Chapter Text
Part I — “Just Another Monday (In Hell)”
Sirius comes home from his night shift with his clothes wrinkled and his dark circles deep enough to serve as archaeological sites. He closes the door with his foot, tosses his keys somewhere he won’t remember, and collapses face-first onto his bed without even taking off his boots.
Silence.
Five full minutes of peace.
Then the alarm goes off.
He smacks it blindly without opening his eyes.
Silence again.
It goes off again.
“Fuck…” he mutters, voice rough with accumulated exhaustion.
He shoots upright, already late, and immediately trips over a pile of clean laundry he never got around to folding.
Half-asleep, he drags himself to the bathroom, drops the soap, brushes his teeth with one hand while searching for the razor with the other… and doesn’t look closely enough before accidentally putting it in his mouth.
He screams. Spits. Curses the universe.
The mirror gives him back the image of an eighteen-year-old boy with tangled hair and tired eyes—but a spark of something still alive behind them.
He ties his hair into a messy bun, pulls on an old band T-shirt from a band he doesn’t even listen to anymore, and a pair of ripped jeans he hopes still look cool. When he tries to put his boots back on, he loses his balance and falls sideways.
He sighs from the floor.
“Excellent start, Black.”
The apartment smells like stale coffee and paper. It’s tiny, cluttered with open books, half-empty mugs, loose coins, and newspapers stacked in a corner. The walls are thin, and even the echo of his own footsteps sounds tired.
Regulus is already at the table, immaculate even at this hour, scrolling through something on his phone.
Sirius walks out, pulling on his jacket.
Regulus holds out a thermos without looking up.
“Coffee.”
“My hero,” Sirius says, taking a sip immediately.
He burns his tongue. “Fuck.”
Regulus doesn’t even blink.
They rush out the door together. The keys jingle once before the door shuts behind them.
☆☆☆
The sunrise paints gold across the windshield.
In the passenger seat, Regulus quietly adjusts his backpack on his lap, watching the streets fill with buses and students. Sirius drives with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped around the thermos.
“How was work?” Regulus asks, pretending not to care.
Sirius smirks sideways.
“As terrible as always.” He glances at him. “But that’s not what you actually wanted to ask.”
Regulus sighs.
“Are you feeling okay about going back?”
“Well, it’s not like I have many options,” Sirius says with a dry laugh.
Silence settles thickly between them. Only the hum of the engine and the quiet radio fill the space.
“Maybe everyone forgot,” Regulus says, clinging to a hope they both know is stupid.
Sirius turns slightly.
“Reggie, it’s high school. If you break down drunk at a party and twenty people record it… no. They don’t forget.”
Regulus lowers his eyes. Sirius notices and softens, offering a resigned little smile.
A few blocks from campus, Sirius breaks the silence with a teasing tone.
“Want me to drop you off here so no one sees you arriving with your loser brother?”
Regulus squints at him.
“You’re an idiot. Drive.”
There’s another pause. Then, quieter:
“If someone bothers you, tell me. I can make something explode in their face in the lab.”
Sirius is about to laugh, but something warm loosens in his chest instead. He glances at him, tender in a way he never says out loud.
The school parking lot buzzes with students, chatter, and slamming doors—cars that cost too much, backpacks that cost nothing.
It’s the kind of place where everyone is always watching, even when they pretend not to be.
But the moment the brothers step out of the car, the noise shifts.
Almost like the entire campus turns to look at them.
Sirius—bleary-eyed, messy, coffee stain on his hand.
Regulus—straight-backed, flawless, shirt perfectly ironed.
The contrast is nearly cruel.
Sirius shrugs, trying to smile.
Regulus watches him closely.
“You okay?” he whispers.
“Always,” Sirius answers.
Regulus heads toward his first class. Sirius takes a deep breath before stepping into the building.
The hallways are full of hushed snickers and glances that dart away at the last second. A group walks past him.
“Hey, Black,” one of them says with a vicious grin. “Try not to cry in McGonagall’s class.”
A shove.
Metal clangs loudly as his shoulder hits a locker.
Sirius rests his forehead against the cold metal, closes his eyes, and lets out a tired groan.
He doesn’t say a single word.
☆☆☆
Part II — “The Party With the Awkward Silence”
One month earlier...
The music could already be heard from the street: bass vibrating through the walls, lights flashing out the open windows, voices tangled with cheap alcohol and end-of-summer desperation.
