Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Beginnings

Peter Pettigrew stands rooted to the spot he has made for himself in the two minutes and thirty-four seconds since getting onto the platform.  His fingers are clenched tight around the handle of his suitcase, which is slightly too heavy for him to carry without tipping sideways every few steps.  His mother tried to lighten the load with a few charm attempts, but they only made it rattle more.  Now it practically hums faintly beside him like it wants to run ahead.  But Peter can’t move.  How could he?  This is too much.  All too much.  

The train is massive.  Not just big either.  It looms.  It’s glossy red and black.  It has steam curling from beneath it like the breath of a sleeping dragon.  It smells like metal and warmth and something faintly sweet.  Perhaps it is from the trolley already tucked somewhere down its length, reading itself to battle with starving children.  There are voices all around him—parents reminding children to write, kids laughing, owls hooting—but Peter’s world has narrowed to the sheer scale of the thing in front of him.

His mother leans down, fussing with his collar again.  He doesn’t hear what she says but scrunches up his nose anyways due to the sheer embarrassment.  Something about good behavior.  Something about bravery.  Her voice is low and tight, like it always is when she’s trying not to let anyone nearby hear how worried she is.  Peter doesn’t answer.  He barely even listens.  He’s watching the swirl of smoke rise from the engine and thinks to himself that that’s where all the yelling children are going.  That’s where he’s supposed to go, too.  His mouth runs dry at the idea.

Because it doesn’t feel real.  It feels like the sort of dream you have when you eat too many sweets.  One that’s bright and a little sickly.  One where you’ll wake up the second you reach out to touch it.  He shifts his weight, tugging at his sweater where it itches under his robes.  His palms are sweating.

A boy with a mess of dark curls shoves past him, laughing loudly with someone taller.  Two trunks are floating obediently behind them.  Peter flinches out of the way, cheeks burning once he realizes.  How embarrassing was that?  He glances around, checking to see if anyone noticed.  But they didn’t.  Luckily.  No one’s looking at him.  Not even the conductor.  Or the other adults.  Or the prefects.  No one.

Peter watches the two older boys jostle their way through the crowd.  The way they move and talk is loud and easy, like they’ve done this before.  But they couldn’t have.  Peter doesn’t think they’re much older than he is.  The dark-haired one has a sharp grin so big it could split his face in two.  He is dragging the taller boy toward the train like he’s afraid it’ll leave without him.  Behind them, a small figure darts through the gaps in the crowd.  They’re too quick and determined to be lost.

The child can’t be more than ten—delicate and furious in a perfectly brushed set of miniature robes.  Their hair is clipped neatly back, but strands are already falling into their eyes.  They have a few hair-slides in their hair, adorned with what Peter thinks is real emeralds.  They reach the boys in a rush and latch onto the dark-haired one’s sleeve with surprising force.

“Sirius,” the kid hisses.

Peter stiffens at the name, but not because he knows it.  He doesn’t.  His mother didn’t particularly want him to interact with wizard society so even if the boy was well known, he certainly wouldn’t hear about it.  No, he stiffened because of the way the kid says it.  Like it’s not a name at all but a threat.  Or a plea.

Sirius turns with a dramatic groan, exaggerated like he’s performing for a crowd.  “Merlin’s—Reg, what?”

The kid…Reg, apparently, plants their feet and frowns up at him.  “You forgot your owl.”

Peter blinks.  Their voice is high and quiet and precise.  It’s like they’ve spent a lot of time being told to speak properly.  Like it’s been something they’ve been perfecting for a while.  The taller boy snorts and Sirius mutters something about, “I didn’t forget it, I was coming back.”  Even though he clearly wasn’t.  Peter could tell anyone that.  And he’d be right.

Peter doesn’t mean to stare.  It’s like watching a scene in a play where he doesn’t know the lines.  Sirius ruffles Reg’s hair in a careless and affectionate manner but the kid barely reacts.  They just look up at him with that same frown.  But there is something simmering behind it.  Disappointment?  Perhaps something sharper now that Peter looks at it better.

The taller boy calls, “Hurry up, Black,” already halfway to the train.  And Sirius dutifully pulls away, giving Reg a wink before disappearing into the steam.

Peter shifts his grip on his suitcase, suddenly aware of how sweaty his hand is.  The train feels impossibly far away.

Peter hesitates for a second.  He’s caught somewhere between curiosity and awkwardness.  Then he starts to shuffle past the little standoff.  He doesn’t usually say things first.  Honestly, he’s never been the type.  But there is something about the way Reg is standing there, small and perfectly still while the world blurs around them.  It feels…familiar.  Too familiar.  Peter doesn’t like it at all.

As he passes, Peter slows just enough to glance over.  “Starting next year, then?” he says.  He offers them a quick and wobbly smile.

Reg blinks at him.  Their eyes are sharp, guarded, and assessing him in a way that makes Peter feel briefly and absurdly transparent.  But after a beat, they nod.  Just once.   No smile.  No audible response.  They awkwardly glance behind themselves, clearly looking to see if anyone is seeing them talking to Peter.  But their eyes are not cold either.  Just…watching.  Waiting.

Peter keeps walking.  It’s better that way.  Clearly the kid didn’t want to talk to him.  But out of the corner of his eye, he sees them fuss with their hair.  They yank a pin loose with a muttered, “Bloody git,” that’s clearly aimed at Sirius.

It makes Peter want to laugh, but he bites it back.  Instead, he hoists his trunk a little higher and steps toward the train.  His heart is thudding like maybe he’s just done something braver than he meant to.

Peter climbs onto the train with a stumble.  His suitcase bangs awkwardly against his knee as he navigates the narrow corridor.  The floor vibrates under his feet.  The steam still curls through the open windows and makes everything feel hazy and a little too warm.  Voices spill from the compartments he passes.  Some are loud.  Some are filled with laughter.  Some are already filled with clusters of kids who seem to know exactly where they belong.

