?”

The moment he had finished his answer, it disappeared along with the first line, as if the parchment was soaking up the ink. Instead, new words appeared in the same tight handwriting as before.

“The muggleborn and the werewolf.”

Regulus stared at the words, mindlessly biting his lower lip. That was a problem.

“Would Master Regulus like another cup of tea?” Kreacher squeaked from the other side of the room. He had noticed that Regulus had interrupted his studies. Regulus looked up and gave the old elf a soft smile.

“A glass of wine perhaps, thank you, Kreacher,” he answered. Kreachers wrinkled face lighted up and he hopped of his stool to waggle through the kitchen and in order to look through the wineshelf down the hallway.

The moment the old house elf had left the room, Regulus leaned back over the parchment to scribble back hurriedly.

“You must tell him! They've been searched for weeks now!”

The reply was done in a far more untidy handwriting than before. Regulus' dialogue partner seemed enraged too.

“He will kill them.”

“He will find out eventually and if he understands that you knew and haven't told him, he will kill you as well as them,” Regulus answered. He did not believe in euphemisms. There was no room for

interpretation.

“I can't.”

“For Salazars sake,” Regulus muttered under his breath as he wrote back: “Then tell me where they are and I'll do it.”

“No,” the short answer was. Then: “I need your help to get them out safe.”

“Merlins dangling ballsack,” Regulus said loudly into the empty kitchen. 

“Merlot or Pinot Noir?” Kreacher asked as he came back into the kitchen, a bottle of wine in each hand.

“Merlot,” Regulus answered.

“Pinot,” another voice disagreed and when Regulus turned his head he just saw the fireplace turn back from green again, a tall and dark figure stepping out of the flames. His brother grinned back at him as he was knocking the ash off his ridicolus red leather boots.

Regulus rolled his eyes and fought the impulse to grin back.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Pinot then.”

“As you say, Master Regulus,” Kreacher answered and gave Sirius a deadly glare as he walked by, just to make it clear that he was prioritizing Regulus' orders over the status line. Sirius ignored him and dropped down on a kitchen chair, putting his feet up on the stool Kreacher had sat on before

“So,” Regulus said and demonstratively slammed shut the heavy tome he hadn't read in for ten minutes. “How do I deserve the honour of your presence?”

“We happen to share a bloodline,” Sirius answered and accepted a glass of wine from Kreacher. He was wearing his hair back today and none of his suck-up Slytherin-coloured silk ensembles he usually sported at family functions (to make up for the fact that he skipped half of them), but a pair of black jeans and a long sleeved Quidditch jersey with two big Gs on the chest.. His outfit and the fact that he had entered the house via the kitchen chimney after 9 p.m. told Regulus that Sirius was not planning to meet their mother tonight.

“Since when do you play Quidditch?” Regulus asked, thanking Kreacher for his wine with a smile.

“It's James',” Sirius answered and tilted his head. Regulus felt a blush creep up his neck and decided to ignore it as well as his brothers knowing glance. The fact that Regulus turned into a stuttering mess every time he met Sirius (inauspicious fit) best friend had not gone past his older brother.
Sirius grinned and nonchalantly let his gaze wander over the mess of study utensils covering the kitchen table.

“What is all that for?” he asked, put out a pale hand and pulled one of the old books closer to him so he could read the title upside down.

“It's for my studies,” Regulus answered evasively and inconspicuously put another book on the answering piece of parchment in front of him.

“What do you study for?” Sirius asked with mild interest, taking another sip of wine.

“I'm studying the Dark Arts to write a thesis,” Regulus said between gritted teeth. He had explained this to Sirius a hundred times already, but as he was living with their mother and could do his studies from home, Sirius pretty much assumed that he was just sitting around all the time.

But now, one of the books seemed to have gathered Sirius' interest and he blinked and put away his wine.

“Horcruxes?” Sirius said, looking up at his brother. “You read about Horcruxes? That is a very dangerous topic, Reg.”

“I fucking know that,” Regulus answered between gritted teeth. “I study it.” He flicked his wand and the books and parchments on the table gathered into a neat pile in the centre of the table, disappearing with a muffled crack.

“What did you come here for?” Regulus asked, crossing his arms and looking over the table. “If not to be surprised at what I do for the millionth time.”

“Nothing in particular,” Sirius claimed. His flighty appearance had changed into a calm, more concentrated behaviour. Regulus knew that his brother put on a persona like other people put on a hat. On the family dining table he was the eccentric, but entertaining black sheep. With his friends, he was the joke cracking, sarcastic rebel. With him, Regulus, he usually was the nonchalant, experienced older sibling.

Only sometimes, when things were really bad, Sirius Black shrinked back into just Sirius Black.