It was the kind of party no one should attend but everyone did. The kind where you pretended nothing bad would ever happen again. The kind where you swore you were still invincible.
Peter was already in the center of the living room, head dipped into a keg while everyone around him cheered like he was competing in the Olympics. Someone chanted his name—“Pettigrew, Pettigrew, Pettigrew!”—as if he were a national hero.
A few feet away, James Potter, knee brace strapped over one leg and a crooked smile on his face, was shamelessly flirting with a girl in the corner. He weaponized his injured-puppy look like a professional.
It was working. Of course it was working.
On the main couch sat Barty Crouch Jr., Evan Rosier, Dorcas Meadowes, and Pandora Lovegood, sprawled out like they owned the place.
Pandora was drinking something neon and sparkly that absolutely no one dared question.
Dorcas was recording the night’s most embarrassing moments with the precision of a documentarian.
Barty kept laughing, half draped over Evan, occasionally lifting his phone to record unsuspecting victims.
Evan greeted everyone who passed by, charming and just a little bit dangerous.
The front door opened.
Sirius Black walked in wearing a tired smile, the type held together by sheer momentum. His fingers were intertwined with Remus’s, who kept glancing at him with the quiet worry of someone who had already counted how many drinks Sirius had tonight and how many he would try to have.
Sirius squeezed his hand, playful, dismissive.
“Moony, I’m fine. I swear.”
Remus didn’t answer, but he let go when Sirius dove straight into the crowd, greeting people, joking loudly, hugging half the room as if exhaustion didn’t exist.
Regulus walked in behind them.
The music seemed to soften for a second, just enough for people to notice him. Perfectly pressed shirt, serene expression, hair immaculate.
He crossed the room without acknowledging anyone.
And in the corner, James Potter straightened so fast he nearly toppled over. He completely forgot the girl mid-sentence.
He winked.
Regulus didn’t slow. He rolled his eyes and kept walking toward the couch where Barty, Evan, Dorcas, and Pandora waited.
Pandora handed him a drink without speaking.
He took it.
The night spiraled on.
Laughter, drinks, flashing lights.
For a moment, the Marauders gathered near the pool, and it almost felt like everything was still the way it used to be.
Sirius was laughing, Remus was smiling, Peter was nearly falling into the punch bowl, and James was complaining about the playlist like a disgruntled coach.
But then the drinks piled up.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Too many.
Remus took a cup from Sirius’s hand.
“Sirius. Enough.”
“Relax, Professor Lupin,” Sirius said with that charming grin that once opened every door. “I’m celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?” Peter asked from behind him, real concern in his voice.
“That we survived another summer,” Sirius said, lifting an empty glass. “And that I’m still standing. Kind of.”
James tried to intervene, but it was already too late.
Sirius had drifted into a group of seniors, talking with exaggerated enthusiasm.
“Yeah, I work in this bar now, smells like fries all the time,” he said, laughing too loudly over the music. “Didn’t even have time to shower before coming here but hey, that’s life, right?”
No one said anything.
A strange silence settled around him.
And then, without warning, he broke.
The glass slipped from his hand.
His palms flew to his face.
A raw, ugly, heart-cracking sound escaped him.
Sirius Black—the coolest guy in school—was crying in the middle of the party.
Not cute crying.
Not cinematic crying.
Real ugly crying.
Red nose.
Shaking shoulders.
Voice splintering under the weight of everything he had been holding in.
Within seconds, at least twenty phones were recording.
Someone laughed in the back.
Another whispered his name like a scandal.
Regulus saw it from across the room. Frozen. Like watching a building collapse in slow motion.
James rushed over.
“Sirius, stop, let’s go.”
“I’m fine,” Sirius sobbed, tears streaming. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” Remus whispered, wrapping his arms around him from behind. He pulled him away, almost carrying him, Peter clearing the path with his hands out like a shield.
People stared as they slipped out the door.
The music had dipped. The air smelled like shame.
Regulus didn’t move.
Not when someone laughed again.
Not when another person replayed the video on their phone.
The screen lit up the room.
Sirius, crying.
A voice behind the camera saying “holy shit, look at that.”
Lily stormed across the room like a lightning strike.
“Delete it.”
“It’s just a video, Evans,” one guy scoffed.
James, leaning against the wall, stared at the screen.“Delete it,” he repeated.