Peter doesn’t.

He peeks into one.  Then another.  They are too full.  Too loud.  There is someone already throwing Chocolate Frogs in one.  His fingers tighten on the suitcase handle.  He’s starting to wonder if he should just sit in the corridor and hope someone takes pity on him when he stops at a compartment that’s only half-full.

Inside, he sees the two boys from earlier.  Sirius is one of them.  At least Peter knows that.  They’re the ones who swept past him on the platform like they’d already known each other for years.  They’re slouched across from each other, talking animatedly.  Their legs are kicked up like they own the place.  Across from them, a girl with vivid red hair sits curled against the window.  Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest and her mouth is drawn in a line that looks like she’s fighting back tears.  Or anger.

Peter hesitates.  It’s not ideal.  But it’s also not crowded.  And no one’s hexing anyone.  That feels like enough.

He knocks lightly on the glass.

The dark-haired boy—Sirius from what Peter remembers—glances up.  He blinks like he hadn’t noticed someone was standing there because he truly didn’t.  “You lost or something?”

Peter’s ears go hot.  “Er—no.  I just—” He gestures vaguely toward the empty seat.  His voice is small.  “Mind if I—?”

The taller boy elbows Sirius and says, “Don’t be a prat.  Let him in.”

The red-haired girl doesn’t look up.  She just shifts slightly away from the noise.

Peter slides the door open, his heart in his throat, and steps inside.

Peter tucks himself into the seat closest to the door, trying to seem smaller than he is.  His suitcase thunks against the edge of the bench and he winces.  He mutters an apology no one really hears.

“I’m Peter,” he says after a second of silence.  His voice wavers a bit, but he clears his throat and tries again.  “Peter Pettigrew.”

The taller boy, who is lanky and all elbows, grins and leans forward with a hand extended.  “James Potter.”

The dark-haired one, Sirius, doesn’t shake his hand but nods in a way that feels almost approving.  “Sirius Black.”

Peter nods back, hands twitching in his lap.  “You two already mates then?”

“Met on the platform,” James says.  “But yeah, I reckon we’re brilliant already.”

Sirius grins.  “Obviously.”

Peter hesitates and then grins too.  “I guess I’m late to the best friendship, then.  Should I come back next year when there’s space?”

James snorts.  Sirius barks out a laugh.

“Oh no,” Sirius says, smirking.  “You’re stuck now.  We’ve let you sit, that’s a binding contract right there.”

“And next year,” James adds, “you’ll be fetching us snacks.”

Peter laughs.  It’s a short, startled sound.  But it’s real.  And that matters.  For the first time since he stepped onto the platform, he doesn’t feel quite so wrong-shaped.  The red-haired girl still hasn’t said anything, but Peter barely notices.  James is already asking where he’s from, Sirius is inspecting his wand, and Peter can’t stop smiling.

He thinks that maybe all of this wouldn’t be too bad.  Perhaps he was just too nervous.  Almost put his own foot in his mouth.  Couldn’t be helped but now he’s here.

The train jerks forward and Peter’s heart jumps with it.  James whoops like they’re already winning some invisible game.  Sirius presses his face to the window, narrating the passing countryside like it’s a racecourse.  “Look at that!  Bye, Muggle world—hello, freedom!” Sirius yells, banging his palm once on the glass. 

The red-haired girl flinches, shooting him a scowl.  But she still doesn’t say anything.  Peter watches her for a second, wondering if he should try talking to her, but then James is elbowing him lightly.

“So, Peter…Pete, I’m calling you Pete now,” James says, sliding back into his seat with all the grace of a puppy who hasn’t grown into its legs.  “You nervous?”

Peter shrugs, feeling his grin creep back in.  “A bit.  Mostly about the stairs.  I fall up them all the time.”

Sirius snorts so hard he nearly chokes.  “Up?”

“Every time,” Peter says solemnly.  “I think the stairs are conspiring against me.  Especially the ones with corners.  Can’t imagine what the moving ones will do.”

“That’s tragic,” James says, desperately trying to keep a straight face.  “And noble.  You’re fighting a private war.”

“I respect that,” Sirius says while nodding.  “Bravery in the face of vertical betrayal.”

Peter laughs again but this time it's louder.  More comfortable.  The tight knot in his stomach starts to loosen.  The boys are loud and a bit ridiculous, but it feels…good.  Like he doesn’t have to earn a place by knowing the right thing to say.  Just being here is somehow enough.

James conjures a deck of cards from Merlin-knows-where, and soon the three of them are trying to play a fast-paced game none of them really understands.  Sirius keeps making up rules, Peter keeps accidentally winning, and James keeps accusing them both of cheating.  How, when the game quite literally doesn't exist, Peter is unsure.  But it certainly is fun.  And it passes the time.

Peter’s cheeks hurt from smiling before he even realizes how much time has passed.

The compartment door slams open with a bang loud enough to make James jump and Peter nearly drops the cards in his lap.  All three boys look up, blinking—and there’s a boy in the doorway with wild brown hair.  He has a patched jumper under his robes and a scowl like he’s already had a terrible day.

He looks about their age.  Maybe a little older?  Not by much most likely.  But it’s hard to tell.  He’s got a faint line between his brows and an expression like he’s weighing whether it’s worth being disappointed again.

“You lot mind if I join?” he asks, voice low.  It is tinged with a thicker accent—something northern and a little worn.  “Been sitting with prats who won’t stop arguing about cauldron sizes.”

Peter’s too startled to respond, but Sirius is already grinning.

“Cauldron sizes?  Riveting conversation,” Sirius says, swinging his legs off the bench.  “Get in here before we make you regret it.”

