94Part VIII: From Home to Hogwarts, Part 1
Remus
"You'll want this one, see? The binding isn't broken and it isn't tattered at the corners. See?"
"Yes, I see. It's fine."
"And do you see how the 'e' has been filled in with ink in the word 'spells'? Do you?"
"So what?"
"So what if the pages are all marked up as well?"
Remus used his thumb to skim through the several hundred pages of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2. Aside from a few notes scribbled in the margins and some doodling in the corners, this particular Charms text didn't look much different from the one his father had picked up for him last year.
"I suppose we'll have to report it to the Minister of Magic. See if we can get the scribbler sent to Azkaban."
Peter blinked at him, clutching to his chest the three brand new second-year texts he'd just slid off the shelf. "You're in a horrid mood."
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are," Peter argued. "I said I liked the quills you bought. It doesn't matter if yours have gold or silver tips. I just like the gold ones that Sirius has, and the silver cost a bit less, so—"
"It's fine," Remus cut in, massaging his forehead with his fingers. "I'm sorry; I'm not meaning to be rude."
"You rolled your eyes at me."
"I know, I know," Remus said tiredly, resting his arm on top of the smallest shelf that sat next to the staircase of Flourish and Blotts. "I'm really sorry. I am."
Peter's mouth turned down a bit. "Would you rather James were here?"
"No!" Remus rubbed at his forehead again. "I thought of you first. You're the only one I asked."
"Oh." Peter frowned, shifted the books in his short arms. "How come?"
Remus sighed. "Well, because… I dunno…because I did."
"Oh," Peter said, his pale blonde eyebrows pinched together in uncertainty. "Okay. Fancy an ice cream after this?"
"Maybe."
"Does your head ache? Why do you keep rubbing at it like that?"
"Because you keep asking me questions, that's why."
Peter shifted his books again, his lower lip threatening to push out. "You do want James here."
"Look," Remus cut in, closing his eyes, suddenly remembering that Peter didn't always appreciate his sense of humor the way James and Sirius did. He tucked his own tattered book under one arm. "I really, really don't. I was only joking. I promise. Got a bit of a headache, yeah, but it's not from you. Here, help me find Intermediate Transfiguration."
"We don't have to have that one," Peter muttered, as he raked his eyes down the parchment he still had clipped between his fingers.
"I know, but Dad told me to check if there's a decent price for it. He says we'll need it eventually."
Peter immediately crouched down beside him and trailed his fingers along a row of secondhand books.
They were supposed to have made the trip to Diagon Alley on Saturday, the nineteenth of August, nearly a whole week away from the next full moon, with the hope of avoiding the tension headaches that often crept up two, sometimes three days before his transformation and the hot, prickly irritation that clawed at his chest and his acute sensitivity to even the tiniest bits of silver, the size of, say, a quill point. But Remus' father had been called into the office early that morning and had already planned to go in on Sunday, besides. So Saturday's plans had turned into the following Wednesday's plans, and with the full moon only a day away, Remus was finding it difficult to straighten the frown that kept tugging at his face.
His mother had come along, too, and had even suggested that Remus bring along a friend, which is how Peter came to be crouched beside him, pushing his thumbs into the bindings of secondhand books to make sure they were sturdy enough. Remus wanted Peter there–he really did. And his mother was a pleasant addition, as she tended to be extra gentle and indulgent with him during the before-days, whereas his father tended to be a bit sterner and matter-of-fact with him. He wasn't unkind in the least; Lyall was still patient and understanding and completely aware of Remus' discomfort. It's just that during the before-days, the speed of his dad's reaction time rivaled the speed of Remus' boiling point, and Lyall didn't care how long it took for him to normalize his breathing or to apologize for being hateful or to stop grinding his teeth…as long as Remus did it.
They'd survived eighty-nine full moons as a family since 1965 and it never got any easier. Jammy Dodgers helped, Remus supposed. So did his mum's hot chocolate.
Today, however, nothing seemed to help. The headache was pushing down his neck and the aggravation was climbing up his chest and his jaw was tightening. Today was wretched.
"Rotten luck, mate," Peter chirped. "Can't find that one. But here's…" He withdrew a thick, graying volume. "...Advanced Potion Making…if you'd like to get a head-start on your N.E.W.T.s." Peter grinned, the sarcasm sloshing around on his face as if it weren't sure it belonged there..
"Well, well," a voice drawled from over their heads, "if it isn't the Lanky Streak of Piss and the Podge. Quite the pair you two make."
