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Assistant: Title: All the young dudes
        Author: gamesformay gamesformay 
        Chapter: 1/15 
        Summary: (1971-1978. A love story, a war story, a record collection.)
        Contents: Chapter 1: hunky dory
    

    


  

  
  
    
     
  ***
 
  The train was late that year.
 
   ***
 
   "Why didn't you cut the lad's hair before he left?” Granddad says. “The other kids’ll think he's a nancy."

   “Shut it, Dad,” Mum says. She tugs the trunk off of the trolley with a thunk and pushes the covered basket into Peter’s arms. Inside, Tesla yowls. 

   “Shh, girl,” Peter tells her. She hisses. 

   More anxious than usual (which is saying something when it comes to him), Peter pulls fingers through his fringe. Maybe it is a bit long. "Mum?"

  She's digging through her handbag. "I swear, if I forgot me bl@@dy cigarettes..."

  "Might fit in with this lot though," Granddad says, looking around the crowded platform with disapproval. "Whole lot of weirdos."

  "Mum?" Peter says again. His voice squeaks a bit, like it always does when he's nervous. At least he isn’t stammering yet.

  She finds her cigarettes in her coat pocket. She wedges one into the corner of her mouth, lights it with her wand, puffs on it anxiously. "Yeah?”

  He pulls on her sleeve and she crouches down.

  "For God's sake, boy,” Granddad says, but Mum ignores him.

  “What is it, lovey?”

  "What if nobody likes me?"

  "Don't be silly, I was Muggle-born and I did fine." She checks her watch. “Should be here by now.”

  “Typical,” Granddad grunts. “Drag me bones all the way to London for the d@mn thing to be late. What you get with these people running things.” 

  Mum rolls her eyes. “Oh aye, and they're all Commies too," she mumbles, sarcastic.

  "What was that?"

  “Nothing, Dad."

  "Look here, lad,” Granddad says. “I remember when your mum was here-- lotta freaks round, so you watch yourself. Weirdos and long-hairs overrunning everywhere. Look you don’t get in with the wrong crowd.”

  "Er, yeah," Peter says. Privately, he thinks he’ll be lucky if anybody speaks to him at all, weirdos and long-hairs included.

   The scream of a whistle cuts the air. The scarlet locomotive swims into view through the crowd, sending up thick clouds of white smoke, and Peter feels his stomach drop to his feet. 

   Here goes nothing.

   Some look must’ve come over his face, because Mum crouches down again. “You’ll be alright, lovey. Just…” She takes a drag of her cigarette, thinking. Finally she says, “Keep your wits about you.”

   He nods. 
 
   *** 
 
   "One more, one more!" Mum calls. She clicks the camera yet again and there’s a poof of green smoke. Mum beams. "My handsome boys!"

  "Muuuum."

  Dad laughs, tightens his arm around James, and says, "Poorami, you’ve got to be in one.”

  "Daaaaad."

  Leaving the camera levitating in place, Mum scurries over. "Stop your whinging, mere laal." She crowds in on James' other side, squeezing him between her and Dad. "Say 'Quidditch!'"

  Unattended, the camera emits another puff of smoke. Mum claps. “That was a good one, I know it."

   Dad looks at his watch. “The train’s never been late before. Very peculiar.”

  James is impatient. He’s heard about Hogwarts since he could walk, he’d like to bl@@dy well go there already. “You're sure you can't send me my broomstick?" 

  “Fat chance, pal," Dad says with a sporting clap to James' back. "You know the rules."

  “Doesn’t mean I’ve got to follow them.”

  Mum gives a disapproving sniff while Dad chortles. Then she ducks down and tries to flatten his hair. You'd think she'd know better by now. 

  "Losing battle, there, Poorami."

  “Thought it'd be good form to try," she says. She plants a kiss to the top of James' head and gives him about the eighty-second hug of the morning. “My little boy, off to school! I'm all of a dither."

  "Muuuum."

  "You'll write every day, yes?"

  "Every week," Dad amends when James snorts. "Give Hagrid my best! Got me out of a tight spot or two in my day, that fellow.“

   "Introduce yourself to the prefects, they can help you get to your classes and see that you don't get lost.”

  "But don't get too cosy," Dad says wisely, "Bit of prats, the most of them.”

  "Warren."

  "Sorry, dear."

  “Stay out of trouble.”

  "Try to, anyway," Dad says with a wink.

  James grins. "I'll do my best."
 
   ***
 
   "Don't cry."

  Mum fumbles in her pocket for her handkerchief, giving a watery laugh. "Sorry. I'm trying."

  "This is good, right?" Remus asks.

  Mum laughs again, wiping her red eyes. “Yes, it's good. I never thought…”

  "I know."

  "Neither of us thought—”

   She cuts off, abruptly becoming interested in his trunk. She’s never said so but Remus knows it’s a rule for her, not mentioning Dad. 

   “I know,” Remus says.

   She looks out over the crowded platform, at the bustle of students and families and trunks and cages. “I’m a dreadful mother,” she jokes. “I should’ve gotten you an owl.”

   “They have ones students can use,” Remus says quickly. Owls are expensive. 

   “But not a telephone in the whole place, apparently. Very silly, if you ask me.”

   “I’ll write loads.”

   “I want to talk to Madam Pomfrey again.” 

   “You’ve talked to her four times.”

   “This Sunday. Don’t forget.”

   “I won’t forget.” He’s sure of that.

   “I’ll write you and remind you,” she says. “I’ll write her, too. See, I’m the one who needs an owl.”

   “They can switch it at the post office. Besides, Muggles can’t—”

   “I know that. I was being funny.”

   “Oh.”

   “Everybody’s a critic.”

   “I’ll be fine,” Remus says.

   The train whistles into the station. She gives him a long, tight squeeze and says, “Write me when it’s over.”

   “I will.”

   “As soon as you come to, write to me. Ask Madam Pomfrey for paper.”

   “Alright.”

   “And then the day after that, to tell me how you’re recovering.”

   “I will.”

   She leans down and hugs him again, even longer this time. Into his hair she says, “I’m so proud of you.”

   "I haven't done anything yet."

  That surprises a laugh out of her. "You will. You'll see." 

  She lets go of him. Then, beaming despite her wet eyes, she takes his trunk on its trolley and gestures ahead toward the train. “Unto the breach, then?”
 
   ***
 
   “What am I supposed to do with you gone?”

   “Die of boredom, probably,” Sirius says.

   Regulus groans. “Easy for you to say.”

   “Sure is. I’m going to have mad adventures every single day.” Sirius grins. “I’ll never be bored again.”

   “Can’t believe I’m stuck with them for two whole years,” Regulus says. Both of their gazes track over to the other side of the platform. Mother is gossiping away with some other lady in silk robes; Father stands behind her, clearly bored. 

   “Look on the bright side,” Sirius says. “They’ll be in a much better mood without me around. They like you better than me.”

   “They like everything better than you.”