The boy blinks like he hadn’t expected anyone to say yes.  Then he shrugs and steps in, dropping his bag with a tired grunt and sitting in the corner.  His long limbs folding in on themselves like he’s trying not to take up space.

“Remus,” he says.  “Remus Lupin.”

“James Potter,” James says cheerfully, sticking out a hand again.  “This is Sirius Black, and that’s Peter Pettigrew.  We were just inventing our own card game.”

“Mostly because none of us can remember the rules,” Peter adds.

Remus huffs something close to a laugh, but it doesn’t quite make it all the way out.  Still, he leans back in his seat a little, the scowl softening.

Sirius is watching him now, head tilted, eyes bright with interest.  “Lupin, eh?” he says, as if tasting the name.  “You look like you’ve got a dark past.”  Peter suppresses the urge to groan.

Remus arches a brow.  “I’m eleven.”

“Exactly,” Sirius says.  He’s smirking.  “Plenty of time to have run from a burning orphanage or fought off cursed wolves.”

Remus looks at him for a long moment then shakes his head slowly.  “You’re an idiot.”

Sirius beams.  “I like you.”

Peter watches the exchange, amused and a little in awe.  Just like that, the group expands—welcomes.  Sure that doesn't make him unique in the way they warmed up to him, but at least he knows it is genuine.  And somehow, despite all his nerves, Peter still feels like he belongs.

The game devolves quickly into chaos again.  It is mostly thanks to Sirius insisting that cards with even numbers can now reverse the order of turns, and James protesting that “that’s not even a real spell logic,” whatever that means.  Peter’s laughing too hard to play properly and Remus just shakes his head like he’s above it all.  But his lips twitch at the corners so Peter knows it is insincere.

Eventually, when Sirius starts arguing that the Queen of Spades should let him steal someone else’s chocolate frog, Remus leans back and glances toward the window.  His gaze lands on the red-haired girl, who is still curled in the corner.  Her chin in her hand, the other tapping restlessly against the windowsill.

“She been like that the whole time?”  Remus asks, voice low enough to avoid calling attention but just loud enough that they all hear.

James follows his glance and winces slightly.  “Yeah.  She got here before we did, actually.”

“Is she all right?”  Peter asks, instinctively lowering his voice.

Sirius shrugs.  He nudges Remus.  “Probably had to sit with cauldron-size prats too.”

“Oi,” Remus mutters.

At that, the girl finally turns.  She fixes all four of them with a look that could curdle milk.  Her green eyes are sharp, furious, and very, very done.

“I can hear you, you know.”

They all go a little still.

She lifts her chin, mouth pressed into a firm line.  “And I’m fine.”

“Right,” Remus says, nodding like she’s given a full dissertation.

She glares another second longer.  Then she goes right back to moping at the window, more pointedly than ever.

Peter coughs into his sleeve.  “She seems nice.”

“She’ll hex us all by the time we reach Hogwarts,” James whispers.

“Worth it,” Sirius whispers back.

They all burst into muffled snickers.  Even Remus—though he quickly looks away to hide it.  The train thunders on and the compartment hums with mostly laughter.  The laughter and teasing swirl around the compartment, filling the tight space with a warmth Peter didn’t expect to find on his very first journey.  Cards are shuffled and rules are remade on the fly.  Sirius keeps trying to sneak extra chocolate frogs from James’s pocket while Remus quietly judges their nonsense with a half-smile.  Even the red-haired girl, though still curled by the window, has stopped glaring and now occasionally throws a small smile their way.

Suddenly, the compartment door slides open again, this time more quietly.  A boy with sleek black hair steps inside, eyes flicking around like he’s scanning for someone.  Or maybe something.  He doesn’t say a word as he moves to the seat near the red-haired girl and lowers himself down beside her.

Peter notices the change immediately.  The room’s easy noise dims as the two lean toward each other, whispering so low their words are almost swallowed by the rumbling train.  The rest of the group barely glances up.  James grins and shuffles the deck again, Sirius flops back against the window frame, and Remus pulls his jumper sleeves over his hands.  Watching with quiet amusement.

Peter feels a small tug of curiosity but doesn’t press it.  For once, it seems like some corners of this new world are still wrapped in mystery.  And maybe that’s okay.  He turns back to the game, ready to keep laughing.

The compartment buzzes with laughter and easy chatter.  The kind that feels new and thrilling and like it might just last forever.  The cards are scattered on the bench, some forgotten as James, Sirius, Peter, and Remus argue over the game’s ever-changing rules.  The red-haired girl has relaxed slightly, her arms uncrossed now, watching the boys with something like quiet amusement.  It seems like she's intentionally trying to ignore the boy who just came in.  Every once in a while she seems to make a hushed retort but it's mostly the boy.  Peter decides to ignore them.

James is the first one to tune into the conversation happening right underneath their noses.  His voice cuts through the noise, sharp with surprise.  “Slytherin?”

Everyone freezes for a beat.  Peter’s heart stutters.  The word feels heavier somehow, thick with meaning he doesn’t fully understand but senses immediately.  His mother didn't want to tell him everything about Hogwarts, but even he knows the issue with the House.  He glances toward James, who’s turned to Sirius.  His eyes are wide.

“Who wants to be in Slytherin?” James asks incredulously.  “I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

Sirius’s face darkens just a little.  He doesn’t smile.  “My whole family have been in Slytherin.”  There’s a flicker of something in his eyes.  Pride, maybe.  Or defiance.  But it vanishes almost as soon as it appears.

“Blimey,” James says, shaking his head like he can’t believe it.  “And I thought you seemed all right!”

Sirius grins then.  His teeth are flashing.  “Maybe I’ll break the tradition.  Where are you heading if you’ve got the choice?”