Remus and Peter glanced up to see Evan Rosier descending the wooden stairs, his nose in the air, his lips twisted into a smirk. Severus Snape stood two steps behind him, wearing the same haughty expression, as he rested his weight against the banister. The Slytherin boys shared the same color of dark hair, but Rosier's covered his ears, swooping across his forehead, and Snape's hung onto his cheekbones like gnarled twigs. They both wore lightweight black robes, but Remus could see that Rosier's were lined with green silk. Snape's leather boots were cracked and the soles were peeling away at the toes.
"Mummy let you out of the house, did she, Pettigrew?" Rosier leaned both elbows onto the banister. "Did she send your old nanny along to powder your bum, or did she actually decide to be seen with you?"
A cruel smile stretched across Snape's face, showing his crooked teeth.
Peter's cheeks burned hot. "Sod off."
"Ignore them," Remus muttered, slipping the copy of Advanced Potion Making from Peter's hand and sliding it back into the gap on the shelf.
"Find those in the rubbish bin, then? Rosier leaned over further, pointing his chin toward the two worn books now tucked in the crook of Remus' elbow…then at the red cotton jacket he'd worn to cover his arms. "Along with that?"
Glancing down at the zipper of his jacket, Remus felt the heat rise up from his collar; when he flicked his eyes up again, he saw that the smile had faded from Snape's face and his fingertips were white against the banister. They stared at each other for a moment until Snape swallowed and lowered his eyes. If James or even Sirius were here, they might have reminded the smarmy git that his own books had been just as tattered as Remus' last year. Sirius, especially, might have even pointed out the hole forming in Snape's boot.
Peter was clenching his fists at his sides, his knuckles cracking.
"C'mon," Remus mumbled. "Let's find Mum and Dad so we can pay."
"Oi, touched a nerve, did we?"
"Severus?"
The four of them craned their necks towards the top of the stairs. Lily Evans stood holding a basket filled with books over her arm. Her ginger hair was tucked behind her ears and she wore a soft pink dress with a wide collar. The freckles on her nose smeared together as she smiled down at them.
"Mum says it's nearly time to leave. I need new robes and so do you. Are you ready?" she asked Snape. "Hi, Remus. Hi, Pete."
A bit rosy in the face, Snape marched up the stairs without a word. Rosier watched him for a second, rolled his eyes, and then descended the rest of the way, ducking out of sight behind a tall shelf.
"Tossers," Pete grumbled.
"I know. Don't worry about them."
"Look, there's Mary," Peter pointed out, holding his hand up in an awkward greeting as Mary MacDonald caught his eye and waved. "She's with that Hufflepuff girl."
"Janie Barnes," Remus supplied, fiddling with his jacket zipper, scanning the heads in the room to find the ones that looked like his parents'. "They both live in Reading. Why is everyone here today? Thought this weekend would be the most crowded…"
"It's going to rain all weekend."
"So what?"
"Janie's face is all red," Peter commented, ignoring Remus' complaint. "She must like you."
"Nah…she likes Sirius. Probably thinks he's here somewhere."
Peter pointed between two heads in front of them. "There're your parents. They must've been in the back room." He glanced over at Remus. "Sirius' Mum is taking him and his brother here on Friday, he said. Said he might try and give her the slip if James can get his parents to go to Diagon Alley Friday, too, instead of Saturday."
"Good for him," Remus mumbled, letting Peter tug him by the wrist so that they could queue up to pay for their books.
His parents smiled and waved at them from across the floor of Flourish and Blotts, and Remus felt the frown pull at his cheeks again as he watched them wiggle between the crowd to reach the queue. His father stopped to shake the hand of a man with a white handlebar mustache.
"Did you two have a row or something?" Peter wondered as he and Remus inched forward in line. "Sirius said your letters have been rather short."
"No," Remus nearly whispered, his chin drooping. The tightness that had been gripping his chest ever since he left James' house over a month ago returned with a vengeance.
The only good part about the last week in July was that he'd been too preoccupied with the before-days and even the after-days of the full moon to think too much about the fact that he now had to lie to his parents on top of all the lying he'd done to his friends last year. But as the first of September crept closer, Remus' stomach ache had returned and he'd found it increasingly difficult to reply to Sirius' letters with more than a few cut-and-dry sentences.
He had known that one day, eventually, his friends would find out about him, even if his dad liked to dwell in denial about it. Only he hadn't guessed that it would happen so soon. And he hadn't guessed that Sirius would be the one to bring it up before Remus had the chance.
One more thing he couldn't control. One more decision someone else had made for him. One more reason to give in to the scowl forming on his face.
"What have we found, then?" Lyall clapped his hands together, his face cheerful and alert. Over-alert.
Remus held up his copies.
"Ah," his dad approved, tapping the cover of the Herbology text with his finger, "the year for Mandrakes. You'll find this book useful."
He offered his dad a stiff smile, forced a polite twitch of an eyebrow.
