CRIMSON RIVERS

VOLUME 4

Zeppazariel
 Crimson Rivers

Archive of our Own

Typeset made by: chasingregulus

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Crimson Rivers

one
Two Months Later

two
The Districts

three
Before The War

four
Prisoners of War

five
The Great War

six
War Aftermath

4
 seven
The Phoenix Tree

eight
Home

nine
Begin Again

ten
Secrets of War

eleven
The Wedding

twelve
Everything

thirteen
Fortune

5
6
10
 1

TWO MONTHS LATER

______

"Go, go, go!" Kingsley bellows. "Dammit, Dorcas, go!"

"I'm trying!" Dorcas shouts through gritted teeth, grunting as she

slams back into the Auror that has their arms around her. She uses
the leverage to bring her feet up, kicking against the tree in front of
her to shove them both back. "Let me go!"

"She said," Marlene snaps, "let—her—go!"

With each word, those final three, Marlene slams her elbow into the
side of the Auror's head, until they let go of Dorcas, who stumbles
out of the way in just enough time for Marlene to ram the

Auror's face into the tree. The Auror's head bounces off the bark, and
they sag to the ground. Marlene stares at her, chest heaving, and then
she smiles brilliantly, all teeth. "You okay?"

"Oh, I'm better than," Dorcas replies, equally breathless. She huffs
out a laugh, then points her gun at the Auror' head and pulls the
trigger, not even looking.

"Sexy," Marlene comments, eyes dancing with humor. There's blood

on her cheek. It's not hers. "You're so sexy."

"Dorcas, Marlene!" Kingsley shouts.

Choking out a laugh, Dorcas reaches out with her free hand, riding
the thrill of Marlene taking it, the both of them turning and tearing
further into the forest. They lost most of the Aurors half a mile back,

11
 Two Months Later

but that last one—oh, that last one was persistent. And mouthy. Had
a lot to say about all the ways in which they were going to make
Dorcas pay, and also they shot at Marlene, so it's their fault they'll
never talk again.

Kingsley, Amos, Rodolphus, and Emmeline are already at the latch,

heading down to the station below where they find exactly what
they were hoping to see. Alice, Lily, and Barty are already waiting,
all of them ushering onto the train, Lily fussing over Amos, who has
a graze on his leg.

"That could have gone worse," Emmeline announces as she dumps

herself into her seat next to Alice, who looks her over with a frown,
reaching out to turn her head to eye the swelling and bruising
around her temple that's already showing up.

"Really?" Amos grits out, hissing when Lily dabs at his wound and
whining when she snaps at him to 'suck it up and be still, Diggory'.
"We've been doing these missions for, what, six weeks now? They've
never gone as bad as this one did."

"No one died," Barty points out. "So, hey, it's a win." "You need to
raise your standards," Amos mutters.

Barty winks at him. "Darling, I don't have standards."

"We all knew district two would be harder than the rest," Kingsley
reminds them. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but Crouch is right.
Despite the hiccup, we achieved what we came here to do, right?"

Alice nods. "We got it done, King. The water supply is contaminated.
Just a few more days, and district two is safe."

"Don't say contaminated. It makes us sound like the bad guys,"

Emmeline mutters.

"To some, we are the bad guys," Lily points out, holding Amos' leg
still as she pours something over it that makes him hiss and jerk
again. "But we did good, so that's all that matters."

12
"You think they've figured it out yet?" Rodolphus asks.

Lily snorts. "No, honestly, I don't. Between James, Regulus, and

Sirius, they're keeping Riddle really busy. We've only been caught in
this district, while the other team was caught in ten. But, as far as
they know, we just made a tactical retreat. To the districts, and the
Aurors stationed in the districts, it just looks like we came in and got
run right back out; losses, because we haven't rescued anyone. And
viruses spread through districts all the time, people get sick all the
time, so it's not like they're going to make the leap to immunity that
easily. We've been careful. No pattern. They won't know until the
biological warfare doesn't work, and then—well, it's too late, isn't it?"

Dorcas grins in sheer satisfaction, because Lily is right.

In the last two months, the formula for immunity has been made,
tested, and approved. As such, everyone within the Phoenix has
been immunized—every single person—but they haven't stopped
there. On Dumbledore's orders, select teams have been going from
district to district to—well, contaminate the water supply with the
formula.

It had taken some time to create the formula, but it helped that
Fiendfyre ants are easy to find in the woods all around the Phoenix,
so they weren't in short supply of the missing ingredient needed.
There's some irony in that, how everything was all in reach, how all
the information was right there, and yet no one saw what was
staring them right in the face. If not for Remus, in more ways than
one, everyone would be fucked.

It took a bit longer to figure out how they were going to get mass
amounts of people within the districts immunized. In the end, the
credit went to Dorcas and Poppy for that one. After all, it was Poppy
that said it, wasn't it?

Well, in liquid form, he could easily use the biological toxins in the
venom to infect a district's water supply, for instance, Poppy had
said once, all the way back when theorizing on what Riddle was
using the Horcrux Hornet venom for. Riddle didn't do that, though.

13
 Two Months Later

He went with using it in gas form, likely because it's faster and much
more devastating.

But, Dorcas had thought, if he could do that, why couldn't they?

Except, you know, with immunity. Through Sirius, it's proven that
the components in the formula work when digested, because he
ingested Riddle's blood and became immune. Through Vanity, it's
proven that it doesn't have to be blood, that any form immunity
takes will work. And what do all people in districts come in contact
with to ingest? Water. They boil their food with it. They drink it.
They bathe in it, shower in it, and it gets in open wounds, if they
have any.

Through water, everyone will get immunized. They'll ingest it, let it
hit their bloodstream, and get sick. It'll spread like a disease, but a
life-saving one. All districts have water, because all people need
water. The only thing Poppy was worried about was the constant
digestion of the formula, which—if people took in too much—could
erode their internal organs and kill them in the long- term anyway.
But that's where Asher came in, who is a literal genius about poisons
and such, and she found a way around that. Don't ask Dorcas what it
is, because she doesn't know. She didn't understand half of what
they were saying, and she stopped listening the moment it was
announced that everything would work out.

So, as of now, all twelve districts have been handled, the latest being
two. All that's left is the war to take the districts. Marlene—along
with Lily, Emmeline, Alice, and Remus—are particularly eager for
that. They all have people in their home districts they care about,
friends or family that may still be alive, people they want to see
again. Even visiting the districts as they have been hasn't really
allowed anyone to see those that are there.

These have been stealth missions through the cover of night, and
Dumbledore has two separate teams rotating on getting it handled.
Kingsley has this team, while Edgar has his own. They switch out so
everyone gets breaks, and each team has only been discovered once.
They always go after curfew that has been instilled in all districts
now, thanks to Riddle, so the people in the districts are rarely, if ever,
seen.

14
That didn't stop Lily from wanting to go to district twelve, at least to
check if her family was alive, if Remus' father was. That didn't stop
Emmeline from wanting to go to nine, or Alice to go to five, or
Marlene to go to eleven.

Dumbledore didn't let them, of course. No, of course not. He set the
rotation just right so Edgar's team handled those. When many
people protested this, he only garnered more anger from everyone
when stating, quite simply, that they couldn't be trusted to do the
mission properly.

Feelings would get in the way. They would try to save people before
it was time. It was too big of a risk. He's the leader; he has to make
the hard decisions, and he did.

Dorcas hates that she understood his decision—and, though she

would never admit it, she knew he was right.

Because Remus is the 'fallback plan', as far as immunity goes, he

hasn't been allowed on missions at all. Because Regulus, Sirius, and
James are important for broadcasts and stirring up further rebellion,
they also haven't been allowed to go. This, as you can imagine, hasn't
gone over well with any of them.

As soon as the districts are taken, though, that's it. As long as the war
has been going on, they're in the endgame now. Maybe it shouldn't
be as exhilarating as it is, but...

Well, it is exhilarating. They're almost there. So close.

As if echoing her thoughts, Lily smooths down the bandage on

Amos' leg and breathes out, "Look

at us, we're on the fast-track to the Hallow."

"First, we have to focus on taking the districts," Kingsley says, "and

that will be all hands on deck. So, you know, rest when you can."

"Aw, I love your little inspirational one-liners," Barty coos, then grins
when Kingsley flips him off.

15
 Two Months Later

"I mean it," Kinglsey says, standing up. "Rest while you can, because
once the ball gets rolling, it won't stop."

Barty smirks at him. "Two one-liners back-to-back. You're on fire

today, King."

Rodolphus cracks up laughing, and Kingsley swats Barty on the

head as he goes by, heading to the front of the train to let their
conductor know they're clear to bring them home. Alice settles in
next to Emmeline, fussing over her while Lily moves over with her
medic pack, and Barty continues to crack jokes while Rodolphus
dissolves into laughter, over and over.

Dorcas doesn't want to rest, though. She can't. The adrenaline from
the missions won't let her; it never does. Marlene, as always, is in the
same boat, so it comes as no surprise when she reaches out to grab
Dorcas' hand and pull her away.

They go stumbling into a separate traincar, sliding the door shut and
locking it, pulling down the blinds. Dorcas' heart is hammering
away in her chest, slamming against her ribs, and she's breathless
even before all her breath escapes her when Marlene pushes her up
against the wall.

They kiss like the world is ending, rushed and frantic, riding the
wave of adrenaline until it brings them crashing together. Oh, oh,
nothing is better than this. Absolutely nothing.

Dorcas never wanted Marlene in this war, in danger, and it still

scares the fuck out of her to this day, but for each mission they go on
together, for every fight they fight side-by-side, for all the times they
survive and survive and survive—it's like taking a lit match to a
barrel of fuel. It burns through her, triumphant and victorious, until
she's lightheaded from it. Every time, she's so relieved, and so, so
fucking aroused.

It's like—oh, shit, it's like that near-death rush that makes you ache
to feel alive, and nothing makes her feel alive the way Marlene does,
and nothing lights her up from within the way Marlene being alive

16
does. It makes Dorcas feel fucking crazy how they're alive after they
could have died, and they throw themselves at each other like
they're trying to find something new to survive, chasing that thrill to
keep it.

Oh, they keep it, alright. Dorcas meets Marlene in a deep, gasping,
open-mouthed kiss and gets swept up in it, yanking at clothes,
grabbing each other too rough, except there's no such thing. Harder,
harsher, faster. Desperate. Frantic. Yes, yes, yes.

So much yes.

"You—when you—when you—" Dorcas groans into the bend of

Marlene's neck, breathing hard, fingers sliding into short, spiky hair.
She cut it for Marlene again recently. Marlene loves it, and so does
Dorcas. "Oh, you—when you—when—"

Marlene grabs her by the jaw, hard, and pushes her head up to gasp
a laugh right into her mouth, which is probably for the best, because
Dorcas can't even finish her thought. What she means to say is that
when Marlene fights, it's the hideous, beautiful embodiment of war,
and Dorcas is so unbearably attracted to it, to her, that it's fucking
maddening.

Marlene has a smear of blood on her cheek that isn't her own,
probably someone she killed, and her knuckles are busted and
bruised, swollen enough that the ring on her thumb likely can't come
off at the moment. It's violence, and they ride it out, fucking as
violent as they can both be.

It's not always this way. Sometimes it's gentle, as gentle as they can
get. Soft whispers of hands on skin and silk kisses that make them
melt. The long, drawn-out sort of love-making. Cherishing each
other. They cherish each other a lot, maybe even more than they try
to rip each other apart.

They're pure duality, and the differences doesn't mean that one way
is better than the other. It's good. It's always good with Marlene.
Always has been.

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 Two Months Later

When it's like this, though, it's quick. They can't really last, or drag it
out, because they really go at it. Like, really. It's rough and dirty,
swapped moans, hands down each other's pants like it's the last
chance they'll ever get. It leaves them shuddering and clinging to
each other, so shaky in the aftermath that they have to sit down and
catch their breath.

"Fucking hell," Marlene mutters, chest heaving.

"You're telling me," Dorcas agrees breathlessly, dumping her head on

Marlene's shoulder. "That's

one for the history books. If this war doesn't kill me, you will."

"Good way to go, though, isn't it?" Marlene teases, tilting her head
down to grin at her.

"The best way," Dorcas confirms. "That's how I want to die. I want to
die with your head between my legs."

"Bit far-fetched, that," Marlene muses. "I mean, we'll get old. Old
people don't fuck." Dorcas lifts her head, eyebrows raised. "Yes, they
do."

"Nah," Marlene protests, waving a hand.

"Marlene, they absolutely do," Dorcas says through laughter,

watching Marlene purse her lips. "People don't stop being people
when they get older, you know. They continue living and such, and
if they like sex, they have it."

"You mean to tell me that old people fuck?" Marlene asks, looking
like this is the worst news she's heard all week. She looks horrified.
"So, like, Dumbledore—"

"Gah!" Dorcas bursts out, flinching instinctively. "No! Why would

you put that in my brain?!"

Marlene grimaces. "Sorry, but he's the oldest person I can think of.
Alright, Minerva and Poppy, then?"

18
"Marlene!" Dorcas protests in horror.

"What?!"

"They're like—my adopted parents!"

"Oh. Right." Marlene coughs. "Well, I mean, they're old, and you said
old people fuck, so—" "Shut up. You shut up right now."

"Would you rather think about Dumbledore?"

Dorcas is no longer in a post-orgasmic haze of delight. She is now in

hell. "Please stop it, I'm begging you."

"Well, now I'm genuinely curious. Which is more horrifying for you,
acknowledging that Minerva and Poppy probably fuck like rabbits,
or the thought that Dumbledore—"

"Ah! Ah, stop it!"

Marlene starts laughing. "Go on, think about it. Do you reckon he
tosses his beard over his shoulder when he—"

"No. No, shut up," Dorcas hisses, shaking her head. "He doesn't. He
just—doesn't. As long as I've known that man, he's always been
alone. Never had anyone."

"Maybe he does it in secret. You don't know."

"You hate me. That's what this is. You actually hate me."

"Mm, we both know that's not true," Marlene says, her gaze warm.
"Alright, I'll stop. But, I mean, it's...sort of sad, don't you think? The
Order is his whole life. The war is."

"Yeah, that's what he chose," Dorcas murmurs, leaning into Marlene

again, sighing. "It wasn't always, though. He... I mean, he did have a
lover, decades ago."

"Grindelwald," Marlene agrees quietly.

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 Two Months Later

"Yeah," Dorcas whispers.

"Do you think...he still loves him, even now, even after killing him?"
Marlene whispers back.

"I think... Well, if it was anything like this," Dorcas mumbles,

gesturing between them, "I'm sure he does."

"That's fucked up," Marlene replies, subdued. "I mean, the fact of
who he loved, and how he hasn't loved anyone else since."

"Yeah," Dorcas says, equally solemn. "I don't think he's a good man,
but you have to admit, he's been through enough shit to have
reasons not to be. He started the war because of love, at the end of
the day. I think about it a lot, because didn't I do the same?"

"Maybe," Marlene allows, "but the difference is, you won't be alone
when you're old. You'll have me." She pauses, then snorts. "If I make
it through this war, at least."

"You will," Dorcas tells her. "Just so I won't be alone." "Oh, is that
why?" Marlene replies with a laugh. "Yes."

"Mm, motivation enough, I suppose. Although, even if I didn't, you

wouldn't be alone. You have Minerva and Poppy. Lily. Pandora.
Sirius, Regulus, and James. Friends. And you've basically been
adopted by Cordie. Maximus adores you."

This is all true, to be fair. Apparently, needing only one person and
putting them above everyone else and the whole world isn't
exactly...healthy. It is a lot to put on one person. Marlene said they'd
work on it, and they have.

As such, Dorcas has essentially found a best friend in Cordelia,

Marlene's cousin, and she babysits Maximus with Marlene all the
time to let Cordelia have alone time with Riker, because as much as
they love their son, all parents need breaks. At first, this was very
difficult to manage, because Marlene was still so wary to hold
Maximus, but now that he's a bit bigger, looks less delicate and more

20
sturdy, Marlene has tentatively started to actually hold her cousin's
baby. The first time, Dorcas had to sit right there and keep them both
calm, but in the end, Marlene had been so fucking pleased about it.
She's still quite cautious, but she's gotten a lot better over time.

Friends are simple. Dorcas has had those this whole time, though she
never clicked with anyone the way she has Lily and Cordelia, as far
as friendships go. Lily is—something else, even to this day. A lover
that wasn't, and never would be, but something special all the same.
Pandora is like a...co- parent, in the sense that Regulus and James
will always sort of be their tributes, which is an odd relationship, but
a wholesome one nonetheless. They're all friends, including Remus
and Sirius.

It's not just them, though. Because, after months, Dorcas has gotten
closer to more people than she ever expected to. Mary, Emmeline,
and Alice. Rodolphus, Rabastan, and Asher. All these people she has
laughed with, gathered pieces of, picked up secrets and mannerisms
from. People she has let herself get to know, and people she has let
know her.

Minerva—and Poppy, by extension—is more complex, in that

Marlene will never fully be comfortable with Minerva, and Dorcas
doesn't ask her to, would never ask her to. Yet, due to being so
serious about working on it, Marlene has insisted on making sure
Dorcas spends time with Minerva, and Poppy. It makes for some
very awkward family dinners, pretty much, like Minerva is
Marlene's in-law that she despises and puts up with for Dorcas' sake.
It is both disheartening and cute, somehow, and Dorcas loves it a lot
more than she lets on.

It helps that Minerva owns up to her shit, stern as ever, and doesn't
shy away from the things she did. Marlene respects that about her,
and she can understand that Minerva was following orders for the
progress of the war, but that doesn't change how that affected
Marlene. So, they have something of an uneasy relationship, mostly
one-sided on Marlene's side, but Minerva puts in the effort, which
means more to Dorcas than she could ever express.

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 Two Months Later

But still, as much as Dorcas has tried, Marlene is just it. She's always
the priority. Everyone else— yes, Dorcas has them, and she loves
them, but Marlene... Oh, Marlene.

Which is why Dorcas tips her head and kisses the scar on Marlene's
neck, murmuring, "I'll have my cake and eat it, too. Me and you,
we're going to get old, and we're going to fuck until we die, whether
or not the war is still going on."

"Well, when you put it like that..." Marlene grins at her and kisses her
temple. "Hopefully by then, the war will be over anyway, one way or
another."

"Mm, it will be," Dorcas breathes out, letting her eyes drift shut.
When she speaks next, soft and sated, she does so without thinking,
without having to think about it, because what she says is true. "All
wars come to an end."

Yeah, that is true. They do.

All the wars of the world, in all of history, even the longest—they all
have one thing in common, no matter their differences. They all
reached their eventual, inevitable end, and it's just a matter of when,
because all wars come to an end.

All of them.

~•~

Remus is there when Lily returns, despite the fact that it's the early
corners of the morning and the whole Phoenix is asleep. But not him.
He's always there, waiting for her to come back after she leaves. As
many times as she has left, this never seems to get any easier for him.

It gets harder and harder each time for her, too.

The thing is, in this, when you've picked up guns and learned how
to shoot them, it's not as simple as laying them down. She wants to,
most of the time, but then the opportunity to go, to fight, to help is

22
right there in front of her, and how does she turn that away? How is
she supposed to refuse?

Lily can't. Mary—well, Mary has asked her to, if not for Lily's sake,
then for hers and Bingley's. Yet, when Lily sat her down and
explained that she just—she can't not go when her friends need her,
when she can save people, because she cares so fucking
much—Mary didn't get angry. Mary could have. She could have
easily gotten upset with Lily for coming into her life, and Bingley's,
after all that they lost, and then choosing to repeatedly risk leaving
them for good. She could have broken up with her. She could have
let war come in between them.

But Mary didn't.

Mary sighed and smiled, sadly, and she leaned in to press their
foreheads together and said, simply, that she understood. And she
does, in reverse, because Mary chooses to turn it away, to stay
behind, to steal no more guns and help from here, only.

Lily understands that. Mary has a little brother to think about, and
the stakes are getting higher and higher. She's a labeled anarchist, a
target, so the risk is higher for her now. This isn't saving one of her
closest friends from the arena—or attempting to, and failing to. This
is mission after mission, risk after risk, and she knows now twice
over what it is to brush up against death, and she's done. For
Bingley, for the people from her home, for the children she
teaches—Mary is done.

There's a lot of bravery in that, Lily thinks. She admires Mary for it,
only more so because Mary hasn't fully tapped out at all. She helps
where she can, volunteering to help put together packs, learning
medical skills to help those who return with any injuries, being the
one who soothes the children and reassures the afraid. There's more
to war than just those who fight it. There's this, too.

Remus, though. He's trapped by his own blood. Too important to

risk until they're sure all the districts have been properly immunized,
Dumbledore said, and when the war comes to take the districts, then
to go in the Hallow, no one will have to remain behind. It has pissed
Remus off. He has his freedom now, except does he? Here he is,

23
 Two Months Later

imprisoned. Stuck here while his best friend goes out there, and all
he can do is wait for her. Haven't they waited long enough?

It hadn't taken them very long after the mission in Azkaban to resort
back to how they've always been. The truth is, Lily had already
forgiven Remus quite quickly, but she was dragging it out to be
petty. More than anything, she's so fucking grateful he's alive, and
she can't blame him for who he is; she has always known who he is,
and she loves him dearly for it. That's her best friend, through thick
and thin, and them being okay isn't even a question. They're always
going to be okay. Two bodies and one heart.

"How'd it go?" Remus asks softly, tension seeping out of his frame as
soon as she comes to him, letting him wrap his arms around her. He
kisses the top of her head.

"Well enough. Ran into a bit of trouble on the way out, but we got off
light," Lily murmurs, sliding her arms around his waist and sighing
as she leans into him.

"Easy for you to say," Amos grumbles as he hobbles by with Barty's

help. Barty coos at him mockingly, and Amos huffs.

"He got a little graze," Lily mumbles, closing her eyes. "He's fine. It's
nothing." "I heard that!" Amos snaps.

Lily ignores him. "We're all fine, and the mission was a success.
Dumbledore will be thrilled, I'm sure."

"Going to debrief him now," Kingsley announces, walking along

with Rodolphus while Alice and Emmeline follow.

"Feeling alright?" Remus asks into the quiet, once everyone else gets
far enough away. "Eh," Lily says.

Remus rubs circles into her back. "Kill anyone?"

"Couple of Aurors. Headshots."

24
"Want to talk about it?"

Lily sighs against him. "No, not really. I want a smoke."

"Alright, come on, then." Remus strokes her hair, kisses the top of her
head again, and eases his arm around her as they make their way out
of the station. "We'll have to be quiet. Sirius is sleeping, and I'd rather
not wake him. He hates waking up early, always happier when he
gets to sleep in."

"You spoil him."

"I do my absolute best to."

Lily shakes her head, lips twitching, but she doesn't comment or
tease any further. She has a soft spot for Sirius she never expected to
grow into, but that's Sirius for you. He sneaks up on you before you
know it, if you're not paying attention. Once you get past all that
charm and cheer, peer past all those countless falsities, you see that
he's just...a mess. A complete and total mess of a person, in the most
endearing way possible. It's something Lily relates to a lot, especially
these days, and it doesn't surprise her that Remus fell in love with
Sirius. Messes are his favorite type of people. After all, mess
recognizes mess.

Remus and Lily do indeed sneak into his room, taking care not to
wake Sirius, who is conked out and drooling on a pillow, his mouth
slack and half his limbs tangled in the covers. Remus doesn't have to
go very far to get smokes for them; he has them sitting out right next
to his ashtray, which he grabs, too.

They go to Lily's room, and they smoke until the room is shrouded
in a white cloud, burning embers of their cigarettes and sprawling
out on her bed.

Lily doesn't want to talk about what happened, or the people she
killed, but she knows she needs to, so she does. With Remus, it's
significantly easier than with anyone else. He's so very matter-of-fact
about everything, all his morals ironed out and lined up, simple and
unshakeable. It's war. People die. If they don't kill, they'll be killed.
They don't hurt or kill people because they want to; they hurt and

25
 Two Months Later

kill people because they have to—and he knows the difference.

Intimately.

Sometimes, Lily needs him to reassure her about that. She needs that
comfort from him, because sometimes she forgets, because she never
let herself feel anything about her first kill. She erased it and pushed
past it like it didn't even exist, simply because Remus wasn't there,
and she didn't let anything exist when he wasn't there—not just the
good, but the bad, too.

So, they lay there and talk, and they lay there and smoke, and it
helps. They eventually run out of words, because they don't need
words to be them. They eventually stop smoking, because their
throats are raw and their lungs are sufficiently on fire.

Lily is tired, but she gets up to have a shower anyway. Remus

departs to, presumably, make sure Sirius won't wake up alone. They
go their separate ways, calmer now, nothing to wait for when they're
here together again, as they should be.

When Lily gets out of the shower, Mary is in her bed. "Oh," Lily
mumbles. "You're up."

"I have to start class in a few hours," Mary tells her, gaze roaming
over her, checking for injuries. "You could have told me you made it
back. How'd it go?"

"I didn't want to disturb Bingley, and I didn't know you had class
today, so I thought I'd let you sleep more." Lily sighs as she
knee-walks her way onto the bed, dumping her damp hair over her
shoulder on the pillow. "And it...went a bit wonky, I won't lie, but it
ended up alright."

"Everyone make it back okay?"

"Safe and sound. Well, Amos was shot, though it was just a graze. It's
his leg, but he's fine."

26
Mary hums and leans back, turning on her side to face Lily. "Yes,
well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"

"I know a thing or two about it, yeah," Lily mutters, lips twitching
when she sees Mary's eyes dance with humor.

"Really? How'd you learn about it?"

"This really hot woman in heels stole my gun and shot me."

"Did you, perhaps, antagonize the woman by insinuating that she

wouldn't shoot you?" Mary asks.

Lily snorts. "Who, me? No, I'd never."

"Mhm," Mary hums skeptically, visibly fighting a grin.

"It all worked out, though." Lily leans in and lowers her voice like
they're trading secrets. "Believe it or not, that woman would turn out
to be the love of my life."

"Is that right?" Mary murmurs, leaning in, too. She bumps their
noses together, strokes up and down, then tilts her way into a slow
kiss. A sweet one.

"Yeah, that is right," Lily breathes out when they break apart, her
eyes fluttering shut. "Imagine how the woman feels. The first time
she met the person who would turn out to be the

love of her life, she fucking shot them," Mary says, huffing a weak
laugh. "It's a good story to tell the grandkids someday."

"Could you imagine? Believe it or not, kids, Gran Mary shot Gran
Lily before she ever learned her name."

"That—" Lily breaks out into a harsh yawn that makes her whole
body shudder. She blinks slowly. "That's hilarious."

Mary gazes at her fondly. "You're tired, lover."

27
 Two Months Later

"So tired," Lily agrees, "but I missed you."

"I'll be here when you wake up," Mary tells her.

Lily—well, Lily pouts. "Yeah, but I missed you." She reaches out and
flirts with the bottom of Mary's shirt, slipping the tips of her fingers
underneath, stroking skin. "Really missed you."

"You can barely hold your eyes open," Mary says, amused.

"So?" Lily mutters. "You know how rare it is to get a moment alone
from Bingley. I love that kid to death and beyond, I truly do, but
getting him to go away is like... I don't know, think of a metaphor for
something really difficult for me, because my brain is too tired to do
it. Whatever you think of, it's that."

"Noted." Mary still looks amused. "We're not having sex if you're just
going to fall asleep."

"I won't fall asleep until after, I promise," Lily says.

Mary surveys her for a long moment, assessing, and Lily tries not to
look as sleepy as she feels. She inches her hand up higher and
presses closer. She's had a shower. She smells good. She's all warm
and cozy and sweet. Very fuckable.

Mary apparently agrees, because she says, "Alright, turn over and
take your pants off."

"Well, sure, take all the romance out of it," Lily grumbles, as if she's
not scrambling to do exactly as she's told.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were a sure thing."

"No reason not to work for it. Where's the spice, Macdonald?"

"You complain a lot for someone so eager." Mary chuckles when Lily
sticks her tongue out at her before turning over on her side. "I think
you've had enough spice for one day anyway. A little bit of

28
vanilla can be good, too."

"Fucking hell, don't I know it?" Lily breathes out as Mary shifts
behind her, getting out of her own pants and curling up to her, chest
to back. Mary slips an arm over her stomach, resting on hills and
valleys of the rolls on her side, easing her hand down between Lily's
legs and peppering slow, soft kisses along the curve of her neck. Lily
hums. "Feels good."

"Mhm," Mary agrees, humming too. She rocks against Lily from
behind, leisurely, taking her time.

It stays like that, hazy and syrupy between them, Mary's free hand
tangling with one of Lily's above their heads, while Lily's free hand
reaches back to cup Mary's neck, making it easier for her to crane
back for a kiss. That's slow and sloppy, too, and very fucking good.
Lily is so warm. Her whole body is humming, gentle tendrils of
pleasure unfurling within.

Even when they adjust and Mary finally brings their bodies together,
it remains at this pace. An easy in and out. A simmer set on low. It
stays just like this, a gradual build that Lily swears she can feel from
the top of her head to her fucking toes. It just keeps going and going
and going, and it's so good.

It's also new. They've never had sex like this before. They actually
haven't had very much sex at all, because again, Bingley is basically
always around. It's almost like he can sense that they want to do
naughty shit, practically popping up nearly every time they even
start to get carried away. Lily adores that boy, but if she didn't, she'd
absolutely strangle him.

Mary and Lily lasted all of a month of taking it slow before they
caved and ended up tumbling in Lily's bed. They'd talked about it, of
course, because there were a few things that had to happen first. One
being, Lily had to get on birth control, because Mary can get her
pregnant, which led into the whole 'do you maybe want kids one
day, if the world ever gets better?' talk. That was a little early, maybe,

29
 Two Months Later

but it went well. They do want kids, if the world is ever safe enough
to bring kids into.

In any case, once they got all the necessary steps out of the way, then
they fell into Lily's bed. It went well. Maybe a little too well, because
following that, that's all they wanted to do, and as established, they
barely get to.

Lily is ready to end this war herself at this point, if only to be able to
get out of the Phoenix and into a house where maybe Bingley can
have his own separate room, while Lily and Mary can have theirs,
with a door that locks.

Anyway, sex is usually not like this. Spice is a good word for it, in
the sense that it's often spontaneous and earth shattering each time.
Eagerly earnest and earnestly eager. The rush of exploring one
another's bodies and walking around on clouds after, satisfied and
pleased about everything. All the cliches. Every single fucking one of
them.

So, yes, this is new, but it's just as good as every time. It's more
intense than Lily was anticipating, admittedly. She's never really had
sex like this at all. Slow and savoring. Because it's not even just about
getting off, it's about the act itself; the touch between them, shared,
passed back and forth; the cradle of their bodies, how they fit and
press together, meeting and falling away on repeat in a just-right
drag that leaves Lily's lips parted and her head tossed back. She
sighs, and she sighs, and she sighs. It's so dreamy she'd envy herself
if she was someone else overhearing it. Oh, she's so glad to be herself
right now.

Even the peak is drawn-out, seeming endless. It's like Lily's whole
body fizzles and pops, bubbles of pleasure spilling over and bursting
one by one. Mary buries her face into Lily's neck, her damp hair, and
rides it out with her. It's soft gasps and warmth crawling through
their veins, gripping each other tight and settling down, nice and
easy.

Yeah, vanilla can be good, too. Really fucking good.

30
After, once they're sated and clean and snuggling, Mary cards her
fingers through her hair and teases, "Ready to sleep now?"

"Joke's on you," Lily mumbles sleepily, "I dreamed my whole way

through that. A damn good dream, Mary."

"Sounds like it," Mary agrees, stifling a laugh. "Go on, get some rest.
By the time you wake up, I should be done with my classes, and
Bingley will be excited to see you."

"Mm." Lily smacks her lips and rubs her face against Mary's chest,
throwing a leg over her. "Love that kid."

"I know." "Love you."

"I know," Mary repeats softly.

Lily breathes in and out, in and out, in...and...out... In the end, there's
no fighting it anymore, and Lily drifts out. Mary stays with her at
least until she falls asleep.

~•~

James yanks at his stupid tie and lets his cane settle against the wall
with a satisfyingly sharp

clatter, glaring at Regulus and gritting out, "So, what, it's my fault?"

"You're the one who said it," Regulus snaps, slamming their door
shut and sweeping past him, his

scowl firmly in place.

"What is it with you and a proclivity for hypocrisy?"

"Oh, of course. How'd I know you would go there? Of course you

would. You just can't resist, can you?"

31
 Two Months Later

"You did it first!" James bursts out, pausing in fighting with the
buttons on his shirt to toss his hands up. "You're the one who said it
first, so—"

"I don't care!" Regulus hisses, whirling around on him. "I—"

"Right, of course you don't," James says with a scoff.

Regulus raises both hands and sort of...flaps them around his head in
sign of frustration. His voice has raised significantly when he
declares, "You know why. You—"

"Yes, and you know why I did. You know exactly—" "But you didn't
even talk to me about it beforehand!"

"Forgive me, I'm sorry, I forgot all about the part where you talked to
me before you did it first! Oh, wait—"

"This is different! You went off-script! You—"

James makes a strangled noise of pure incredulity. "Because you

were the one floundering! Everything I do—"

"Oh, don't start that shit. Fuck you, James." "—I do for you—"

"We are not the main event!" Regulus explodes, waving his arms
around in visible fury. James snaps his mouth shut, and Regulus'
chest heaves. He gestures with a trembling hand between them. "We
are not the main event. Our fucked up love story, as fucked up as it
may be, is ours. Not theirs. Not—"

"I'm not trying to give it away," James says quietly.

Regulus' nostrils flare. "Maybe not, but you're letting them have it,
and it has to stop, because it's— it's—" He swallows and lets his arms
clap to his sides. "It always gets so fucked up when we have to put it
on camera, and I'm—James, I'm so tired. It was different when I
announced to the world we'd get married in the Hallow, because I
was taking something away from them, not presenting it like an
apple in front of a horse you're trying to lead where you want it to

32
go. And I didn't think we would get married. We weren't engaged
then. It wasn't real the way it is now, because I think—I think we
actually will get married, and I don't want it to be a reward for them,
or for anyone. I want it to be ours. Just ours."

"Have you considered that I was lying?" James asks.

"Oh, please," Regulus mutters, looking away. "You couldn't lie to

save your fucking life."

James clenches his jaw. "Maybe not, but I can lie to save Sirius, and I
did. I can lie to saveyou, and I did. Love, you were struggling...a lot,
and all I said—literally all that I said was that we couldn't

get married in the Hallow with a war waging, so it'd be nice if we

had help ending it. That's technically true, but I never said we would
get married there. Not once."

"You insinuated it."

"Insinuating something isn't the same as stating it. Sirius said that.
Sirius is the one who—"

Regulus' head whips around, and James quickly shuts his mouth,
but it's too late. Regulus' eyes narrow into slits. "Oh, Sirius. This has
him all over it. I'm going to kill him."

"No. No, hey, you stop that," James blurts out, voice strained as his
eyes bulge. He quickly steps in front of the door the second Regulus
starts towards it. "Okay, just—breathe. Remember the breathing
exercises—"

"Fuck the breathing exercises—" "Reg—"

"Move, James. Move."

James—brave soul that he is—holds his ground. "Listen to me, this

wasn't his fault. He's just—you know how good he is at
manipulating the Hallows, and—and okay, maybe he gave me a few
points to fall back on if either me or you, or both of us, hit a snag and

33
 Two Months Later

started struggling. I'm the one who chose the wedding option.
I'm—you know how obsessed I am with talking about it. I just... I'm
sorry, alright? I'm sorry."

"Do you want to?" Regulus mumbles, after a few moments of heavy
silence and maybe some breathing exercises.

The aforementioned breathing exercises have been going on for

about a month and a half now, ever since Regulus' violent tendencies
hit an all-time peak. He sort of just—cracked, basically. It was like
something snapped, and he lost it, flying off the handle when he
found out people were talking shit about Barty, because they wisely
decided talking shit about James wouldn't go well for them. The
whole thing surrounding Barty was about how Regulus used to
sleep in his room with him, then stopped when James arrived, and
people essentially boiled Barty down to Regulus' discarded whore.

Naturally, this didn't go over well with Regulus, despite the fact that
Barty found it hilarious. James has no issues with Barty as of now,
regardless of past jealousy, because Regulus has told him all about
how Barty helped him get through some of the recent hard times he
had. James is thankful for that, and he's sort of Barty's friend now, so
even he was offended on Barty's behalf. But Regulus? Well, Regulus
put someone in the infirmary and very nearly ended up in
solitary—again, apparently. Barty, of course, doesn't give a shit that
Regulus doesn't sleep with him anymore, and has jokingly admitted
to preferring it, since it frees up his time to fuck whoever he wants.
James wishes him well in his endeavors.