James winks and lifts an invisible sword in a dramatic gesture.  “‘Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart!’  Like my dad.”

Peter watches the exchange, fascinated by the ease between them.  The teasing.  The pride.  The way they hold their family histories like swords and shields all at once.  There’s something fierce about it.  Something alive.  Something simple.

The red-haired girl shifts in her seat but doesn’t say anything.  She’s quiet again, retreating back into her thoughts like a shadow folding over the window.  Remus clears his throat softly, pulling their attention back toward the present.  But the air still feels charged with something unspoken.

Peter looks down at the cards in his hands, his fingers trembling slightly.  Slytherin.  The word tastes sharp.  Like a warning whispered on the wind.  Sirius catches his glance and smirks, reading the question in his eyes.  The smirk softens, becoming something almost kind.  

Suddenly, a small, sharp noise cuts through the laughter.  It is a quiet, disparaging sound.  Peter looks up just in time to see the boy with greasy black hair and a pale, sallow face.  His lips are curling into a sneer.

James spins toward him, eyes flashing.  “What?  Got a problem with that?”

Snape’s voice is low but dripping with sarcasm.  “No,” he says, though the sneer tells a different story.  “If you’d rather be brawny than brainy—”

Before he can finish, Sirius jumps in, voice mocking.  “Where’re you hoping to go, seeing as you’re neither?”

James roars with laughter, clutching his sides as Sirius’s jab lands perfectly.

The girl straightens up, cheeks flushed.  Her eyes flash between James and Sirius, clearly unimpressed.  “Come on, Severus, let’s find another compartment.”

“Oooooo…” James and Sirius mimic her lofty tone, exaggerating every syllable with mischievous grins.  James reaches out as Severus passes, fingers twitching to trip him.  But Severus moves quickly enough to avoid it.

“See ya, Snivellus!”  Sirius calls after him, laughter bubbling through the compartment as Snape disappears down the corridor.

Peter’s mouth quirks into a smile despite himself.  The scene feels like a glimpse of something messy and chaotic but somehow familiar.  Friendship wrapped in teasing and challenge in sharp words and laughter that echoes like a secret.

The compartment thrums with laughter again, the rumble of the train a steady heartbeat beneath their chatter.  James is explaining, at great length, why he’s convinced that Chocolate Frogs ought to count as a legitimate currency.  Sirius argues that only Galleons have any real value.  Remus watches them both with an amused half-smile.  Peter finds himself grinning so hard his cheeks ache.

In the lull between their arguments, Sirius nudges James with an elbow and leans forward.  His voice is teasing but curious.  “Seriously, mate…how did you never know the Blacks were all in Slytherin?”

James shrugs, tossing the last few cards into the pile with a flourish.  He settles back, eyes drifting toward the window.  “My parents?  They aren’t ever involved in that sort of…family business,” he says, voice casual.  “Mum had me in India for most of the time, living with her side of the family.  Never heard half the stories until this morning.”

Sirius blinks, eyebrows rising.  “India?”

“Yeah,” James nods, as if the explanation needs no more detail.  “She wanted me near grandparents and cousins.  More…normal, I suppose.”

Sirius sits back, chewing on the information like it’s something sweet.  “Blimey,” he says softly.  “That actually makes sense.”

“Sounds rather pleasant,” Peter says, voice gentle but amused.  “Cousins are more fun than constant expectations, I’d say.”

Remus tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear, nodding thoughtfully.  “Family’s whatever you make of it,” he says, tone light but sincere.

Peter watches them all, warmed by the easy shift from teasing to understanding.  Around him, the compartment feels like its own small world.  One where the stories they carry with them are as varied and unpredictable as the tracks racing beneath the Hogwarts Express.

Remus snorts softly, shaking his head with a faint smirk.  “So, James was basically a diplomatic envoy from India, then?  Sent to Hogwarts to bridge the cultural gap with chocolate frog diplomacy?”

James throws him a playful glare but can’t suppress a grin.  “Very funny, Lupin.”

Sirius chuckles, clearly enjoying the banter.  “I’d pay to see that.”

For a moment, their laughter fades.  The group falls into a comfortable silence.  They all turn toward the window, eyes drifting outward.  The golden fields and rolling hills they’d been watching moments ago have slipped away.  It is replaced by a deepening dusk.

Peter blinks, surprised at how quickly the light has faded.  The sky is painted in shades of purple and ink blue, dotted with the first timid stars twinkling awake.  The familiar rhythm of the train’s wheels seems louder now, echoing in the stillness.

Remus sighs softly.  He rests his head against the windowpane eyes reflecting the darkening sky.  “Looks like night’s coming faster than we thought.”

Sirius leans forward, pressing a hand to the glass.  “Makes the Hogwarts Express feel even more like a journey into another world, doesn’t it?”

James nods, face softened by the twilight.  “Yeah.  It’s like we’re crossing a threshold.”

Remus shrugs, a shadow of a smile tugging at his lips.  “Just hope the creatures on the other side are friendly.”

Peter feels a sudden flutter in his chest.  A mix of excitement and nerves.  The train speeds on, carrying them toward something unknown but full of promise.  The dark outside presses close.  But inside their compartment, the light of new friendships burns steady and bright.

The compartment feels quieter without Lily’s presence, but the conversation doesn’t falter.  Sirius stretches out along the bench, eyes still on the darkening landscape beyond the window.  James leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.  His fingers are tapping a restless rhythm.

Remus shifts in his seat, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement as he glances between the two.  “So,” he says, voice teasing, “how many of you are already thinking about what you’re going to do once we get to Hogwarts?  Apart from surviving first-year classes, of course.”

James snorts.  “Survive?  Mate, I’m planning to make an impression.  Gryffindor won’t know what hit it.”

