Chapter Text
The lilac grey light of morning found Sirius in their bed. His limbs deliciously sore from nothing more than his impermeable hold on Remus and Hermione since she had returned to bed in the still-dark hours of the new day. He hoped his shoulders continued to ache so he could remember what they felt like in his arms all day.
The muggle clock on the wall read 7, and he was both disappointed and pleasantly surprised that he still had a few hours before he and Regulus took off, even if the thought of his younger brother caused his head to pound. His pompous attitude and arrogant lilt made every word out of his mouth sound like bludger banging around in Sirius’s skull. Each hit was a reminder of their parents, and he sounded so much like Orion that sometimes Sirius had to watch him while he spoke to ensure his father wasn’t in the room.
It had caused rising tension between them after that first vulnerable night, stiff jabs and short, sharp responses. The memories of their childhood bombarded his vision constantly. They had spent so much of the previous day alone with Dorea and Ted planning that Sirius needed the type of space from Regulus that only the sanctity of sleep offered—his pathetic need to avoid those identical moonlight irises they shared that made him shiver in fear.
It didn’t matter that it had been Leticia’s blood on his hands and that Regulus had been trying to save her. It was those eyes and memories of his blood on Walburga’s cuffs the night he left that made him curl in on himself—wanting nothing more than for Remus and Hermione to absorb him and shield him from his thoughts. Like they would offer him some buoyancy against the tidal wave of memories he had from 12 Grimmauld Place.
He wanted to look at Regulus with love and hope. He wasn’t a monster. He missed him all the time. It would be a dream to hold his brother again like he had desired the other night, to comfort him and be the innocent fawns of their youth again, but his contempt felt like shards of glass against his skin. Reminders of their once-shared life continued to crash like ragged, frothy waves against his consciousness.
Pulling himself from bed, he stumbled toward the bathroom, seeking the warmth of a shower to let the steam cleanse his memories, avoiding the mirror more than usual. He was too cagey to see his haunting reflection, burdened by the repercussions of the past days and the perils ahead of him. Sirius stepped into the stream of scalding water without a second thought, anything to stop this emotional dry drowning.
He watched his skin redden before his eyes, pebbling from the heat as each droplet stung perfectly. Pelting against his back and making his hair feel heavy against his scalp, his headache swirling down the drain as the water slid down his body. He found his chest rattling in relief at the notion.
Steam had started to fill the small bathroom, blurring his vision as he settled into the comfort and anonymity of the small, humid room. He wasn’t a member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black here. He was just Sirius, and that was enough for those who mattered.
He stayed there, letting the water pelt him and his muscles relax, nervous he would forget that burn that came from clinging to Hermione and Remus all night but needing his strength for whatever lay ahead of them today.
As if she had heard her name in his mind, he saw the shower curtain shift as golden limbs and wild bed-tousled curls slinked into the small space with him. A sleepy smile on her face when she found him watching her entrance.
Maybe it was the heat of the shower, or that she still was a little embarrassed to be completely bare around them, but whatever it was, that gentle, pure-hearted shyness in her made the heavy beat of his heart lighter. Looking into the warm brown of her eyes drove away the memory of his kin. Watching her skin turn pink and flushed, slick with water and steam, he felt his magic soar.
He’d watched her carry forward their plans yesterday, and he knew she wasn’t done yet, that the fire in her still burned even in her halcyon innocence before him. He loved both sides of her, how she wore her hurt and strength like badges of honor. He’d follow her in her thirst for revenge. But he would also reward her delicate nature and would be there to catch her when she crumbled from pressure or euphoria.
Her hands were still cold despite the heat of the shower as her nails brushed down his chest and across the planes of his stomach. His co*ck sprang up between them as she traced his scattered tapestry tattoos and moved her soft hands through the trail of coarse dark hair leading from his belly button to his painfully hard co*ck. Never indulging him, nothing more than teasing with barely-there tugs and gentle caressing of his length, only adding to his need for her.
His co*ck was as red and angry as his drenched skin, weeping for her, and he was desperate to feel the firm grip of her palm or the squeeze of her core around him. He didn’t want to waste any time. He tried to breathe her in, embrace the promise of a life together after this with their bodies. He needed the reminder that the brilliant glow of her pleasure would drive away the darkness of his mind.
