latitudes

"You've been agonizing over it all day, haven't you?" Mary asks, coming up the road, sweat attached to her brow. 

She has both her hands full as she approaches. It's routine to meet and have a meal together before ending the day. The day patrol shift is almost at its end, and Marlene is ready to soak their muscles in a hot bath and head straight to bed.

"Of course I have." They dig their heel into the soil below their boot. "I don't trust pirates."

"He had the Phoenix medallion. If Admiral Dumbledore presented it to him, there's no need to worry."

They have known many joys in life, but the sound of Mary MacDonald's voice is one of their favorites, even when she's saying things they don't want to hear. She's brought Marlene a fresh crab cake from Molly Prewett's food stall. Both have had delicacies made by world-renowned chefs, yet nothing can compare to Molly's savory cooking. They love that perfect balance of meat, spice, and bread, best washed down with a cold pint of beer after a long day of grueling work. 

Marlene grins, and as soon as they grab it, Mary twirls around in circles to face the gust of island breeze, spreading her arms wide. 

Bearing a captain's badge on her uniform, Mary keeps her bicorne hooked to her hip, right next to the hilt of her sword that's holstered there. She's petite but fills out her pastel blue overcoat nicely in contrast to their cobalt-toned one, the color indicating each of their ranks. As Commodore, they are the most distinguished officer in the port, one to be respected at the very least. Albus Dumbledore himself had come to their advancement ceremony in London amid a conflict with the Walpurgis.

For that reason, they cannot dismiss their suspicions despite Mary's indifference. They have a duty to the crown to uphold the values of the mainland. This includes conducting an investigation to expose any dangers for the colony's civilians. They blow their cheeks up with air, debating whether they can just let it go or not. 

Mary rolls her eyes and slaps two hands to either cheek, the thwack stinging their face. They try to lean back before she can attack them again. Air escapes her mouth, along with the sound of flatulence. Marlene feels the hollow bubbles of laughter rise up their throat and lets it out, throwing their head back. Weight presses on her shoulder, and they realize it's Mary's head leaning on them, and she's cackling too.

This is why they love Mary. Together they can be two friends instead of a superior and a subordinate. They can be silly and act their age, with no burdens. Sometimes that even means resorting to childishness.

"Enough," Marlene says between gasps of air, trying to straighten their posture. "Tell– me– what you learned last night. I'll drop it if it's nothing."

Mary scrutinizes them with the same analytical expression she always does when she believes they aren't telling the truth. A raised brow and the tilt of her head, an innocent gaze that sees them as they are instead of how they present themselves. She's the person that knows Marlene the best. They hate it when she's peeling layers back with her knowing brown eyes.

"I don't know if I believe you," Mary sighs, turning away. "I'm afraid this paranoia has to do with your parents."

"Mary."

"Marlene."

There's a pause in which they cross their arms and wait. Life has been exemplary lately, out in the Caribbean, away from the frame of stiff societal expectations that had led them to ruin the McKinnon name back in London. There is no desire to discuss their parents. 

Marlene has half a mind to use their authority to have the question answered, succumbing to their awful temper. Though they technically can, they will never pull rank with Mary. Imagining the disappointment, she would feel is devastating enough. The friendship between the two of them is already delicate, tangled with complications that stem from Marlene's inability to forgive and forget. A decade's worth of history cannot be destroyed with a few words, but the very subject Mary brought up has taught her an invaluable lesson. 

Good intentions can hurt more than ill actions.

Mary yawns, the day's arduous activity catching up with her. She seemingly wants to avoid the long-standing argument, so she answers. "Snape never left the ship. His crew had a few rounds at the tavern. No one caused any trouble. They came here looking for something or someone, but apparently, it's not here. One said he reckons Snape will want to leave the day after tomorrow."

"The day after tomorrow," Marlene repeats with a clenched jaw. "The Black and Evans wedding is tomorrow."

Mary sighs and squats, her back leaning against the wall behind her. She watches as they begin to pace back and forth in the middle of the street, somehow avoiding a carriage that passes by not a second later. "I'll just be here while you play detective over nothing. Try not to get run over."

Another chilly breeze sways the palm trees looming from above. "You said they are possibly looking for someone who's not here. They are leaving the day after the wedding. The missing link in all of this has to be—"

"Sirius Black," Mary finishes for them. "You know, if you weren't so obsessed with this man—" 

"I am not obsessed with Sirius," Marlene cuts her off, contradicting what she was about to say. "I am angry with him. There's a difference."

When Marlene requested to be posted at Port Diagon, their motivations were purely selfish, driven by pettiness and vengeance for the humiliation they suffered at the hands of the eldest son of the Blacks. They had been young and naive to think their anger, and humble origins could touch such a powerful family. After several attempts to uncover the crimes they knew Orion and Walburga were capable of, Regulus Black convinced them to stop. He'd written a letter apologizing for his family's actions and offered to travel back to London with them to restore the McKinnons to their deserved status in society. Knowing that he would shoulder the burden and sacrifice his own pristine reputation for theirs was enough for them. 