Sirius grins, eyes sparkling with mischief.  “You’re not the only one.  I’m thinking about causing a little chaos.”

Peter laughs quietly, feeling the warmth of the group settle around him like a shield.  For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t seem quite so daunting.

The night outside deepens.  The stars are growing brighter, casting faint glimmers through the window . The steady hum of the train carries them forward into whatever adventures await at the end of the line.

————————————

The Great Hall is too loud.

Remus stands near the back of the line of first-years.  The thick stone walls echo with every whisper.  Every nervous shuffle of feet.  Every gasp as the enchanted ceiling above mirrors the night sky.  Dark and vast, stars scattered like spilled salt.  He glances up, mostly for show.  He’s already seen it in books.  He knows what it’s supposed to look like.  Still, it steals his breath a little.

Everything hurts.  His legs, mostly—his knees and the muscles along his thighs.  His back aches, dull and constant.  There’s a rawness in his chest that isn’t physical but might as well be.  The full moon is four nights from now.  Not long enough.  Not really.

He holds himself still.  Careful.  His robes feel too heavy across his shoulders, but he doesn’t flinch or shift.  Instead, he breathes slow and steady.  In.  Out.  No one notices a quiet boy breathing.

Around him, the others buzz with whispered speculation.  Which house will they be in?  Is the Sorting painful?  What if they get Slytherin?  James and Sirius are just a few heads ahead.  He can see James shifting excitedly from foot to foot while Sirius stands with an easy slouch.  Like he’s too cool to care.  Peter’s somewhere near them, trying not to look nervous and failing miserably.

Remus keeps his face neutral, his hands clasped in front of him so no one can see how they tremble every now and then.  His fingernails still carry faint marks from the last transformation, the half-moon indents where he clawed into his palms to stay grounded.  He’d scrubbed them clean before boarding the train, but the pain clings to him.  Quiet and sharp beneath his skin.

The sorting hat sits on the stool ahead, frayed and ridiculous.  But it pulses with magic he can practically feel.  It twitches now and then, as if it’s stretching and waking up.  He watches it, jaw tight.

Please don’t say anything strange, he thinks.  Please just pick something and don’t make a scene.

Remus knows how to go unnoticed.  He knows how to be normal, or at least pretend.  He’s had years of practice now.  Days at muggle school, nights locked away.  He’s learned how to lie without saying anything at all.  His father said it would be all right.  Dumbledore said he’d be safe.  But still, the thought of standing alone in front of hundreds of staring eyes makes his stomach twist.

He shifts his weight very slightly.  The pain in his legs flares, but he doesn’t grimace.  Instead, he lifts his chin just a fraction.  The Sorting will begin soon.  He’ll get through it.  He always does.

Just moments ago, before the great doors opened.  They were huddled in a narrow stone corridor, packed close with nerves and the scent of train smoke still clinging to their robes.  That’s where she appeared—like she’d stepped out of the stone itself.

Professor McGonagall.

Tall and severe, with sharp eyes that miss nothing and a mouth set in a line so straight it could slice you clean in half.  Her tartan robes sweep the floor as she walks, and the square set of her shoulders tells them all she does not tolerate nonsense.  But there’s something else in her presence too.  Something not quite soft but steadying.  Like if the corridor suddenly collapsed, she wouldn’t flinch.

She had stood before them, hands clasped behind her back.  She introduced herself with crisp, formal precision.  Deputy Headmistress.  Head of Gryffindor House.  Transfiguration professor.

Remus had watched her with careful eyes, absorbing everything.  She hadn’t smiled—but she hadn’t needed to.  Her voice held the weight of quiet authority.  And something about her tone, even in its sternness, had made his shoulders relax just slightly.

She had explained the Sorting in plain terms.  No dramatics and no mystery.  Just the truth.  Four Houses.  One Sorting Hat.  They’d be called one by one.

And then she had turned, opened the massive double doors with a flick of her wand, and led them into the Great Hall.

Now, she waits at the front of the line near the hat and the stool.  Her posture is perfect, watching them all like she already knows where each of them belongs.  Her eyes pass over the group once, brief but attentive.  And when they land on Remus, just for a flicker of a second, he feels strangely…seen.  Not exposed…just noticed.

He straightens instinctively, despite the pull in his back.

The Hall is enormous.  Cavernous in a way that feels more like a cathedral than a school.  Four long tables stretch the length of the room, packed with older students watching the first-years like an audience waiting for a show.  Teachers sit at the far table, a line of unfamiliar adults in varying states of interest or boredom.  At the center, at the head of it all, is a man with a long silver beard and twinkling eyes.  Dumbledore, no doubt.

Remus’s stomach churns.

He tells himself again: Just get through it.  One step.  Then the next.

He watches the Sorting Hat wrinkle as it yawns wide and begins to sing.

The Sorting Hat sings in a low, warbling voice that echoes through the vaulted ceiling.  It drifts down over the sea of curious faces.  The lyrics are strange.  A  little eerie in places and far too long.  Something about bravery and cunning, loyalty and wit, about how each House serves a purpose and every student has a place.  Remus listens, but only loosely.  His head is too full.

His legs ache.  His chest feels too tight.  His name is somewhere on that list, inching closer with every student called.

“Black, Sirius.”

The name rings out across the Great Hall, sharp and certain.

Remus blinks.  For a moment, he doesn’t move.  He almost expects someone else to step forward.  Someone taller, colder, maybe wearing the same smirk Sirius always seems to wear like a mask.  But it’s him.  Sirius Black steps out of the line with his hands in his pockets and his mouth set in a crooked line.  Something half a smirk and half a challenge.

He walks like he’s walking into battle, not a ceremony.