It wasn't until after Regulus put someone in the infirmary that they
found out that Barty was contributing to the rumors and spreading it
around that he was more than just Regulus' whore, he was James
and Regulus' whore. He found it all so, so funny, even when Regulus
was beating the shit out of someone. James? Less so. James was
worried, and so was Sirius, and it was Monty who brought up the
breathing exercises, which seems to have helped.

James sighs. "Do I want to...what?"

34
"Get married in the Hallow. Is that what you want?" Regulus asks.

"You know I'd be happy to marry you anywhere," James says softly.
"In all the districts. Here. The Hallow. The middle of the ocean on a
boat. I'd marry you in hell, love."

"Oh, well, don't say that," Regulus whispers. "That's not fair."

"No?" James fights a smile and steps closer. "I can't help it if it's true.
I'm a terrible liar, remember?"

Regulus purses his lips. So fussy. It's horribly endearing. "Fine, I'll be
the prick—" "You're always the prick," James points out.

"I'll be the prick, as always," Regulus reiterates, giving James a very

cross look that James may or may not want to kiss every inch of,
"and tell you that the Hallow is off-limits. I don't want to get married
there, or on camera, or for anyone else. When we get married, it'll be
at home, when the war is over. And it won't be televised. And only
people we want there will be there. And it'll be ours, just ours, and
that's final."

James' lips twitch. "Yes, dear." "Oh, shut up," Regulus grumbles.

"Come here," James says gently, reaching out for Regulus' arms
crossed defensively over his chest, grabbing his wrists to tug them
down, unravel him, and pull him close.

"You know," Regulus mutters into his shoulder, his words muffled,
"they say the first year of marriage is the hardest."

"Mm, they do say that," James agrees, brushing a kiss over the scar
up the side of Regulus' throat. "Last I checked, though, we aren't
married just yet." He pauses, then grins. "Unless we are, and you just
haven't updated me yet."

"In my head, we've been married since I was ten," Regulus informs
him wryly.

35
 Two Months Later

"Oh?" James stifles a laugh. "Goodness, our first year wasn't that
hard at all, in that case. Tell me, do you have all our children named,
too?"

"Mhm," Regulus hums, leaning into him with a sigh. "Well, I only
ever pictured two, because— well, honestly, because it couldn't just
be one, so it had to be two."

"Why did it have to be two?" James asks, amused. "Well, only one
would get lonely."

"Why not more than two? Why not three?"

"Because then they'll have to share. Children should come in pairs.

Three is just asking for anarchy, James, and honestly? I think three is
a cursed number. Look at how Andromeda, Narcissa, and Bellatrix
turned out. The Dumbledores, too."

"I—you know, that's a fair point. But, hear me out, four?"

Regulus peels back to squint at him, thinking about it. Finally, he

nods and says, "Acceptable."

James falls in love with him all over again, more and more every
damn day. He laughs and tugs Regulus back into his arms, holding
him, swaying him a little. "Alright, four it is. You've named two
already. What are their names?"

"Florimel and Aster," Regulus tells him. James can hear how bashful
he feels in his voice, and it's painfully adorable. To fight it, Regulus
clears his throat. "Florimel means honey flower; it grows in late
autumn, early spring. Aster means star; it's also a flower, and it
grows in late summer, early autumn."

"That's really pretty," James murmurs, sweeping his hand up and

down Regulus' back. "Flowers... You love flowers. No more star
names, then?"

Regulus snorts weakly. "Aster would be a nod to it, I suppose, but I

think my family has worn out that tradition by this point, and unless

36
I wanted to recycle it...but, well, I don't. Some traditions are better off
broken."

"Yeah, some are." James presses a kiss to the side of Regulus' head
and tugs him in a slow circle. Dancing. "You know, it's really cute
that you've been planning out our little family since you were ten."
Regulus huffs, starts to get prickly, so James settles him by kissing a
path down his neck. "I mean it. Just, you know, you talk about our
love story only belonging to us, but it's been ours since we met."

"Incredibly one-sided at the start, though."

"Hey, I caught up eventually. Cut me some slack. Besides, it was

incredibly one-sided for me for ten years."

"Are you expecting me to feel sorry for you?" Regulus asks.

James nibbles on his ear, then has to stop because it makes him grin
when Regulus' breath hitches. "You could feel sorry for me. I pined
for a decade, love."

"Tragic," Regulus mumbles, aiming for flat and careless, but he's a
little too breathless to pull it off.

"I'd like to say I spent those years daydreaming of our wedding and
planning out our family in my head, but to be honest with you, I
knew that you hated me, so my chances were low, and also I was
fiercely overtaken by hormones, so..."

"So...?"

"So," James admits into the skin of Regulus' throat, grinning there as
Regulus' head falls back, "you could say my fantasies usually
consisted of other things."

"Oh, did they now?" Regulus whispers, arms sliding around James'
neck, fingers pushing up into his hair.

"It was—mm, don't tell Sirius, but I used towish we'd bump into
each other somehow, alone, and you'd be mean, and I would..."

37
 Two Months Later

James huffs out a laugh, nosing under Regulus' chin, slipping his
hands down to settle on Regulus' waist. "Well, I'd be bold. I'd find
the audacity. I didn't think we'd be anything, but fucking hell, I
thought about all the things we could do."

"I bet you did," Regulus says, inhaling sharply as James nips and
bites a path along his jaw. "What, ah—what things?"

"So many things. I'll show you, if you want." James starts walking
him back towards the bed. "We fought before, didn't we? Let's make
up. That's my favorite part."

Regulus releases a breathy laugh and clings to him, trying to wind

around him, almost trying to climb him. He actually gets somewhere
through sheer determination, it seems, because his mouth latches
onto James' neck as he hangs off of him, feet coming off the floor.
James slides his hands up his back, face buried into his shoulder,
breathing him in and carrying him along one careful step at a time.
His leg is agitated with this soon enough, so they stumble a little, but
Regulus drops his feet back to the floor and plants them there,
steadying them.

They're kissing then, deeply, not entirely sure how they got there,
and James could drink him down, down, down like the most
refreshing thing he'll ever taste, and wants to.

Oh, how he wants to.

They go tumbling into bed moments later, quiet laughter spilling out
between them. Just them and their roaming hands. Just them and the
fantasies they get to explore.

It's like this a lot these days. Fighting and making up. James, at some
point, clawed his way out of his depression, which took time that
Regulus spent coddling him, giving him whatever he wanted —or
needed—and just...being there. He was there every step of the way,
the one to hold him when he cried, and the one to hold him when
ran out of tears; the one who eventually coaxed him into a shower,

38
then into the Great Hall, then back into trying and living and trying
to live.

It was hard. Very fucking hard. It's still hard, especially when he has
to see Alice every day. He doesn't talk to them. Doesn't go near them.
Doesn't bother them. He just—he watches them drag themselves out
of their own depression, a little more each day. He watches them
when they go sit with the eleven people who lived when Frank died,
because Emmeline made them go meet those people properly, and
spend time with that entire group. He watches them hover around
Emmeline basically all the time, like they've latched onto her, but it's
more than that; it's lingering touches and the comfort of a person
who shares your pain, and isn't the cause of it, and is there every
step of

the way. He watches them leave for missions, and then he watches
them make it back. He watches them, knowing that as hard as it is on
him, it's ten times harder on them in ways he can't truly understand,
and he watches them live with that.

Some days, James gets sucked back into the blame he puts on himself
for that, and on those days, he has to go to Sirius and tell him what
he's feeling, just so Sirius can remind him that what he's feeling isn't
fair to himself. More days than James ever expected, he actually
doesn't need the reminder; he remembers on his own that he had no
control over what happened, that he never wanted what happened
to happen at all, that sometimes bad things happen and that doesn't
mean those involved are necessarily bad people; he remembers who
Frank was, how good of a person he was, and how—if he were here
now—he'd never want James to waste away from guilt.

So, it comes down to trying, and James never really stops trying for
long. He tries every day, and some days, he gets better results than
others, but the sun rises and he makes a point to try again. That's
who he is. He hasn't lost that.

What hasn't helped is the strain of going on camera again.

James—understandably—isn't very pleased about going from being
Riddle's pawn to being Dumbledore's, regardless of the fact that he's
technically on the right side of the war now, but maybe he's tired of
being a pawn overall? You ever think of that? How exhausting that

39
 Two Months Later

is, being at the beck and call of someone who doesn't really care
about you, being the face of a war—and oh, they are that, aren't
they?

Sirius thrives in the position, because he's good at putting on a mask,

and he doesn't feel any remorse about asking Hallows to potentially
die; in his defense, the Hallows never cared about all the people they
made die. So, yes, Sirius does the heavy lifting on handling the
Hallows for the most part, and from what Dumbledore has heard
from his secret informant, it's paying off. All the ground Riddle
gained, he has lost again. The ever-changing tide of public opinion
has shifted once more to crash down on him. Hallow riots are at an
all-time high, and Riddle's resources run thin when he's forced to
balance external and internal problems.

Regulus and James have mostly been handling rallying the districts,
especially those of which are more Hallow-esque than the rest.
District one is basically the Hallow once removed; it's where all the
technological and medical advancements are made, even home to
the creation of Horcrux Hornet venom into biological warfare.
District two is Riddle's main army depot, where they're trained and
where the highest numbers reside, ready to go wherever they're
ordered. District three and four just got so caught up in the glitz and
glam of the hunger games that most there don't even realize they're
lambs for slaughter—or, if they do, they don't care.

However, from time-to-time, James and Regulus address the Hallow

as well, like today. Originally, it was just James who had to give a
broadcast, solely to unravel all the lies Riddle spoke with his mouth.
James gave a tell-all, in which he did admit to being coerced, and
Sirius' testimony backed him up. But, after that, Dumbledore
thought it would be prudent for the world to see Regulus and James
as a united front, everyone's favorite couple going to war together.

Riddle has shut down a few of their broadcasts, and then Filius
found ways around that later, and the loop started again. Over and
over, Riddle has to address the world and call for peace, but that has
slowly coalesced into him demanding people to stop resisting,
bringing down a harsh fist of power with threats and fear as his

40
weapon, which—while that may work on some Hallows—only
entices those in the districts to fight back even harder. Riddle is in a
lose-lose situation.

He's already losing.

He's losing.

He can't win. Won't win. Was never going to win.

James finds a sense of vindication in that, as well as relief. It does

make things easier, possibly for a lot of people. At this point, that's
what a lot of people are clinging to in dark times. The hope of a war
won and a better world waiting.

But, as established, that doesn't keep things from being rather

difficult. It's not enough to erase

trauma or make every single moment happy. It definitely doesn't

keep people from being angry, or upset, or stop their grieving. It
also—as James and Regulus prove—doesn't keep couples from
fighting.

Oh, oh, how they fight. They're probably going to fight forever;
they'll probably die fighting. Arguing. Bickering. Fussing. That
eternal push-and-pull that keeps them tethered together, like the red
string of fate, except it's a rubber band, and as hard as they yank,
they go crashing back together two times harder.

It's not necessarily them trying to get away from each other. If
anything, it's just...fun. Don't get James wrong, okay? He loves when
Regulus is sweet. It exhilarates him, makes him giddy, makes
something in him sing and melt all at once. Because, oh, when
Regulus is sweet, he's so fucking sweet. He can be so, so gentle; so
tender; so adoring, like James is something he wants to take care of
and worship at the same time.

When James first saw Regulus, that very first time, his first thought
was he's a baby. So soft and sweet and shy, when—in the end—he

41
 Two Months Later

grew up to be feisty and mean, and he has both in him now, which
means that, sometimes, he is both at the same time, or one or the
other, or pretending to be what he grew into to fight where he started
out, or using where he started out like a shield to hide what he grew
into—and the latter has no business being as entertaining as it is,
when it's him acting like butter wouldn't even melt in his mouth.
James maybe shouldn't be so thrilled by that, but he is.

He loves not knowing what's coming next with Regulus, always kept
on his toes. Every moment with him is like a fucking gut-punch.
James never sees it coming, and then bam! Regulus is crawling into
his lap and telling him he loves him, leaving James breathless and
glowing from sheer joy, and then bam! Regulus is letting venom
flood his mouth, hissing and spitting in blazing anger, made of
sparks as he cuts James with every insult and takes him apart with
every flash of his lovely, lovely eyes, leaving James breathless and
glowing from sheer joy, and then bam! Regulus is rolling his eyes
and calling him an idiot while fighting a smile, leaving James
breathless and glowing from sheer joy, and then bam! Regulus is
snapping at him, angry enough to be harsh and still calling James his
fiancé while in the middle of telling him off, leaving James breathless
and glowing from sheer joy, and then—well, you get the point.

The point is, James is so devastatingly in love with Regulus that he

loves everything about him, loves fighting with him, even if that
means they can rarely fight for long before they're making up. Oh,
but James loves making up, too.

Yeah, he—he really loves making up. Sometimes, he's pretty sure
they argue just for an excuse to make up, because he'll be damned if
making up isn't their favorite thing to do.

With good reason, to be fair, because it ends like this, with them in
bed as they lose themselves in

each other, the whole world draining away where nothing bad can
ever touch them. The only touch they know, here and now, is fingers
cradling scars and mouths kissing them with reverence.

42
"Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful," James chants between each kiss to
every scar he can reach. Fucking hell, he loves getting Regulus
naked, purely because it leaves Regulus undone every time James
reminds him how beautiful he is, in spite of his scars and, honestly,
because of them.

They're the same as James first saw them. Gouged into skin and
faded. The one over his heart is the worst, and that's the one James
brands with the heat of his mouth the most.

James has his scars, too. The one on his stomach where he was
stabbed. The one on his leg from Axus, and one to match Remus'
from the tracker in his thigh. The very faded scars that were his first,
down on his leg from the bear trap. A whole mapped out story in
their skin, their story, and there's something holy about the way
those stories align when they come together. Always, always,
always, they were going to end up right here.

"What? No, don't—oh, don't you fucking dare," Regulus chokes out,
arching into him desperately when he stops.

James grimaces, biting down on his lip. "Ah, sorry, love. Just,
um—one second. We need to adjust."

"Your leg?" Regulus asks, and James sighs and nods. Regulus, with
his flushed cheeks and starry eyes, proceeds to break out into a
smile. "Oh, I've got an idea."

"Do you n—ah!" James yelps when Regulus launches him over and
slams him back to bed, making him land with an oomph and leaving
him winded. Also, the crawling ache in his leg fades out the moment
he's on his back, so...clearly Regulus is a genius. "Ah, I see. Brilliant.
Lovely. You're so lovely."

Regulus hums and swings on top of him. He's still smiling, visibly
having the time of his life, utterly thrilled. "So, what about this?
We've done this many times, but tell me, did you ever have fantasies
about it like this?"

43
 Two Months Later

"My imagination would be severely lacking if I hadn't," James

admits, hands settling on Regulus' waist, looking up at him like he's
gazing upon a miracle.

"Good as you imagined?" Regulus breathes out, eyes fluttering shut,

head tipping back. He's a vision. The vision. James' vision is perfect,
with or without glasses, though he always chooses to wear
them—but, regardless, the sight of Regulus in all his beauty is
fucking blinding.

"Better," James croaks. "So much better than I imagined."

"Yeah, fuck, it—it really is," Regulus replies, and his voice cracks, and
his fingers turn to claws against James' chest, and when the moans
start spilling out of his mouth, he folds forward and muffles them
into James'.

James takes it. He lays there and takes it all. Takes, takes, takes
anything he can get, and wants more, always, even when he's
overwhelmed by it all.

And then bam! Regulus is slumped against him, sated and calm,
curled up close. He lays all over James' chest, both of them breathing.
The curls down by his neck are damp from sweat, and he's tracing
his initials on James' skin. It's cute. He does that a lot; it took James a
few times and a lot of his undivided concentration to figure out what
he was writing with the tip of his finger, and when he did figure it
out, he had to bury his face into Regulus' shoulder as he erupted into
laughter. R.A.B. on James' skin, a quiet claiming, a mindless thing
Regulus does because he's a possessive prick.

"So," James mumbles eventually, his eyes drooping and one hand
lazily carding through Regulus' hair, "can we at least have wedding
photos?"

Regulus slowly lifts his head to glare at him. James grins.

~•~

44
Sirius waits until Remus' back is turned, distracted as he is by
reaching for a smoke, and then he attacks.

Or, well, he attempts to attack. Really gives it his all. Puts in the
effort. Doesn't hold back, and does his best, and still gets exactly
nowhere. Remus, the bastard, has him jerked around and held in
place in less than twenty seconds.

"Can I have a smoke now?" Remus asks wryly.

"Hm. Yeah, sure," Sirius replies casually, keeping his limbs loose.
Then, as soon as Remus lets

him go and starts to turn away, Sirius grabs him—and gets nowhere
again.

There's a brief shuffle, the rough dig of wrists colliding, the sure grip
of Remus' fingers, and Sirius is caught. Oh, he's so fucking caught.
Remus has big hands, big enough to hold both of Sirius' wrists
together behind his back in a firm grip Sirius can't break out of,
despite being strong. And he tries. Well, he tries as much as he can
when Remus' other hand is buried tight in his hair, fisting it and
holding his head in place.

When Sirius jerks against the hold, Remus doesn't let go. He doesn't
ease up at all. He just holds on and watches him very patiently. The
strong fucker. Sirius should spit in his face.

"Don't spit on me again," Remus warns.

"Stop predicting what I'm planning to do," Sirius grumbles. Remus

looks exasperated. "You literally taught me to."

"Yeah, well..." Sirius trails off, then huffs. He waits for a beat, then
starts to bring his knee up, but Remus anticipates this as well, with
far too much ease. He pulls Sirius in closer by the hair and slips his
leg between both of Sirius', quite literally trapping him with
nowhere to go. Sirius' heart may or may not be doing some
impressive acrobatics at the moment. It's fine.

45
 Two Months Later

"Hi," Remus murmurs, lips curling up. He's close. Very close. His
face hovers right over Sirius', gaze roaming over his features like he's
savoring them.

"Hi," Sirius breathes out, then tries to wriggle his shoulders, yanking
at Remus' hands. Remus tugs his head back sharply, holding him
tighter, and if Sirius makes a high noise in the back of his throat, no
he didn't. Shh, he definitely didn't.

"You're not getting out of it," Remus tells him calmly, infuriatingly
certain, and also infuriatingly

right.

Sirius' pride shouldn't sting; it really shouldn't, and yet it does. But
in a good way? There's something almost humiliating about it, and
something about the humiliation...ah, well, his brain has stubbornly
decided that it's good, somehow, when it's Remus. He definitely has
some wires crossed up there.

The only person in this world who could incapacitate Sirius in any
situation, and swiftly, has always been Effie. Only Effie. Sure, other
people could get the upper hand, depending on circumstances, but
consistently? When he's going for them first? When he's not willing
to be stopped? Yeah, Effie was the only person who could handle
him every time, without fail.

Was.

Remus now has claim to that, too, because Sirius did literally teach
him how, with Effie's help. After weeks, Remus has finally reached
this point, where Sirius can come at him any way he wants, during
any moment, and Remus—does this. Gets a hold of him. Stops him.
Doesn't allow him to have any wiggle room to get anywhere or do
anything.

Of course, that was the whole point. It has admittedly worked

wonders on Sirius' state of mind when it comes to worrying about
hurting Remus, because Remus...can definitely handle himself. He

46
was already strong to start with, as well as quite dangerous, but train
him up a bit, every day, and then...

This. Fucking hell, he's better than Sirius now. He could kill Sirius, if
he wanted. Hurt him. He could do anything.

It shouldn't be a comforting thought, but for Sirius, it is. You have to

see it how he sees it, because this means that, if Sirius were ever to
slip away, Remus would be able to stop him from harming him, or
anyone. Remus will be okay, no matter what Sirius throws at him,
and Sirius knows this, because he's spent the last two months
throwing everything he could at Remus.

Sirius has woken Remus up right out of bed to attack him. Sirius has
attacked him in the middle of the day, in the middle of the night, in
the middle of any moment. Sirius has attacked him while he was
talking to Lily, while he was eating, while he was in the kitchen
chopping vegetables. Sirius has attacked him during an argument,
during a conversation full of laughter, and during comfortable
silence. Sirius has attacked him with just his hands, with random
objects as weapons, and with whatever he could get his hands on.

Naturally, Remus was not thrilled by this...training, mostly when he

was in the middle of doing something, and he didn't start out
prepared or very good, in all honesty. To begin with, it was Sirius
who was pinning Remus down, holding him in place, and informing
him of all the ways in which he could kill him in a scolding tone.
This rarely got Sirius the results he wanted, because Remus would
just get aroused, generally.

So, Sirius called in reinforcements in the form of Effie, and then

Remus started to pick up a few things, then more than just a few, and
now... Well, now, Sirius is the one caught every single fucking time,
and his pride whines and curdles in distaste about it, but it's also so
maddeningly attractive when it's Remus that Sirius can barely think
straight these days.

"Can I have my smoke now?" Remus asks yet again.

47
 Two Months Later

"No," Sirius rasps. He can feel his hair pulled tight at his scalp,
making it prickle. "No, definitely

not, because I'm going to get out of this eventually, you see."
"Sweetheart," Remus says, "you're really not."

"Absolutely I am. Any second now..." Sirius exhales and can't stop
his eyes from fluttering shut when Remus' fingers twitch in his hair.
Clench-and-release. Fucking hell.

"You're blushing again," Remus murmurs.

Sirius clears his throat, loudly. "No, I'm not." His face is currently on
fire. "It's not a blush. I told you, it's—ah, it's from the exertion.
Nothing more."

"You're flushed."

"From activity!"

Remus huffs a laugh. "From something, alright."

"What do you know anyway? It's my face," Sirius mumbles, starting

to shake his head, only to clamp his teeth together and swallow a
whine when Remus holds his head still.

"It is your face. I just happen to look at it a lot, because I like it a lot,
which means I notice things. I know what you look like when you're
flushed from activity, and when you're blushing because you're
really, really enjoying what's going on at the time. You—well, your
lips are always wet, because you lick them, and your eyes sort of
glaze over."

"Lies and slander."

"At this point," Remus continues, "I think you're doing this for your
own benefit, because you like it."

Sirius licks his lips, helplessly. He tries to roll his wrists in Remus'
grip and feels Remus' fingers grip harder, then tries to shake off the

48
thoughts that he could moan about that, actually, only for Remus
to—yet again—tug on his hair to hold him still, and...yes, okay, so
Sirius gasps. What about it?

Clearing his throat, Sirius' voice is mortifyingly wobbly when he

stutters out, "I—well, ah, you— you—actually, I think that
maybe—um, maybe you like it, is—is what I think. So."

"Is that what you think?" Remus asks, audibly amused.

"Yeah. Don't—don't think I've forgotten," Sirius reminds him in a

croak, because fuck, he definitely hasn't forgotten. "You said you'd
slap me. You said that once, which means you must be having a
grand time getting to manhandle me all you like, because you want
to—and I quote—slap the shit out of me."

"I never said I wanted to." "Right, but would you?"

"That depends on if you want me to slap you or not. Consent is very

important, you know," Remus tells him, lips twitching.

"I knew it was a sex thing," Sirius hisses under his breath. "I knew it.
I could tell by how you said it. Oh, you're filthy."

"Sirius," Remus says, exasperated again.

"We were in the middle of a very emotional moment and you made it
about sex, you utter harlot," Sirius scolds.

Remus snorts. "I didn't, actually. You're the one who was—" "False
allegations," Sirius interrupts. "Shut up."

"You were into it."

"No."

"No?" Remus asks.

A beat. Sirius huffs. "Okay, well, it's not my fault that you're sexy.
Literally what am I meant do about that? Remus Lupin says he'll

49
 Two Months Later

smack the shit out of me, and looks at me like that, and what? I'm
expected to be—normal? I'm supposed to just carry on as usual?"

"Sirius," Remus repeats, this time definitely laughing. "You're

laughing, but I'm serious."

"Aren't you always?"

"You shut your fucking mouth," Sirius says, aghast.

Remus smiles at him, his gaze warm. "You get so mouthy when
we're like this, have you noticed? It's cute."

"Fuck you," Sirius mumbles weakly.

"Whenever you want, sweetheart. You need only ask," Remus

murmurs, gazing at Sirius so tenderly for him to have Sirius by the
hair while talking such filth. Naughty, naughty man.

Sirius huffs. "We're not—talking about that."

"I think we should revisit it. You're throwing off a lot of mixed
signals as of late, and I'm pretty sure we've reached the point where
it's unhealthy to deny yourself."

"I'm—I'm not denying myself."

"You sure?" Remus asks softly.

Sirius starts to suggest that Remus is only saying that because he's
the one being denied, only to hastily snap his mouth shut, because
they've had a real, proper fight about that. Remus really doesn't like
the insinuation that he cares more about sex than Sirius, and that
he'd want to push Sirius before he was ready, all things that get
Remus raging like nothing else, which Sirius learned the hard way.

They'd fought very badly. It was ugly. Sirius cried. Remus slammed a
door and spent the night with Lily. Sirius cried some more and went
and slept on the floor in Regulus and James' room. James ended up
sleeping on the floor with him, and Regulus threatened to punch

50
Remus in the face (which was a tame threat, mind, so Sirius knows
Regulus likes Remus a whole lot), and only didn't because James
stopped him.

Then, later, they talked again. They fought some more. Sirius cried
again, because—after the arena and Azkaban—he was so fucking
fragile and vulnerable that he'd cry over anything, but nothing could
made him cry as hard as Remus.

In any case, it was eventually worked out. Remus got it into Sirius'
thick skull that he doesn't see him as a sex object, which Sirius knew,
but insecurities and fears aren't the easiest thing in the world to
overcome. Sirius just—with his fear of hurting Remus, with his
nightmares and guilt, the mere hint of sex or anything too intimate
made him feel even more guilty, and even...dirty, to a point. So, he
just couldn't, and he felt really bad about it, except Remus didn't care
about having anything Sirius couldn't give him; Remus never
wanted him just for sex; Remus would never pressure him, and
would be happy to be with Sirius in any way he's comfortable, even
if that meant

never, ever having sex again.

Sirius had to work very hard not to suck his cock for that, for saying
it, for meaning it. He'd told Remus he was a very good man, and
Remus waved him off, informing him that it's quite literally the bare
minimum, that this is how it's supposed to be, and that he should
never accept anything less.

With time, their intimacy issues (or Sirius', really) have gotten better.
They sleep together now, throughout the entire night. Sirius
remembers the first night he managed it, the very first night that
bled into morning and he woke up in Remus' arms, just slowly
becoming aware and opening his eyes to see Remus right there,
sleeping peacefully. Something in Sirius had mended together in that
moment, and maybe it was stupid, but he felt like he could have
cried. He almost did.

51
 Two Months Later

In the end, he'd laid there and gazed at Remus as he slept, noting
every shift in his expression, how his mouth set when it was slack,
the soft snores and quiet snuffling noises that made Sirius want to
eat his fucking pillow or bite his own wrist of just sink his teeth into
something, because he knew what it was like to sleep through the
night with Remus, knew what Remus was like when at rest, entirely
unguarded and completely vulnerable, and it was cute.

It still is cute, and Sirius loves every part of it. Loves that Remus
kicks his ankles in his sleep, loves that Remus complains about him
hogging the blankets, loves when his hair gets caught under Remus'
arm or somehow gets in his mouth, loves how Remus claims he's not
the little spoon and then almost exclusively ends up the little spoon
by morning. He loves waking up before Remus to gaze at him while
he sleeps, though that's rare, and it usually doesn't last long before
he can't stop himself from reaching out to touch, to graze the pads of
his fingers over Remus' features in pure reverence, something inside
him lurching with so much love every time.

These days, Sirius' nightmares are less frequent than they were. On
occasion, it's Remus who jerks awake, gasping, and Sirius is the one
who gets to hold him and assure him it's okay, it's all okay,
everything is okay. Sirius still kisses all his scars nearly every night
like a ritual to ward off his fears that only works half the time. After
the training, the nightmares of murdering Remus slowed down and
are a lot less scary now that Sirius knows for sure Remus could fight
him off, and win.

They kiss and they touch, but never too much or with too much
intensity, and they do not have sex.

But, sometimes, Sirius really fucking wants to. He really wants to,
more frequently and with more desperation with each passing day.
There's so much sexual tension between them these days that you
could topple it over with a soft sigh. It is, to put it simply, driving
Sirius fucking insane.

The only problem is that, as badly as Sirius wants it, he doesn't feel
as if he deserves it. He has regressed quite a bit in his acceptance of

52
pleasure, so to speak. Remus knows. He called it nearly a year ago,
during the victory tour. What, are you saying that I'm not allowed to
have sex just because I—wait, is that part of the reason you struggle
to let yourself accept pleasure?

Sirius' sexual desire is a separate topic from his acceptance of

pleasure; it always has been, even if they go hand-in-hand at times.
His sexual desire only comes to him when he has a deep connection
with someone, and when trust is built. But his acceptance of
pleasure? Now, that's more complex.

See, when you're viewed as a sex symbol, sex itself will be casted in a
bad light. It becomes the enemy. It becomes dirty, because if you're
allowing yourself to enjoy sex in any capacity, then you're exactly
what everyone who sexualizes you thinks you are; then you are the
sex symbol; then you're defeated by the enemy. You're everything
you scorned. You're everything you were proud of yourself for not
being.

It was something Sirius had to unlearn, and work on, and he

did—with Remus' help. He realized, no, sex isn't the enemy. It can
feel good, and be special, and there's nothing wrong with it at all. He
realized he isn't what the Hallows thinks he is, and if he was, who
the fuck cares? What's wrong with that? There's nothing inherently
bad about pleasure, giving or receiving, and he learned, slowly, to
love it. To accept it.

But that one last thing. That one thing he never fully realized was a
part of it, until now, though Remus saw it long before he did. Just
that unconscious belief that, since he has done bad, he doesn't
deserve to feel good. Withholding it from himself, a self-imposed
punishment as penance, only applicable to him; he doesn't feel that it
should apply to anyone else. Just him.

Sirius has done a lot of objectively bad things, in recent months. He's
hurt people. He's killed people. Worse than all that, he hurt Remus.
That's the biggest one; the one deserving of punishment the most. So,
alright, he has denied himself. He knows he has, and of course
Remus has picked up on it. Remus picks up on everything, the
bastard.

53
 Two Months Later

"Sirius," Remus repeats gently, "are you denying yourself?"

"Remus," Sirius mutters, trying to turn his head away, then

legitimately whimpering and swallowing a horribly loud moan that
threatens to crawl up his throat when Remus—as he has been this
whole time—holds him in place.

"What I said before about being with me, and touching, it applies to
this, too," Remus says. "It's one thing if you don't want it. That's
okay. If you don't, you don't. But if you do, and you're not

allowing yourself to have it, especially when I would happily share it

with you, then it's a problem. It's not healthy."

Sirius swallows and closes his eyes. "I know, okay? I just—I don't
deserve it. You have to know that."

"Pleasure comes with no judge. It doesn't work on a karmic scale,

Sirius," Remus murmurs. "Feeling good isn't something anyone has
to earn, and frankly, if it was, I don't think one person in this world
would get to experience it. Feeling good is just—being human.
Sometimes we feel good, and sometimes we don't, and that's simply
how it is. Not letting yourself feel good won't make you a better
person, just like letting yourself won't make you a worse one. It's not
about deserving it—but, if it were, I can't think of someone who does
more than you."

"How can you say that?" Sirius chokes out. "After I—after—"

"Sweetheart," Remus whispers, sounding strangled, "you have felt

such pain. You never deserved it, but you felt it, and still do. Pain
doesn't make us better or worse either, only how we respond to it."
When Sirius opens his eyes, it's to find Remus gazing at him so sadly.
"It's a lot like pleasure that way, and you've certainly experienced
one more than the other, which might be one of the most unfair
things I've ever encountered. Pain and pleasure are entwined at
times, and there's no shame in that, but I daresay you, of all people,
deserve a better balance. Who, if not you, deserves to tip the scales?"

54
"You," Sirius tells him. "Not me. You. Remus, you've felt more pain
than anyone I've ever known, and—and call me biased, but that's
just not right. You should feel good all the time."

Remus' face softens, and he huffs a laugh. "While that would be nice,
it's impossible. No one gets to feel good all the time; that's just a part
of life. But, unlike you, I don't deny myself pleasure out of the
misguided belief that I deserve pain."

"I—" Sirius swallows, sitting on that for a second, knowing it's true.
He sighs. "No, I deny you. I —"

"Mm, no." Remus arches an eyebrow at him. "I have a hand, you
know, and alone time in a shower. Trust me, I'm not being denied
pleasure when I want it. You're not with me to be a source of
pleasure, Sirius, I've already told you that."

Sirius gets so hot so fast that it makes his head spin. He can feel the
blush pool into his face and spread. "Oh, so you—you just—I mean,
oh. Oh. Right. Right, okay, right, right, ri—"

"Sirius," Remus says, lips twitching.

"I want you so bad," Sirius groans, chewing on the inside of his lip
obsessively and shifting restlessly just to feel all the places where
they touch, where Remus has him caught, and held.

"So, have me," Remus tells him simply. "I'm right here. You don't
have to deny yourself. If you want me, have me."

"If I start, I won't stop."

"Good."

"Remus," Sirius says in reprimand, in complaint.

Remus just laughs at him. "What? I mean it. Good, because you
shouldn't deny yourself. There's nothing for you to earn here, Sirius.
You don't have to earn me back after what happened; I was yours
even then. I still am."

55
 Two Months Later

Sirius makes a high-pitched noise, rattling like he's about to fall

apart, strung so tight that he can feel the incoming snap like the tides
tugged apart by the moon. He can't stop himself from tipping into
Remus eagerly, desperately—or trying to, and failing to get
anywhere because Remus still has him, which rips a rather pathetic
keen right out of his mouth.

"What?" Remus asks. "Come on, Sirius, use your words." "Oh, fuck
off," Sirius wheezes.

"Go on," Remus teases, eyes dancing with humor, "tell me what you
want. What do you want, sweetheart?"

One question, one endearment, and a slow build-up—and there's the

snap. Breathless and begging, Sirius chants, "Let me go, let me go, for
fuck's sake, let me go."

Remus lets him go instantly, and approximately fifteen seconds after,

Sirius is moaning into his mouth and has him pressed up against the
wall, because the bed is too far away.

Sirius would like to say that it's not sloppy, or embarrassing, or that
there's some finesse to it, but that would be a lie. He just kisses
Remus with more fervor he's allowed between them in months.
Fuck, he hasn't had Remus' tongue in his mouth in so long, and it's
so alarmingly good that he could cry. He thinks he might cry,
actually. It's so—it's just so—

It feels good.

Yeah, well, Remus has always been effective at making that happen
for Sirius, and it's apparently not a skill he has lost in this regard
either. He hasn't forgotten, clearly, because he has his hands in Sirius'
hair, and he's kissing him with so much intensity that it scalds Sirius
and makes him lose his mind. No, like, he's actually quite sure he's
misplaced it somewhere. Just gone. Poof. Done away with. Sirius is
all body right now.

56
To put it simply, there's not a thought behind Sirius' eyes at the
moment. He's all sensation. He's shaking, and he's on fire, and he
feels so fucking good that he could just—he could just die, that's how
good it is.

Sirius paws at Remus ineffectively, practically useless, just because

he's that gone, lost in the daze, trapped in the haze of it all. At some
point, he does manage to grip Remus' hips, meaning to tug and
somehow fucking that up by accident, so their knees knock and their
legs shift, and then—oh, and then Remus' thigh is right there.
It's—oh, it's—

Right in the middle of the kiss, Sirius' mouth falls slack, because
apparently, he can't do more than two things at once. Remus goes
with it, though, and yeah, he definitely remembers, because he
mouths his way down to Sirius' throat, latching on and putting in the
work to leave a mark just like Sirius likes.

Sirius' hips jerk, and he moans awfully loud, unable to help it.
Remus liked it before and still seems to, if his soft curses and shaky
breathing are anything to go by. He's in favor of what's happening,
obviously, because his hands slip out of Sirius' hair and over his
shoulders, down his chest, and then he's gripping his waist and
encouraging him to continue to move.