"Only cost a few sickles over a galleon for the both of them. Good boy."
Ah, yeah, Remus scoffed to himself. The dog's bollocks, that.
As though his dad could read his mind, he chuckled, reaching over to ruffle Remus' hair, and took the books from his hand. "You first, Pete."
"All right," Peter chirped, skipping a little as he moved into head position of their small queue, clearly forgetting that Evan Rosier had called him podgy only five minutes ago.
"Then ice cream, I think," Remus' mother sang in that breathy voice she tended to adopt at least three days before every full moon. "How does that sound?"
Peter flashed his teeth over his shoulder, his eyes sparkling. "Brilliant!"
"Brilliant," Remus deadpanned.
His mother reached over to stroke his cheek with her thumb, and Remus shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and tried not to pull away. Sensing a hovering presence over his head, like a sooty raincloud, Remus flicked his eyes up to the second floor to find Snape with his elbows resting on the banister, his tangled hair hanging near his beaky nose as his eyes followed Remus and his parents until it was their turn at the register.
The second time Remus looked up, Snape was gone.
They made it through double-scoop sundaes, a trip to the the Owl Emporium, the second hand robes shop, and narrowly dodged a miserable jaunt with his mum through Madam Primpernelle's Beautifying Potions, thanks to the quick thinking of his dad.
It wasn't until Remus and Peter went into the Apothecary to restore their potions ingredients for the term—while Lyall backtracked to the magical instruments shop across the street and Hope lingered in the Beauty shop—that their relatively pleasant day in Diagon Alley took a swift plunge.
They'd handed their lists of required ingredients for second-year Potions over to the shopkeeper and were waiting for him to return from the storage room with a new set of brass scales for Peter, since he'd accidentally melted down part of his old set, when the bell at the top of the door tinkled from behind them.
They turned to see Evan Rosier walk into the shop, wrinkling his nose at the foul smell of newts eyes and dragon livers and formaldehyde, his eyes scanning over the shelves and the empty space behind the cash register before landing on the two of them.
He tutted. "Still here, are we? If you're looking for a potion to make Pettigrew more attractive to girls, you'll be on the search for the rest of your life."
Remus grabbed Peter's wrist this time to keep him from spinning on his heel. "Leave it," he muttered under his breath. "He wants you to get upset, you know."
"Potter give you the day off from being his lap dog, did he?"
Peter's face turned splotchy as he stood there, shifting slightly from foot to foot, chewing on his bottom lip. Remus busied himself with counting the handful of knuts his father had given him, along with a few galleons (since he couldn't handle the sickles), to pay for the ingredients, but he could feel his heart knocking against his ribs and that tingle of irritation igniting into little flames in his chest.
"Lupin here makes for a piss-poor replacement, but—"
The bell rang out again, interrupting him, and the three of them turned to look. A smartly-dressed man with dark, slicked hair and a thin strip of a beard lining his jaw stepped halfway into the door; he raised both eyebrows at his son.
"I'm crossing over to have a word with Mr. Borgin, but I shan't be long. Either be here or at the Quidditch shop when I return."
"Yes, Father."
"I'll be with you in a moment," a deep voice boomed from the back room of the Apothecary.
But Mr. Rosier had slipped out again and was already striding toward Knockturn Alley. Evan pulled at the sleeves of his robes to straighten them as his gaze trailed over the rows of blue and red and green vials of prepared potions sitting underneath boxes and jars full of the ingredients that were probably in them.
Remus was surprised to find that his hands were shaking a bit and his face still felt hot; he drew in a steadying breath as he dumped a small pile of coins onto the counter and stuffed the rest back into his jeans pocket, ignoring the one that slipped from his fingers and clinked onto the floor.
Peter tried to catch it as it rolled away, but Rosier was quicker. The metal smacked against the floor under the Slytherin's boot.
"Here, Lupin," he said casually, shaking his hair out of his face as he straightened up and held out the bronze knut. "Wouldn't want to lose this and deplete your father's life savings."
Remus' legs trembled with rage and his breathing sped up. His vision swam as he glimpsed the smirk forming on Rosier's face. And then, without warning, three vials of a blue, oily potion exploded next to the boy's head, spraying his face and hair and the top half of his torso.
"Ugh!" Rosier shouted, scraping his fingers down his cheeks and gawking down at his blue hands. His face suddenly contorted and his eyes squeezed shut as dark red welts, like bee stings, started popping up at impressive speed. He gasped, "Ow, ow, ow!"
Peter's mouth hung open the way it had when there were frogs hopping all over the Potters' dining room carpet; this time, though, the glitter of admiration in his blue eyes was all for Remus, not James.