His fingers found their way through the damp curls on her head, firmly grasping at the back of her head and tilting her back so he could slot his lips against hers. Soft, languid kisses as he consumed her lips, and she swallowed his entire soul.
His other hand found the curve of her waist and the supple skin of her bum before tugging her tightly against him. Hungry for her as he tasted her moan of surprise when his co*ck brushed against her stomach. Hermione’s hands left his throbbing co*ck to wrap around his neck, rising to her tiptoes to deepen their kiss. No longer the lazy Sunday morning ministrations of lovers, they were growing frantic in the waterfall of the shower.
Sirius was desperate to show her how she would be theirs forever. Because that was it, in the few short months of being together, like perfect pieces of a puzzle fitting together, he had known—that she and Remus were it. He longed to say it to her, to whisper those three words like a prayer in her ear every chance he got.
But she was not ready, so for now, he would have to show her. Without breaking their kiss, he hoisted her up, both his hands going to cup her arse, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around him. A gasp escaped her lips as her back hit the cold tile wall.
If he thought the shower had been warm, it was nothing compared to the heat that radiated from her core. He could feel her drenched and slick as she ground against him, practically dripping down her inner thighs and desperate for friction.
He broke their kiss, pressing their foreheads together to watch her take him. To see her pupils blow wide as he stretched her delectable puss* on his co*ck. He wanted to taste her, to savor every coupling they had together. But they didn’t have the time today. One day, he promised, but it was no longer a prayer. Now a threat to any gods who would try to steal her from him.
“One day, when this war is over,” he ground out, hoping to prophesize their future as his hips slammed up into her, bottoming out on the first stroke. “I am going to have you on every surface for hours.” He sealed his declaration with open-mouth kisses across her collarbone and chest, sucking and biting on her neck till you could no longer see where his and Remus's marks ended and her scars started.
“I'm going to watch Remus make you ours,” he emphasized with teeth against her nipple that time, and she cried out, desperate for the feel of canines breaking the thin skin of her neck. The sensation of her tightening around him at the idea drove him mad, the snapping of his hips getting faster and harder—the room filled with the sound of their moans and slapping wet skin.
“Please, Sirius, I need it.” Her head was thrown back against the tile, heels digging into his back, and her eyes rolled back too as he continued his pumping, his pace turning punishing, unable to hold back when it came to her. Like he was drawn to her, hungry and starving, she filled his every need with her touch and devotion. He was desperate for her, and his rhythm showed it.
“I'll take my time every day, '' he slammed into her. Accentuating each word with another thrust, “morning, noon, and night.” she responded by digging her nails into his shoulders. He hoped she pierced skin and marked him. “Till I know every inch of your body,” he tugged hard with his teeth on her other nipple till he could feel her starting to flutter and contract around him. “But until then, play with that little cl*t of yours and come for me.”
She followed his command immediately, his perfect goddess of a witch. Her hand leaving the base of his skull, he hadn’t even noticed how hard she’d been tugging on his hair, too distracted by her loving claws, and he leaned back just enough to watch her rub tight circles against her cl*t.
Her legs started to tremble, and Sirius could watch her like this all day. The sight of his co*ck thrusting in and out of her tight pink c*nt, her delicate fingers working herself till she shook. The way her eyes were wide, and she bit her lower lip till her mouth fell open in a screaming moan.
The most beautiful thing in the world. He wished he could capture it like one of the greats, immortalizing this raw, undistilled version of her so that he could always gaze upon it.
The sight of her was so perfect it made the base of his spine tingle, and the power of their bond with Remus made his magic pulse and grow until he felt warm all over. It was like a bolt of lightning sent straight to his magical core as her nails dug deeper into his back, causing the dam of his own need to break.
Pumping and filling her with him till it was dripping out of her around them, and he imagined a day when he could push it back in with his fingers. The thought of her full of him and their future family was enough to make him start to harden again inside her.
They stayed like that, panting and sloppily kissing like two obsessed fools for a moment. When he finally let her legs fall, and his softening co*ck slipped from her, he had to clench his teeth to contain his groan at the sight of her swollen puss*. Instead of taking her again, he chose to rest his arms above her head on the wall, caging her in and letting her curl against him as they both gulped down the sticky air and regained their composure.
Maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him, but he could have sworn he saw the flash of tears in her eyes as she pressed her cheek against his chest and whispered a promise back to him, “When this is all over.”
He wished he could have stayed in that steamy bubble of heaven with Hermione, eventually dragging Remus in with them all day so that they might avoid their responsibilities and duty to wizarding kind. But Dorea’s words rang like a warning bell in his mind: “War waits for no one,” and so here he was, standing on the grassy lawn of Prewett Manor, no longer a home filled with laughter, now a haunted shadow in the background of their mission.
Regulus was speaking in hushed tones to Kreacher a few paces over. The decrepit elf stole glances at him, Remus, and Hermione as if they were nothing more than scum under his bare feet.
Regulus eventually stood from where he was crouched next to the elf and turned to face him. His skin looked much too lean and sallow for a 17-year-old boy, but there was nothing Sirius could do. Even if he did feel eons older than him, what just months out of school could do to someone, he was not his brother's father—just his former protector on a good day, an estranged memory on the worst.
“Kreacher will take us to the cave, and if he can get on board with us, then he’ll cross. If not, he has agreed to wait on the shore, and he will not leave without both of us.” Regulus said the words to Hermione, but they carried a command for Kreacher and a promise for Sirius. The elf grumbled under his breath before agreeing. Hermione offered a solemn nod of thanks in Kreacher’s direction, the elf hissing in response.
After ignoring her gratitude but biting his tongue, Kreacher held out his hand to Sirius, the wrinkly, mangy thing it was. Remus pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before pushing Sirius forward and pulling Hermione tighter into him. He caught their waves of goodbye just as he felt the pull of Kreacher’s apparition tug at his belly. It was seconds later when he felt his boots hit the jagged cliffside, onyx-colored rocks jutting out as they stared into a damp, dripping cave.
“The door requires a sacrifice,” Kreacher croaked, looking at both brothers expectantly.
“Will the wizard who enchanted this passage know who was here?” Regulus asked skeptically, and Sirius tried to contain his eye roll, biting his tongue to keep from snapping at his brother. If he didn’t want to do it, all he had to do was ask. Sirius assumed Regulus would be reluctant to injure his soft, high-society hands.
But when Kreacher nodded slowly, Sirius was surprised to see Regulus whip out his wand. A quick slicing hex caused blood to well in his palm. He did not hesitate to press his crimson-coated fingers to the rough stone, the blood not even visible against the dark shiny rocks. The sight evoked one of Hermione’s memories for him. Of her blood against the lacquered floors of Malfoy Manor, and it was the war cry he needed to push forward.
He was doing this for Hermione and Remus and their future.
For Lily and James and the future sprog that Hermione loved so dearly.
For the Weasleys and their still unfinished brood.
For Dorcas and Marlene, his dear friends, who had skirted death once already.
For the second family, he had found Dorea and Charlus, their fates still unknown. And Andy, who had loved him through his fall from Pureblood grace.
And lastly for Regulus, who looked at him with genuine concern as the rock split before them, and the two brothers climbed into the gaping cavern. Sirius hoped that they could both heal enough to be something again when this was over.
His hopes were damped by the reminder that this was where Regulus died—immortalized, an unknown rebel in a shallow, watery grave—consumed by inferi. The thought of long, spindly claws digging into his soft baby brother made him shiver.
Voldemort had advanced from necromancy, bewitching corpses and souls of waterlogged sailors and wizards to be his guardians. He had already told Regulus once not to touch or drink the water, but he felt compelled to do it again, grabbing the sleeve of his brother's robes, his eyes imploring as he spoke, “Don’t touch the water.”
“Same to you, brother,” was all Regulus said before they traversed the narrow crystal-encrusted path. They did not stop until they came to that eerie black lake Hermione had described, a white glowing crystalline island in the middle.
Kreacher immediately got to work, tugging the tarnished chain on the beach that led into the water. Regulus jumped in to help the elf drag the boat ashore, ignoring Sirius’s warning and moving precariously close to the water's edge.
When the boat surfaced, he studied it—small and eroded from the water but surprisingly dry. Regulus and Kreacher crawled in first, and with one final squaring of his shoulders, Sirius transformed into Padfoot and leaped into the boat.
It appeared they had met the rules of its maker. One wizard, one elf, and one large black dog, a grim if there ever was one, set sail across the glassy lake. Hopefully, not to their deaths.
