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The sun is shining, Remus is digging into Florean Fortescue’s finest (courtesy of Mrs Potter, who’d insisted all boys deserve a little treat before getting their new robes sorted). Three scoops: marshmallow, pumpkin, butterbeer. He’s surrounded by his absolute favourite people, who he’s missed so dearly over the last two months.
He wants to enjoy himself fully. Knows he should. He is enjoying himself, really, truthfully. It’s just that – well. There’s the small matter of his imminent death of mortification to contend with.
Because in his pocket rattles nothing more than a measly handful of sickles.
It’s the main reason he’s avoided shopping with his friends so diligently. But the letter had come; from James, his loopy handwriting exuding more joy than handwriting should, reminding him their second-to-last year of Hogwarts meant their second-to-last pre-school shopping trip. He wrote of catch-ups, that Sirius was coming; wrote of Quidditch supplies (not necessarily a convincing argument to Remus, but… he did love seeing his friends happy), that Sirius was coming. He wrote of sneaking to muggle London for a cheeky pint with muggle licenses he and Sirius had apparently whipped up in the final week of school. And had he mentioned Sirius would be there?
Nevermind. He’d never tell James (or anyone) but the Sirius argument may or may not have tipped the balance in favour, even though he’d known he’d die. Of poverty; of his friends realising the depth of it.
It’s just – every August since the summer before second year, his three friends have done their school shopping together. And every year, Remus spent the day back home in Wales, grumpily staring at a sheep – (no matter where they’ve moved in the country, their neighbours always seem to have sheep) – thinking of the three of them having fun. And money. Peter not quite as much as the other lads, perhaps, but as far as Remus knows, he’s never had to set foot in the Charming Chancer’s Cheerful Charity Shop, either.
CC’s-CC-Shop is a nice establishment really. It’s just that... there’s this smell of mothballs that even magic evidently can’t get rid of. And while there may be a few genuinely posh dress robes positioned strategically near the front, the ones Remus tends to go for (near the back) have that vague air of being glamoured to within an inch of their life.
So, when they make it to Madam Malkin’s after ice cream, he’s not quite sure exactly what he should be doing with his hands while the other three rifle through sizes and pick out things to try on.
‘Do you not need new robes, Moony?’ Peter is playing with a tie offhandedly as he asks what Remus desperately wishes he wouldn’t. ‘Surely you’ve grown about ten inches since we last saw you.’
‘I – ehm. Tend to get my robes elsewhere. I was thinking I’d go after you lot floo home.’
James, of course, raises an eyebrow. ‘But what about the – you know. The… plans? For after?’
‘Place is open late.’
‘No,’ James says decisively. ‘If you’re not shopping here we’ll come with you to shop elsewhere.’
‘Swear down, I’ve never noticed this place,’ Sirius says, his eyes big.
‘That’s – erm,’ Remus coughs; splutters horribly. His embarrassment, Sirius eyes, it’s all a rich tapestry of too much. ‘It’s been enchanted to only be visible to those who ehm – whose Gringotts’ savings are below a certain amount. And… to their mates, I suppose.’ (how he’d hoped the place would have just remained invisible to them!). What brings some relief, once inside, is how distracted the other three are. They wander the racks up front, captivated by bright orange robes, skin-tight green trousers, and those plateaued shoes he's seen on muggle television. Remus quickly leaves them to their fun dressing up in the 1920s fashion they opt for, sneaking to the back and quickly procuring a few sets of school uniforms for himself. Slightly too large, in case he grows more.
When he comes back, Sirius is sporting deep-black robes with a mesmerising pattern of tiny silver stars. Annoyingly, their flicker draws attention to Sirius’ eyes. Remus blinks a few times fast.
‘I have to say, Moons,’ Sirius says, ‘this place is kind of wicked. May need to get these.’
How is he going to walk out of a shop Remus has been anxiously hiding from him for six years, looking better than Remus ever has, and without an ounce of shame?