   Sirius shrugs. 

   The train comes in but Mother doesn’t seem to notice, engrossed in whatever Mrs So-and-So is saying. Father looks at his watch, brow furrowed in annoyance. “Guess I’d better get going,” Sirius says.

   “Two whole stupid years,” Regulus repeats. “You’ve got to at least write to me.”

   “Sure I will,” Sirius says as the two of them heft up his trunk. “Send me your drawings.”

   “But then I won’t have them.”

   “Send me letters describing them, then.”

   “Alright.”

   “They’re always dragons anyway.”

   “Are not.”

   “Are so.”

   “I’ll draw something else, then. And write you a letter about it.”

   “Good.”

   They lug his trunk over to the nearest train carriage. There’s only one person in there, a girl huddled against the window. The two of them settle his trunk onto the rack overhead, which is hard because Sirius has got such a runty little pipsqueak for a brother. 

   “Do you need help?”

   Sirius turns around. The girl’s looked up from the window. He sees that she’s been crying, which he has no idea what to do about. 

   “No thanks.”

   “I’ll get it!” says a new voice. A boy about his age has appeared out of nowhere. He’s not much bigger than Regulus is, with glasses a bit too big for his face, but he gets the trunk the rest of the way onto the rack with one good shove. 

   “Could’ve done it,” Sirius mumbles.

   “James!”

   A woman is peeking in through the open window, holding a woolen jumper. She has the same dark skin and black hair as Glasses Boy. “Don’t get chilly!”

   “Muuuum.”

   Glasses Boy crosses to the window to take the jumper and be kissed and fussed over while Sirius turns to Regulus. “Guess you’d better leave now.”

   Regulus lurches forward and hugs him. “Bye,” he says.

   The train gets going a little after that. Sirius drapes himself across the seats, Glasses Boy and Crying Girl sitting across from him. Sirius wonders if he’s supposed to talk to them. 

   He doesn’t have to decide. Glasses Boy pipes up.

   “Did you know there’s a giant squid in the lake at Hogwarts?”

  Sirius raises his eyebrows. “No.”

  His eyes widen behind the glasses, which Sirius now notices are rather crooked. “Well, there is. It’s got huge fangs too, long as your arm.”

  “Squids don’t have fangs. They don’t have mouths.”

  “Yeah they do. My dad said so. They make you swim with it when you get detention.”

  “Your dad’s pulling your leg.”

  “Is not.”

  “My cousin told me all about Hogwarts,” Sirius explains. “She would’ve mentioned a dirty great fanged squid. They do have dragons in the woods, though.”

  Glasses Kid’s mouth drops open. “Dragons? Really?”

  “Yeah!” Sirius nods. He’s always loved Andromeda’s stories about Hogwarts; every time she and her sisters came over he’d beg her to tell him one more. “The size of houses. She said you can see them move around in the woods if you watch close enough. Like, see them moving the tops of the trees.”

  The look of rapture leaves Glasses Kid’s face, and he snorts. “Come off it, that’s the wind!”

  “What, moving entire trees? She says you can see ’em swaying.”

  “Cause that’s what trees do, trees sway all the time. In the wind.”

  Sirius smirks. “You’re just scared they’ll eat you up.”

  The compartment door slides open and somebody else comes in, a skinny boy who sits down next to Sirius. He and the crying girl start talking but Glasses Kid ignores them.

  “Like I’d be scared. That’s why we go to Hogwarts, isn’t it? To have adventures and, y’know, fight dragons and squids and stuff.”

  “I don’t think first years fight dragons,” Sirius says sadly.

  “Only a matter of time, though.” Glasses Kid runs a hand through his hair, which sticks up in a way Father wouldn’t approve of. This makes Sirius like him more. “Hogwarts is the greatest place in the world, there’s gonna be all sorts of cool stuff to do.”

  The two go quiet just in time to hear a declaration from the third boy in the compartment: “You’d better be in Slytherin.”

  “Slytherin?”

  Glasses Kid turns to Crying Girl and Skinny Boy. “Who wants to be in Slytherin?” Looking back at Sirius, he asks, “I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

  Sirius isn’t sure what to say to that, so he says, “My whole family have been in Slytherin.”

  “Blimey,” says Glasses Kid. “And I thought you seemed alright!” 

  He grins. “Maybe I’ll break the tradition. Where are you heading, if you’ve got the choice?”

  “Gryffindor!” Glasses Kid says, pretending to lift a sword. “Where dwell the brave at heart! Like my dad.”

  Skinny Boy makes a little scoffing noise. Glasses Kid turns to him.

  “Got a problem with that?”

  Skinny Boy, who Sirius has decided that he hates, sneers. “No, if you’d rather be brawny than brainy—”

  “Where’re you hoping to go, seeing as you’re neither?” 

  Glasses Kid laughs so hard he tips over. Crying Girl looks at the two of them like they’re something nasty stuck to the upholstery. “Come on, Severus, let’s find another compartment.”

  “Oooooo,” Glasses Kid crows. Enjoying himself now, Sirius imitates Crying Girl’s oh-so-snooty tone, his new friend joining in, and when Glasses Kid sticks out his leg to trip Skinny Boy on his way out Sirius laughs even harder.

  “See ya, Snivellus!” Glasses Kid calls over the clang of the sliding door. He laughs again. “Merlin’s pants, what a charming chap! No question who we’ll be testing hexes out on, eh?”

  Sirius is still laughing when he says, “‘We’?”

  “Yes, obviously, we’re friends,” Glasses Kid says, with an air of do keep up. “Another reason why you’re going to have to not be in Slytherin. I couldn’t take the shame of it, my best mate in Slytherin.”

  “Guess I won’t be in Slytherin then,” Sirius says, and even though it’s an absolutely barmy thing to say— people in his family just aren’t in Gryffindor, it’s never happened, not ever— it doesn’t feel that mad here in this compartment with a boy who is, it seems, his best mate now. “I should probably know what your name is.”

  “James Potter,” says Glasses Kid, who is apparently called James Potter.

  “Sirius.” He doesn’t tell him his surname on purpose.

  “That’s weird.”

  “With an ‘i’. Two of them. Like the star.”

  “What kind of name’s that?”

  “A family one.” He’s got ‘the fourth’ after his name, technically, but James doesn’t need to know that. 

  “Your family must be weird.”

  “You’ve no idea.”

  “Too bad. What’s your surname?” 

  Before he can answer, the door slides open again. A new boy’s standing there, a covered basket under his arm. He’s shorter and wider than the two of them, and blond. 

  He looks rather nervous. “Can I—?”

  “Sure,” James says. The boy sits down and sets the basket on the seat next to him.

  “I’m Peter,” says the boy named Peter.

  “Spiffing to meet you, Peter. I’m James, he’s Sirius.”

  Sirius is opening his mouth to say that he can introduce himself perfectly fine, thanks, when Peter’s basket emits a strangled keening sound.