“Why do you study the Dark Arts?” Sirius asked now. There were several earrings dangling from his earlobe, one shaped like a small lighting bolt.

Regulus, patiently awaiting the real reason for Sirius' visit, took a sip of his wine. It tasted exquisit, he had to compliment Kreacher on the choice later.

“Well, it's a classic,” Regulus answered slowly. “And it's a combination of all other magical subjects, really. Transfiguration, Charms, Potions ..”

“Don't you ever get confused about-,” Sirius blinked. “Morals?”

It was finally dawning upon Regulus. He snorted. “Is that what this is about? Did you stunt with the wand connection backfire and the little werewolf sweet-talked you into questioning your way of life?”

Sirius slowly turned the glass between his long, beringed fingers. “Yes,” he simply said and looked up.

Regulus sighed. Did he have to solve everyone's problems tonight?

“No, I never get confused about morals with my work,” he put it simply. “Because I do not believe in morals. Wrong is just a label people give problems they are too lazy to solve. Everyone has their motives. Your werewolf wants to survive, and therefore he thinks he's in the right for pursuing that goal. You want to live a happy life, which at the moment means to work as an Auror and as such arresting werewolfs and muggleborns – and therefore you are in the right for pursuing that goal also. In the end, it doesn't matter who of you both is right and wrong, only who succeeds.”

Sirius frowned back at him. “That's a lazy way of thinking, Reggie. That way, there's a world full of egoists and the ones win who are born in a more favourable position.”

Regulus shrugged. “Yeah well, welcome to reality.”

Sirius snorted. “You haven't always been such a cynic. Do you even believe in anything that is not comfortable?”

If only you knew.

“I'm only trying to float,” Regulus hissed. “Instead of drowning in that moral morass of yours.”

“And what for?” Sirius shot back.

Regulus snorted. “Oh, yeah, the great, big meaning. The motivation that justifies everything in the end. Is that what you came here for? I have none for you. People live and they die and some sooner than later.”

The angrier Regulus got, the calmer Sirius seemed to become. He leaned back into his seat, swivelling his glass of wine, looked Regulus straight in the eye and answered: “Bullshit.”

“Excuse you?!”

“Bullshit,” Sirius answered. “That crap you can pull with mother or maybe your dusty little friends, but not with me. You are not a nihilist. I don't know what you try to justify in front of yourself with that philosophy, but I know when you're lying, especially to yourself.”

Regulus stared back at him, fighting down the rage in his chest. Only Sirius could wind him up like this, push all his buttons and look so fucking smug about it.

“Fine,” Regulus growled. “If you feel the need to see the world in white and black, feel free. But be aware that people like us are not looking very bright in that scenario.”

Sirius slightly tilted his head. “So you agree,” he said. “The way we live is wrong.”

Regulus looked back at him, then drew his wand and gently flicked it. The kitchen door fell shut. Sirius' eyebrows shot up, but he didn't comment.

“If I look at it logically,” Regulus carefully chose his words. “I can't see why it should be illegal as a muggleborn to carry a wand. Scientifically speaking, they do have the magical ability to perform spells and the wizarding community is already small enough as it is. It doesn't make sense to expel them for the only reason that we simply do not know where their magic is coming from.”

Sirius lifted his eyebrows. “The Ministry proclaims that they have stolen the magic from other, natural witches and wizards at a young age.”

“Which is rubbish,” Regulus answered. “Studies of Fundamental Magic have proven time and time again that there is no way to transfer magic from one person to the other, just as there is no way to erase it or create in newly. Young witches and wizards get ill when they are forbidden to use their magic, or turn downright dangerous. Godric knows what will happen to the adult muggleborns that have given off their wands to the Ministry and been obliviated afterwards. They'll probably blow themselves up in a few years, or they'll turn depressed.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “The muggle will call it a mental health crisis probably, but the Ministry doesn't care about what happens after they shifted their muggleborns off to the muggle-society. Most of them do not give up their wands anyways and therefore die in Azkaban. I've even heard about a law allowing the kiss of the Dementor to be the punishment for non-registered muggleborns. Then they can rot in some muggle psychiatry afterwards.”

Regulus leaned forwards conspiratorially. “Did you know the muggles try to treat kissed people with electric shocks? Or they'll poke a needle through their nose into their brains.” He shook his head. “Insane, these muggles.”

“Insane,” Sirius repeated.

Regulus tilted his head and looked back at him. “Are you already imagining your werewolf in a rubber room? Don't worry. He won't come as far. He has broken too many laws for that.”

“I know that,” Sirius snorted, then frowned. “What do you think about him, then? Just like with the muggleborns, that he shouldn't need to be registered?”

