Archive of Our Own

The corridor is cold and damp, droplets of water falling from the ceiling and landing against the cracked floors with a faint plop. 

They’re standing shoulder to shoulder; cloaks brushing, feet shuffling in slow, halting steps that bring them closer and closer to the open room—ushered in like lambs to the slaughter.

It’s dark, with only the low, feeble flames of half-burned candles to provide a faint guide through the thin black fabric that covers their eyes. 

Someone at the end of the line coughs, and the noise reverberates off the walls, echoing loudly down the hall. He’s forced out of the line, dragged away by the crook of his elbow. There’s no point in resisting, so he doesn’t.

There’s a loud crash and a thud, followed by a low, muffled whimper. And then, silence. No one moves. No one breathes. 

Moments later, a whistle sounds; shrill and clear. Someone shoves the group forward again. They stagger, shoes scraping against the ground, and continue onward. 

The open room is brighter than the hall. In the centre, taking up most of the space is a raised dais. Swirling, criss-crossed shapes decorate the platform, and lit torches are placed at each end, bathing the area in orange light. There are people already inside, awaiting their arrival, and the flames cast an eerie glow across the room that flickers and wanes through their blindfolds, shrouding the hooded figures in shadows. 

 One of them separates himself from the rest; he steps into the centre of the dais, advancing slowly, languidly, as the others follow, like planets in orbit, moving to form a wide circle around him. 

The group is shoved to the side, blindfolds on, frozen in waiting. 

The fire seems to jump higher; flames burn hot and dance across the leader’s pale mask, light glinting off the thin silver chain dangling around his neck, pendant resting at his chest. A skull and a serpent. 

He lifts his arms, and the reaction is instant. His pull is magnetic, alluring, all-encompassing. The others are powerless but to follow. 

The ones with blindfolds are grabbed, forced to their knees, heads yanked back, throats bared. In a moment, they’ll be allowed to remove the coverings, to open their eyes and join the ritual, but for now they’re left completely at the others’ mercy. 

A chant begins. Slowly, building, and then, altogether, as one: 

Sacer Sanguis. Morsmordre. 

Morsmordre.  

— — — 

It was all Professor McGonagall’s fault, if he thinks back to the beginning.

Well, maybe not all the way back to the real beginning, but, regardless, she was the one who planted the idea in his head. Be surprising, she’d said, all narrowed eyes and affectionately stern. 

And Remus isn’t normally one to blame others for the consequences of his own actions, unlike so many of his peers who swat away any semblance of responsibility like it’s nothing more than a bothersome fly. He was raised by Hope Lupin, and Hope Lupin taught her son to be accountable for himself before she taught him to ride a bike. 

But, just this once, he thinks he’s justified in pushing off the blame. It makes things a bit easier for him to accept, at least.

It started - sort of, at that beginning that was his beginning, anyway - at a meeting with Professor McGonagall, his advisor and department head, where he’d spent a good fifteen minutes pitching her ideas for new stories that even he recognised as lacklustre and unimaginative. 

That’s when she’d said it. Those words that struck a chord within him and rooted themselves deep in his bones. “None of those are right for you, Mr. Lupin. I want you to take a chance with this piece. Do something different, something new.” 

Remus hadn’t been quite sure what she’d meant by that and told her so. 

She’d peered at him over spectacles, lips pressed into a thin line. “It means that you’re an excellent writer, who isn’t afraid to step on toes,” she eyed him knowingly, “But there’s something more in you, an unrealised potential, and I would like very much to help you in realising it. So, my advice for you, is to try to surprise yourself. Go out, experience something new, live a little, as they say.” A stern look. A firm nod. “Be surprising.”  

Well, then. 

Be surprising. 

Remus wasn’t sure he’d done anything that surprised him a day in his life. 

Growing up in the Welsh countryside, raised by his mum and the rest of the offbeat occupants of their small town - most of whom regarded the bi-annual sheep shearing festival as the absolute pinnacle of excitement (it was rather adorable) - didn’t lend much in the way of adventure. 

Even realising, at the tender age of thirteen, that he enjoyed having next-door-neighbour Benjy’s lips pressed against his own much, much more than he’d ever enjoy a girls’ didn’t surprise him all that much. Or Hope, for that matter, after he’d finally told her. 

Attending Hogwarts had been an easy decision as well, as soon as the acceptance letter arrived, attached to the generous scholarship offer. Remus was eager to leave his town, to meet people other than the same ones he’d known his whole life, and his experience had been everything he’d hoped it would be. 

Well, not everything, but close enough anyway. Remus has Lily and their flat and the newspaper and the rest of their friends. He loves the routine of coming home at the end of the day and sitting by the fire, drinking his tea and curling up with their tiny adopted cat, Calypso. 

Remus didn’t really appreciate the implication that anything about his life, or his writing, was boring or sheltered. But, more than any of that, he trusted Professor McGonagall implicitly. So, for her, he’d try. 

***

After their meeting, he’s fumbling with his keys, harried and exhausted, shouldering his way through the door to their flat. 

“Lily?”

There’s no response when he calls out, but she’s left the fire going, warm and crackling in the corner, so he hangs up his coat to dry, shaking out the water droplets clinging to his hair. 

They moved in at the start of second year, him and Lily, and have spent their time stuffing the flat with all sorts of homey things like the plushy red armchair they found at a charity shop and the bookshelf bursting with overworn paperbacks and the tiny potted plants they keep on the windowsill and name funny things like ‘Monkey’ and ‘Princess Leia’ and ‘Spag Bol’. 

He walks into the kitchen to put the kettle on, grimacing at the heavy weighted card Lily’s taped to the fridge, front and centre. The calligraphy is gold and fancy, a bright red bird stamped in the corner. The sight of it does nothing but re-ignite the mix of pride and nerves that have been coiling in his stomach since it arrived in the mail two weeks ago. 

On behalf of Hogwarts University and the entire administration, we would like to extend our sincerest congratulations to Remus J. Lupin for his accomplishments in the field of journalism. 

In recognition of his achievements, he will be awarded the Xenophilius Lovegood Award for Cultural Criticism for his recent works published in The Phoenix Gazette. This prize honours excellence in ground-breaking critiques addressing the state of society and unique commentary on the human experience, especially as it pertains to student-life at Hogwarts. 

A ceremony will be held in his honour on the evening of Saturday, 18 October. 

Signed, 

Albus Dumbledore, Chancellor 

Remus can’t help but feel smug to see Dumbledore’s loopy, overly dramatic signature at the bottom. It’s a certain kind of irony that the man he accused of ‘perpetuating a culture of social warfare’ and ‘encouraging class divides’ has to be the one to say here, well done, congratulations and thank him for his troubles. 

It may not have been something surprising, or something new, or something exciting from him, but Remus is still proud of that piece. Of his interviews with students, past and present; of observations made in class, quietly recorded in his notebook; of the protests attended and rallies and debates. 

He’d been honoured, if not wildly dumbfounded, when the faculty had nominated him for the award. His mum had shed a few tears, insisting she was not surprised in the slighted, of course, and then clearly immediately alerted everyone in a fifty kilometer radius, because, not one week later, his postbox had been full of cards from home and baskets of sweets and trinkets and more home-baked pies than he would ever be able to eat.  

Remus wasn’t against the attention from his friends and family, though it left him pink-cheeked and embarrassed, but it was the lavish ceremony - with faculty and alumni and the entirety of the newspaper staff - that he very much wished to do without. 

But, he supposes, this could be a first step in living a little, as it were. Taking a chance or two. 

What an abhorrent thought. 

— — — 

The next morning, Remus slumps at his desk and runs both hands roughly through his curls, fingernails scraping against scalp, trying to carve inspiration into his brain with every passing graze. 

The newsroom is loud and busy and the students bustling around are all battling varying levels of stress in the never-ending quest to complete their work in time to enjoy the upcoming weekend. Several people he’s never spoken to before stop by his desk to offer their congratulations. 

His cheeks are starting to ache with the effort of forced smiles. 

There’s a shuffling by his desk. “You were in my dream last night.” 

Remus snaps his head up. “Oh?” he raises a brow at a harassed looking Peter over the top of his laptop. He smirks lightly. “If this is about to get dirty, you can probably keep it to yourself.” 

Peter Pettigrew is Remus’ friend, editor, and - judging by the wild hair and slightly manic look in his eyes - very much not in the mood for jokes. “I dreamt,” he says pointedly, “that in spite of knowing how much I want the Condé Nast job, you went behind my back, bribed Mary with baked goods, and convinced her to break into my computer and delete my resumé and submission piece! Betrayed by my best friend and my girlfriend, Remus! How do you think that made me feel?” 

There’s a snort to his right and Remus glances over to catch a smirk and exaggerated eye roll from his desk neighbour Dorcas. He sighs. 

“Right, well, it was just a dream,” Remus says, refocusing on his screen and the blank document that’s staring mockingly back at him. When Peter doesn’t react, he groans and meets his eyes seriously. “Peter, listen to me. I have a key to your apartment. I know your computer password. I promise you, if I wanted to sabotage your career prospects I would do it myself. I wouldn’t have any need to bribe Mary.” 

“Are you sure?” Peter asks. He’s blocking the walkway and several people bump into him, sloshing coffee and scattering papers, and he becomes the target of multiple irritated glares that go largely unnoticed as he paces back and forth in front of Remus’s desk. “Are you really sure? Because you made her a triple-layer lemon glaze cake with custard filling, and it all felt very real to me.” 

Remus sighs, rubbing his eyes tiredly. It’s been a long day. “I can’t make a triple-layer lemon glaze cake with custard filling, Peter. I can barely scramble my own eggs.” 

A frown. “Well, that’s no good. I make an excellent triple-layer lemon glaze cake with custard filling. It’s Mary’s favourite of course, we had some just yesterday. Come over next week, I’ll teach you!”

Remus sighs again. Just the longest day. 

***

Hours later and Remus has nothing to show for his time except for the two words that he’s typed out, deleted, then re-typed on an endless loop in the hopes that at some point he’ll be able to extract an ounce of meaning from them. 

Be surprising. 

How deliciously vague.  

He’s shrugging his coat on with the intent to make a quick escape back to his flat when Peter, who’s thrown himself into Remus’ seat, feet propped up on the desk, suddenly squeaks in terror and bolts upright, nearly upending a half-drunk cup of day-old coffee all over himself. “Oh no,” he says, eyes wide as he looks over Remus’s shoulder. “Oh god. What the hell is he doing here?”

“What? Who?” Remus turns around, following his sight, and oh. 

Sirius Black is leaning against the open doorframe of the newsroom looking, for all the world, like he’s stepped straight off the pages of GQ’s latest issue. He’s dressed in fitted trousers and a tight black shirt, fabric straining across broad shoulders. He’s got his arm thrown casually around a boy with a nose ring and chipped purple nails, and they’re crushing their lips together in what looks to be an overly enthusiastic attempt to discover the taste of each other’s tonsils. 