  “What in Merlin’s name have you got in there?”

  “It’s alright, that’s just Tesla,” Peter says. He has a bit of a stammer. “She doesn’t like traveling. Can— can I— would it be alright if I let her out?”

  James shrugs. “Not the boss of you.”

  Peter opens the flap on the front of the basket and out springs a fat brown cat, looking very hard-done-by as she curls up on her owner’s lap.

  “What sort of a name’s Tesla?” Sirius asks. 

  “It’s, er. It’s the name of a, of a scientist. I named her after him.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A scientist?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s, it’s, er—”

  “It’s like a Muggle that tries to do magic,” James says. “My mum told me about them.”

  “Sort of, yeah.”

  “Are your parents Muggles?” Sirius asks, fascinated. He’s never met a Muggleborn before.

  “Granddad is, and he lives with us, and—me mum’s Muggleborn, y’know, and he lives with us and he doesn’t…er.” Peter scratches Tesla’s ears. “He likes me to know, er, both sides, I guess.”

  “So you’re around Muggle stuff all the time, then?” James sounds intrigued. “That must be mad.” 

  “I saw a television once,” Sirius adds. He remembers vividly: him and Regulus sneaking out of a family party to wander around Muggle London, exploring a shop with rows of the things. The shopkeeper gave them a look but let them stay, because ‘Top of the Pops is on’.

  “There was a man on it playing guitar with glitter on his face,” Sirius recalls. The image stuck with him for some reason. “Muggles are mad.”

  “I’ve never seen anybody wearing glitter. I mean, me cousin had a guitar once, but—”

  “Why do you talk like that?” Sirius interrupts. “Is that a Muggle thing too?”

  “Talk like what?” 

  “Like that.” He looks to James for backup. Surely he knows what he means; Sirius can hardly understand Peter when he talks. 

  “His accent?” James raises his eyebrows. “You never met a Northerner before?” 

  “I’m from Lancashire,” Peter says weakly.

  James laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. “Not your fault he’s been living under a rock.” He turns to Sirius. “Not everybody talks as posh as you.”

  “What’s posh?”

  He laughs again and doesn’t answer the question. Sirius feels confused and a little embarrassed. “You must be really old stock, never even heard a funny accent before,” James says. “Pureblood, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s your surname? You never said.”

  Sirius braces himself. “Black.”

  “Black? Well, that explains it, doesn’t it? I’m in the presence of royalty!”

  “Come off it.”

  James looks back to Peter. “They say the Black family’s kind of evil, but they’re also rolling in it.”

  “Rolling in what?” 

  Sirius snorts. “The Dark Arts, mostly.” 

  “Everybody’s heard of the Blacks,” James explains. “They’ve been around for centuries and the inbreeding’s turned them funny. They’re all haemophiliacs and batshit bonkers.”

  “I’m only one of those,” Sirius says.

  “Which one?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I’d never met one of them before, though,” James goes on. “I mean, I’m pureblood and all, but you lot—” He stands and gives a theatrical bow. Peter laughs, Sirius glares at him.

  “I’ll feed you to that fanged squid, just watch me.”

  “Oooh, I better watch my back! This one’ll take the bone of my little finger and use it to stir his tea!”

  Sirius smirks. “While sitting on my throne of Galleons, of course.”

  “And dead people!”

  “With my diamonds.”

  “And your poncy accent.”

  Sirius takes off his shoe and hurls it at James who ducks, roaring with laughter.

  The time passes quickly after that. Sirius is watching green hills roll by outside the window, eating Every Flavor Beans with a dangerous absent-mindedness, when James turns to Peter and says, “What House do you want to be in, then?”

  Peter fidgets nervously with the cover of his comic book. “Well…er. Mum was in Ravenclaw, so that’s where she wants me to go, but I—I’m not smart enough for that.”

  “What?” James says with outrage. “Sure you are, with all that science stuff!” 

  Peter’s gone rather pink. “I mean, I like maths and stuff, but school—I’m bad at it, right? I get really nervous, I know all the stuff but then they pass out the exams and suddenly I forget everything…”

  “Whatever, Ravenclaws are snobs anyway. Sirius and me are going to be in Gryffindor.” 

  “Do both of you have Gryffindor parents?” 

  “Not quite,” Sirius says.

  “My dad! Mum’s not, though, she went to school in India.”

  “India?” Sirius says with awe. He’s barely left London. “What’d she go there for?”

  “She’s from there, stupid, that’s why I’m this lovely colour, see?” James says, fanning the fingers of one deep brown hand. Then he turns back to Peter. “Sirius’ whole family has been in Slytherin, but he’s going to be a Gryffindor anyway. Your family doesn’t matter one bit. Where do you want to be?”

  They jump as the door slides open. Sirius cranes his neck around to look. The witch with the candy trolley’s already come by; who could be coming in now? 

  “Oh,” says the boy at the door.

  He’s a normal-looking boy, with brown hair and an average sort of face. It’s a nice face, though. He has very big, very brown eyes that aren’t looking at Sirius. He notices them anyway.

  Sirius will remember that, later. And for a lot of years— for all the years he’ll get, as it turns out— Sirius will remember the nausea. 

  “Wrong compartment,” the boy mutters. He starts to close the door. 

  “Hang on,” Sirius hears himself say. “Are you a first year too?”

  Peering around the half-closed door, the boy nods. He has freckles, Sirius thinks. Then he thinks, What?

  “Do you want to sit with us?” Sirius asks him. He isn’t sure why he says that. It sort of falls out. What's wrong with him? 

  The boy looks sideways down the corridor. “Sorry, I should…” He leaves.

  Sirius frowns. He feels... funny. Is his face red? “He looked worried, don’t you think?”

  James gnaws contemplatively on a licorice wand. “Weird.” He nudges Peter with his foot, who’s been distracted for the past minute by an inexplicably anxious, growling Tesla. She seemed to freak out when the door opened. She’s calmed down now, though. “You’ve got to answer the question.”

  “I…” Peter’s eyes dart quickly between the two of them. “I want to be in Gryffindor too,” he blurts. “Me-- my mum says they’re reckless and troublemakers, but…I want to be a hero.”

  “And you shall be!” James declares, spinning in his seat to sling an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “Now Sirius,” he says in a mock-somber voice. “As your new brothers-in-arms, Pete and I are going to have to insist that you not be in Slytherin.”

  Sirius laughs. Leave it to James to declare them brothers after knowing each other for two hours. He’s never had friends outside of Reg and Andromeda before, his own blood, but he thinks he might now.

  “I can’t just decide to not be Slytherin,” he explains. “It’s in my blood.”

  “They’re not you, now are they?” James says. “What’s blood matter?”

  Sirius pictures the look on his mother’s face if she heard that question. He shrugs it off. He’s not going to think about her now, or any of them. 
 