Remus watches closely, suddenly alert.  There’s a stiffness in Sirius’s shoulders that wasn’t there when they were laughing on the train.  His steps are slower now.  More measured.  And when he reaches the stool and the Sorting Hat is dropped onto his head, his whole body goes still.

It takes less than a minute.

“Gryffindor!” the hat bellows.

The table nearest the left wall erupts into cheers.  Someone claps loud and hard.  But Sirius doesn’t move.  Not for a second.

Remus watches the way his shoulders tense even more before he climbs off the stool.  He yanks the hat off like it’s said something foul.  His face is blank.  Not surprised.  Not pleased.  Just…blank.  The smirk is gone.  He doesn’t even glance at the Slytherin table as he walks to Gryffindor, sliding onto the bench beside a red-headed boy who thumps him on the back.

Remus frowns.

He doesn’t understand it.  Sirius had seemed so confident.  So sure of himself.  So loud on the train.  He should be grinning, basking in the cheers.  Soaking it up like sunlight.  But he’s not.  Sirius sits stiffly, arms crossed.  He stares straight ahead.  Like he’s angry.  Or worse—like something inside him is cracking open and he’s trying not to show it.

Remus doesn’t know what it means, but he knows enough about wearing masks to recognize one.  And he tucks that detail away, quietly, as the next name is called.

“Bones, Amelia!”

A girl with bright red plaits and a steady gait steps forward, her chin high like she’s not afraid of any hat, any table, or any student watching.  She swings one leg over the stool and sits with practiced poise, hands folded neatly in her lap.

The Sorting Hat barely touches her head.

“Hufflepuff!”

A ripple of applause from the second table on the right, loud and warm.  Amelia hops down with a satisfied nod and strides off to join them, already talking to a boy who shifts over to make room.

Remus shifts his weight slightly.  The pain in his thighs pulses, dull and deep.  He can feel a thin bead of sweat at the base of his neck.  He keeps his face neutral.  It’s not the first time he’s had to pretend.

Another name is called—“Evans, Lily!”—and then another.  Remus barely hears them.  He’s watching Sirius out of the corner of his eye.  The boy hasn’t smiled.  He hasn’t laughed.  He hasn’t so much as glanced at the cheering Gryffindors around him.  One of the older students leans over, trying to welcome him.  But Sirius barely nods in return.  His arms are still folded.  His jaw tight.

Remus doesn’t get it.

Gryffindor’s meant to be the brave house.  The bold one.  The one people want.  And Sirius had seemed like he’d belong there from the first minute on the train: loud, wild, sharp-edged in a way that made people lean in closer instead of turning away.  But he sits there now like he’s been sentenced, not sorted.

Remus wonders what house he was expecting.

He glances toward the Slytherin table.  A cluster of green-robed students are whispering, their eyes cutting toward Sirius in quick glances.  One boy—elegant, pale, and sneering—looks almost affronted.  Another seems amused.  Remus doesn’t recognize them, but he recognizes the look on their faces: betrayal, shock, mockery.  Maybe all three at once.

And suddenly it clicks.

His whole family have been in Slytherin, Sirius had said.  And he hadn’t smiled when he said it.

Remus looks back at him, more carefully now.  Sirius isn’t angry about being in Gryffindor.  He’s angry because it means something.  Because someone, somewhere, is going to hear that Sorting Hat’s call and take it as a declaration of war.

Remus knows what it’s like to be sorted into pain you didn’t ask for.  He knows what it’s like to live in a body that betrays you every month and be told to keep smiling through it.  So he watches Sirius a little longer, thoughtful now.  Not curious—interested.

Another name echoes through the Hall. 

Remus looks forward again.  His name is coming.  The moment is near.  He tries to shift his weight again without grimacing.  The pain radiates up from his calves to his spine, but he doesn’t flinch.  He stands as still as he can, hands folded.  Expression calm.  Practiced.

He has worn worse masks.

A small girl with thick curls and robes too long in the sleeves stumbles forward, half-tripping on the hem before righting herself.  The Hall laughs gently.  Not cruel, just amused.  The Sorting Hat calls out “Ravenclaw!” almost before she’s fully seated.  She beams as she slips off the stool, practically skipping to the table where blue-and-bronze banners ripple high above.

Remus watches her go, then shifts his gaze back to the front.  The list is getting shorter.  He’s somewhere down the middle, alphabetically tucked between students he doesn’t know and houses he isn’t sure he deserves.  The pain in his body throbs in rhythm with his nerves, but he keeps his shoulders back.  His face is still composed.

A few more names pass.  “Fawley, Edgar” is sorted into Slytherin.  “Shacklebolt, Kingsley” into Ravenclaw.  Cheers rise and fall like waves, but to Remus they’re just sound—distant and muted.

He glances again at the Gryffindor table.  Sirius still sits stiff, answering in short bursts any questions his peers ask, eyes flicking across the Hall like he’s bracing for an ambush.

Now the line shortens.  The stool seems closer than it was a minute ago.  Remus’s stomach coils tighter.  His name could be next, or the one after.  He’s not sure what he wants.

Not Slytherin, he thinks instinctively—not because he’s been taught to hate them, but because he can’t risk it.  Slytherins are ambitious.  Clever.  Dangerous.  They’d sniff out his secret before the week was out.  And Ravenclaw—well, he wouldn’t mind Ravenclaw.  Not really.  But they value brilliance, and Remus knows what he’s best at is hiding.

Hufflepuff, maybe.  He wouldn’t mind that.  A quiet house, loyal and steady.

But he keeps thinking of Sirius.  Him all angry in silence, bruised by his own Sorting.  And James.  James, who had lifted an imaginary sword and declared “Gryffindor!” with all the confidence of a boy who’s never known what it means to be afraid of himself.

Remus doesn’t know what he wants.

He only knows what he doesn’t want: the hat to say something out loud that no one’s supposed to know.