“Or what, Potter? You gonna cry too, ex-captain?”
James froze.
For the first time in his life, he didn’t have a comeback.
Peter appeared beside him, face uncharacteristically hard.
“That’s enough, James. Come on.”
They walked out together.
The laughter dimmed, dying slowly like a fire without oxygen.
Regulus was still seated, staring at the door his brother had disappeared through.
The Juniors watched him in silence.
Barty finally exhaled and said what everyone was thinking.
“What the hell just happened?”
☆☆☆
Part III — “Back to the Scene of the Crime”
The air smells like disinfectant and secondhand embarrassment.
“Sirius?”
James’s voice reaches him before James does. He’s hobbling as fast as someone on crutches can move, each step hitting the floor with a dull wooden thud.
Peter trails behind him, carrying two backpacks and half of everyone’s breakfast like a pack mule in training.
Remus appears a heartbeat later. He doesn’t speak. He simply steps in front of Sirius, close enough for their breaths to mingle.
“Hi, love,” Remus whispers, soft enough to undo a person.
Sirius looks up, exhaustion flickering into something softer.
He offers a tiny smile, the kind only Remus ever gets.
“Hi.”
Remus threads their fingers together, completely unbothered by the staring.
And there are many stares.
The hallway buzzes with murmurs, side-eyes, half-whispered gossip—the kind of cruel curiosity that high school never really outgrows.
The four of them walking together again look like a ghost of something that used to be legendary.
Former kings of the school.
Now fallen myths.
Sirius is the one who breaks the silence.
“Let’s get out of here.”
The others nod without hesitation.
☆☆☆
The Spanish classroom smells like markers and paper.
Grey morning light filters through the blinds, and the clock on the wall ticks with exaggerated drama, as if deliberately slowing time to torment them.
Sirius is doodling in his notebook, scribbling half-formed lines and bits of a script from theater club. His pen is chewed, the pages stained with dried coffee.
Beside him, Peter is fighting to stay awake, his head sliding off his hand every thirty seconds.
James is drawing football plays in the margins of his notes—arrows and circles everywhere, like muscle memory from a life he isn’t living anymore.
Only Remus is actually listening.
He raises his hand every few minutes, that shy little movement he always makes right before speaking. Until a voice behind him mutters something snide, just loud enough to spark a couple of cheap laughs.
Remus freezes.
His hand drops slowly.
His ears burn red.
Sirius notices instantly.
He lifts his eyes and gives him a smile.
A slow, sure smile.
The kind that says don’t listen to them, I’m here.
Remus looks down at his notebook, biting the inside of his cheek, but the color on his face isn’t just embarrassment anymore.
Class drags on. Endless.
Finally, the bell rings.
The hallway erupts with life again.
The four of them spill out of the room like a disorganized but unbreakable unit:
James hobbling forward, fighting his backpack as it keeps tangling with the crutch handle.
Sirius messy as ever, holding his half-empty coffee cup, shirt slipping out of his jeans.
Remus juggling far too many books, at least three on the verge of falling.
Peter behind them, anxious, alert, picking up everything the others drop without complaint.
And still—
they’re laughing.
At everything.
At nothing.
Laughing as if the world hasn’t beaten them down this year.
Until they see them.
At the far end of the hallway, the Juniors appear like a perfectly choreographed procession.
Barty and Evan lead the group, laughing at something only they find funny. Evan looks like he stepped out of a magazine spread; Barty talks with dramatic hand gestures that make him look like an aspiring cult leader.
Dorcas and Pandora walk at their sides, yin and yang—Dorcas sharp and lethal, Pandora calm and ethereal in a way that’s somehow even more intimidating.
And behind them, Regulus Black.
Flawless.
Untouchable.
Walking with the posture of someone who already knows where he belongs.
The hallway splits open around them.
Whispers.
Phones lifted.
Stares sharp enough to cut glass.
It’s like watching models walk in slow motion, imaginary wind playing with their hair.
The Seniors—the Marauders—instinctively step aside.
For a single moment, the brothers lock eyes.
Nothing more.
But in that heartbeat, a whole conversation passes between them.
A silent I’m sorry.
A quieter I’m okay.
They keep walking.
And just when the tension begins to dissolve, a classroom door slams open on the left and bam—hits Peter right in the face.
“Ah!”
He grabs his nose, wincing.