Sirius does. He squeezes his eyes shut, struggles to breathe, and

stands there, fucking humping Remus' leg with absolutely no space
for shame within him. How can he be ashamed when it feels this
good? It burns through him, how good it is, leaves him trembling
and gasping and—

And, oh, they've been here before. It's where they started. Sirius
remembers it so vividly, that day of the rule change, when he got a
little too far in over his head, too caught up in how good it felt while
not knowing how to handle it. Too caught up in Remus. Here he is
again, just the same, and it's still so all-consuming that he has to
bang his hand against the wall by Remus' head, as if that will bring
him back to earth. It doesn't, and Remus doesn't even flinch, doesn't

57
 Two Months Later

stop what he's doing, very dedicated in leaving his signature on

Sirius' skin.

"Fuck, shit, fucking shit," Sirius curses, stupidly, and Remus rumbles
a throaty chuckle against his neck—and yeah, okay, who cares if he
deserves pleasure or not? It's worth it. Oh, it is so fucking worth it.

"Okay?" Remus checks, sounding downright drunk.

"Okay. So okay. So fucking okay," Sirius confirms, then chokes out a

moan and presses in closer to

tuck his face against Remus' shoulder. "Oh, please, please, please,
ple—"

Mere moments later, Sirius' muffled pleas taper off into a truly pitiful
whimper as he gathers the cloth of Remus' shirt between his teeth
and bites down hard. He rides it out like that, twitching and whining
and not caring about a damn thing other than how good Remus
smells, how good Remus feels, and how Remus is just perfect. He's
everything good and perfect in this world, pleasure incarnate, and
Sirius loves him so much that it's absolutely, unequivocally insane.

When Sirius sags against him like all of his strings have been cut,
Remus' lips soften on his skin, turning to gentle kisses. It feels really
nice to Sirius, who—at this particular moment—is pretty sure he's a
little high. He's all floaty and fuzzy, and he wants to stay just like this
for as long as he can get away with.

Yeah, they're going to have to do that again. Sirius knew it. Once he
started, that'd be it, and it is, and he has exactly zero regrets. Oh, he
should have listened to Remus sooner.

Eventually, Sirius' head stops spinning, his ears quit ringing, and his
racing heart slowly calms. His breathing returns to normal. He
settles and feels—really okay. Pleased. Happy. Relaxed. Yes, much
healthier.

Clearing his throat, Sirius lifts his head and peels back to blink at
Remus. "So, um, your turn?"

58
He can feel his face heating up, threatening to melt off all because he
just got off very quickly by... well, humping Remus' leg. Still, Remus
only looks at him fondly, and much to Sirius' confusion, he shakes
his head.

"That's not necessary. I got off about a minute after you pushed me
into the wall," Remus informs him, looking amused.

"What?" Sirius blinks harder. "Wait, really?"

"Yes, really." Remus nods. "You failed to notice, but in your defense,
you were otherwise occupied

and really focused."

"Oh, damn. Okay." Sirius stares at him, then coughs, his cheeks
growing warmer. He grins weakly

and says, "Well, I don't know about you, but I could really go for a
smoke now."

Remus busts out laughing, grabs Sirius' face, and presses that lovely
smile of his right into Sirius' glowing cheek. Sirius closes his eyes,
grinning, and feels really fucking good.

He accepts it, too.

59
 2
THE DISTRICTS
______

District eleven is the first to be taken—and very, very swiftly, too. It

goes like this:

"Well," Dorcas says slowly, "that was easy."

"Wasn't it?" Marlene mutters.

Dorcas coughs. "Do you think it'll be that easy everywhere? I mean,
it can't be, right?"

"Yeah, I have a feeling that none of the other districts will surrender
in the first fifteen minutes,"

Marlene agrees dryly.

"Right." Dorcas shakes her head and looks around the room full of
surrendered Aurors. They literally just laid their guns down, because
apparently they've been spread so thin and their working conditions
are so shit that they had all agreed to surrender if rebels showed up.
At least then they could have a break, was the general consensus. It's
still baffling to think about, but district eleven has been rioting
consistently since Marlene's interview before the games, and Riddle
has implemented a harsh regimen that left the Aurors all over, but
especially here, very fucking exhausted. So, they decided to
just...give up.

"Right, uh, what do we do now?" Marlene mumbles. "Minerva, what

do we do now?" Dorcas asks.

Minerva stands there and looks around, and she doesn't seem to
have the answers. She looks as lost as they feel.

60
As it turns out, a war not hard-won is just...awkward. ~•~

The next districts taken are five, nine, and ten. Alice is in five,
Emmeline is in nine, and Amos is in ten.

Only one doesn't make it back.

Regulus wasn't very close to Amos, but Barty was his friend. In fact,
Barty and Amos have hooked up at least once, but their time spent
together went outside the bounds of just sex, which is how Regulus
knows that Barty actually liked Amos as a friend to start with. For
Barty, he'll have sex with anyone he finds himself even mildly
attracted to or could have fun with; it's love and connection he's
never really cared for.

Though it goes unspoken, Regulus knows he's the only person Barty
has ever loved, and even that is a very peculiar form of loving. Barty
had no desire for a relationship—and still doesn't have that
desire—and while he never begrudged anyone the concept of
commitment, he did once admit to Regulus that it simply wasn't for
him. It's been years, and that's never changed. Barty's

commitment and desire falls into the realm of friendship alone, and
for so long, the only person that applied to was Regulus. But it hasn't
been just Regulus anymore.

Now, there's Rodolphus, there's Asher, there's Rabastan. Barty gets

on well with Alecto, adores Pandora just like everyone else, and has
a rather solidified bond with Mary, Sybill, and Lily—all people he
went on his first mission on, a bond forged in the fires of the sky.
Amos was there.

Amos isn't here anymore.

Sybill cries into Kingsley's shoulder. Mary rubs Lily's back as her
hands shake, and as her voice shakes when she says, "He was
supposed to be fine. He was always fine." Rabastan holds Asher's
hand as she hangs her head, and Rodolphus closes his eyes like the

61
 The Districts

loss at the hands of war won't be there if he isn't looking, like he

wishes it couldn't reach any of them.

Barty gets up and walks away.

"Reg," James says when Regulus stands up.

"No, just—" Regulus shakes his head and tugs his hand from James',
stepping away. "We'll be back. I just need to be with him right now,
James."

Maybe it's harsh leaving him there like that, but it's—that's just life
sometimes. The thing is, though it goes unsaid, there was a time
when the only person Regulus wanted to love, and let himself love,
was Barty. Like Barty, it was a peculiar form of loving, something
with no name. Not just friendship, but not quite romance either.
Somewhere in between, a liminal space they were happy to find
consistency in. There's something so terribly human about how they
matter to each other.

So, Regulus goes to Barty, and he finds him in an abandoned

corridor, sitting on the floor in silence. Regulus sits with him, and he
doesn't know what to say. He never knows what to say.

This is what Barty says:

"He was the only person who could find me when you weren't here
to look."

This is what Regulus says: "I'm sorry, Barty."

This is what no one says:

It's war. What did you expect?

~•~

The next districts taken are eight, seven, and four. In eight, a Phoenix
heli-carrier goes down right in the middle of a neighborhood that

62
ends with over thirty casualties, up to and including children,
various Aurors, and Order members.

Sybill is not the pilot, but Lily is there when she finds out about it,
and so she is there when she sees true, intense fear bloom in her
eyes. There are twelve people at the table; Sirius, James, Regulus,
Mary, Rodolphus, Rabastan, Asher, Dorcas, Sybill, Lily, Kingsley, and
Cordelia. They all look at her, a war pilot on standby, and no one
looks as haunted as Kingsley and Lily do, except for maybe Sybill
herself.

Sybill sees Emmeline approaching the table and scrambles up,

rambling about a superstition that the first to rise at a table of
thirteen is the first to die, and she doesn't want to die. She wants to
fly, then make it safely back to the ground.

In district seven, an entire group of fifteen people die at the hands of

biological warfare ruthlessly deployed by Riddle. No one knows
how or why, because every other person in all the districts are
immune, yet those fifteen people—for some reason—are not. Lily is
subjected to watching Remus pace and rant about this for ages, her
heart aching at how Remus has been manipulated into taking the
weight of this on himself, so intrinsically tied to immunity that,
when said immunity fails for reasons unknown, he treats it as a
personal fault.

They never find out why those fifteen people weren't immune when
everyone else is. They never will. Sometimes, in life, things will
always be a mystery.

Lily isn't in district four, but she's there when a Phoenix heli-carrier
is called in. She watches that Phoenix heli-carrier fly out. She doesn't
get the details until later, but that Phoenix heli-carrier and

the team on it takes down three Hallow heli-carriers before it goes

down itself.

Sybill is the pilot, and Lily is there when Kingsley returns, eyes hard
and battle-bright. He does not cry until Lily is in front of him, until

63
 The Districts

she tentatively reaches for him, until he pushes her hands away from
him and falls into Alice instead as Lily says she's sorry, because she
is, because it hurts so much. Because Sybill is her friend—was her
friend—and she should be here, but she's gone, and Lily is so
fucking sorry.

And then Kingsley does. Kingsley cries, and he clings to Alice, and
he says, "I knew, I knew, I knew it would happen."

And Lily wants to turn back time and fix the mistake that made him
right. Lily can't, and he has turned away from her, and she says, "I'm
sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I made it happen."

And everyone stays there. They stay there, and they mourn, and they
do not say, "It's war, it's war, what did you expect?"

It isn't until much later that Lily thinks about those twelve people at
the table and remembers that there was one no one thought to count.
Sleeping peacefully from the safety of his mother's arms, a baby safe
from war, Maximus was there.

Thirteen people after all. Sybill stood up first.

~•~ The next districts taken are three, then two.

In three, those sent out from the Phoenix have an ugly, ugly fight,
since many of those in the district fight alongside the Aurors. Not all,
but enough that it's a battle hard-won.

But the battle is won, if you ignore that over half of the district is
either dead or forced into compliance, kept as prisoners on Albus'
orders at least until the war is won. These people, so mind-

washed by the Hallow and the games; these people, just wanting to
defend their home and their life as they know it. So many people
dead or turned into prisoners of war, and who are the good guys and
the bad guys anymore? What does it mean when the 'good' side is
doing the very things they're fighting against? Following orders.
Being controlled. Sheer slaughter.

64
Alecto returns with her brother, Amycus, in tow. Not just him, but
his wife and two kids, her niece and nephew. Amycus is put into
solitary with his wife, Xena, because they were two who fought on
behalf of their home, and the behalf of the Hallow. Alecto had to
fight him, and maybe, perhaps, that's why he let himself and his
family be caught.

But he loudly and proudly does not agree with this side of the war,
appalled and disgusted that his sister is an anarchist, willingly and
on purpose. He never went into the games, never had to, and so he
can't understand. It was Alecto's money from winning the games
that kept him and his family well cared for.

Sirius learns all of this because he is there when Alecto comes to

Andromeda with a request to help her care for her niece and nephew
until the war is over and Amycus can be released with his wife,
Xena, and trusted with their freedom—because, right now, Albus has
decided they can't be.

"Andy," Narcissa says, looking at her, and Andromeda sighs before

reaching out to offer hands to little Burgundy and Belfast, promising
to introduce them to Dora. The promise of friendship is what gets
them to reach out and follow.

Alecto dumps her head on Narcissa's shoulder, exhaling heavily and

croaking, "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it," Narcissa murmurs, carding her fingers through

Alecto's hair and looking right at Sirius, holding his gaze. "Family is
often difficult. Trust me, I know."

Sirius' lips twitch up faintly, and he thinks about how Cissa hugged
him when he returned, and he thinks about how Cissa and Andy
never quite lose that layer of frost in their voice when they talk to
Regulus, and he thinks about the way Bellatrix tried to kill the cousin
she hated the most and died at the hands of the only cousin she
really loved, and he thinks about all that's left of the Blacks and how,
dysfunctional as they are, they're still here, and he thinks oh, this
fucking family.

65
 The Districts

In district two, Sirius is there. He's not alone. Regulus goes with him,
as does Effie, Monty, Remus, Lily, and James. As do many, many
others, because district two is going to be the biggest fight.
Rodolphus and Rabastan also return to their home district, refusing
to stay behind.

This is how it goes:

District two has an entire training center full of extra Aurors that no
other district has, which means that there's a lot of fucking Aurors to
fight, and that's not even including those in the district that also
align against those they call anarchists.

By now, at least, Riddle has had Aurors travel to the Hallow in

preparation. The Order now has control of transportation in the form
of the train, and the only district that can get directly into the Hallow
by anything other than the train is district one; this means that no
more Aurors can go to the Hallow than Riddle has already called,
and it means that no other Aurors can get sent out to the districts to
fight, other than those already there. Of course, Hallow heli-carriers
can take flight, but they're met with the Phoenix heli-carriers, a war
in the sky that both sides are losing; all Phoenix heli-carriers go
down, but they're taking plenty of Hallow heli-carriers with them
when they do.

In short, Riddle is leaning into his tactical retreat, but that doesn't
necessarily mean he's lost the war just yet. The fact that his main
weapon—biological warfare—has been entirely dismantled is a
major setback, but it likely only invigorates him to hold his ground
even more. The Hallow—yes, that will be the true fight. District two
won't even compare.

On the way to district two, James sits down next to Monty and
shows off the brace for his leg; between Sirius and Filius, as well as a
couple of others, they all came together to help find accommodations
for those with any disabilities. For James, this means a brace that
ensures his leg won't buckle—though they can't help with his pain
other than supplying some meds to take the edge off (which Poppy
did)—and a new, fancier retractable cane that stays standing when

66
James leaves it in place and snaps into itself with one squeeze of the
handle.

For Sirius, this means hearing aids that are actually very fucking
cool, if you ask him. They essentially filter noise for him, so those at
higher frequencies (such as screams, which are his main issue for
being triggered) will be muffled. They also just—look cool, honestly.
The way they settle around the curve of his ear, mercury silver like a
flash of jewelry past his hair. Sirius may or may not have spent days
wearing them and trying to needle compliments out of Remus for
them, which Remus was more than happy to give him.

For Regulus, this means stainless gloves—as in they're made out of

material that won't stain, which will mean he won't get blood on his
hands. He's also supplied with a small tube of something Asher
cooked up for him; just one little smear on the edge of his nostrils
and the end of his nose should keep him from smelling blood—and
pretty much anything at all, which he doesn't seem to like, as it's the
loss of one of his senses, but it's better than vomiting when he's
surrounded by blood and coming into contact with it. Sirius also
suggested getting him an umbrella in case it rained, and Regulus
didn't speak to him for two days, so apparently he took offense to
that.

While James is wrapped up with his dad, Sirius sits next to Regulus
and can't be still. Can't stop moving. Watching Remus talk with Lily
across the aisle, watching his face, the way his lips shape around his
words and the way his scar shifts with his changing
expressions—and Sirius is watching him so intently that it takes him
a second to notice that he has started to cry. A quick look around
shows him that Rodolphus and Rabastan—who sit right across from
him and Regulus— have not noticed, and everyone else is caught up
in conversing with others, so Sirius hastily swipes at his face to get
rid of the evidence, thankful no one saw, and then—

"Why are you having a full fucking meltdown? You're so dramatic,"

Regulus mutters, and Sirius' head snaps towards him, utterly aghast.
This little shit.

67
 The Districts

"Oh, you want to go there? You, Reggie? Need I remind you of the
time you thought I died in the arena, and you—"

"I didn't—"

"Oi, Rodolphus, back me up on this, older brother to older brother,"

Sirius calls out, then huffs in offense when Regulus elbows him
sharply in the side. "You saw it, right? He absolutely had a
meltdown, didn't he?"

Rodolphus hums. "He sure did. It was gut-wrenching, in fact."

Regulus looks at Rabastan and shakes his head. "That didn't
happen."

"I believe you, man," Rabastan assures him, jerking his thumb at
Rodolphus. "All he does is lie, so yeah, I believe you."

"When do I lie?" Rodolphus sputters. "Name one time—"

"You told me you didn't steal my pillow months ago, and I know it
was you. I know it was." "It wasn't! I'm telling you, Bas, it was
someone else!"

"Who, then?"

"Um. Well, okay, I don't know, but—"

Rabastan gestures to Rodolphus, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

"See? Liar."

"I do see," Regulus replies with a straight face, looking completely

neutral as he nods in agreement.

Sirius stares at the side of Regulus' face until, finally, Regulus' gaze
darts towards him very briefly before he quickly looks away, because
he's a lying, sneaky little shit of a pillow thief and has no shame in it.
Sirius shakes his head and looks away, reaching up to swipe a hand
over his mouth to hide his grin. Rabastan and Rodolphus continue to
argue about who the pillow thief is, and Sirius doesn't interrupt to
inform them of the real culprit, because he knows it's his brother.

68
James is also looking at Regulus with a grin, utterly smitten, the fool
that he is. Regulus stole the pillow for James, which Sirius only
knows because James told him in one of his rare moments of delight
in the early days after making it to the Phoenix. He'd been so
pleased—almost shy—about how Regulus was essentially coddling
him at the time, said he felt spoiled. Which, these days, he is.
Everyone's guilty of it, but Regulus is the worst. What James wants,
James gets.

"I'm not having a meltdown, by the way," Sirius mumbles as he

drowns out the growing argument between the brothers across from
them, because siblings can never argue normally.

"You were crying," Regulus replies quietly.

"Crying is okay sometimes," Sirius tells him.

"Mm, I can almost hear Mother and Father screeching about how it's
not," Regulus muses.

Sirius raises his eyebrows. "You can hear that far? All the way to
hell?" Regulus snorts, and Sirius knocks their shoulders together.
Across from them, Rodolphus has Rabastan in a headlock. "No, I
mean it. I'm okay. We're okay. We're going to be okay. We'll go in and
get it done."

"Me and you," Regulus says.

"Me and you," Sirius agrees.

"And me," Effie declares warmly as she dumps herself right in

between them, pushing them apart to wrap each arm around their
shoulders and squeeze them close to her. Sirius beams at her, and
Regulus very bravely withstands the affection. After a beat, Effie
snaps, "Boys, stop it."

Rodolphus and Rabastan immediately let each other go and

straighten up, while James and Monty stifle laughter. Lily and
Remus, on the other hand, look over curiously with that shared hint

69
 The Districts

of defiance in their eyes, like they heard stop and automatically have
the impulse to go.

"Yes ma'am," Rodolphus says. "Sorry ma'am," Rabastan adds.

Effie hums, pleased, and settles into her seat. "Now, who wants to
hear the story of how I made the head gamemaker of my games piss
himself?"

Everyone stares at her, because they do, in fact, want to hear that
story. Sirius has already heard it, and loves it, but he's happy to listen
again. It's a good way to pass the time.

So, time passes, and they arrive.

And, though district two won't compare to the final battle in the
Hallow, it's absolutely fucking

dreadful.

Sirius has never fought with all his loved ones together like this.
Sure, they've trained, and sure, they've all had experience with
fighting by now, but that's not quite the same as all of them being in
the middle of a warzone together.

The first person he freaks out about is James, because—well, because

James freaks out first. No one is expecting it, James least of all,
apparently. The first explosion, and James dives down,
hyperventilating and petrified. The others don't see, already caught
up in fighting, and it's just Sirius who reaches him, frantic with
worry because he thinks James is injured, but James—isn't.

"What?" Sirius gasps out. "James, what is it? What's—"

"I thought—I—I—" James lays there, wild-eyed, chest heaving. He's

shakily patting himself down, his whole body rattling. "The—I heard
the explosion, and I—"

"Oh," Sirius whispers, realizing all at once what the problem is.
James looks so fucking scared, and why wouldn't he? He's been on

70
fire before, and everything around them is burning already. "Okay,
um. Fuck."

"The flames," James wheezes, gripping desperately onto Sirius' shirt.

"It's—the heat is so intense, so—"

"Okay, hey, look at me. James, look at me," Sirius says, reaching out
to grip James' jaw and force him to look. "Breathe with me. Come on,
in and out."

James breathes with him, slowly calming, still shaking afterwards.

"I'm—Im sorry. I—"

"You have nothing to apologize for," Sirius states firmly, then reaches
up to take his hearing aids out. The part that hooks into his ears have
soft ear plugs on them, and Sirius peels them off, holding them out
to James. "Here, this should keep the explosions from being too loud
for you."

"Sirius, I can't take—"

"Shut up, yes you can. Mine still work. It'll just be a little rough in my
ear, and that's fine. Take them."

"Thank you," James whispers, and takes them.

"The heat—" Sirius halts, his brain stalling out. "Just try not get too
close to the flames, and don't look at them. Is—will that work?
James, can you do this?"

"Yes," James says quickly, swallowing harshly.

Sirius studies his face, then murmurs, "If you can't, that's okay.
There's no shame in it. You—"

"I'm doing it," James cuts in forcefully, firming his jaw and taking a
steadying breath. "I'm not leaving any of you. I can do it. I will."

"James," Sirius starts.

71
 The Districts

"I promise I'll be okay," James insists, blowing out a harsh breath.
"Don't—please don't tell anyone, okay? You can't tell anyone.
Just—I'll be fine, Sirius, just help me up."

"Okay, James," Sirius says softly, then helps him up, and they go
right back to it. And survival is a funny thing, isn't it? James knows
his limits—even the ones he has just learned—and he knows how to
survive, so he works around that and with that. Sometimes that's the
only thing that can be done.

The fight continues on.

The truth is, being with people you care about during these sort of
moments doesn't make it easier. If anything, it makes it harder. A
warzone isn't a place to be distracted; you can't even think past all
the chaos and the will to survive for yourself, let alone anyone else,
so being with people you desperately don't want to lose in a place so
very easy to lose them is just a recipe for disaster. Sirius —doesn't
handle it well.

The moment Sirius loses sight of Remus, the mission becomes

inconsequential. Fighting the Aurors doesn't matter. Finding Remus
is the only thing that matters, and when he can't, he's gripped with a
panic attack so sudden and so strong that he blinks once, then blinks
again to find himself in a new spot, throat raw in the midst of
screaming Remus' name so loud that it's a wonder the whole world
doesn't hear it.

Imagine you go to war, and when you get there, you flicker in and
out. Amongst all of that mayhem, there's mayhem within that
wreaks havoc on the state of your mind. You are here, and then you
are not, and you can't remember. You can't remember and you can't
remember and you can't remember and you—

It'd be nice, wouldn't it, if there was some sort of magical answer to
solve the issue? If Remus just popped up in front of him whenever
Sirius needed him. If the war would stop for one second so

Sirius could reach for Remus and have him again. That doesn't
happen, though.

72
What happens is that Sirius blinks and finds himself with Rabastan,
and no one even knows he hasn't been here this whole time. People
are yelling, and there's gunshots, and Sirius can see James, Regulus,
and Monty across the street ducked behind a building to stay in
cover, and Sirius can see Lily, Effie, Rodolphus, and Remus being
dragged into the building. The training center where so many
Aurors are.

"We need to get inside!" Rabastan shouts, leaning behind a large bin
next to Sirius, watching his brother be dragged away with a whine
caught behind his teeth. He tries to surge forward right into the
gunfire, shouting, "Rodolphus!"

Sirius snags his arm and slams him back against the bin, taking a
deep breath and forcibly holding him there. Okay. Sirius is here. He's
here. The screams and gunshots are muffled, but the earth trembles
with them. Sirius is here, and he can feel it. He's here. Okay.

"No," Sirius snaps when Rabastan tries to wriggle away from him.
"Listen to me, if you run in there alone, you're going to die. We'll
need to go in together, which means getting across this street, which
means I need to signal to James that we need help. You can't leave
until then, so stay put."

"And if it was Regulus?" Rabastan hisses, wheeling around to glare

at him. "He's my brother! I have to—"

"You have to stay put," Sirius cuts in harshly. "How do you think
Rodolphus would feel if you ended up dead, huh? Take it from me, it
would break his fucking heart."

Rabastan bounces in place like staying put is the most painful thing
he's ever experienced. "Then— then we have to do something,
because we need to get to them."

"I know, okay? Just—let me get James' help." Sirius exhales and
swivels his head to look across the way, finding James looking back,
right at him. They stare at each other past all the gunfire and
explosions, and Sirius doesn't know how he knows, but he does
know that they're breathing in and out at the same time, the same
pace, together.

73
 The Districts

Sirius holds up his gun at James, who cocks his head. Sirius then
points his gun and makes a sweeping motion and taps the side of the
bin. James' face lights up, and he nods.

Honestly, they'd kill it in charades.

A moment later, James, Regulus, and Monty are providing cover fire
as Sirius and Rabastan take off running, mostly going in hope that
they won't get shot. Along the way, Rabastan stumbles over his feet
and goes down as Sirius is running swiftly up behind him. It's easy
to yank him right back up and shove him into sprinting again,
dragging him along until they make it to the others.

"You're as insane as Bellatrix," Rabastan chokes out when they crash

against the wall with James, Regulus, and Monty.

"I resent that," Sirius mutters, barely sparing him a glance before he
focuses on the others. "Okay?"

"We're fine," James says, his voice strained, still visibly shaken from
his own struggles and continuing on in spite of them anyway. "The
others were taken inside. We—we need to get in there, but we might
not make it without—"

"I'll provide cover fire, and you all go," Rabastan declares, turning to
face the street. "One of us has to stay behind, or no one's making it
through that door. May as well be me." No one protests, because no
one wants to stay behind when the people they love are inside. Not
one person would want that. "Just, hey, make sure—you have to get
Rodolphus. You have to."

"We'll do our best to," Regulus murmurs.

"Get him out," Rabastan croaks, swinging his gun up and jerking his
head as he crouches down for a new vantage point. "Just get him out.
That's all that matters. Keep him—keep him safe."

"We need to split, two going in through the front, two going in the
back," Sirius states, and then there's a beat of silence as they all look

74
around at each other and realize no one wants to part from anyone
else.

Finally, Monty clears his throat and says, "Alright, well, I'm claiming
Regulus. We'll take the back."

Regulus looks oddly charmed by this.

"Hey, be careful," Sirius and James announce at basically the same

exact time, and Regulus rolls his eyes as Monty snorts. They're
clearly thick as thieves, because Regulus' lips curl up when Monty
knocks their shoulders together, and they slink off while whispering
to each other, Monty chuckling quietly as they go. James and Sirius
exchange an exasperated look.

Getting inside the building is easy enough, but there's a lot of

opposition waiting. Sirius has sparred with James plenty over the
years, and especially recently, but they've never really been in a
situation where they've had to fight together.

Frankly, it feels like Sirius has morphed with James to form a larger,
much more dangerous beast. It's not just flowing together and
working around each other well; they work fluidly as one. Perfect
extensions of one another. It's as if they read each other's minds
before a thought is even fully formed, and it's—well, it shouldn't be
fun, war isn't fun, but fighting alongside James is fun. It's thrilling.
It's exhilarating.

Sirius is a swift killer, one or two strikes and that's it, his opponent is
dead. No muss and no fuss and no playing games. He wins a fight
before it even begins, usually. James is not as efficient, but he has a
further reach and is genuinely good at multitasking. He can shoot
one Auror while whacking another one with his cane, and he makes
it look easy.

"You're fucking brilliant with that, you know," Sirius compliments at

one point, nodding to James' cane as he plants it on the floor after
hitting an Auror with it so hard that teeth fell out and they
immediately crumpled to the ground.

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 The Districts

"Don't tell anyone," James whispers, like it's a secret, "but it's
satisfying as hell to swing it about." "I can tell," Sirius says, amused.
"Remind me not to get on your bad side, yeah?"

James frowns. "I don't have a bad side." Sirius looks down at the
bodies at their feet, half of which James gets credit for putting there,
and then he looks up and raises his eyebrows. James coughs. "Okay,
well, I don't have a bad side you could ever get on, how about that?"

"Works for me," Sirius muses, admittedly pleased by this.

"Want to try?" James offers, holding out his cane.

A pause. Sirius reaches out and takes it. As it turns out, it is

satisfying as hell to swing it about. He's not as good with it as James,
though, and can't multitask between gun and cane the same way he
does. Sirius has never thought about it, really, but now that he is...
Well, James' weapon was never really the hatchet from his first
games; he won't even pick one of those up now. The cane, however,
is clearly the weapon for him, the one that brings him comfort and
security the same way daggers do for Regulus. It makes sense, in a
way, that James' weapon would have this duality; made to help, yet
capable of harm if necessary. A lot like James himself.

Sirius has given James his cane back by the time they make it outside
the room those taken are being held in, waiting to meet up with
Monty and—ah, shit. Regulus isn't here.

"Where's Regulus?" Sirius demands immediately, his heart seizing in

his chest to find Monty entirely alone.

"Look," Monty whispers, waving them over to the door so they'll

peer through the tiny glass window on it. All they can see is Effie,
Remus, Lily, and Rodolphus being shoved around by Aurors,
struggling with their hands bound behind their backs, clearly not
complying. Monty isn't focusing on them, though. "Regulus is—"

Before he can finish or explain anything else, the sound of gunshots

from within the room echo out to them, muffled, but they can't find
the source. Aurors just start dropping out of nowhere, and Monty

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wastes no time before bursting into the room to help. Sirius and
James scramble to follow.

It's a grueling fight inside, but it's not just the three of them. Effie
headbutts the Auror holding her and starts fighting with her hands
tied behind her back, at least until Monty can make his way to her
and set her free. She thanks him sweetly when he does, then snaps
an Auror's neck only seconds later.

With no warning, there's a clatter from above, and Regulus drops

from a vent, landing on the Auror dragging Rodolphus down to put
the gun to his head. Rodolphus just narrowly escapes death because
Regulus is a smart little shit. In the meantime, James and Sirius are
fighting to get to Lily and Remus, though the point turns out to be
moot. Before they can make it, Lily and Remus have already gone
back-to-back and untied each other without even having to look or
speak, which Sirius does have to admit is impressive.

The moment Sirius has a path to Remus, he's going. He makes it to

Remus just as he throws an Auror aside with a grunt, spitting out a
furious, "You dumb cunt," with a glare that could melt metal and
blood splitting his knuckles open. Sirius' knees may or may not go
all wobbly in response to this.

"Hey, hi, are you okay?" Sirius chokes out as soon as he reaches
Remus and actually gets to reach for him, hands on his cheeks,
searching him for any sign of pain or injury. "You're okay, right? Are
you hurt? Are you—"

"I'm fine." Remus blinks rapidly, his chest heaving, face flushed. He
nods. "Sweetheart, I'm fine."

Sirius has never known a relief as intense as this. It's pure adrenaline,
honestly, leaving him shaky in the aftermath. He rides the wave by
throwing himself back into the fight, stumbling into Regulus and
Lily at one point.

"Smart thinking, by the way," Sirius comments breathlessly after

tossing someone into a wall. Regulus is in the middle of

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 The Districts

withdrawing his boot from an Auror's crushed windpipe, but he

looks up and frowns. "The vent. That was smart."

Regulus blinks, then gives a faint smile and raises his shoulder in a
half-shrug. "No one ever thinks to look up."

"You okay?" Sirius checks.

"Yeah. You?" Regulus replies, then seems to relax a little when Sirius
nods. "Where's James?"

"He's—" Sirius stops when he swivels his head to find James in the
middle of...fighting alongside his parents? That's not how most
families have group bonding time, Sirius thinks, but the Potters
aren't like most families, are they? Sirius has never known a family
brighter than them, and together, they're all blazing. Even
Monty—not one for conflict—is something else when he really gets
going, especially if the people he loves are in danger. "Yeah, as you
can see, he's fine."

With that, Sirius resumes fighting.

Eventually, more from the Phoenix burst in to help, meaning the

barracks have been taken, which means district two is losing. It's
good, and though the battle lasts for a long time, it is nonetheless a

battle altogether won.

"Where's Rabastan?" That's the first thing Rodolphus asks when

everyone is in a position to stop and breathe.

"I never saw him come in," Regulus says with a frown. "They took
the street outside, so he should be here."

Rabastan isn't here.

He's not in any room on any floor. He's not loitering outside dealing
with various Aurors or members from the district that survived. He's
not among those heading back to the outpost for medical treatment,

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and so—as terrifying as it is—the next place to look is among the
dead.

Rabastan isn't there either. None of the dead bodies gathered or the
dead bodies not yet gathered are him.

Rodolphus isn't handling it well.

"Well, where did you fucking leave him?" Rodolphus snaps, visibly
at the end of his rope, his shoulders tight and his eyes a little wild.
There's something there in his expression that Sirius understands; he
imagines that's how he looked the day he watched his little brother
tip himself into a crimson river and thought he died. That look there.
Sirius has felt that.

"There's no reason he would be here," Regulus is saying as they go to

the last place they saw Rabastan, crouched down by a wall to get
them inside to save his brother. "He would have left and come inside
if he—"

Sirius comes to a screeching halt.

Memory is a funny thing, isn't it? He has a more complicated

relationship with it than most, and he's already forgotten so much
today, but what he does remember is Rabastan falling. In the middle
of all that gunfire, Rabastan fell.

No one wants to stay behind when the people they love are inside.
Not one person would want that.

Rabastan didn't want that, not at first, so why did he change his
mind so quickly? In between wanting to rush in to save his brother
and wanting them to promise him they would do it for him,
Rabastan fell. That's what changed.

"Wait," Sirius blurts out. "Rodolphus, don't—"

And it's too late. They're already there. All of them there, stepping
past burning debris to take a corner and find Rabastan exactly where
they left him, gun in limp hands, glassy gaze locked on the building

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 The Districts

his brother was dragged into, clearly waiting for his brother to come
back out.

"Bas," Rodolphus says. He takes a step forward. Takes another.

Makes a noise. "Bas? Rabastan?" No response.

Rodolphus kneels down next to him. The gun clatters to the ground,
and Rodolphus gently eases Rabastan back from where he's curled
up. There's blood on his stomach from a gunshot wound. It's dried.
Blood isn't flowing anymore.

He's all bled out.

A horrible, sick noise crawls out of Rodolphus, and he chokes out,

"Oh, Bas, no, no, no," and keeps chanting it as he folds forward and
cups the side of Rabastan's head, bringing it to his shoulder, cradling
it there.

Sirius can't look away. He's shaking, trembling, frozen as he watches

something he'll never forget, and something he'll always selfishly
want to. Sirius watches, and all he can think is that he was right—it
did break Rodolphus' heart.

The worst part, for Sirius, is that Rabastan likely never got to see
Rodolphus make it out at all. The worst part, for Rodolphus, is that
his little brother is dead.

~•~

The next district taken is twelve. This is how it goes:

Lily is home. Six years, and she's home. Six years, and she will be
crossing the train tracks with Remus beside her once again. Six years,
and so much has changed, but it's her and Remus here together like
nothing has changed at all, like some things can never be changed.

Oddly, it's a comforting thought.

What isn't a comforting thought is the lack of people Lily wants to be

here. She has Remus, but that's all. All of the others had wanted to

80
go—Sirius, especially. He threw a fit so bothersome that only Remus
could calm him down, not James or Regulus or Effie or Monty or
Marlene or Mary or Pandora; no, just Remus. Because Dumbledore
decides who goes where and who's cleared for what, and he decided
only Remus and Lily would be going to twelve, as the others were
needed for other things going on in the background. Sirius, naturally,
did not like this, and it wasn't until Remus soothed him that he
stopped threatening to choke Dumbledore with his own beard.

In any case, there's a whole team here, but the only person that Lily
is close to that's here is Remus. Maybe there's something fitting
about that, and honestly, Lily shouldn't want her friends in danger
—she doesn't, but she just—she does want them here for the comfort
she's always seeking these days. People keep dying. Grief is choking
them all.

And yet, here she is, still fighting.

As the time ticks by, so slowly, Lily keeps herself busy by helping
where she can, taking everything out of her pack just to put it in
again, loading and reloading her guns, and thinking about Bingley
and Mary.

Yeah, Lily is home, but home is waiting for her elsewhere, too. It's
strange to think about, to look at how far she's come, how much she
thought she lost and all that she ended up gaining. She has so much
family now, so much love in her, and in her life. So much, in fact, that
it terrifies her—the difference is now, after all this time, she's grateful
to be afraid.

Lily thinks about loss a lot now. Amos is dead, and they try so hard
to remember him as he was, efficient and funny and a bit huffy at
times, but always reliable when people needed a person to rely on.
Sybill is dead, and Lily can't think about it too much without her
guilt strangling her, and she can't think about how Kingsley won't
look at her, or talk to her, or have anything to do with her. Rabastan
is dead, and Rodolphus has fallen silent like there's nothing worth
saying if his brother isn't there to hear it, and Asher never leaves her
lab and never cries, but always looks on the brink of it.

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 The Districts

So many people are dead, and no one knows how to fill the spaces
left behind now that they're gone, and it's a hollow feeling. Such a
hollow, desolate feeling.