—-
Seeing his brother as a large, menacing dog made Regulus more uncomfortable than he’d like to admit. His brother looked like an omen of death in his animagus form, but he was not a growling beast of night or a stoic beacon holding guard at the end of their boat. No, despite his ominous appearance, Sirius was still Sirius, even as a shaggy mutt.
He was playfully panting, and his tail thumped against the floor of the boat in a rhythmic beat, sending wave after rippling wave from the hull, disturbing the pristine water’s surface. He looked so pure at that moment. Grey canine eyes watched him as they slowly made their way to the lepidote island shores ahead—roughly hewn crystals set atop a glimmering facade of agate pebbles.
He had never seen anything like it, this masterpiece of a cave that held such evil, dark magic. He could feel it swirling in the air like poisonous vapors. As their boat finally crashed upon this new asperous shore, he settled himself. This was the second to last piece of their puzzle. They had hopefully made it before the Dark Lord and would soon be that much closer to freedom and his potential redemption.
The promise that he could earn Pandora's love again and his brother's respect. His brother, who had seemed to be lighter than air, as he kissed his lovers goodbye. Even if they had seemingly forgotten rudimentary second-year silencing charms this morning, Regulus still found himself proud of Sirius.
Envious even, jealous of the life he had created. He didn’t want to take that joy from him. He was not so covetous of his brother's flourishing that he craved to rip it from his hands. Instead, he wanted to feel it, too, to taste the unbridled life of love that came with being unbound from the shackles of their shared gene pool.
As they departed the boat and Regulus made that first irresolute step onto the shore, he promised himself that he would do whatever it took in this mesmerizing cave to ensure Sirius returned to his family. Regulus had spent years hating the Potters and his audacious, foolhardy friends. But seeing how they had even broken Barty’s shell, cracked the steel-plated armor around his chest, and left his heart exposed, he understood it. Knew it was too good for the likes of him.
Barty, his best friend and first love and kiss. Barty, who fell so deep into his spirals of lugubriousness that he lashed out like a touch-starved child. The kind of tantrums that only the thickest-skinned friends could weather had flourished under their care. He had begun to take responsibility and work towards something good instead of his usual narcissistic and pernicious self-destruction—a miracle for someone like Barty.
He wanted to hate this jealousy that burned in his chest at his inadequacy, but he was destined to embrace that searing, painful reminder of hope—to let Sirius and his new family lead them. And maybe when this was over, they could be something again.
If not, Regulus could sleep at night knowing he did it so Sirius would have what he deserved.
The climb to the top was shorter than expected, the black stygian water perfectly calm again. He caught Sirius looking at it with a dazed sense of fear before darting his eyes back to Regulus, a shadowy look of guilt in his gaze as it met his.
Sirius had spent the past day avoiding Regulus’s glare as if looking into his eyes would show him all the ways Regulus had failed as his replacement. But now, as that haunted, guilty look met perplexed confusion, Regulus paused. There was something there, and he needed to know before he continued, and they risked their lives for this cause. He deserved to know the truths of his exposure to such perils.
He debated just asking what it was, but he knew Sirius better than that. He would never answer him. They were not close enough to share such intimate fears. So he had to guess, to think why his brother might be guilty and fearful as he looked out at the water and back at him. His eyes were in rapid movement between the two. Like he expected, the wretched inferi Dorea had theorized about to breach the surface any minute.
It hit him then that it was not a theory. She knew for certain that there were inferi. She had been so confident in her instructions. Not just her, they all knew many things, details so microscopic that not even a seerer would predict them. Dora’s visions were often barely lucid. Sometimes, they were just dates on a calendar or flashing lights of curses and feelings. At most, they were a fraction of a scene, all of it making her cry out as he often held her through the terrors of a future in war.
But Sirius’s family had more, as if they had watched and studied them in a pensieve—almost like someone had traveled through time and told them.
“Is this how I died?” Regulus blurted out, a vulnerable thought for his racing emotions. His theory of Hermione’s existence bubbled close to the surface. He hadn’t even confided his secret conspiracies in Evan or Barty since finding her on the tapestry. He had wanted to assume the magic had been faulty, but he had known the truth all along, even if his mind was slow to catch up.