‘Where would you ever wear them to?’ he says. Dismissively, he’s going for. But he’s quite worried it’s significantly undermined by the undeniable fact that he’s still staring. He’s only a man – not even legally until next March – and so he really shouldn’t be held to impossibly high standards. Not when Sirius looks this good.
‘Might be a Yule ball coming up. You never know.’
They use the changing rooms in the back of the Leaky Cauldron to change into muggle clothing. In his letter, James had asked to borrow some, so at least Remus has been marginally useful today. And James looks alright in Remus’ jeans and shirt, to be fair, but Sirius looks – even more distracting than he did in his new dress robes.
‘I wish I was better at altercation spells,’ he murmurs. ‘House-elves usually take care of that… and I won’t be wanting to mess up Wormy’s clothes, but… there’s a bit of a breeze on bits of me not usually exposed to the sun -’. He frowns as he turns in front of the mirror, running his hand over his lower stomach, exposed under Peter’s t-shirt. It’s both too wide and too short for him, somehow.
Remus reminds himself he’s seen Sirius’ stomach. They’ve been dorm mates for six years for Merlin’s sake; it has no impact on him at all. But there’s just something about the way the light blue shirt cuts off just below his belly button, exposing smooth pale skin broken up only by a trail of dark hair disappearing into a pair of jeans – too baggy, stopping short above the ankle. And it’s all – he can’t –
‘Get you some pints as a thank you for letting me borrow these,’ James says. Remus thinks talking to him; getting him to finally tear his gaze away from Sirius is enough of a favour, really. ‘And myself, for being smart enough to borrow off the friend who’s closer to me in size.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Sirius says with a huff, already rolling a cigarette between his fingers, putting Remus at serious risk of more indecent staring. ‘We can’t all be mooching off Moony, we had to share the burden across -’
‘I have more than two pairs of jeans,’ Remus protests (he has three. One’s technically a bit small these days but –).
‘Anyway, let’s go get pissed, yeah?’ Sirius continues as if Remus said nothing, making Remus a little sad. Until the cigarette is pressed into his hand and all is forgiven.
It’s remarkable, Remus thinks, two pints and two shots of vodka in, how lovely his friends are. They’re such good lads. So funny. And Sirius – so lovely in his short t-shirt, trousers dangerously low on his hips, swaying to the music as he walks back over to put more pints in front of them all. He may raise some eyebrows but – he’s always so beautiful –
James, who’s about three shots ahead of Remus, is resting his head on his hands and staring at a picture on the wall; expression glassy and smile vague. ‘Funny, no?’ he ponders, not for the first time. ‘How they don’t move at all? D’you think she kind of looks like Lily?’
‘Sure, if Evans was forty-five years old and from a different ethnic background,’ Sirius nods solemnly. Then, surprisingly, he turns to Remus. ‘Maybe it’s time to get some food into these two. What do you think?’
By all accounts, Sirius should be about as drunk as James. But then, James tries not to drink too much during the Quidditch season, whereas Sirius’ tolerance is the stuff of legend year-round. Remus, a little dizzy himself, realises Peter’s not even at their table anymore. He spots him by the jukebox, arguing with some muggle bloke over the best Stones song.
The pub is a little dingy, really. Dark, sticky. A smell that suggests the beer has infiltrated so deep into the benches, the tables, the floorboards that even fire won’t get rid of it. ‘Doesn’t look like this place does food,’ Remus says hesitantly. ‘But there must be a chippy nearby.’
But Peter argues loudly; that he won’t be going anywhere. ‘I’ve just used my last bit of muggle money to queue Paint it Black fifteen times. I’m not missing that -’
James argues loudly too. ‘Wanna stay and dance with Pete. Someone’s got to stay and appreciate the beauty that is Mick Jagger's darkest -’
‘Let’s just go get take-out’ Sirius groans. It’s only when neither of the other boys move, and Sirius raises an impatient eyebrow, that Remus realises he, alone, is being addressed. But that’s –
That’s –
He and Sirius haven’t been alone together in… since –
‘Shots!’ James shouts.