But Remus wasn't smiling. His feet were frozen to the floor as he watched Rosier's face swell up as though he'd stuck it in a hornet's nest.
"What the hell are you kids playing at?!" The angry voice of the shopkeeper rang out from behind them. His eyes grew wide from behind his square spectacles; he dropped the boxes of brass scales he'd been carrying onto the counter. "Syrup of Hellebore," he muttered to himself, scurrying out from behind the register and drawing his wand. "Don't touch your face, boy."
Rosier let out a high-pitched whine as he held both hands out to his sides; his eyes had swollen into slits.
Blue potion was still dripping from the shelf onto the floor.
As soon as Remus regained feeling in his feet, he bolted for the door and threw it open, the bell tinkling cheerfully over his head.
"Stop! Get back here!"
The door banged closed behind him. The sky was bright turquoise and the sun made him squint, but Remus' vision was still swimming around the edges as he searched the crowded street. Even from several shops away, his father saw him first. Lyall frowned, walking faster, and then jogged.
The sunbeams shining onto the shag carpet of the Lupins' Teddington cottage were as crisp and blinding as they'd been in London that afternoon. But the air in the kitchen was tense, stagnant. Remus' chin hung toward his chest as he sat around the small round table with his parents.
"What did you mean by 'soon,' then, Lyall? Ten minutes? Twenty minutes?"
"I meant I'd be back soon. What did you mean by a quick pop-in to sample some perfume? Three hours? Three days? A week?"
"Don't patronize me."
"What do you call your nonsense, then, eh?"
Years. It had been years since Remus had caused something to explode. A toddler throwing a wobbly caused accidental magic, not a twelve-year-old who knew better. He traced a fingertip along the table, glancing up through his eyelashes at the sudden pause in the squabbling.
His parents were staring at him; his mother was biting her lips together.
"Did he say something to upset you, son?"
"Lyall, not now."
"Yes, now."
"Don't we all have enough to worry about before tomorrow?"
His dad's chair squeaked as he leaned his back into it. "Would you rather I let this fester, hm? Let him bash it out against the walls of the bunker tomorrow night? Can't exactly mend broken bones with your treacle tart, can we?"
"You're not helping."
"I'll pay you back for the potions," Remus spoke up quickly before his dad could say anything else. "I'll figure something out."
"No, love." His mother glared across the table, causing his father to shift in his seat.
"Oh, son," Lyall added. "Never mind the money. I don't care about that. I care about you."
"I'm fine," Remus muttered, tracing the edge of the tabletop again.
"You are anything but fine. In fact, I'd say you've not been fine for weeks. You're tetchy nearly every morning, you're not finishing you're meals—"
"Lyall."
"—Last night was the third time this month I've found you asleep in the armchair instead of your bed…"
"So?" Remus slouched in his seat. "Mum falls asleep watching telly all the time."
"We're not talking about Mum."
"I know that," Remus mumbled. "We're always talking about me, aren't we?"
"Mum also doesn't cringe every time an owl brings in the post," Lyall carried on, passing over Remus' cheek. "Now does she?"
"Lyall…" his mother tried again.
Remus held his breath and fixed his gaze on the stove. He hadn't realized he'd been making any sort of face when the post had come, even though he'd known that Sirius would be asking if Remus were angry with him—again—and that James would be scolding him for ignoring the mirror. Again.
"Might as well set up the Scrabble board," his father reasoned, folding his hands onto the table. "We can have a game or two until you feel like talking."
"No, thank you." Remus tried to breathe steadily through his nose. "I don't fancy playing Scrabble."
"Monopoly, then. Or chess, perhaps; Mummy can play the winner."
If Remus were normal and if his family were normal, he supposed that he'd have been sent off to his room a half-hour ago or, at the very least, he'd have been deprived of his pocket money for a week, if he had any. But a normal boy didn't cause potions to explode in another boy's face, even a foul bully like Evan Rosier, and a normal boy wasn't due to be locked up in a chilly bunker tomorrow night while his mother swallowed an extra Calming Draught and his father sat up all night with his face in his hands.
"Your choice, old man."
"I don't want—"
"Remus?"
Both his parents swiveled their heads towards the small standing mirror sitting on the corner of the countertop. Remus lifted his chin. He'd meant to stuff that thing in his wardrobe.
"Oi! Remus, I know you're there." James' voice came through the mirror as if he were speaking through it under water. "I can hear talking."
Lyall twisted around just enough to prop his elbow on the backrest. An eyebrow disappeared under his fringe.
Pushing away from the table, Remus nearly jogged over to the mirror, snatching it off the counter. James' nose was pressed to the glass.