Sirius' little brother is a soft spot for all that have the pleasure of knowing him. It makes Marlene hate the Black brothers as much as they love the pair.  

They are disgraced by this weakness. It's a burden, really. Grievance lingers, but they have let go of their machinations of revenge for the peace of all. Mostly.

Whatever the situation, they hope Regulus isn't heavily involved in the messes the family no doubt pulls him into in some way or the other. They have turned a blind eye to it time and time again, hastily resolving crimes that can be connected back to the Blacks without much investigation, making Marlene just as culpable as those that have dirtied their hands. Sirius would be disappointed to know how much his brother resembled Orion Black after his absence from the family. 

"Okay, you're not obsessed. I believe you." Mary rubs the heel of her palms into her eyes. Evidently, she doesn't, appeasing them with easy words they would want to hear to end this part of the conversation.

"In any case," Marlene spits, eager to change the subject. "This is about whether or not Severus Snape is here for Sirius."

"No, this is about you wondering why the infamous Sirius Black isn't here for this wedding."

Mary's declaration is only a secondary point. They are admittedly curious why he has not come back yet. Regulus is the only thing Sirius loves more than himself, and he would risk whatever he's built in the last eleven years for his little brother. Marlene is confident he will make his grand entrance between now and before the ceremony begins tomorrow morning. They know it in the way the sun will rise and set, and the tides will rise and fall. 

"This is about me trying to do my job," Marlene says blithely.

"You're not curious about the wedding at all?" Mary asks, beginning to twirl a strand of hair on her finger. "You have a complicated relationship with the Blacks."

Marlene snorts. "When it comes to Sirius, complicated is an understatement. Regulus was like my brother, and their cousins were sisters to me. Somehow it all fell apart, like it was fragile to begin with. But it wasn't, Mary. The bonds I had with them were real. Too real for what we are to each other now."

"I wish I knew them the way you talk about them. Regulus, at least, considering the others are halfway across the world," Mary muses, looking up at her. "And I wish you were invited. Lily Evans needs to be told what she's gotten herself into."

The entire island is invited but them. Marlene had not received a formal invitation from the Black matriarch, who was content to treat them as if they didn't exist. It is for the best, as far as they are concerned. They want nothing from the Blacks anymore. Regulus, however, had sent them a handwritten letter requesting they come to the ceremony, expressing how delighted he would be to see at least one familiar face he was fond of amongst the guests.

"You will have to do it for me," they say, a smirk forming on their lips. "But can you imagine the look on Walburga's face if I showed up?"

"If it gives her a life-threatening heart attack, I say you must attend," Mary says brightly. As if she was not speaking of indirectly orchestrating a murder plot.

"If I weren't a highly ranked officer, I might consider engineering something more conclusive."

Mary whispers, making a show of looking around for the dramatic effect it gives. "On the contrary, your rank makes it easier to hide the evidence."

The Blacks deserve hellish damnation. Walburga is an abusive, manipulative, horrid excuse of a human being, driving both her sons to the point of starvation and states of docility during their adolescent years. The scars and bruises she would see on their bodies and how they were wary of trusting others were merely superficial signs of the damage inflicted on them. Furthermore, the McKinnon name was ruined by the schemes and lies engineered by Orion, specifically. It's common for the patriarch to heedlessly trample over those he considers mere insects while he vultures over the flock of the influential and wealthy.

Only by enlisting in the navy and rising through the ranks can Marlene redeem their parents' good reputation after what the Blacks did.

Poor Lily Evans, indeed. Caught in the same exact position Marlene was in all those years ago. All the signs are there. One only has to notice how Mr. and Mrs. Evans have conducted themselves in the past few months. It reminds them of their parents.

Their parents, who send letters frequently, are steadfast in urging Marlene to act upon their wishes. Every two weeks— the time it takes for a ship to travel from London— they get one from either their mother, father or both. It's the same thing every time. Be the obedient daughter you were born to be. There is no need to risk your life in a crude profession to earn coin. All you have to do is marry well. There is still hope for you to find a husband. 

There is so much they have not managed to sort out about how they want to live their life, but Marlene knows without a doubt they do not want a husband. This is why they do not write back.

Glancing at Mary, they frown, realizing that the thoughts they normally suppress have only come about due to all the reminiscing. London was a different life, a different version of who they are, a person they never want to be again. It's different for their friend. Deep down, they know Mary misses the cityscape and wants to return someday, waiting for the day Marlene declares it.

