Chapter Text
“And I understand there’s a film in the works?” Rita asks, turning to the audience to expand. The camera pans with her to catch reactions. “This exciting news is made even more so by the fact that legendary indie filmmakers James Potter and Sirius Black—who are just rolling off a huge redemption with their most recent film, Godric’s Hollow, though perhaps just as well known for their shocking 1997 flop of Noble House—have reportedly joined on to direct it. I’ll be honest, girls, it’s quite surprising to learn they are involved in this project. In fact, Patrona, though both Celestial Spell's publicist and Potter's people claim there’s nothing more than friendship between you, James Potter is the father of your child, is he not? Perhaps there’s something more that drew the dynamic duo to this unlikely film?”
"Oh, piss off, Rita, you hag!" Sirius yells, hurling popcorn at the screen.
"Yeah, fucking hag!" Harry adds with glee.
James sighs, apparently on the verge of admonishment when Lily’s reply to Rita comes through the speakers of the large tv.
“You’d have to ask them why they signed on,” she says with a bright smile, flipping red hair over the shoulder left bare by her trademark strapless top.
“We’re thrilled to have them, of course.” Emmeline’s posh accent smooths over the potential cracks in the interview as she crosses one long leg over the other, showcasing designer heels.
Mary nods enthusiastically, her pom-pom pigtails bouncing along. “It’s a bit of an honor, really. I mean, they’re so talented, it’s like working with… I dunno, Spielberg or something.”
Rita laughs in a tone a bit too derisive for Sirius’ liking. “Well, this is hardly looking to be the next E.T., and as talented as they are, Potter and Black aren't Spielberg… yet!"
“Oh, fuck off, hag!” James yells at the screen, which has Harry throwing another handful of popcorn after his words.
Sirius faux gasps. "Prongs!"
"You fuck off, too!" James laughs, dragging another fake sound—this one, of fear—from Sirius.
Dorcas, true to her persona, looks ready to go for Rita’s throat, but it’s Marlene who interjects. “We’ll just have to wait to see, won’t we, mate?”
“Well!” Rita says with a clap, reading the signs to move on like the professional Sirius begrudgingly admits she is. “Speaking of old friends, another one of your former schoolmates is here with us. Remus Lupin, lead singer and lyricist for Walk with the Werewolves, who are going to perform their brand new single!”
Sirius sucks a breath in. A glance at James confirms he was also unaware that Walk with the Werewolves was on the docket for Rita's biannual Music Madness episode. Sirius has always been careful, ensuring he avoids interviews and other press where Walk with the Werewolves is concerned. And based on the glitter of Rita’s eyes as she regards her interviewees, the band's presence was a surprise to them, too. The shock reads all over their faces, though Sirius thinks there’s something a bit off with Marlene’s reaction. Perhaps not as much of a surprise as it was meant to seem, then.
“Yes!" Rita exclaims, and the screen cuts to a painfully corny graphic with a horrid jingle created specifically for surprises such as these. When they're live again, Rita continues, "this is an exclusive First Listen, ladies and gentlemen! Down Rodeo is set to release in just a few hours, but from what we heard during sound check, it will be the sort of hit we’ve come to expect from Werewolves! Before we have them play, Remus, why don’t you come out and say hello?”
Though he'd not fully exhaled the air from his earlier shocked inhale, Sirius once again draws a sharp breath in when the camera pans towards the wings, and the front man emerges.
Fuck, Sirius thinks. He looks good.
The too-tall teen—lanky and sporting coils no one had taught him to care for—was gone, replaced by wild dreadlocks and a strong frame and a fucking goatee that should not be attractive but works because it's him. He grins at the girls, crinkling the corners of his eyes and pulling at the scars littering his skin, which has darkened—probably due to Walk with the Werewolves' recent tour (don't ask Sirius why he knows about the tour).
Lily shoots from her chair and hurls herself into a hug, mumbling something too muffled for the mics to catch, but which garners a loud laugh in response from the man she's hugging. The other girls aren't far behind, though Mary is more careful with her joy as to keep her babydoll dress from flying up and giving the cameras a cheeky peek.
"What a wonderful reunion," Rita sings, wiping an undoubtedly fake tear from her eye. "Come, Remus, sit!"
"Come on," he says, waving the rest of his band from the wings, and, double fuck, because the heavy Chicano accent of their youth is nearly gone, but there is a softness to the pronunciation at the start, and the way his tongue curls around his vowels reminds Sirius of the way his tongue—
Sirius shakes his head, trying to clear it. James, ever wonderful, reaches for the remote, but Harry snags it first.
"No, I wanna watch!"
"S'fine," Sirius insists as James sends him a wary look. "It's been, like, 12 years."
James raises a skeptical eyebrow but doesn't comment further.
"Walk with the Werewolves is the bomb," Harry enthuses, turning the volume on the surround sound system up just in time to catch the tail end of whatever perfunctory chat Rita was forcing upon the members of Walk with the Werewolves and Celestial Spell.