A wave of laughter ripples down the hall.
Sirius spins around, torn between horror and the urge to laugh.
James tries to help, but his crutches tangle instantly.
Remus drops at least three books.
And so, stumbling through chaos, clumsiness, and half-swallowed laughter, the four of them continue toward the cafeteria.
Together.
Always.
Like nothing else matters.
☆☆☆
Part IV — “The Lunch Table Revolution”
The cafeteria is all high ceilings, long windows, too much light to hide in.
The kind of place designed to be watched.
It sounds the same as always: clattering trays, laughter, footsteps, one conversation layered over another.
But for the Marauders, everything feels different.
Too bright.
Too loud.
Too… foreign.
They walk in together.
Sirius at the front, wearing his worn-out jacket and holding a crushed sandwich in a paper bag.
James behind him, the ends of his crutches thudding against the floor.
Peter carrying his tray like it might explode at any moment.
Remus trying not to drop the stack of books he absolutely doesn’t need to bring to lunch.
When they lift their heads, they see it.
Their table.
The one in the center.
Wide. Clean. Good lighting. A perfect view of every other table.
Their table for three years.
And now—
it’s taken.
Barty Crouch Jr. has his feet up on one of the chairs. Evan Rosier is laughing with his head thrown back.
Dorcas is telling a story that makes half the cafeteria snort with laughter.
Pandora is painting her nails baby pink, utterly unconcerned with everything else.
Regulus sits at the far end, listening in silence, spine straight, eyes unfocused.
The Marauders stop.
There’s no need to speak.
The silence says it all.
Sirius is the first to move. His smile barely exists.
“Come on,” he murmurs.
They walk to the back of the cafeteria, to the table missing half its paint, one leg shorter than the other, old gum fossils stuck underneath.
Their new kingdom.
They sit.
Remus places his tray down carefully, smoothing a napkin as if that could fix anything.
Peter sighs, poking at his mashed potatoes.
James stares at his apple for a few seconds, then slides it across the table toward Sirius without a word.
“Thanks, Prongs,” Sirius whispers.
He doesn’t eat it.
He just holds it.
That’s when the sound hits.
A wave of noise—first laughter…
then audio from a phone…
and finally, a broken voice.
His voice.
Someone has played the video.
“I’m fine… I’m fine…”
Eyes turn toward them.
Sirius lowers his head.
Remus brushes their legs together under the table, trying to anchor him.
Peter hides his face in his hands.
James clenches his jaw hard enough to hurt.
Then Mary’s heels cut through the cafeteria.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
She approaches like a storm wearing expensive perfume.
Perfect lipstick. Sharp gaze.
She turns toward the nearby group with an expression capable of reducing a grown adult to dust.
Instant silence.
Then she sits with the boys, crossing her legs casually.
“So,” she says, pretending nothing’s wrong, “who’s going to explain why the mashed potatoes look like cement?”
Lily arrives a moment later, dragging a folder.
“If I hear one more word about debate club, I’m going to—” She stops when she sees their faces.
“Oh.”
Marlene appears behind her, wearing the team shirt, distracted but visibly tuned in to one person across the cafeteria—Dorcas, who’s watching her just as intensely.
A thin, invisible thread between them.
For a moment, the table feels alive again.
The seven of them.
Laughing a little.
Pretending things are still the same.
Until Mary’s phone buzzes.
She frowns.
“What the hell…?”
James leans in. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
Peter, unable to resist, snatches the phone from her hands.
“Peter!” Mary shrieks, but it’s too late.
The phone moves around the table until it lands in front of Remus.
He looks at it.
And the face he makes tells Sirius everything.
Before anyone can stop him, Remus turns the phone toward him.
It’s a sticker.
A gif cut directly from the video.
Sirius crying.
A perfect replica of the moment he wants to bury.
Except now, it has text above it: “Monday mood.”
He doesn’t speak.
He just stands up.
His chair screeches across the floor.
He starts walking toward the exit.
Nobody moves to stop him— not at first.
Then a tray “accidentally” collides with him.
Its contents spill down his shirt: mashed potatoes, juice, something unidentifiable and sticky.
A split second of silence.
Then laughter.
Louder.
Harsher.
Echoing.
Sirius doesn’t look at anyone.
He just breathes in, jaw tight, and keeps walking.
Remus is the first to stand.
Then James.
Then Peter.