Remus’ stomach clenches uncomfortably at the sight. There’s Sirius’ hand, gripped tightly around the boy's jaw, a quick flash of pink tongue that pokes out between full lips. Remus swears he can hear the boy moan from here, which he’s sure is a completely unnecessary reaction, and then has to squash down the part of him that thinks it really probably is justified. More than justified, when you’ve got that mouth, soft and red and warm, all over you. 

Not that it’s something he’s thought about before. 

And then they’re pulling apart and Remus immediately turns away, fixing his eyes on a section of carpet that’s splitting at the seams, clumps of thread knotted and fraying, and doesn’t see as Sirius untangles himself from the awestruck boy and walks away without a backwards glance. 

Walks away from him and right over to where Remus is still standing stiffly, one arm hanging awkwardly out of his coat from where he’d abandoned the task in favour of ogling the gratuitous display of public affection. 

There’s a shadow in the corner of his eye and then warm hands touch his shoulders first, travelling slowly down his back. Sirius grabs the open end of his coat and holds it up patiently, smirking softly at his confusion, until Remus realises what he should be doing and slides his arm through. His body twitches slightly, involuntarily, as Sirius lets his hands linger near his waist just a few seconds too long, letting out a low breath when he finally steps away from him.

“Alright, Peter? You’re looking well!” Sirius’s grin is wide and mischievous, grey eyes twinkling as he grips Peter’s hand tightly. “How’ve you been?”

“Hm?” Peter squeaks, “Yes, great…,” he says, voice a pitch or two higher than normal. “I’ve been great, Sirius.” He pulls his hand back, flexing it a little. “Haven’t seen you in a while, you here to see James?”

Sirius hesitates, blinking rapidly, then, “Oh, actually, I–”

“I think he’s–” Peter frowns, looking around, “I don’t actually know, maybe in the back somewhere…Remus?” 

“Hm?” Remus startles and looks away from Sirius’ profile, where he’d been analysing the faint pink tinging the tops of his cheekbones. For purely academic reasons, of course. 

“Do you know where James is? Wasn’t he researching something for you?” Peter asks. 

“Oh, erm–” 

“It’s alright,” Sirius says quickly. “We were just supposed to go out, a last-minute thing, he probably forgot. But, anyway, if he’s busy-” his gaze slides to Remus, “then maybe–” 

“Sirius?” James Potter walks over, emerging from the file room with a precariously balanced pile of books in his arms, hair disheveled, shirt rumpled, glasses askew and crooked on his nose. “What are you doing here?”

“James!” Sirius says, eyes wide. “There you are! Just here– ready for the Three Broomsticks…like we discussed.”

James frowns deeply, brow furrowed. “I thought we were meeting there?” He drops the books onto Remus’ desk, and they immediately topple, knocking over a lamp that Remus never liked all that much anyway.  “Anyway,” James continues on, “I told you, I had to stay and help–” he pauses suddenly, looking intently at Sirius, then over to Remus, and then back to Sirius, who’s staring just as intently back. The confusion clears from his face. “...Right. Never mind.” A sigh. “Well, I found just about everything I needed anyway.” He turns to Remus and Peter. “You lads joining?”

“Sure!” 

“Can’t.” 

Three faces frown at Remus. 

“Oh, come on, Re,” James whines, “We’ve got to celebrate that big fuck-off award you’re about to get! What better way than with a little cheeky down-in-one?!” 

Remus laughs, runs a hand through his hair. “Pretty sure it’s a very-average-sized fuck-off award. And the celebration bit is already happening elsewhere this evening, against my will. I think that’ll just about hit the day’s quota for excitement. A cheeky down-in-one might be the thing to push me over the edge, and then where would we be?” 

James groans dramatically and Peter quickly consoles him, assuring him that he actually knows all sorts of fun drinking games, really cool ones! and do you like billiards or maybe pool or maybe– 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sirius says, low and even, stepping close, “I think you might be overdue for some extra excitement in your life.” His eyes are boring into Remus’, dark and piercing, much too intently for the discussion at hand. 

Remus swallows, throat bobbing. He thinks he might agree with just about anything those eyes had to say. A dangerous thought. He clears his throat subtly. “You know,” he says hoarsely, “there’s a chance you might be right about that.” 

When Remus walks out of the room a few minutes later, the lingering heat of eyes on his back follows him the entire way. 

— — — 

Hogwarts University is a renowned institution with a long and celebrated history of churning out some of the country’s most successful graduates in every sector worthy of pursuit. Or so it says on the pamphlet. 

But it’s undoubtedly true, if the people in attendance tonight are any indication.

The ceremony is being held at Hogwarts Museum, a building on the far side of campus that edges along the city’s cliffside waterfront and surrounding forests. It makes for a gorgeous venue; marble floors that are polished so thoroughly Remus is half-convinced he can see his reflection in them, a large foyer that’s lined with priceless antique relics, centuries-old art covering the walls. In the corner, there’s a spiral wrought-iron staircase that leads to the second floor where a stage has been erected in preparation of the night. 

The room is nearly full by the time Remus arrives, Lily a reassuring weight at his elbow. 

“Stop fussing,” she scolds, batting his hand away as he goes to tug at his bowtie, yet again. 

“I feel ridiculous,” he says. The event is black-tie, and he’s let Lily talk him into thinking a full tuxedo - complete with waistcoat and all - was a good idea. Two minutes in and there’s a very real chance he’s already sweat through his shirt. “I look like a penguin or a magician or a…” 

Remus trails off, eagerly grabbing two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter. He hands one to Lily before gulping down half of his in two large sips. 

“Or a very sexy James Bond type?” Lily grins, modestly sipping at her own drink. “You look absolutely gorgeous, Re, I promise. I’m genuinely afraid half the room is going to try to eat you up.”

He rolls his eyes, but Lily tilts her head, gesturing to a group of girls in the corner who are staring right at them. At him. He thinks he might recognise a couple of them, vaguely, from the newspaper, but he’s sure he doesn’t know any of their names. 

He gives them an awkward half-wave that Lily snorts at. 

One of the girls, a blonde wearing a daringly low-cut gown, tosses her hair and gives an overly lascivious wink in return. Remus nearly chokes on his drink, taken aback, and looks away quickly. 

He scans the room; the waiters are starting to bring out appetizers now, the kind of tiny, fancy bites of food that he’s not sure if anyone ever properly enjoys. He grabs five. Just in case.

Lily drags him along and they sway slightly to the faint music playing – well, Lily sways, he more shuffles along, feet dragging, at her side – and find an open spot to lean against the large bar where most of the attendees are congregating. They’ve only just ordered their drinks when Remus realises their mistake. 

“Oh, fucking hell,” he mutters, as several heads swivel, zeroing in on them immediately. 

Being the guest of honour, with the added obstacle of having a beautiful woman at his side, seems to have the unfortunate side effect of making them highly sought-after targets by people who treat networking like it’s a professional sport.

The first to approach is a man with slicked back, platinum blond hair, sauntering over to them with his mouth twisted in what appears to be a regrettably permanent sneer. He offers his hand to Remus, chin tilted up, haughty and superior, “Lucius Malfoy. I’m sure you’ve heard of me,” he says before Remus has a chance to respond. “Youngest elected member of Parliament.” 

“Oh,” Remus grips his hand, pressing his lips together to hide his smile, nodding seriously, “Absolutely, very impressive. Such a privilege to meet you.” 

“Shall we refer to you only as The Right Honourable then, Mr. Malfoy?” Lily asks from next to him, hiding her smirk in her drink. 

Lucius’ eye twitches, but he otherwise ignores her, possibly having correctly discerned she is not too polite to refrain from telling him to bugger off, unlike Remus. Instead, he immediately launches into a tirade about the inefficiency of parliament (the libs, of course) and how they really ought to dispense with the welfare programs (just looking for handouts, absolutely preposterous) because they’re not Americans (aghast). Although that line of thought just leads him down a tangent on the new ‘tough on crime’ policies he’s introducing, because, apparently, that is the one thing they managed to get right. 

If Remus were able to get a word in, he might ask if those new crime bills mention anything about tax evasion and, if so, if he’ll be having his own father, Abraxas Malfoy, sent to prison for the impressing number of forms he conveniently forgot to mail in.

By the time Professor McGonagall calls for everyone’s attention, nearly an hour later, Remus has been assailed by two members of the Royal Family, several CEOs, the founder of Europe’s biggest media conglomerate, and a shockingly high number of people with the last name Grimaldi. 

Nepotism. Truly a time-honoured tradition. 

They all seemed to be under some misguided impression that Remus is someone they should be sucking up to. That, or, finding a moment to discreetly slip him a calling card with an offer for a late-night rendezvous they insist would be well worth his time. Usually followed by a wink or an overt licking of lips. 

On his way to his seat, Remus crams four crab puffs into his mouth and then flags down the nearest waiter. He really, really needs more champagne. 

***

The ceremony goes smoothly.

By the time it starts, James, Peter, and Mary have all shown up and are on hand for wolf whistles and cheering that might have embarrassed him had he been able to hear any of it over the hammering of his heart. 

Remus manages to make it through his acceptance speech without too much blushing or blundering, and just barely keeps from toppling the (actually fairly large) award that’s got his name engraved on the side. Professor McGonagall gives a surprisingly heartfelt introduction that labels his work generous things like ‘inquisitive’ and ‘poignant’ and ‘moving’.

He relocates himself to a table in the corner, munching intently on hors d'oeuvres and feeling pleasantly drunk and happy as he watches his friends dance and laugh together on the other side of the room. 

“Remus?” 

He looks up, mouth full of filet, and it’s the girl from earlier. One of the no-name newspaper girls. “Mmhm?” He swallows quickly and stands, offering her a sheepish hand. “Er, yes, hello.”

“I’m Emmeline,” she says, her hands delicate and smooth as they shake his, lingering an uncomfortable second too long. “I just wanted to come over here and say congratulations. I mean, I read your pieces every week in the Phoenix, and I just think it’s amazing, really, the way you write. So passionate and magnetic. So …,” she pauses, eyes dropping to Remus’ mouth as she licks her lips, “intense.” 

Remus laughs lightly, running a hand through his hair. She tracks the motion with her glitter-lined eyes - they’re sharp, predatory - and as he drops his hand, letting curls flop back onto his forehead, he gets the distinct feeling that he’s meant to be the prey. “That’s really nice of you to say, Emmeline,” he clears his throat awkwardly, taking a step back. “And it’s great to meet you, but I actually–” 

“Let me get you a drink,” she says, cutting him off. She moves closer, leaning into his space. “And then maybe we can–” 

“There you are.” A new voice, familiar, from behind Remus. Before he can turn there’s a hand on his waist, a soft weight pulling gently, and it’s Sirius, eyes blazing, pressing into his side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” 

“Er, I–” Remus stops, unsure where that sentence was going. He knows his confusion is written all over his face, but, luckily, the other two are too focused on each other to notice. 