He adjusts the way he stands.  Not because it helps the pain, but because it helps the lie.  His hands are steady.  His breathing even.  He is just another nervous first-year.  He is not marked.  He is not cursed.  He is not broken.

And then—

“Lupin, Remus.”

The sound echoes like a bell.

He steps forward.

Remus walks forward, slow and measured.  Every step is heavier than it should be.  Like he’s walking through thick fog or knee-deep water.  He can feel the eyes on him.  All the students, the professors, and the quiet watching of the Headmaster at the far end of the Hall.  But he doesn’t look up.  He keeps his head level and his hands at his sides.

He doesn’t limp, though he could.  His knees ache, and his lower back throbs with every shift of balance.  But he doesn’t limp.

The stool is just ahead.

He climbs onto it without letting the effort show.  The fabric of his robes strains faintly at the shoulders as he sits upright.  Composed.

Then the Sorting Hat drops over his head and plunges everything into darkness due to it being too big.

“Hmm.  Now this is…curious.”

The voice isn’t really a voice.  It’s in his head, as if a thought is speaking back.  Not loud.  Not cruel.  Just deeply, and impossibly ancient.

“You’ve got some grit, little one.  Pain makes iron out of soft things.  Oh yes.  You’ve seen too much for your age.”

Remus swallows hard and says nothing.

“Loyal.  Steady.  Thoughtful.  Yes, yes, Hufflepuff would be proud to have you…but there’s more.  There’s a cleverness here.  Caution and strategy.  Ravenclaw?  Mmm…possibly.”

He tightens his fingers around the edge of the stool where no one can see.

“But there’s something else in you, too.  A bite.  A quiet fury.  You know how to endure.  How to choose what’s right over what’s easy.  That’s…very Gryffindor.”

Remus’s breath hitches.  Not because he’s afraid, but because he hadn’t considered that house for himself.  Not really.  Not the way James had, pretend sword in hand and head high.  Not the way Sirius had, even in protest.

But maybe…

“Ah, you’re torn,” the hat murmurs, amused.  “But there’s bravery in you.  Not loud.  Not obvious.  But hard-earned.  That kind runs deep.  So be it—”

“Gryffindor!”

The word booms through the Great Hall, and Remus blinks against the sudden flood of torchlight as the hat is lifted from his head.

He doesn’t smile.  Not really.  But there’s a flicker of something.  Satisfaction, maybe, or disbelief.  He climbs off the stool slowly and walks toward the Gryffindor table.

Sirius is still seated near the end, arms crossed.  His expression is unreadable, but his eyes flick up as Remus approaches.  There’s the briefest flash of something—acknowledgment.

Remus takes a seat across from him, keeping a respectful distance.  He doesn’t speak, but neither of them look away.

Peter beams and claps from his spot, even more excited than before.  Remus nods once in return.  He folds his hands in his lap, shoulders straight.  The pain is still there.  The tension still coils behind his ribs.  But for the first time tonight, he feels something other than dread curling in his chest.

He made it.  He made it through.

Peter is sorted next.  It takes a considerable amount of time for the hat to come to a decision, but it settles on Gryffindor.

And then, just as the murmurs settle—

“Potter, James.”

The Hall bursts into whispers again.  Remus turns his head, and so does Sirius.

James strides to the front like he’s walking into a party, hair tousled and glasses slightly askew.  It’s he’s already won some private game.  He throws a wink to someone in the crowd—probably no one in particular—and flops down on the stool with a dramatic flair.

The Sorting Hat barely grazes his head.

“Gryffindor!”

Thunderous applause.

James rips the hat off and leaps down like a Quidditch star, soaking in the cheers.  He saunters toward the Gryffindor table, grinning so wide it almost looks painful.  He slides in beside Sirius, claps him on the shoulder, and then looks to Remus across the table with a look that says: Of course it was us.  Was there ever any doubt?

Sirius tries to hide the way his mouth twitches.  Remus, just for a moment, lets himself smile.

————————————

The castle is darker than he expected.

Not the haunted sort of dark…though it is night, and the torchlight flickers weirdly along the walls.  But dark like something ancient.  The kind of dark that doesn’t care how small you are.  It just swallows you.

Sirius walks in the middle of the Gryffindor pack, shoulders stiff.  His hands are in his pockets.  James is at his side, chattering as if nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.  Peter is a few steps ahead, practically bouncing with excitement.  That Lupin boy is just behind them, quiet and observant.  Of course he is.  The quiet ones always see too much.  Sirius is going to keep an eye on him.

Sirius doesn’t say anything.  Hasn’t, really, since the Sorting.

Gryffindor.

The word still rings hollow in his chest.  Like a bell someone struck with the wrong end of the hammer.

His family is going to be furious.  Not just disappointed.  Furious.  They’ll act like it’s his fault.  Like he did it on purpose.  Like he wanted this.

And the worst part is…he might have.  He might have wanted it, deep down.  He’s not even sure anymore.  It all happened too fast.  The Sorting Hat had slipped over his head, and he’d thought, Not Slytherin.  Not like them.  Not like them.  And the hat had listened.

He hadn’t expected that.

Now, as they round a corner and pass beneath a high archway, Sirius stares ahead like he’s seeing smoke no one else can.

Gryffindor.

He wonders what Reg will think.

No, he knows what Reg will think.  Reggie will try not to show it, but it’ll be there in their eyes.  Shame.  Confusion.  Maybe even pity.  Reg’s only ten, but they’ve been trained since birth to believe in legacy.  Bloodlines.  Expectations.  Sirius is the heir.  The one meant to carry on the Black name, even if he rolls his eyes while doing it.

And now?

Now he’s a traitor before he’s even learned to tie a proper Gryffindor tie.