"Stop it. You're not allowed to think anymore." Mary flicks their leg and then swats at their kneecaps, causing Marlene to buckle and stagger a few steps to right themselves. She looks at them as if she knows what they have in their mind, eyebrows drawn and lips pursed. "What you should be thinking about is dinner. I'm in the mood for another round of crab cakes and a pitcher of cold beer."

"Fine, but we still need to discuss what Severus Snape is up to." 

"Who has nothing to do with Sirius Black. There's very little chance he's involved with a pirate, Marlene. A posh London boy can't—"

"Now look who keeps talking about him," Marlene cuts her off. "Fuck Sirius Black."

"Let me know the time and place, McKinnon."

The voice comes out of nowhere, so familiar it paralyzes them. Beside them, Mary turns her head, her eyebrow twitching at the interruption and a tinge of confusion in her eyes. Marlene spins on their heel, facing the direction of the seas and the direction of the wind, letting it blow their coattails back. In front of them is none other than Sirius Black standing in the middle of the road as more clouds roll in.

The first droplets of rain land on their nose, and Marlene's rage explodes.

—

Sirius' world consists of slated pavements, mice that squeak underneath floorboards, pristine silverware, and the graphite he sweeps across parchment paper. It's the iron goblet from which he drinks his liquor, the tint of Dorcas' irises, one of the twin mirrors he speaks to James with, and the polished whistle he keeps on him once a month for Moony— rare spots of light in the darkness that looms just beyond the reach of his outstretched arm. He pretends it's not there; for who would want to amiably greet such a parasitic thing? It terrifies him. That one day, he will shake its welcoming hand, and befriend it, letting it cast a deep shadow, masking all that he can see within himself.

Overcast skies are a hopeful sign, he decides, craning his head to the point his back bends. Fate's hand paints it gray for him. No, he reminds himself. It's for Regulus. For one more suffering soul waiting to be absolved from the stain of black. He intends to take his brother with him here and now. This time he will not be abandoning anyone.

There will be anger, maybe some resistance. Regulus will likely hit him. A lot. It changes nothing.

James and Dorcas have been gone for hours, tasking him with looking after the ship. If anything about this whole affair was up to him, he would have been the first off the Marauder; but Dorcas managed to scrape together a last-minute, tentative plan that only entangles him once it all comes to a boom. Literally, since she is uncommonly fond of explosions. He's simply fervent in his desire to do something useful. It's his family. His brother. His responsibility to be the lead performer in this artful mess. Whatever plan Cissy surely has in place might end up in flames, but the result will be favorable for all.

Ultimately, he's too impatient to stay put, so he ropes Peter into making a move. 

Moony opts to stay on the ship alone, disinclined to contribute to their disjointed schemes, which no one can fault him for. He's still fearful around people, avoiding them if he can help it, even some of the crew. A glimmer of smug satisfaction strokes his heart, making it skip a beat with the knowledge that he's the only one Moony's inclined to speak to. No other person on the ship has had that privilege, and most never will. All that is left is the inner circle— the additional crew dispersed right after making anchor and went off to pursue other ventures.

He slings the Hallow pendant around his neck in preparation for what's to happen. Two more of them jingle in his pockets while he strides off the ship, meant for James and Dorcas, should they need them. Sirius rubs a thumb over the symbol, fingers itching at its magic. Wearing it alters the air, pulsating like a heartbeat, echoing within his ears. A living, breathing layer of invisible armor around him, sometimes with a mind of its own that only he can see. It can steer him to its will, making him forsake his own. Only a centimeter thick, it's as though he has suddenly become invincible. Flexing his fingers, he relishes it. Strength is a drug, and he's all too willing to be an addict. He can do anything, be anyone, and defeat all enemies that cross his path, thirsty to bring ruin to all that have wronged him.

"Got the pendant on?" Peter asks, jolting him from the sensations.

Imbued artifacts never cease to prompt a sense of extreme discomfort. Hubris was never fair to demigods in the stories Andy used to tell him. Sirius is even less than such heroes. It takes effort to remember his humanity with power at his fingertips.

It's temporary. It's not real. You are not this strong.

"Of course," he replies, pulling it out to show Peter. The triangular design lies against his palm, burning with heat. "Do your worst, Wormtail."

Peter gives him a nod and brings the set of panpipes to his lips, and begins to play. A wistful tune fills the air, with the sound of the sea and the gusts of winds serving as secondary instruments. The symphony is captivating. Sailors look around, slowing their activities until the entire area is quiet, and all but Sirius stop to listen to the hypnotic music, almost as if it manipulates their actions. The dock master is just as enthralled as the rest, leaving him to slip into town unnoticed. 

Peter's pipes won't affect humans for long, only causing a momentary distraction, which is all he needs. Everyone will come to their senses, but the tiny things lurking in hidden crevices differ. Simple-minded creatures are much more susceptible to hypnosis, which has worked out in their favor so far.