Remus nods. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
‘Can you believe those two numpties?’ Sirius laughs as they leave the chippy carrying large bags of vinegary fish and chips. Remus had been right - it hadn’t been far - and Sirius had passed an appropriate amount of muggle money his way after Remus had kicked up a minor fuss about being handed a £20 pound note (‘What?’ Sirius had groaned. ‘I can’t help that’s what they gave me at Gringott’s! Oh, wait, there’s some spare change in Peter’s pocket... -'). It’s not the nicest part of London they’re in, but Sirius is far too deep in gloating about their friends who can’t handle their liquor to notice the stares he’s still getting. ‘Imagine getting that wankered from a few shots of vodka! Honestly.’
‘Yeah,’ Remus laughs, his world spinning, pavement dancing beneath his feet. The greasy, warm smell wafting from the bags he’s holding makes his stomach contract, emit a loud gurgle he’d be far more embarrassed about if he were sober (not being able to handle your liquor comes with some benefits, clearly).
‘Hungry?’
‘I guess I haven’t had much to eat.’
‘Nice out,’ Sirius observes, and Remus supposes it is; the sun has come out, and in a highly unusual turn of events, it’s so warm he’s not regretting leaving his cardi at home for once.
‘Yeah.’
‘There’s probably about – eight or nine rounds of Paint it Black left.’ Sirius continues casually, as they turn the corner onto a busier, louder street. ‘Beatles man though, aren’t you?’
‘Er – s’pose.’
Sirius nods. ‘Not far from the river. If we'd turned right instead of left.’
‘Er -…’ Remus isn’t sure how to keep responding to this seemingly random string of observations. If he’d just stuck to pints, he may have been able to think of something clever to say. Would’ve remembered how to ask for clarification. But his head is buzzing. About the lovely way Sirius’ hair is falling across his shoulder, about the dimples in his lower back, visible below that stupid t-shirt, and honestly, how could he be expected to –
‘Just saying we could make a little pit stop. Until they’re done with their little dance party.’ Sirius cocks his head. ‘Get some food in you?’
‘Oh. Of course,’ Remus nods, as if that’s indeed an obvious conclusion Sirius had been building to. ‘Yes – let’s – let’s go to the – the river?’
It’s a short walk down to the Thames indeed, and soon they’re sat on a bench, grease-drenched newspaper open between them, blinking against the sun. The chips are hot and vinegary and salty; Remus starts to feel better as soon as he bites into the first one.
‘Reckon we’re only about two weeks off perfecting that hair-turning potion, once we get back to school,’ Sirius says cheerily, popping a bit of fried fish into his mouth. ‘It’s a shame it’ll only do purple but, still – could be a laugh to watch the Slytherins walk into breakfast looking like aubergines?’
‘How would they turn it back to normal?’ Remus says, catching himself staring (staring, always staring, such an embarrassment) at Sirius’ long black hair. Would be such a waste if anything ever were to – and what about the rest of his hair, the other hair. The tantalising trail he’s been trying to avoid looking at for the better part of the afternoon. And oh no – he’s looking again; his stomach already going pink in the sun, his hipbone sticking out from how he’s slumped onto the bench, and –
‘Who knows. They’ll have to shave it off or something,’ Sirius shrugs, waving impatiently at a seagull circling overhead. ‘Who cares?’
‘I guess it could be funny,’ Remus agrees, already having forgotten exactly what he’s agreeing to. With his best efforts, he turns his attention to the Tower Bridge to his right. It’s nice. It’s a nice bridge –
‘Maybe Snivellus will finally feel compelled to wash his hair, trying to get the purple out. We’d be doing the whole school a favour, really.’
Remus snort-laughs (and hates himself for making that sound), absent-mindedly throwing a chip out to the seagull.
‘Don’t do that, he’ll never leave us alone,’ Sirius groans, quickly folding the newspaper back around the fish and chips and stuffing it into a bag.