But they try. Those who remain try, because the war is still waging,
and they don't have a choice. There is no stopping, or slowing down,
or skirting around the living nightmare that life has become. They're
all afraid and only holding onto those they do have, that are still
here, all that harder for it. They're all absolutely terrified, and it's just
love. The worst, destructive parts that love has to offer, but love all
the same.

And, despite this, Lily hopes to invite more fear into her life. She
hopes with everything in her that Petunia and their parents are here,
and—if they are—Lily is going to do whatever it takes to get them to
safety.

Lily's heart jumps when it's finally time to go.

"Ready?" Remus murmurs as he steps up beside her, following the

crowd heading for the latch.

"Ready as I'm ever going to be," Lily breathes out. Their hands are
full, holding guns, but she wishes she could hold his.

Remus bumps their shoulders together. "As soon as we break past

the train tracks, we split off and take the path through the old,
abandoned park. You remember the one where—"

"Where we kissed," Lily says, huffing out a laugh and sharing a grin
with him. "Yeah, how could I forget one of the worst moments of my
life?"

"Well, at least I'm unforgettable."

"Your tongue is. You use entirely too much."

"First of all, it was my first kiss. Second of all, I've gotten much
better. Third of all, it wouldn't matter if I had or not, because Sirius
appreciates my tongue, unlike you."

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Lily snorts. "Sirius likes everything about you. I'm, like, one hundred
percent positive that he would happily gag on your tongue and say
thank you afterwards, like it's a gift."

"How do you know he hasn't?" "Hey, at least he's happy."

Remus chuckles as he adjusts his gun and reaches up to grab onto

the ladder, climbing his way up. Lily follows him, taking his hand
when he offers it at the top.

And then, once everyone is gathered, they go.

The main fight will be located at the barracks for the Aurors, getting
the upper hand there before mass amounts of Aurors get to spread
out. Not all Aurors will be there, of course; the head Auror in the
districts get their own houses, and there are the Aurors on patrol to
worry about as well.

Lily has a feeling that they'll hear gunshots before they ever make it
towards the end of the district where their houses have always been,
and that turns out to be true. They make it as far as the park,
splitting off from the group, before they hear the first round of
gunshots and screams.

Naturally, chaos unleashes after that.

Remus and Lily run. They tear off towards home like they were
always rushing to get back there, like if they run fast enough, they
can turn back time until they're somewhen else, back before the
world crumbled around them.

Through the park, over a fence, down an alley—and then they turn
on an old, familiar street,

coming face-to-face with a patrol of Aurors. Five of them. Lily raises

her gun and begins to shoot.

When they're in close quarters to the Aurors is Remus' time to shine.

He's always been a bit like a blunt instrument himself, just in how he
uses his body, how he barrels into things he knows he shouldn't.

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 The Districts

When he was young, he punched walls and spit in the face of Aurors
dragging him to whipping posts. He had blood in his mouth more
often than something sweet, and so that became his favorite meal.

He's not like that anymore, not really. Calmer now. Much more
level-headed. But his body still bears the scars and he still
remembers his favorite taste; it's all about what one can never forget,
and Remus always recalls the thrill of chaos.

And there's Lily, right there with him, so different from where she
began as well, but no more free from the call of chaos as he is. They
go into it together, bullets flying and fists following. Remus crushes
an Auror's windpipe, and Lily bashes another's head in with her gun
until they stop moving.

Seven people go into the fight; only two walk away.

People are flooding the streets, the call of chaos singing loud enough
for them to hear. Some people rush towards it. Some people run
away from it. Some people, Lily recognizes. Young Venice who was
fourteen the last time she saw him, and now he's twenty and
shouting for his husband to stay close. Mr. Sanders runs with his
twelve year old son that Lily knew and his four year old daughter
she's never met, his wife nowhere to be seen. Gemma, Lily's
ex-girlfriend, is sprinting towards the gunshots with a hammer in
hand, clearly ready to fuck some shit up, and Lily doesn't even care
that Gemma cheated on her; she's so fucking proud to see her go.

"Remus," Lily gasps out, because the street splits off in two
directions—one towards her house, and one towards his.

"Go," Remus says, meeting her eyes.

It's all she needs to hear. She presses a fierce kiss to his cheek, then
lets him go, and then goes herself. When they run, they do so in
opposite directions, just like the first time, but this time—oh, this
time, Lily is sure they'll find their way back to each other again.
Unbelievably, they always

do.

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"Hey! Hey, oh, you're an anarchist! You're—"

The Auror never gets to finish as Lily tackles them to the ground,
shoves her gun beneath their chin, and pulls the trigger. Blood
splatters, as does brain matter and bone, which Lily leaves behind as
she scrambles up and continues on.

Yeah, maybe Lily is an anarchist. Or, maybe she's just a woman

defending her life and all those she loves, fighting in a war for a
better world. The lines tend to get a little blurred out here in the
field, when she hands out death and doesn't even slow down to
mourn it. Less human like this, with blood and guns for company.
She's a killer, and she always will be for all those she has killed. The
world made her this way just as much as she did, and yet the lines
blur anyway.

Because these Aurors—well, most don't have lovers, they're not

allowed for the first twenty years; they don't have families, save
parents and siblings, which they voluntarily left behind to pledge
loyalty to the Hallow; but is anything ever so simple? Look at Lyall,
Remus' father. Over thirty years of service he gave to the Hallow, to
Riddle himself, and twenty years of which he spent entirely alone. If
this war happened decades ago, Lyall would be dead in the street,
his brains blown out, and Remus wouldn't be here.

And what does any of that matter anyway? The value of human life
isn't measured in the connections they make. A person entirely alone
in this world deserves to live just as much as anyone else. Everyone
is worthy of life, and yet here she is, here so many people are, taking
lives, taking and taking and taking. Oh, how they take what isn't
theirs to take at all.

So, yes, the lines blur. It's war, but the idea of anyone truly being on a
right side is a foolish notion. It's all murder, really. Carnage. Violence.
Wrong. And, though Aurors choose this life, they're as trapped as
everyone else.

Some will die. Some will survive. That goes for all sides; that's just
the reality of war. But here, when the two sides collide, and death is
within reach, everything starts to blur.

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 The Districts

Screams blend together.

Gunshots sound the same no matter who shoots.

Everyone bleeds, and everyone feels pain, and everyone is here until
they're gone. It blurs, and it blurs, and it blurs.

And then, abruptly, everything comes into sharp focus as Lily skids
to a halt on the street, her chest heaving. She stops and stands at the
end of a rock-lined path she's walked for years, kicking the stones to
see the dented-in dirt beneath, then giggling when Petunia snapped
at her to put them back in their place. Everything has a place,
Petunia always said, and she made sure each and every rock stayed
where it should.

The rocks remain, but the house is gone. Lily's home is gone.

The foundation for it was never sturdy to begin with, but she never
expected it to collapse. It has. The walls and roof have caved in, left
in a pile of rotted wood and rubble. It's decrepit, abandoned, left
years untouched. No one has been here for years. No one has lived
here for years.

If Lily had to guess how many, she would say six. ~•-

Remus' experience in twelve goes a little differently. It goes like this:

Remus sees the sea-foam green door of his childhood home, and
then he sees it open, and— foolishly, for just a moment where he is
disoriented—he thinks his mother will be the one to step out and call
him in for supper.

It's not. Obviously.

But it is his dad. It's his dad. Lyall Lupin, in the flesh, six years since
the last Remus saw him— and it's him, looking old and worn as he
comes down the front steps. Alive.

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"Dad! Dad!" Remus shouts, tearing down the sidewalk faster than
he's ever moved in his life, feeling something swell within him so
buoyant and desperate that he can't breathe around it. It's his dad.
It's his dad. It's his dad.

It's his dad, and Remus could be a child again for how badly he
needs him right now, and maybe he is a child for this one moment,
because he is weeping in a mixture of beautiful grief and hideous
relief the second Lyall's gaze lands on him. Lyall's expression
fractures immediately. Remus sees Lyall mouth his name,
shell-shocked, unable to raise his voice.

Lyall has seen him as a young boy stumbling over his own feet,
giggling between his parents who held each of his hands in one of
their own and swung him to make him laugh louder. Lyall has seen
him as a young teen stumbling over his own feet, groaning against
Lily who held him up and avoided touching where his back was torn
to shreds. Lyall has seen him as a young man stumbling over his
own feet, crying as he runs right for his dad after six years of being
forced apart.

And each time, every single fucking time, Lyall is the one who
catches him when he falls. Throughout Remus' whole life, Lyall has
always been there to do that, and that—at the end of the day—was
what he was always trying to do. They fought about it so much for
so long, especially after Hope died, because something in Remus
wanted, desperately, to fall and not be caught. And he did. He got
his wish. The one time Lyall wasn't there to catch him, Remus
stumbled over his own feet and landed so hard that, for some time,
he didn't know how to get back up. But he learned, and he's grateful
to have learned, and he never would have if Lyall kept on catching
him.

What Remus learned, most of all, is that he wants to be caught again,

and he is. Without missing a beat, Lyall catches him.

Remus goes stumbling over his own feet and right into his father's
arms, and it's like something bursts in him until he's overflowing.
He's already crying when he makes it there, but once he's there, he's
crying about so many things all at once, things he's never cried about
before.

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 The Districts

Crying about the day he became a servant. Crying about all the pain,
and fear, and torture. Crying about killing Greyback, and crying
about killing Lucius, and crying about all the killing he has done
with no remorse; but he finds it here, his remorse and maybe his
shame, because for a second, while in the safety of his father's arms,
it feels as if the war comes to an end.

"Remus, Remus, Remus," Lyall chants, choking on his name like he's
strangled by it, and he's crying, too.

"I'm sorry. Dad, I'm so sorry. I'm—" "No, no, don't—"

Remus weeps into his shoulder, burning with how much it hurts,
how much hurt he has in him; he's trying to dig it out, rip it out, fling
it away from himself and finally breathe. "I didn't mean to. I never
meant for that to happen. I'm sorry. You were right, Dad. You were
right, I'm sorry, I'm—"

"Shh, son, stop," Lyall soothes, pressing his fist against Remus' back,
holding him so tight, rocking him a little. His other hand comes up
to cradle his head, fingers digging in rough from caring so much.
"Don't apologize for who you are. Don't you dare. I'm so proud of
you, Remus. So proud."

Remus is pretty sure he nearly throws up, that's how hard he cries. It
just keeps going, like a leaky faucet that never stops dripping, one so
backed up that it finally breaks open under all the pressure. Remus
has held on so long, only letting go here and there, in small spurts,
but this cracks him wide open. The little boy in him who was so
angry at his father just wanted him to be proud of him, really. That's
all he wanted.

It's one thing to read it in a letter. It's something else to hear it from
the source. It unravels Remus until he's shrinking down, and then
he's gone, and then he's born anew.

There's still a war waging around them, and after all the tears and all
the relief that courses through him, Remus feels about ten feet tall
and fucking bulletproof. He peels away from Lyall and just looks at

88
him, tearstained and breathless, because it's his dad. It's his dad. It's
his dad.

"Okay," Remus says, his voice wobbly. "Okay, yeah. That's

really—yeah. Yeah, alright."

"I love you," Lyall informs him firmly, and Remus fights for his life
not to cry again. Lyall clears his throat and reaches out to grab
Remus' jaw, shaking his head a little, then pats his cheek. "Had to say
that, too, since I haven't gotten to in a while."

"Yeah, me too, Dad," Remus croaks. "And—and listen, I would love

nothing more than to catch up and talk and—just all of it, but we
have to go. I have to get you out of here, somewhere safe. And I
know you won't just go—"

"Remus," Lyall cuts in, "where are we going?"

"Oh." Remus blinks. "You're—wait, just like that?" "Just like that,"
Lyall replies. "Lead the way, son."

Remus, who was not anticipating it being this easy, is sort of lost for
a second. He opens his mouth, closes it, then clears his throat and
scratches the side of his head. "Right. Alright, yes, but—just so you
know, I'm going to have to kill people. Maybe. I mean, probably. Just
to—"

"Do you have an extra gun?" Lyall asks. "Um, yes?"

"Give it to me."

"Dad—"

"Remus, I was an Auror for over thirty years. I've been trained to
shoot since before you were born. Give me a gun."

"You know," Remus mumbles, "fair point."

Lyall nods in approval and takes the gun Remus gives him, pointing
it down to check the safety, then clicking it off with the familiar ease

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 The Districts

of a motion done many times. With that, he looks up at Remus and

smiles with wrinkles beside his eyes, a hint of mischief Remus has
seen in the mirror there in his gaze when he casually repeats, "Like I
said, son, lead the way."

The last district taken is one. This is how it goes:

~•~

Narcissa goes, so Sirius and Regulus are the first to demand to go as

well. Albus allows Regulus, only, and Sirius rants and raves, and it
takes the combined efforts of Effie, Monty, and James to get him to
calm down. He spends the entire mission being absolutely fucking
unbearable—twitchy, angry, and very fucking scared. The only
person who really gets it, at least the way he does, is Andromeda.
Along with Sirius, she's terrified.

Meanwhile, Narcissa abandons Regulus approximately five minutes

into the battle. Just—poof. Gone. He can't find her anywhere, so he's
left fighting with a couple of strangers from the Phoenix —he uses
the term strangers lightly, because he knows their names and has
seen them plenty in the last few months. These 'strangers'—all of
them—are killed.

"Wait, wait, this one is Regulus Black," says one of the Aurors with a
gun to his head. "He's on Riddle's list."

"What list?" says another.

"Do you ever check the bulletin, Tim? Fuck's sake, the list of
anarchists he wants captured and brought to him," is the exasperated
reply.

They all look at Regulus.

Regulus arches an eyebrow. He says nothing, and they all seem

rather unnerved by his silence. He's killed some people, but he
doesn't know how many. Maybe that's for the best.

"Alright, get him to his feet," says the one that's not Tim.

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"I'm warning you, Tim," Regulus snaps, "if you touch me, you're
going to die."

Tim doesn't listen to him, and five minutes later, Regulus is breaking
Tim's hand and kicking not- Tim into a signpost before launching
another not-Tim into the side of a car so hard that the

window crunches and dents in with splintered glass from the impact
of their body. Tim yells from his knees, fingers going in all the wrong
directions, and Regulus is just about to snap his neck when a new
not-Tim comes flying out of nowhere to tackle Regulus to the
ground.

There's a scuffle. Regulus may or may not nearly rip someone's ear
off. Either way, by the end, Regulus stands up to find many bodies of
not-Tims littered all around him, while Tim himself is dead at
Narcissa's feet. Look who finally showed back up.

Well, Regulus told Tim he'd die. No one ever listens to him. Maybe
they should; he's starting to think he's some sort of prophet or
something.

"I'm alright," Regulus says, because Narcissa is looking at him, gaze

flicking over him critically.

"I don't care if you are or aren't," is Narcissa's bland reply as she
flicks blood carelessly off her fingers.

Right, of course. He's dead to her, after all.

But, well, Regulus knows firsthand what it feels like to care deeply
for the dead, even long after they're gone. Narcissa says she doesn't
care, but she doesn't abandon him again.

They stay together.

They fight together.

They make it back, together.

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 The Districts

~•~

After all the districts are taken, there isn't a celebratory event to note
the ultimate win that this is, because considering all the losses, it's
not much of a win at all.

Instead, there's just a gathering in the Great Hall to pause and

remember those that have been lost already, even before the final
battle in the Hallow takes place.

The numbers alone are sickening. It's not just Amos, Sybill, and
Rabastan. It takes some time before everyone gets all the numbers
and all the names, so much information spread all throughout

the Phoenix that it's hard to see past what you're already involved in
to find out about any of the others. Edgar Bones didn't make it,
leaving behind his sister, Amelia, to not only grieve him, but take
over his position. Majesty didn't make it either, and they didn't have
very many friends,

mostly stuck to themselves, but they were someone. They were a

person, mysterious and often alone as they were; they had life in
them, thoughts and hopes and dreams, and now they're gone. So
many people are gone, just like that, just in the first part of the war
before they could even see the last of it.

It's a hard thing to wrestle with, this heavy grief they're all meant to
just set aside so they can be prepared for the final battle. What else
are they meant to do, though? What did they expect?

They all knew this was coming. They all knew war would reach into
the pools of kinship between countless people and gut the innards of
it like emptying out a pumpkin. So many seeds torn away and
crushed into nothing; seeds of friendship, seeds of romance, seeds of
family. All of them planted and ruined in various stages, left with
nothing but growing pains and, worse than that, the pain of absent
growth altogether.

War is cruel. It's cancerous. The end of the world is always tied to
war, isn't it? Maybe this is why; because war is so much more than

92
just war. It goes beyond bullets and blood and bodies. War comes in
like a flood, like a disease, and it claims anyone who comes in
contact with it. Even the living can't get free from it; they're as
claimed as the dead are. Once war touches them, they're branded to
their last breath. In this world, most people have been branded for a
lot longer than they stepped on their first battlefield.

What they don't know yet, and what they will learn, is that it's not
the first battlefield that ruins you.

It's the last.

They're either ruined through death in their last battle, or they live
long enough to go into the next, and what comes after the last? No
one knows, and they're not there yet, because they're here. They're all
right here, trapped in the aftermath of the first.

It's a heavy, grief-soaked aftermath for all. Not a victory. There is no

triumph. There's only the acknowledgement of those lost, and
perhaps that alone is invigorating enough for those left to continue
to fight. If not for themselves, then for those who no longer can. A
fight that doesn't stop just because people fall; a fight that continues
on in their honor.

Some people see it this way, and some people do not. Some are
angry, and some are scared, and some are so hurt that they can't see
the point of anything, let alone fighting. Some people give up. Some
people try harder. They all grieve, though, all of them—and, for all
the differences in the people who remain behind, one thing is the
same about those who are gone.

The world is a little more hollow without them in it.

93
 3
BEFORE THE WAR
______

In the aftermath of taking the districts, there's a little time for those
left to have something akin to rest. Take a breather. Sift through all
the rubble and aftermath of battle to collect the dead and mourn
them. Find the people who remain and hold them. Get a break before
the final battle.

For Lily, it goes like this:

"They're dead, aren't they?" Lily whispers, looking at Lyall, hands

shaking. "My family is dead, and it was my fault."

"No. No, Lily, that wasn't—" Lyall stops, then exhales heavily and
reaches out to grab her arms, gently squeezing them. "I'm sorry. Let
me start there. Believe me, I know those words hardly help, but they
are true nonetheless."

"Lyall," Lily says, "please just tell me."

"Three days after—after it was announced that you died while

attempting to flee..." Lyall swallows, his gaze so sad. "It was a public
execution. A spectacle. They made an example out of them." Lily
chokes out a harsh noise, reaching up to cover her mouth, tears
building and tears spilling. "I'm so sorry, Lily."

Lyall is right. The words hardly help. In fact, they don't at all.

The worst part is that Lily knew. She knew her parents and sister
were dead, and that they died because of her. She knew, and she has
known for six years.

Oh.

94
Oh, they've been dead for six years.

And she knew that. She knew. She knew, she knew, and she didn't
know, not really, not the way she knows now, for sure. She knew for
those six years, and what did she do with that? She grieved, and
clung to that grief, and refused to live past it. She became jaded, and
she encased herself in something hard and unforgiving,
impenetrable by anyone.

Then Remus returned. He returned and broke through, and she still
had all that grief, but with it, she found life. She found all the life she
had lived in the six years she spent doing her absolute best not to.
She found love in her and around her, and found the will to accept
more of it, no matter how terrifying it was. She found hope. She
dared to hope.

Lily managed to find hope, and let the fear in, and she never saw it
coming until it did, all at once, slowly. Six years of grief held so close,
then dispensed in the form of love. Lily doesn't even get six years of
hope before it's crushed.

It turns out some things can't be changed; her family is dead, and
though it may have for Remus, six years can never change that.
They're dead. They've been dead this whole time.

She has to feel it again, and it's worse the second time. Maybe it
shouldn't be, after so long of acceptance, but even the tiniest bit of
hope makes it hurt all that much more. And this—this is what Lily
was afraid of. This is what she fought never to feel, and she has to
feel it. She has to. She can't stop it.

For some reason, she leaves Lyall and goes to Kingsley. She isn't sure
why it's him, except—yes, she is.

"You were right," Lily chokes out, standing before him where he
waits as the only person who can grant her forgiveness, and there's
no hint of a forgiving light in his eyes. "My family is dead because of
me—my sister, my parents, all gone—and I think you were right.
You—you said I do love and care, but you also said—you said no

95
 Before The War

one would be at risk of dying if it wasn't for me, and you were right.
You were right."

Kingsley looks at her for a long moment, and he looks so tired. A

broken man still fighting, somehow. He breathes in, then he breathes
out. "Do you want me to say I was wrong? Is that why you came
here? Because that's what you want to hear?"

Yes, Lily thinks, desperately and selfishly, because she's human and
wants to be absolved. Wants relief. Wants the pressure to be lifted.
Wants forgiveness.

"No," Lily lies, her eyes stinging. "I just want—I want you to know
I'm sorry, Kingsley. I'm so fucking sorry."

And she knows those words don't help. She's known that for six
years.

She'll always know that, now.

And so will he.

"What happened to your family, that wasn't your fault, Lily. That was
never your fault," Kingsley says quietly.

Lily's breath punches out of her, and she makes a whining noise,
helpless in the back of her throat, shuffling towards him and
reaching for an embrace because they're both in so much pain, and
where else can they alleviate it if not with each other? Except
Kingsley steps back, and stays back, and swallows thickly as he
shakes his head.

"That wasn't your fault," Kingsley continues in a croak, "but Sybill—"

His voice cracks. His eyes sink shut. His face twists up. "She, um.
She—she would have never been a pilot, if not for you. And I
can't—I know, logically, that you—that you're not really responsible,
that you never wanted it to happen, and that you loved her, too. I
know that, but I can't—I can't just—"

"Kingsley," Lily says, her voice strangled.

96
"I'm sorry," Kingsley replies, gaze downcast, "but it's not water under
the bridge this time, Red."

"We'll never be okay again, will we?" Lily whispers, and she has her
answer the moment Kingsley lifts his gaze to hers. Something is lost,
between them. Their friendship went down when Sybill did. She
can't come back, and this won't either.

"No," Kingsley whispers back, "we won't."

He shuts the door, and Lily steps back again and again until she
bumps into the wall across from his room. She slides down it and sits
right there in the silent hallway until, finally, she buries her face in
her hands and cries.

Some time later, there's the sound of careful footsteps, and someone
sinks down beside her. A small arm comes around her shoulders,
and a smaller hand cups the side of her head, fumbling through
petting her hair.

"It's okay," Bingley whispers. "You can cry, Lily. Nothing to be

ashamed of, remember? It just means you care, right? See how much
you care? That's special. That's what the world needs."

Lily helplessly sobs out something only slightly resembling a laugh

into his shoulder, wishing more than anything that she wasn't crying
like this in front of him, but being unable to stop. He's
thirteen—almost fourteen now—and yet, sometimes, he's wise
beyond his years.

"Is that right?" Lily rasps, sniffling and scrubbing harshly at her face,
chest stuttering on a broken, pained inhale. Oh, how it hurts to
breathe around it, all this grief, fresh and aged alike.

"Yeah," Bingley murmurs with a nod, offering her a tiny, tentative

smile. "The world needs people who care as much as you. That's
what's going to save it."

Lily can't help it; her expression collapses, screwing up as she starts
crying again, harder, and she twists a little to bury her face in his
shoulder once more. He pats her head and strokes her hair,

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 Before The War

eventually humming the same tune under his breath that Mary does
when she's drawing.

Lily closes her eyes on her tears, and she listens. ~•~

For Dorcas, it goes like this:

"You know," Dorcas mumbles, "we talk a lot about the war ending,
but never what we'll do after."

"Maybe that's because a part of us never expected us to make it this

far," Marlene muses quietly.

"Maybe," Dorcas allows, "but we have."

"Only a bit more to go," Marlene murmurs, "and then what?"

Dorcas gazes down at Marlene's hand. It's the hand with the ring on
it, which Dorcas idly, lovingly fiddles with, spinning it around
Marlene's thumb. "What do you want to do?"

"Loaded question, Meadowes," Marlene says, blowing out a deep

breath. She clears her throat. "I— I don't know. I'm never not at war,
and that's just...my life. It's harder, I think, for me than anyone else.
Harder to be out of war than it is to be in it. I feel steadier in it, and I
remember those years after the arena, when I was a mentor, when I
wasn't supposed to be fighting anymore. I couldn't handle it. I didn't
know how the fuck to do it, so when this war is over, Dorcas, what
do I do

then?"

"No, I—I get it," Dorcas admits. "I made the war a priority for so
long, and then you, and it's always been about fighting for me, even
for you. I don't really know what we're supposed to do either, but it's
not impossible to figure out. Between us, we can figure it out, right?
Together."

Marlene's lips curl up. "Yeah, we can figure it out together."

98
"Aw, are you two canoodling?" Cordelia coos as she sweeps into the
room, pushing in through the cracked door with Maximus perched
on her hip. She moves over and sits him down, practically on

top of them. "Sorry to break it up, but you two are on babysitting
duty."

Maximus is fourteen months old—nearly fifteen—so he can walk,

but it's mostly a toddle and he prefers to crawl. He's a wriggly little
thing, and very vocal, but the closest he's come to saying his first
word is screeching Da! at Riker, just to proceed to spit up milk all
over him, much to Riker's dismay and Cordelia's amusement. He's
always shrieking with laughter, which he's doing right now as he
wriggles all over Marlene and Dorcas, whacking them with baby
fists.

"Cordie, you can't just dump your baby on us and leave!" Marlene
complains.

"Yes, you can, Cordie," Dorcas counters with a stifled laugh as she
tugs one of her braids from Maximus' very determined fist. He grins
up at her, and she grins back.

"Dorcas said anytime, Marls," Cordelia sing-songs, winking as she

backs up towards the door. "Riker and I have been flirting with the
girl next door for ages, and she finally picked up on it, so we're
taking the opportunity while we have it—you know, since the world
is ending and all that."

"Not the world, the war," Marlene grumbles. "Or it is soon."

"Close enough," Cordelia says.

"Have fun! I want all the details!" Dorcas calls after her.

"Babe, I'm going to memorize it start-to-finish just for you," Cordelia

calls back, cackling as she shuts the door.

Marlene huffs and drops her head back to the pillow. "I hate that you
two became best friends. Stop being best friends with my cousin. I

99
 Before The War

take it back; you don't need more than me, actually, especially not if
it's her."

"In the wise words of Cordelia—we're best friends now, no

take-backsies," Dorcas teases. "That bitch," Marlene mutters.

"Marlene's saying mean things about your mummy again, Maxie,"

Dorcas whispers to Maximus, booping his nose. "She does that all the
time, doesn't she? Mean, mean Marlene."

"Because your mummy is a bitch," Marlene informs Maximus, who

flops over to grin and reach for her face. Marlene grunts when he
knees her in the stomach, then pretends to eat his fingers when he
tries to stick them in her mouth.

Dorcas lays her head over on her pillow and watches Marlene with
Maximus, her face softening. Ridiculous as it is, nothing gives
Dorcas baby fever like seeing Marlene with him. It took time before
she was ever comfortable, and she only became so when he was
bigger and more durable, but she's still so careful with him. She's so
gentle like this, and doesn't even know it.

"Hey," Dorcas says softly.

"Hm?" Marlene asks distractedly, gaze warm as she scrunches her

nose at a beaming, giggling Maximus.

"I love you," Dorcas breathes out. "All of you, and more."

Marlene glances at her and lets Maximus wrap his tiny fingers
around her thumb, where the ring is, where that scar is. She smiles
and says, "Right back at you, Dorcas."

~•~

For Sirius, it goes like this:

"I'm still thinking Draco," Narcissa muses, and Sirius trades a look
with Regulus, then they both hastily look away so they won't laugh.

100
Hey, at least it's not Nymphadora, and it's not like they have room to
judge when it comes to odd names. "I really like that for the baby."

"Baby? What baby? Who's baby?" Alecto asks as she dumps herself
down at the table with a weary sigh, looking very, very tired.
Burgundy and Belfast are fighting over Dora the second they arrive.
"Gun, Bel, no hitting!"

"But Auntie! He's being stupid!" Burgundy shrieks. "Dora likes me

the most! Tell her, Auntie!" Belfast yells. "Does not!"

"Does too!"

"Does not!"

"Does too!"

"Does—"

"Enough!" Alecto bursts out, slamming her hand down to the table
and making Burgundy and Belfast shut up very quickly.
Nymphadora looks like she's having the time of her life, but Alecto?
Not so much. She breathes very, very carefully. "I know the concept
is hard to grasp in your puny, developing brains, but you two can
share Dora's company, and be her friend at the same time. Now, the
next time one of you hits each other, I'm going to break your fingers.
Got it?"

"Got it," Burgundy and Belfast mumble, hanging their heads, and
five minutes later they're peacefully sharing Dora.

Alecto cradles her head between both hands, eyes sinking shut as
she mutters, "I fucking hate kids."

"Weren't you ever close with them before?" Andromeda asks.

"Not really. I visited, of course, but I mostly just spent time with
Amycus and Xena. I showed up with toys and gifts to entertain the
children so they'd leave me alone," Alecto admits with a sigh, lifting
her head. "Anyway, what baby?"

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 Before The War

"My baby," Narcissa says. "I'm going to have a baby." "You—" Alecto
stares at her, stricken. "What? No. How?"

"Well, Lucius wanted a child," Narcissa explains. "We never had sex,
so I brushed him off by saying I'd only have his child through other
methods. This did not deter him, so he—well, basically he's my
sperm donor. I went and got it when I helped take district one. After
the last battle, if I survive, I'll—"

"No!" Alecto blurts out. "No, don't do this to me. Please, for the sake
of my sanity, don't have a baby."

"What does this have anything to do with you?" Narcissa asks.

Alecto groans and drops her head to the table, so Sirius helpfully
answers, "Cissa, come on, she's obviously in love with you."

"That," Alecto mutters, pointing weakly at Sirius.

"And she hates kids," Sirius adds.

"Also that," Alecto agrees.

Narcissa considers her for a long moment, then says, "Well, you're
very dear to me, you know this, but I want to be a mother, so either
move on or settle in."

"Can I just spoil it with gifts and you handle the rest?" "Well, I was
planning to handle it all anyway, so sure."

Alecto bangs her head against the table. "Never should have gotten
invested in a Black. I knew it. I said it to myself, and then I did it
anyway. Such a horrible family. I hate all of you."

"Yeah," Sirius says, grinning, "we get that a lot."

"Also," Narcissa adds, as if Alecto hasn't just confessed to being in

love with her, "I grabbed some things that belonged to Bella as well."
The mood instantly changes, and Regulus goes very still and makes

102
himself smaller, like he's shrinking in on himself. He tenses when
Narcissa looks at him. "I picked up her favorite dagger. I think you
should have it."

Regulus goes rapidly pale. "I—no, I—I couldn't—"

"I think she would want you to have it," Narcissa cuts in for
clarification. "I also think it'll do you some good to have a weapon
that reminds you what it costs to use it."

"Cissa," Sirius snaps, sitting up straight. It agitates him how

Andromeda and Narcissa treat Regulus sometimes, ever so slightly
different, harsher, colder, leaving him on the outside of things, as if
he doesn't even have a full place in the family. He has refrained from
getting into arguments with them, if not for Dora's sake, then
because Regulus asked him not to.

And look, Sirius gets it, okay? He does. Sort of. He understands that
Narcissa and Andromeda are showing commendable maturity in
every interaction with Regulus, because the fact that he killed their
sister hangs over them at all times—and it doesn't matter about their
personal issues with Bellatrix, because at the end of the day, she was
their sister. If it was Sirius, then Narcissa would be long dead if she
was the one responsible for Regulus' death, while the only reason
Andromeda would scrape by is because of Dora, and even then,
Sirius would hate her for the rest of his life.

Yes, he—he gets it, and Regulus gets it, and they both know that the
situation was fucked up, because Bellatrix tried to kill Sirius—and
nearly did—and it was the hunger games, so it's not as if it was a
simple thing to come to terms with. Andromeda and Narcissa have
handled it with poise, mostly, but they'll never treat Regulus the
same, and it makes Sirius angry, because he knows it's something
that Regulus is hurt by, even if he'll never admit it, not to anyone.

All Sirius can do—all Regulus will allow him to do—is be the one in
the family who accepts him, fully, and treats him warmly. So, that's
what Sirius does, and—when he can—he jumps to Regulus' defense
at the first sign of Narcissa or Andromeda being too hard on him. He
can't make them feel differently than they do, but he sure as shit can
train them to tread carefully in how they talk to and treat his brother.

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 Before The War

They're family, but Sirius will absolutely kick the shit out of them if
they're too mean to Regulus; no one can be too mean to Regulus but
him. That's just how it works.

But then there's Regulus, kicking him sharply under the table and
giving him a warning look before focusing on Narcissa again,
breathing in and out. He nods. "Alright. I'll take it."

"Good," Narcissa says, heaving a sigh. "Personally, I wouldn't give

you shit, but it's not about what I want; it's about what Bella would
have wanted—which, Sirius, that's why you won't be getting
anything."

Sirius snorts. "Yeah, okay, fair enough. I don't want anything that
cunt owned anyway." "Sirius!"

"What, Reggie? I'm just saying!"

"Well, maybe don't just say!"

"I can say what I like!" "You shouldn't."

"But I can."

"But you shouldn't." "But I can."

"But you shouldn't." "But I—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Alecto bursts out, slamming her way to her
feet, making her chair and the table clatter. Without a word, she
whirls around and marches away. Narcissa hides a smile behind

her hand as she goes, and Andromeda shakes her head in visible
amusement, looking over to check on the kids.

Sirius and Regulus share a glance. "But I can."

"But you shouldn't!"

104
This is how it goes for James:

~•~

"I'm really worried about him," Pandora whispers, her gaze locked
on Rodolphus across the room, fingers tangled together in her lap.
"Losing Rabastan... It's like..."

"Losing a touchstone," Regulus murmurs, and James can see the

tension that bleeds into the muscles of his back, knotting them all up.
He avoids Rodolphus in all manners, even looking at him, like losing
a brother is a disease he's terrified to catch. It's a horrible thing,
ostracizing someone out of fear that their grief could claim you next.

"A touchstone," Pandora repeats, lips tipping down.

"Losing a brother is losing a touchstone. How do we measure

ourselves without the very criteria it takes to recognize ourselves?"
Regulus says quietly. "When you lose a brother, you lose you."

He says it so simply, so bluntly, like he knows. James supposes, in a

lot of ways, he does.

"I don't know how to help him," Pandora croaks. "He helped me.
Every time I asked to train, he said yes. Should I—do you think I
should offer to train with him? Maybe take his mind off things? No,
that's stupid. There's a war on, and we're going for the Hallow next,
all of us. We need to rest

now, but he's—"

"Pandora," Regulus cuts in gently, "sometimes there's nothing that

can be done."

James doesn't agree with that. Doesn't like it, the way Rodolphus has
folded himself away from everyone, a wisp now, not alone yet so
lonely. He doesn't want to be acknowledged, and so no one
acknowledges him. James feels like that's wrong. Grief is meant to be
shared, he thinks.

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 Before The War

So, without warning, James grabs his cane and pushes to his feet. He
walks away and walks right over to the table that Rodolphus sits at,
pulling back a chair and sitting with him. He gets no
acknowledgement or reaction.

The thing is, so many people have lost those they love now. In the
battles to take the districts, there were many killed. A lot of casualties
of war, someone called it. A mere statistic in the making; someday,
people will look back on these battles and describe them in numbers
instead of names.

But, here and now, everyone is grieving. It hangs heavy and acrid in
the air, like the sweet rot of decay is seeping through the walls, like
ghosts follow around those who will always be haunted by them. It
chokes. It strangles. It suffocates.

And yet—people carry on, because they have to. Because what else is
there to do? They can't stop now. They can't give up now. They
haven't even reached the point where they can start healing and
rebuilding yet, so everyone is trapped in this frozen state of grief and
living, and living with grief.

So, people still laugh, and they still smile, and they still talk. They
provide help when and where they can. They keep busy and focus
on what's next. But—just the same—there's this, too. There's silence.
There's despair. There's this sense of drifting lonely in a hub of
people, a sea of so many beating hearts except for the ones that
stopped.

Rabastan's heart stopped, but Rodolphus' didn't. Rabastan's heart

did beat once, though, not that long ago. He was here. He was here,
and he was loved, and now he's gone, and he's still loved. Is that not
grief? Love that poisons itself without the beating heart it's aimed at
still here to cleanse it?

Grief is love, and love shouldn't be done alone.