“Yes, how did you know?” Sirius said with defeat, looking away from him at the bowl of melted jade liquid in front of them.
“The tapestry. I didn’t understand at the time, but you’re afraid, as if you know the worst that could happen here. And you are looking at me like it’s me.”
Sirius lifted the shell-like bowl from the pedestal of selenite in front of them, not looking at Regulus as he dipped into the murky basin. “No one deserves to die like that.”
“Not even me?” Regulus whispered, expecting Sirius not to answer him. The bowl was halfway to his lips already.
A shuddering breath escaped him. “Not even you, brother,” were the last words before the edge pressed against his lips, and his older brother took the first sip.
There was not much of that murky liquid in the bowl, but with each swallow, he could see his brother shiver. He brought ladle after agonizing ladle to his mouth until he started resisting, and Regulus knew it was time for him to step in. He hated that they had agreed to this arrangement. He knew it was because Kreacher would disobey Sirius if Regulus were incapacitated, but seeing Sirius like this made his eyes burn with shame.
One of the last times he had held his brother was when he had thrown him through the floo to Potter Manor. When he had babbled incoherently from their mother’s spells and lashings in his arms for the last time, only the difference this time was that Sirius fought him.
Regulus was pleading for him to drink more, and as tears tracked down his cheeks, soaking into the pressed collar of his shirt, leaving it drenched in fear, he grew more and more forceful. Kreaher had been tasked with holding Sirius down as Regulus poured the last drops into his seizing body.
Sirius lay there, his eyes wide and bloodshot as his mouth foamed and he clawed at the sharp rocks around them. His blood spilled from his shredded hands down the stalactites that made up the island. Regulus worked quickly, throwing the locket around his neck and rummaging around in his cloak to find the flask of water they had brought.
His brother's screams grew louder and louder, thirsty for the ominous water that surrounded them. His nails cracked against the stones as he fought Kreacher’s hold. Regulus, so desperate to tip his head back and pour the cold water into his mouth, did not notice they had dropped the bowl he had been drinking from—not until he heard the splash it made as it hit the water.
The freshwater finally settled into Sirius’s gut, and all three of them looked toward the subtle ripple of waves that indicated where the cup had landed in the water. He could feel the vibrations growing immediately, the inky water growing brighter and lighter as they surfaced and their forms came into view.
The Inferi.
Monsters made of soggy skin and squishy bones, their joints made a squelching noise as they began to crawl onto the beach that would now be the grave site of the Black brothers. A subconscious thought had Regulus threading his hand into Sirius’s to pull him up and not letting go as he stood.
The brothers held each other like they had in their twisted youth as they stared down death. The only thing that could be more terrifying than their mother.
Their skeletal limbs moved at unnatural angles, contorting themselves up the jutting rocks like arachnids. Long cadaverous fingers and craggy nails reached out towards them as the creatures climbed. Sirius was quick, though. Whatever knowledge Hermione had given him rang true and made him spring into action. His wand pointed towards the water as he yelled out, “Incendio!” and blazing fire burst from the tip and lapped at the undead forms. The candescence radiated towards them like wildfire.
Their shrill screams filled the cave, disorienting Regulus with their piercing notes. But Sirius still did not falter, turning to look at him, never once stopping his spell or letting go of Regulus’s hand. He was sweating with the force of his casting, the flames growing so large one might have thought he was evil incarnate. The heat of the fire was so strong Regulus worried that if he looked away for one moment, the flames would take life and turn into rabid beasts.
He would not have been surprised to see Sirius control fiendfyre like it was a mere house charm with the power that radiated off him as the flames danced across the water and rose all the way to the ceiling. He would be a perfect match to the terror that was Hermione then.
“Kreacher, grab on, Reg, point at my neck, and cast a portus. It’s our best chance,” Sirius called over the roar of his flames. In the distance, he could hear the crackling of their little boat catch on fire. With the direction, Regulus didn’t hesitate, his spell landing true and the pull of a portkey sucking them through space.
The wards and spells around the cave squeezed against his mind till he felt like his eyes might pop from their sockets, and he could feel the trickle of blood from his nose. It took all of his might to hold onto. Sirius’s hand is a lifeline as fear courses through him at the sensation. He had a fleeting thought that maybe this time the inferi won't get him, that the wards tearing at his flesh will.