Regulus slowly took a sip of wine. “It's harder to evaluate him logically,” he admitted. “Lycanthropy is a serious disease and because the werewolves are so dangerous during the full moons, I think it would be irresponsible not to know who is a wolf and who isn't. In the end, we cannot rely on the individual person concerned to act responsibly and prepare their transformations. But-”

“But?”

“But there really is no evidence of people with lycantrophy posing any danger when they are in their human form. The disease can only be spread by the bite of the wolf itself, during the moon. There are even cases when vampires had been drinking the human werewolves blood and have not been infected.”

Sirius sighed. “How come you are so sure about that but the rest of the world is not?”

“Because they're all stupid,” Regulus said, rolling his eyes. “And because it's far easier to tell horror stories about the big bad wolves than to deal with ill people on the streets.”

Sirius slowly nodded, then frowned at him. “Have you told mother any of these opinions?”

Regulus laughed haughtily. “And get disinherited? No, thank you.”

Sirius hummed. They had long ago decided to not fight about their respective approaches concerning their mother. Sirius didn't comment Regulus decision to keep living with her, just as much as Regulus didn't comment Sirius decision to cherry-pick what he took from his family and what he disdained.

“Do you ever think about him?” Sirius now broke this crucial rule.

Regulus stared at him.

They did not talk about him. Never. He did not exist, had never existed.

“Who?” Regulus croaked, still hoping that he had misheard Sirius' question.

Unfortunately, he hadn't. “Orion,” Sirius specified, looking back at Regulus with calm, bright eyes.

Regulus had always found it kind of funny that Sirius didn't call him father. As if denying him that title changed anything.

“No,” Regulus answered shortly. This time, Sirius didn't comment on him lying. Of course Regulus thought about their father, thought about the night of his death, laid awake at night looking into those cruel, grey eyes and how the life had slowly faded from them.

Sirius leaned forward, his face gentle and almost – pitiful?

“You don't need to live with her to make up for that, Reggie.”

Regulus' heart skipped a beat. “I know,” he said shortly. “It was an accident. He died of a heart attack.”

Now it was definitely pity on Sirius' face. “Sure,” he answered, leaned back an took the last sip out of his wine glass.

“How's Meda doing?” he changed the subject abruptly.

Regulus blinked. “Why don't you ask her yourself?”

“I probably should,” Sirius nodded. “I'll try to see her soon. Is she still engaged to that french guy?”

“I haven't heart differently,” Regulus said.

Andromedas fiancé was something like a running gag between cousins. When she was seventeen, she had participated in an exchange program with Hogwarts and Beauxbaton and after six month came back claiming she had met a gorgeous french pureblood lad. How her parents could believe that crap was beyond Regulus, specifically because this french wizard had miraculously cancelled every invitation to meet the family in the last ten years. A portkey misfunction here, a case of dragon pox there – Meda was really creative when it came to these unfortunate events. But this mysterious french finacé came with the pleasant side effect that Andromedas parents didn't get on her nerves with trying to find a fitting pureblood party here in Britain.

Secretly, Regulus was convinced Andromeda was actually queer and seeing a witch for years. Foreign Fiancé was practically code for I'm Fucking Someone My Family Wouldn't Agree With and Sirius and Regulus had happily adapted that expression for their own entertainment. Couldn't come to Uncle Cygnus 101th birthday? Tell mother my french fiancé has invited me to his holiday home in Nantes. Bellatrix' wedding reception? Sorry, my french fiancé asked me to go to the opera tonight. How's your dating life? Oh, you know, I have a french fiancé I'm seeing on the weekends, but it's nothing serious.

“Good for her,” Sirius said now. “I am sure we're about to meet this dream guy any day now.” With these words he stood up and stretched like a cat.

“I've gotta go,” he said with a yawn. “James is waiting with the tabbouleh.”

Regulus blinked, surprised by this sudden departure. “Alright.”

Sirius winked at him and walked over to the fireplace, taking a hand of floo-powder out of the enamel bowl on top of the mantelpiece. But before he threw it into the flames, he turned around again.

“You know, I am really relieved to hear you are still able to think critically,” Sirius said with unusual earnestness. “I feared I've already lost you to the Bellatrix' side of the family.”

Regulus wanted to answer something witty, but nothing came to his mind. So he just waved gently at his older brother as Sirius was stepping into the now green flames and disappeared.

If you only knew, Regulus thought for the second time this evening and fought the urge to clutch his left forearm. Instead, he lifted the book off the old piece of parchment and looked down at it. His last message was staring back at him.

Regulus took a deep breath, dunked his quill into the ink and scribbled another line under it.

“What did you have in mind?”