Port Diagon is just as panoramic a view from the marina as it is from the highest mountain peak. It consists of one dirt-beaten path leading into the island along the base of a vale to the top of the elevation where two mansions stand, exuding privilege and fortune. Rolling hills stretch further into the island where he knows most natives reside, separated from the colony. It's been built diagonally relative to the sands that surround it. Meaning the name fits.

It's beautiful, he thinks. Then again, anything is better than the bleak landscape of London. All gray, all rain, and not a single friendly face in sight. Not that anyone has anything to be happy about in an industrialist country.

Dock landings line up all along the coast, guarded by one clerk's station between five. Travelers to the port are meant to sign off a name and pay a toll. The further he walks down the path, he notices carriages lined up along either side of the road facing opposite directions outside a myriad of shops. People are milling about conducting daily routines. Dust kicks up with each stomp of a horse's hooves, blowing through the air and mixing with the muggy atmosphere.

Sirius tucks his necklace back into his shirt, adjusting all his effects. He straightens his hat, ensuring the plume is at the correct angle. There's a bloating around his midsection, and he doesn't know if it's nerves or his digestion patterns, but he loosens his belt for a modicum of relief. His stomach hangs lower, and the comfort is instant. Fidgeting isn't usual for him, but he can't stop finding things to touch, something to preoccupy his hands. 

It takes thirty paces before he's up to date on current events. Severus Snape is in town, they whisper to one another. He hears the gossip clearly between the sounds of jangling coins and rowdy children. They fear their shops being looted, wondering if Snape is indeed a member of Admiral Dumbledore's clandestine pirate alliance known as the Order of the Phoenix. Others firmly believe he's one of the Death Eaters— a fleet of pirates that answer to the captain of the Walpurgis.

The very notion anyone could be intimidated by Snape is absurd. His shoulders hunch, and he digs his nails into his arm to keep himself from howling with laughter at the top of his lungs. He inhales and exhales rapidly, trying to hold it in, garnering strange looks from the ladies he passes. Part of him is tempted to sidle up to the two shopkeepers and regale them with how he once caught the pirate they fear wearing an eighty-year-old woman's nightgown and a set of pearls.

And, of course, the city is buzzing with gossip from servants who go in and out of the Black residence preparing for the wedding. Most of it is disdain for his parents' unreasonable demands for insignificant things like flower arrangements and hors d'oeuvres. 

His chest tightens, and stomach acid churns, rising up his throat and making him cough out a wad of spit. It's indicative of the sense of urgency he feels to stop the affair from taking place.

Sirius is almost to the rendezvous point when he sees her. 

His heart skips a beat before quickening. He claws at the panic, swallowing his breath as it comes in and out in short intervals. He's tripping down a set of stairs, tumbling down, then crashing through a wall of memories. Stopping in his tracks, possessed by the adolescence he once lived, he sees the lifeline he chose to ignore, casting her aside as though she was nothing to him. Time was supposed to start over when he began his new life. He had decided that it would never influence his actions again. Yet here he stands, confronting his grotesque demons.

A woman with dark skin and tight curly hair is in a naval officer's uniform, squatting just outside the barracks next to the one person he thought he would never see again. He can see she's cropped her blonde hair to her ears from behind. The way she holds herself is also different, more relaxed than the stiff posture she used to have. 

His feet move, his body rejecting what his mind wants. As he approaches, he hears her cursing his name— surprised that he's found her in a moment where his name is a subject of conversation. Did the Fates engineer this moment? He wouldn't be surprised if they did, gleefully fucking up his chances at a normal, happy life as they so often do. And so his following words insinuate she's made a proposition because he's an ass who needs to reclaim control against whatever forces have him on a string. He can ruin his own life perfectly well. Not to mention he can't bring himself to say what he really wants to. What he's spent long drunken nights ruminating about as he drowns in the pleasures of his freedom.

"Can we help you, sir?" the squatted woman asks, spotting him when he's within earshot. Her eyes are narrowed in suspicion, and while she poses no threat to him, he knows she's formidable.

Slowly, Marlene turns, and a million shattered memories are bittersweetly pieced back together.

He's running through cobblestone streets with a girl and a small boy who try to keep up with him. He's impetuous and confident he can outpace them to win a nonexistent race, so he just runs and runs until he stops and looks back. 

They aren't there. 

She's looking at him as though she's seen a ghost. He supposes she has. Watery eyes and a pallid complexion convey the shock. She shuts her eyes, counts to three, and then opens them. It's as if she's trying to confirm she's not going mental.

Sirius cannot fault her for this reaction, but it's not what he hoped for. 

He blinks, and within the span of that prolonged beat, a bullet has landed at his feet, just missing where he stands. He flinches a moment later, astounded that sweet, gentle Marlene McKinnon would resort to violence uncharacteristically.