They’re engaged in a sort of stare down. Emmeline’s lips are pressed firmly together, eyes narrowed as she glances from Sirius’ hand, still clutching Remus’ waist, back to meet his gaze. Sirius watches her, unblinking, a muscle in the corner of his jaw twitching as seconds go by in terse silence. 

Sirius is the one to break it, offering his hand to Emmeline. “Sirius Black,” he says coolly. 

“Emmeline Vance.” She shakes his hand, frowning a little. And Remus supposes she is rather beautiful, if a bit terrifying. He should probably feel bad about the death glare she’s receiving but he’s really had a lot to drink, and the alcohol has made everything feel all fuzzy and warm and the room suddenly smells really good; like cedar and spice and leather. 

Or maybe that’s the body next to him.

He sways into Sirius, leaning heavily into him with a deep sigh, and the fingers at his waist flex, tightening their grip. 

“Well, I guess…I’ll go,” Emmeline says, watching Remus closely as if waiting for him to protest. He doesn’t. 

“Have a lovely night, Emily,” Sirius says, smirking.

Emmeline doesn’t bother responding, just gives Remus one lingering, disappointed look before walking away, dress swishing at her feet. 

Remus lets out a short noise of relief, and moves to disentangle himself, a little unsteady on his feet. 

He doesn’t get more than a step away before Sirius’ hand is clenching, dragging him even closer, flush against his side. Sirius’ body is warm through his jacket and they’re close enough that Remus can feel wisps of his hair tickling against his neck. He looks at him questioningly, and is surprised to see a faint blush rising on the tops of Sirius’ pale cheeks. 

“Sorry,” Sirius says quietly, finally releasing him. He clears his throat awkwardly and looks away, eyes scouring the room. 

Remus hesitates a moment, but the drinks have made him bold, and he shifts his body so they’re facing each other. He meets Sirius’ eyes and they’re glowing in the museum’s low light; a warm grey, soft and magnetic. His dark hair is in loose waves, falling to his jaw, curling at the ends. 

There’s a tiny piece of lint on Sirius’ tux and Remus reaches out, fingers brushing against his chest to pick it off. Sirius inhales sharply at the contact and fixes Remus with a heavy look, lips parting softly. He takes a small step forward, and it looks involuntary. Remus wishes he would do it again.

And then, like Sirius knows, he does, and it might be more sure, more confident, but Remus can’t really tell because he’s too focused on Sirius’ mouth; lips full and red and soft. He thinks they’re soft. They look soft. 

“Like a pillow,” he murmurs unthinkingly. 

“What?” Sirius is staring at him, faint smile on those lips, brow furrowed softly in confusion. 

Remus shakes his head, heat rushing to his face. He’s not repeating that, but he doesn’t need to. His eyes haven’t moved, are incapable of moving, and the thought makes him blush again, deeper. 

Sirius lifts his hand, the back of his knuckles grazing against Remus’ cheek, softly, so softly he can barely feel it. Except it’s all he feels. Sirius’ eyes follow the path his hand makes; down the side of his face, his jaw, his neck. 

“Yeah,” Sirius breathes, gaze dropping down. “Like a pillow.” His knuckles brush against the corner of Remus’ mouth, and his thumb pokes out, pulling softly, tantalizingly, against Remus’ bottom lip. 

Remus eyes fall lightly closed at the touch, he presses his lips together tightly to hold back the moan catching in his throat, accidentally pulling the tip of Sirius’ thumb between them, closing down on it softly. 

Sirius does moan at that, soft and breathy, and Remus floods with heat, sways closer; into him, into his hand. 

Sirius’ hand moves, twisting into Remus’ curls, pulling, yanking softly, and then, suddenly, the spell is broken.

“Wh-” Sirius clears his throat, blinking rapidly, voice hoarse and scratchy. “What is that?” 

“Hm?” Remus can barely think, barely see. His body is so alive, thrumming with want, buzzing–

Oh. That’s his phone. 

He quickly pulls his phone from his pocket, silencing the vibration, but grimaces lightly when he sees the caller id: Mum is flashing across the screen. 

Remus runs a hand roughly across his face. “Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath. 

Sirius has stepped back, and he’s turned his body away from Remus; posture stiff, formal, as if the last few minutes never happened. His jaw is clenched so tightly the bone is jutting out in the corner. Remus wants to press on it. 

He clears his throat and tries to meet Sirius’ eyes. “I should probably…” he trails off, holding up his phone in explanation. He doesn’t really want to tell Sirius Black that he’d promised to call his mother immediately after the ceremony, so he lets the silence reign. It does, for several awkward moments. 

But then Sirius is nodding, and when he finally speaks it’s bored, detached. “Right, of course. I was actually surprised that he wasn’t–” he cuts off, glancing away. “Anyway, I’ve got plans too, actually.” 

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Remus isn’t surprised, really, but can’t ignore the pang of hurt he feels as Sirius looks across the room and grins, overly wide, waving someone over. 

The boy that comes bounding is tall and freckled with waves of red hair falling naturally in a way that’s much more suave and sophisticated than Remus could ever hope his own floppy curls to be. 

“Gideon, Remus. Remus, Gid.” Sirius introduces them shortly, an edge in his voice, as Gid wraps his arms tightly around Sirius’ waist and immediately starts pressing a series of kisses against the smooth, pale skin of his jaw, and ignoring Remus completely. 

“Nice to meet you,” Remus says, stiffly, not looking away from Sirius. He’s staring back evenly, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. 

He desperately wants to walk away, but that feels cowardly in his drunken mind, so he stays, feet planted in place. Luckily, it only takes a few more seconds of necking before Gideon finally comes up for air and suddenly, he’s dragging Sirius away by the arm, eager and rushed. 

Sirius’ eyes don’t leave his until the last possible moment. 

When they’re finally gone, Remus lets out a long, slow breath and goes to find his friends. 

— — — 

The evening air is bitingly frigid when he finally makes it outside and it feels good against his alcohol-warm cheeks, instantly cooling the heat gathered there. There’s an undercurrent of tension still thrumming under his skin, making him itchy and restless, and he’s eager to walk it off, to scrape it from his body like ice on a windshield. 

“Darling boy,” Lily calls out as he walks over. She’s swaying slightly on her feet, but her eyes are clear and bright. “Look at that frown! Are you having yourself a brood?” 

Remus laughs, feeling his chest lighten as she clasps his hands, warming them with her own. “I might be having the smallest of broods. Hardly worth discussing. Let’s talk about something else…where is everyone?” 

He looks around and there’s only James, a few steps away. He’s frowning down at his phone, glasses slid to the bridge of his nose, typing furiously. 

Lily glances back at him, then meets Remus’ eyes and shrugs. “Peter took Mary home a little bit ago, she was starting to fall asleep. They tried to find you and say goodbye but–” 

“Alright,” James interrupts, walking back over. “A car’s finally coming.” He pushes his glasses up with a knuckle and looks at them. “Hullo Rem. Where are the others?” 

“I thought you said Peter and Mary left?” 

“They did, we’re just waiting on–” 

A loud laugh sounds behind him and Remus freezes. He glances over his shoulder to confirm it’s Sirius; his arm is draped around Gideon’s shoulder, they’re both stumbling and giggling, barely managing to stay upright and it’s the most unrefined Remus has ever seen him.

At some point in the last hour, Sirius has removed his jacket and tie and the first several buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a sliver of pale skin. His usually sleek hair is mussed and tangled and Remus’ stomach knots at the visual it supplies. 

“Oh.” Sirius stops when he sees Remus. He squints, leaning close, then sneers a little. “What are you doing here? Thought you- had to call,” he pauses, hiccups, “had to call your… boy- that boy. The boyfriend!” 

Remus frowns, confused. “Wha–” 

“Hey Gid!” Sirius pulls on Gideon’s sleeve, yanking several times, quite unnecessarily, as Gideon’s looking right at him. “Gid, did you know Remus’ boyfriend is Welsh too? He’s very cute.” Another hiccup. “And,” his voice, mocking and unkind, drops to a conspiratorial whisper, “he’s a farmer.” 

“Remus is a farmer?” Gideon yells, much too loudly. Other partygoers have gathered nearby and shoot them irritated looks. “And Welsh?! Is that why his voice is all funny?” 

And, well, Remus should probably be offended by that, but he’s really just grateful for a legitimate reason to find Gideon as unfathomably insufferable as he already did. He’s also not sure he all that much appreciates the way they’re acting as if he isn’t standing right in front of them, but inserting himself into the conversation is an even worse prospect than just allowing it to continue. 

“No, no.” Sirius rolls his eyes, frowning. “The boyfriend.” 

“Wait…” James turns to Remus, brow furrowed. “I thought you two broke up.”

Remus sighs wearily. “We did.” 

“You- What?” Sirius straightens quickly, eyes clearing. “You- When?” he demands. 

Remus shifts uncomfortably and looks at Lily for help with pleading eyes. 

He’s really not in the mood to rehash the downfall of his first, and only, real relationship with a drunk Sirius Black. He’s not even sure how Sirius knew about Benjy, let alone that he was Welsh and, well, not a farmer, but a supermarket clerk who happens to live on a farm. 

Lily speaks up then, saving him like the hero she is, “The car’s here! Hurry, hurry, all of you, let’s go.” She quickly ushers them, ignoring repeated protests, towards the small black car that’s idled at the curb. 

James rushes over to it, shivering a little as he walks around to the passenger side and leans in to say something to the driver. The car’s lights are flashing, and the driver looks a little put out, like he’s been trying to get their attention for a while. 

Gideon and Sirius struggle to get in, they keep pulling the door open and then falling into it, causing it to slam shut again. The driver’s sighing, and then James is sighing, probably thinking about the hit his Uber rating is about to take. 

Remus grabs Lily’s arm before she passes, stopping her. “I think I’m going to walk back.” 

“Hm?” She shivers slightly, pulling her coat tighter around her body. “It’s freezing, you’re not walking back in the dark alone.” 

“I just…” he glances over, and they’ve finally made it in the car. He can see through the window that Sirius has his eyes closed, head resting against Gideon’s shoulder. “I just need to clear my head a bit, that’s all. Had too much to drink, I think.” 

Lily frowns, but slowly nods. “Alright, but you have your phone, right? And it’s charged?” Remus nods in confirmation. “Text me every ten minutes then, or I’m sending the cavalry out after you.” 

James is nodding off in the front seat, face smushed against the window. Remus thinks the cavalry is about to hit his REM cycle, but he promises her to text, and kisses her cheek lightly before opening the car door and urging her into the warmth.  

Before Remus turns to go, he lets himself glance back one last time. 

Sirius’ head is up now, eyes wide and much more alert than they’d been a few minutes ago, and they make contact with Remus’ for the quickest, briefest moment. He frowns.

And then it’s over, and the car’s pulling off the curb and driving away. 