   ***
 
  The compartment where Remus settles himself stays empty, which he's glad of. He couldn't sleep a wink last night and his nerves have faded just enough now that he feels how tired he is. He leans up against the window and lets the rattle of the train lull him to sleep. When I wake up, he thinks, stomach squirming, I'll be at Hogwarts.

  He doesn't sleep soundly: he has strange, vague dreams, the sounds of the train fading in and out. He dreams that the train stops and goes dark, that faceless adults come on and say that there's somebody here who shouldn't be, there’s been a mistake, who let something like that on the train? Dark figures move outside in the corridor, the compartment door slides open, they come in to take him away and he stands up to fight but what's the use, what can he do-- And they're right, I don't belong here…

  He almost surfaces for a moment there. Is he dreaming that two new people come into the compartment? But then he's under again, and the train rattles on.

  A while later, or maybe no time at all, he's woken up by a bang like a small firecracker. Eyes still shut, he picks up the faint smell of spent gunpowder.

  “Sev, quit it!” comes a girl's voice in a whisper. "You'll wake him."

  "Doubt it," says a boy. "He's slept like the dead this whole time."

  Maybe he was, but he's awake now. Remus doesn't much fancy joining a conversation with two strangers, though, so he stays slumped against the window with his eyes shut. With luck he’ll fall back asleep again.

  The other two keep talking. 

  "You said we weren't to do magic outside of school," says the girl.

  "We're close, it hardly counts. We're so close," the boy says with obvious joy. “Just a few more hours, and we'll be there.”

  "Tell me more about it."

  "I've already told you everything I know!"

  “Tell me again, then.”

  "What do you want to hear about?"

  A pause, and then the girl says, "The Forbidden Forest. Are there really magical animals in it?"

  "Loads," says the boy. "That's why it’s forbidden."

  "What kind of creatures are there?"

  “All kinds. Centaurs and unicorns and stuff like that, they won't hurt you, probably. But there's other stuff, too, more dangerous. It's said to have a whole colony of acromantula-- giant spiders--"

  The girl gasps and the boy goes on, a smile in his voice. "Oh, that's not the worse of it. "

  “What’s worse than giant spiders?”

  "Well, " he says, clearly enjoying the suspense, "some people say there are werewolves living there. I doubt, it, though."

  Remus really wishes he were asleep.

  "Werewolves? Those are real?"

  "Oh, sure. I don't think there are actually any in the forest, though, that’s just a dumb thing they say to scare first years.”

  “How do you reckon that?”

  “They wouldn’t live in the woods. They live with everybody else, pretending they're people."

  "They're like the ones in the Muggle fairy tales, then? Humans that transform during the full moon?"

  "Yeah— well, sort of. They look human.”

  “But they aren't?"

  "Lily, what sort of human being do you know who turns into a monster once a month?” says the boy, teasing. “Of course they aren't. You haven’t got to worry about them, though," he says quickly, "they don't live around normal people, really-- they keep to the fringes, you know. The government keeps them away from big populations. It's not safe to have them around.”

  “Even when the moon isn’t full?”

  “Nah. Most of them end up criminals— they can't help it. Their minds aren’t as developed as ours.”

  “Oh.”

  "Yeah, they're sort of primitive that way. Bit sad, really. There aren't a lot of them to begin with, though.”

  "People don’t…” The girl lowers her voice. “People don't kill them?"

  "Not so much anymore,” the boy says breezily. “Mostly they do it themselves-- transforming into a wolf does a lot of damage, they don't live very long. Some of them die just from transforming. "

  "That's awful."

   "I dunno. Would you want to live like that?"

  "Well, no, but..."

  "I think I'd prefer death, if it was me," the boy says.

  Remus opens his eyes, sits up. The girl and boy-- red-haired and shrunken-looking, respectively-- startle. 

  "I'm so sorry, we didn't mean to wake you!” the girl says. "We'll shut up-- Sev, say you're sorry--"

  “It’s fine," Remus says, getting to his feet. "I'll just..."

  He walks out of the compartment and slides the door shut on the girl's apologies. He starts down the train, no idea where he means to go, wondering if he’d get in trouble if he was sick in the middle of the corridor. The rattle and bump of the train, comforting before, sends his insides lurching and squirming; he feels the blood rush from his face leaving him clammy and cold but peculiarly sweaty. He needs to sit down.

  But where? He doesn't want to see anyone, he doesn't want to look anyone in the face because they can tell, screams the panic gripping his heart, they must look take one look at him and know that he doesn't belong here. He's wrong, he's dirty and dangerous, and suddenly the black robes his mum bought for him at the secondhand store in Diagon Alley feel ridiculous on him. He tugs at his collar as his throat constricts, something hard stuck at the back of it.

  What is he playing at? You can put a monster in a uniform, the monster’s mother can darn up all the threadbare bits and tell the monster to comb its hair and send the monster off to school, but it's still a monster. He feels absurd and exposed and he wants his mum, he wants to go home.

  The door to the compartment up ahead catches his eye. Through the little window he sees only empty seat, no sign of anybody. He slides the door open with profound relief.

  It's quickly squashed: there are three people in here. From this angle all he sees of the boy taking up the right side of the compartment is his legs stretched out across the seats. 

  “Oh. Wrong compartment,” Remus says.

  Before he can leave there’s a voice from right next to him: “Hang on.” 

  He looks down and sees the boy to whom the legs belong. He’s a bit startling to look at it, light-skinned and dark-haired as somebody in an overexposed photograph. In an accent Remus didn’t know existed outside of old wireless broadcasts from Buckingham Palace, he asks, “Are you a first year too?”

  He nods.

  “Do you want to sit with us?”

  No, I want to go home, Remus thinks. He looks down the corridor. But where else is there to go? “Sorry, I should…” 

  He closes the door and goes back to walking. 

  At the very back of the train there’s a little lip with a window set into it, looking out over the tracks as they rush out from under the wheels. Remus tucks himself into the corner, sits down under the window, makes himself as small as possible, wills himself invisible. What if someone tells him off for not being in a compartment? 

  But nobody bothers him. He stays there until the train stops. 
 
  ***
 
  As the whole school stares at the first years, crowded toward the front of the Great Hall with a hat sitting on a stool before them, Peter finds himself wishing his last name started with a Z.

  He hasn’t got a B, at least. After ‘Ackerly, Roger’ is finished becoming a Ravenclaw, ‘Black, Sirius’ is the second name Professor McGonagall calls. At Peter’s side, James gives Sirius a grin and a shove. 

  “Knock ’em dead,” he whispers. Sirius grins back, marches up to the stool, and sits down. The hat falls right down over his eyes. 

  Peter feels a little jolt of happiness for his new friend when the hat shouts “GRYFFINDOR!”, but he seems to be the only one. 

  Whispers break out across the Hall. When the first boy was Sorted the whole Ravenclaw table burst into cheers and applause, but nobody’s clapping now. A short, soft scream makes Peter turn around: at the table on the far right an older girl with blonde hair is on her feet, hands clapped over her mouth. The girl sitting next to her tugs her back down and whispers something, black hair swinging over her face. 