Then again, he doesn't know her anymore. It's been too long to claim the relationship they once had. The one where he would sneak out late at night to wander the night markets together, where she would make him play the violin on the streets for a coin or two, so they could eat their fill of chocolate pastries. Where Sirius could show her the atrocities his mother inflicted on him, the ones he had brought upon himself, and the ones he had stolen from his little brother. It had been a time when he could share with her how one day he would run away and take her and Regulus with him. 

A beat passes in silence before he breaks it. "I probably deserved that."

Sandpaper scrapes at his throat as if he hasn't used it in the nearly eleven years since he last saw her. He forces a cough to clear the dryness, to no avail. 

Marlene laughs bitterly. "You haven't changed a bit."

Sirius decides he needs to learn how to talk to an angry woman. One that he isn't trying to anger more than she is. Nothing he can say or do will rectify what he did to her. Nor does he think she would try to see the situation from his perspective. And even if she does, it's reasonable to not expect forgiveness.

He winks at her, attempting to play off his emotions as indifference. "Why change what's perfect, right?"

"You," Marlene seethes, still pointing the gun at him, aiming right between his eyes. "Left. Me. At. The. Altar."

Sirius opens his mouth, slowly raising his arms into a surrender position. "Nyeah?"

It's the only comprehensible sound that will come from his mouth. He's not as concerned about the threat to his life as he is with examining her, noting all the changes he must reconcile with his memories of her. It's not just her short hair or the way she holds herself. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes indicate she's aged just as he has. There's a scowl on her lips as though it's a permanent fixture, and the skin around her neck and hands looks dry and cracked from lack of cosmetic treatment. Sometime after he turned sixteen, Sirius shot up in height and remained there, whereas she seemed to have grown taller steadily since the last he saw her.

The Marlene he knew was just as spirited as she is now but still enjoyed wearing pretty dresses and adorning herself with jewelry. She had cared about her appearance, just as preoccupied with finding a husband as the other young ladies in London.

Marlene gives him a look of disgust and turns to her friend. “Mary, I might kill him.”

The other officer stands from the squatting position looking at him up and down. He doesn’t like it. He feels naked under her gaze. It’s abundantly clear that she doesn’t like him though they’ve just met. It does not bother him as much as it usually would.

Sirius is a bit concerned about the death threat, however. “Mary, please don’t let her kill me.”

“Them,” she corrects him. “They’re not going to kill you.”

“Right,” Sirius says. “Please don’t let them kill me.”

He doesn’t miss the way Marlene lets out a heavy breath, as though the weight of the world has been lifted off their hunched shoulders.

His eyes linger further down, and he finally understands the fundamental reason for the change. Marlene was never really just a woman, was she? In early childhood, there had been no difference between playing with her and playing with Regulus. Then maturity struck. He began spending more time with Regulus and his father, learning the conventions of the Black empire. Marlene had withdrawn from him, opting to call upon him at prearranged times, always with a chaperone. Swordplay and wrestling and running through the streets to vex shopkeepers were no longer things they could do together. He remembers when his mother forbade him to touch her, even in the most innocent manner of a hug. That he could only do so if he intended to marry her. Both of them always expressed frustrations with how their friendship could no longer be what it once was. Then, Marlene's dreams began to reflect his own, of running away to some place where the three of them did not need to pretend. A place where they could all truly be happy.

Marlene's life had been restrictive in a very different way. He'd always known it but seeing the current version of her-them-was a different matter. What else had they sacrificed to get to this point? What had they faced to be this authentic? All alone. Abandoned. Betrayed by a moron like him.

He yearns for redemption now, to know them again. He needs to compensate for all the years of unconditional love and support he should have given them. To rekindle a friendship that had been strong enough for one of the most extraordinary sacrifices that can be made. 

But he doesn't deserve that opportunity. He did not honor that sacrifice. Marlene did, and that is why he's being held at gunpoint.

"Where have you been all these years?" they ask. He notes their voice sounds slightly deeper than he remembers. 

He clenches his jaw, stomach sinking as he eyes the blue of their coat. "You don't want me to answer that."

"Why not?"

The curly-haired officer is the one who realizes it first. "Because he's a pirate. That's James Potter's symbol."

The ink on his wrist shows from the sleeve that's fallen from his raised hands. The mark of the Marauder— the skeletal lion that serves as the symbol of their jolly roger. All the inner crew, except Moony, have it somewhere on their body. He still hasn't figured out where Dorcas got hers, which proves impossible since she's on the short list of people he's not interested in seeing nude. 

Which brings him to the two people in front of them. They are on that list as well. Anyone in the Navy, really. Especially Marlene, given what they are to him. In fact, that list is longer than he realizes. He can't wait to tell James he's not the philanderer his friend thinks he is. 

"Captain James Potter," Sirius corrects them, then gestures at his body. "And I am Padfoot the Silent Death. At your service." 