"Blimey, can you see me?" James' voice burbled. "Still looks a bit manky from your end but—"
Without a word, Remus hurled the mirror against the cold logs in the fireplace; the sound of glass breaking splintered the air of the small kitchen.
"Remus!" Hope breathed, her eyes following him out of the kitchen.
His dad's creaking footsteps trailed swiftly after him; Remus could feel the wind on his heels, all the way to his bedroom. Lyall caught the door before it could swing closed.
Remus stood in the middle of the carpet, his shoulders sagging, his head hanging on his chest.
"I didn't mean to get so angry. I didn't mean for his face to get hurt."
"I know." His dad tried to gather Remus in his arms, but he stiffened. So Lyall let his hands fall to his sides and simply stood there. "Surely Evan's not hurting anymore after the Healer tended to him; the matron even told us that all the blisters are nearly gone, remember? He's just a bit…well…blue."
Remus covered his eyes with his hand.
"C'mon, now. Tell Dad what's been eating away at you. Did something else happen with the Rosier boy…besides this afternoon? His father's always been quite the toerag as well…"
"That's not it, Dad."
"Then what?" A pause. He crouched a bit closer. "You know, Mum bought some Aero bars and put them in the icebox to crisp up the way you like them…for when you come-to on Friday morning. But what do you say we have one now?"
"I don't deserve one."
"She also got lady fingers…and lemon biscuits…"
"Those either."
"Ah, son…" Lyall held Remus' head to his chest. "...You don't deserve any of this."
It took almost ten more minutes of coaxing and promises of sweets and his dad's hand patting the back of his head before Remus finally told him that Sirius knew.
Sirius
The door squeaked open. Sitting cross-legged on his still-made bed, Sirius stared at the few inches of darkness that seeped into his bedroom from the fourth-floor corridor until a hand poked through. Carrying a toad.
He rolled his eyes as his brother slid through the door in his nightshirt and bare feet, closing the door silently behind him.
"Get that thing away from me."
"Claude is very tame," Regulus promised. "He won't jump on you."
"Why did you choose a toad?" Sirius wrinkled his nose. "Barely anyone brings a toad…"
"I don't like cats. Bella's cat makes my eyes itch and it gets its fur all over my robes."
"Only girls bring cats."
"Well, then…" Regulus stroked Claude's warty head with his thumb.
"Should've got an owl, like me."
"Mum would make me keep it at Hogwarts. She says they're filthy."
Sirius shrugged. "So what? Hagrid takes awfully good care of them on holidays. Hector looks well-fed every time I see him."
"She says toads are filthy, too."
"Yeah, well, you know you'll get to keep him with you," Sirius muttered, hooking his elbows round his knees as he peered over at the clock on his night table. "You're the exception, aren't you?"
Regulus twisted his lips together, but he didn't deny it.
"Look," Sirius said, scratching at his shoulder, "if you get locked in here again and Father finds you, I'm not taking the fall for you this time. Go brush your teeth."
"I've over half an hour left," Regulus argued in that bored, petulant way that made Sirius want to clock him. His brother knew very well that Sirius didn't have over half an hour until his door locked from the outside and would stay that way until seven o'clock the next morning.
Sirius had exactly nine minutes. And Regulus never seemed to tire of reminding him of the most recent time discrepancies in their respective bedtimes.
"You have to sit with me tomorrow on the train," his brother declared, using a kneecap to gingerly hoist himself up onto Sirius' bed as he balanced Claude against his cupped palm. "Mother says."
"Would you piss off?"
"Evan told me at their Christmas party that I could sit with him and his mates in their compartment," Regulus carried on, unperturbed. "Remember?"
"No…"
"I wrote him two days ago to make sure we still could—"
Sirius snorted. "Who's we?"
"But he hasn't answered my letter."
"You're not sitting with Evan Rosier."
"I don't know anyone in my year!"
"Bollocks," Sirius argued easily. "Davey Gudgeon starts this year."
"I don't like Davey," Regulus pouted. "He isn't the right sort."
Sirius felt the familiar sting of heat blooming in his chest. "You don't even know what that means. You don't know what you're talking about." He swallowed thickly. "So shut up with that rubbish."
"I do so…"
"You're only repeating what you've heard Mother say," Sirius tried again. "Can't you see that?"
Regulus kept his eyes on Sirius as he transported Claude to his other palm. "I am not."
Sirius sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, if you sit with me, you're sitting with my mates, too…and don't go running off to tell on me, either."
His brother closed his mouth, swallowing back his complaint.
"Taking a frog with you to school is bad enough, but no one will want to hang round you at all if you don't stop with the tattling bit."
Dark curls slid over Regulus' cheeks as he hung his head. "I don't tattle."