  When Peter faces the front again Sirius is still on the stool, lifting the brim of the hat to peer out at the whispering crowd. He’s gone very white.

  James’ shout makes Peter jump: 

  “YEAH, SIRIUS!” 

  Across the Hall, hundreds of necks crane. 

  “THAT’S MY BOY!” James cries. “YOU SHOW THEM!” He lets out a riotous whoop, hops up and down, claps his hands. 

  Laughter replaces the whispers, somebody starts the applause. By the time Sirius sits down at the Gryffindor table half the school is cheering, laughing, whistling. Even from here Peter sees him beam. 

  The Sorting goes on. 'Bode, Florence' becomes the next Gryffindor, and then ‘Brocklehurst, Vera’ and 'Evans, Lily' and then a boy, ‘Lupin, Remus’, and it’s not until Professor McGonagall’s reached the ‘M’ names that Peter realizes he’s only been taking note of Gryffindors.

  Don’t be stupid, he tells himself. Just be happy with wherever they put you. He looks up at the starry, fathomless ceiling sparkling with thousands of candles, floating up there by magic. One thing’s for sure— anything here will be miles better than his old school in Lancashire.

  “Pettigrew, Peter!”

  The inside of the hat is dark when it flops over his eyes. A small voice speaks in his ear.

  “Oh,” it says. “Oho.”

  Peter waits.

  “What a mind have we here— would do well in Ravenclaw, my goodness, yes. But there’s cunning, I see, intuition. Where shall I put you?”

  Please, just put me somewhere, Peter thinks. Anywhere.

  “But…hmm,” says the voice. “This thirst for adventure, for courage…for greatness…why, that does make things easier. Yes, this is a GRYFFINDOR!”

  The last word is shouted to the Hall and Peter takes the hat off. Over the applause from the Gryffindor table, he can hear James cheer.
 
  ***
 
  “Well, this is surprising,” says the small voice in the dark.

  Listen, I know, Sirius thinks. I know what my surname is, and I know you’ll probably want to put me in Slytherin—

  “Not for a moment, Sirius Black,” says the voice. Then it shouts, “GRYFFINDOR!”
 
  ***
 
  “Hmm. Difficult.”

  I’m sorry, Remus thinks. I’m not supposed to be here, I can’t imagine where something like me would go—

  The small voice cuts him off. “The lycanthropy? No, that’s nothing. But difficult…Intelligence, and willingness to work. Loyalty— to a fault, perhaps? And kindness, my goodness, profound kindness. Rare at your age.”

  Thank you, Remus thinks. He’s never thought of himself that way, but he figures it impolite to argue. Hufflepuff, then? That would be nice.

  “You would do well, yes…but no. No, I think not.”

  Remus’ heart sinks. Has the hat decided that he shouldn’t be here after all? It’s about to announce to the whole school that there’s been a mistake, any second—

  “GRYFFINDOR!”
 
  ***
 
  The hat barely touches James’ head.

  He slides in next to Sirius at the Gryffindor table and gives him a friendly punch. “Piece of cake, right? Told you it wouldn’t make you a stinking Slytherin.”

  Only Sirius could manage to smirk while looking uneasy. “Yeah,” he says. “That was the easy part, I think.”
 
  ***
 
   Remus sits on the bed that is now his in the dormitory where he now lives, and yet again he can’t fall asleep. He has trouble sleeping sometimes in the week before the full, so maybe it’s because of the moon on Sunday. But it  probably isn’t. 

   In the quiet darkness, a voice startles him.

   It’s a soft voice, but it’s very clear, like it’s close by. “Really, I don’t know how to stop it. Better tell somebody…”

   For a moment Remus is terrified. Is it a ghost? He met ghosts at the feast and they all seemed very nice; do they often float about in the nighttime and scare people? 

  It takes him a second to process that the voice is familiar; he remembers the near-anachronistic accent. He pushes back the red hangings on his own four poster, leans out, and peers at the bed to the right. Its hangings are open. 

   Sure enough, the boy in it is…talking. He appears to be deeply asleep, with one side of his face mashed into the pillow, but words are spilling with surprising clarity out of his open mouth. “You should tell her,” he says, dead asleep. “She’ll be cross, though, leaving a terrible mess…”

   I live with a sleep-talker, he thinks. How odd. He retreats behind his own hangings and tries again to sleep.

   The sleep-talker (Remus realises with discomfort that he can’t recall this boy’s name. He remembers James because he talked so much, and he remembers Peter because of his cat who immediately knew Remus for what he was and hated him, but this one’s name is evading him), however, has other plans. He doesn’t get louder, exactly, but he begins to sound very distraught.

   “Really, you should get help…won’t stop by itself, I can’t…I need help,” comes the voice, and a distinct note of terror has crept in. Remus isn’t sure what the polite thing to do here is. Clearly his new housemate is having a nightmare—should he wake him?

   “Please, you’ve got to help me. I don’t…Got to help me. It’s going going to kill me…They’re going to kill me, please…”

   The only humane thing to do is intervene. Remus gets up, crosses the small gap of space between their beds, and leans over the boy’s sleeping, twitching form. He pokes him on the shoulder. 

  “Hey, hey wake up.” He doesn’t stir. Remus pokes him harder. “Wake up, please.” He pokes him some more. 

   “I really—” the sleep-talker begins, but before he can finish the sentence his eyes fly open. In the light from the almost-full moon they’re a curiously pale grey colour. They’re rather startling. 

  The boy takes in his surroundings, blinks, looks at Remus, and says, “Was I talking again?”

   He nods.

   “Blast it,” says the sleep-talker, shaking long dark hair from his face. “Mum says she did it when she was a kid and she grew out of it, but I still haven’t. Was it stupid? Reg tells me I say really stupid stuff but I think he’s making it up.”

   “You sounded frightened, actually. That’s why I woke you. Something,” and Remus tries to handle this situation delicately, “something about not being able to stop something? You were calling for help.” He decides that mentioning the ‘it’s going to kill me, they’re going to kill me’ bit falls under the category of indelicacy. 

   The boy sits up to face him and says, remarkably casually, “Oh, I bet I was bleeding again.”

   “You…what?”

   “Bleeding. I hardly get nightmares but when I do it’s usually that one.”

   Remus tries not to look horrified. Suspects he fails. “Why on earth would you dream about that?”

   The boy shrugs. “Family disease, I expect.”

   “I don’t understand.”

   He blinks, surprised, like he’d expected him to know. “Haemophilia. Loads of the Blacks have it.”

   Now that he mentions it, Remus remembers James last night making a joke about how old and scary this boy’s family is. Remus doesn’t know the names of all the great pureblood lines, but he figures Black must be one of them. “Oh,” he says. “Like the Romanovs.”

   “What?”

   “The— never mind.”

   “Yeah, me and a bunch of people in my family have got it.” Without breaking his air of nonchalance he says, “Centuries of inbreeding, you know.”