‘He looked hungry -’
‘I swear, you’re so soft sometimes -’
Soon enough, Remus is begrudgingly forced to admit Sirius had a point. The seagull shouts at him (rude), and then there’s three seagulls circling them, shouting, then five, then – a higher number Remus’ still slightly intoxicated brain struggles to count; they all keep moving, circling, diving, see –
‘We should go,’ Sirius says. And Remus agrees, of course, but Sirius has just popped his thumb into his mouth to lick off some chip grease and now it’s impossible for Remus to move, let alone to get up and go anywhere, he’s forced to watch and stare as it comes back out with a pop and –
SPLAT.
He knows what has happened long before he knows what has happened. It’s the way Sirius’ eyes widen in both shock and delight, the way a wheeze-laugh hits his eardrums something… drips… down his ear.
A couple of hours ago, back in the stuffy changing room of the Charming Chancer’s Cheerful Charity Shop, he’d thought it impossible for him to feel any more embarrassed. Nice, really, to be proven wrong. Being covered in bird shit, being hit right on top of his head like it had been some sort of target, in front of the boy he – erm – thinks is pretty ace, all things considered – is definitely, mortifyingly more embarrassing than picking up some second-hand clothes.
‘Are you joking -’ he groans, patting his pockets for a handkerchief he knows he didn’t bring.
‘It’s fine,’ Sirius says carelessly. He looks around quickly; that look of impending Sirius Black-trouble on his face, but before Remus can even guess at what he’s thinking, Sirius’ wand is already back in his pocket, bird poo vanished. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here before they get you again.’
Remus, somehow, has the presence of mind to grab the bag of chips before following Sirius into a back alley, whispering frantically: ‘You shouldn’t have done that – what were you thinking – we’re in muggle London! We’re underage!’
‘Seagull’s right behind you,’ is all Sirius says, his eyes twinkling as they run between the lined up bins, but when Remus does look behind him, his heart falters.
Because all he sees is a massive owl; its amber eyes offset against its deep grey feathers in an expression he can really only describe as decidedly scowling.
‘Sirius -’ he groans.
‘Ah shite – faster, Moony, come on!’
He’s afraid he’s going to chuck up all twenty-five chips, two pints of beer, two shots of vodka and whatever’s left of the ice cream and this morning's tea and crumpets if he goes any faster, but he has to try, and –
And then there’s talons scraping his shoulder – really, what is it with birds today? That letter isn’t even for him, for Circe’s sake. Luckily, at least, the owl does not do a poo when it flies straight over his head, landing stubbornly on Sirius’ shoulder, not flinching as he keeps running regardless.
‘Bugger,’ Sirius finally groans; clutching his heaving side as he comes to a halt. And in spite of how out of breath he is and all the bother they’re in and all his worry and oh god oh god etc, Remus is somehow still caught trailing Sirius’ fingers where they rake his bare stomach, their white imprint on the sun-marked skin as he moves them to untie the letter and shoo the owl away surprisingly gently. He pulls all sorts of displeased faces as he skims it. ‘Yeah, I’m in trouble.’
‘What are they saying?’
‘They’re requesting a hearing.’ While he sounds unhappy, Sirius does not sound nearly as concerned as Remus thinks he ought to. But, well, isn’t that just the story of their respective lives.
‘A hearing? Really?’ Remus tries very hard to keep the full-on panic out of his voice, to match Sirius’ tone, unconvincing between heaving breaths. ‘For your first offense? That seems -’
‘Isn’t my first offence,’ Sirius says calmly as he stuffs the letter into his back pocket. But he’s not looking at Remus, in a weird way – he’s looking at some spot next to Remus’ left knee.
‘Not your first offence?’ Remus can’t help but let out a sigh. Try as he might, he sometimes can’t help but use that tone, the one he hates his mother using on him. ‘Sirius -’
‘It wasn’t -’ Sirius says; frowns, still looking at that spot (Remus spares a quick glance behind him, but - nothing but a blackened brick wall). ‘It was to -’
. His face is really sullen now, in a way Remus has only seen once or twice before. Only whenever Sirius has spoken about – about –
‘Oh,’ he says quickly, ‘oh – I’m, I’m sorry, I didn’t -’
‘Found us down in the tube station. Right by our house. Hadn't even made it onto the train. Pathetic, really. But I had to protect -’
‘Of course,’ Remus says, quickly, soothingly, he’s going for, but he’s stumbling over his words, wishing he hadn’t been such an assuming arse. ‘Of course you did -’
But suddenly, the sober part of his brain – or maybe it is the drunk part, who knows – remembers.