"Tell me about him," James says. "If you want."

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"What?" Rodolphus croaks, lifting his gaze slowly. The blank, dead
look of his eyes makes James' stomach lurch. It's such a terrible thing
to see. Something everyone instinctively wants to shy away from,
not wanting to come in contact with it.

"Your brother, Rabastan," James murmurs. Rodolphus flinches, and

James remembers the way Rodolphus told him to look at Frank lying
on the ground, dead. James didn't want to, but he had to, because as
horrible as it is, not looking at it won't stop it from being there. "If
you want to tell me about him, Rodolphus, you can."

"You knew him," Rodolphus whispers.

"Not as you did," James replies. He puts his hand to his chest,
genuine, heartfelt. "Share him with me. I'll feel this with you, as
much as I can secondhand. You don't have to feel it alone."

And so, slowly, haltingly, Rodolphus begins to talk. It's stilted and
stiff, starts and stops, the first act of stories abandoned before the
last, when it seems to become too much for him. He remembers his
brother in bitten-off pieces, tiny facts he can share that don't send his
guts spilling out into his lap.

He says, at one point, "He was so stupid. Bas was so fucking stupid. I
don't know why he did that. Why he wouldn't—why he—why
couldn't he have been okay? Why did it have to be him? It's—it isn't
right. He's—he was younger. I was supposed to go first, not him. It's
so stupid, it's all so stupid."

James can hear how angry Rodolphus is, and he doesn't have the
words to help him, but he listens. He sits right there and listens, and
aches, and feels it with him.

Pandora arrives next, not too long after James. She's always the one
who puts in the effort, and it seems to disarm her that she's doesn't
know how to now, with him. She touches his shoulder, unsure, and
he looks at her without the smile he would always save just for her,
warm and flirty, despite the fact that she never quite seemed to pick
up on the latter. A small sound escapes him, quiet and hurt, and her
hand cups the side of his neck, then his cheek, and she pulls him into
her. She stands and he sits, and her arms wrap around his head like

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 Before The War

she's going to protect him, his face buried into her stomach. James
looks away, looks over to meet Regulus' eyes, staring and beckoning
with only his gaze until Regulus puts aside his reservations to come
over and join them,

too.

He isn't the last. Eventually, more and more people come. Pandora
ends up in the chair with Rodolphus, on him and curled around him,
letting him rest his head on her chest with his eyes closed, breathing
and breathing and breathing. Sirius shows up at some point, with
Dorcas and Marlene in tow. It isn't long before people come in by the
droves. Lily and Mary, Barty and Asher, and more and more and
more.

And they talk about Rabastan. They talk about Amos. They talk
about Sybill. It's a memorial in the only way they have, the living left
behind to celebrate and mourn the dead. It spreads all over from
table to table, so many gone to talk about and not enough words in
the world to explain how heavy the loss is.

It's the first time that Asher cries, finally, after all this time. Cries,
because Rabastan said they'd make it through life together, and die
together, and they didn't. And, after she cries, she laughs because
Rabastan told her before he went on the mission that, if he didn't
make it back, she'd just have to go through hell without him, because
one of them should get to see what waits on the other side. So, she
will keep going, just to see. Just to see. Isn't that life, in spite of grief?

And what is grief?

Grief is many things. What it feels like to James, even now, is the
cold nights of his first arena, bodies huddled together for warmth
and the touch of humanity in a place where humanity is so hard to
find. They search for it together, and they share it however they can,
and they feel it for each other and with each other. It's not hope, not
really, but it's intimate. There's a lot of intimacy in grief, just as there
is in love.

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They do not talk about the war, because there is no space for the war
here, when it has taken so much already. They do not talk about
winning the war. There's no winning a war; there's only starting it,
enduring it, and ending it.

Before the end, they endure, and they endure, and they endure. ~•~

For Remus, it goes like this:

"So, wait, they told everyone that Lily died?" Remus asks, feeling
sick. "And that I killed all the Aurors?"

Lyall nods. "Suppose they didn't want to explain that she managed
to get away. And, well, it's not like they knew where she went, did
they? Easier to blame it all on you and say she died to make sure no
one else got the bright idea to run."

"That's fucking awful," Remus whispers.

"It was, yeah. Messed that boy up, too. That one that was dating
Petunia at the time. You remember?"

"Dursley, wasn't it?"

"That's the one. He went off the become a mayor for her honor or
something, going on about making sure no one did anything like
Lily did that ended with Petunia dead. It went to his head, of course.
Never liked me much, honestly, and the feeling was mutual," Lyall
mutters. "He brought you up to me a lot, nearly every time we
spoke; it was always about how my son murdered all those Aurors,
and I was one once..."

"Dad, I swear I only killed Greyback," Remus blurts out, his eyes
wide. He pauses. "Um...at the time. Listen—"

"Remus," Lyall cuts in, sighing, "I'm not—look, I've had six years to
do a lot of thinking about...a lot of things, and to be honest with you,
I don't care. I just—don't care what you did, or didn't do; what
you've done, or what you will do. You're my son. That's what
matters to me. Nothing else."

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 Before The War

Remus exhales and pushes to his feet. "Okay, good, because I

honestly had no idea how I was going to defend myself."

Lyall chuckles, and Remus gives him a lopsided smile, feeling

ridiculously warm. He's—yes, okay, he knows that everything is
really shit at the moment for a lot of people, but oh, he's so fucking
pleased that his dad is here. He's been with him every single second
since they got back, save for half an hour he spent babbling to Sirius
about why he's not with everyone else, to which Sirius blinked a lot,
nodded rapidly, and laughed a little breathlessly as he pushed
Remus to go be with his dad and promised that he'd be along at
some point.

"To the people who love you, there are some things you don't have to
defend yourself about at all," Lyall murmurs. "Listen, I know we
haven't really gotten to talk about everything, but there's something I
think we should discuss."

"I don't like to talk about being a servant," Remus announces

immediately, his shoulders going tense. "It was—I mean, I do talk
about it, in general, like with Lily and Sirius, but... Dad, I don't like
to linger on it and keep rehashing it over and over, and I don't—" He
swallows harshly. "I don't want you to look at me and that be all you
see."

"Remus—"

"No, I know, okay? I know I'm your son, and I—I know that all you
said was true, but it's still... I've had to...learn things, and unlearn
things, and relearn things—and I just—that's all I can give you. I'm
sorry, but I—"

"Remus, stop," Lyall says quietly, reaching out to catch his wrist
where he's throwing his arms around in the middle of a worked-up
tirade. "You don't have to tell me what you aren't comfortable
sharing, and I—I don't need to know anything other than what you
want me to know. I—I know—I do know that you've been through
the unimaginable, and you can't possibly know what I would give to

110
take all the pain and suffering you've felt so you didn't have to. I
would, if I could."

"I wouldn't let you," Remus mumbles.

"And I would try to take it anyway," Lyall replies, "because you are
my son, and this is what it is to be a parent. Another, much harder
part of being a parent is realizing that, no matter how much we
might wish to, there are some things we can't shield our children
from. I—struggled with that for a long time, and I only succeeded in
pushing you away. For that, I'm sorry."

"Dad—"

"We fought that day."

Remus closes his eyes. "Dad, stop it. Don't do that. It's not your fault.
It was never your fault. I was always going to do what I did; it was
my choice to make, and I made it."

"I know," Lyall says. Remus opens his eyes. Lyall looks weary, and
sad. "I know that now. For a

long time, I didn't. I thought a lot about how I could have done it all
differently. If maybe I had helped you, instead of trying to stop you.
Supported you, instead of trying to smother you. It took me time to
realize that you were just—growing up. Making your own decisions.
Setting the course of your life. I could no more control that than I
could stop wanting to, just to keep you safe."

"No matter what you did," Remus whispers, "I was always going to
end up there, Dad. No matter how you handled it, my mind was
made up. There was nothing you could have done, but I know now
that you tried. You really tried."

"I couldn't have tried harder," Lyall croaks, "but I could have done
better. I'll do better now. I promise."

"You know how you can do your very best?" Remus asks. Lyall
pauses, then raises his eyebrows. "How?"

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 Before The War

"Stay here," Remus says softly, holding his gaze. "When the final
battle happens, don't go. Stay here, and wait for me to get back,
because I need you here. I just got you back, and I need to know I'm
not losing you again. So, stay here, Dad. Please."

"You'll be there."

"I know. I'm asking you to let me go, and let me come back."

"Well..." Lyall stares at him for a long moment, swallowing thickly,

and then he exhales and nods so very stiffly, like it's killing him to do
it. Remus feels something in his chest unclench all at once in sheer
relief. "Yes, alright. I'm not entirely sure my hip would really let me
be much help anyway, and if I help you more by being here, then I'll
be here."

"Thank you," Remus breathes out.

Lyall opens his mouth like he's about to respond, but then a knock at
the door gathers their attention. Remus tugs his wrist from Lyall's
grip, frowning as he heads to the door. Lyall has only been settled in
his new room for a bit, so who's—

"Hi," Sirius greets warmly when the door opens. His eyes are
sparkling. Pretty, pretty, pretty. Remus nearly melts. "Hi."

"Is that boy of yours at the door?" Lyall calls out, and Remus grins
the moment Sirius looks delighted and flustered by this title, his face
turning red.

"Yeah, Dad, it's him," Remus replies. Sirius bites his lip. "Is this a bad
time?"

"Well, don't stand around, Remus. Let him in," Lyall says, clicking his
tongue. "Been worried about him."

Me? Sirius mouths, looking mildly alarmed, and Remus chuckles as

he reaches out to grab Sirius' arm and tug him inside. Sirius smiles at
Lyall. "Hello, Mr—um. Sorry, Lyall."

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"Nice to see you again, Sirius," Lyall greets, amused. "You seem well,
all things considered. Are you well?"

"Well enough," Sirius says, "all things considered."

Lyall's lips twitch. "That's fair."

"You look well, too, sir," Sirius adds. "I'm glad you're not dead."
Remus snorts the moment Sirius looks horrified by the words that
just tumbled out of his mouth. "Sh—oot, sorry. I mean, it's true, but
that's—there wasn't very much tact in how I said it, was there?
Just—I'm glad you're okay. That's what—"

"Remus," Lyall cuts in, "are you sure you found him in the Hallow?
Absolutely sure?" "Actually," Remus corrects fondly, "he found me."

"Respectfully," Sirius says. "In a very respectful manner. I treat

Remus with the utmost respect."

"This isn't true," Remus lies, and Sirius chokes, his head whipping
towards him in disbelief. "Dad, he uses me for sexual favors and tells
me he owns me."

"I do not!" Sirius bursts out, eyes bulging. "I have never—" "He
makes me do his laundry—"

"Remus!"

"I even cook for him—"

"You're literally a cook here! You cook for everyone."

Remus keeps his face perfectly neutral when he adds, "And he won't
let me break up with him

either."

"That was you!" Sirius yelps, his head swiveling to look at Lyall,
whose shoulders are shaking. "Sir, he's—oh. You're laughing.
You're—" He stops, then flicks his gaze between Remus and Lyall,

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 Before The War

and Remus finally breaks out into a grin. Sirius huffs. "Oh, for f—ah,
that wasn't funny!"

"That," Lyall wheezes, "was hilarious."

"Why are you the way you are?" Sirius grumbles at Remus. "You see
how he talks to me, Dad?"

"I see. It's despicable."

"Truly," Remus agrees.

Sirius rolls his eyes. "If you two are finished messing with me, I was
going to say Effie and Monty were hoping to meet you, Lyall.
They're my parents." He pauses, then coughs. "Well, adopted. I
adopted them, really, or they adopted me, or we all just adopted each
other. Whatever, it all works. The point is, my actual parents are
dead."

"Oh," Lyall says, and then, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Trust me, there's no need to be," Sirius assures him,
waving a hand. "Anyway, if you're not feeling up to it—"

"No, I'd be happy to," Lyall says quickly, pushing to his feet.

"Okay, good, because they're waiting at the end of the hall," Sirius
replies sheepishly, leading them out of the room.

It takes Lyall all of five minutes with Effie and Monty to settle in and
essentially wave Remus off, insisting he's fine, and Remus can go
relax. Remus is admittedly a little huffy about this, but doesn't want
to show it, so he hides his frown and leads Sirius to their room, tired
down to his bones.

As Sirius follows him in, he asks, "Okay, my love?"

Remus grunts as he falls into bed after a long, long fucking day. A
hard day. They're all having a lot of hard days these days. All he

114
wants, now, is to curl up with Sirius and toss the whole damn day
away. Be done with it.

"I'll take that as a no," Sirius mumbles, then huffs out a weak laugh
when Remus turns over and lays all over him. Sirius' fingers slide
into his hair. "Yeah, okay. Fair enough."

"I'm not moving," Remus says. "Ever."

Sirius hums. "Fine by me." He scratches at Remus' scalp, which

would honestly make Remus purr

if he was a cat. "You're thinking about your dad, aren't you?"

"A bit, maybe," Remus admits. "I think Effie and Monty adopted
him, too. Haven't seen him in six years, and he waves me off the
second he makes new friends."

"Oh, you poor thing," Sirius coos, clucking his tongue. He fakes a
pout when Remus lifts his head to glare at him. "Are you feeling left
out? Snubbed, perhaps?"

"You know what?" "No, what?"

Remus huffs. "Bite me."

"Of course," Sirius replies, then promptly does just that, dipping his
head to clamp down on the side of Remus' arm so hard that Remus
yelps and pats frantically at the side of his head. Sirius lets go, licks
the indentation of his teeth, then looks up with a grin. "What? You
told me to. You know I do whatever you say, Remus, don't look so
shocked."

"Oh, yes, this one is on me," Remus says flatly. Sirius coos at him
some more and grabs the sides of his face to pull him in, smacking a
kiss to his forehead, then tilting Remus' head up to nip playfully at
his chin. Remus rolls his eyes and lets him do it, then frowns up at
the ceiling. "He's just so—agreeable now. I asked him to stay behind
for the final battle, to stay here, told him I needed him here—and he
just...said okay. Just went with it. Whatever I need, he said."

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 Before The War

"Mhm." Sirius nibbles along his jaw, humming to show that he's
paying attention. Remus frowns harder. "And Lily—I mean, what
happened to her family—" "Sad," Sirius murmurs against his skin.

"Yeah," Remus agrees, sighing. "In a way, her parents were basically
like a second set for me, and —well, okay, Petunia was a piece of
work most of the time, but she was Lily's sister, you know? I grew up
with them. It's just—fucked up. And it's hard, because I—I got
everything back, pretty

much. But Lily? I'm the only one who returned to her. Just me."

Sirius makes another noise and drags his teeth along the line of
Remus' throat, not quite biting down, just—there.

"I told Dad I only killed Greyback, and he said flat-out that he didn't
care either way. That it didn't matter. That I'm his son, and that's all
that matters to him."

"Why do you sound agitated about it?" Sirius mutters, then lifts his
head to catch Remus' earlobe between his teeth.

"Because—I don't know. I just—I guess my dad has always been,

like, the epitome of judgement for me? My own personal judge; he
was always weighing my actions and deeming them inappropriate
or unacceptable, and now..." Remus sighs, his eyes fluttering shut.
"I—I don't know if—if he's—"

"You don't feel that he's judging you properly enough, or harshly
enough," Sirius surmises, pulling his mouth away long enough to
speak, then going right back to Remus' skin.

"Yeah," Remus mumbles. "Maybe? I just—I think I sort of put all the
weight of what I've done aside until he could set it down on me, and
now he isn't. Shouldn't I—feel it?"

"Be forced to, you mean? Because no one could make you feel as bad
about yourself and the things you've done as your dad, so you
believe he should make you feel that way again? Like you can only

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feel it through a conduit of your father's disapproval. Like a
punishment."

"I—I don't know. Maybe? I guess?"

Sirius says, "Personally, I don't think you should feel anything but
good at all times, but if you need to feel something bad, I can handle
that," and then he ducks his head and buries his teeth into Remus'
throat, making him hiss.

"Sirius!" Remus bursts out. He tangles his fingers into Sirius' hair and
yanks fretfully, groaning in disbelief when Sirius detaches and lifts
his head to arch an eyebrow at him. "What the fuck? That actually
hurt."

"Yes, exactly. See how stupid and pointless it is to seek pain through
those who have no desire to give it to you? Didn't you teach me that,
Remus?"

"Well, I got my point across a lot more gently!"

"And I got my point across a lot more effectively," Sirius informs him
smugly. "Stop frowning at

me. You're pouting and grumpy and not paying attention to me."

Remus gapes at him. "I'm trying to have a conversation! I'm coming

to you with my problems—"

"Except they're only problems you've made up in your head, and I

won't stand for them to make you unhappy." Sirius pokes at the bite
mark he left behind. "Your dad loves you, Remus. He loves you so
much, and he wants to know how you've been. It's not like you'll tell
him all the details, so that's why he's talking to Effie and Monty,
because they're parents, too. They know what it is to worry about
children. They're, you know, actually good parents. They're the good
parents club. I think it's sweet."

"Right, but—"

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 Before The War

"And he's staying because you asked him to, because it is what you
need. You only just got him back. He's letting you go, and he's letting
you have something to come back to. That's important, Remus. It's so
important."

"I know, I just—"

"And he's not judging you, because you do not need to be judged, or
punished. Haven't you suffered enough? Remus, it would take years
of indescribable acts of violence for you to ever balance the scales
between what you've done versus what you've been through. You
have more than paid whatever dues you believe you deserve to, and
you never deserved to. Besides, this is war. You're not the only one in
it, remember?"

"Yes, okay, I get that," Remus grumbles, deflating with a heavy sigh.
"I know everything you're saying is true, but I just thought—I really
thought it'd be different."

"I know," Sirius murmurs. "We all struggle with change, Remus. We
all have to adjust. It's rarely easy to do so."

"I'm supposed to be the sensible one," Remus says, eyeing him and
fighting the curl at the corners of his mouth.

Sirius seems to notice it anyway, if the way his eyes soften are
anything to go by. "It's okay, don't fret, I'm only sensible when you
need me to be."

"Hm." Remus reaches up to touch the side of his neck where the ache
has dulled to a low, almost pleasant throb. "This wasn't very sensible,
though. What's that all about?"

"I want to eat you sometimes," Sirius announces casually. "Consume

me whole?"

"Every bit of you, by the mouthful, bones and all." Remus snorts.
"Freak."

"Your fault," Sirius says, his gaze warm.

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"Come here," Remus replies quietly, tugging Sirius closer until
Remus can sprawl out all over him again. He sighs as Sirius begins
carding his fingers through his hair, eyes drifting shut as he listens to
Sirius' heart thump-da-thump. "How are we supposed to go to war
tomorrow?"

"Like we've been doing this whole time," Sirius tells him. "We just
go."

"It would have been a lot easier for me to do at twenty," Remus

admits. "There are a lot of reasons not to, now."

Sirius is silent for a beat, and then he murmurs, "But aren't those
reasons the same reasons to go? It's like a trap—the very people we
don't want to risk leaving or losing are the very people we fight

for and with. What else can we do?"

"We could run away, like you suggested," Remus mumbles.

"No, we can't," Sirius says softly.

"We're not really free, are we?" Remus whispers.

"Not yet," Sirius whispers back, pressing his face into Remus' hair.
"Soon. Really soon."

Remus lifts his head slowly, then cranes up to meet Sirius' mouth
with his own, pushing up on his elbows to deepen it. Sirius hums,
then bites his lip, then pulls away the moment Remus gets his legs
under him, on either side of Sirius, and looms over him, looking
down upon him.

"We have to live to see our everything," Remus declares firmly,

holding his gaze. "We've made do with our something for long
enough, haven't we? I want everything now."

"I told you I'd live for you," Sirius says, hands coming up to cup his
face. So tender. So much love there, in the cradle of his palms. "I will.
I'll give you everything, Remus. We'll have it."

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 Before The War

"Soon," Remus agrees. "Really soon."

When Remus dips in to kiss him, Sirius arches up to meet him

halfway, and it's good practice for the everything they're going to
war to fight for. Soon, they'll have it.

Really soon.

For Regulus, it goes like this:

~•~

"Are you mad at me?"

Regulus doesn't like that his voice comes out small, on the verge of
breaking, but he also can't help it. There might not be anything he
hates more than James being mad at him. In fact, Regulus hates that
more than he hates rain.

James blinks at him. "What? Why would I be mad at you?"

"Because of Rodolphus. Earlier. When I was—" Regulus swallows

and looks away. "I know I came across as callous. It wasn't—I was
being cruel."

It hurts, is the thing. Rabastan was a friend, and Regulus remembers

refusing to get attached to him in the arena, knowing how much it
hurts to lose someone through having already lost Evan. In the end,
Regulus came to care for Rabastan anyway, and a part of him is glad
that he did, because he's grateful to have known him. It just fucking
aches to know that he died anyway, and Rodolphus— oh, that's
something that tears Regulus up inside, just how hurt Rodolphus is,
how different he is now, because he lost a brother. Regulus is scared
of that, scared to brush up against it and feel it himself; being near
Rodolphus makes Regulus want to knock Sirius out and hide him
away somewhere safe until the war is over, because he can't—he
can't go through that. Can't go through losing his brother.

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He's glad, though, that he did get over himself and be there with
Rodolphus earlier. He just wishes he had done it sooner. Feels sick
with guilt that he didn't.

"It's a difficult topic to engage with for you. Losing a brother. I'm not
angry with you for the things you struggle with, Reg, you know
that," James murmurs, eyebrows furrowed.

Regulus frowns at him. Frowns some more. Keeps frowning. It

makes James' face soften. The fool finds it endearing when he
frowns, but he finds nearly everything Regulus does endearing. It
gives Regulus heart flutters, even after all this time.

"Are you pouting?" James asks, amused.

"No," says Regulus, who is pouting. James raises his eyebrows at

him, eyes bright behind his glasses, dancing with fondness and
humor. "I'm really not. It's just—I mean, you went right to him.
You—you made a lot of people feel good tonight for the first time in
a really long time, James. And I was—I'm the one who was standing
in the way of that. Or trying to."

"Reg—"

"And that was my instinct. Do you get what I'm saying? My instinct
isn't to take care of others. It's

self-preservation and taking care of mine, except I'm shit at that, too."

James purses his lips. "I'd say you're a lot better at it than you give
yourself credit for, love. And, if you remember, you didn't stand in
the way of it. The thing about comfort is—it's not always easy to
give, or take. When it came down to it, you didn't stand in the way;
you joined in. That's what matters."

"But it wasn't my first instinct," Regulus insists, a lump forming in

his throat, "and I—I don't think it ever will be."

"It doesn't have to be your first," James replies. "If it's that important
to you to be comforting, all that should matter is that you take

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 Before The War

chances to be, instead of turning them away. Do you honestly believe

my first instinct is always to comfort?"

"You're always comforting to me," Regulus mumbles.

"And you're always comforting to me," James responds, his face

splitting into a smile. "We're in love. I'm pretty sure that's how it's
supposed to work."

Regulus squints at him, not entirely sure if he believes that James

always finds him comforting— there's absolutely no fucking way,
but the mere thought makes him feel entirely too happy to describe.
So, naturally, he treats it with suspicion. James huffs a laugh and
holds out his hand, beckoning Regulus to come closer with a gentle
curl of his fingers.

Regulus goes, obviously.

"Talk to me," James murmurs, taking Regulus' hand and threading

their fingers together, interlinking them. He rocks against him and
rests his chin there on Regulus' shoulder, gazing at him under his
eyelashes. He's so heartbreakingly pretty that Regulus falls into the
old habit of hating him.

"I just want to be good at it, you know?" Regulus whispers. He rocks
his forehead against James, inhaling deep, his free hand creeping up
James' arm. It fits against the back of James' neck, holding him there.
"I want to get it right at least once."

"Reg, you get it right as much as you don't. You're getting it right,
right now." James leans in and bumps their noses together. "Look at
you, love. You're a natural."

"Yeah?" Regulus breathes out, tipping his head to feel James' cheek
under his lips, James' hair against his hand, James' fingers tangled
with his own. "I really comfort you?"

"It's like—" James exhales, quietly, then shifts on the bed to scoot
closer to him. His throat sticks when he swallows. "Do you
remember the night before our first arena?"

122
"I remember," Regulus admits.

James cups the side of Regulus' neck with his free hand, and they're
just leaning their heads together, talking softly as if trading secrets.
Maybe they are. "You said then that I might have died after that
night—could have the very next day—and yet, I wasn't scared. I
should have been scared. I was before, even when Sirius was with
me, but with you—"

"With me?" Regulus prompts.

"With you," James whispers, "it's like nothing else exists. Just you,
just us, and that's all there is. And, when it's just you and just us,
there's nothing to be afraid of. You want to take care of me, but the
thing is, you already do. You have for a long time."

"I try my best," Regulus admits, because he does. Slowly, every day,
his best gets just a little better, and it comes to him just a little easier.

"I know you do." James catches his face in his hands and kisses one
corner of his mouth. "Ah, I'm —just in general, I'm overestimated,
and it—it raises these standards that I feel compelled to meet. You're
the opposite, in a lot of ways."

"Are you saying I...underestimate you?"

"Probably, in some ways, but it's—I don't think it's a bad thing, how
you do it. More like... Well, I'm a bigger man, and usually more
cheerful than most, but you still look at me like I'm something that
needs to be protected."

Regulus huffs and mutters, "You are. Just on principle."

"Because you don't like me to be in pain, and you care about me with
every lovely little beat of your heart. How dare you think you're not
good at it? Regulus, there's no one better."

"Oh, don't say that." "Why shouldn't I?"

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 Before The War

"Because I love you, and when you say things like that, it makes the
little beats of my heart skip. I value being alive these days, you
know. Stop trying to kill me, please."

When James laughs, it is warm and lovely against Regulus' skin. "I
knew I'd wear you down someday. Look at you, I'll make a romantic
out of you yet. It doesn't get more romantic than a skipping heart."

"Wait until you hear what it does when you smile."

"What's that?"

"It flutters," Regulus admits.

"Ooh, it flutters," James repeats, sounding downright giddy, utterly

delighted. He rears back, beaming at him, smiling. And there it is;
flutter, flutter, flutter.

Regulus releases a weak laugh. "Fucking hell, how stupid is that?"

"How long has it been fluttering?" James asks.

"Started when we met," Regulus says. "Hasn't stopped since."

James grins and rocks forward with something resembling a silly

little giggle. "See? What did I say? Some things can't be taken away
from us. They could fix my eyesight, but I'll always need my glasses.
They could try to rip your heart out, and yet there it is, still fluttering
just for me."

"Oh, don't go getting a big head now."

"I can't help it. You've just inflated it massively."

Regulus groans out a helpless laugh. "If I didn't love you, I swear I
would hate you. Even when I fucking hate you, I love you. It
honestly makes me sick."

"Lovesick." "Oh, fuck off."

James presses a grin against his jaw, kissing him there, then kisses a
path all the way to Regulus' mouth. It's easy to fall into it, and to fall

124
altogether when James tugs him down. They stay wrapped up
together until James jolts and pulls away.

"Er," James says, blinking rapidly, his glasses lopsided.

"What?" Regulus huffs, digging his face into James throat like a
particularly pissed off cat demanding affection, and when James
doesn't give it to him fast enough, meaning instantly, he digs his
nails into the back of James' neck in reprimand, needy and wanting
and terribly fussy about it. "James—"

"There's something—" James tugs on the side of his shirt over his
hip, pulling it up, and then: "Oh."

Regulus blinks and looks down. "Oh, yeah, that. Narcissa gave it to
me earlier. It was Bella's

favorite dagger. Sorry, let me just get that out of the way." He reaches
down to swiftly slip it out of his waistband, craning to gingerly sit it
down on the dresser before focusing back on James. "Anyway,
let's—"

"We're not supposed to have weapons," James says faintly, his gaze
latched onto the dagger with unwavering focus.

"I know, but Narcissa snuck it in. No one knows I have it, and they
won't know, because they'll confiscate it—or try. They won't get very
far; I'll kill anyone who makes the attempt."

"Regulus."

"What?" Regulus mutters, scowling. "Look, I know that seems

extreme, but it's important, alright? I'm always going to have it on
me as a reminder, and because—honestly, as strange as it may be,
that's a comfort to me." He pauses. "Well, not in bed, obviously. You
don't have to worry about that."

James coughs. "Oh. Right. That's...great."

125
 Before The War

"Were you worried?" Regulus asks, frowning now, admittedly stung

by the thought. "James, I'd never hurt you, especially not with a
damn dagger."

"Never?" James asks weakly.

Regulus cards his fingers through his hair, trying to get his gaze to
fall away from the dagger. "Never. I promise."

James bites his lip. "Not even if—"

"Never," Regulus cuts in, grabbing his jaw and forcing him to look at
him, wanting to reassure him. "Never, James, not for any reason."

"Oh," James mumbles, wilting a little bit with what Regulus imagines
is relief. "Um, yay for me, I...guess."

Clearly, the surprise dagger has ruined the mood, because James
seems oddly down now, so Regulus sighs and reaches out to cut off
the lamp, bathing the room in darkness. He turns over and fumbles
to find James in the shadows, drawing him close and wrapping both
arms around him.

"Go to sleep, James," Regulus says softly. "We need to rest. We have a
long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Hey, Reg?" "Yes?"

"No matter what comes tomorrow, I want you to know I love you,"
James whispers. "Before all of it, and when we make it through, and
when all of it's over—I love you."

Regulus closes his eyes. "I love you, too."

126
 4
PRISONERS OF WAR
______

Once all the districts are taken, it's time to take the Hallow.

If you ask Aberforth, it's going to be a bloodbath.

Thanks to Sirius, Regulus, and James—and a good portion of the

credit goes to Minerva as well, for the shift she made in the Hallows
as head gamemaker—there's a significant amount of Hallows who
are rioting already. Albus will have all his surviving numbers, as
well as all volunteers from the districts that are willing to go, and at
least a fraction to the Hallows themselves fighting on the behalf of a
promised better world. It will be a long, hard push to reach Riddle,
and once he falls—if he falls—the war will come to a halt.

None of this changes the fact that a lot of people are going to die
over the course of all this. Children, parents, families. Aurors, Order
members, and those caught in between. How can a near guaranteed
win be called a win at all, when so much loss is what it takes to get
there?

So many people have died already.

And Albus—foolish Albus, in all his hubris—has the audacity to

look Aberforth in the eye and ask him not to go.

Don't go, Albus said. Two words, spoken softly, aged with pain. It's
an echo of a time long ago, when Aberforth casted aside the
shattered remains of his pride to say it first. To look his brother in the
eye and beg him. Don't go. Please don't go. Don't do this. Don't leave
me.

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 Prisoners of War

Aberforth has felt his pride crumble to pieces at Albus' feet one too
many times in his life, and he won't allow it to happen again, not this
time. Aberforth has lost, and lost, and lost. So has Albus. At times,
more so than the brotherhood between them they tore apart with
their own hands, loss seems to be the only thing they share. A little
sister lost. A brother lost. Home and safety and a life free from
war—lost, lost, lost.

Albus has lost so much, even more than Aberforth, and Aberforth
has no sympathy for him. None. All sympathy has been smothered
out of him year after year when he only had a tree to call family,
when all he had to be attached to was a place he called home, when
everything he had to make it home was gone, and he still couldn't
bear to leave it, because living with ghosts was still better than living
alone.

How dare Albus stand here in his steel box beneath the dirt, his iron
throne he made his own, and look over all the carnage he wrought
with no stakes in it for him to understand the cost of his own
choices? No, Aberforth won't allow it. Albus has lost so very much,
but Aberforth is still here, still his brother, and it's Albus' choice to
wage war—all choices have consequences, he said. Yes, well, he
should face them, too.

What happened to Ariana, that's on Albus.

They blew her up. An explosion, one that left her nothing but
charred remains, and in more than a few pieces. They send home
tributes they can, for funerals and such. When they sent Ariana
home, she came in ashes. She was fourteen. Albus and Aberforth
planted her with a tree, so she could be healthy and grow, like she
never got the chance to in life.

If Aberforth is honest, some part of him craves it. Dying, as his little
sister did. Not because he wants to be dead, but simply to teach
Albus a lesson he never quite learned. Or to make him feel the full
brunt of his own choices; the only stakes Albus has in this war now
are winning it, and

128
Aberforth. Some part of Aberforth doesn't want Albus to have both.

"I will go," Aberforth says.

Albus' eyes sink shut. "Aberforth, please."

"You can stay here, Albus. Stay here and stand above it all. Watching
from on high. An eagle's eye view." Aberforth grunts and shakes his
head. "Or a phoenix, I should say."

"You are—old," Albus states, eyes fluttering open.

"Yes, but war doesn't discriminate between elderly and youth,"

Aberforth informs him, holding his gaze.

"Riddle knows you're alive. You are surely a target; if he doesn't kill
you, he'll use you to get to me," Albus says, his voice tight with
strain.

"He can try," Aberforth retorts, "but what good would that do? You
and I both know the war is more important to you."

Albus stares at him for a moment, then looks away all at once. Over
fifty years, and it still hurts. It still stings. Albus chose the war over
Aberforth long ago, and he will always do so.

"Aberforth," Albus croaks.

"I'm going," Aberforth cuts in sharply, allowing no argument.

"You are not the young man you used to be. Neither of us are. If
you—" Albus' voice cracks. "Abby, if you go, you may die."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Aberforth shrugs and stands up on creaky

knees. "Either way, I'm going. I'll be out there, and you think about
that, Albus, when thinking of all those lost to your war. If you won't
put value on these lives, I'll make you."

129
 Prisoners of War

"You seek to punish me," Albus says softly. "Someone has to,"
Aberforth replies sharply.

"I've already lost one sibling," Albus whispers, eyes shiny with the
tears that fill them. "Wasn't that punishment enough?"

Aberforth turns and heads for the door. As he goes, right before he
leaves, he says, "Apparently not, because here you are again, making
choices that might cost you another one."

Aberforth slams the door on his way out.

~•~

Severus stares at the Hallow map on Riddle's desk, gaze locked on

the middle of it. Riddle's castle. It always has been the heart of the
Hallow—a cold, cavernous heart shriveled and black, rotting right in
the center. How fitting.

"They're in?" Riddle asks, standing at his window, staring out across
the grounds. He has a gun on his hip. Always does these days, even
when Severus is in the room with him. He has all those he's taken in
his castle equipped with guns now; all the government officials that
have always licked his boots, even, and the Aurors he has stationed
all over the castle.

"They breached from the monitored entrance twenty minutes ago,

and from district one in the last ten," Severus murmurs.

Riddle hums. "How long until they reach the traps?"

Severus glances at the map, staring at the red X's in the streets that
surround the castle in all four corners. All of them indicate traps
engineered usually with the games in mind, meaning they're
controlled by the same building where the games have been
controlled for years.

130
Whatever armies go there, they'll be hard-pressed to survive. It's just
the hunger games unleashed in Hallow streets, except the goal is to
have no Victor.

"If they keep pushing in as they are, I'd say an hour at most, sir,"
Severus says. That's something he wasn't quite expecting; the final
battle is going so fast.

"That soon?" Riddle replies.

"The Aurors are overwhelmed," Severus admits. "Sir, we're severely

outnumbered, and the death toll—"

"Very well," Riddle cuts in. "Have all Aurors retreat to the castle and
hold the perimeter as soon as the opposition reaches the range of the
traps. They can wait at the castle's perimeter once they've fallen
back, but they're not to return before the opposition makes it within
range; I want the Aurors to hold the line as long as possible and kill
all that they can."

"Yes, sir."

"As for you, select a few teams to go out and get those I want and
have them brought here."

Ah, not good. This was not something Severus anticipated, nor
something planned for, and he has no way to get in contact with
Albus about it. Still, he just nods. "And the rest?"

Riddle raises his glass of wine, taking a slow sip as he gazes out the
window, the reflection of his expression in the glass chillingly empty.
"As long as those traps are up and running, no one will live to make
it through. Let them come."

"Yes, sir," Severus says quietly, gaze briefly dropping down to the
map again, staring at the center. The most treacherous place to reach;
a heart impenetrable from the outside.

And yet, and yet, here they come.

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 Prisoners of War

~•~

The thing about battles is that they're disorganized; what you

think—or even hope—will happen most likely won't. You can plan
and have a set route, but plans will get derailed and you'll find
yourself going off course with no way back.

There's a lot of death, blood, and pain here. Trauma in the making.
Very easy to get lost in. Very easy to get lost, period.

They all say—of course they all say they'll stay together, and then,
inevitably, they lose sight of each other. They split up, a haze of
mayhem trapping them all and making it impossible to stay within
reach. There's war all around, and it's difficult to keep up with, too
much chaos to keep your footing in.

