Chapter Text
The dormitory was half-lit, pale autumn light sneaking through the curtains, enough to paint everything in soft grey. Remus sat on the edge of his bed, tugging his jumper down over ribs that still ached faintly from the last moon. He had risen earliest, as always, and was trying not to think too loudly in case Sirius or James stirred. If I breathe too hard, Pads will claim I’m doing it just to wake him.
The floor creaked. Peter shuffled out of bed, hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes narrowing slightly when he spotted Remus already dressed. “You’re always first up,” he muttered, brushing past to the washbasin.
“I like the quiet,” Remus answered simply, tugging on his socks.
Sirius rolled over, groaning. Even with his hair tangled and a sock on his chest, he looked like some character in one of Peter’s secret romance books. “Merlin’s bollocks, Moony, you’re already dressed? What are you, a prefect or something?”
James’s muffled voice drifted from beneath his pillow: “He is a prefect, Pads, keep up.”
Remus smirked faintly. “Top marks, Potter.”
That made Sirius snort and finally swing his legs over the side of the bed. “If prefect duties mean you’re obliged to wake us every morning, I resign from being your friend.”
“You wish you could resign,” James said, dragging himself upright, glasses askew. “We’re bound for life. Tragic, really.” He reached for his robes, stumbling into Sirius’s space until Sirius shoved him away, laughter bubbling between them.
Peter, toothbrush in hand, glanced over his shoulder at Remus, then—oddly—bumped him as he passed, a nudge harder than necessary. The others didn’t notice, too busy shoving each other into the wardrobe. Remus’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Why? What did I do now?
By the time Remus joined them at the mirror, Sirius was grinning wolfishly at his reflection. “Look at us—finest lads at Hogwarts. Except maybe for Moony, who looks like he’s been savaged by a hippogriff.”
Remus rolled his eyes. “You’re one to talk, with your hair.”
“Oi,” Sirius protested, running fingers through his mane. “This is art.”
James, buttoning his robes, caught sight of a pale scar along Remus’s collarbone where his jumper slipped. “Battle wound, Moony? Bet the girls’ll swoon.” He paused, then added quietly, almost to himself, “Lily would, at least.”
Sirius leaned in dramatically. “Or the boys. Don’t sell yourself short.”
Remus flushed, tugging the fabric up. “You’re insufferable.”
Peter’s gaze lingered too long on the scar, lips pressing thin, before he shouldered past Remus again—hard enough this time that Remus stumbled a step. Sirius’s head flicked sideways, eyes narrowing a fraction, but he said nothing.
They all tumbled down the stairs in their usual chaos, James leading the charge with his tie still undone. Sirius caught Remus’s wrist midway, whispering, “You’re limping again.”
“Just stiff,” Remus murmured back.
“Oh no, that won’t do.” Sirius barked suddenly: “Oi, Prongs! Help me demonstrate our superior muscles.”
Before Remus could protest, James looped an arm under one of his shoulders, Sirius under the other, and with exaggerated groans they lifted him clear off the ground.
“Look, he weighs nothing!” James crowed, wobbling down the staircase with Remus between them like some prized catch.
Sirius smirked, lips close to Remus’s ear. “Told you we could carry you, Moony.”
Remus twisted, half-laughing, half-mortified. “Put me down, you idiots, people are going to see—”
Peter trudged a step behind, face unreadable, muttering something that might have been “show-offs.” Only Remus noticed. Only Remus always noticed.
He forced gentleness into his smile when James finally deposited him at the bottom of the staircase. “Thanks,” he said softly, directing it toward Peter as much as the others. “All of you.”
Peter’s eyes darted away, but Remus thought—just for a heartbeat—that Sirius’s sharp glance had landed on the same small cruelty he’d felt twice already that morning.
Strange, Remus thought, following them toward the smell of breakfast and the noise of the Hall. For all their loudness, James and Sirius never hide what they feel. Peter… Peter shoves and smiles at once, and somehow I’m the only one who notices the difference.
The Great Hall smelled of toast, sausages, and pumpkin juice, the clatter of knives and forks echoing off the enchanted ceiling where pale September clouds drifted lazily. Gryffindors streamed toward their table in noisy packs, robes half-fastened, still rubbing sleep from their eyes.