‘The exception.’
‘The – exception?’
‘Yes. I – I read about this.’
‘What are you on about?’ Sirius sounds exasperated with him, which is a bit rich - but at least he isn’t frowning. At least he’s easy to distract; eager always, to be distracted. ’Exception to - what?’
‘Give me a sec -’ A sigh he must make, he thinks, as he leans against the grimy wall between two bins. Still, not what's important right now: he must will his sober self into further action. ‘Arcturus the first, he -’
‘Wait – what? Arcturus the first, my three-hundredth-fourteenth-great-grandfather?’ The words escaping between gritted teeth, scarily displeased. And yet, in between everything else, Remus feels a vague sense of glee; for once, it’s Sirius who can’t keep up with the workings of his brain.
‘Arcturus the first got shat on by a seagull while on a family day out to Brighton in July of 1704. Vanished it himself. He was only thirteen years old, and it was his fourth offense, but of course his parents wouldn’t see him sent from Hogwarts -’
‘Of course.’ Sirius is frowning in a way he’s never seen before, and Remus’ mind is racing. He knows Sirius doesn’t like to talk about his family, but this, well, it’s a long time ago, isn’t it? And it’s not someone who’s personally harmed him, plus it’s important, given the circumstances, plus it’s funny, even, really, because it’s a story involving someone getting shat on by a bird, which is always objectively funny, except perhaps to those who have quite recently been shat on themselves.
‘So, your great-great-great-great-whatever grandparents, they paid a lot of money to have the law changed. There’s a sub-sub-sub-decree that explicitly states any member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is free to vanish bird shit when they need to; it’d be unseemly to force them to do otherwise. Now, I can’t remember if that pertains to all birds or just seagulls -’
‘Moony -’
‘But it doesn’t really matter, because this was a seagull -’
‘Moony -’
‘No, you’re right, it was actually just seagulls. It’s why that law was considered so obscure there was no real need to revoke it later. Would have been a whole legal mumbo-jumbo, because of course your great-grandparents knew what they were doing, and the ministry would owe your family a lot of money if they tried to repeal -’
‘Moony -’
‘So we’ll just respond demanding this summons be repealed on grounds of magical decree 4.3.1942.9430823.1 – they’ll never see it coming, but they’ll have to -’
‘Remus!’
‘Oh.’ Bugger. He’d been speaking an awful lot, hadn’t he? ‘Eh – yeah?’
‘How did you – why – why on earth do you know this?’
‘Oh,’ he repeats, dumbly. Mortification floods every part of his body in the most sobering of ways, and in a desperate bid for escape, he half considers just jumping into the bin he’s leaning against. No – no. It’s fine. He can talk himself out of this one. Sirius always takes jabs at him being a swot, after all. ‘History of Magic project.’
‘History of -’ Sirius frowns again. It’s oddly delectable; a detail Remus really shouldn’t be noticing, given he’s not out of trouble yet. ‘I may not pay as much attention as you think I should, but I’m pretty sure this year we’ve only covered goblin uprisings of the nineteenth century and notable witches from the Roman era.’
‘Side… project.’
‘What was the book?’
‘I – can’t remember.’ It rises to the front of his mind’s eye, though; a thick, heavily bound black leather book. The Hogwarts library had managed to remove the curse Most Noble Legacies put on anyone of less than pureblood status touching it, but there was still a note from Madam Pinch on the front page, urging any student with any sort of muggle heritage to cast a cleansing spell over themselves once they were done reading, in case of any residue. Remus remembers an odd tingling in his fingers as he opened it.
‘Yes you can.’