***

The path Remus walks, normally worn with footprints and bike tracks, is smooth and flat, washed away by the morning’s rain. It’s a long trail behind the museum and loops through the forest, cutting along the cliff’s edge. The darkness presses in on him from every side, but his steps are easy, practised, and he doesn’t bother with his phone’s flashlight. 

Each step clears his mind a little bit more and by the time the faint glow of the museum’s lights have all but faded, he’s managed to subdue his embarrassment into a dull throb that’s easily pushed to the back of his mind. 

There’s an eerie sort of beauty to the forest at night; all lush, looming trees with gnarled roots, twisted and tangled, sticking out in clumps that threaten to trip anyone less familiar with the terrain. Leaves rustle in the breeze, branches creaking as they bend and sway. The distant sound of waves rolling against the cliff, hazy and muffled through the dense foliage, lulls him. 

He lets the sounds calm him, lets them wash away the thoughts he desperately wants gone. The sight of Sirius frowning at him, closing off, shutting him out. Of a freckled arm and burst of red hair draped all over him. Of Sirius bringing up Benjy, mocking him, making him the punchline of a joke shared with someone else. Of that same someone else’s lips pressed to Sirius’ neck. Those lips that will probably be pressing to other places - soft, smooth, naked places - later tonight. Tonight, while Remus trudges through a forest, kicking at stray pebbles. Alone.

Pathetic. 

He’d spent most of his first year taking walks out here, sometimes with Lily or Peter, but mostly alone, letting the soothing swell of waves against rocks quiet his mind and calm the bouts of worries or homesickness or stresses that cropped up. 

The trail was only ever busy a couple times a year. The times when hordes of students packed baskets of food, donned bathing suits and floppy hats, and followed it all the way up to the piece of land that jutted further out than the rest, overlooking the water. They’d celebrate the end of term by running all the way to the cliff’s edge and launching themselves over it, yelling and laughing as they dove into the water below. 

It was a tradition at Hogwarts, one Remus had never felt all that adventurous enough to participate in. He’d been assigned to report on it, back in his first year, and still remembers the rush of adrenaline, the thrill that was equal parts fear and awe, as he watched them. 

Some were more daring than the others, showing off with head-first dives, backflips, various acrobatics. Others kept it simple; a hand held, a careful step, a yelp of fear that melted into a shriek of joy. 

Remus envied them all. 

Some of the professors called it reckless. He thought it was brave. 

He’d brought Benjy out here once - late last year, on one of the last of his visits - and had hoped the quiet, secluded scenery would provide an easy backdrop for them to talk, to work through the distance between them. To figure out what it was they wanted, where they’d gone wrong.

But, instead, Benjy had spent the entire walk terrified; clinging to Remus’ arm, letting out ridiculous howls that were meant to sound like a wolf, or a bear, or some sort of rabid hyena; anything to ward off any of the lurking predators he’d convinced himself were watching them. 

He’d cut the walk short, forced them to turn around before they’d even made it to the overlook, and had gotten on the train home shortly after. 

That was the beginning of the end. One of many instances, in a long line, that Benjy kept in his back pocket to use against him as evidence. Evidence that Remus was the one going off script, changing things between them, always trying to be something he wasn’t. Something Benjy said he wasn’t. 

They broke up a month ago and sometimes Remus still misses it. Still misses having someone to talk to when he’s hurting, when there’s something on his mind, when he has a good day or, more often, when he has a bad day and needs comforting.

Sometimes, not often, but sometimes Remus gets the urge to call him. Benjy, who knew him better than anyone, but in the kind of way that’s limiting; the kind of knowing that comes when you meet too young, before you’re even someone complete enough to know, and then you fall in love and they see you forever as a scrawny thirteen-year-old who’d never kissed anyone before. 

Remus is pretty sure he isn’t that person anymore, but sometimes he worries about it. Worries that maybe Benjy did know him better than anyone, and he thinks if that’s true it would be a shame. He’s not sure he much liked who Benjy thought he was. 

Safe. Careful. Predictable. 

He tries not to think about him on those nights where he’s at his lowest. On those nights where he’s so lonely it makes his chest ache so hard it hurts to breathe. Those nights where he can feel the press of time moving on, passing by without his consent, and it’s like the walls are closing in on him fast and he’s frozen, and he’s stuck in place and flooded with regrets.

Remus isn’t claustrophobic, but he thinks in those moments that he gets it. He gets how it makes your chest squeeze and it feels like you’ve got a weight attached that you can’t quite carry, and everything is itchy and crooked, and your bones don’t fit properly in your body, and he wants to pull. Pull at his skin until it’s all the way off and he can shed it like a coat. 

Shed it and be someone new. 

Be someone surprising. 

Remus pulls his coat tighter around him as he walks, the breeze picking up into a steady wind as he gets deeper along the trail and the heavy foliage starts to thin out. The canopy of trees opens up, offering an unobstructed view of the night sky; of stars glinting, winking overhead; of the moon, nearly full in the sky, light reflecting off the water below. 

A short way’s ahead, there’s a fork in the trail; one that leads right, upward several kilometres, and straight to the cliff’s edge overlook. The other, the one he chooses for tonight, dips back around to street level, and merges with the main road. 

He’s only made it a few steps when he hears a scream. 

Remus freezes, blood curdling. By now, evening has turned well into night, and he can barely see a few feet into the forest, but he’s sure that wasn’t the kind of scream that comes from a late-night rendezvous with a secret lover. 

He pauses, breath bated, waiting. He chances a few more steps. There’s a gap through the trees that’s in line with the cliff; he’s about halfway down the trail, when he looks up and sees them. 

They’re standing at the top, near the edge. The moonlight is just enough to make out several figures, pale skin glinting, completely naked. Their eyes are covered in blindfolds and a few of them, unknowingly, shuffle dangerously close to the edge. 

Remus is about to call out to them, to ask what the hell they think they’re doing, to take off the fucking blindfolds, when suddenly one of them, with no warning, is shoved straight over the edge by someone out of sight. His scream is loud, even louder than the first, as he falls blindly into the waves below. 

Remus knows he hits the water below, hears the tell-tale splash, but can’t bear to look. He feels frozen with terror, heart pounding. And then several more figures emerge.

These ones are clothed; wearing long, flowing black cloaks, hoods pulled over their heads. Their faces are obscured by pale, silvery masks that glint in the moonlight and the effect is unsettling; making them look strange and deformed. 

Remus knows he needs to act, quickly, but can’t decide what he should be doing. He hasn’t checked in with Lily in a bit, but they’ve surely been home for ages by now. Should he call her? Should he call the police? Should he film them or maybe scream - try to scare them off? 

His heart is pounding in his chest, but he doesn’t think standing in place and pissing himself is the course of action he should be committing to right now. 

Just as he’s decided to sprint down to the water’s edge - to check on the one pushed, to make sure they’re alive and breathing, that they didn’t crack their skull on the rocks below - two more are shoved in. 

And then another two. 

And then, finally, the last one. 

Their screams echo all the way down. Remus, hands shaking, breath coming in hard, fast pants, quickly opens his phone and dials the emergency number. As soon as he presses call, the masked figures step up to the edge. 

Their arms are raised at their sides, fingers brushing together as they stand in an even line. 

A shrill whistle sounds. Remus hears them call out, in unison. 

“Morsmordre!” 

As one, synced and practised, they jump in.

— — — 

Remus wakes the next morning to sunlight streaming through his blinds, searing his eyes. His throat is scratchy and dry, and he thinks he may need to invest in a pair of sunglasses if he has any hope to survive the day. And then he wakes up a bit more and worries that a woodpecker has gotten itself stuck inside his head and is now repeatedly hammering into his frontal lobe.

But he’s got bigger things to worry about today than vengeful birds. 

By the time he’d sprinted down the trail and made it to the water last night, there was no one there to be found. The police arrived soon after and searched the entire area, flashlights bright, dogs on their leads, and came up empty. 

They’d disappeared. 

But Remus can’t stop hearing those screams. 

He manages to dress quickly, grabbing an old jumper and jeans off the floor that are wobbling that fine line between clean enough and absolutely not, and makes his way to the kitchen to find Lily in a similarly hungover state, hunched over the table, head folded over her arms. 

“Champagne is the devil’s juice,” Lily says, without lifting her head, when Remus slides into the chair next to her. “We know this, and yet this always happens. Why, why, why?” She groans, loud and drawn out. 

Remus sighs. “It just tastes all sparkly and cute and makes us forget it wants to kill us.” 

She looks up and nods solemnly. “So how was your walk last night, then? I didn’t even hear you come in, you were so quiet.” 

“Hm? Oh, yeah, it was fine. I just…” 

Luckily, just then, James walks through the door, earbuds in and sweat dripping from his cheek. “Hello, lovelies!” He leans down to place a loud, exaggerated kiss on the top of Lily’s head and then does the same to Remus. “How are we feeling this morning?” 

“Positively dreadful, thank you for asking, James.” Remus frowns. “Please tell me you didn’t just finish a run?” 

“I would, dearest Rembo, but I find myself quite unable to lie to that gorgeous face of yours. Anyway, I’m starving, shall we go for a fry-up?” James asks, pulling on a sweatshirt. 

Lily agrees heartily and makes to grab her wallet but stops just as quickly. “Oh! I almost forgot. James, tell Remus the drama from last night.” 

James just stares at her blankly. 

“The Sirius thing,” she urges. 

Remus stills, stomach clenching at the name, and hopes his blush isn’t obvious in the low lighting. 

“Right, that.” James shifts on his heels, looking uncomfortable. “Well, it wasn’t that big of a deal, really. They were both just drunk and- well- Sirius was probably feeling weird about- er,” he glances at Remus meaningfully, “just I don’t know, things, you know? And Gideon–” 

“Oh Christ, James,” Lily interrupts, exasperated. “Last night Gideon and Sirius got into a tiff when Sirius tried to sleep here, pass out on our sofa. Obviously Gideon was expecting they’d be going home together and got all upset, it was a bit much honestly. But then, practically out of nowhere, Sirius completely blew up, told us all to bugger off, and stormed out. It was quite a scene.” 

Remus isn’t quite sure how to respond to that, but manages an uncertain, “That sounds horrible.” 

Lily nods, luckily not seeming to notice his weak response, and walks to the front door, James trailing behind her. “James almost went after him, but you know Sirius. Best to let him sleep it off, isn't it?” She pauses at the doorway, glancing back at him, still seated. “You coming, Re?” 

Remus shakes his head, ignoring the pain the movement causes. He’s grateful for the reminder that he has concerns infinitely more pressing than Sirius Black’s love life. “No, I’ll be in the library most of the day. There’s something I need to look into.” 

“On a Sunday?” Lily asks, concerned. 

“It’s for the Phoenix,” he says, not feeling guilty in the slightest for the white lie. He can’t even think of telling Lily about what he saw until he has a better idea of what he’s dealing with. “A new article I’m working on for McGonagall.”

James perks up. “Anything I can help with?” 

“No, no, just some old research stuff. You two go on, we can meet up later.” 