   “I, er. I see.”

   The boy smirks. “Black blood—useless, isn’t it? It’s the purest of anybody’s, but it can’t clot worth a d@mn.”

   Remus surprises himself by laughing. He turns to glance at the other two beds. James and Peter, though, are still sleeping soundly. 

   “You haven’t got to worry about them,” the boy says. “They slept alright through my talking earlier. Not surprising, considering how much treacle Potter put away. Don’t know where he puts it, the beanpole,” he adds fondly.

   For just a moment Remus feels jealous. Only one night and already his classmates are becoming friends with each other. He stamps that feeling down quickly and feels immediately guilty for having it. 

   He’s at school, isn’t he? That’s far more than he ever could’ve asked for, or dared to want. Close friendships like James’ with Sleep Talker were never in the cards for him whether he was here or not. 

   Besides, he still can’t for the life of him remember this boy’s name. Not a good starting place for friendship.

   “What’re you doing up, anyway?” the nameless boy asks.

   “I have trouble falling asleep.”

   “All the time?”

   “No, only once in a blue moon.”

   He imagines he can hear Mum in his head, saying Oh, very funny.

   “Well, that’s no problem. Just pretend you’re on a boat.”

   “Pretend…do what?”

   “Andromeda showed me when I was really little. It works, trust me.” He flops onto his back again. A moment later he lifts his head up from the pillow to look at Remus expectantly. “Well? Go on.”

   “Oh…alright.” Rather confused, Remus climbs back into his own bed, lays down, and pulls the covers over himself. “What’re we doing?”

   “Shush. You’ve got to be quiet for it to work.”

   “Er, alright.”

   “Now,” says the sleep-talker, and his voice is softer and smoother now than it was when he was actually asleep. “All you’ve got to do is shut your eyes and picture a boat. As in, a big pirate ship. So? Are you picturing it?”

   “I thought I was supposed to be quiet.”

   “Oh, right. Well. Really try to picture the ship. It’s rocking on the sea, and the sun’s shining and there aren’t any clouds at all…”

   The sleep-talker keeps talking. While Remus had started out feeling very stupid indeed laying there thinking about boats while a near-stranger narrated, he finds himself becoming more and more relaxed. He feels his limbs go heavy and he sinks into the softness of his bed. He hadn’t realised how very soft it was…

   “So, you’ve got your ship. Now you pretend to be on it. It’s easy, promise. Just think about the rocking, and going up and down on the waves…if you think about it hard enough you start to feel it. As though you’re there, not just imagining.”

   It’s funny, but as his thoughts go fuzzier and fuzzier Remus swears he can feel it. It’s very soothing…the moon’s nowhere near him and his pirate ship, it can’t get him here…

   “Think about that. Just keep picturing it.”

   Whoever this Andromeda person is, he thinks peacefully, she’s a very smart woman…and the sleep-talker has such an exceptionally pleasant voice, it’s very nice…too bad Remus still can’t remember what his name is…Tomorrow morning at breakfast he’ll learn that it’s Sirius, learn it from a screaming letter, but he doesn’t know that yet…

   With the moon and all the fears that come with it swept gently away, he sleeps.
 
  ***
 
   Though he’s so nervous he doubts he’ll be able to swallow a bite, Peter is thrilled when the next morning James and Sirius wait for him before going down to breakfast. He still can’t believe his luck— on his first day at school he has not one but two friends. 

   What’s even more astounding to him is the type of friends they are. Peter was never popular in school. He’s quiet and anxious. His voice goes all squeaky and stuttery when he’s nervous, which is an awful lot of the time. He was always very good at maths, but you wouldn’t know it from the marks he got on exams and things. Most people assumed he was stupid. 

   James and Sirius don’t, though. The duo (it seems unbelievable now that the two of them only met yesterday, they already seem to walk in step and finish sentences for each other) happily include him in their conversation as the three of them walk down to the Great Hall, as if he were every bit as cool as them. And they are cool, there’s no doubt about it. For starters, they’re both much better looking than he is. They don’t look alike at all— James’ impressively messy black hair compared to Sirius’ well-behaved waves, James’ dark complexion to Sirius’ papery one— but they both carry themselves with confidence and ease. 

   And they don’t get nervous about anything. Sirius’ discovery of a Howler in the morning post doesn’t seem to surprise him, or phase him at all. A woman’s voice booms through the Great Hall, screaming something about blood traitors and filth and the house of your fathers, but, to Peter’s utter amazement, Sirius just leans his face on his hand and grins lazily. Looking at him you’d think he was only amused. It’s very impressive.

   Peter wishes he had just a scrap of that confidence as the three of them head up the grand staircase to class. His stomach is churning unpleasantly and he’s so jumpy that a girl’s voice calling, “Excuse me!” sends his books tumbling out of his arms.

   Scrambling for his things, he watches from the floor as a girl he recognizes walks briskly down the corridor toward them. “Excuse me,” she says again.

   One foot on the first step of the next flight of stairs, James turns around. “What?”

   “You’re all first year Gryffindors too, right?”

   “Yeah,” says James. Peter notices that this girl is very pretty, with bright eyes and shiny red hair. He supposes that James has noticed the same thing when James sticks out his right hand to shake. His left goes into his hair, mussing it. “James Warren Bhargava Potter the First,” he says importantly. “Who’re you?”

   She lets go of his hand rather quickly. “Lily Evans. Listen, Transfiguration is just down this corridor, you’re going the wrong way.”

   He musses his hair again. “Miss Evans, you’re mistaken. It’s on the fourth floor.”

   “It isn’t,” says Lily shortly. “Don’t call me ‘Miss’.”

   “Alright, ‘Evans’ it is,” says James. “You should follow us, you don’t want to be late on your first day.”

   “No I don’t, so I’m going back the way I came from.” She turns on her heel and walks away.

   “Hang on— Evans! Hey, Evans!” But she’s already disappeared around a corner. 

   Sirius rolls his eyes. “You don’t say ‘the First’ if there’s only one of you.”

   “It sounds more distinguished.”

   “What’re you trying to sound distinguished for? I saw you stuff a kipper up your nose ten minutes ago.”

   He doesn’t answer, but hmphs with great dignity. Before anyone can say anything else a new set of footsteps comes up the grand staircase. It’s the other boy from their dormitory, looking at them funny.

   Sirius leans against the bannister, nonchalant. “Hello there. Sleep alright?”

   “I thought Transfiguration was that way?” the boy says, pointing behind him.

   James crosses his arms. “Bet you heard that from Evans, then? She’s spreading lies. Acting like she knows everything when she—”

   “Who?” 

   James opens his mouth but is cut off by Sirius, who’s smiling warmly. “Don’t ask, Remus.” Sirius reaches out to take his wrist. “Come on, walk with us.”

   Remus looks a little surprised, but obliges. The four of them head up the stairs, James at the lead. 
 