“Did you see the stairs?” James says beside him, nudging his arm.  “They move.  That’s mental, right?”

Sirius gives a small noise that might pass for agreement.  James doesn’t seem to notice his silence.  Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

The first years are all whispering, heads swiveling around, wide-eyed and thrilled.  The older prefect leading them.  They’re tall, with a loud voice and hair too neat to trust.  They march confidently ahead, promising they’re almost there.

Sirius drags his eyes up to the portrait they stop in front of.  A fat woman in a pink dress, lounging in a painting like she’s hosting a tea party.  She wants a password.

The prefect gives it.  The portrait swings open.

The Gryffindor common room.

It’s all red and gold and roaring firelight.  Big, soft chairs.  Warmth that feels like it’s meant to comfort.  Some kids gasp in delight.  Peter practically glows.

Sirius steps inside and feels…nothing.

This isn’t his.

He knows how to fake it, though.  He shrugs off the discomfort and tosses himself into an armchair with practiced carelessness.  James plops down beside him a moment later, still talking.

He catches a glimpse of Remus standing nearby, eyes scanning the room like he’s memorizing every detail.  Not excited.  Just aware.  Sirius exhales slowly, resting his head back against the cushions.  The fire crackles.

Gryffindor.

He tells himself he doesn’t care.  That he’s glad to be out of Slytherin’s reach.  That this is freedom.  But his stomach is tight.  His throat is dry.  The weight in his chest feels a lot like regret.

And still, he doesn’t say a word.

Before they can take another step into the common room…before the warmth of the fire even has a chance to settle in…all the first years are suddenly soaked.

Ice-cold water pours from somewhere above, a shimmering sheet that hits them like a bucket from the heavens.  Sirius sputters and jerks backward as the freezing shock runs down his spine.  Around him, there’s a chorus of shrieks and gasps.  Robes cling instantly to skin.  Hair drips into eyes.

For a second, there’s only chaos.

Then, a cackle.

A wild, echoing, and gleeful cackle.

Peeves.

The poltergeist fades into view, upside down and grinning like a maniac.  He floats just beneath the ceiling with a dripping mop in one hand and a sloshing bucket in the other.  His eyes are bright with mischief.  His hat is askew.

“Welcome to Hoggy Hogwarts, firsties!” he sings, voice sliding into a horrible sort of melody.  “Hope you like showers that aren’t in the schedule!”

The prefect—dry and clearly unimpressed—steps forward, fury blooming behind his polished prefect badge.  “Peeves!” he barks, pointing his wand.  “That’s enough!  Do you want me to get the Bloody Baron?”

Peeves clutches his chest with dramatic horror.  “Oh noooo, not Baron Spookyface!” he wails.  Then he hurls the mop like a javelin—it misses by a mile)—flips upright, and with another sharp cackle, zips straight through the stone wall and disappears with a ghostly POP.

Silence follows.  It’s a dripping, shivering silence.

Then—

“Wicked,” James says, grinning from ear to ear, water still running down his face.  He elbows Sirius hard in the ribs, eyes alight.  “Tell me that wasn’t brilliant.”

Sirius blinks.  Still dripping, still cold.  And for the first time since the Sorting, something breaks loose in his chest.  A laugh.  Not sharp or forced or sarcastic, but real.  A short bark of laughter tumbles out of him before he can stop it.

“Yeah,” he mutters, water sliding down the bridge of his nose.  “Wicked.”

And just like that, something in the room shifts.  Maybe the cold doesn’t bite quite as much.  Maybe the fire looks more like home.

Maybe Gryffindor isn’t a punishment after all.

Eventually, the prefect gives up on scolding and sighs instead.  He waves his wand to dry off the worst of the mess.  The first years are still damp, a little wrinkled, but their laughter bubbles louder than their complaints now.  Peeves is long gone, and the fire crackles in the common room as if nothing happened.

They’re herded up a spiral staircase, yawning and tripping and elbowing each other on the way.  The castle seems to groan and shift around them.  It is as though it’s just as tired as they are.  

At the very top of the boys’ corridor, they’re shown into a round room with four-poster beds.  Curtains the color of blood and rust.  Their wooden trunks are already waiting at the foot of each.  It smells faintly of smoke and something older—cedar and wool and magic left to steep.

James is the first to flop dramatically onto a bed, arms spread wide like he’s claiming it by divine right.  “This one’s mine,” he announces, as if anyone had tried to stop him.  “Because obviously.”

Sirius tosses his robes toward the nearest bed and raises an eyebrow.  “Obviously,” he deadpans, but there’s the shadow of that earlier grin lingering at the corner of his mouth.

Peter is already investigating the bedside drawer.  As if expecting that secrets might be tucked inside.  Remus, ever quiet, chooses the bed near the window and lowers himself down carefully.

When they’ve all more or less settled, James pushes himself upright and looks around at the lot of them.  All smug and pleased.

“All four of us,” he says.  “Same dorm.  Same house.  It’s fate.”

Peter giggles.  “You sound like a fortune-teller.”

“I am a fortune-teller,” James replies, throwing an arm around Sirius’s shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.  “I foresaw this the moment we got off the train.”

Remus snorts softly from his bed, pulling off his shoes one at a time.  “Right.  You predicted the poltergeist shower too, I suppose?”

“Of course I did,” James says, now flopping backwards across Sirius’s bed with theatrical flair.  “That’s just the kind of wizard I am.  I dream big.  I dream of destiny.  And our destiny is long and amazing.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t shove him off.  Peter climbs onto his own bed, kicking his feet in the air like he can’t quite believe it’s real.  And Remus just shakes his head and watches the ceiling for a long moment.

James lets out a loud yawn.  “Get ready, gents.  This year’s gonna be legendary.”

And in that soft, flickering silence after, no one argues.