He waits until they leave, spending the time washing dishes and making himself a pot of tea, before he stuffs his notebook into his bag and heads out the door.

***

Remus combed the internet for hours last night after he’d gotten home, to no avail. There was nothing on ‘Morsmordre’ that his A-Levels Latin hadn’t already told him, but he was more than a little surprised that a group that enjoyed shoving people off of cliffs didn’t appear in any search engines. 

Trying ‘Hogwarts University’ with ‘cliffs’ proved even more useless. The results were dozens of pictures - one even included in an article by Remus himself - that showed decades of students participating in the end-of-the-year jump. Every single photo depicted sunny skies, bright smiles, and bathing suits. Not a single blindfold or hooded figure in sight. 

He decides to go to the campus library first, hoping Ms. Prince can refer him to any relevant information, but gives up, dejected, after hours of fruitless searching.

It’s much later, in the Phoenix file room, leafing through past issues so dated that no one's bothered to log them into the online records, that he finally finds what he’s looking for. 

He almost flips past the article; it’s short and barely noticeable, crammed between two feature pieces that take up most of the page, but the photo is what stops him. It’s grainy and unfocused, but Remus bends over the page, squinting, and feels sick with what he sees. 

It’s a dozen coffins, lids open, arranged in a near-perfect circle around a raised dais. Only one person is visible, just barely, in the corner of the frame. He’s wearing a hooded cloak. There’s a pale silver mask covering his face. 

Remus skims the article - eyes flitting through accusations from ex-members of blood rituals, blowtorched buildings in the poor neighbourhoods across town, games of Russian roulette that either end in a shot of tequila or a blown off limb - until a name jumps out and makes him freeze, heart thudding. 

Remus grips the paper tightly in his hand, fingers clenched white. 

When approached for comment on the Death Eaters Society, former Hogwarts University Chancellor Phineas Nigellus Black, had a lot to say on the matter. “When I filled my position as head of this university, Hogwarts was the finest institution in the country. Now, the so-called progressives on the Board of Governors are allowing hordes of shameful and undeserving applicants to muddy the waters of my beloved school and legacy. I encouraged my son, Cygnus, to make the most of his time as a student and to only engage with his equals, the best of the best. I applaud him, and the other students, ensuring their legacies and doing their part to rectify these aberrations by separating themselves. There is a need for purification, a return to honour and tradition, and I will do my part in aiding those who work towards it.” 

Remus’ neck burns as he stares at the page, reading and re-reading the words, trying to fill the missing blanks in his head. 

His mind is whirring, trying to keep up with the influx of information, and his hand quickly starts to cramp with the number of words he’s scribbling in his notebook. The writing is messy, barely legible, but it helps calm him down to take stock of what he knows. 

The Death Eaters. A group - a society, the article called them - formed at Hogwarts, likely spanning decades. Phineas Nigellus Black. 

Everyone knows the Black family are like Hogwarts royalty. His stomach roils with dread as he thinks about what it means that Sirius’ great-grandfather, a member of one of the most powerful families in the country, was one of the founding members of this society. 

Is that why it’s been swept under the rug? Why it’s being allowed to continue? Did whoever wrote this article - Remus squints at the page, barely making out the name Bathilda Bagshot - try to call them out, expose them, just to be shot down?

It wouldn’t be the first time, Remus thinks. 

Remus is so engrossed in the article and his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the sun has nearly set in the sky until his stomach grumbles in hunger. He jumps up quickly, carefully folding the article, and slipping it in his bag. It’s been collecting dust for nearly half a century so he’s fairly confident no one will miss it. 

Remus checks his phone as he leaves the building, wincing at all the missed calls and texts from Lily. He quickly sends her one back, so she doesn’t worry, and says he’ll meet her at home later. 

There’s just one more stop he needs to make tonight. 

***

“What can you tell me about secret societies at Hogwarts?”  

Professor McGonagall looks up, her face betraying no hint of surprise at being accosted in her office late on a Sunday evening. “Hello, Mr. Lupin. Would you like to have a seat?” 

Remus mumbles his own greeting and then sits, stiff-backed against the plush velvet chair. He folds his hands into his lap, heart pounding, and waits. 

She regards him intently, quiet for long enough that he begins to shift uncomfortably under her gaze, before finally saying: “I think the very nature of a secret society would entail that I do not, in fact, know anything of value in regard to its existence. However,” she continues, raising a halting finger when Remus makes to interrupt her, “I do happen to know of at least one such organisation whose presence at Hogwarts, in my professional opinion, is of the utmost detriment to the inclusive environment the administration has sought to create in recent years.” 

“Can’t you just shut it down, then?” Remus asks, frowning. 

“Well, I’ve given it my best effort over the years, but certain members on the school’s Board of Governors seem personally motivated to ensure this group persists.” 

“And do we know who the members are?” 

“Their existence predates even me, Mr. Lupin,” Her mouth twists into the faintest of smirks, “If you can believe it. So no, I don’t have precise knowledge of the groups’ members…although I do have my suspicions.” 

Professor McGonagall’s stern look leaves no room for Remus to wonder if she’d be interested in sharing her suspicions with him, so he doesn’t bother asking. 

“But,” she continues on, “I am inclined to believe that entrance into these societies are kept within a small circle, likely only to the next generations of the founding members and their closest friends.” She eyes him knowingly, and there’s no doubt in Remus’ mind that she’s well aware of the article’s contents. “But that is not necessarily always the case. Some may reject their spots…unlikely, yes, but not an impossibility. I do have…information that this group has, at least once before, recruited someone who is quite a bit outside the scope of their general preferences.” 

Remus frowns. “I thought you said you didn’t know any of the members’ names,” he says, fighting to keep the accusation from his voice. 

She pauses, mouth thinning, and seems to contemplate something for a moment. “I don’t,” she says finally. “I don’t know any of the members. But I do know someone who was recruited by a group he referred to as the Death Eaters.” McGonagall eyes Remus, then nods slightly, almost to herself, as she notes his lack of surprise at the name. 

“And who was it?” Remus asks, unable to help himself, a pool of dread coiling in his belly. “Who was recruited?”  

Professor McGonagall says, voice low and laced with anger, “Davey Gudgeon.” 

***

Remus walks back to his flat in a daze, barely paying attention to where he’s going or who he’s passing, without the mental capacity to worry about things like accidentally getting hit by a car or a bus. 

He feels like someone has dumped a bucket of ice water over his head; he’s cold and shaken and ready to run over to Sirius’ door, break it down, and force him to explain himself. Force him to explain the role a group his ancestors publicly lauded, a group they helped create, had in one of Remus’ classmates very nearly dying.

Because Remus remembers, clear as day, how that boy looked when he was brought into Hogwarts’ infirmary last year.

It was early on in term when Remus overheard Davey Gudgeon, a boy in his Media and Politics class, bragging to another student about being tapped for some sort of initiation. He didn’t think anything of it until two days later, when Davey was wheeled into the hospital wing. His entire body was covered in gashes and burns, and his eyes were wrapped completely in soft white cloth bandages. 

The injuries he sustained were irreparable; Davey went blind. 

A student went blind, and the only reason Remus even knew about it was because he happened to be in the hospital wing visiting Dr. Pomfrey, an old friend of his mother’s, the day after it happened.

It was a horrible thing to witness, made even more so by the abject terror on Davey’s face when an intimidating group of men in five-thousand-pound suits waltzed in, had what looked to be a very brief conversation with him, and then waltzed back out in a wave of cologne and corruption. 

After that, Davey completely shut down. With his refusal to give a statement, the school’s hands were tied, and the entire matter was dismissed as a tragic accident. 

Remus, at the time, had only really been contributing to the Phoenix with puff pieces; short, light-hearted stories on things like the school’s undefeated football record or a charming profile on eccentric local inventor, Adrian Zonko. 

But the Davey incident changed things for him. Any and all attempts to talk to Davey about what happened to him were immediately rejected, and Remus wasn’t the kind of person to push the matter, especially after Davey left Hogwarts. 

But the experience sparked a need to do more; to report on important things, things that mattered, things that moved him and challenged him. 

This wasn’t a game or a test or an experiment or one of Remus’ attempts to be surprising. This was real people being hurt and taken advantage of. It was students being targeted and manipulated; promised spoils of power and status and glory, just to be thrown out and discarded when they didn’t make the cut. 

It was happening here at Hogwarts, and Remus couldn’t not try to help. 

Later, when he finally falls into a restless sleep, he dreams of pine needles and piercing screams and flushed pale cheeks. 

— — —  

First thing the next morning, Remus walks over to the Slytherin buildings and leans against the hood of Sirius’ car - a massive, gaudy black SUV that likely costs more than Remus’ childhood home - and scrolls idly on his phone as he waits for him. 

It’s still early, barely light out yet, and Remus is prepared to have to wait awhile before Sirius shows up, but it doesn’t take more than a few minutes before he’s bursting out of the building, voice echoing loudly across the empty parking lot. 

“Mmm, I just love starting my day with a hot blond waiting for me.” Sirius strolls over, tilting his head as he grins at Remus. 

He’s clearly just woken up. Half the buttons on his shirt are looped through the wrong holes and the buckle of his belt is unclasped and crooked as if he got dressed in a rush. His hair is piled on top of his head in a messy knot, loose strands falling to his jaw, and he rubs his eyes blearily through a wide yawn. 

“Me too.” Remus smirks, slipping his phone into the back pocket of his jeans. 

Sirius frowns, touching a hand to his hair. “I’m not blond.”

“Or hot.” Remus tugs on a loose curl and adds, "Neither am I, really." 

Sirius considers. "Hm. More of a honey colour, I'll admit. Lovely strands of finely spun gold, one could say." 

"Could," Remus grumbles, "but really, really should not." 

Sirius laughs loudly as he unlocks the car. It makes Remus smile a little, but he feels it drop from his face just as quickly. 

Shameful and undeserving applicants. 

A need for purification. 

Blowtorches. Broken bones. Davey Gudgeon. 

He’s here for answers, for the truth. Not for anything else. 

He lets Sirius slide past him to the passenger door where he holds it open, raising a brow at Remus expectantly when he doesn’t move. “Let’s go, Lupin.” 

Remus’ nose twitches and he keeps his feet firmly planted. “We don’t need to go anywhere. I’ve just got a couple questions–” 

But Sirius, seemingly, can’t be bothered to hear him out and simply reaches over, tugging on his hand to guide him over to the open door. 

Remus flinches, noticeably, and pulls hand back. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sirius freeze, shocked. He can feel his eyes on him, hurt and confused, but resolutely avoids meeting his gaze. 

They pass a few seconds in silence, before Sirius says, voice unnaturally quiet, “I- We can just talk here, if you prefer. I shouldn’t have-” 

Remus forces a laugh, and it sounds awkward and high to his own ears. “No, no, sorry.” He makes himself to look at Sirius and slowly sticks his hand back out, palm up, in offering. He’s not sure what to think, what to believe, but the last thing he needs is to alienate Sirius before he can get any answers. 