He doesn't know why everyone always forgets the title. James never minds, but that fool would let his worst enemy call him a craven worm, and it wouldn't phase him. Someone needs to remind him he's supposed to be intimidating.

He's glad for his own menacing nickname. Sirius cannot use his real name the way James or Dorcas can. The Black clan as a whole is not worth protecting, but there are a certain few he's not willing to endanger. 

Marlene pinches the bridge of their nose. "A part of me suspected you'd run off and become a pirate. I'm sorry I was right. Arrest him, Mary."

Mary strides forward, producing a set of manacles from the inside pocket of her coat. Sirius steps back, heart staggering at the sight of the iron chain links. He never expected this, and no matter what happens, he knows he cannot raise a hand to an old friend. He's committed countless horrors in the name of piracy, but this is a line he cannot cross.  

Right about now, the faint echoes of the pipes are pulsing through the air more strongly. It bounces off the invisible armor the Hallow pendant produces, leaving Sirius unaffected. Marlene and Mary both go still, pulled into a trance for a split second before regaining control of themselves. He runs, in the direction of the marina, deciding it would be best to return to the ship. A chill drops into the air, and the storm clouds rumble with thunder, causing a shiver up his spine. A tingling sensation settles on the back of his head. He comes to a halt.

Then come the screams. The first bomb goes off near the marina. His teeth and body rattle from the vibrations, but he forces himself to stand still, appearing unaffected by the explosion. Smoke and debris fly through the air, and he looks up to see it blowing inland. The barracks are too far up the road to be affected, but the seaside is in shambles. Sailors are bobbing up and down in the water; docks are blown apart along with some fishing boats. 

The door to the barracks slams open, and soldiers begin to trickle out in various states of undress, no doubt to assess the commotion. London Marlene would have averted her eyes with reddened cheeks and twiddled her thumbs. This one barely blinks an eye and begins giving them instructions on what they can do to help the townspeople through the chaos. A few of them glance at him curiously but do not question their leader, taking immediate action and running toward the bomb blast. They swerve past the coachmen who are emptying the road. Most people have gathered indoors and closed their shutters, shielding themselves from the storm. In a few moments, Port Diagon will look like a ghost town.

Taking advantage of his distraction, Mary kicks his shins, bringing him to kneel before her. He grunts in pain, feeling it in his knees. His arms are pinned behind him and then he's being dragged across the mud, the chains tightening around his wrist, cutting off his circulation. Sirius knows he can fight her off. He earned the title of Silent Death for a reason. If he wants to hurt someone, he will. It would be easy to strike, leaving them bruised and bloody, sprawled in the middle of the street as they begged him for death. He closes his eyes, imagines it, and immediately feels sick afterward, bile rising up his throat. Ruthlessness is easier when his victims are strangers.

"Was this your doing?" she hisses at him. "People could have died. Gods, I can't believe you're Sirius Black."

He’s bewildered that Marlene's friend seems to know of him, or at least the kinder side of him. Unable to defend himself, he shrugs sheepishly. "Collateral damage. It happens."

Marlene takes a moment to address him. "Shut up. Mary will take you to a holding cell, and you won't fight her. Because fighting her means I'll never forgive you. And no matter how much time passes, I know you, Sirius Black. You need my forgiveness to be able to live with yourself."

They have never been more right. He needs it like he needs air. 

"You would arrest an old friend?" he asks, tilting his head to look up at them.

The piper's melodies grow in volume with each moment that passes. Drizzle from the sky becomes a storm, beating down on them with force. It falls on his face, wetting his clothes.

Marlene releases the pistol's safety, once again pointing it at him. "You don't know the meaning of the word."

It stings, as insults are meant to. But he's also suddenly resentful because all this time Sirius has spent hating himself for this one transgression. He knows he's hurt the people that loved him. The immense remorse he feels constantly suffocates him. For years he's been desperate for his apology to be received with forgiveness. But not once has Marlene asked why he left. It seems no one cares about that part. What broke him enough to leave his closest friend and his little brother, forsaking all the promises he made them. 

Sirius is tired. Is it too much to ask to move on from all that unpleasant business from the past? He wants to pocket all the emotions that have been pulled out of him and save them for another rainy day.

Marlene makes a choked sound in the back of their throat. "What the fuck is that?"

At a height somewhere between James and Moony, as well as being moderately stout, Peter is frequently overlooked. He possesses the features of any ordinary person, appearing of ambiguous origin— perfect for sneaking through a crowd undetected or even making grand gestures where he is the sole focus. Anyone tasked with describing him to the authorities never remembers what he looks like. The rat perched on his shoulder sits haughtily; the pet that's cared for, whereas the rest are cannon fodder.

"Peter Pettigrew," Sirius says proudly.

Mary shrieks a little at seeing what's coming up the hill. He bites his lip to hold in a laugh because this kind of reaction never gets old. If looks could kill, Marlene's wrathful gaze would have had him frolicking through hell ten times over.