He debates, letting go of Sirius’s hand, wondering how painful this might be for him. A hope that if he let the wards suck him back into the cave, it meant Sirius got to live.
____
James was not made for this part of war. The part where you looked your former best friend in the eye, the one on track to sell your life to evil for his own benefit. To leave you dead and bleeding on the ground of the home you and your fiance hadn’t even bought yet.
He was not made to look into the beady eyes of his childhood friend, someone he dreamed of raising their kids as a village together, but instead, he was destined to attempt to murder yours.
James had to persevere. They were in an impossible situation. Peter had refused to speak to Hermione and, by association, Remus at this point. Had screamed at her that she had turned on him when he had helped her, and she had just seethed back. Her eyes narrowed to slits as she promised to kill him next if he didn’t answer their questions.
It was a losing battle between the two, and James had been called in, like a carrot on a string, to convince Peter to come around. Peter had told them all he wanted to be their friend again over the past few months, but now, as he looked at the half-mad wizard before him, James wasn’t sure how they would ever be more than enemies.
So he faked it. Even as thoughts of Lily’s betrayal competed for attention in his mind, he squirreled it away and focused back on Peter.
“Do you know anything they are planning, Pete?” James lobbed at him. It was an easy question, something Peter could grasp like a quaffle and toss back with a placating answer. Anything to prove he wanted to be their friend still, but Peter fumed.
“Why so you can go tell that psychotic f*cking bitch? f*ck off, James,” Peter spat, and James tugged his glasses off to rub his eyes with his forefinger and his thumb till he pinched his nose painfully. His heart wasn’t in this. He wasn’t his father, with his ability to charm people into admitting their crimes, or his mother, who tricked them into telling her about their sins.
He was just James, fumbling his engagement and missing his childhood friend. He didn’t know what to do, so he just sat there, trying to even out his breathing, like he had when they were kids, and he would get nervous. No one but Peter and Marls knew that about him. The panic attacks that plagued his childhood.
By all accounts, he was a spoiled only child, born to much older parents who had constantly doted on and adored him, but that much love had built fear in him. Fear that if he lost them or anyone who loved him, he would have nothing. Now, with his solid footing threatened with Lily and having to face Peter, who had cut him to the bone, he felt like he was six again—spinning out of control on a broom, about to fall away from his whole world with only the dusty hard dirt to catch him.
“James!” Peter yells, breaking his anxious spell, and James's eyes snap to him. He almost looks sympathetic now. Peter’s mouth was downturned, and his eyes soft, filled with pity at the sight of James so lost. James hadn’t been like that in years.
“Uh, thanks, mate,” it’s an instinctual response, the term of endearment towards him. The crumbs of what their friendship had been.
Peter shifts uncomfortably in the chair as James continues observing him. “I didn’t know you still had those,” he whispers, his eyes downcast. James looks at the wall behind his head, not willing to see Peter’s reaction to how bare he feels in front of him—stripped down to nothing more than a bumbling child.
James isn’t sure what information they want from Peter, so he takes his chance. It felt sticky and gross to use Pete’s minimal concern against him, but he guessed it was better than what he heard Andromeda had gotten up to the day before. “Yeah, the whole war thing brings up a lot of sh*t.”
Peter nodded his understanding, blowing a breath from his mouth as he seemed to debate his next move. “Does Lily know?”
James shakes his head no. Lily doesn’t; she thinks James is pure and perfect. Invincible, fun guy. The life of the party. He doesn’t want her to know that he’s often seconds away from crumbling to the pressure of being enough for her and keeping her love. It's a bit hypocritical, he thinks. That he feels so wronged about her keeping Snape’s letters from him, but he’s hidden this from her. His guilt mounts in his gut. How is he going to tell her?
“It doesn’t matter. We aren’t talking right now,” he confesses, hoping it will be enough to pull Peter from his shell and prevent his heart from breaking. He was lost without Lily’s love. He had every right to be upset about her secrets. Even she agreed, but he still missed her touch, even if it had been less than a day. She was what grounded him, his guiding principle in times of conflict.
His shame at sharing something intimate about Lily feels like tar in his lungs, like he’ll never be able to scrub or scourgify the sensation of manipulation away.