Sirius eyes it - and him – warily, searching, before gently clasping their hands together once more. Warmth seeps into his palm immediately, his hands cracked and numb from the crisp air. Sirius squeezes once, quickly, before releasing him at the open door. 

“So,” Remus says, once Sirius has slid into the driver’s seat and starts pulling out of the parking lot, “Where are we going?” 

“Breakfast.” He glances over, eyebrow arched. “It’s a bit early for a real drink, even for me, but I’m at least going to need some caffeine before we have…whatever conversation it is that we’re about to have. Is that alright?”

Remus hums, noncommittally, and Sirius takes that for the permission it is. 

They drive in relative silence, the hum of the radio low and muted, and Remus lets his head fall back against the leather seat, shifting to get comfortable. He doesn’t realise he’s let himself drift off until there’s a light shake at his shoulder and he jolts awake. 

Sirius’ smile is weak, uncertain, but his eyes have lost their edge of concern. “We’re here.”

It’s not until they get out of the car that Remus realises where here is. He looks at Sirius. “Absolutely not.” 

“Hm?” Sirius blinks innocently. “What, you don’t like Fortescue’s?” 

Remus does like Fortescue’s, he’s not sure anyone in their right mind wouldn’t. He’s only been once, last year, when his mum came for a visit and they decided to get all dressed up for an elegant night out, playacting as aristocrats. 

It’s very much a folded cloth napkins, elbows off the table, raised pinky, fifteen different utensils sort of place. Not exactly one of Remus’ usual haunts. But unsurprisingly, it seems to be one of Sirius’. 

“Do they even serve breakfast?” he asks, eyeing the empty parking lot doubtfully. 

“Only if you’re special.” Sirius winks, pulling the heavy door open, and gesturing him inside. “Order the chocolate chip pancakes, you won’t regret it.” 

As soon as they get inside, a rich voice greets them. “Mr. Sirius Black, you’re back! And you’ve finally brought a friend with you, I can’t believe my eyes.” The woman is behind the bar, drying glasses with a small blue dishtowel. She’s incredibly beautiful; all plump, rosy cheeks, dark lashes, and long black ringlets framing her face. 

Sirius walks around to place two delicate kisses on her cheeks, whispering something in her ear that makes her burst into laughter, before turning back to Remus. “Remus, this is Rosmerta, the beautiful creature who I’ll one day be gifting my firstborn, in return for the most brilliant cooking to ever exist.” 

The woman smiles, pink-cheeked, as she eyes Remus appraisingly. “Well, he’s definitely a looker, isn’t he?” 

Sirius grins cheekily. “He is.” 

Remus feels heat rush to his cheeks, then immediately frowns, irritated at Sirius’ flirting, but mostly at himself for letting this meeting turn into a pseudo-date. He’ll allow Sirius a chance to be honest with him, tell him what he knows, but he doesn’t owe him anything more than that. This isn’t personal, he’ll be impartial and detached. 

He almost believes it. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Rosmerta,” Remus says, forcing a smile. He looks around at the empty restaurant. Only half of the tables are set, the others empty and bare, hours still until opening. “I hope we’re not putting you out.” 

“Oh nonsense, darling! Sirius, here, may be a philandering scoundrel, but,” she lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning close to Remus, “I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for him anyway. You two can have a seat anywhere while I go whip up the largest batch of pancakes you’ve ever seen.” 

“Thank you, beautiful,” Sirius says, giving her cheek another kiss. 

She waves them off and Sirius guides them over to a small table in the corner, intimate and secluded, pulling Remus’ chair out for him before sliding gracefully into his own. 

Remus picks at the tablecloth, folding and re-folding the corner, knowing he has questions he needs to ask, but feeling unsure of where to start. 

Sirius seems to recognise his need to organise his thoughts and, uncharacteristically, keeps quiet, tapping his fingers idly against the table as he waits. 

“So–” 

“I wanted to apologise for the other night,” Sirius cuts him off, meeting his eyes. “I shouldn’t have mocked your- I shouldn’t have said any of that. I didn’t know, obviously, that you two had…regardless, I was an arsehole. Massively. I- It’s not an excuse, but I was drunk and upset, and I just–” 

“It’s alright,” Remus says, cutting him off, eager to put an end to the stumbling apology. He’s never seen an earnest Sirius before and, in light of recent events, it’s a bit unsettling. He’s not sure how to take it. “I mean it’s not really, but, yeah, I suppose it’s alright.”

He continues, “And, anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” He straightens his back, refocusing his attention, gathering his courage. He decides to broach the topic like he always does for newspaper research. Like he’s talking to any other source, any other subject. “I just wanted to give you a chance to respond to a new article I’m working on for the Phoenix.” 

Sirius’ brow furrows in surprise. “Going for another award already, Lupin?” 

Remus stares at him, hard and unmoving. “Something like that.”

“Well, you’ve got me on the edge of my seat. What’s the article, then?” 

Just then, Rosmerta passes by their table delivering two steaming mugs and the promise to be back with their food soon. Remus wishes he could ask her not to, he’s afraid he won’t be able to unstick the lump in his throat if he loses momentum again. 

He takes a breath. “It’s an article I’m writing on secret societies at Hogwarts. An exposé, really, on an organisation called the Death Eaters.” 

He says it casually, matter-of-factly, as if it’s of little concern or simply a passing interest. He’s positive he doesn’t pull it off, but the important thing is he’s got Sirius’ attention, though he manages to hide it well.

Sirius’ jaw twitches, near imperceptibly, and his eyes show only the mildest flash of something that might be surprise, or maybe fear or anger, before the mask slides into place and he’s completely unreadable. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” he says casually, leaning back in his seat. 

“No?” 

Sirius shakes his head, shrugging. “But a secret society, eh? That sounds fascinating.” 

Remus’ chest burns with anger, and he’s struck with the sudden urge to wipe that look of infuriating calm right off of Sirius’ face. “Fascinating isn’t really the word I’d use to describe it, actually. Appalling, maybe. Detestable, absolutely. But I’m not sure there’s anything all that fascinating about a group of people who are so insecure in their own insignificance, so desperate to prove their own perceived notion of superiority–” 

Sirius interrupts, bored and drawling. “This is Hogwarts, Remus, you can throw a stone and hit ten people who think they’re better than everyone else. Why don’t you write about one of them?” 

“Because none of them are endangering peoples’ lives. None of them are pushing naked and blindfolded people off a sixty-foot cliff at night and calling it hazing. None of them are setting buildings on fire or blinding people or acting certifiably insane in their twisted attempt at playing God!” Remus struggles to keep his voice down, mindful of Rosmerta just one room away in the kitchen. 

“Naked and blindfolded, hm? Might just be my kind of club, after all.” Sirius smirks, but his eyes are glinting dangerously. 

“You are such a piece of sh–”  

“And you think these are the type of people you should be messing with, Remus?” Sirius continues, voice raising, glaring. “People who endanger lives and play God? A change in routine or a pub night out…that’s much too risky for Remus Lupin! But a dangerous group that gets off on committing arson and nearly killing people for a laugh, well, that’s right up his alley!” 

“That’s not fair,” Remus says, voice hard. 

“Well, the world’s not fair, Remus!” Sirius says, gathering steam. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why is this what finally gets you out of the impenetrable little bubble you’ve created for yourself? Why don’t you take up knitting or cross stitch or–” 

They hear a door swinging and Rosmerta bustles out, humming under her breath, carrying two plates of the biggest heap of pancakes Remus has ever seen. She’s immune to the tension, or at least ignoring it, as she sets the plates down and asks if there’s anything else they’d like. 

Sirius is still glowering at him, breathing hard, mouth pressed in a thin line, so Remus drags his eyes away and responds as genuinely as he can. “We’re alright for now, thank you. This looks incredible.” And it did, really, but the even the warm smell of chocolate couldn’t soothe the knot in his belly. 

“Well, I’m off to do some shopping then. Lock up for me whenever you’re finished, dear?” she asks Sirius. 

He nods shortly, not taking his eyes off Remus. 

Rosmerta tuts at him fondly and ruffles his hair before she leaves. “Play nice, boys.” 

Remus waits until the front door’s bell jingles, signaling her departure, before taking a deep breath, trying to calm the bubble of anger in his chest, and leans forward on his elbows. “So, you know who the Death Eaters are?”

“Of course I fucking know who they are, Remus.” Sirius snaps, running a rough hand over his face. “You know I do, otherwise you wouldn’t have asked.” 

“Then you know why someone needs to do this. Why I need to do this. I don’t know why you’re fighting me so hard on it, unless, of course, there’s something you don’t want me to know…” 

Sirius sighs, nodding his head slightly. “Just ask me the question, Remus.” 

Remus watches him closely. Before he can second guess himself he asks, quickly, “Are you one of them?”

Sirius shakes his head, a light, disbelieving laugh escaping his mouth. “You don’t honestly believe that I am.” 

And Remus doesn’t believe it, not really. Or he doesn’t want to. But the problem is he doesn’t know the difference between the two, can’t see anything clearly when it comes to Sirius, hasn’t ever been able to. 

Not since they met, two weeks into first year, where he took one look at that grin, that charming fucking grin, and felt an unbearably desperate pull to know the man behind it. Remus has never, despite his best efforts, been able to find Sirius - with his pranks and philandering and arrogance and the poshest accent he’s ever heard outside of Buckingham Palace - to be anything but completely mesmerizing, albeit in a ridiculous and unattainable sort of way. 

Remus has always avoided letting himself get too close, knowing all too well how easily he’d let himself get sucked into the whirling vortex that was Sirius Black, if only he was given the chance. 

And if he can’t trust himself, then he has to trust the facts. “Here’s what I know. I know that this group has existed for over half a century and not even McGonagall’s been able to shut them down, which means they’re powerful and important and probably- I don’t know, I don’t know,” he says, growing frustrated. “But your great-great-grandfather was named in the only article I’ve been able to find, so explain to me, give me one good reason, why I should believe you’re not a part of it?” Remus can hear the desperation leaking into his voice, the hint of near-begging that bleeds through, but he doesn’t care. “Just one reason, Sirius.” 

Sirius’ smile is pained and forced. “And you can’t just trust me?”

Remus doesn’t respond.  Eyes wide and imploring; pleading. 

“Fine,” Sirius sighs, resigned. “I’ll give you names and–”

“How do you have names?” 

“Can you just-" he closes his eyes briefly, before continuing, "I’ll give you three names. And a few things I know. Enough for an investigation or police involvement or whatever. But what you’re not going to do is publish an article, attached to your name, in the fucking Phoenix Gazette. Mail it anonymously to McGonagall or the Board of Governors or the fucking Queen, I don’t care, but they’re not going to be able to trace it back to you. Alright?” 