James led the way, hair already sticking up like he’d been hexed, Sirius close behind with his tie stuffed in a pocket instead of around his neck. Remus trailed with Peter, who kept close enough that their sleeves brushed.
“Prongs, your tie looks like it’s trying to run away,” Sirius said, snatching it from James’s hand and looping it clumsily around his own neck.
“That’s mine!” James protested, grabbing it back. “But… Lily would like it neat, right?” he added, just under his breath.
“You look better without it anyway,” Sirius grinned, then tossed the tie over his shoulder like a scarf.
Remus shook his head, sliding onto the bench. “You two have the maturity of first-years.”
“Correction,” Sirius said, plopping down opposite, “first-years have more dignity than we do.”
Remus hid a smile behind his pumpkin juice. James sprawled beside him, reaching across to snag a piece of toast, glancing at the empty seat Lily had reserved in his mind. Peter sat on Remus’s other side, shoulders stiff. When Sirius leaned over to nudge Remus’s plate closer—“Eat up, Moony, you need the strength, you’re practically see-through”—Peter’s elbow nudged him sharply.
“Oops,” Peter muttered, not sounding sorry at all.
Remus glanced at him sidelong. “It’s fine.” He doesn’t mean it. Or if he does, I’d rather not know why.
James had already launched into a story, crumbs flying. “So Filch caught me—listen, Pads—caught me trying to charm the suits of armor into singing ‘Godric Save the Queen,’ and instead they just yelled abuse at anyone passing—”
Sirius nearly choked on sausage. “Tell me they swore at McGonagall.”
“They bowed to her,” James said, affronted. “And then told me my hexwork was sloppy. I should’ve been practicing for Lily, anyway…”
Remus laughed, the sound slipping out before he could help it. Sirius looked pleased with himself for drawing it out.
Peter’s fork scraped his plate a bit too harshly. “Not that funny.”
Remus turned to him gently. “It was a little funny.”
Peter ducked his head, muttering something about sausages. Remus let it go.
Across the table, Sirius and James were arguing over who could carry more books in one arm, a contest clearly designed to circle back to their earlier stunt.
“You saw how easy it was with Moony,” Sirius declared. “He’s a feather.”
James jabbed a finger at Remus’s shoulder. “Don’t underestimate him—prefect muscles. All that parchment lifting. Lily would approve, trust me.”
“Thrilling workout,” Remus said dryly, though he could feel the tips of his ears reddening.
Peter gave another little shove under the table, knee against Remus’s leg. This time Remus looked at him properly, question in his gaze. But Peter only stuffed another bite of toast in his mouth, eyes darting away. Why?
Remus thought, quiet as always inside his own head. Why do you push when they pull me closer?
Out loud, he said softly, “Do you want the last bit of jam, Peter?” and passed the jar across without waiting for an answer.
Peter took it, cheeks flushing, muttering thanks. Sirius’s eyebrows rose a fraction, catching the exchange, but he didn’t comment.
James banged his goblet down. “Right. Breakfast done. Quidditch tryouts later. Everyone’s coming.”
Remus sighed into his juice. “Even me?”
“Especially you,” Sirius said, grinning wide. “We’ll need someone sensible to keep James from flying into the Whomping Willow.”
“I did that once,” James protested. “Once!” His mind still wandered to Lily.
The Hall roared with chatter, owls swooped overhead, and Remus sat between them all, smiling faintly, still wondering at the bruise-colored feelings in Peter’s jabs that nobody else seemed to notice.
Better be nicer, Peter. Nobody likes a jealous rat.
The walk down to the pitch was always noisy, James at the head of the group like a general with his troops, Sirius tossing a stolen apple into the air behind him, Peter trudging along close enough to keep brushing against Remus’s arm.
James spun on his heel halfway down the stone steps outside the castle. “Today, gentlemen, Gryffindor finds its future! The finest fliers in the school, ready to be judged by yours truly.”
“You’re not captain yet,” Remus reminded him, adjusting his satchel across his shoulder.
“Technicality,” James said with a wave. “McKinnon will see sense. She’s only holding on because of House pride. Who wouldn’t make me captain?”
“Anyone with an ounce of judgment?” Remus offered, voice mild.
Sirius howled with laughter, his bright eyes sparkling. “Merlin, Moony, savage before breakfast has even settled.”