   ***
 
   After their third walk around the entire fourth floor, it becomes apparent that Lily Evans was right. James appears to be in denial. Peter shares a worried look with Remus, who looks like he too would rather hex off his own toenails than be the one to point this out. Thankfully, Sirius points it out for them.

   “We’re lost.”

   “We’re not lost, silly git, we’re just in the wrong place,” snaps James. “There’s a difference.”

   They begin their fourth round of the whole floor while James and Sirius bicker.

   “No there’s not.”

   “There is! ‘Lost’ means you don’t know where you are.”

   “Where are we, then?”

   “We’re on the fourth floor and we’re about to find the Transfiguration room, if you’d just shut up for—”

   “It’s not here, it’s on the first floor like that girl said. We should just go back there.” 

   “Fine, fine, we’ll just—”

   “Unless there’s some other Transfiguration class just for speccy weirdos. That might be up here, let’s keep looking.”

   “‘Speccy’? Now, that’s just rude.”

   “Well you are.”

   “My glasses are way cool.”

   “Name one cool person who wears glasses.”

   Peter cuts in with, “Clark Kent?”

   “Who’s that?”

   “He… never mind.”

   Peter’s wondering to himself whether James might like to borrow some of his comic books sometime—he thinks he would rather like Clark Kent, all things considered— when Remus says, “Has anybody noticed that we haven’t passed any stairs in a while?”

   They all stop walking. To their left is a large gap with a steep drop down several stories, where a staircase should be, that is distinctly lacking a staircase.

   “Did it…” says Remus slowly, “…move?”

   James says a curse word that makes a nearby suit of armour gasp. “Now what do we do? That was the only staircase up here!”

   Peter looks at his watch. Class has just started; the churning in his stomach gets worse.

   “You know,” says Sirius, “Andromeda told me that Hogwarts has a bunch of hidden passageways— secret staircases and things. We’ll just find one of those.”

   “That’s a splendid plan, Sirius,” says James scathingly, “except that those secret staircases are, in fact, secret. How will we ever find one?”

   “Wait!” calls Peter. 

   Out of the corner of his eye, he just saw something miraculous: a ghost floating down the corridor, pausing, and turning to float right through a dusty old tapestry on the wall. Of course ghosts float through walls all the time around here, but something about the way the ghost stopped and picked out that spot seemed very particular…

   “Look behind that tapestry!”

   “What?”

   “Trust me, I— I think it’s—“

   Their footsteps echo through the empty corridor, they reach the tapestry, James yanks it aside. Peter’s heart leaps happily. He was right: a narrow, rickety-looking staircase slants down from where they stand. 

   “Far out!” James yelps as he forges ahead. “Told you you were brilliant, Pete!” 

   He, Remus, and Sirius race down the stairs after James. Peter’s still glowing inside from the excitement of their adventure and from the pride of his achievement when they’re stopped by a yelp of pain.

   “What in Merlin’s name…“

   “James?” calls Sirius. Peter hears his rushed footsteps ahead. Then: “Lads, you’ll want to take a look at this.”

   He and Remus run the rest of the way down to them and are met with a very odd sight indeed. James has hitched up the bottom of his robes to reveal his foot, sunk up to the ankle into the solid wood of the step itself. 

   “I dunno, I was running and it got stuck or something, I can’t move it— stop laughing, Black, it isn’t funny!”

   “It really is, though.”

   Peter’s glow was short-lived; the nerves are back. “What should we do?”

   The four of them look at each other for a moment. Finally, Remus says, “Pull him out?”

   It’s a solid enough plan, but it proves to be difficult in its execution. Every time Sirius tries to yank him out by the shoulders James makes a pained noise; Sirius is too distracted telling him to stop acting like a baby to get enough leverage. Meanwhile, Remus’ attempts to somehow dislodge the foot by kicking repeatedly at the step are going nowhere, and Peter, who doesn’t know what to do with himself and feels very useless, pulls halfheartedly at Sirius’ elbow. But then, for the second time in the last few minutes he sees something that might just save them—

   “Er, excuse me?” Peter calls down the stairs. The same ghost he saw floating through the tapestry earlier has just entered back into the stairway with a bounce, but he doesn’t hear him.

   Remus follows his gaze. “Pardon me,” he calls after the ghost, and his voice doesn’t crack like Peter’s had, “Sorry, but we’re in a very tight spot, could you please help us?”

   It’s not until after the ghost swoops up to them in a dramatic arc and grins evilly that Peter has the thought that this mightn’t have been the greatest idea. 

   “Help the ickle firsties?” says the ghost, narrowing beady black eyes. “Yes, I will help, oh yes, Peevsie lives to serve—“ 

   And before any of them can say anything the ghost sweeps over their heads, bobs behind them, and gives one big shove. Or at least that’s what Peter assumes happens; what he experiences is a sensation like being pushed into a freezing cold lake before hurtling forward and tumbling headlong down a flight of stairs. Somewhere below, the ghost is cackling maniacally. 

   The four of them land in a pile at the bottom. They all take a moment to groan in pain and assess their injuries. All of them, that is, except Remus, who with remarkable calm gets to his feet, straightens his robes, and addresses the ghost.

   “That was really rude,” he says pleasantly. “You should apologize. And also tell us how to get to the first floor, if you would. We’re late for class, you see.”

   The ghost’s cackles cut off abruptly and his beady eyes widen. It’s hard to tell, but Peter thinks he might look shocked. Has a student ever demanded an apology before?

   “Oh yes,” croons the ghost, “Oh yes, Peevsie’s sorry, so very very— sorry!” The last word is punctuated by the soft thwack of a large piece of chalk hitting Remus squarely on the nose.

   Behind him, Sirius jumps to his feet. “Time to go,” he says, grabs Remus around the elbow, and takes off down the corridor with him in tow. Peter leaps up from the floor with James and they follow at a sprint. 

   The ghost, though, hasn’t given up. He flies behind them, hurling chalk at their backs and cackling. “COME BACK, FIRSTIES! COME BAAACK!”

   “This— is not— how I imagined— my first day,” pants James. Running harder than he’s ever run in his life, Peter only has the breath to nod. 

   “Quick!” yells Sirius, who’s still pulling Remus by the arm. “In here!” He flings the door open, and one after the other they pile into the room, panting, tripping over their robes.

   “I can’t…” Sirius pants at Remus between big gulps of air, “believe…you told off a poltergeist.”

   Nearby, someone clears their throat. The four boys turn around.

   In their need to flee from the chalk-throwing ghost, none of them had bothered to pay attention to what room they had just charged into. This one is full of their fellow first year Gryffindors. And at the front of the room stands Professor McGonagall, looking very displeased.

   “I don’t suppose,” she says crisply, with a glance at her role call sheet, “that you four are Black, Lupin, Pettigrew, and Potter?”