Somehow, within the first hour, Regulus loses Sirius. He's there one
second, moving fluidly with the ease of someone right at home, and
the next time Regulus looks up, he's gone. Nowhere to be found. The
realization is sheer terror.

They've misplaced a lot of people, pushing in towards the center of

the Hallow. Effie and Monty were with them, and now they're not.
Narcissa, Rodolphus, and Alecto weren't too far away the last time
he checked, and now he can't see them at all. Sirius and Lily were
with Remus, while Marlene and Dorcas had been with Minerva and
Poppy—and who knows if they're all still together, in all of this
mess?

Regulus is not a very optimistic person, and war isn't really a place
to look for positives. War isn't really a place at all; it's an event the
same way total devastation is, a man-made disaster as ever- lasting
as the world's worst hurricanes. That being said, James would try to
find the silver-lining, and it's almost like a personal challenge for
Regulus to do the same thing; that age-old adage—do you want to
be with him, or be him?

For Regulus, it used to be both. Sometimes it still is.

132
It generally always is when it comes to stressful situations, because
Regulus is so fucking stressed, and he would like to have the sort of
strength James has to look for the bright side, rather than steep in the
misery of it all.

So, the bright side—Regulus has James here with him, close by and
radiating warmth, as always. He's safe. Not harmed, other than the
usual scrapes and bruises that come with running and fighting as
hard as they all have already. There are others here, too. Pandora,
Barty, and Alice. Just

them, out of all those they started with. A group of five lost in the
haze of bloodshed.

Then the Aurors retreat, which is a positive, right? Should be,

shouldn't it? There are countless dead in the street and far too many
killed already; it should be a good thing that the enemy falls back
and isn't here to do any more damage.

Regulus doesn't trust it.

There's a thin line between being courageous enough to hope in spite

of the hopeless and being idealistic to the point of naivety. James has
played jump-rope with this line before, and it never ended well; at
best, it got his feelings hurt, and at worst, it got people killed. He
can't change who he is no more than Regulus would ever want him
to; just the same, Regulus can't change that—in some ways, many
ways—he is nothing like James. Not that long ago, even less than a
year ago, this would have been something Regulus was ashamed of,
but with time, he has learned it's not always a bad thing.

It's Regulus—due to his suspicion and general lack of trust in

anything good in life—that manages to get this group of five safely
tucked away in an alley approximately three minutes before
everything that was already shit in the first place proceeds to go
even more to shit.

133
 Prisoners of War

The thing is, war isn't quiet. There's usually gunfire, screams,
explosions—things such as that. And there was before the Aurors
pulled back, and now there's not. Regulus prefers the quiet,
generally, but not here.

Here, quiet is bad. Quiet makes him tense. Quiet makes his ears ring
and sends chills down his spine. Quiet, here and now, never really
lasts long—and it doesn't.

From the distance, a terrible shriek curdles through the air, followed
very quickly by some of the most grotesque sounds Regulus has ever
heard in his life. Snarls paired with the chilling noise of ripping and
tearing, the rough pull of skin off bones like stitches being torn apart.
Someone, somewhere, sobs and gurgles, audibly feasted on by
something.

Instinctively, everyone within the alley drops down low, hugging the
wall and holding very still, frozen in place and looking around at
each other.

They don't move.

They don't breathe.

Regulus meets James' gaze and holds it, never looking away as the
low, ominous rumbling draws closer. They can all hear it, the rough
panting, heavy like a large beast. Somehow, Regulus is reassured by
simply staring at James, looking at him and seeing the love there he
promised the previous night that he would feel through all of this.
It's there, right there, and if Regulus is going to die, he's grateful this
is what he gets to see before he goes. He hopes James can see that it's
returned.

There's another scream in the distance, and the sound of a beast

approaching halts. They listen to it leave, the harsh snarl of a target
located fading the farther away it gets. Regulus' eyes sink shut, his
lips parting around a shaky exhale.

134
A beat later, Regulus' eyes snap open when he hears a new approach
from the opposite end of the alley, closest to him. His head whips
around, and he could laugh when he sees who it is. He almost does
laugh, in fact.

Rita fucking Skeeter.

She comes to a halt as soon as she sees them. Yes, them, the last
group she would ever want to meet in a situation where death is
within reach. She freezes like wounded prey before starving
predators just waiting to swarm.

The thing is, Regulus knows some Hallows genuinely had no idea
that the games were wrong. He knows that some of them were
essentially brainwashed. He knows that some of them couldn't
understand the impact of what they were partaking in, or what they
were contributing to. He knows that some of them never, never had
bad intentions.

Like Huey, for example. A sponsor who only ever meant well. When
the time came, he did the right thing. He's out here somewhere now,
still choosing to do the right thing. Even fucking Slughorn, after all
that he did, made the choice to do the right thing in the end, and he's
back at the Phoenix now to help how he can, too cowardly to fight
and die, but not hiding away from any of this either. And there's
Minerva, a Hallow who has done horrible things in the name of the
right thing, and is still doing that now, out here somewhere, fighting.
She has been fighting this whole time and has, objectively, done
more for this war than the very man who ordered her to.

But some Hallows... Some do know. Some of them aren't ignorant;

some of them simply don't care. Or they liked it. More than just
something they were used to, it was something they enjoyed.
Rita—she's one of those. Regulus can tell just from looking at her,
just from the fear in her eyes,

the fear of someone who knows they've done wrong, and all the
wrong they've done has caught up to them. She knows.

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 Prisoners of War

Regulus straightens up. Slowly. Stands up all the way. Meets her
gaze, eyes full of tears, dress torn and nails broken and one heel
snapped off so she's wobbling in place. Her blonde curls tumble
around her head, messy, and her chest heaves as she darts her gaze
around at everyone, clearly taking in how quiet and still they all are.
A group relying on stealth. They have guns, but shooting them is not
the goal.

Pandora stands up right next to him, just as slowly, a quiet sort of

grace to her. She has trained, and trained, and trained—but she has
never taken a life in close quarters, one-on-one, with more than a
gun. She's looking at Rita as if, for the first time, she actually wants
to. Regulus remembers how much Pandora despised Rita, because
she almost seems to embody the direct opposite of everything
Pandora stands for and believes in. Pandora—a Hallow just like Rita,
except she always cared about people; she wanted the very position
that Rita had just to do something with it, to honor those lost and
treat tributes with kindness they deserved. Misguided, still, but so
much care in her intentions, regardless.

Pandora's hand slowly slips into Regulus'. He's holding something,

so it's not his hand she's reaching for. She loves to hold hands,
always has, but not this time. No, not this time.

Rita swallows and whispers, "Don't kill me. Please don't kill me. I
want to live. Please."

Pandora holds her gaze and says, "Die thinking of all the tributes
who wanted the same," then snaps her hand out and covers Rita's
mouth to muffle her shout of pain as she buries Bella's dagger she
took from Regulus in the side of Rita's throat. Rita jerks, eyes
bulging, and Pandora rips the dagger back out, an efficient snap of
the wrist. Easy, slow, she lowers her to the ground, covering her
mouth until she stops choking and falls silent and limp, eyes glazed
and head drooping over.

Carefully, Pandora cleans the blood off the dagger so Regulus

doesn't have to look at it, then gives it back to him. Everyone is
silent, staring at Rita's dead body.

136
"477," Regulus says softly.

"What?" Pandora asks.

"Her days were numbered, after the Victory interview for James and
I," Regulus murmurs, tilting

his head as he gazes down at Rita with satisfaction. "I kept count.
She got 477." "476 too many, if you ask me," Pandora mutters bitterly.

"What do you think is out there?" Barty mumbles, turning his head
to gaze out into the empty street. "What's happening?"

Alice exhales shakily and croaks, "The Aurors retreated, so they

abandoned the Hallows—those that were helping us fight and those
that weren't. It's too quiet out there now."

"Everyone can't be dead that quickly," James whispers. "Not all at

once like that. They have to be hiding."

"They are," Regulus murmurs. "There's something out there."

Pandora leans her head back against the brick wall, eyebrows
furrowed, deep in thought. "Riddle will use whatever means
necessary to keep us from reaching his castle. I think the Aurors are
meant to be a last line of defense, if they've retreated, so there's
something else to get through first, and my guess is that getting
through it isn't supposed to be easy."

"Or possible," Alice adds.

"Oh, yay," Barty grumbles. "Love that for us. My money's on

something designed for the hunger games."

"Barty!" Pandora gasps, her head snapping up and her hands flying
out to cradle his face, making him blink, startled by the abruptness
of it. "You're a genius. I could kiss you!"

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 Prisoners of War

"You have my express permission. Please feel free," Barty says, and
he only looks mildly disappointed when Pandora smacks a kiss to
his forehead, pulling back to beam at him. Mostly, he looks
pleased—and also like he doesn't want to show how pleased it
makes him. His eyes are sparkling. "Not exactly what I meant, but I'll
take it. Also, why am I a genius?"

"Because I think it is something designed for the games," Pandora

whispers excitedly, swinging

her head between all of them, all while rolling Barty's head around
on his neck with the distracted push-and-pull of her palms on his
cheeks. "I mean, why wouldn't Riddle use that? But it's not
impossible to beat; someone wins the hunger games every year."

"No, really?" Alice asks sardonically, arching an eyebrow.

Pandora's face turns red. "I—yes, okay, so you three would know
that, obviously, but what I meant is that, every year, the things in the
hunger games are defeated by at least one, right? Because it's
designed that way. Chances are, it's not designed that way now,
meaning whatever we're fighting is supposed to kill everyone it
comes across, but that doesn't change that it's designed." She swings
her head some more, smiling brightly, and then her smile fades as
they all stare at her blankly. She pauses in moving Barty's head
around; he blinks slowly, looking dizzy. "Hello? Someone's
controlling it."

"Yeah, Pandora, we know," James says slowly. "Riddle, right?"

"He wouldn't know how," Pandora counters. "I mean, he's likely
giving out orders and such, but all things in the hunger games are
controlled from one place."

Alice blinks. "Oh, shit."

"Yeah." Pandora's eyes light up. "If I can make it to that building, and
make it to the gamemaker room, then I can use the control boards to

138
destroy the designs. Everyone will have a clear shot to the castle.
We'll only need to break through the Aurors, and then it's just getting
to Riddle."

"Pandora, you're a genius," Regulus declares, and Pandora grins at

him. "Are you sure you can do it?"

"She has worked the control boards before," James says fondly, his
lips curling up. "We get her there, she'll get us through. Just one
question, though. Where, um, is it? Like, as far as directions go, I
have no idea how to get there from here."

"It's alright," Pandora assures him. "I have the home field advantage.
I need to go that way."

As one, everyone turns to follow where she's pointing directly out

the mouth of the alley, meaning towards the sounds of the beast in
the distance. Because of course.

What else?

~•~

Dorcas dives to the ground in front of Marlene, reaching out to

frantically cradle her face as her chest heaves and her hands shake,
the whites of her eyes showing in sheer terror.

"I can't, I can't, I can't," Marlene chants, rattling up against the

signpost and struggling for air. "They're just—"

"They're not real," Dorcas cuts in, gripping the sides of her face and
forcing her to look at her. "Marlene, they're not real. You see what
they turn into when people hesitate to shoot."

"But what if—just some of them—what if—"

"They're not. I promise you they're not."

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 Prisoners of War

Marlene sobs out, "I can't do it. I don't—I can't—"

"Okay," Dorcas whispers. She swallows harshly and leans forward to

press their foreheads together. "Okay, you don't have to. I'll handle it,
alright? I'll take care of it."

"They're coming," Marlene chokes out.

"Shh," Dorcas says softly, rocking back and picking up her gun.
"Close your eyes. Just close your eyes, darling."

Marlene closes her eyes and keeps them closed.

Dorcas turns around with a lump in her throat as she listens to the
pitter-patter of tiny feet hit the ground, watching the group of
children who barely reach her hip come careening around the street

corner. They're crying. Calling for their parents. Begging for help.
Dorcas lifts her gun in shaking hands and begins to shoot.

The thing is, she saw it firsthand. She saw these facade of children
morph into creatures the moment someone didn't shoot, the moment
they got too close. Shape-shifting in mere seconds, splitting out of
the skin of children to change into a towering, skinless beast with too
many teeth. She has seen head after head of those who hesitated
ripped right off, because how does someone slaughter children so
easily, even just the illusion of them?

The best way people could find to fight back was laying down
landmines and running, letting the creatures trigger them, but not
every single one was triggered, and many of the creatures slipped
through the cracks. That leaves shooting them; so many people
couldn't do it, and so many people are dead now because of that.
Perhaps if it wasn't Marlene's life on the line, Dorcas wouldn't be
able to either.

The worst part is, when you shoot them as children, they fall as
children, and so Dorcas will never be entirely sure...

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She'll never really know if...

The bodies, when they fall, are small. It'll haunt her forever, she
thinks. That question she'll never have answered.

What if one of them—just one—is real?

She knows they're not. She knows that, but something in her revolts
against it so hard that she knows she will never, ever be the same.
Because this? Nothing compares to this.

Riddle must think it's something of a cruel joke. After all, wasn't a
major selling point of the opposition that they didn't agree with
slaughtering children? And now, here he is, using that against them.
Weaponizing it.

Exhaling shakily, Dorcas lowers her gun the moment she can and
rips her gaze away from the carnage, feeling sick to her stomach. She
whips around and lurches towards Marlene with trembling hands to
cup her face again.

"Don't look," Dorcas wheezes, reaching down to help Marlene to her

feet. "Come on, follow me. Don't look."

Marlene doesn't look, and Dorcas guides her away, winding through
back alleys and taking shortcuts, keeping an eye out for any more
children. They slink along one street and dip swiftly into an open,
empty shop when they hear strange noises in the distance. Together,
they duck low behind a counter, peering over it curiously, trying to—

"Don't scream," is the only warning Dorcas gets before a hand

clamps down on her mouth to muffle the instinctive sound she tries
to release, while Marlene suffers the same fate.

It's short-lived, though, because their panic fades when they turn to
find Sirius and Lily waiting behind them, their free hands up to hold
their fingers to their lips. Lily draws her palm away from Marlene's

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mouth at the same time that Sirius removes his from where it covers
Dorcas'.

"Screaming bad," Sirius whispers, looking very pale.

"The children?" Dorcas asks.

Lily frowns. "Children? What children?"

"The—you haven't seen—" Dorcas halts, then swallows thickly.

"Nevermind."

"There's—stuff out there," Sirius says quietly, still looking rather

shaken. "Um, it's—it's from Emmeline's arena, so..."

Dorcas blinks. "Oh, shit. Wait, no children." "What?" Lily asks, yet
again.

"It's in sections," Dorcas murmurs, closing her eyes and trying to

map out the route in her head. "The children were the four blocks
north of Riddle's castle. We came west, trying to close in,

because a straight shot is impossible. He's—oh, he's keeping us

trapped. Here, it's—what is it?"

"I—I don't know what it's called?" Sirius rasps. "They didn't use it for
long in her games. It was too —efficient at killing, I guess, and they
wanted...killers, not just death."

"The tar shit?" Marlene mutters with a grimace, and then Dorcas
grimaces right along with her. Yeah, she remembers the 'tar shit', as
Marlene calls it. Puddles of a black substance strongly resembling
tar, but it's mobile. It bled through walls, crawled over the ground,
seeped out of trees and dead bodies; when it came into contact with
flesh, it—well, it devoured.

Sirius swallows. "Yeah, the tar shit."

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"Hey," Marlene says softly, reaching out to touch his arm, searching
his gaze. "What happened?"

"Remus," Lily chokes out. "We were—I mean, we were all running
together, running from it. We got cut off, lost Remus, Emmeline, and
Rodolphus along the way."

"We looked for them," Sirius says, and his voice cracks, his eyes wide
and wild. "We've been looking for them all over, but we can't—we
can't find them, Marlene, and it—it takes in people whole. Just
swallows them up, then they're gone, never found again, and we
can't find them. We —"

"Okay, no," Dorcas cuts in firmly, because both Sirius and Lily look
petrified and dangerously close to falling apart. "No, listen to me,
they're fine. They're all extremely adept, and extremely smart. If
they're not here, then they left. My guess is they have a destination,
and it's best if we follow them."

"But, like you said, we can't get to the castle, and if we can't, then
they can't," Lily grits out.

"I'm not talking about the castle," Dorcas counters. "No one is getting
to the castle until these traps

are dismantled."

Sirius blinks, then blinks again, then his expression falls flat. He
huffs. "Oh, of course. The gamemaker room."

"Yep," Dorcas confirms. "Which means we have to backtrack, because

going through this section and the next is too much of a risk. Come
on, Marlene and I know which way to go."

"What's the section you just left?" Lily asks, hands flexing on her
gun, ready to go in a heartbeat.

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Dorcas pauses and looks at Sirius and Lily, then swallows harshly
and says, "Right. Let me explain the children."

~•~

"Fleamont! Fleamont!" Euphemia shrieks, fighting hard against

Poppy's hands as they forcefully drag her back, struggling to do it as
she flings herself against her ferociously, like an unstoppable force.

"Euphemia, stop!" Poppy barks, arm coming around her shoulders to

roughly yank her back and slam her against the brick wall on the
side of a building.

Euphemia's chest heaves, eyes bulging. "Fleamont. They took him,

Poppy. Put him in the back of a van and—"

"Yes, I know," Poppy interrupts sharply. "They took Minerva, Alecto,

Narcissa, and Aberforth, too, and they're patrolling the area, it seems
like. They kill some people and take others, while the rest of us try
not to get caught by them or the very massive snake slithering
through the streets, one of which will kill you by simply looking you
in the eye."

"Oh," Euphemia wheezes, "is that why so many people are dead,
even though all the Aurors retreated?"

Poppy nods jerkily. "One look is all it takes, but only in the eyes. You
can look at the body, the scales, whatever—just as long as you don't
look it in the eyes. So, don't look up."

"Can't we just shoot it?" Euphemia mutters, dropping her gaze

immediately, feeling a shiver work its way up her spine. She hates
snakes. There were snakes in her arena.

"Bullets ping right off the scales. It can't be killed," Poppy says,
heaving a sigh.

"How do we get the others back?" Euphemia asks.

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"Right now, we need to focus on staying alive. We can't do anything
else," Poppy replies, her voice clipped. "All we know for sure now is
that they're alive. They're alive. They are."

The truth is, they don't actually know that.

Euphemia stares down at her feet, trying to breathe past the utter
terror of seeing her husband dragged away from her by a group of
Aurors, brown sack tossed over his head, and thrown into the back
of a van. She couldn't make it in time. They'd been split up from the
start, trying to find each other and any of their children, and he was
who she saw first, only to watch him be taken from her. She has to
get him back. She has to.

That can't be the last time she ever sees him alive. It can't be.

~•~

James isn't expecting there to be beasts plural and neither,

apparently, is anyone else. Really, they'd only heard the one, so being
attacked by a whole pack of what looks like a cross between an
oversized dog and a piranha—by that, James means teeth, a whole
lot of fucking teeth—is a shock.

There is a moment where Alice is in very clear danger, backed

against a wall with one beast about to lunge, and then James dives
for them without even thinking about it. He slams them to the
ground and swings himself around on his back to press the barrel of
his gun against the beast's chest as it snarls and snaps its jaws on top
of him. He can hear Alice wheezing beneath him, crushed by his
weight. He grits his teeth and pulls the trigger, and he doesn't stop
until the beast goes limp on top of him. He grunts as he shoves it off,
then hastily rolls off Alice and tries to help them up. They smack his
hand away with a glare and stand up on their own.

James would be upset about it, wilting in despair about the whole
situation, but the beast proceeds to get right back up. It doesn't come
at them. No, it...goes to the rest of the beasts.

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The beasts as a separate entity are a problem, but when they conjoin?
James has never seen anything like it, the way they meld together,
grotesque morphing of muscles and skin to form a mountain of one
lumbering beast that has teeth at the head and the center, gaping
mouths snapping at them.

All they can do is run.

James thinks, to himself, that it would make more sense if it was him
that got separated from everyone else. Not because of his leg; he has
his brace, and he can run, so that's not an issue. Not because of his
fear of fire; as terrified as he is with every explosion, and the way the
world is burning all around him, it's all still going so fast, too fast for
him to really freak out, locked in survival mode, and it helps that
Sirius gave him his ear buds again, and it helps that James is dressed
to feel the heat as little as possible. It's not his injuries, or his fears.

No, he just can't fathom it being anyone else. Especially not Regulus.

The moment Barty goes down, Regulus freaks the fuck out. Even
James doesn't have time to lose his shit before Regulus dissolves into
immediate hysterics. James is pretty sure he's never seen Regulus
move as fast as he does in that moment, shrieking Barty's name in a
shrill, high-pitched shout of sheer terror as he goes barreling right
for the beast.

The very same beast that hunches down over Barty and eats the gun
Barty is shooting it with, along with his whole fucking arm. It's one
of the most sickening things James has ever seen.

Regulus stabs it in the back, gripping the handle of Bellatrix's dagger

and yanking it down to split the beast open. It roars and stumbles
back, rearing up and swinging around while Regulus is still attached
to shake him off. Regulus tumbles down behind it, dagger in hand,
landing next to Barty.

James, Pandora, and Alice were behind the beast, which now means
the beast is heading right for them, clearly pissed off. Barty's arm can
be seen between the teeth on the beast's stomach, blood and tissue
and bone torn apart.

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"Regulus!" James shouts, stumbling back as Pandora and Alice
frantically yank on him.

"Regulus!"

"Okay, okay, I've got you," Regulus is chanting, slipping in Barty's

blood and helping him up as his head rolls around, eyes unfocused.
Both Regulus and Barty are as pale as they can get, and equally
drenched in Barty's blood. It's gushing all over them, but Regulus
hardly seems to notice it as he takes Barty's weight and starts
dragging him in the opposite direction.

"Regulus!" James calls desperately, whining as Alice and Pandora

force him back, yelling at him to run. The beast is after them, chasing
them now, not Barty and Regulus.

"Go! I need to get him somewhere and take care of him, or he'll bleed
out!" Regulus calls back. "James, run!"

So, James does.

As much as he hates to go in the opposite direction of Regulus,

James does just that, because at least if the beast is coming after him,
it's not going after them.

Maybe, with the proper window of opportunity, Regulus will be able

to actually make sure Barty doesn't die.

~•~

Sirius is moving carefully right next to Marlene—being cautious to

avoid tripping any landmines as they exit this section—while Dorcas
and Lily move farther up ahead, because they have proper training
for locating and navigating landmines, though they haven't come
across any.

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The distance between them turns out to be an issue when a van cuts
them off. It screeches to a halt in between each pair, and Aurors
begin to pour out.

"Run!" Lily shouts.

"Marlene!" Dorcas shouts next, and then they all scatter.

They're far too outnumbered to do anything other than run, and

Sirius barrels right behind Marlene through an alley, darting down it
behind her, because traveling through the streets with the landmines
is too dangerous. The alley is closed, though. A dead-end.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Marlene chokes out. "Dorcas—"

"She ran. Lily and Dorcas ran, so they'll be fine," Sirius says, because
he did see that much. They tore off with Aurors after them, just as
Marlene and Sirius did. "If anyone stands a chance of getting away,
it's them. Dorcas knows the Hallow."

"Right. Right, okay," Marlene agrees, exhaling shakily like she's

willing herself to believe it. "We, on the other hand, are screwed,
aren't we?"

Sirius looks around, then—because big brothers can learn from little
brothers, too—he looks up. He wheezes out a laugh and croaks, "I've
got an idea."

Five minutes later, Sirius and Marlene are slipping in through a

window on the building by the fire escape. The apartment they slip
into is empty, and Sirius crouches low by the window to watch the
group of Aurors check the alley, then leave. A few minutes after that,
he hears the van drive away. Tires over rubble. Aurors cursing before
they go.

"Lily and Dorcas got away," Sirius murmurs.

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"We should go meet up with them," Marlene says, and Sirius nods,
pushing to his feet. Unanimously, they decide to travel through the
building together, rather than go back to the street, in case the van
comes back. "What was that all about, do you think? They weren't
trying to kill us."

"No, they wanted to capture us," Sirius mutters with a frown, easing
out into the hall with Marlene and heading straight for the stairwell
to reach the ground floor. "We can't be the only people out here,
Marlene. There's the Hallow protesters and the people who rushed
the Hallow with us from the districts and the Phoenix. What, are
they—rounding all of us up?"

"Not many left here, in this section," Marlene replies quietly, a

haunted quality to her voice. "The —the children—the way the
Hallow manufactured the creatures... Sirius, they tore through
practically everyone in this section. We—we don't even know if
Minerva and Poppy got away, because they were separated from us
before the Aurors even retreated."

"Everyone is fine," Sirius grits out, because he refuses to believe

anything else. "They're all fine. We're all fine, okay? Everything is
fine, Marlene."

"Yeah, Sirius, okay," Marlene whispers.

Sighing, Sirius moves towards the door exiting the stairwell,

grabbing the handle and pushing and —

Oh, for fuck's sake.

There are a lot of things Marlene and Sirius can fight—and will, with
ease—but when they step out of the stairwell and into the immediate
path of about nine different guns, all trained on them, there's really
no fighting to be done. One wrong move from either of them gets
them both shot, and they know it. Sirius is tempted to swing his gun
up anyway, but he doesn't. He fights the impulse to fight as the

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group of Aurors draw closer, and right next to him, Marlene does the
same.

"Guns down," one Auror says. "Nice and easy. No sudden moves."
Sirius bites the inside of his cheek and lowers his gun slowly to the
floor, and so does Marlene. The Auror steps up to Sirius and presses
the gun to his head. "Alright, come with me. Opal, stay on
McKinnon. She moves, you shoot. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," is the clipped response.

"These two are our tickets out, but I don't give a shit if they're alive
or dead when we bring them to Master Riddle. I'm about to contact
Guthrie, so stay sharp and keep McKinnon and Black on their knees
here until we're cleared for travel. If they make any sudden moves,
shoot them."

Sirius and Marlene are pushed right into the middle of the lobby and
made to kneel with their hands behind their heads. Too many guns
are trained right on them, and sure, they could fight the Aurors off if
they could catch them off guard, except Sirius has no fucking clue
how they would manage

to do that.

When he meets Marlene's furious gaze, Sirius realizes Marlene is as

equally clueless as him.

In other words, they're fucked.

~•~ When they reach the building, it's supposed to be a fight.

It's not.

Lily reads clear signs that there was a fight, because Dorcas doesn't
bother going through the garage and sneaking through stairwells.
No, she's rushing right in. Lily gets it; she's rushing as well, for

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Remus, for Sirius, for Marlene, for all their friends and the people
they care about.

It feels silly taking a lift right now. Too slow. A long moment of
waiting, Dorcas and Lily standing shoulder-to-shoulder, guns in
hand. They look at each other, the same worry on their faces, the
same determination in their eyes.

Lily chants to herself over and over that Remus is okay. She reminds
herself of Sybill's rule for threes. Lily has been sure that she lost
Remus three times; it won't happen again. Can't happen again. He's
out there. He's okay. She's sure of it.

But she doesn’t know, does she? Not really. It's the not knowing that
makes you ache. She would know better than anyone.

There is something of a fight in the gamemaker room, where most of

the Aurors seem to be, which makes sense. If this is where they're
controlling the traps from, then of course Riddle would defend it.
People are here, though. Most of them are dead, and some aren't.
Some people aren't here, people that Lily was really hoping to find.

Not Remus, Rodolphus, and Emmeline. Not Marlene and Sirius. No,
it's James, who is holding someone in place, and it's Alice, who is
beating the ever-loving shit out of them, and it's Pandora, who is
standing at the main control board while she watches, her jaw set
and hands balled into tiny fists.

"Tell us the fucking password!" Alice snarls, and it's so vicious that
even James flinches a little when they lash out and hit the person he's
holding up. The person who can barely hold their own head up.
Bleeding. Beaten. Resisting.

It blurs, and it blurs, and it blurs.

"What's going on?" Dorcas declares, marching forward as Lily does

the same, her stomach twisting.

James looks so relieved to see her. "We're trying to destroy the things
Riddle designed. Dorcas, it's all around his castle, the full perimeter.

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No one can get to him, and so many people are still out there. We
have to stop it, but—but—"

"But this little pissant won't give us the fucking password!" Alice
bursts out, shaking out their bruised hand.

"Lily, come here," Dorcas says, and so Lily does. Dorcas crouches
down in front of them, waving Lily down with her, and so Lily goes.
Dorcas reaches out gently and lifts their head up to gaze at them.
"Do you know who I am?"

"Dorcas Meadowes," is the raspy reply. "We went to school together.

We were in the same class when we were seven."

There's a pause. Dorcas' eyebrows wrinkles together, and then she

murmurs, "Casselberry. Sundry Casselberry. I remember."

"You wanted to be a stylist even then, and I wanted to be a

gamemaker." Sundry gives a weary chuckle, blood trickling down
the side of their face. "Be careful what you wish for, right?"

"Some dreams do come true," Dorcas replies wryly, offering Sundry a

sad smile. "Listen, Sundry, this is my friend, Lily. She's a medic. She
can patch you up."

Sundry's eyes fill with tears. "Really? You—you're not going to kill
me?"

"No, of course not," Dorcas says softly. "My friends—ah, they can be
a little...dangerous when they're focused on a goal, but I won't let
them hurt you."

"Thank you," Sundry chokes out. "Thank you, Dorcas. Th—"

"All you have to do," Dorcas continues, "is tell us the password. Do
that, Sundry, and everything will be okay."

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"I—" Sundry whimpers, their face crumbling. "I can't. Dorcas, Master
Riddle has my family for collateral. To make sure the traps stay up. If
they come down, he'll kill them. I can't."

"Fucking hell," James mutters, face twisted in a grimace, and Lily

feels as sick as he looks.

Dorcas looks at Sundry for a long moment, her expression

completely neutral, and then she sighs. "The thing is, Sundry, my
girlfriend is out there. The woman I love. She's in danger, and I
refuse to be too late this time. So, I'm going to need that password
from you. Now."

"Dorcas, please," Sundry gasps out, tears flowing.

"There's two ways this can go," Dorcas murmurs, her voice so soft, so
sweet as she delivers her threats. "One, I can have my friend here fix
you all up, just so I can beat you down again, over and over, and I
promise you I'm not as gentle as my other friend is." She inclines her
head towards Alice. "Lily is trained to keep people alive, and so we'll
have a little war of our own, where I do my absolute best to kill you
and she doesn't let me. Round and round we'll go, and take it from
me, we can go for many rounds. We can go a long fucking time,
Sundry."

Lily has to admit, it's true. Or the euphemism is, at least. Poor
Sundry might not last as long as Dorcas thinks. Lily can tell just by
how they're breathing that they likely have a broken rib, possibly
worse internal injuries from Alice, and Dorcas has absolutely no
stop-gap when it comes to saving Marlene.

"Or, two," Dorcas continues quietly, "you can give us the password
and help us get into the castle to save your family. Sundry, we can
save your family. Don't you want to?"

"And if you can't?" Sundry asks desperately. "Master Riddle said if

those traps come down, the moment that they do, my whole family
is dead. My mum. Do you remember her? You laughed at me for

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making macaroni art for her when we had the art project to make
something for our heroes. All the other kids did Victors or Master
Riddle, but my mum was my hero. She always was. She still is. She's
my whole world, Dorcas. I can't risk her. Please."

"What's her name?" Dorcas asks, reaching out to take Sundry's hand,
sympathy painted across her features.

"Olive," Sundry says. "Her name is Olive."

There's something devastating about that, Lily thinks. The way the
name is a symbol of peace, given in an olive branch, and how Dorcas
ruthlessly snaps it.

"Pandora," Dorcas calls, pulling back, "try Olive."

"No!" Sundry bursts out, immediately lashing out in a panic,

screaming and sobbing and making it clear that Dorcas got the
password out of them anyway. "No! No, please!"

"That's it!" Pandora shouts.

Sundry fights. They fight so hard, and they don't get very far at all.
Alice knocks them out, leaving them to slump in James' grip. He
looks pained when he eases Sundry down, and Lily reaches out to
touch his shoulder. They stay there for a moment, just them. Alice,
Dorcas, and Pandora have already moved on, but Lily and James
stay right there.

Which is why they're still there when a radio makes a noise of static
from one of the dead bodies close by, a voice breaking through to say,
"Come in, Guthrie. Unit one-two-five requesting clear passage
through 45-12. We got hung up during the retreat order, but we have
two hostages Master Riddle wants. Do we have clearance to travel?"

James and Lily share a look, then swivel their heads to look between
Dorcas, Alice, and Pandora. For a long moment, no one says a word.
Tense silence echoes around them all.

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"Pandora," Dorcas says very carefully, "hold off for a second."

"Dorcas, people are out there," Pandora whispers, looking at her with
a frown. "The longer I hold

off, the more people that could be dying. Are dying."

"Just—" Dorcas swallows, and they all look at her. Each of them,
looking to her for the decision. She looks so stiff that it's almost like
she could snap in half at any second. "We don't know who— just, if
we—if we clear the way, and that's... It could be Marlene. Sirius.
Anyone. If they get taken —"

"Guthrie, come in," interrupts the persistent voice. "Did you hear
me? We have McKinnon and the eldest Black. Do we have clearance
to travel?"

No one breathes for a moment.

After a beat, James whips around to move towards the radio,

snatching it up and ignoring it when Dorcas hisses, "James, what the
hell are you—"

James clears his throat and holds up a hand, making Dorcas fall
silent, then clicks the radio and calmly says, "This is Murdock,
stationed with Casselberry under Guthrie. They're currently
handling a situation. What's your position?"

There's a long pause.

Then, "The Dillmar Suites, located in the lobby. We have the hostages
surrounded and ready for transport as soon as we have the
clearance."

"Secured?" James asks. "Are they bound?"

"Held at gunpoint," is the response.

"I see." James pauses, then glances around at everyone before setting
his shoulders and clicking the radio again. "Leave one person each

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on the hostages while the rest of you check all windows and locks in
your immediate vicinity."

"Sir?"

"Guthrie's orders. Casselberry can give clearance as soon as you've

fulfilled the task." "...Yes, sir."

The radio clicks.

Everyone stares at James.

"Er," James says awkwardly, "I...may have picked up a few things

here or there while I was in Riddle's castle. From my understanding,
Murdock is a high-ranking Auror, so...I just sort of went with it. All
Sirius and Marlene need is the right opportunity, yeah? They can
either get away, or —"

The radio clicks again, and then there's the static-clad sound of
gunshots and screaming as someone shouts, "Come in, unit
one-two-five compromised and requesting immediate backup!
Hostages are volatile and attacking! We need—"

There's a gurgle, and the radio clicks again. Everyone waits with a
bated breath, and Lily shifts from foot-to-foot restlessly. James is
right; Marlene and Sirius can easily handle this as long as they have
the chance to. Lily is pretty sure they're two of the most dangerous
people in this world, but that doesn't stop her from worrying. She
cares about them so much; she loves them so fucking much. She's not
alone in that, because Alice and Pandora are so tense, holding their
breath, while Dorcas and James both hang in the balance of
desperate hope.

Once more, the radio clicks, and Sirius says, "James, have I told you
lately how much I love you?"

James chokes out a harsh laugh and hangs his head forward, all of
the tension melting out of him at once. Dorcas blows out a deep

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breath as she turns away, shaking hands coming up to cup the back
of her neck. Alice and Pandora groan in relief at the same time, and
Lily laughs breathlessly, eyes stinging.

"Never hurts to hear it, Sirius. Never," James rasps, blinking hard as
he gazes at the radio. "I love you, too. You're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm doing okay. You?"

"Better now that I know you are. Marlene?"

"She's in the middle of—" There's a loud yelp and muffled crunch.
Sirius chuckles. "Nevermind, she's done. Ah, yeah, she's okay.
Heading this way now. Say hi."

"Hey, James," Marlene greets a moment later. "Is Dorcas—"

"Marlene," Dorcas breathes out, practically materializing out of thin

air by James' elbow to stare at the radio with wide eyes, hands still
trembling. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Marlene assures her. "I take it you made it where we were
trying to go and found James along the way?"

"Actually, they were here when we got here," Lily cuts in.

"Lily," Sirius murmurs, "did you—is Remus—"

"No," Lily replies softly, her chest aching, which she ignores, because
Remus is fine. He is. He has to be. "He's not here, but he's—we'll find
him, Sirius. Okay? We will."

Sirius makes a noise like a whimper, but all he says is, "Yeah, I know
we will."

"What about Emmeline?" Marlene asks. "Rodolphus?"