The sharp knock at the door caused Regulus to spin around and Sirius' shoulders to jump. Even during the times when he came upstairs to mete out punishment, his father, ever formal, announced his entrance. Didn't wait for permission to enter, of course.
Orion threw a stiff nod toward Sirius' bed. "What's the meaning of this?"
Claude croaked.
Sirius fought the urge to roll his eyes.
Last year, before the school term had started and before his father had suddenly decided to play the role of gate-keeper and dutiful patriarch, Sirius had regularly blown off bedtime. He'd asked Kreacher to bring him sweets before dinner, played Quidditch with Regulus in the garden until after dark, used one of his mother's hairpins to jimmy open the locked doors he and his brother weren't allowed to enter… Last year at this time, his mother had helped him pack and his father had worked late and Regulus, jealous and sulking, had shut himself up in his own bedroom.
Everything had been quite in order.
Sirius glanced over at his brother, waiting for him to explain, but Regulus just gawked up at their father and blinked.
"He thought he left his snitch in here," Sirius lied, "and he wanted to pack it…but we couldn't find it. He's just leaving."
Orion eyed him for a long moment, and then turned his attention to the good son. "We've an early day tomorrow, and your mother wants you well-rested. She'll be up to say goodnight in a moment."
Regulus slipped off the bed carefully, so as not to drop Claude, and padded towards the open doorway, maintaining his calm, balanced stride even as their father laid his palm on top of Regulus' head, almost guiding him out, as he walked past.
"Put that frog back where it belongs before Mother sees him," Orion called over his shoulder.
"It's a toad," Regulus corrected.
Sirius heard the grin in his brothers' voice, even from the corridor.
"Very well, then." Orion sighed as he turned back. "A toad."
A peculiar silence hung about the room as his father stood there, fully dressed in preparation for a night of cigars and brandy and secrets of the Sacred Twenty-Eight at the Averys' manor. He lifted his chin, his gaze frosting over.
"Are you packed?"
Sirius nodded, his throat suddenly tickling. Their mother would only be saying goodnight to one of them, then. She was obviously still vexed over Sirius giving her the slip in Diagon Alley last Friday. Probably thought letting him sleep in his own bed tonight instead of the one in the attic was a warm-enough send-off.
Orion only pursed his lips, adjusted a diamond cuff link. "Get into bed."
Staring for as long as he dared, Sirius attempted a swallow. He thought about his cozy four-poster dormitory bed and the crackling of the fire that always put him to sleep (if he concentrated on it hard enough) and James keeping all of them roaring with laughter until far past lights out.
Sirius wasn't tired in the least, but the thought of tomorrow was enough to make him stick his legs under the covers. He leaned back on his elbows, twitched his hair out of his face, and raised an eyebrow.
Appearing exceptionally bored, his father drew his wand and flicked it in the air, extinguishing both of Sirius' lights. Without another word, he closed the door, leaving Sirius alone with the sliver of moonlight in the window and the scent of lamp smoke in his nostrils.
The lock clicked from the outside.
Still propped up on his elbows, Sirius listened to the sound of his father's boots on the floor and, after a moment, the steady tick of his mother's heels; he listened to the squeak of Regulus' bedroom door as they said their goodnights. The three of them. Sirius blinked in flutters as his vision adjusted to the darkness. He let his eyes wander over his school trunk—that, too, was locked from the outside with a complicated charm that kept anyone from nosing around in his gifts from Uncle Alphard or the Muggle togs he'd sent away for or that cigarette Peter had given him but that he still hadn't smoked. He'd watched his mother perform that charm more than once when she'd suspected he'd been picking open the sealed boxes in the attic. All one had to do was think of a password while muttering the incantation over the lock and whoever didn't know it, Sirius had learned, got his fingers burnt if he tried fiddling with it.
He'd also watched last Friday in Diagon Alley—before Sirius had tried to find James—as his mother ordered both him and Regulus new gold-tipped quills and silver scales and dragon hide holsters for their wands. She'd even bought Sirius a new winter cloak to go along with his school robes since he'd already grown out of that in six-months time, as well. After banishing Sirius to the attic, she'd ordered Kreacher to leave the entire lot on his bed for him to pack. Those would be the first things he'd see when he opened his trunk at Hogwarts tomorrow night: the gold tips, the silver scales, the silk hood of his cloak.
Everyone at Hogwarts would see them. Some would envy them. That was the point. Never mind that Sirius was in disgrace. He was still a Black.
The sound of Regulus' door creaking open filled the corridor again, followed by the stomping of boots and the ticking of heels down the stairs. Sirius lay his head back on his pillow and listened to the fading footsteps until his own breathing dominated the silence.