Remus frowns, contemplating. He knows he needs to ask how Sirius has names and details of the Death Eaters when McGonagall couldn’t even give him that, but there’s only a few possible answers to that question, and only one that he’s comfortable with hearing, so he decides to just do the thing his gut has been begging him to do ever since he read that article and trust Sirius. 

“Alright,” he says slowly, and Sirius’ eyes flash with relief. “But I have one condition.” 

A sigh. “Of course you do.” 

“Tonight’s the full moon,” Remus says. Sirius’ eyes flash quickly up to his, wide, surprised. It spurs him on, confidence growing. “The article I read suggested the Death Eaters do one big stunt every year, one big ritual, and, at first, I thought it was what I saw the other night. But now I’m worried- I think maybe that was just part of the initiation…”

Sirius mouth twitches, seemingly impressed, despite the trepidation growing on his face. 

“Tonight’s the full moon,” Remus repeats, “So I’m thinking the big event happens tonight. And I want to see it. I need proof, real tangible proof - not just names or details or whatever other bullshit - I need pictures and videos and I need to know and, I don’t know, stop it if it’s something really bad or someone’s going to get hurt.” 

“No one’s going to get hurt,” Sirius says, and he’s confident but that doesn’t ease Remus’ concerns. 

“And how do you know that?” 

“I just do.” 

Remus eyes him, glaring, and Sirius meets his gaze evenly, calmly. Remus stays quiet for a moment, thinking hard. And then: “Will you tell me where to go?”

Sirius’ face hardens, and he’s already shaking his head before Remus even finishes asking. “Absolutely not. I never agreed to your condition. What part of I don't want them to know who you are do you not understand?”

Remus rolls his eyes, leaning back in his seat. “You're being awfully overprotective.”

Sirius narrows his eyes and stays silent. 

"Did you read the article that won me the award?" Remus asks. 

Sirius nods, just barely.

“Then you should know I’m not going to let them write me off again. I'm not going to let them brush it under the rug and cover it with a bullshit ceremony and my name on a plaque. I need proof, real tangible proof, and I’m going to make Dumbledore listen to me this time if I have to tie the fucking prick to a chair and say it to his face.”

Sirius’ lips twitch slightly, but he stays glaring, the pancakes forgotten between them.

“When I tell you I’m going tonight,” Remus continues, gaining confidence with every word, “that I’ll find them, and I’m going to expose them, you need to believe me.” Remus isn’t sure where the bravado is suddenly coming from, but he feels more sure than he has in months. Maybe years. He leans forward, searching Sirius’ face. “Now, will you help me, or shall I just post it to you for final edits when I’m finished?”

It takes Sirius a full minute to respond. When he does, his face cracks, breaking into a wide, disarming grin. “Firstly,” he shakes his head, laughing, “you’re incredibly sexy when you’re assertive, Remus.” He smirks. “Terrifying, of course, but sexy.”

Remus rolls his eyes, fighting a smile. “And?”

“And obviously I’m taking you. One of us needs to know what the hell we’re getting into.”

— — — 

“Will you scoot over?” 

“Stop elbowing me!” 

“We’re in a precarious situation here, Remus. There’s a branch getting dangerously close to my arse and I need you to move over immediately. This is not the kind of penetration I generally enjoy.” 

“Oh, Jesus fu-” Remus shifts his body sideways, ignoring the pain in his side as his rib accidentally drags across a particularly sharp rock. “This is so stupid, why do we need to be on the ground?”  

“It’s a stakeout, Remus. Haven’t you ever watched Veronica Mars? We can’t just be sitting on folding chairs, sipping on margaritas, and waiting for the bad guys to show up. Trust me, it’s much sexier this way,” Sirius says haughtily, as if he considers himself a leading expert on the subject. 

Remus isn’t sure he’s ever felt less sexy in his life. His back hurts from lying on his stomach for so long and he’s got a cramp in his leg from bending it at an awkward angle. Sirius is lying right next to him, their shoulders pressed together, and even the heat radiating off of him does nothing to calm the bouts of shivers that keep running through Remus’ body. 

When Sirius pulled up to his flat a couple hours prior, Remus had taken one look at him - donning a leather jacket and combat boots, straddling the seat of the sleekest, shiniest motorbike Remus had ever seen - and nearly called the whole thing off. 

Remus hadn’t been all that surprised when Sirius drove them straight to the Hogwarts museum, parked in a hidden spot in the back and led them to the main trail entrance Remus used the other night. On the trek up, Sirius had explained that the ‘blind push’, as he called it, was part of the initiation but the induction ceremony was always done on the full moon. 

When Remus had asked why, Sirius simply shrugged and said: “Because they’re creepy and dramatic fucks, Remus.” He’d looked at him, brows raised. “You should really know that by now.” 

And now, here they are, lying on the cold, dirt-covered ground, hidden in a small alcove that was a several hundred feet back from the cliff, but still within direct eyesight, waiting for them to show up. There were still about thirty minutes until midnight, the moon high in the sky, the woods dark and empty around them. 

“Remus?” 

“Hm?” 

“What happened with you and Benjy?” Sirius asks, and it’s said in a rush, the words spilling out of his mouth. 

Remus freezes for a moment, surprised. "What do you mean?" he asks, a little defensively.

"I mean why did you break up? What happened?"

Remus sighs, then tries to think about it. “Nothing happened, really. I don’t know.” He shrugs, even though Sirius is looking at the ground, and not at him. “People drift apart, I suppose. When he ended things, he said it was because he didn’t ‘know who I was anymore’. I guess I changed too much, or-" Remus scratches his head awkwardly, "maybe I wanted to change, to be something more- more than I am. Still do, I guess,” Remus finishes, then immediately blushes, embarrassed at the confession. 

But Sirius just nods slowly, before looking up, eyes boring into the side of Remus’ face. “You know you don’t need to be anything more than you already are,” he says firmly. “You- Hey–” when Remus looks away he feels Sirius’ fingers grip his chin, forcing it back to face him. “You don’t, really. You can change, be different or grow or whatever the fuck you want, but none of that means who you are now is less. And if he didn’t know who you are, then he wasn’t paying close enough attention. Everyone knows who you are.”

"Oh, everyone knows?" Remus tries for a smile. "Think I might have missed the memo on that, maybe you could enlighten me?"

“Well, I do consider myself a bit of an expert in that arena," Sirius says, smiling slightly. "You’re the kind, neurotic, clever boy who walks into a room looking like Bambi and walks out leaving everyone torn between admiring your terrifying brand of genius or admiring your very perky arse.” Sirius smile grows into a cheeky grin, eyes glinting in the dark, before he turns serious again. “Everything else, all that other bullshit, is just choices. Choices you make every day. Choices that don’t have to define who you are, not if you don’t want them to.” He pauses, looking at Remus intently, eyes running all across his face. “Alright?” 

Remus nods, swallowing thickly, not trusting himself to speak and feeling the burn of both Sirius’ words and his fingers, still holding lightly at Remus' chin, cupping his jaw. They’ve never been this close before, noses nearly touching, so close Remus can feel the small puffs of air as they exhale from Sirius’ mouth. 

He runs his eyes all over his face; the slope of his nose, perfect and straight, his full lips, the bottom one jutting out slightly more than the top. The sharp cut of his jaw, his cheekbones.

He wants to be closer, to make one of those choices Sirius was talking about, but he thinks maybe he wants this one to define him. He wants this choice to be on that list of things that just are Remus Lupin. 

Lover of soft jumpers, reader of classic novels, worshipper of Sirius Black’s mouth. 

“Alright?” Sirius asks again, but this time it’s quiet and soft, barely more than a breath. His mouth drops open slightly as he says it, and when Remus’ eyes follow the motion he finds himself unconsciously mirroring him, his own lips parting softly. 

“Mmhm,” Remus hums, inching closer, resting their heads together lightly, so lightly he’s not sure they’re even touching. 

Sirius tilts his head, bringing their lips into line. Remus would just have to tilt forward one inch, maybe two, and they’d be touching. They’d be kissing. He feels himself close the distance, or maybe it’s Sirius. But just then - just as he feels that first soft, gentle brush of their lips meeting - out of the corner of his eye, Remus registers movement. 

He freezes, stilling in place, the pressure of their mouths against each other pulling him, begging him. And then, suddenly, a shout rings out just as a massive flame bursts up, all at once, and the blaze filters across the entire plateau, engulfing the area in its light. 

Sirius sighs, the faintest whine escaping the back of his throat and the look of pure, unfiltered frustration on his face makes Remus grin. Remus leans forward, thumb brushing against Sirius’ cheekbone one last time. “Hold that thought?” 

Sirius nods, smirking. “With a death grip, darling.” 

And then the chants begin. 

*** 

There’s eleven of them, by Remus’ count, and he has to stifle his disappointment that this time every one of them is completely unrecognisable in their masks and cloaks. He needs faces if he ever has any chance at being taken seriously. 

The most he gets is a quick glimpse of platinum blond hair when the breeze picks up, fluttering the cloak of one of the figures nearest to them. And then, to his left, another of them sticks a pale, slender hand out of his sleeve, pulling his hood back over his head of glossy black hair. Glossy black hair that curls slightly at the ends. 

Remus glances over at Sirius, a silent question on his lips, but finds his eyes already trained in the same direction; brow furrowed, lips pursed in concern. His gaze follows the boy, watches as he makes his way to the center of the circle, chin tilted up, languid steps, and the others gather around him, somewhat hesitantly, a few seconds delayed. 

A low, muttered exchange runs through the group and it makes Remus nervous, like something’s wrong, but then the boy silently lifts his arms up to his sides and they all immediately go silent. One of the figures on the edge picks up the fire torch, settled in its holder, and drags it to the centre of the circle they’ve made. 

Each person, one by one, moves to form a single line leading up to the boy. They lift up their left sleeves and stand, without moving, as he takes out a small, glinting knife from inside of his robes, holding it up for all to see. Remus watches, breath bated, as the boy - movements slow and deliberate - takes the tip of the knife and plunges it straight into the flames. 

Remus glances at Sirius, who’s very still next to him, watching the scene intently, and then checks to make sure his phone is angled properly. He’s so distracted that he doesn’t see when it happens the first time. 

He hears the whimper, the barely held back scream of pain, and the congratulatory chants that follow. And then it happens again.

The next person goes up, lifts their sleeve, brandishing their forearm, and the glowing, scalding tip of the knife is dragged tantalizingly slowly across their bare skin. Remus can practically smell the burning flesh.

They’re being branded. 

They all take turns, one at a time, until finally, they’ve all gone. The boy lifts the knife up once more and then brings it down fast, branding his own arm. Sirius flinches next to him and Remus feels a hand grab his elbow, Sirius clutching tightly.

When it’s over, the boy goes back to the fire and throws the entirety of the blade, hilt and all, into the flames. Someone reaches into their own robes and hands him another.

He lifts it up for one second. Two seconds. Three. 