"Well then, are we ready to hear some music?" Rita asks, motioning for the band members to take their positions on another part of the sound stage. The audience cheers. "As a treat, they've agreed to add on a performance of their smash hit, Killing in the Name Of. Parents, fret not. We've asked for the radio-edit version, safe for all ears!"
"How many kids do you think watch Live! With Rita, anyway?" Harry grouses without a hint of irony.
The lights on the screen dim to a deep blue, camera cutting towards Walk with the Werewolves. After a pause, punctuated by cheers from the audience, the guitarist—Kingsley, famous in his own right for his unique way of playing, which results in pulling noises from his guitar most think impossible—gives a full-body nod, and begins to play. He is joined by a deep bass, played by a guy Sirius thinks is called Bill or Ted or something incredibly boring (despite being easy pick for the most insane member of the band), who he had removed his shirt to reveal his large, swooping black tattoos in what Sirius knows to be a fairly typical performance style for him. Cymbals crash rhythmically at the sticks of their drummer, Benji. Lights shift to red, and the lead singer is unseen by the cameras.
“Light design is good,” James comments as they shift again to shafts of white, then flash back to a full-stage wash of slight yellow.
Sirius nods absently.
“The flag!” Harry howls, pointing at the back corner of the stage where the lead singer of Walk with the Werewolves had apparently been hanging an American flag, upside down. The camera operators are doing their best to avoid showing it as he steps up towards the front of the stage, but it’s hard to fully omit.
The cord of the mic is wrapped lazily over long, scarred fingers, which Sirius tries to avoid, choosing instead to let his eyes unfocus towards the screen.
“Yeah, I'm rollin' down Rodeo with a shotgun, these people ain't seen a brown skinned man since their grandparents bought one."
“Jesus, Remus!" James sputters, as if he could be heard through the screen and thousands of miles separating them.
Harry cackles in delight. “Genius!”
“Maybe he’ll get more subtle?” James suggests.
“It’s like you’ve never listened to Walk with the Werewolves, dad.”
James shrugs, eying Sirius. “I, uh, don’t, much.”
The lyrics do not get more subtle and Harry is thrilled. James can’t seem to decide what he is, but Sirius is familiar with the sort of music Walk with the Werewolves makes, so the content of this song isn’t a surprise. As it draws to an end, the lights fade back to a dark blue, and the lead singer’s voice softens as he delivers the final lines.
“Just a quiet peaceful dance for the things we'll never have, just a quiet peaceful dance for the things we don't have.”
“Weirdly romantic,” Harry comments as the band sets for their next song. “More fit for mum’s music, really.”
James hums a thoughtful noise, but the next song starts up, drawing their attention back to the screen. Though Sirius did his best to avoid Walk with the Werewolves’ music, it was impossible to escape, as big as their hits were—and this song was no exception. Truth be told, Sirius was keen to see what happened now, as the request to keep it “clean” seemed unlikely to be followed. Song nearly over, Sirius’ ears perk.
“I won’t do what you tell me.”
It's quite frankly insane that the producers of Live! With Rita didn't see the irony in requesting that lyric, of all of them, be edited down.
“I won’t do what you tell me.”
The music rises, building slowly to a crescendo.
“I won’t do what you tell me.”
“Ugh, lame,” Harry says, as the singer repeats the same edited line again. “I can’t believe he’s doing this!”
"I won’t do what you tell me.” The music’s intensity steadily grows, the camera panning, closely following as the singer paces the stage, drawing the cameras in on him. “I won’t do what you tell me. I won’t do what you tell me…”
The drums hit, lights flaring, as the camera zooms fully in to the singer just in time to catch him throwing up his middle finger, screaming, “FUCK YOU! I won’t do what you tell me!”
James’ jaw drops, and despite himself, Sirius barks a laugh. Harry leaps to his feet, triumphant, punching his fists into the air, sending his bowl of popcorn tumbling to the ground as the camera operators struggle to keep the performance on screen while avoiding the finger the lead singer continues to thrust out before him. Some hapless producer manages to hop onto the censor button, successfully bleeping out some additional fuck yous but they eventually cut back to a poorly composed Rita Skeeter, smiling the fakest smile Sirius has ever seen. In the background, the band's instruments and mic have been muted, but a lone half sung, half growled "motherfucker!" can be heard in the lead singer's trademark style, and, due to the folly of some soon-to-be-fired person, the screen flicks to the band, all four members with both middle fingers outstretched towards where Sirius thinks Rita is before she once again reappears on the screen. This—annoyingly—drags another smile from Sirius.
“Walk with the Werewolves, everyone! Let’s hear it for them! After the break, I’ll be joined by Gilded Gangsta, who will talk about his newest rap album—”
Harry finally relents, mashing the volume down, buzzing with excitement.
“You’ve made a mess, Haz,” James observes.
Harry shrugs. “Don’t we have a guy for that?”
“Mr. Kretch is not paid to clean up after your messes.”