Marlene shoots a rat from behind as it bursts through a hole in the building. Their reflexes are fast, the bullet shredding through the rat's midsection, all done while they look in the opposite direction. It plops to the ground in a bloody heap. The organs spill out into the muddy soil. "The one that sits on his shoulder. That's the Wormtail, isn't it?"

Out of all the emotions he's ever had for Marlene, he's never felt fear. He feels it now. Just a tiny bit. His old friend may be experienced, but Sirius knows he's still better at killing things. He also knows they won't kill him. His connection to them keeps him safe for now. 

Sirius hums in agreement. "Actually, the rat's name is Silas. We call Peter the Wormtail."

The rodent army sways from side to side, matching the cadence of Peter's footsteps as though it were a rehearsed march. Their tiny feet slosh through puddles that are beginning to form. Pitter patters from their steps, and the plinks from rain on the ground flow into the song's harmony. 

Peter, with a relaxed posture, despite keeping his arms raised for quite a while, is ceaselessly carrying the tune as he strolls through town without resistance. He moves to the far side of the path, standing back to watch the fight, overwhelming the navy without needing to lift a finger. Any officer that attempts to approach him becomes prey for the creatures. Marlene's forces are either picking off one vicious rat at a time or running off in opposite directions as they are chased down, with their flesh caught between tiny incisors and claws.

Sirius never tires of watching it in action, full of admiration for his friend. Playing instruments, taming animals, remaining steadfast and loyal under pressure— all things that have gotten them through many scrapes in the past. 

Marlene runs into the foray, producing another pistol, one in each hand, and starts shooting with deadly precision to assist their subordinates. For one young soldier, rats are covering his entire body. Sirius watches, intrigued, as Marlene uses bare hands to pry them off, tightening a grip around the furry necks. Their pistols are back in their holsters in favor of the cutlass. They have been trained vigorously, using those skills to cut through five rats in quick succession without so much as a scratch on the officer. The dying rats' screams are rising in number, but the army is not eradicated. Blood stains their uniform, but they don't pay it any mind, focused on the task at hand. Marlene's eyes are fixed on Peter, vitriol in their gaze as they blink through the rain showering on them. Their clothes are now soaked through, clinging to their thin form, restricting the range of movement. As is the piper's thin button-down shirt, who is at a distance but can see the chaos. 

Peter does not stop playing when he spots Sirius. This is a familiar thing for everyone on the crew to witness. What kind of scheme doesn't involve a minor conflict with the royal navy these days? He's been held at gunpoint many times, James has been captured, Dorcas was tortured once, and Sirius's entire body trembles with rage at what Moony's been through at the hands of the East India Company. At present, he is in less trouble than it seems. Peter doesn't like what he sees, though. The song shifts tone, and the melody becomes harsh and erratic, meant to wreak havoc. A low chattering noise enters the orchestra, and the tiny demons split from his trail, slamming into the shops' front doors, trying to find new flesh to tear into.

Roughly brought to his feet, Mary shoves him to the barracks doorway, past more naval officers rushing out, greeting the two of them and asking for orders. There must be holding cells inside. "I'll lock him up. You should figure out what's going on down there."

Marlene nods and goes back to murdering rats. 

Sirius raises his clasped hands and points his finger upward. "Our plan isn't meant to put anyone in danger. No need to worry."

Slipping into the naval barracks, Mary tugs him by the manacles, striding faster than he expects, considering how short she is. He's led past what appears to be the mess hall to the left and a drawing room on the right. He makes a note of the layout of the interior as best as he can, noting every possible entry and exit point he can. Sirius lets out a low whistle, seeing how well-forged the armory is as they pass by that too. It must be Lily's handiwork, he thinks. Mary whacks him on the head for the noise and continues towards the back of the floorplan, behind a set of doors that are lined with iron.

When she swings it open, dread settles into his stomach, twisting around like a wet towel that's being wrung out. He opens his mouth in shock at the sight of James sitting in a cell with a black eye and bloody nose, being poked at repeatedly through the bars with a billiards cue stick. 

Sirius almost backhands Mary and shoves her to the side to wrap his hands around the assailant's neck. Almost. He can't lose control because he can't afford to make an enemy out of Marlene again. Instead, he saunters into the room, letting the Hallow pendant get to his head. If there's one person that deserves to be crushed by a holy power, it's Severus Snape. 

The greasy hair swishes when he turns his head, eyes lighting up with glee when he sees them. They're drawn to the chains on Sirius' wrists. "Losing your touch, Black?"

"If it isn't Snivellus. My favorite wanker," he snarks, ignoring the snipe. "Though it seems you haven't had a good wank in a while. I know I'm pretty but try not to look so pent up."

"Oh, for god's sake," Mary says under her breath. "Get in the holding cell, please. Or I'll tell Marlene something horrid about you."