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"Emmeline was with you?" Alice demands, pushing forward to stare

eagerly at the radio.

"And Rodolphus?" Pandora adds, not moving away from the control
board, but she looks hopeful. Marlene heaves a sigh. "They were
with us, but we got separated from each other."

"James, have you seen Regulus?" Sirius asks, his voice strained with
rising stress that makes Lily's heart clench.

James swallows. "Yeah, we were with him. It was me, Pandora, Alice,
and Barty with Regulus. Barty got really hurt; Sirius, it was really
fucking bad. Regulus split up from us to carry him off and try to
help him. I don't—we were being chased by this beast...thing, so we
couldn't—I couldn't —"

"But he was alive?" Sirius demands. "When you saw him, he was
alive, right?" "Yes," James confirms immediately.

Lily sets her shoulders. "Exactly. Everyone we've lost—we all saw
them alive when we lost them, so until we know for sure, that's what
we go on. They're out there, and they're alive, as far as we know.
That's true until we know differently, okay?"

"I'm good with that," Marlene agrees, "but the sooner we find
everyone, the better I'll feel. It's not safe for Sirius and I to move
through this section, but—"

"No, hey, we're handling that now," Dorcas interrupts, nodding at

Pandora, who immediately begins working over the control board.
"We're about to dismantle all the traps and head out. I know your
current position, and if you backtrack to where Lily and I lost you
and go four blocks north, the rest of us can meet you and take a
straight shot to the castle."

"We can do that," Marlene says. "We can't take the radio, though. It's
about to die, I think. Will you be able to find us?"

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"Yeah, I know exactly where to go," Dorcas vows. "You two go ahead
and wait for us there. It'll be twenty minutes, at most."

"Alright, we're leaving now," Marlene declares. Her voice is light and
adoring when she adds, "Don't be late."

"Nothing is going to stop me from getting to you, Marlene," Dorcas

replies fondly. "I'll end the fucking war if that's what it takes to make
it to you."

Marlene laughs, sounding breathless. "I know you would, you

fucking lunatic. I—oh, fucking hell, I love you."

Dorcas grins. "I love you, too."

"Be safe," Sirius calls out. "We'll be waiting!"

Lily, James, Pandora, and Alice call out goodbyes and well wishes,
each of them riding the high of some people they love being safe.
Then, for the final time, the radio clicks. It's timed perfectly, because
right after, Pandora gasps in delight.

"We can leave!" Pandora announces excitedly, clicking one last

button and watching in satisfaction as the red circles on the map
surrounding Riddle's castle blink out all at once. "That's it. All
designs destroyed. Time to go."

Alice and Dorcas immediately head for the door, Pandora close
behind, but James stops and catches Lily's arm, looking at her with
big, pleading eyes. He looks away, and Lily follows his gaze to
Sundry's slumped form.

"Lily," James whispers, "we can't just leave them."

"Hey, come on!" Dorcas calls, holding the door open as Alice and
Pandora rush out of it. Lily blows out a deep breath. "Go on, we're
right behind you. We'll catch up!"

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Dorcas gives them a curt nod, then turns and runs, the door closing
behind her. Lily and James make it quick, moving over to crouch
down by Sundry, James working as Lily's eager assistant as she
patches Sundry up as best as she can, at least to be sure they'll live.
Frankly, Lily is grateful

James insisted on this; it wouldn't have sat right, after everything. It

blurs, and it blurs, and it blurs.

Once Sundry is stable, James and Lily have to go. They take the lift,
and the ride down is quiet. Lily gazes at her shoes, at the blood
splattered on them, and tries to remind herself that she's sure Remus
is okay. He is.

The best and worst things in threes, right?

As they clamber out of the lift and enter the lobby, James sucks in a
sharp breath and nearly trips as he yells in alarm. Lily's head snaps
up to see why, and she's immediately gripped with panic to see
Pandora, Alice, and Dorcas forced into the back of a van, their heads
covered in brown sacks.

In an instant, Lily and James are surging forward and tearing across
the lobby. They don't even make it halfway before the van drives off.
By the time they burst out the doors, the van is all the way up the
street and taking a corner.

"Fuck!" James bursts out, hands in his hair, utter despair etched into
his features. He groans and drags his hands over his face, words
choked and muffled into his palms. "Save one and lose three. Save
eleven and lose one. Push the kid, he dies. Hold the hatchet, you
have to swing it. Try to do the right thing, something goes wrong.
Why? Why? Why is it like this? It's always fucking like this. Why
does it have to be like this?"

Lily stands there, feeling as lost as he does. Stunned. Stuck.

Hopeless. Hapless. She doesn't have the answers. Why is it like this?

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She doesn't know. Maybe no one knows. That's the worst part— the
not knowing. It comes from all sides.

It blurs, and it blurs, and it blurs.

~•~

Regulus wasn't aware that he could panic more than he already is,
but then shadows fall over the wall he has Barty leaned up against,
and no, no, no—now is not the time to have something to fight. Barty
is bleeding out. His arm is gone. He's in shock and slurring out
requests for his mother.

The moment Regulus whirls around, prepared to kill whoever or

whatever is here, a woman— clearly a Hallow—holds her hands up
and states, "It's okay, we're going to help. Let us help. We're with
you. Hallow is hollow."

That throws Regulus off, admittedly. "What?" he croaks.

No one answers him, but two people rush forward to immediately

start working over Barty, digging in packs and getting right to it. He
hovers next to them, on edge, but it seems like they're really helping
him.

"Not all Hallows agree with their Master," says the woman. She steps
forward and smiles. "I'm Welda."

Regulus stares at her. It takes him a second, but the memory comes
to him like it's from another lifetime. Him in the bath for the first
time after his first arena, and Remus telling him useless Hallow
gossip. Welda. Surely not the same one.

"You wouldn't happen to have a best friend named Kindon who

kissed your wife, would you?" Regulus asks.

"Kinsom," corrects a man down at Barty's side, "and I was drunk, in

my defense. Will I ever live that down?"

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"No," Welda says flatly. "Never."

"I'm Aslana," says a different woman, lifting her head to smile at

Regulus. "Welda's ex-wife, and now Kinsom's wife, and—if I have
my way—a wife to both of them when this is all over."

"As you can see," Kinsom chirps, "we've all put aside our differences
to help the war efforts."

"On the side of the resistance, to be clear," Aslana says hastily, then
goes right back to working on Barty.

All Regulus can think, at this moment, is that he can't wait to tell
Remus about this. It's a delirious thought, because he's mostly just
blank with shock that any of this is happening right now. Hallows
are helping. He knew—he did know that there were some Hallows
involved in all this, working against Riddle, but to actually see it is
something else.

"We've been going around and getting injured people to safety,

Hallows and those in the resistance alike," Welda explains, likely
seeing Regulus' disbelief. "Master Riddle had a whole section of the
Hallow surrounding his castle evacuated, but a lot of Hallow
protesters stayed. We had no way of knowing what traps he had set
up, but we've been preparing safehouses all over. We'll take your
friend there. Barty, right? A known anarchist who broke into the
arena. We admire him a lot."

"He's not going to make it if we don't get him proper medical

attention," Kinsom adds, swiftly hopping to his feet and helping
Aslana lift Barty up. "We need to go now."

"Come on," Welda says. "We're not too far."

Regulus swallows, gaze darting between Barty's slumped body and

the other end of the street. Barty is passed out now, unable to defend
himself, but James... Regulus needs to get to James. To leave Barty
with strangers, with Hallows no less, isn't really something Regulus
wants to do, though.

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It requires a great deal of trust—not with his life, but with the life of
someone he can't bear to lose. Barty is too consistent to die; the world
wouldn't make sense if Barty died. Regulus is somehow sure that, in
any world, Barty outlives him.

This one, too.

Please, this one, too.

"I can't go with you," Regulus croaks. "James is still out there."

"Ah," Aslana says gently. "Yes, of course you need to go find your
fiancé. We can take care of your friend."

Regulus decides he likes her. "Thank you. If anything happens to

him—and I mean anything—" "Nothing is going to happen," Welda
assures him, which is the last thing spoken five seconds

before a van screeches to a halt on the street and Aurors come out
guns blazing.

There's no time. No warning. Nothing. Welda goes down, and so

does Kinsom, and so does Aslana. Dead, just like that. Just that fast.
Barty is hit, too, and Regulus crawls desperately to try and check if
he's alive. He doesn't manage it before the Aurors rush him, yanking
him away from Barty while he lashes out, kicking and fighting and
snarling.

An Auror hauls Barty up, shoving a brown sack over his head, and
it's the last thing Regulus sees before he gets the same treatment.
They toss him in the back of the van and tie him up, though they
don't seem to feel the need to tie Barty up as well, leaving him
passed out as the van drives away. The dead bodies of the Hallows
that tried to help them remain behind.

The sack makes Regulus feel stuffy, and breathing is already difficult
when he's panicking the way he is. He's leaned over on his side, his
hands bound behind his back, and he can feel where Barty's legs are

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 Prisoners of War

pressed into his. Trembling all over, Regulus rocks and scoots closer,
heart pounding.

"Barty?" Regulus croaks. He isn't sure why he tries; he knows for a

fact that Barty is knocked out. And yet, for some reason, Regulus
tries anyway. "Barty?"

Regulus' voice cracks, because Barty always answers him. It's one of
those consistent things about him. He may not always have the
answers, but he understands the comfort Regulus takes from simply
having a response, even if it's not an answer Regulus needs. Right
now, Barty can't respond.

Regulus closes his eyes and tries to calm his breathing, shifting
around until the side of his head finds Barty's chest. He's on the side
where Barty doesn't have his arm, and he's very careful when curling
up next to him, fighting the bile that rises in his throat at the smell of
torn flesh and the metallic, acidic scent of blood and snapped bone.
Regulus needs to rub more of the balm Asher made on his nose,
except he can't reach it. All he can do is lay here.

So, Regulus lays there, jostling with the van, resting his head on
Barty's chest and straining his ears to hear his heartbeat, pressing
down to try and feel it through the fabric around his head. He can't
say which one feels more real to him, but he follows Barty's heartbeat
either way, knowing it's slowing and refusing to think about what
that means.

What Regulus does think about is all those nights he gave himself
affirmations to the steady tempo of Barty's beating heart. With every
thump, he reminded himself of his promise. The one to keep going,
the one that kept him going, the one that cracked him open and let
him bloom like a flower as he realized the value of his own life, and
how he deserves to live. He wouldn't say these things became reliant
on Barty's heartbeat, but he would say that the routine of it
comforted him enough that he feels like something inside him snaps
in half when that familiar heartbeat stops.

Barty's consistency breaks, and the world doesn't make much sense
like this, and the world keeps turning anyway. The van keeps going,

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taking Regulus along with it. The war keeps waging, and Barty
doesn't make it through.

Instead, because he's left untreated, Barty goes into shock and dies in
the back of that van with Regulus right there beside him, curled up
against his corpse.

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 5
THE GREAT WAR
______

Remus grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, his whole body
trembling from the exertion of hanging onto the undercarriage of the
van. He's essentially planking beneath it, upside down, and has been
for a while now. It's fucking excruciating, every muscle in his body
aching, screaming in protest, but he has felt worse and refuses to let
go.

So, yet another split second decision has ended with him here. It was
one he didn't really have time to think about. He found himself
separated from Sirius and Marlene, running away from a blob of
oozing black that was swallowing people whole. Emmeline and
Rodolphus were with him.

And then they weren't.

Before he knew what happened, a van had followed them into an

alley, and while Remus got around the corner in time, the other two
did not. So, he was forced to stand there and listen as Emmeline and
Rodolphus put up a fight, and when he dared to peek around, he
saw them with brown sacks over their heads and dragged into the
back of the van.

Remus had maybe a ten second window to decide what he would

do. Ten seconds, and in five, he had already flung himself to the
ground by the van and rolled underneath it. Ten seconds, and in
eight, he had already lifted himself off the ground to cling
underneath the van. Ten seconds, and by the end of them, Remus
was hanging on for dear life as the road whipped underneath him,
taking him away.

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 The Great War

Emmeline is a friend. So is Rodolphus. Furthermore, he lost Sirius

somewhere along the way, and on the off chance that he was caught,
Remus is going to get him back. Simple as that.

The van, at some point, comes to a stop. Remus still doesn't let go,
his breath heaving out through clenched teeth as he tries to strain his
ears to listen. There are a couple of slammed doors, the sound of
boots, distant voices.

"How many do we got?"

"Twelve, but one is dead."

"Do we have to go out again?"

"Unless Master Riddle gives orders otherwise, yes. We'll update Mr.
Snape, see what he wants us to do, but as far as I know, Master
Riddle probably wants more."

"I don't know. Did you see the big fucking snake turn to ash? You
know what that means, right? The first lines of defense are down,
and the last one is...us. Shouldn't we stay here?"

There's a long beat of silence. Remus holds his breath and slowly, oh
so slowly, lowers himself to the ground. It's an immediate relief, and
he lets his head rest back against the ground for a moment, sipping
in air. His body still trembles, and he takes just a second. He needs
just a second.

The voices start back up in a low murmur, muttering about checking

in, discussing what to do with the dead body, to which someone says
to leave it there. It's said so carelessly. Someone else says that there's
someone alive in there with the body, and the next person says that's
not their problem; all those captured will be dead bodies, soon
enough.

Remus wants to fucking murder.

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However, the voices fade away, and Remus cautiously scoots
towards the edge of the van, peering out. He can't see anyone, so he
rolls out swiftly and crouches by the back tire. No one starts yelling
or anything, which is enough of a good sign for him to creep forward
and peer around the back of the van.

Nothing. The Aurors have left. Remus immediately straightens up

and whips around to snatch at the back of the doors on the van. They
open with an uncomfortably loud clang, revealing Emmeline and
Rodolphus bound with their heads covered. Emmeline is on her
front, making muffled noises of fury, yanking at her restraints.
Rodolphus is in much the same predicament, except he's on his side.

"Hey, hey, shh, it's me," Remus says rapidly, trying to reach past their
flailing. "It's me, it's Remus, I'm going to help you."

Emmeline goes still, and so does Rodolphus, both of them calming in

an instant to hear the voice of someone they trust. It's such a deep,
unshakable trust now for so many of them, being in war together,
trying to survive together. It's not even something they have to
question, or doubt. War is a hideous thing, but the camaraderie it
creates can be beautiful.

Remus puts his knee on the ledge of the open back of the van,
leaning forward, genuinely about to scramble inside and untie them
as quickly as possible when something hard jams him in his back,
right between his shoulder blades. His eyes sink shut as he freezes.
He knows what that is.

He's been on the other end of a gun before.

Fuck. Fuck. He missed one. Somehow, somewhere, he missed one.

He should have checked more thoroughly, should have waited
longer, should have moved faster—but he's not very good at doing
what he should, is he?

"Turn around slowly. Try anything, and I pull this trigger," is the
warning Remus gets. At the sound of the new voice, not from a

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 The Great War

friend, Emmeline and Rodolphus get worked up again, and Remus

grinds his teeth in frustration at not being able to save them—or
anyone else—as he turns around very carefully. He refuses to die like
this. Not this. Lily would be so upset. Sirius—fuck, Remus doesn't
even want to think about it. The Auror behind him peers at him, then
squints. "Wait... I know you. Yeah, I know you. You're one of those
servants that got away! They had broadcasts about all of you, and
Master Riddle has all of you on his list. Hey, looks like it's your lucky
day."

And then, with that, the Auror whacks Remus in the face with his
gun, and everything goes black. ~•~

Sirius fiddles lazily with his gun as he and Marlene move carelessly
through the streets now that they're empty and the traps have been
dismantled. They're both still riding the high of adrenaline post-fight
with the Aurors who, from what Sirius overheard them complaining
about, got caught in the red zones during the retreat when the traps
were triggered to start. There are apparently other teams of Aurors
out and about, but they have vans to travel in, armored and fast, as
well as mini- maps prepared for them to avoid whatever beasts and
creatures were unleashed in the sections. This particular unit was
just very unlucky in the grand scheme of things, especially by the
time Sirius and Marlene got through with them.

"It's a rush, isn't it?" Marlene asks, her eyes bright. "Fighting, I mean.
I know we're not supposed to like it, but—"

"I don't," Sirius says, and he doesn't know if that's a lie or not. He
doubts he'll ever know. "Or maybe I do. I...can't tell anymore. I
just—I wish I didn't have to fight, you know?"

"Not really," Marlene admits bluntly. She grimaces a bit and rolls her
shoulders. "I don't really—I mean, I can't help but appreciate having
the excuse. I want—I do want to meet the person I'll be on the other
side of war, though. I want to accept her the way I accepted who I
am on this side of it, but the point is that I did accept it. I'm at peace
with who I am like this."

"How?" Sirius asks. "How do you accept who you are?"

169
"My mum used to say acceptance is just evolution," Marlene says
softly. "When you accept yourself for who you are, you open yourself
up to who you will be. We can't find peace with ourselves if we can't
accept that we evolve, you know? Think about yourself a year ago,
think about yourself now, and imagine yourself a year from
now—they're all different, right? But they're

all still you. How can you not accept that? It's just an objective fact,
and isn't it a comforting one?" "Maybe I just struggle to accept the
things I've done."

"Well, we all do. If it helps, all you've ever done for me is look out for
me. That's something easy to accept, right?"

Sirius cracks a smile. "One of the easiest, yeah."

"Maybe all the rest will get easier once the war is over," Marlene
muses. "Whenever Dorcas gets around to ending it."

"Oh, Dorcas is the one ending it, is she?" Sirius teases.

"Of course," Marlene says with a note of pride in her voice. "She
started the war for me, and she'll

end it for me, too."

"Well, don't you sound absolutely smitten." "It's Dorcas. How can I
not be?"

"She's good for you," Sirius murmurs, his face softening as Marlene
breaks out into a helpless smile. Even here, even in the midst of all
this, even after everything they've all seen and suffered
today—Marlene can't stop herself from smiling about Dorcas. "You're
good for her, too, you know."

Marlene bites her lip, then looks around, then shuffles farther to the
side, away from him, with a glint in her eyes. "Do you want to know
a secret?"

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 The Great War

"Absolutely I do," Sirius says immediately.

"I, um. I have a plan. I mean—okay, it's a little hard to top Dorcas
literally starting a war for me, and ending it, no doubt, but we had
this whole talk about...what comes after the war, and how

neither of us knows what the fuck to do, so we'll just figure it out
together, and I—" Marlene stops, then blows out a breath and holds
up her hand. Her eyes are bright as she wiggles her thumb at him.
"You see the ring?"

"Yeah."

"I'm going to...you know."

Sirius stares at her, then gasps rather dramatically, hand flying to his
chest. "Marlene." Marlene is grinning as they stroll along.

"Really!?" Sirius bursts out, utterly delighted. "You're going to

propose?"

"Yeah, I think so. I mean, maybe like...a few months after everything,
like when things have calmed down and we've all had time to adjust,
but—" Marlene clears her throat and nods, looking more radiant
than Sirius has ever seen her. "Yeah, I want to. I want—I mean, I
want to go all out. Do something really flashy and over-the-top for
her. She pretends like she doesn't like it, but she loves that shit."

Sirius snorts. "Hallows. They can't help it. They love their luxury."

"Plus, she loves when things are bold. That's her tagline. She designs
in bold, she says," Marlene explains fondly. "In any case, I think it's...
I mean, it'll be good for after the war, you know? Because we...
Sirius, we've given so much of ourselves to the war, and when it's
over, I want us to give all of that to each other. And, like I said, I
want to meet the people we'll be. Is that—do you think that's
stupid?"

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"No," Sirius says softly, "I think that's lovely."

"Do you think she'll say yes?" Marlene asks nervously, which Sirius
thinks is rather stupid of her. She's always a bit stupid about Dorcas,
though. It's adorable. "I just mean—"

Marlene never gets to finish, because she's interrupted.

A click.

That's all the warning they get. A click, and one second, and then
Marlene goes flying through the air as the landmine she stepped on
explodes. It's too instantaneous for there to have been any hope of
stopping it from happening; in war, there's very little warning for
much at all.

The traps were dismantled. The landmines were not. Neither of them
thought about it, because why would they when they wanted to get
to those they love? Why would they when Dorcas said they'd be safe
to travel this way? Why would they when they couldn't even
imagine that this would happen?

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Sirius feels the ground shake, and he gets thrown back as well,
leaving him a crumpled heap on the ground. His ears ring, dirt in his
eyes, kicked-up gravel torn into his skin, his breath thin in his throat.
He tries to get his bearings, but he's disoriented, the whole world
tilting around him and his head spinning. He can't think, can't focus,
can't function.

Through the swirling dust he can see from the ground, a mangled
form is across from him. There's —flesh. Body parts. Blood.
Something—it's—it doesn't look quite human, and all Sirius can
think, in his daze, is that it looks like grape jelly. A whole lot of
fucking grape jelly with skin slapped on the outside of it, barely held
together. The jelly is charred.

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 The Great War

It takes Sirius an unbearably long time to realize that it's Marlene.

Sirius can't hear anything past the shrill ringing in his ears, and he
still feels like the whole world is shaking, but he thinks it's just him
now. It feels like fighting against a current to crawl across the
ground, crying out at the searing pulse of pain through his whole
body. He feels like—he thinks he's been ripped in half. That's how it
feels.

"Mar—Marlene," Sirius chokes out, fingers fumbling over the

ground, nails split and bleeding as he drags himself to her. Or what's
left of her; the shrapnel has torn her apart. When he can hear, finally,
the first sound that reaches his ears is the harsh wheeze of her
breath, in and out. It's haunting. It's a noise he'll never forget.
"Marlene—"

"Don't think—" Marlene gurgles, the mangled remains of her body

jerking with residual muscle

spasms. "Don't think I'm surviving this one. How fucked up is that,
huh?"

"Mar—" Sirius groans and flops over on his side, squeezing his eyes
shut and gritting his teeth through pushing himself up on his
knees—or trying to. His arms buckle, and he crumbles to the ground
again, face-first. A whimper escapes him, and he raises his head
desperately to peer at Marlene from this angle. Her face—oh, fuck,
she's—he can see bone—

"This is it, isn't it? This is it. This is unfair. I wanted to survive this
time. I wanted to meet the new me. I wanted—" Marlene chokes off.
"It's war, I'm war, and the war dies with me."

"I'm—I'm trying to get to you," Sirius gasps out, trying with all the
strength he has in him to get up again, his arms shaking from the
effort and pure fire splitting him in half. He tries to lock his scream
behind his teeth and finds that he can, just shouting in equal parts
frustration and determination, despite his own pain. Somehow,

173
through sheer force of will, he does manage to get his knees up
under him, which is when he finds a piece of shrapnel lodged down
in his pelvis, piercing him deep and making moving difficult. Wisely,
he doesn't pull it out. "Okay. Okay, Marlene, I'm going to help you.
I'm—"

"My ring," Marlene rattles out. "T-Take my ring."

"Ring—ring—ring—ring—ring—" Sirius chants it like a skipping

record through chattering teeth, trying desperately to do whatever
she needs him to. He's helping her. He has to help her. It's a struggle
to find the ring in all the mess, and it's a miracle it's still there at all;
three out of five fingers on that hand have been blown off. One isn't
the thumb, and his hands shake as he removes the ring. "Got it.
Marlene, I've got it."

"Dorcas," Marlene says, gaze unfocused. "Get it to Dorcas."

"Okay. Okay, I'm going to help you, okay?" Sirius asks, and has no
idea how to, or where to start. Everything hurts. It all hurts.

"Dorcas," Marlene gurgles, and again, "Dorcas," and her final word,
her final thought, a name, "Dorcas."

"Marlene," Sirius sobs, his vision blurring, everything aching and

splitting him apart, and she's lying there in pieces, dead, and he
can't—he blinks—he blinks—

~•~

"They should be here, Lily," James insists, a horrible sinking feeling

in his gut making him feel— wrong. He feels really wrong, a terrible
prickling sensation up his spine screaming at him that something is
wrong. It's all wrong, wrong, wrong.

War is wrong, just in general—James knows that for sure by

now—but this is something else. This is—it's him. It's deep in the pit
of his gut, all the many threads within him that tie him to countless

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 The Great War

people he loves being plucked and played with like a game, ruthless
fingers of fate making songs out of the strings of his love, and he
knows something is wrong, or something is going to go wrong. He
doesn't know how he knows; don't ask him how he knows, but he
can feel it.

To Lily's credit, she doesn't protest. She nods sharply. "Okay, so we'll
go find them. Four blocks back, right? Let's go."

So, they go. James is so fucking eager to go. He wants to find Sirius,
and Marlene, and Regulus, and Remus, and his mum and dad, and
Dorcas, and Pandora, and Alice, and—and—

He wants to find everyone, all of them, alive and safe. He wants the
war to be over, and at this point, he doesn't even care which side
ends it. There are no winners in war, only those who lose, and in the
midst of war, he finds that he wants nothing more than to dive into
the current of time and go back to before it truly began. Take him
back. Oh, please take him back to a time before he knew what it was
to lose.

James can't turn back time, and here he is, firmly planted in this
moment of doing his best to keep his pace with Lily. His leg aches
awfully, and if it wasn't for his brace, he knows he wouldn't be able
to keep going. He's thankful for it, in that case, but he wishes he
could rest. He wishes they all could.

Two blocks back. That's where they find Sirius. The sight of him rips
a horrible noise right out of James' mouth.

He's on his feet, but he's limping and hunched forward, one hand
clenched in a fist down by his side, the other cupping the front of his
hip where a piece of shrapnel sticks out, blood staining his fingers.
His face is cut up, bleeding, and so are his arms. His expression is
blank, and he's entirely alone.

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"Sirius!" James shouts, and he immediately begins to run, right along
with Lily. They close most of the distance to meet him, and Sirius
doesn't stop when they make it there.

"Dorcas," Sirius says, his voice hoarse, but no emotion in it at all. "I
have to get it to Dorcas." "Sirius, Sirius, stop," Lily croaks. "You have
to stop and let me help you. Sirius!"

"Dorcas," Sirius repeats. "I have to get it to Dorcas."

"James, help me stop him and—"

"Dorcas. I have to get it to Dorcas."

"Sirius, please stop—"

"Okay, okay, ease him down now, just like that."

"It's okay. You're okay. Lily will help you. Just—"

"Dorcas. I have to get it to Dorcas."

"Is he going to be okay? Can you—"

"He didn't take it out. That's good, James. I have my medic pack, so I
should be able to clean and cauterize—"

"Sirius, stop trying to get up. Lily is about to—" "Dorcas. I have to—"

"James, hold him down." "Dorcas—"

It's a mess. From start to finish, it's a fucking mess. Sirius won't stop
trying to go, won't listen to them, and James has to hold him down
through all of it. James has to hold his best friend down while Lily
checks the severity of the wound, then takes care of it as a medic in
the middle of war would. There's no sterile environment here, and
while she has supplies, this isn't something she can do neatly. It's
about saving his life and making sure he can survive until they can

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all reach a point where he can get checked over properly. This means
James has to hold Sirius down while he tries to get up—he's so
strong, even injured as he is, so this is no easy feat—and James has to
hold Sirius down when he cries out in pain and chants Dorcas' name
over and over as Lily removes the shrapnel, stops the bleeding, and
seals the wound by burning it closed.

By the end, Sirius is shivering in James' grip, gasping out Dorcas'

name, his eyes glazed and his face dripping in sweat. Lily moves all
around him to clean up where he was cut and scraped on his arms
and face, using salve from her supplies. Through the whole thing,
James cries more than Sirius does.

"Sirius," Lily whispers, one hand cradling his jaw as James shakily
pushes sweaty clumps of his hair back. "Hey, look at me, it's okay.
We'll find Dorcas, okay? Sirius?"

"Dorcas," Sirius says. "I have to get it to Dorcas." "Get what to

Dorcas?" James asks.

Sirius is silent for a long moment, and then he blinks and holds out
his closed fist. Slowly, he unfurls his fingers to reveal a ring in his
palm. "Dorcas. I have to get it to Dorcas."

Lily inhales sharply, her eyes widening before they fly up to look at
Sirius, a film of tears forming already. She makes a small noise, a
whimper, and James feels himself go slack in pure shock. That ring.
He knows that ring. They all do.

"Sirius," Lily chokes out, "where's Marlene? Where is she?"

"Marlene," Sirius mumbles, eyebrows tugging together as he flicks

his gaze down to the ring. He

looks at it for a beat, then looks back up and blankly announces,

"Marlene is dead."

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James' heart flinches in his chest, a lump forming in his throat as
choked whine escapes him. On the other side of him, Lily folds
forward with a guttural sob, whimpering, "No, she's not. She's not,
Sirius. She can't be, she can't; I saved her, okay? I made sure
she—I—no, please, please—"

Sirius closes his fist, keeping the ring safe inside. He ignores their
tears and says, "Dorcas. I have to get it to Dorcas."

~•~ Severus looks away as Riddle shoots the Casselberrys.

All six of them. Mother, Father, four out of five of their children,
ranging from ages twenty to thirty. Six bullets.

Twelve remain in the clip.

"Clean this up," Riddle orders, and servants immediately move

forward to start gathering the bodies. Riddle turns to Severus, who
meets his gaze steadily. "Have we gotten them all?"

"No, sir," Severus replies.

"Do you have Aberforth Dumbledore?" "Yes, sir."

Riddle sighs and turns to his desk, pressing a button. "I need the
broadcast team to come set up. Now." Yes, sir is the instant response,
and then Riddle faces Severus. "Get Dumbledore and the rest that
you do have. It's time to end the war."

Severus inclines his head. "Yes, sir."

With that, Severus turns to leave the room and get to work.

It takes a while. First, Severus has to go to the courtyard out back to

reach the vans. There are five with varying groups of those that were
caught, all cuffed and gagged with bags over their heads. None of
them offer him a welcoming reception.

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Second, Severus has to round up those he's taking to Riddle,

ignoring their panic and fury when he does, ignoring their muffled
shouting as he chains them all together.

Third, Severus has to lead them all back through the castle. He
shoves them along when they try to stop. He puts guns to their
heads when they move too much. He marches them on and on,
passing Aurors in a state of panic as the news spreads that the traps
came down and people are closing in. He understands their fear;
many Aurors are already at the perimeter outside the castle to hold
it, but they won't be able to hold it for very long. They're still
severely outnumbered. Even those in the castle are more
outnumbered than they realize.

Fourth, Severus leads everyone into Riddle's office. It's clean now,
the Casselberrys removed, only their blood staining the carpet. The
broadcast team is almost set up; Riddle is sitting at his desk, the
picture of calm, facing the camera. He doesn't even look as Severus
comes into the room. There's a jar with a Horcrux Hornet in it that
begins to fly at the glass when they enter, glowing green.

"Line them up," Riddle orders coldly. "Dumbledore last."

Fifth, Severus lines them up. They shriek through their gags,
struggling, but he kicks the back of their legs and puts them on their
knees. Keeps them there. Keeps them quiet.

Sixth, Severus watches the broadcast begin.

Riddle looks right into the camera and says, "I'm addressing the man
who leads the resistance. Albus Dumbledore, I'm speaking directly
to you. I want you to know that you cannot win this war, no matter
what you do, but I will be giving you the opportunity to surrender
so that you may save lives. Will you take that chance, or will you
force your own people to sacrifice for a war you can't even win?"

Severus steps out of the way when Riddle stands up. He moves off
to the side, and Riddle calmly

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walks across the room to take his place; the camera follows him the
whole way. Riddle stops behind the first person kneeling on the end.
He takes out his gun and puts it to the back of their head.

"Which one is this?" Riddle asks, looking at Severus. "Pandora,"

Severus answers.

"Ah, yes. Pandora, district six's handler. A Hallow who turned on

her own people, her own home, her own Master. Someone you
recruited, Albus. You could surrender on her behalf, to save her
now." Riddle cocks his head as she sobs and shakes her head, trying
to shift out of the way of the gun, but she can't move. "But you
won't."

Riddle pulls the trigger, and the body falls.

~•~

Horace knew the moment the broadcast started that things were
about to go very, very wrong. When he thought of the war—when he
realized there would be a war—he never imagined this. The sheer
dread of it all.

He thought it would be worse to be there, in it, and he is still sure

that it is—but his belief that it would be easier staying behind was a
foolish one. He has friends out there. Those from the Phoenix and
Hallows. Tom is a corrupt evil in human form, and Horace is
ashamed of how he was once charmed by the man, especially now
that he sees him as he really is, and what he's truly capable of, and
just how far he will go.

It shouldn't be this way, but there's something so much more

barbaric about watching people be lined up and shot than seeing
them in the hunger games. It's chilling in a way the games never
seemed to be—at least to Hallows. Horace has also never seen Tom
kill before. No Hallow has.

He's merciless. Pitiless. Cold. Unflinching and uncaring. It turns

Horace's stomach. He knew Pandora. Spoke to her from time to time.
She was one of the few who arrived after all that went down during

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the Quarterly Memorial that didn't automatically hate him; not that
he can blame the rest for how they feel about him. He knew to stay
out of their way, and has, but Pandora... He liked her. She was a kind
soul.

"Albus, you can interrupt the broadcast at any time," Filius says, his
voice strained as he shares a look with Horace.

Albus is pacing.

Horace is watching him pace, feeling useless. He stayed back to help,

and has been in any way he can, but Albus had him summoned the
moment they learned of the traps Tom had set up, wanting more
information. The traps have since been dismantled and victory is so
closely in reach, but Tom won't leave it there. Won't go gracefully.
Won't surrender either.

Albus isn't surrendering. Horace isn't so sure that he should. They

have a sure win, regardless of what Tom said. The issue is that Tom
is now smearing Albus in the homestretch and killing people that
could easily, oh so easily, entice those out there fighting to surrender
for. Horace would need more than just two hands, many more, to
count the amount of people who would have gladly put their guns
down for Pandora alone.

"Albus," Filius calls sharply.

"This will cripple some," Albus announces abruptly, swiveling to face

them, "and it will invigorate

others."

Horace jolts. "You—wish to use them as martyrs?"

"No, I don't wish to," Albus retorts. "I would very much prefer that
this didn't happen at all. But I can't call for a surrender. We are too
close to stop now."

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"You're going to let him kill those people?" Filius asks in shock.
"Albus, you can stop this—"

"Stop it?" Albus snaps, and then his eyes drift shut. He slowly
exhales. "Filius, though I have shaped myself into a scapegoat
everyone has needed, I am not to blame for this. The only difference
between those people dying at the end of Riddle's gun and dying in
a fight to reach the castle is that he has announced that I have the
choice to stop it. I've always had the choice to stop it, even before it
began."

"You choose not to," Horace says softly, "because someone has to
choose. Because that's the choice that needs to be made."

Albus opens his eyes and nods, looking at Horace and looking
almost—grateful. "Yes, it does. Countless people have died already
in the name of winning this war, and to throw that away would be to
dishonor them. Everyone involved knew the risks. As hideous of a
truth as it is, the truth remains that I cannot put the few above the
many."

"So you choose martyrdom," Filius says.

"I choose the greater good," Albus corrects, then turns and begins
pacing once more.

Horace darts his gaze to the screen to see Tom step up behind the
next person, then glances back at Albus, who is pacing and not
watching. It's curious, isn't it? How great can that good be when
Albus cannot even bear to look at it?

And he doesn't look at it. He doesn't watch as Tom shoots the next
person. Fleamont. Doesn't look as Riddle shoots the next. Alice. Or
the next. Emmeline. Or those following.

Rodolphus.

Narcissa.

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Alecto.

Minerva. Oh, that one—well, that one hurts. Horace rather likes
Minerva; he admires her a great deal, and watching a gun be put to
her head, and what Tom says...

"Oh, this one—I feel this one is deserved the most. A Hallow traitor,
but not only just. She personally betrayed her Master; defiled the
very system upon which the sanctity of her life of comfort was built.
She had everything, only to toss it all away. Did you appreciate the
power it must have given you to have her loyalty, Albus? Did you
not come to care for her, or was it only what she could do for you?
All she did for you, and you refuse to save her? It's fitting, isn't it?
She betrayed her home, her people, and her Master for you; now,
you betray her."

Albus doesn't watch Tom pull the trigger. He doesn't watch the head
covered in a brown sack snap forward before the body falls. He
flinches, but he doesn't watch. Tom moves to the next, and so it

continues.

That boy, Remus. The one who saved everyone. The one who
single-handedly made winning this war possible in the first place,
and Albus does not stop him from dying. Albus doesn't watch him
die either. When the gun goes off, he pivots on the spot and begins
pacing in the opposite direction.