The three of them follow him out.
The table falls silent behind them.
Mary watches Sirius leave, her chest tightening.
Lily swallows hard, unsure what to say.
Marlene drops her gaze to the floor.
At the center table, the Juniors go quiet too.
Other people’s laughter doesn’t reach them.
Regulus stares at the doorway still swinging from Sirius’s exit, the echo of the cafeteria dying around him.
His fingers tap the table, restless, aching to move—to do something.
“Shit,” Barty says at last. “That was… depressing.”
Dorcas snaps toward him, eyes blazing. “Shut up, Crouch.”
Barty raises his hands.
“Look, I love those idiots, but come on. It’s the end of their social era.”
Evan glares at him. “Don’t be stupid.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Barty insists. “It’s just… awful seeing them like that.”
Regulus still hasn’t said a word.
Until he does.
His voice is calm, controlled—but razor-sharp.
“Sirius has bigger concerns than a bunch of high school morons with hollow skulls.”
And without another word, he stands up.
Leaves his half-eaten apple behind.
And walks out of the cafeteria without looking back.
☆☆☆
Part V — “Emotional Support Paintbrush”
The auditorium is almost empty.
Light streams in through the high windows, tinting the floating dust a warm orange.
The air smells of paint, wood, and old backstage curtains.
Sirius sits on the floor beside a half-finished set piece—a stone arch meant for the fall play.
He has his headphones on, humming along to The Smiths while dragging a paintbrush across the surface in lazy, distracted strokes.
The back door squeaks open.
Regulus walks in slowly.
His footsteps echo once, then disappear into the silence of the empty seats.
For a moment, he just watches him—Sirius’s tangled hair, the paint-stained shirt, the forced concentration in the way his hand moves.
Sirius doesn’t notice him until a few seconds later.
He turns, slips off one earbud, and when he sees who it is, a tired smile tugs at his mouth.
“Hey, Reggie.”
Regulus approaches.
He doesn’t speak right away.
He just stands in front of him, hands in his pockets, chest tight.
“Are you okay?” he finally asks, voice low.
Sirius sighs and sets the brush on the rim of the paint can.
“Yeah, Reggie. I’m fine.”
Regulus looks at him with that unique blend of skepticism and affection only he can pull off.
He doesn’t believe a word of it.
Sirius huffs out a crooked smile.
“It takes more than a meme and mashed potatoes to bring down a Black, don’t you think?”
Regulus lets out the tiniest laugh—barely there, but real.
He sits beside him on the floor, not caring about the paint on his pants.
He picks up another brush and, without asking, begins painting a corner of the arch.
“You’re missing shadow here,” he murmurs.
“Thanks, art professor,” Sirius shoots back, but the tone is soft.
For a few minutes, neither of them speaks.
Only the sound of bristles against wood, the creak of old seats, and Sirius’s muffled humming fill the room.
The door opens again.
“Sirius? You in here?” James’s voice echoes through the auditorium.
He walks in without looking, a stack of papers tucked under one arm, his crutch thudding with every step.
When he finally glances up, he freezes.
Regulus is there—sitting beside Sirius, hands stained with paint, lit by the warm sunset glow.
For a moment, James forgets how to breathe.
He doesn’t say anything.
He can’t.
Every scrap of confidence he’s ever had—his easy smile, his natural charm—evaporates on the spot.
Regulus raises a curious eyebrow at him.
James blinks, stammers something unusable… and immediately drops a bunch of papers he’s carrying.
“Shit,” he whispers, scrambling to gather them.
Regulus moves first.
He bends down, their fingers brushing lightly over the papers.
The smile he offers is tiny, barely a curve—but enough to throw James’s entire nervous system off-balance.
“Here,” Regulus says, handing him the stack.
James nods, heartbeat completely derailed.
“Thanks.”
Regulus straightens up, wipes his hands with a napkin, and walks out without looking back.
James watches him until the door shuts behind him.
He exhales.
“…Shit.”
On the floor, Sirius lets out something between a groan and a laugh.
“Ugh. Prongs, seriously? MY BROTHER?”
James turns, pale, eyes wide. “What? No, I— I wasn’t—”
“Please,” Sirius says, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re a walking cliché.”
“It’s not a cliché!” James protests, cheeks burning.
Sirius arches a brow.
“Really? My best friend falling for my younger brother? It’s literally a Wattpad prompt.”