He allowed his throat to tickle and his eyes to sting for only a short while longer. And then he rubbed his nose with the back of his wrist, kicked his bed covers to the edge of the mattress, and tiptoed over to his wardrobe in the corner, feeling around in the dimness until he located his mirror.
Sitting cross-legged on his bed again, Sirius checked to make sure that the shadows under his door weren't made by Kreacher's feet before using his wand to reignite both of his bedside lamps and whispering into the mirror as loudly as he dared.
A bit of scraping and shuffling came through the other end until James' face slid into view. His hair was standing straight up as though he'd been electrocuted and he was holding his glasses onto his face by the nosepiece; his entire face was rather red.
"Bloody hell, there you are! I figured she'd killed you," James cried. "Are you okay? What happened?"
"You're so dramatic," Sirius muttered back, though he couldn't help grinning. "Of course I'm not dead."
"Well, you haven't answered me for days."
"Why are you upside down?"
"I've been practicing getting used to the feeling," James explained, "in case my Comet turns over or I have to dodge a bludger that way. The team will find that impressive, won't they?"
Sirius' smile faded a bit. Aside from the short time he'd spent at the Potters' house this summer, he'd barely had a chance to practice quidditch drills in preparation for try-outs. But he didn't want to spoil James' excitement, so he offered his best mate a good-natured shrug.
"Sure," Sirius agreed. "Couldn't hurt."
James' side of the mirror went a bit wobbly, his fringe bobbing all over the place as he righted himself, propping himself against a stack of pillows before sitting cross-legged like Sirius. He straightened his specs with a fingertip and then gripped the mirror with both hands, leaning his elbows onto his knees.
Sirius studied James' pajamas. "You don't have to keep going to bed early, too, you know. You're not grounded…"
"Yeah, well…" James' shrugged this time. "...you are." Light glinted off of his glasses as he scratched at his nose. Gave Sirius a half-grin. "Have you been locked up there all week, then?"
"Not since Tuesday."
"Why didn't you answer me yesterday, then?"
"We had to go to the Malfoys." Sirius stuck his tongue out as if he were gagging. "Narcissa got made Head Girl, and they hosted a dinner party for her. Would've rather stayed in the attic."
"Cor, what was that like?"
"I had to wear those robes with the high collar that itches like hell, and Reg and I were supposed to finish everything on our plates," Sirius scowled. "I hate filet of sole. Mum knows I hate it."
"Did you eat it?"
Sirius sniffed. "No. Fed it to my napkin." He rubbed at his arm where the bruise from his mother's pinch had purpled now. "Got a glass of champagne, though."
"Jammy berk, you are."
"Ah, yeah, Potter, that's me. Aside from that it was a fucking nightmare."
James' eyes widened as they left the mirror. "Wotcher, Dad."
Sirius rolled his eyes. "Good one."
Mr. Potter's tilted forehead slid into view, his glasses reflecting the lamplight just as James' had a moment ago.
Sirius' heart jumped in his chest, his face warming.
But Fleamont's eyes were twinkling; he acted as though he hadn't heard a thing. "Pajamas for the both of you, is it? What have I walked into?" He peeked over at his son. "How many early nights in a row is this?"
"A thousand," James exaggerated. "Does that mean I can have my new broom now instead of Christmas, then?"
Sirius snorted.
Mr. Potter winked at him. "What happened to having your Comet well-and-truly tamed for try-outs, eh? There's life in the old boy yet."
"Comets are for babies."
"I have a Comet," Sirius frowned. Half the Gryffindor Quidditch team was on Cleansweeps and a couple were still using Silver Arrows. Any of them would probably kill for a Comet.
"I know," James supplied easily, "but Nimbus is coming out with a new one—"
"In October," Fleamont finished for him. "Besides, you and I had a deal, remember?"
"What deal?"
"Our deal," Mr. Potter insisted, wiggling an eyebrow. "I'll bet Sirius remembers."
"I do remember," Sirius agreed, "but James got detention last year in the second week of the term, so…"
"And you! You were with me!"
Sirius grinned.
"Then I'd say you could do with a bit of a challenge," Fleamont chuckled. "A little decorum, eh?" He winked at Sirius. "That goes for the both of you."
"No one can go until Christmas without detention, Dad…"
"...or can they?" The man wiggled the other graying eyebrow.
"Remus did," Sirius reminded him, enjoying the game.
"I didn't say detention, Jamie; I said a letter home, I believe."
James snorted. "Same difference."
"I'd have to disagree. Did you kiss Mum goodnight?" Mr. Potter piped up, easily changing the subject.
"Ah, she'll keep…"
"...or clean your teeth?"