“Well, is he paid to drive me around, then?” James sighs, clearly on the verge of a no, but Harry dramatically falls to his knees before his father, pressing his palms together, begging. “Please, papa, please can Mr. Kretch give me a ride to band practice? I’d be ever so grateful!”
“Oh my god,” James groans. “Fine, yes, go on. Call me when you get there?”
“Whatever,” Harry agrees, bounding up and running out of the room.
“Just another year and some change, then he can drive himself,” Sirius says.
James cradles his head in his hands. “No, stop, that’s so much worse.”
The sound of Harry’s boots muffled by plush carpet rush back down the hall.
“Haz,” James calls. Harry skids to a halt, the case of his bass guitar swinging off his shoulder.
“You’ve got your cellphone?”
Harry huffs and rolls his eyes, then pulls the slim cellphone he’d begged James to buy him for his birthday out of his pocket, waving it around before slipping it back into his jeans. “Bye, dad.”
“Oh my god,” James groans again, falling back into the white leather sofa. “He’s going to be the death of me.”
“Just wait until Lils introduces him to… Walk with the Werewolves.”
“I don’t think Lily speaks with Remus any longer,” James says, emphasizing the name Sirius refuses to use.
Sirius raises his eyebrows. “No?”
“Nah, didn’t you see how shocked the girls looked?”
“Did they?”
“Yes?” James frowns, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You won’t even say his name. How would you know if they’ve been hanging out?”
“Marlene is a bad actress,” Sirius says. “We should be sure to keep that in mind when we start filming.”
“Marlene is playing herself, I think she’ll manage.”
“Marlene is playing Leviosa,” Sirius counters.
“Fine,” James waves his hand in dismissal. “Same thing. Whatever. She plays that role convincingly nearly every day, she’ll be fine. Lily would have told me if she and Remus were still pal-ing around.”
“Would she?”
“Jesus, Pads, yes, alright? She would. At the very least, Haz would know. He idolizes Remus, Lily wouldn’t dream of not introducing them if she and Remus had kept in contact all these years.”
“Maybe she thought he was too young. I mean, when did she last have him for any real amount of time, right? Sure, they talk like three times a week at minimum over the phone, and she visits, but it’s been like five years since he moved in, so he was, what, nine? 10? And Walk with the Werewolves hadn’t even really taken off then, so Hazza probably didn’t know who they were!”
James rolls his eyes, but is unable to compete with Sirius’ logic. His gaze lands on the screen, where Rita is now allowing a sobbing audience member to attempt to ask Gilderoy Lockhart aka Gilded Gangsta—who is wearing his trademark all-gold, velvet tracksuit and at least five too many chains—questions, a slow grin crawling over his face. “We should cast Lockhart.”
“What? Where? Why?” Sirius asks in his usual reply to James’ go-to joke.
“I dunno, what parts have we got left?”
Sirius scans through the files in his mind, trying to recall which roles they still needed to cast. The film wasn’t huge, so the casting demands were slim.
"There's that songwriter role, I suppose, the mysterious guy who ghostwrites all their stuff," James says. "But I think they said he should be a Heath Ledger meets Mario Lopez meets Kurt Cobain."
"What does that mean?" Sirius asks.
"They want a grungy, Latino Heath Ledger."
"Shit!" Sirius yelps, jumping at the new voice from behind him. "Fuck, Reg, I'm going to put a bell on you!"
"So, wait, is this writer supposed to be a romantic interest?" James asks, unaffected by Regulus’ silent appearance.
"Have you read the script?"
James rubs the back of his head sheepishly, grinning up at where Regulus leans on the archway between the sunken living room and rarely-used kitchen. "Yes?"
Regulus narrows his eyes, sipping his coffee as he stares James down.
"Not fully,” James admits.
"And when do you start filming?"
"June?" James tries as Sirius smothers his smile with a hand.
"Do you know what day it is today?" Regulus asks as if helping a school child along with a far-too-easy maths problem.
James shakes his head.
"It's the 30th."
"Of May?!"
Regulus slurps his coffee in response.
"Shit, Pads, why didn't you tell me?"
"Me?" Sirius squawks. "You're asking me why I didn't keep us on task? Me?"
"Fuck, we've got so much work to do."
"Starting with a role for Gildey-boy?"
"What? No, fuck that, it was a stupid joke. Fuck, isn't the perk of going the studio route is that there a casting director or something to do this?"
"Yes," Regulus says, turning and heading back into the kitchen. "Your film has been cast, schedules sent, all logistics managed. All you two twats have got to do is make your flight tomorrow."
"And pack!" Sirius shouts, jumping up when he realizes. "Oh my god, I have to start packing!"
James yelps, and runs after him as he sprints to his room.
"James, how long are we gone for?"
"Reg! How long are we gone for?!"
"Three months!" Regulus calls from below. "Pack for the first two weeks, Hazza and I will bring the rest along when we join you once school lets out."
"You're a lifesaver, Reg!" James hollers. "I don't know what we'd do without you!"
"Fail, probably." Regulus' mutter was clear as day to his brother's ears, and Sirius realizes there is probably popcorn still littering the floor.