‘I -’
‘What were you doing, reading about my family?’
The thing was, if you were this… say, invested… in someone, it was so hard to resist the temptation to indulge in them. Relish everything about them - anything about them. And so, yes, one evening, he’d pulled down that scary-looking book promising to teach him all there was to know about a particular ancient and noble wizarding family.
‘I was just reading about notable magical laws and exceptions thereto -’ Remus crosses his fingers in his pocket. ‘Er - related to, ehm. Birds.’
It's a semi-believable fib, he thinks; he's been teased for his proclivity to birding before. The real problem, it turns out, is Sirius’ face. Upon studying it, Remus realises he’s not actually all that angry. Immediately upon registering his downturned mouth, the worry in his frown, the general sadness emitting from him, Remus feels terrible. Of course the last thing Sirius would want would be for his friends to read books about his family. Remus couldn’t even deny that he’d known that. Otherwise, why would he have done it on evenings Sirius was serving detention down in the dungeons, scrubbing cauldrons for the incident with Hagrid’s cawcawbages? Why else had he still checked the map nervously, every two minutes, just to make sure he hadn’t left yet? (As if there was even any way in hell he’d pop by the library after - he’d be out looking for James, on the Quidditch pitch or the Astronomy tower)
‘I’m sorry,’ Remus says, when he’s worked up the courage. Of course he’s sorry: truly, deeply. Of course he hates himself for being such a creep, such a weirdo. For inadvertently breaking Sirius’ trust. ‘I was just – curious.’
‘Oh.’ Sirius is still frowning; at his letter now, but Remus can’t help feeling that’s only to avoid looking at him.
‘I’m -’
‘You know I don’t believe any of it, right?’ Sirius presses, suddenly, urgently. Confusingly, because, of course he knows that.
‘Of course I know that -’
‘I need you to know that.’
‘I do – I… I know that, Sirius. I shouldn’t have – I’m really sorry for prying. It was just -’
‘What?’
‘Huh?’ Shite, he’s gone and stuck his foot into it again.
‘It was just - what?’
Nothing, he wants to say. It wasn’t anything, not at all. Of course it wasn’t. But he also doesn’t want to lie, not again, settling for a half-truth; best he can do. ‘It was just that I got curious. Since you’re my friend.’
‘Pretty sure James has never looked me up.’
James doesn’t need to, he probably heard all about it at home, Remus wants to say, but again, that would only selfishly serve to obfuscate the truth he's so desperately trying to hide. ‘Probably hasn’t,’ he agrees mildly instead.
‘So why did you?’
‘Look - I broke your trust – I’m so -’
‘You never promised not to read that book. I’m just - trying to understand why you would.’
‘I wanted to know more about you,’ Remus says, breathlessly, the large black bin looking more appealing by the second. ‘It was there, your last name on it and I... was just curious. I s’pose.’
‘Oh,’ Sirius says. There’s an odd look in his eyes, and they’re trailing Remus in a weird way, studying parts of his face they don’t usually study. ‘I’d read a book about you, you know.’
‘I – what?’ Everything in the world is right again in a way, because it’s Sirius’ words catching him off guard again. What is he saying? And why is he saying it -?
‘If they had one. I think I’d read it.’
‘I mean – my family would never be so remarkable as to end up in the Hogwarts library, or - or anywhere else, really. Although I do have a great auntie who got arrested for flying to the top of Mount Kangchenjunga once -’
‘On a motorbike?’
‘What? No. What makes you –? No, on a broom, but she was seen by about 1,246 muggles on the way up, which was a record at the time -’
‘I’d read about that.’
‘Why?’ Remus can’t help but ask, even though he risks the question being spun back on him, just when Sirius has (so confusingly) stopped pushing the matter.
‘Sounds like my kind of lady,’ Sirius shrugs, his eyes still doing that strange thing, travelling his face and making Remus squeal internally. ‘I like learning about you, Moony. You’ve so many secrets.’
‘You already know the worst things -’
‘Until today I didn’t even know where you shop for robes.’