James perks up. "Marlene? As in the Marlene McKinnon?"

"Not now, Prongs," Sirius warns. He turns to Mary and bows at her. "Only because you said please."

Snape looks between them with narrowed eyes over his crooked nose. That nose is the only part Sirius enjoys looking at him for— he's the reason it broke. There's suspicion there; no doubt his nemesis is wondering why Sirius is walking into the cell of his volition. Why he won't overpower Mary and make it run for it with James in tow. The metal hinges creak as they close behind him, and Mary uses the key to lock them inside. Jail is never pretty, he notes, looking around at his new home for what he knows will only be a few hours. His legs ache from where Mary kicked them, so he slumps down next to James. Leaning his head on his best friend's shoulder, he rudely gestures at Snape just for fun.

Watching the git's face turn red in anger is one of his favorite hobbies. Snape pivots the cue stick to him, but before it makes contact, Mary intervenes by gripping it herself. James snickers beside him. 

She gives Snape a sharp look, full of mistrust. "Get back to your ship. After this, I don't expect Commodore McKinnon to tolerate a single pirate in the port, regardless of the Phoenix medallion."

Snape raises a brow. "Of course. We have what we came for."

This gives Sirius pause. There have been rumors over the years that he and James have largely dismissed, believing them implausible. For someone as egoistic as Snape, he could not have possibly sold himself to a monster. He wonders if they have been wrong. Catching James' eye tells him his best friend thinks the same. 

"Playing fetch for him like a dog, are you?" he goads Snape, fishing for more information. 

Mary's mouth opens and closes, watching the pirate in front of her with more scrutiny than before. 

"Not the time, Padfoot," James mimics him, though his tone is amused. 

He's rubbing at the wounds Snape has given him. Anger spikes at the sight of his best friend hurt. He needs the bastard to suffer for it. Sirius reaches for James, inspecting all the bruises marring his skin and the thin cuts where tiny drops of blood seep. He wipes it with the cuff of his sleeve, cleaning it up with the only thing he has on him. 

"This is a perfect time, Prongs. How did you let him capture you anyway?"

"I was with Dorcas setting up the bomb near your parents' house, and then the next thing I know, we're being ambushed by at least thirty of Snivellus’ crew. So I fell over—"

Sirius drops James' arm gently, acknowledging there's nothing else he can do from the confines of the cell. He also can't believe that this happened due to clumsiness. "What did you fall over for?"

James is indignant. "I didn't do it on purpose."

Their enemy moves closer to the bars, holding them with his abnormally pale hands, and says dryly, "You are by far the worst pirate I've ever seen."

The two of them turn their bodies to face the irritating man. Sirius is quick to strike back. "Yet we stuck to the Brethren code. How is the captain of the Walpurgis these days?"

Severus' lips grow thin. "As usual, Black, your proclivity for testing my patience only results in aiding in my capacity for restraint."

"Is that a threat?" James speaks, entering the conversation. His gaze is less friendly now. 

Snape moves closer, gripping the metal rods and baring his teeth. "One day, Potter, you will lose everything."

"Go fuck yourself, Severus," Sirius snarls, throwing himself at the bars. 

Mary moves to de-escalate the confrontation, slamming a baton she's grabbed from the constable's desk to the bars, which forces him to move back to avoid the impact. She's yelling at both of them. He barely listens, his eyes fixed on the object of his hatred, hearing nothing but the ocean roaring in his ears. Snape, too, retreats. The smirk on his face twists his features into something uglier than he could have ever imagined possible. The curly-haired naval officer escorts him out of the room, insisting he returns to his ship and leaves the port. By the grace of his captain, he keeps calm, focusing on the touch of James' hand on his neck, respiring in long beats. He watches as Severus reaches into his pocket and removes a Hallow pendant, swinging in a circle by its chain. Everything slows down as he watches it arc in a perfect circle once, twice, and then a third time. James lets out a noise of pained frustration.

Madame Pandora will curse them, kill them and then dispose of their remains. And possibly erase their existence from the world.

When they're out of sight, he slumps back against the wall, as far away from the bars as possible. James runs a hand through his hair, looking as ruffled as Sirius feels. Beads of sweat run down the sides of his face.

"He took the pendant," James says. "Think he's returning to the Walpurgis with it or Dumbledore? Either way, Madame Pandora will not be pleased with this. We have to get it back." 

"It doesn't matter what Snape's up to. What's happened has happened, and only time will tell where his true loyalties lie," Sirius says slowly. "We need to focus on what we know and what we can realistically do about it."

James tucks his legs into a cross-legged position. "The worst-case scenario we talked about is going to happen."

Sirius closes his eyes, unable to keep the image of Marlene out of his mind. He has one foot in the past and another in the present when he responds. But it's no less genuine than if James had his full attention. "Then we face it together."