Peter gave him a shove at the elbow, not enough to topple him but sharp enough to jar. Remus stumbled a step, caught himself, and straightened without comment. There it is again. Shove. Shove. Shove. That’s all you do, Peter. Not clever, not subtle. Just push.
James, oblivious, was still proclaiming his imagined captaincy as they crossed the lawn. “I’ll have strategies! Formations! We’ll be unstoppable.”
“You’ll have detentions,” Remus murmured.
“Already do,” Sirius added cheerfully, biting into his apple with a crunch. Juice ran down his chin and he wiped it on his sleeve, earning a wince from Remus.
“You’re revolting.”
“And proud,” Sirius said, spraying bits of fruit deliberately near James, who swatted at him.
They passed a cluster of Ravenclaws on their way in, who snickered when Sirius bowed extravagantly with apple in hand. “Morning, ladies. Careful, my mate Potter’s looking for recruits, you might get signed without consent.”
James puffed his chest. “They’d be lucky.”
Remus sighed, long-suffering, and Peter snickered—then jabbed Remus in the ribs with his knuckles. Harder than before.
Remus winced, hand curling protectively near his side, but his voice stayed light. “Watch it.”
Peter only shrugged, eyes darting away again. Originality of a brick, really. Shove me here, shove me there. What’s the point, Peter? Do you think it hides in the chaos? You’re the only one I feel it from.
Sirius had slowed slightly, falling into step on Remus’s other side. His grey eyes flicked to Peter, then back to Remus. The corners of his mouth pressed thin, but he said nothing, only passed the apple into Remus’s free hand.
Remus blinked down at it, ignoring the little shudder his chest gave. “Thanks?”
“Keeping your strength up,” Sirius said simply, and bounded forward to tackle James by the goalposts ahead. But his grin carried a quick, unspoken edge—sharp, like a reflex honed from being the wrong sort of Black in the wrong sort of room. And it was aimed toward Peter.
The pitch spread out before them, green and gold under the September sun. Stands still empty, the hoops stretching tall into the sky like great brass sentinels. James immediately ran to the center, shouting about destiny and broom-handling, while Sirius tried to steal the whistle McKinnon had left on a bench.
Remus hung back a moment, chewing the last bite of apple and watching Peter. The smaller boy hovered near, gaze darting between him and the others.
“You all right?” Remus asked quietly.
Peter scuffed his shoe in the grass. “Fine.”
Another half-step closer, another nudge, shoulder into Remus’s arm. Not vicious, not friendly either.
Remus breathed out slowly. Shove, shove, shove. If that’s your whole language, Peter, I suppose I’m the only one listening.
James’s shout cut across the pitch. “Moony! Get over here and referee!”
Sirius added, cupping his hands: “Referees get free drinks!”
Remus started toward them, Peter trailing at his side like a shadow that couldn’t decide if it wanted to cling or collide. And though he smiled faintly at James’s antics, his ribs ached where Peter’s knuckles had landed, and somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered how long he could pretend not to feel it.
By the time the last would-be Chaser landed, James was hoarse from shouting and Sirius was lying flat on his back in the grass, laughing until his ribs shook. The Gryffindor hopefuls scattered toward the changing rooms, broomsticks under their arms, buzzing about whether they’d impressed James or not.
Remus closed the notebook where he’d kept a tally of candidates—at James’s demand, of course, because “Moony’s handwriting looks official”—and glanced sideways at Peter. His friend was trudging across the pitch, broom dangling limply at his side, face blotchy with embarrassment. He’d flown stiff as a board, jerking every time the wind shifted, and when James called for a loop, Peter had tilted so far sideways he nearly dropped off entirely.
James had tried to cover the wince with enthusiasm: “Good effort, Wormtail! Just… bit more practice!”
Sirius had muttered something into his sleeve that sounded suspiciously like “practice being someone else.”
Now, as Peter plopped down on the bench beside him, Remus kept his voice level. “You stayed on the broom. That’s what matters.”
Peter glared at his shoes. “Doesn’t matter if I’m rubbish compared to them.”
Remus resisted the urge to reach out and steady him the way he would a younger student. “You’re not rubbish.” He added softly, “Not to me.”
Peter flicked him a glance at that, sharp, searching, then hunched further. Sirius bounded past a moment later, hair wild, grin brighter than the sun, and Remus’s chest tightened in that quiet, hidden way it sometimes did. Don’t stare. Don’t linger. Don’t let him notice. But Sirius laughed, shouted something about celebrating with stolen pies, and Remus’s lips twitched in spite of himself.