James makes an offended noise, drops onto the floor beside him, and hides his face in his hands.
Sirius laughs softly, resting his head against the curtain.
“You’re a disaster, Prongs.”
“I know.”
“Well… at least you’re not the only one.”
The silence that follows is warm.
Comfortable.
Sunlight slides down the windows, turning the dust golden.
Dry paint. Quiet breaths.
Two boys on the floor, trying not to think too hard about anything at all.
And that’s how they stay until the final bell pulls them out of their little refuge.
☆☆☆
Part VI — “Dinner, Dancing, and the Death Threat from Mrs. Pearman”
The tiny apartment smells like paint, coffee, and something that is definitely burning.
The old radio sitting on top of the fridge blasts a slightly distorted song by The Cure at full volume.
Sirius is belting it out like he’s on stage, using a wooden spoon as a microphone, sliding across the kitchen in his socks.
“However far away, I will always love youuuu—” He spins—badly—and slams into the oven.
“Shit!” he laughs, without missing a beat.
Remus, sitting at the small table surrounded by papers, pretends not to see him.
He holds a cup of coffee, brows furrowed, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him.
Sirius bends down to Remus’s height and sings straight into his ear, dragging the last note with theatrical drama.
“I’m not singing with you,” Remus says, not lifting his eyes from the notebook.
“Oh, yes, you are, Moony,” Sirius replies, grabbing his hand.
Remus rolls his eyes but doesn’t pull away.
He stands, and Sirius twirls him around the cramped dining room—both of them laughing, stumbling, stealing quick kisses between steps.
The spoon transitions from microphone to makeshift baton.
Steam from the boiling noodles mixes with their laughter.
The front door clicks open.
Regulus walks in, trailing cold night air behind him.
He’s been to the movies with friends after school; he still has his jacket on, hair slightly out of place.
The first thing he sees is Sirius and Remus dancing in the middle of the room—singing loudly, laughing uncontrollably.
The whole apartment pulses with life.
And for the first time in a long while, it feels more like a home than a refuge.
Sirius notices him immediately.
He spins toward him without stopping the song, shaking his shoulders in a ridiculous dance move.
“Reggie!” he shouts, spinning around him. “The toughest audience has arrived!”
He ruffles his hair and offers him the spoon with mock solemnity.
“Your turn.”
Regulus stares at him, sighs in resignation.
“I’m not—”
“Come on, Little Black. Honor the family name,” Sirius says, flashing a grin that refuses to take no for an answer.
Regulus sighs again.
And sings.
Barely above a whisper at first, but enough for Sirius to jump triumphantly.
Seconds later, all three of them are spinning around the tiny dining room—Sirius exaggerating every move, Remus laughing so hard he nearly falls, and Regulus keeping rhythm with a smile he hasn’t felt in days.
The sound is chaotic, warm, alive.
Until—
BANG.
A harsh thud against the shared wall.
“Shut up or I’ll call the police!” a cranky elderly voice yells from the other side.
Sirius turns to the wall, deeply offended.
“Go knit something, Mrs. Pearman!”
Regulus bursts out laughing.
Remus doubles over.
The volume drops a few notches.
A little while later, the three of them sit at the table—
Three bowls of instant noodles.
A bottle of cheap wine.
Plastic cups.
Sirius stretches his arms toward them grandly.
“Behold! A gourmet dinner. Your favorite, Reggie.”
Regulus gives him a deadpan look.
“With wine?”
Sirius gasps, hand over his chest like a wounded actor.
“Are you implying I would offer alcohol to my baby brother?” He says this while reaching for another cup in the cupboard.
Remus snorts.
“Absolutely not. Never.”
Regulus smiles—small, but real.
“To your sense of morality, then.”
“And to your patience,” Sirius replies, filling the cups.
They eat like that—talking about movies, teachers, ridiculous things that hurt less when said between laughter.
It’s messy, but warm.
A snapshot of an improvised family learning how to breathe again.
Sirius lifts his plastic cup, still half-filled with cheap wine.
“To surviving the first day of school.”
“To surviving,” Remus echoes.
“And to Mrs. Pearman never following through on her threat,” Regulus adds.
Their cups clink softly.
The sound disappears into the background music and their laughter.
And for a moment, the world is simple—
Three voices, one song, and the quiet promise that no matter what comes next,
they’ll have each other.