Peter surprised him by chuckling and taking the bait. “And what did you do?” he said like they were old friends getting drinks in a pub, as if he’s still part of the joke that is James’s worshiping of all things Lily Evans.
“It wasn’t me, actually. She’s been writing snivellus for help with our endeavors,” James offers, the reminder that Hermione could obliviate the information out of him if needed. They needed information from Peter. He kept chanting in his head. Beating away the thoughts of his remorse with the reminder of how important this conversation is.
“No sh*t. Wow, I thought she was over him.” Peter’s eyes flash with excitement as he talks. A sickening look of pleasure as he spoke about Lily and Snape as if he knew some big secret. “You know Sev cornered me when I first joined. With baby Black. f*cking death eater scum tried to act all tough and feel me out. I could see that he wanted to ask about Evans. Not surprised if what you say is true if they are, you know, together.”
He says it with a cynical smile, like he wants James to react to the lazy jab that Lily would cheat on him with Snape. Even if they are fighting and it gets worse before it gets better, he knows she never would. It feels like a knife-twisting that Peter knows how much her love means to him, and he would try to play it against him, just like he’s doing. He’s never known Peter to be so insidious, but he guesses he never really knew Peter, did he?
With lead in his stomach and wool in his throat, he keeps going—anything to keep Peter talking, even if it’s killing him. “You think he’d switch sides? Hermione thinks he could be an asset, but I don’t know if I can face him if what you say is true.”
“Take it from me, James. Dumbledore will make a deal with anyone. You should be nervous if Snape comes to him or Hermione is pushing it. He takes any information he can get, and I’m sure Snape has plenty. The dark lord loves the stuff he comes up with. Potions whiz and all that,” Peter offered nonchalantly. Like it’s common gossip, two of the most powerful wizards in the world and Peter is arrogant enough to think he has them in the palm of his hand.
He doesn’t think this is the type of information Hermione wants, but it’s better than nothing. “You think Dumbledore would take Snape over my word? On Hermione’s suggestion?”
Peter stiffened at her name, and James worried he’d ruined this. That his blabbering will end, but Peter’s arrogant gaze turns angry. He’s practically foaming at the mouth in excited anger to talk about her. “Not on hers. Dumbledore can see through her games. He’s over helping her, letting her keep her secrets, and he his. You need to distance yourself from that half-breed whor* and make a deal with him. It’s the only way.”
James has to grip his chair to keep himself from flying across the table and punching him. He doesn’t even want to hex him. He wants to do it the muggle way so that both of them feel each bone breaking if he’s going to talk about Remus and Hermione that way. He wants to know what bones he breaks in his face. But he’s stuck in these mind games, so instead, he lets his nails bite into the flimsy wood underneath him.
“Worm, I want to believe you. After everything yesterday, I was sick,” and it’s not a lie. The sight of her ruthlessness with Rabastan had made bile rise in his throat, but he knew it was needed. A sickening reminder that he had not given Lily that grace, and she had not done any damage in her deceit unless you counted his bruised ego.
But he focuses on that half-truth. That’s what his dad told him. Half-truths would get you the whole truth, so he keeps going. The words feel like acid on his tongue as he shares his fears. “I think she’ll go too far sometimes.”
“Not without Leticia enabling her. Both sides have figured that out. That grief would be the easiest way to cripple her. Make her reckless. One side just let the other do the dirty work” he gloats back immediately like he’s some mastermind.
Peter knows his mistake as soon as he says it. The confession. That he knew. That Voldemort knew. That Dumbledore knew about Leticia’s impending death. Maybe not when, but they all had marked her as a target, a way to debilitate their fight.
James feels that corrosive bile threaten to spill again at Peter’s implication. That Dumbledore wants to disrupt their efforts. That he has a shared goal with Voldemort.
Peter starts screaming and pleading that he’s a liar and can’t be trusted, and while that’s true, he wasn’t lying then. James has known Peter since they were boys. He knows when he is desperate for attention, feels neglected, and is willing to do anything to fit in. He was always an insecure boy. James never imagined it would create a monster.
But the most terrifying thing is that they are nothing more than two sides of the same anxious boyhood coin.
James, with his white knuckle dying grip on those he loved, was always afraid they would see through him and leave.
Peter, with his arms open wide, putting on any mask and acting how others wanted so that they might love him and he would have the chance to hold onto them.