James' lips twitched. "Those'll keep, too." His hazel eyes suddenly widened as he rolled away from the hands that were threatening to tickle his ribs. "Okay, okay okay," James screeched, laughing. He must have dropped the mirror onto the bed because Sirius could only see the white of the ceiling. He heard James' bare feet slap the floorboards as he hopped off the mattress.
"Step lightly, sir."
"I'm going," James assured his father. "Oi, Sirius–"
Sirius' view of the scene wobbled a bit as Fleamont picked up the mirror from where it lay and twisted it toward James who was gripping the doorknob with both hands on either side and letting the hinges hold his weight as he stood almost diagonally. He grinned widely when he saw Sirius in the mirror again.
"Don't fall asleep yet."
The iron doorknob clanked as James released it and ran toward the stairs.
"It's not even 9:30…" Sirius muttered to himself, shaking his head in amusement.
"I doubt James will sleep much tonight either." Mr. Potter's face suddenly came into view. "He's awfully excited about tomorrow." The smile lines around his eyes deepend for an instant, and then his face softened, his eyes clouded as he gazed at Sirius for a long, still moment. "He's been awfully worried, as well, I'm afraid." Another pause. "Are you all right?"
Sirius felt a jolt of shame spread through his chest, suddenly realizing why James' dad had sent off his son to brush his teeth; he pulled his knees up, letting the mirror settle between them; his swallow was loud in his ears. For one brief, wild instant, he thought about squinting at Mr. Potter in confusion. He thought about pretending that his mother hadn't banished him to the attic for the weekend or that his father had helped him pack for Hogwarts the way he had helped Regulus.
But he didn't. The Potters knew the truth about Sirius' parents now, just as Uncle Alphard knew and Andromeda knew and Remus knew and, Sirius supposed, even Peter knew.
Everyone knew.
"Yes, sir," he nearly whispered, scratching at his cheek, knowing that his face was flushed and knowing that he couldn't do a thing about it.
"You're not hurt?"
Another jolt of shame stabbed at Sirius' chest. His mother hadn't exactly been successful this time in convincing his father to come after him with the stick, even though Sirius had braced himself for it anyway. Instead, his parents had had a terrible row—Sirius hadn't even had to press his ear to the floor to hear their screaming at one another, the sound of glass shattering, and the sound of his father Disapparating.
Aside from the bruise on his arm, courtesy of Walburga's dinner-party claws, and several days' worth of the Silent Treatment from both of his parents, the attic boredom had been the worst of it.
Sirius licked his lips, shook his head. "No, sir." He held the man's eyes for a tick before adding, "I promise."
A gentle, accepting nod. "All packed up, then? Do you have everything you need?"
Sirius nodded this time.
"Good lad," Fleamont approved. The laugh lines around his eyes returned. "Mrs. Potter will be glad to hear it."
A short while later, Sirius heard the crunch of bed springs and saw Mr. Potter's face wobble in the mirror as James took a flying leap to land on his stomach, prop himself up on his elbows, and flash two rows of clean teeth in his father's direction.
"Immaculate," Fleamont played along. He smoothed his palm against the messy portion of James' hair over and over; the dark strands sprung back up each time.
Sirius hugged his elbows against his knees, watching, his stomach stinging a bit.
"Teeth brushed?"
Sirius suddenly realized that Mr. Potter was staring at him this time, raising both eyebrows expectantly. James smirked.
"Er," Sirius stammered, "yes, sir."
"Excellent."
The grandfather clock in the corridor chimed once, indicating the half hour.
"Lights out at ten o'clock tonight, boys," Mr. Potter announced as he pushed himself off of James' mattress and stretched his lower back. "That gives you thirty minutes to adjourn your meeting. No arguments."
"Ah, Dad…"
"We've an early day tomorrow, and you know your mother will want to make doubly sure you have everything you need before you board the train—both of you."
By the time they said their goodnights, Sirius' stomach had relaxed; he realized he was smiling again. Until James brought up Remus…
"What do you mean he's not coming on the train?"
James army-crawled towards his pillow, rolling over once he reached his destination and holding his mirror parallel to his head that was now lying flat on his stack of pillows. "Pete was the only one who would answer me on Saturday, and I finally got it out of him. Told me Remus made him promise not to tell anyone, but-"
"Remus isn't answering you either?"
"Not since last Wednesday when his mirror broke, but now that Pete told me what happened to Rosier in Diagon Alley, it all makes a bit more sense."
Sirius squinted, felt a rush of adrenaline zap down his spine. "Hang on, Remus broke his mirror? How? And what's this about Rosier?"
James studied Sirius thoughtfully. Then he grinned.
TBC...
A/N: I suppose the "final" chapter ended up being a two-parter. Oops. :). Thanks for sticking this one even though my timing is ridiculous...I've appreciated the kind comments!