‘Well that’s not really – important information, is it?’ Remus flusters. ‘In the grand scheme of things.’
‘You knew where I’ve been buying mine,’ Sirius says. And really – Remus is going to need him to stop studying him so carefully. He doesn’t understand why it’s happening, but he can feel himself flushing on top of everything else. It’s bloody warm out, stupid sunshine. Should have worn his sandals –
‘Well I mean -’ he tries feebly, ‘everyone buys their robes at Madam Malkin’s, so -’
‘But not you,’ Sirius says, cocking his head. ‘So that’s worth knowing about, surely?’
‘I only didn’t like you knowing because -’
‘You were embarrassed to be buying second hand? But that shop was ace -’
‘It’s a little easier when you’re shopping there by choice, though, isn’t it?’ Remus interrupts. Surprises himself by doing so; surprises himself by his tone.
‘Ah – yeah, maybe.’ Sirius looks, perhaps, a tiny little bit ashamed now, which really is not at all what Remus actually wants. Especially not when he still feels so terrible over being caught looking up Sirius’ bloody family history - a crime far worse. Especially when maybe it’s that guilt, more than anything, that made him lash out.
‘It’s okay,’ he says, softly now, soothing. ‘I like the robes you picked out.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Suit you.’
‘Do you think the stars match my eyes?’
‘Er -’ He’ll never, ever get a handle on conversing with Sirius, he’s sure of it. ‘Do you think the lads’ll be done playing the Stones? It’d be a shame for the fish to get fully cold -’
‘I was thinking I might wear them on a date.’
‘Oh, right, yeah,’ Remus nods. Of course he was thinking that. Why wouldn’t he? He’s handsome enough in his usual attire of course; half the school bloody well after him, but those robes would definitely do what Sirius is intuiting – seal him the deal, whatever that means to him. ‘Yeah, you – they’d look good.’
He’s picturing it, as much as he tries not to. Sirius in his robes - and maybe he’d do that thing to his hair, pin it up in a way that looks all casual but isn’t. He’d wear that cologne, the one that smells of pears and cinnamon, and – and with him is some nameless faceless girl. Tall, though. Long hair. Blonde, maybe. Beautiful, definitely.
‘Would that be something you might be interested in?’ Sirius continues, looking at his fingernails in a way that’s somehow, oddly, slightly less than nonchalant.
‘What? A date? I suppose if there were someone I fancied. Why? Are you offering to let me borrow your new robes?’
‘I don’t think they’d quite do for your eyes what they do for mine.’
‘Right, yeah, course’ Remus nods. He’s no longer trying to understand anything. There’s no point.
But then, Sirius throws biggest curveball in the conversation yet. The biggest curveball in any conversation they’ve ever had. And it’s not even a question.
‘You fancy me,’ he says, still looking at his fingers. Just a calm statement of fact. How mortifying. Forget seeking shelter in the bin: he should jump into the Thames, let himself get drifted out to the North Sea and -
‘I -’
‘And since you do, you’d be interested? In a date? With me.’
‘A date with -’ Remus is painfully aware his cheeks are burning the most obscene sorts of colours. What is going on? This surely isn’t happening. He’s misunderstanding. He’s being pranked. He’s -
‘Hogsmeade weekend’s end of September. But if you wanted, we could figure out something before -’
‘Are you having me on?’ He’s being punished. That must be it. Perhaps he deserves it even, but he can't help feeling that it's still a little bit cruel.
But Sirius just smiles. An odd smile. Soft. ‘Friends don’t read each other’s family history, Moony. Not even swots like you.’
‘You said you’d read mine, though.’
‘I would.’
‘You don’t even enjoy reading.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Oh.’
Sirius is suddenly very close. Remus swallows hard, aware that he’s staring at Sirius’ lips but fully unable to stop doing so.
‘There’s a sheep auction in the village next weekend if you fancied coming along to that -’ he hears himself say. No idea where it’s coming from. Immediately wishes he could take it back.
‘Sounds perfect,’ Sirius grins, and he closes the gap.