   It’s only natural that James, their uncontested leader by now, is the one to step forward. Still gasping for breath, he straightens up and says, “Yes Professor, I’m James Wa—”

   “Sit down, Potter.” Professor McGonagall studies them from over the top of her spectacles and Peter has the horrible feeling that she’s reading his mind. I’m very very sorry, he thinks as loudly as possible. She indicates several empty seats near the front, next to a familiar head of red hair. “Hopefully Miss Evans will be able to catch you up on what you’ve missed.” 

   She returns seamlessly to the lesson. Lily Evans shoots them all a sharp look before turning back to the blackboard. Peter feels about as awful as he can ever remember feeling as the four of them walk through the middle of the room to the very front and take their seats. 

   But then James, at the far end, leans over to catch their attention. Beaming, he mouths That was amazing! Next to him Sirius gives an answering grin, and Remus a slow smile. 

   Peter can’t help the smile that cracks across his own face. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel awful at all.
 
  ***
 
   Sirius’ first day at school is fantastic. He makes friends and he gets in trouble twice before he even sits down in a classroom. All around, a great day. He thinks he’s going to like it here a lot. It would’ve been an entirely perfect day if it hadn’t ended with him jolting upright in bed, covered in cold sweat, facing a very freaked out Remus.

   His heart is hammering in his ears when Sirius asks, “Again?”

   In the semi-darkness he sees Remus nod. “It was worse this time.”

   Even though he can’t recall what he was dreaming about, Sirius could’ve guessed that tonight he sounded especially alarming. He feels distinctly rattled and shaky but doesn’t remember why. His skin feels clammy.

   It’s really odd. Very rarely are his dreams anything special, or at all scary. Why two nights in a row? 

   He expresses this to Remus, who shrugs.

   “Maybe you’re nervous.”

   Sirius scoffs. “No I’m not. I’m a Gryffindor.”

   “It’d be okay if you were. Have you ever been away from home before?”

   That depends, he thinks to himself. What counts as ‘away’? He’s been to Andromeda and her sisters’ house a lot, and he and Reg used to go out adventuring in Muggle London all the time, but—

   “Not really. But I’m not scared. That’s stupid. I never liked that place anyway.”

   “Alright,” says Remus. He gets back into his own bed and turns over. 

   Sirius is very much awake; he doesn’t understand why he still feels so funny and clammy and shaky. “You’re going to sleep, then?”

   “Aren’t you?”

   “Yes.” Even to his own ears he doesn’t sound convincing.

   “Alright.” Remus closes his eyes. 

   Sirius follows suit. Nothing happens.

   A long time passes. And then—

   “Sirius.”

   He jumps. “What?”

   “You aren’t sleeping.”

   “Neither are you.”

   “Well, I can’t fall asleep if you don’t.”

   “How can you even tell?”

   “You breathe loudly.”

   He makes an indignant sound. “What am I going to do about it, genius?”

   “Just think about boats.”

   He still feels sick.

   “I don’t think that’ll work tonight.”

   “Why not? It seems to work wonderfully.”

   “It just won’t, alright?” 

   A lot more time goes by. Then there are some soft footsteps, and Remus’ voice right next to his bed.

   “Budge up.”

   “What?”

   “If you can’t sleep and I can’t sleep we might as well be awake together. Go on.”

   If Sirius were more awake (and less shaky and nauseated) he might protest, but as it is he moves over on the wide mattress and makes space for Remus to climb in. Remus has carried over his own pillow from his bed, and he settles in next to him. 

   Side by side they lie there looking at the four poster’s canopy, making no pretense of trying any further to fall asleep. It’s pleasant, Sirius thinks. Just hearing the steady breathing of somebody next to you is relaxing— it reminds him of when he and Regulus were smaller and would share beds. Many minutes go by before Sirius feels compelled to say anything.

   “I still can’t believe you shouted at a poltergeist.”

   “I didn’t shout,” comes the response. “I was perfectly polite. He was the nasty one.”

   That makes him smile, and it’s a warm feeling. “You’re always polite, are you?”

   “Well, I wasn’t raised by wolves, was I? My mother taught me well.”

   “I can’t imagine what my mum was raised by,” Sirius mutters. Banshees, probably. “What’s she like, then? Your mum?”

   “She’s a secondary school teacher.”

   “Secondary?”

   “It’s school for teenage Muggles.”

   “She’s a Muggle, then?”

   “Yeah. My dad’s a wizard, but it’s just she and I.”

   That makes Sirius feel funny for no good reason. He knows from Andromeda that all the stuff his parents say about blood purity is rot. And Remus isn’t even his first half-blood friend; Peter’s mum is Muggle-born. This feels different, though. Remus’ wizard dad isn’t with them, so his whole life before coming to school has been Muggle.

   He feels odd about how very different their lives must be. 

   “If she’s a Muggle, why’d she name you ‘Remus’?” he asks. “That’s a name like a pureblood brat, like mine. Not like a Muggle teacher’s son.”

   “Mum’s family has studied classics for generations. She was getting her PhD when she met Dad,” Remus says, and there’s a note of pride in his voice. “It’s a bit of a family tradition to get names from the Greco-Roman canon.”

   Sirius hasn’t got a clue what that means, but he goes on anyway. “Has she a funny name as well?”

   “Her name’s Rhea. It’s from a story.”

   “Who’s Rhea? Has she got a son named Remus?”

   “She surely does,” he answers, and it sounds like he's smiling. “I haven’t got a twin, though.”

   “Twin?”

   “It’s from the story, it’s nothing,” he says. “I did have a sister once, sort of.”

   “Sort of? How has somebody got ‘sort of’ a sister?”

   “Well, legally speaking she wasn’t alive, she was stillborn. So, she’s only sort of.”

   Sirius doesn’t know how to respond, so he tries being honest. “That’s awful.”

   “It was years ago.”

   Sirius turns onto his side to face him and for a second he doesn’t know why Remus gasps. Then he sees that his sleeve has ridden up.

   “Nah, don’t worry about that, it’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, pushing his sleeve back down. “From our fall down the stairs this morning.”

   Much to Sirius’ annoyance, a look of horror is on Remus’ face as he watches the place on his arm where the big mottled bruises just disappeared. “That looks really awful, you should go and—“

   “B@tt out Remus, it’s fine,” he snaps. “Like I said, I’m bad at clotting. I can look after myself, I’m not a baby.”

   “I didn’t say you were. I’m only suggesting that—”

   “Just leave it,” he says, and however he says it makes Remus recoil a little.

   “Alright.”

   Remus goes quiet and Sirius feels bad.

   “Besides, I landed on James and you hit the floor. You must have it way worse than me.”

   “Not particularly. Anyway, I’ve got a high tolerance for pain. I don’t really mind.” Once again Sirius hears the smile in his voice. He likes the sound. “A few scrapes are worth it, for a good adventure.”

   The next morning Sirius doesn’t remember what they talked about after that, but he does notice that he fell asleep effortlessly, without any boats or cold sweat at all.
 
   ***'
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