Peter noticed. His eyes narrowed as though measuring the space between Remus’s smile and Sirius’s swagger.
Classes after lunch were the usual slog of parchment and quills. Today was Transfiguration, McGonagall crisp and precise at the front. Remus liked this room—the order of it, the neat equations of spell to shape, the way his mind could line up the words and the wand-flicks like gears in a clock. He sat in the second row, quill scratching steadily, Sirius behind him leaning back in his chair, balancing a conjured feather on his nose just to make Peter snicker.
“Focus, please,” McGonagall said, and Sirius dropped the feather with a wink.
Remus rolled his eyes but his heart did a small, traitorous flutter. He’s going to get detention again, and he’ll still laugh about it, and I’ll still think it’s charming. Pathetic.
He turned back to his parchment, jotting down notes on partial transfigurations. This was where he thrived, here in the steady rhythm of learning, where scars didn’t matter and laughter was just background music. He answered questions clearly, earning a thin-lipped nod from McGonagall. Even when James lobbed him a crumpled note about how good Lily's hair looked today "though it always looks lovely, like her, actually!", Remus managed a dry little smile, tuck the note under his book, and keep writing.
Then, halfway through a particularly complex diagram, his quill slipped. The symbol for “animate” skewed sideways, crooked and ugly. He frowned, reaching for a new sheet.
“Ha,” Peter whispered beside him, voice low but cutting. “Messed it up.”
What?
Remus blinked at him. “It’s just a blot.”
“Bet you’ll get it wrong in the spell too.”
McGonagall’s voice cut sharp from the front: “Mr. Pettigrew, is there something you’d like to share with the class?”
Peter flushed scarlet. “N-no, Professor.”
Remus bent his head quickly, quill moving again, and murmured so only Peter could hear: “I don’t mind a mistake now and then. You shouldn’t either.”
Peter huffed, muttering, “Easy for you to say.”
But Remus smiled faintly, kept writing, and let the noise of the classroom swell around them. He shoves, he snaps, he sneers—but under it all, there’s a boy who wants to matter. Maybe if I keep catching him, he’ll stop trying to trip me.
Behind him, Sirius stretched until his chair creaked, whisper-calling, “Moony! Got an extra quill?”
Remus passed one back over his shoulder without looking. He could feel Sirius’s fingers brush his for the briefest moment, warm and careless. His pulse jumped. He prayed no one noticed—especially not Peter, whose gaze had darted between them like a hawk watching prey.
The rest of the lesson carried on, McGonagall transforming cups into hedgehogs and back again, James muttering Quidditch plans under his breath, Sirius doodling rude cartoons in the margins of his notes. But for Remus, the world shrank to the scrape of his quill, the heat of Sirius’s nearness, and the constant prickle of Peter at his side, waiting for the next slip, the next chance to jab.
They spilled out of Transfiguration into the corridor, the air buzzing with chatter and parchment rustling. James slung an arm around Remus’s shoulders as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Brilliant, Moony,” James said, practically shaking him. “Did you see McGonagall’s face when you corrected her? You’re her favorite. Admit it.”
Remus rolled his eyes, though a smile tugged his mouth. “She’s just relieved at least one of you three listens.”
“Oi!” Sirius called from behind. “I listen. Selectively.”
James’s hug grew tighter, pulling Remus close against his side in that unthinking affection James carried like oxygen. That’s when Peter lunged, as unsubtle as a Bludger in a broom cupboard, his hand pushing hard against Remus’s hip to knock him sideways.
But—for once—Remus’s body did not betray him. He twisted, sidestepped with surprising ease, and instead of sprawling on the flagstones he dropped to his knees in a smooth, almost practiced sweep. His satchel swung with him, but he caught it before it slipped.
A startled sound left his throat, something between a laugh and a breathless “oh,” and when he looked up his expression wasn’t the usual polite blankness. His eyes were wide, lips parted in a grin he didn’t know he had, and his whole face shone with an unguarded spark of happiness. Merlin, I didn’t fall on my face. I didn’t bruise. I didn’t break. I moved, and it worked.
James blinked. “Whoa—Moony, that was… smooth.”