Remus can’t see his face, but he has a hard time believing it’s firm, unmoving, focused. He imagines it must be unsure, maybe a bit hesitant. He sees the hand tremble slightly, blade faltering in his grip. But then, without warning, in one natural, fluid motion, he grips the hilt, whirls around, and points the tip of it straight at the stomach of the figure standing behind him, inches away from contact. 

He holds it there, for one long, bated breath, and everything seems to still. The two of them are surrounded fully by the others, Remus has to crane his neck to see them at all and catches Sirius doing the same. The only sounds are the distant rolling of waves and the quiet crackling of the flames. 

And then he thrusts his arm forward and plunges the knife in. 

And then he takes it out. And plunges it in again. And again. And again. Over and over and Remus is going to be sick. 

He gasps, breathing in sharply, and lurches forward, nearly stumbling over his feet. A strong arm pulls him back, snaking around his waist, and a hand comes up to press tightly against his mouth. Remus struggles, frantic, and tries to escape the hold, but the grip only tightens around him until he’s back dragged backwards into a hard, broad chest. 

“Shhh, Remus, stop,” the voice whispers, right against his ear. Remus can barely hear it through his panicked mind and the pounding of his heart. But the voice continues to make soft shushing sounds and breathes deeply, slowly, right next to him, and eventually he tries to force himself to focus on it, copying the rhythm, until finally it works and his own heart rate starts to slow down. 

“Remus?” Sirius whispers again, squeezing at his stomach. “It’s not real Remus, look. It’s a stupid fucking ritual, they’re just acting it out, it’s not real, okay? He’s fine, I promise, okay? Look, look.” 

Remus listens, looking out, squinting in the darkness, and Sirius is right. There’s no body on the ground, there’s no blood or screams or anything; in fact, they’re all just standing around the fire now…laughing. It’s nearly as unsettling as the knives and the fire and the stabbing. 

Well, maybe not the stabbing. 

He quickly does a head count, just to be sure, and there’s still eleven of them. Strange, to have an odd number, when there were six initiates who were pushed into the water that night. He briefly wonders why that is; if something happened, if maybe someone’s missing, or if there’s some sort of symbolic reasoning for it. 

He makes a mental note to ask Sirius about it later. 

The ritual lasts two more hours. It’s two hours that the group spend on confessions; thoughts and urges and desires that Remus finds so thoroughly horrifying and traumatizing he already knows he’ll never be releasing that video into the general public. 

Every boy speaks, and Remus thinks he recognises at least two of them. Maybe a third and a fourth. Every boy speaks except, that is, the dark-haired boy. The dark-haired boy who walks and talks and carries himself with an elegance and an arrogance that’s uncommonly similar to that of another dark-haired boy. The one lying next to him. 

But Regulus Arcturus Black isn’t one of the names that Sirius gave him. And so he puts that thought away, for now, pushing it to the back of his mind. 

And then it’s over, finally, and they’re all completely silent as they snuff out the fire and quickly, efficiently, clear the area. They go back the way they came, steps silent on the worn terrain, moon glinting overhead, and fade completely back into the forest. 

Remus waits until the last of them are gone, and then he waits some more. Eventually, voice croaky from disuse, he says: “We should go.”

Sirius shakes his head, pulling himself into standing position with a loud groan. He swipes off the dirt from his clothes and runs his fingers through his hair a few times. “We’re not going, not yet.” He looks at Remus knowingly. “One last thing.” 

Remus’ brow furrows in confusion, but understands almost immediately, when Sirius walks out across the cliff, halfway to the edge, before turning back to hold his hand out to Remus, smile playing at his lips, eyebrow raised in challenge. 

Remus sighs, but his mouth twitches, a near-full grin making its way onto his face. Because Sirius is right. One last thing. 

Be surprising. 

“So, what do we think?” Sirius asks, once Remus reaches him. They walk to the edge, slowly, carefully, and Sirius is gripping Remus’ hand so tightly it almost hurts. “Together?” 

Remus glances down, stomach swooping as he leans slightly over the edge, at the waves that are crashing below at a distance much further than he’d like them to be. He nods and takes in a deep breath, squeezing Sirius’ palm. “Together.” 

And they jump.

— — — 

“Here.” 

Sirius holds out a towel. It’s huge and white and fluffy; like one you find in a hotel room or fancy spa, and is a perfect match to the robe Sirius has wrapped himself in. 

They’ve come back to Sirius’ apartment to change out of their soaked clothes - mutually agreeing not to mention the fact that Remus’ flat was much closer (occupied, as it undoubtedly was, by Lily and possibly James) - and Remus is freezing, standing in the middle of the room with his shirt plastered to his chest, jeans uncomfortably stiff from the water. 

He wonders if he should just strip naked here and now. He wonders what Sirius would do if he did. The way Sirius is looking at him, eyes raking across his body, full of burning need, he’s fairly sure it’d be quite a lot. 

“You can shower,” Sirius says, voice low and gravelly. “Or I can get you some dry clothes. Whatever you want.” 

Remus wants. He wants him so badly. He’s delirious from wanting. 

Be surprising. 

He wants to be that, most of all. He thinks he can be that now. 

“Maybe later,” Remus whispers, taking a step closer, watching the skin of Sirius’ throat, pale and stretched taut, as he works his way around a hard swallow. 

Remus reaches out slowly, watching Sirius’ eyes for any hint of hesitation, before pulling gently, tugging on his robe’s knotted tie. It comes loose, falling open, revealing Sirius’ pale stomach, strong and lean, a trail of dark hair that leads to his thick, hardening cock. 

“Do you want this?” Remus whispers, hoarse and low. He can’t tear his eyes away from Sirius’ body and thinks there’s a very real chance he might die if he has to wait much longer.

“Are you kidding?” Sirius says, closing the distance between them, immediately crushing their lips together, hard and desperate. “Fucking finally,” he breathes, and Remus shares the sentiment, wholeheartedly, moaning eagerly against his mouth. 

Sirius doesn’t waste any time, immediately rolling his hips against Remus’ thigh, grinding slowly, soft pants of breath hitting against Remus’ mouth as their kiss turns messy and wet. Sirius moves across his face and starts pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down his jaw, across his neck, nuzzling the skin until Remus leans his head to the side to give him access. 

Remus runs his hands up and down the span of Sirius’ bare back, the knobs of his spine, stroking softly, before dragging them down over the swell of his ass, and pushing, pressing Sirius harder into him. 

They both groan loudly at the pressure. Remus shifts, trying to resist the urge to reach down and adjust himself, the hardening bulge in his jeans starting to press insistently at the zipper as he ruts mindlessly against Sirius. 

“What do you want?” Remus breathes, desperately. “Tell me what you want. Anything. Anything.” 

Sirius’ fingers still at Remus’ chest where they’d slipped under his shirt, stroking at his nipples, twisting and pulling, making Remus squirm desperately and release a few embarrassingly high-pitched moans. Sirius pulls back to meet his eyes; they’re hooded and dark, pupils blown wide. “Naked,” he pants out, “I need you naked.” 

Remus lets Sirius guide him to the bed, the backs of his knees hitting against the mattress, and he’s pushed down, Sirius moving to straddle his hips immediately. Their lips find each other again as Sirius slips his hands under the hem of Remus’ shirt, yanking it off, and then leaning back to run his eyes all over the bare skin of his torso so hungrily that Remus can’t find it in himself to feel self-conscious.  

Remus brings his hand up to tangle in Sirius’ hair, finally, finally, and groans at how soft it is, filtering through his fingers, pulling lightly, drawing a needy moan from Sirius’ lips as he drags them closer, foreheads touching.  

It doesn’t take long to turn into more.  

Sirius is rocking gently, then harder, back and forth in his lap, and the air is filled with their groans and pants until Remus is being pushed down, flat on his back, and Sirius crawls down his body to yank at his trousers, popping open the button and dragging them down, so Remus is lying in just his pants. Remus looks down to see Sirius already staring up at him hungrily, flushed cheeks and hair mussed, already looking thoroughly fucked out. 

And then, with a smirk, Sirius dips his head down and immediately begins mouthing at the tented bulge in his briefs, running his tongue along the wet spot gathered there. Running his eyes, his hands, his mouth all over it. 

He moves his hands under Remus’ hips to lift them up, and then he’s naked, they’re naked, pressing together tightly, skin hot and sweaty, and Remus is completely lost to it all. 

There’s nothing but low, whimpering sounds while Sirius works him open with slicked up, long, clever fingers. So fucking clever. Remus tells him how clever.

So good, so good, just like that, just - ah fuck - Sirius, Sirius

Hm, tell me what you want, c’mon darling, use your words

And then he’s begging and writhing on the bed, squirming to get closer, to feel more, bucking his hips to meet every long thrust of fingers. 

A package ripped open, soft whisper against his neck, a kiss, another, another, and then Sirius is pushing in with a choked off groan, fuck, fuck, do you know how you feel, Remus? Any fucking idea? Wanted you for so long baby, so long– 

It’s hard and fast, not enough and way too much, headboard thudding against the wall, loud and rhythmic. Again. Again. Again. 

More, more, fuck. So good - ah - Sirius– please, fuck, please please 

And Sirius, panting into his mouth, looking into his eyes, swiping sweaty curls from his forehead. You’re doing so good for me, baby. Just like that, yeah? So good. So–

When they come, it’s together. A desperate warning, a plead, a hand speeding up, pulling him off fast and hard. Another hand, reaching out, clasped above Remus’ head, fingers threaded together. 

After, when they’re laying side by side, legs tangled, heavy breathing and flushed cheeks, Remus looks at Sirius, and he’s already looking back, a soft smile on his face. Remus moves closer, burying his nose into Sirius’ chest and breathes deeply, content. 

Sirius’ fingers thread lightly through his hair, scratching at his scalp, as his eyes grow heavier and he tries to fight the fatigue overtaking his body, to stay awake just a little bit longer. He keeps blinking his eyes open, as wide as he can, until Sirius gently swipes his thumb across the lids and whispers, “Go to sleep darling, I’ll still be here. I promise we’ll be doing this again and again.” 

“And again and again and again,” Remus mumbles nonsensically into his skin. He can feel it against his cheek when Sirius laughs and feels himself smile sleepily in response. 

He runs his fingers across Sirius’ skin, lingering at the trails of black ink he hasn’t yet gotten the chance to properly explore yet. A constellation of stars, on his collarbone. A trail of pawprints on his hip. Flowers, words, a line from a book that Remus can’t remember the name of. He touches all of them. 

There’s one, tucked into the side of his ribcage where it’s barely visible, that Remus squints at. He presses his body closer to Sirius’, tilting his chin, resting a cheek against his chest trying to crane closer, to make it out, fingers pulling lightly at the surrounding skin. 

It’s vaguely familiar, he thinks, but his eyes are blurry and unfocused and he’s already nodding off, too tired to care right now. He’ll have time, endless time, to explore them all. 

His eyes close lightly, heavily, all at once, finger still lightly tracing that shape on his skin. 

That vaguely familiar shape. 

A skull and a serpent.