Sirius’s eyebrows climbed. “Did you just—did you actually dodge that? Gracefully?” His grin widened, bright and wolfish. “That’s it. That’s your new nickname. Moony the Swan.”
Remus ducked his head quickly, fighting the grin still tugging at his lips. Confusion rippled through the group—James grinning, Sirius laughing—but Peter had frozen. His eyes narrowed, shoulders stiff, and Remus felt it like a chill down his spine. Oh. He knows what he was trying to do. And he knows I noticed.
Sirius stepped closer, tilting his head, studying Peter for a moment too long before turning back to Remus with a smirk. “If I’d known you had moves like that, I’d have dragged you to dance practice ages ago.”
Remus’s face went warm, though he managed a steady voice. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Too late,” Sirius said, still grinning. But there was something under it now, a steel edge in his eyes as he shifted slightly between Remus and Peter, casual as you please.
Remus pushed himself up, brushing his knees, and James clapped him on the back. “You’re wasted on books, Moony. You belong on a broom.”
Remus laughed softly, but his mind was still replaying that half-second of freedom, the strange joy of moving without pain, without stumble. Yay indeed. Just this once, I wasn’t clumsy. Just this once, my body was mine.
And he caught Sirius still watching him, grey eyes sharp, lips curled like he’d seen more than Remus meant to show.
The common room fire crackled low, most students already scattered to the library or off on errands. James and Sirius had been summoned to McGonagall’s office for “clarification” about their antics in Transfiguration (translation: another lecture about decorum). That left Remus and Peter alone, parchment spread out on the table but neither making much progress. Remus set down his quill, folded his hands, and turned to face him fully. His voice was even at first, calm and deliberate.
“Wormy,” he began, “you are very unsubtle.”
Peter blinked. “What?”
Remus sighed, shoulders slumping, then leaned in, and suddenly the words poured out, unstoppable. “Unsubtle.
"Positively glaring. You think I don’t notice? You think no one notices? You shove me in the dorm, you jab me at the table, you trip me in corridors, and you’ve got the creativity of a brick doing it. Not even a clever brick—just the sort that sits in mud until someone kicks it. And don’t look so offended, it’s true. James is oblivious because James is busy admiring himself in any reflective surface and Sirius—well Sirius notices, don’t get smug, he notices—but the thing about Sirius is he never says anything until he’s about to explode, so that’s its own problem, but me? I’m right there in the middle of all this, and I feel every single shove you give me, and honestly, Wormtail, if your whole method of communication is shove, shove, shove, then what am I supposed to do with that? Translate it into Morse code? Because that’s what it feels like, like you’re tapping out some desperate message on my ribs, only you’re doing it with your fists and knees instead of a telegraph, and I don’t speak that language, Peter! You want me to read your mind? Be subtle for once in your life, or use your words, because at this rate I’ll be writing a thesis on the semiotics of Wormtail’s elbows. And—Merlin’s beard—at least vary it up! Trip me one day, pinch my quill another, something. Do you know how repetitive it is, always a shove? You’re becoming predictable, and the thing about predictable is it’s boring, and boring is the one thing you should never be, Peter, because you’ve got a brain, and you’ve got talent, and you’ve got—” Remus flung his hands wide, exasperated now, voice rising, “—all this bloody potential, but you waste it trying to knock me sideways like some poorly trained Bludger. Honestly, Wormy, you’re exhausting.”
He stopped, breath coming quicker, and realized Peter was gaping at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Remus bit his lip. “That’s all I had to say.”
Peter blinked at him for a long moment, mouth still hanging open like he’d swallowed a Doxy. Then his face scrunched up, indignant but not nearly quick enough to be clever. “Well—well—maybe I shove you because you’re always in the way!” he sputtered, jabbing a finger at Remus’s chest as if that proved his point. “Yeah! Always sitting there with your neat notes and your… your stupid hair that never goes flat, and McGonagall likes you best, and James hugs you all the time, and Sirius keeps—keeps—giving you apples! Like you’re some precious thing that’ll break if they don’t carry you around!”
Remus raised his eyebrows, utterly unimpressed.
Peter’s face burned brighter. “And you—you don’t even fall properly! You tripped and you made it look cool somehow, and everyone laughed with you instead of at you, and that’s—that’s not fair!”
Remus had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Stupid hair. Apples. Not fair. It was so breathtakingly juvenile it almost circled back around to being impressive.
He leaned his chin into his hand, studying Peter as though he were a very curious footnote in a very dull book. “That’s your grand defense, Wormy? I’m in the way, my hair offends you, and I apparently dodge too gracefully for your liking?”
Peter crossed his arms, glaring like a sulky child. “Yes.”
Remus was really trying to be nice. Really! But a sharp laugh still escaped him.
Peter scowled deeper, muttering something about “better than being boring,” but Remus just sat back, lips quirking despite himself. He really thinks he’s hiding something under all that nonsense. But if Sirius could see his face right now, he’d never let him live it down.
And, of course, the thought of Sirius sent a treacherous warmth through his chest—grey eyes, crooked grin, the casual brush of fingers over a borrowed quill. Remus exhaled slowly, redirecting his focus to Peter. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Wormtail. Much better.”
The portrait hole swung open with a creak, letting in a gust of corridor noise before it shut behind James and Sirius. They were both laughing—loud, unrestrained, a sound that filled the room as easily as their presence did. James was waving his arms about, imitating McGonagall’s sharp tone, while Sirius clutched his side like the reenactment was the best thing he’d ever seen.
They stopped short when they saw the tableau by the fire. Peter, hunched small in his chair, face pinched, arms crossed tighter than before. And Remus—Remus sat with one leg crossed, posture relaxed, quill moving slowly across his parchment, expression collected, almost bored. But there was something in his eyes, a glint that hadn’t been there before, a sharpness that made the firelight seem to bend toward him.
James blinked. “Uh… did we interrupt something?”
Peter blurted, too quickly, “No!” and his voice cracked.
Remus lifted his gaze lazily from the parchment, meeting James’s eyes with perfect composure. “Not at all. We were revising.” His tone was smooth, neutral, but he could tell Sirius had caught the faint curl at the edge of his mouth, the way his eyes lingered a heartbeat too long on Peter before flicking away.
James, oblivious as ever, plopped into the nearest chair, running a hand through his hair. “Well, good. You should’ve been there, Moony—McGonagall nearly hexed Sirius for doodling a hippogriff on the wall.”
“It was a good hippogriff,” Sirius defended, sliding onto the arm of Remus’s chair with deliberate ease. “She has no appreciation for art.”
Remus angled his parchment away so Sirius wouldn’t smudge it, but he didn’t move otherwise. He just arched an eyebrow, the faintest hint of amusement flickering across his features
Sirius tilted his head, studying him. Sirius smirked, low and knowing, and murmured just loud enough for Remus to hear, “You look smug, Moony.”
Remus snorted. “Do I?”
Peter shifted uncomfortably in his chair, glaring at the carpet.
James yawned, missing the undercurrent entirely. “Anyway, who’s up for exploding snap?”
Remus didn’t answer at once. He just leaned back slightly, quill poised, and let the moment hang, enjoying—just a little too much—the rare satisfaction of having the upper hand.
Cool. Composed. And for once, Sirius noticed.
The game of exploding snap had gone the way it always did: James cheating blatantly, Peter sulking whenever his cards burst into flame, and Sirius loudly declaring himself champion regardless of the evidence. Remus had been half in, half out, scribbling on parchment between turns, but every time Sirius leaned too close to snatch a card from his hand, the brush of shoulder against shoulder set off that treacherous warmth in his chest.
When the last round ended in smoke and James was coughing dramatically into his sleeve, Sirius stretched out across the rug, propping himself on an elbow. His grey eyes gleamed wickedly as they found Remus. “So. Prefect boy. Swan-footed dodger. Tell me—how does it feel to be the undisputed darling of McGonagall and the quickest escape artist in Gryffindor?”
Remus looked up from his parchment, brow furrowed. “Feels like homework, mostly.”
“Don’t play modest,” Sirius pressed, a grin pulling at his mouth. “You practically glowed when you dodged Wormtail earlier. Like you’d been kissed by the gods. Admit it, Moony—you loved every second.”
And there it was: the heat rushing straight into Remus’s face before he could wrestle it down. He felt the flush creep from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. His quill froze mid-word.
Sirius’s eyes widened. Then he actually jumped, as if Remus’s blush had hexed him. “Merlin’s beard—you’re blushing! You—Remus Moony Lupin—are blushing.” He looked half-delighted, half-disbelieving, like he’d just discovered unicorns roamed the common room at night.
James perked up instantly. “What? Moony’s blushing? Where? I want proof!”
Remus shut his notebook with a snap, and then, before the laughter could swell too loud, he pushed dramatically to his feet
Distract them. Distract them. Distract them. Think icy cold thoughts.
. He tilted his head back, narrowed his eyes, and let a wicked grin spread across his face. His voice dropped into a growl, theatrical and ridiculous:
“Rrrrawr. The big bad werewolf has come to claim his prey. Who shall it be?” He stalked toward Sirius with exaggerated steps, claw-hands raised, looming over him with a snarl that was more pantomime than predator. “You’ve mocked me too long, Black. Prepare to be ravished.”
Sirius scrambled back, laughing so hard he nearly toppled into the hearth. “Merlin’s pants, he’s gone feral! Somebody restrain him!”
James doubled over, wheezing. “Oh, this is better than Quidditch.”
Peter sat stiffly in his chair, expression tight, but the rest of the room erupted in laughter as Remus pounced dramatically, pinning Sirius by the shoulders against the rug. Remus bared his teeth, mock-snarling inches from Sirius’s face, before collapsing into helpless laughter of his own.
“See?” he said between chuckles, rolling off. “Not glowing. Just terrifying.”
Sirius lay back on the floor, chest heaving with laughter, hair a wild halo. “Bloody hell, Moony,” he gasped, grinning ear to ear. “If that’s your idea of terrifying, I’ll take it any day.”
Remus, cheeks still hot, ducked his head with a crooked smile. Play it off. Laugh with them. Don’t let it show how close you were, how much you wanted to stay leaning over him.
But Sirius was still staring, eyes bright, and Remus wondered—just for a heartbeat—if he’d betrayed himself more than he meant to.
Sirius Black had never seen Moony blush before. Not properly. Not that faint pink tinge he sometimes got when McGonagall praised him in front of the class or when James told him his handwriting was sexy (because James had no filter and Sirius lived for watching him embarrass people). No—this was a real blush, hot and sudden, like someone had set fire under his skin.
And Sirius? He absolutely lost his mind.
Holy shit. Moony. The quiet one. The “I’m composed, I’m collected, I’m too clever for your nonsense” one. He BLUSHED. He BLUSHED AT ME. HA! HA! I WIN. Oh, this is rich. I’m never letting him live this down. I’m going to tease him until he hexes me. I should write this down. Tattoo it on my arm. Sirius Black: witness to The Lupin Blush of 1976.
He’d jumped back because he didn’t know what else to do—fight or flight had kicked in, and apparently his body picked “act like the sofa’s on fire.” James had crowed, demanding proof, but Sirius barely heard him, because Moony had snapped his notebook shut and then—sweet Merlin—he had stood up.
And gone mad.
Like full “I’m-a-monster-in-the-night” roleplay mad, prowling toward Sirius with that ridiculous snarl and his hands curled into claws.
Sirius’s brain short-circuited.
What. What the hell. He’s stalking me. He’s growling at me. This is illegal, this is unfair, this is the funniest and hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Oh my god, he’s gonna pounce. He’s actually gonna—
For a flicker of a moment, Sirius felt the same low, coiled panic that used to creep up his spine when his mother’s voice went sharp behind him. He shoved it away before it could form and grinned up at Remus like nothing in the world scared him. Because this was a good thing. A very, very good thing.
Then Remus was on him, all knees and elbows and mock feral growls, pinning him flat to the rug with his teeth bared. Sirius had laughed so hard he nearly choked, not just because it was hilarious but because—bloody hell he’s strong when he wants to be, why is that attractive, why do I like this?
“Prepare to be ravished,” Remus had snarled in that stupid voice, and Sirius thought he might actually combust on the spot.
WHAT KIND OF PREFECT SAYS THAT? WHO IS THIS BOY? THIS ISN’T MOONY. THIS IS—this is—oh god, I want him to do it again. Do it again. Do it right now. Don’t stop. Never stop.
When Remus finally rolled off, laughing so hard his eyes crinkled, Sirius just lay there flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling like his soul had left his body.
He wheezed, “If that’s your idea of terrifying, I’ll take it any day.”
And he meant it. Every single word.
Note to self: new life goal is to make Moony blush again. And again. And again. Until he either hexes me or ravishes me for real. Either way, I win.