Dorcas next. Yes, Ms. Meadowes. Oh, Horace is genuinely terrified of

her, but he doesn't take any pleasure in watching her die. He helped
her once, and felt good about it; regardless of how she terrifies him,
she's a good person, he thinks. Good in the way Horace never was,
not instinctively. He had to learn to be, but her... She's made of it,
somehow. It's a tragedy to watch that be removed from the world.

The next one—

"This one?" Tom asks.

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"Regulus," says Severus, a voice Horace would recognize with ease.
Head Auror. One of Tom's closest consultants. Horace always liked
him as well.

Tom looks up, and—for the first time that Horace has ever seen—he
seems pleased. "Oh, Regulus Black, is it?"

"Yes, sir," Severus says.

"If I were to list his crimes, I fear we'd be stuck here all day. The first
fool to defy with a message people decided to take up as a chant.
Hallow is hollow. I wonder how hollow his fiancé will feel when he's
dead. Or his brother." Tom looks at the camera. "I'll be honest, Albus,
I don't want you to surrender for this one. I will take great pleasure
in killing him. But I have to ask, a boy like him doing all that he has
done for you and your war efforts—doesn't he matter to you? Did
you not become attached to him and his love story as the rest of the
world did? Or, are you perhaps relishing in this moment for the
ways in which you believe his death could spur on your victory?"

Tom gives Albus considerably longer to interrupt this time, but he

doesn't. In a kinder world, Horace would think Albus evil for it, but
it's not a kinder world. It's a very cruel one, and a victory and victim
go hand-in-hand; the root word vict means conquer, and there is
victory for a conqueror in making a victim. A conqueror stands
today with ten victims at his feet, asking an approaching

conqueror to throw away his victory in the name of victims he knew

better than to care about.

"Let us relish together, Albus, in the very same thing," Tom says, then
pulls the trigger. The body falls. He steps to the next. "Now, this is
where things get very interesting. All those people you let die, and
Aberforth, your brother, kneels before me now. Here's a question.
When it's someone you love on the line, will you surrender, or can
you make the sacrifice you just forced everyone else to make?"

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 The Great War

Horace is pretty sure he's never seen a man as old as Albus move as
fast as he does when it's announced that it's his brother on the other
end of a gun. Honestly, he had no idea that Albus could move that
fast at all. It seems like he blinks, and then Albus is in front of the
camera.

"Put me through," Albus croaks. "Now."

Filius frowns. "Albus, you said—"

"I don't care what I said!" Albus shouts. "Put me through!"

Oh, you fool, Horace thinks, biting the inside of his cheek, because
that's what Albus is, just like everyone else. This is what Tom does.
He manipulates people into his fools, using their fear for their loved
ones against them, and though Albus may seem a man with no
weaknesses, there's no such thing as that at all. Everyone has a
weakness, and Tom clearly just found his. Horace sighs and thinks,
you fool, he got you, too.

~•~

Severus honestly isn't expecting Albus to interrupt the broadcast.

That, he didn't anticipate. He has known Albus for many years, and
the one thing that has always mattered to him above all was this war.
He didn't even know Albus had a brother until Potter revealed it to
Riddle—and so, naturally, Severus simply believed that Albus didn't
care for him.

After all, Severus knows what it is to have family you don't actually
care for. His father is his father, and yet, when it came time to bury
him, he felt absolutely nothing. He wasn't even as satisfied as he
hoped to be. Just—nothing. He felt nothing at all and presumed that
Albus felt similarly about his brother.

He presumed incorrectly, as it turns out.

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"Don't do that, Tom," Albus says, his voice ringing out. On a monitor
off to the side, the image of Albus blinks on, but only Severus and
Riddle can see him. This broadcast—it's live, playing out on all
screens and projectors in the districts, on all screens and projectors in
the Hallow, including the one Riddle has in front of his castle, blown
up large and visible to all that approach. There is not a soul who
hasn't seen Riddle kill these eleven people—and now there's not a
soul who hasn't heard Albus interrupt to save his brother. They can't
see him, as Riddle and Severus can, but his audio comes through
clearly.

"Ah, Albus," Riddle greets. "It's been some time. The last time we
spoke, you weren't yet a Victor." "And you weren't yet a Master,"
Albus replies shortly.

"It seems time has treated one of us better than the other." Riddle
focuses on Albus on the monitor, but Albus' gaze is locked on
Riddle's gun. "Will you save him, Albus? For your brother, will you
surrender?"

"Yes," Albus says immediately. "Don't harm him."

Riddle looks faintly amused, icy about it. "So, you admit it? This war
you started, this war you wanted, means nothing? The very people
you've ordered to toss aside their lives for a war you deemed
necessary—they mean nothing to you? You could have surrendered
before now, but you didn't."

"Put the gun down, Tom." Albus doesn't look away from it, his voice
startlingly steady. "Let Aberforth go. You can have the war, but
him—give him to me."

"You have people fighting and dying under your command, and
none of them matter to you," Riddle muses, "so I have to ask, why
should they fight and die at all?"

"Give him to me," Albus whispers. "You win, Tom. Very well, you
win, just release him—just give him to—"

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 The Great War

"They don't fight for you any more than you fought for any of them
today, just now," Riddle cuts in. "You can't command people to
surrender who aren't fighting for you to begin with, and just as

you let everyone else die to keep fighting, they're going to keep
fighting and let your brother die."

"Don't,"Albus starts, then chokes off the moment Riddle pulls the
trigger and the body falls. Almost instantly, Albus is out of his chair,
darting out of sight on the screen.

Riddle impassively lowers his gun and turns away from the camera
to face Severus. "Trigger the explosives set around the perimeter and
wipe all the opposition out. I want Albus to find his brother just as
he did his sister—in ashes. Gather those on the board to meet me at
the heli-carrier, and we'll go."

"I can't do that, sir," Severus murmurs, meeting his eyes. "What?"
Riddle asks flatly. "Why?"

Severus inclines his head to the dead bodies. "Because you just shot
all the Hallow government officials on the board."

"No, I—" Riddle stops, then swivels his head to stare at the bodies he
never even really looked at. They were already dead to him before he
ever pulled the trigger. He didn't even look under the sacks to see
the people he would be killing, didn't look for any notable features,
because he doesn't care. He has never, ever cared—and Severus
knew that. He used that.

"Master Riddle," Severus says silkily, "you just murdered your own
people, the very people who help enforce your laws, on live
broadcast for the whole world to see. How foolish."

Riddle stares at him. His eyes are blank. His expression is cold.

After a long beat, Riddle shifts to reach down and snatch up the
body he just put a bullet in, yanking the brown sack off to reveal the

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eldest—the one closest resembling Aberforth Dumbledore —but it
isn't Aberforth at all. It isn't any that Riddle thought he just killed.
No, those that can fight are fighting to get here, to get to Riddle.

After all, who knows better than Severus that the best way to reach a
heart impenetrable from the outside is to go from within?

Right on time, like clockwork, the door proceeds to burst open,

Dorcas Meadowes marching in with Remus Lupin and Regulus
Black following right behind. With the barrier broken, the distant
sounds of gunshots and screaming from within the castle finally
reaches them—and the war is here. The war has found Riddle before
he could flee, and he has no one to blame but himself.

All this time, one thing has remained consistent about Tom Riddle;
he orchestrates his own downfall, simply because he doesn't
understand fear . As fascinated with it as he is, and he never quite
grasps the concept that people face fear daily, and overcome it daily.
With every breath.

Fear doesn't make people quit. It helps them survive.

"You," Riddle states, looking right at Severus, who inclines his head
in confirmation. Riddle's nostrils flare, and he swings his gun up
with no hesitation, pointing it at Severus, who doesn't even flinch,
and then he pulls the trigger.

The gun clicks.

Severus glances at the dead bodies on the floor, all twelve. He looks
back at Riddle, who wasted all his shots on the wrong people, and he
says, "You forgot to count your bullets."

Riddle's eyes are blazing, jaw clenched. He doesn't look afraid, but
he never does. Here and now, he only looks angry. Furious in his
own defeat. The biggest fool in the room, always.

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 The Great War

"Before they kill you, I want you to know something," Severus says,
stepping back as the other three pass him. Riddle is still looking right
at him, not moving, and Severus holds his gaze. "My mother's name
was Eileen."

With that and nothing else, Severus turns on his heel and leaves the
fool to his fate. ~•~

Echoes of people's screams haunt the grounds of this castle, and

Euphemia expects they will for a long time. The sound is utterly
horrific, but so are the sounds of war, so are the sounds of cannons
going off in the arena, signaling death, and death, and more death.
Euphemia has certainly heard more horrific things, and it doesn't
slow her down a bit.

Nothing can slow her down. She would have fought her way
through an entire army by herself if she had to, but she didn't have
to. By the time she reached the castle, as soon as the traps stopped
being an issue, there was already a fight as the broadcast began.
Riddle there on the screen, shooting people. It only invigorated the
people in the resistance to fight harder, and so Euphemia did not
have to fight through an entire army by herself. She had more than
enough help.

She was running the moment she realized Fleamont was alive.
Because it wasn't Fleamont who was shot, she found her way back to
her feet after she collapsed when she believed he had been, and now
that's where she's going.

Euphemia is going to find her husband.

The war outside the castle is thin now, and weak. It's over already,
really, despite those who fight. Riddle has lost.

Riddle lost the moment those doors burst open and two of
Euphemia's someday son-in-laws moved into the room with Dorcas
Meadowes one step ahead of them. He lost the moment he put his
gun to the heads of his own people and pulled the trigger. He lost

189
the moment he believed he had won, when there were people still
coming for him that wouldn't give up on making sure he'd lose. He
was always going to lose; he just wanted to make sure that everyone
else did, too.

They all have now. Friends gone. Lovers gone. Family gone. No one
has won, but those who remain aren't fighting to win; they're
fighting for a chance, and she wholeheartedly believes everyone
alive is going to get it.

Euphemia kills the Aurors she comes across as she navigates the
castle, and she follows the sound of gunshots and grunts to where
the main fight seems to be.

It's taking place in a courtyard. Minerva, Rodolphus, Alice,

Aberforth, Emmeline, Alecto, Narcissa, and Pandora are fighting;
they're all also winning, visibly, because they overpower the Aurors
that remain. Most Aurors are already dead.

"Minerva!" Euphemia shrieks. "Where's Fleamont?!"

"I don't know!" Minerva shouts back, grunting as she slams her hand
into an Auror's face.

Euphemia begins her frantic search, shoving aside anyone who gets
in her way. There are vans, most of them empty, but she sees a
slumped form in the back of one. Desperately, she crawls into the
back of it and then jolts when she removes a sack over the head to
reveal Barty's slack face.

Shakily, Euphemia reaches out and looks for a pulse. She isn't sure
why. She knows she won't find one, and she doesn't. He's dead. All
she can think about is that moment, after he'd killed his father, that
he'd been on his knees with a gun to his head; she and Fleamont
saved him. They saved him. Why?

Because he lived in their district. Because he was a human being.

Because he was Regulus'. Oh, Regulus.

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Euphemia's eyes sting, and she slowly, gently, reaches up to close

Barty's eyes. His mother is dead, has been for some time now, but
Euphemia thinks she would have appreciated that someone offered
tenderness to her son, even in death, so she brushes his hair back and
leans down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. When she pulls away,
she makes sure none of her tears drop down onto him.

"I'm so sorry," Euphemia whispers, her face screwing up. She

squeezes her eyes shut and turns her head away, then slips back out
of the van. There's nothing she can do for him now, and she needs to
find Fleamont.

It doesn't take very long.

She comes to a screeching halt when she sees the legs sticking out
around the other side of the van. From this angle, she can only see
the legs, but she knows those legs.

Breath punching out of her, Euphemia whips around the edge of the
van and then stops again. Because yes, that's Fleamont. That's him.
She'd know him anywhere, through anything, even resting on the
ground against the side of the van with blood pouring through the
fingers he has pressed to his chest.

"Fleamont," Euphemia croaks, and he raises his head, and he looks at

her, and he smiles.

"There's my girl," Fleamont mumbles, eyes lighting up.

Euphemia is at his side in seconds, knees dropping down in the

puddle of blood around him. There's a lot of blood. He's lost a lot of
blood. It's too much blood. It's—

"Help! Help!" Euphemia calls out desperately. "I need a medic!

Someone find me a medic!" "Honey," Fleamont says gently, and he
pulls his hand away to reveal not just one gunshot, but

191
multiple. Many. A wide spray from a burst round. His chest is
littered with them.

"Okay, okay, keep pressure," Euphemia chokes out, leaning forward

with shaking hands to push them against his chest, except more
blood just bubbles up, and Fleamont cries out. She snatches her
hands back instinctively, palms covered in his blood, then whimpers
and puts them right back. "I know, I'm sorry, but we have to stop the
bleeding. We—"

"Stop, stop, it hurts," Fleamont croaks, weakly tugging at her wrists

with a whine, and the pressure slackens. Euphemia trembles, her
vision blurring. "They're not going to be able to help me. It's too
extensive, and you know that."

"No," Euphemia says, her voice cracking. "Don't you dare—"

"It's okay," Fleamont replies, his breath rattling in his chest, and he
gives her a pained smile. "It's really okay. It's almost over. Tell
me—James and Sirius? Have you seen them?"

"No."

"Then you find them. When this is all over, you find them, and you
tell them I love them, okay? All of them."

And Euphemia cries, because it's not fair. Because Fleamont never
went into the arena, and he was supposed to be safe. Because
Fleamont is her husband, the love of her life, and the father to her
children. Because he was shot, and then he wasn't, and now he is
anyway.

"Flea, please," Euphemia whimpers, resting her hands slick with

blood against Fleamont's

shoulders gingerly. His gaze is becoming unfocused, his breath

catching in his chest. "I can't do this without you. I can't—"

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"You can, or I wouldn't go," Fleamont rasps, trying to raise his hand
and touch her face, except he's too weak. She catches his fingers,
feeling the glide of blood on their hands, and she tips her face into
his palm. "I wouldn't be able to leave you in a world that's not better
than this, so there's a better world on the way, I just know it. You're
going to do just fine; you and our boys. Take care of them, and let
them take care of you."

"It won't be a better world without you," Euphemia protests.

Fleamont makes a soft, weary sort of noise. "Oh, I'll still be around.
I'll be with all of you every step of the way, and some day in the very
distant future, you'll all come see me again, and I'll tell each of you
how proud I was the whole time."

Euphemia feels a noise crawl out of her throat, harsh and gutted like
her chest is littered with the same bullets as his. She can feel it
burning, the invasion of something she wants to dig her nails in and
claw out, one-by-one. It hurts. In all her life, of all the pain she has
suffered, nothing has ever hurt the way this does. It's been seconds.
Only seconds have passed.

"I'll be there," Fleamont whispers. "I can't wait to see our boys get
married. Can't wait to meet our grandchildren. Can't wait to watch
you live in a better world. You'll live, honey, and you'll know so
much love, because so many people love you. And I love you,
wherever I am. I'm sorry you won't be able to see me, but I'll be right
there, okay?"

Euphemia sniffs hard, exhaling shakily and shifting to cradle his jaw,
holding his head up, because he can't anymore. She leans in and
kisses him, gentle, steady. When she pulls away, his mouth curves at
the corners, and she gently lets his head rest against her shoulder.
She closes her eyes and holds him.

"Okay," Euphemia croaks. "You'll be with us. You're my rock, Flea.

You'll always be that. I love you. I love you so much."

Fleamont doesn't respond. She listens to him breathe, and it sounds

like he's drowning. For him, it probably feels as if it takes forever for

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him to stop. For her, since she found him here, it takes a total of
fifty-five seconds.

That's all she gets. Fifty-five seconds, and fifty-five years of living in
the world at the same time as him, and then he's gone. He dies there,
in her arms, with a smile on his face.

That's the last time Euphemia sees him alive, with that smile, but
she'll feel Fleamont with her for many years to come.

~•~

Remus isn't sure anything is as satisfying as forcefully shoving

Riddle into a chair and holding him there, hearing the grunt that
escapes him and feeling him strain against Remus' grip, except
Remus is stronger. Remus is much stronger, and so is Regulus, who
is helping Remus hold Riddle in place.

"Turn off that camera," Dorcas orders as she faces the person behind
the camera, who looks fucking terrified. "If you want to live, you'll
do as I say and get out. Now."

In seconds, there's the flurry of someone running across the room,

the door opening and closing, and then Dorcas hums. Remus swivels
his head to see that the camera is off. Slowly, Dorcas moves to walk
around the desk. She reaches out and taps the jar there that holds the
Horcrux Hornet; it's motionless in the jar now. No one in this room is
afraid.

"You know," Dorcas says softly, "you critiquing Albus Dumbledore's

leadership is hypocrisy at its finest. At least, for him, a sacrifice is a
sacrifice. For you, it's just slaughter."

"Your mistake is believing there's a difference," Riddle informs her,

tracking her with his eyes as she stops and leans up against the edge
of the desk. She picks up the jar and holds it up, turning it slowly
between her fingers to look at the Horcrux Hornet from all sides.

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 The Great War

"There is," Dorcas announces. "We're going to show you, because

your death won't be a sacrifice. It'll be slaughter for the sake of
slaughter, and you will know the difference then. You'll die
pointlessly, and your death will mean nothing, and just like so many
others who have died because of you and the system you uphold,
you will plead for mercy to people who won't give it and won't listen
and won't stop."

"I'm not going to do that," Riddle retorts.

"Yes, you will," Regulus informs him, sounding absolutely fucking

certain. Remus doesn't even see him grab it, but there's suddenly a
dagger tucked against Riddle's cheek, the very sharp point pressing
ever so slightly against Riddle's right bottom eyelid, making him
hold very still.

Riddle holds Regulus' gaze. "Do you think I'm afraid of you? I'm not
afraid of anything."

"You've never had reason to be, have you?" Remus asks, dipping
down to come within range, humming when Riddle's gaze flicks to
him. "They say you can't experience fear, but I don't believe that. Do
you know what motivates fear the most? Pain. You've gone a long
time never knowing pain, and so you don't know what fear is. That's
okay, it's never too late to learn, and we are more than willing to
teach you."

"What can you do to me?" Riddle hisses, sneering at him.

"Oh, well, I have plenty of inspiration," Remus replies wryly, tilting

his head a little. "You can't

torture servants for years and not expect them to pick up a few
things."

"It's nothing less than you deserved," Riddle declares, no remorse in

his gaze whatsoever, and it's a good thing Remus' sense of peace
doesn't rely on that, because he won't get it. He'll never get it, and

195
honestly, he doesn't want it. "You're a criminal, an escaped convict,
utterly worthless—"

Regulus tilts the dagger closer in threat, snapping, "If you have an
ounce of self-preservation, you'll stop talking. If you don't, I'll cut
your fucking tongue out."

It's a warning. Regulus always follows through, and Riddle is

apparently smarter than everyone else who made Regulus prove it,
because—for now—Riddle falls silent.

Dorcas clicks her tongue and unscrews the lid on the jar, reaching in
to scoop up the Horcrux Hornet, still not flying. Riddle still isn't
afraid.

Carelessly, Dorcas drops the jar to the floor and pushes away from
the desk, moving over with the Horcrux Hornet resting calmly in her
palm. She reaches down and turns Riddle's hand over, and then she
eases the Horcrux Hornet into his palm, letting it rest there. She leans
forward to hover her face right over Riddle's, staring him down,
boldly.

"For every person you've made suffer, you will suffer. For every
person you made afraid, you will

be afraid. For every person you caused to die, you will die. We are
going to keep going until that Horcrux Hornet flies, until you know
what true fear is, and then we will keep going until you're dead,"
Dorcas announces softly, like a promise. "You'll be the last Master,
and at the end, you'll be entirely powerless."

The wings on the Horcrux Hornet flutter.

Remus smiles, helplessly, and he's very aware it's not a nice smile at
all. Maybe he should be ashamed of it. Maybe, someday, he will be.
Today is not that day, though.

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 The Great War

Calmly, Remus reaches over and holds his hand out. Regulus passes
him the dagger without a word. In this game of pain, perhaps it's
fitting that Remus takes his turn first.

After all, no one quite knows pain like he does. But Riddle's about to.

~•~

When it's Regulus' turn to make Riddle scream, the first one he drags
out of him is for Barty.

Barty, who could have lived. Should have. Would have, if the
Hallows who tried to help him had been allowed to. Given the time
to. No one can be consistent forever, but Barty was until he couldn't
be anymore, and it wasn't his fault. He would have kept doing it,
and Regulus knows that. Riddle is the reason Barty didn't get that
chance, and for that, he screams.

Regulus feels numb. Trojan Horse, Trojan Horse, Trojan Horse. When
it came to getting to Riddle, he was focused and out for blood,
fighting with all his might to make it here, going with Remus and
Dorcas the moment they broke away from the fight and Minerva
shouted for them to end this.

But, now that he's here, Regulus doesn't really feel here at all. He
doesn't need to be to do this.

For all those years Sirius was taken away from him, Regulus breaks
Riddle's fingers. Ten years, ten fingers.

For what Riddle took from James, Regulus takes his eyes. This is a
difficult task. Regulus has never removed someone's eyes before. It's
messy, and it takes the combined efforts of Remus and Dorcas to
keep Riddle from flopping right out of his chair.

The Horcrux Hornet flies around Riddle's head, the flutter of its
wings drowned out by the steady stream of his screams. He feels
pain, and he is afraid. Just like every other human.

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Just like Regulus.

~•~

Dorcas delivers the killing blow. They've kept going, but there
reaches a point where you've gone as far as you can, and then things
have to come to an end.

Riddle is still alive, somehow, when Dorcas swipes for the Horcrux
Hornet a few times, then eventually plucks it right out of the air. It
doesn't sting her—she's not afraid—and, even if it did, it wouldn't
matter. The wings continue to beat against her palm, trying to fly to
Riddle, and she gives it what it wants.

Dorcas grips Riddle's jaw and stuffs the Horcrux Hornet in his
mouth, then clamps her hand over the bottom half of his face,
making him choke on it. He jerks, but he's hardly capable of much
anymore. They took turns making him suffer. They took turns
making him as hollow as they could get him.

When Riddle dies, it's under Dorcas' hand, suffocated by his own
fear right there at his desk. It's fitting, Dorcas thinks. Behind his head
on the wall is the Hallow symbol, and all they can hear is the echo of
all the suffering inflicted at hands of what that symbol represents.

And then it's over. Just like that, it's over. That should mean
something, right? That should mean everything, but does it?

Dorcas steps back and waits for things to feel better. Waits for the
war to feel won. Waits, and waits, and waits.

Nothing feels different.

The world feels the exact same as it did when Riddle was in it.

The war is over, right?

Right?

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 The Great War

Dorcas thinks the war won't feel over until everyone knows it, until
they see the Master of the Hallow dead, until she sees all the fighting
come to a stop.

So, Dorcas borrows Regulus' dagger.

A bit later, Dorcas nods gratefully as Remus and Regulus peel open
the large doors at the front of the castle. They open with a groan,
creaking as the world breaks through the cracks, coming into view.
There's a ray of sunlight beaming across the front courtyard, making
the glint of blood shimmer on broken, bullet-riddled cobblestone. It's
quiet, people standing about as she exits, all eyes trained on her.

Slowly, Dorcas descends the stairs, gazing down across the crowd,
not recognizing enemy from ally, unable to distinguish between
friend or foe. It's just a wave of faces and the harsh stench of death.
Dorcas feels so fucking hollow.

She's weary when she comes to a stop on the bottom step, every
muscle in her body aching. What aches the most is her left hand
down by her hip, fingers gripping the silk-soft strands of Tom
Riddle's hair. She lifts his decapitated head so everyone can see it, so
they can all see his empty eye sockets and the Horcrux Hornet
resting on his tongue in his slack mouth, still open from his final,
muffled scream.

"We have no Master," Dorcas announces. "The war is over."

No one claps. There are no cheers. This is not a victory. They are all
here, in this moment, crowds of people who suffered war and can
never be the person they were before it. There are no good people in
war; there are only those who survive, and those who don't. The cost
of surviving war is having to figure out how to, and Dorcas doesn't
even know where to begin.

It comes to her all at once, like a lightning strike, something that

makes her fingers go slack. Riddle's head hits the ground with an
audible thump, and she doesn't care, because she does know where
to start. Of course she does.

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Why did she start the war in the first place? Why did she work so
hard to end it? The same answer to both. Marlene.

Of course it's Marlene.

Marlene, who is waiting for her, and Dorcas needs to find her now
and see her. Needs to let her know that, even though it doesn't feel
like it yet, this war has come to an end. Dorcas did it for her. Maybe
it'll feel finished when Dorcas can tell her.

So, Dorcas takes that final step down, only to come to a halt when
the crowd breaks up, people pushing through. It takes her a second
to really focus on who it is that approaches her; she knows them, all
of them, but they're strangers to her for a moment where her mind is
blank and unable to keep up. Just bodies. Just people. She can't filter
who they are, not at first.

And then it comes through to her, trickling like a drip, drip, drip of
understanding. Lily is the one that makes sense to her first, and then
James, and then in between them—Sirius. His arms are over their
shoulders, hobbling in between them, and he looks extremely worse
for wear.

Why? He was fine, wasn't he? They were fine, weren't they?

Sirius' gaze is fixed on her. Dorcas runs her gaze over them, looking
from side-to-side, peering past their shoulders. Searching. She keeps
searching.

Halfway to her, Sirius pushes away from James and Lily, taking the
slow, halting journey the rest of the way to her all alone. It probably
would be kind of her to meet him, but she feels like her feet are
cemented to the ground. Her whole body feels heavy. She can't
move. She wants to run, and she can't move.

"Dorcas," Sirius rasps as he comes to a halt in front of her. "Where is

she?" Dorcas whispers.

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 The Great War

Sirius swallows. His face is covered in tiny abrasions, patches of red

blotting through bruised skin from strain, eyes watery as he
struggles to hold her gaze. He's shaking.

"Why isn't Marlene here, Sirius? What happened to her?" Dorcas

asks, meaning for her voice to come out strong and steady, but it
trembles and barely rises above the breeze. Inside the cage of her
chest, something rattles, fighting desperately to get out. "Sirius,
where is she?"

"There was—there was a landmine—" Landmine.

A landmine.

land mine.

A landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine a

landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine
a landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine a
landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine
a landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine a
landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine a landmine
a landminelandmineland—

Landmine—an explosive mine laid on or just under the surface of

the ground. Dorcas watched people lay them down. Their own
people, to fight the creatures that looked like children. She knew
they were there. She knew that. She knew it when she and Lily
helped Sirius and Marlene navigate through the section. She knew it
when she and Lily got separated from Sirius and Marlene. She knew
it when she found out where Sirius and Marlene were, and heard
them fight the Aurors that

caught them. She knew it when she directed Sirius and Marlene back
through the area; she knew, she knew, she knew the landmines were

201
there, she knew that, of course she knew, and somehow, somehow,
she forgot.

Even leaders can make mistakes, too.

She knew. She forgot. She knew, and she forgot. She knew, and she
forgot, and that's okay because it's fine. Because it doesn't matter.
Sirius brings up a landmine, and Dorcas doesn't react to it, waiting
for that moment where it goes the way it always has; Marlene has
survived, and survived, and survived, hasn't she? All the ways in
which the world has tried to kill her, and she always survived. She
has this time as well, surely.

Sirius blinks hard and fast, taking in a stuttered inhale, and then his
face twists as he chokes out, "I'm sorry. I'm—"

"No," Dorcas says, shaking her head. She keeps shaking her head,
even when she tries to stop. She's shaking all over, and she has to
stop, because there's no reason for it. There's a flutter against her
skin, the Horcrux Hornet flying from Riddle's mouth to seek her out
instead. She ignores it, because it's mistaken. She's not afraid; there's
nothing to be afraid of.

And then Sirius reaches out for her hand, taking her trembling
fingers in his, cupping the back of her hand from beneath before
lifting his other closed fist to slowly open it and drop something cool
and circular into her palm.

"I'm so sorry, Dorcas," Sirius whispers, his voice cracking as the tears
in his eyes spill over. He draws his hand back.

Dorcas stares at the ring. Her ring, the one she designed. Marlene's
ring, the one Dorcas got onto her finger. Three times Dorcas got this
ring on Marlene's finger, and that was supposed to be it. That was it.
That was the best part. Only twice did Marlene give that ring back,
two of the worst times in Dorcas' life, and here's the third to round it
out.

The best and worst things come in threes. They had their best.

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 The Great War

Here's their worst.

The ring glints metallic and flecked with blood in the sunlight, and
Dorcas stares at it blankly, feeling as if she's floating from somewhere
above her own body. She watches herself, the way she staggers back
and stumbles over the step before she drops down to sit on the stairs.
She watches the Horcrux Hornet fly around her, sensing her fear but
refusing to sting, knowing it would die if it did so. She watches the
world flash by in a bland blur, like her life is being sped up in
glimpses for her to see in broken, wilted snapshots of someone who
fell in love with war and wasn't prepared when it ended.

She stares at the ring that they agreed Marlene would wear so that
Dorcas knew, as long as she was wearing it, Marlene would return to
her. A promise, one that Marlene did not break. Marlene isn't
wearing it. She can't return to Dorcas, and Dorcas looks at the ring,
and Dorcas feels it settle into her cold and brittle that again, as
always, she was too late.

Don't be late, Marlene had said, and that's all Dorcas has ever
managed to do. She ended the war to reach someone she didn't
know she already lost. What was the point?

What was the point of any of it?

There are no good people in war, and now Dorcas thinks there are no
good people out of it— certainly not her, because she would gladly
go back into it just to have Marlene again.

All wars end. All of them, and this one has. The war is over, and here
Dorcas is, in a world without the woman she loves, wanting nothing
more than to start another one.

203
 6
WAR AFTERMATH
______

Sirius stands at the highest point of the castle, up in an open tower

that looks over all of the

Hallow, a tower that might have been good for star-gazing on clear
nights. All it's good for now is watching the ash rise.

Years later, this is the memory that will always be the most vivid to
Sirius. The soot of war's aftermath. Ash stirred in the wind, floating
up, up, up—and then away. He thinks of the dream he had where he
and Regulus would jump from the roof of their childhood home to
fly to their stars, so real to him that it felt more like a memory than a
dream at all, but it was never possible for it to be reality. Strange how
reality and dreams blend together when life and death do. Some of
those ashes on a journey to stars are from buildings that collapsed in
the midst of war, and some are from people who did the same.

Some of those ashes could be Marlene.

Sirius exhales shakily and wrings his fingers together, rolling his
knuckles against each other, hiding the way his hands still shake.
They haven't stopped. He can't make them stop.

Down below, people look like ants in the distance, all rushing
around like they've spilled out of a broken open anthill. They crawl
about, spreading farther and farther, all those willing to keep going
—or just those who can't bear to stop—delegated to post-war efforts.
Cleanup crews. Groups who have to collect the dead. Teams sent out
to search for those no one can find.

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 War Aftermath

What comes after a war ends is almost as exhausting as the war

itself. There are a lot of people who have tapped out, and there are
plenty who have been ordered to tap out, after all they gave in the
war. Sirius tapped out in the middle of war and didn't find his way
back to himself until he was standing across from Dorcas with a ring
burning into the skin of his palm, and he has no desire to tap back in,
not anymore.

Everyone with minor injuries have been healed up now, with those
with more extensive injuries shipped off to a Hallow hospital. Sirius
has thankfully been cleared to heal on his own. They checked him
over, gave him proper medical treatment, but he got off rather light
from the landmine, compared to—

In any case, Sirius will have a new scar, while sitting down and
standing up still hurts a bit, and he's a little slow-going at the
moment, but he's okay. Physically, he's okay. That's it, though.

No one's okay now, not really.

The sound of the door creaking makes Sirius tense up, his head
whipping around as his muscles bunch up under his skin in
preparation, and they stay that way as he watches Regulus slip
inside.

"How'd you know I'd be here?" Sirius asks, and Regulus jolts, his
head snapping up, visibly startled.

Regulus exhales and says, "I didn't."

"Oh," Sirius murmurs, then swivels back around to lean on the rail
again, peering out over everything. Regulus comes to join him,
moving as silently as he always does, like his feet don't even touch
the floor. When he stops next to Sirius, he makes a low noise of
distaste as he checks the distance to the ground, frowning down over
the rail before shuffling closer to Sirius like it's an instinct. It's sweet.
It almost brings Sirius to tears.

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"It's, um." Regulus halts, struggling with words as he often does and
always has, except when he's being harsh. He sighs and gingerly
leans against the rail, possibly just so they can press their arms

together. It's a solid weight and warmth that Sirius wants to shy
away from. "Just—it's a bit overwhelming. In there.
With...everything. So, I—I wanted to—"

"Get away?"

"Yeah, guess so. You?"

Sirius blows out a deep breath, eyes sinking shut as he hangs his
head forward. "Something like that."

Neither of them say anything for a while, just breathing next to one
another. No one has really said anything of substance, because what
is there to say? Riddle is dead. Barty is dead. Marlene is dead. Monty
is dead. Rabastan, Sybill, Amos. Frank, Bellatrix, Augusta. Lily's
family, Alice's family, even the families of those dead, like Barty and
Marlene. Ted, Evan, Gideon, Fabian, friends, foes, strangers. Death,
and more death, and more death. At some point, there's so much
death that it seems impossible to properly mourn.

How do you mourn on such a mass scale? How do you mourn

people you haven't really processed losing yet? How do you mourn
those lost to a war you were always aware you could lose them to in
the first place? How do you mourn?

People talk about how you're supposed to, but it rarely works that
way, does it? Some people cried. Regulus did. As soon as he
stumbled from the castle and right into James' arms, he broke down
weeping right there where everyone and anyone could see him,
muffling his sobs into James' chest. James cried, too, when they all
found Effie later, bloodstained and trembling through her own tears
as she—when she said—

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 War Aftermath

Where's Dad? James had asked, and Sirius felt that question lodged
in his throat like a splinter. And Effie said.

She said.

James cried, because of what she said. Begged her to be wrong.

Pleaded with her to change her mind and take it all back and say
that his dad was alive somewhere, waiting, but she couldn't, and he
cried. Flinched back from his own mother when she reached for him,
then curled into Regulus

instead, and cried there, and cried, and cried.

Sirius didn't cry. Couldn't cry. He stopped crying when Dorcas

picked herself up and walked away, pushed through the crowd and
left the castle behind, left them all behind. Remus had cradled Sirius'
face in his hands, and Sirius didn't cry.

He hasn't cried since. He wants to, sometimes, because that's what

you're supposed to do, right? He thinks he should, but his eyes
remain stubbornly dry.

"Sirius," Regulus says quietly.

"Yeah, Regulus?" Sirius asks, equally quiet as him.

"What do we do now?" Regulus leans into him harder, seeking

something that Sirius can't even give him. Comfort, maybe. Or
reassurance. Presence. Guidance.

It's like the aftermath of Sirius' first hunger games all over again, and
he hates it, hates the way he can feel the weight of being needed
bearing down on him, this building pressure that feels like
suffocation. He can't fucking breathe around it, how difficult it is to
keep from digging his hands in the distance between them they
worked so hard to close and ripping it right back open. Regulus
makes his skin crawl, because Sirius can't take care of him. Sirius
can't even take care of himself.

207
All he sees now when he looks at Regulus are the ways in which he
failed him. He looks at Regulus and thinks of all that he has suffered,
all that he has lost, and he thinks: that was the kind of shit that was
supposed to happen to me, not him.

Never him. Sirius volunteered so it wouldn't be him, and here they

are, knowing suffering and loss on a scale Sirius never wanted to be
equal. Sirius' perpetual mirror, one he wants to apologize to, one he's
so tired of looking at. It's not Regulus' fault, it's not, but Sirius is
being crushed by it. He's being crushed by so many things.
Everything.

Sirius swallows harshly and says, "I guess we'll go home soon. There
will be—funerals."

"I have to—" Regulus halts, then clears his throat rather violently.
"I'm the closest thing Barty had to family, out of everyone left, so I—I
have to arrange it."

Sirius should offer to help. He doesn't.

"After the funerals..." Regulus trails off. He breathes in, then he

breathes out. Sirius can feel him pressed close, how stiff he is, like
he's bracing for a hit. He knows. Why wouldn't he? He's used to this,
isn't he? The worst part is, when he says what he does next, it's not
even a question. "After that, you're leaving."

Sirius' eyes flutter shut, and he croaks, "Yeah, Reggie, I'm leaving
again."

He can't do it. Can't, can't, can't. Doesn't know how. Maybe he never
did. Maybe he never will. He just can't. The moment Marlene went
to pieces, he did too. Regulus can't see that. Sirius can't let him, can't
bear to, can't pick the pieces up when his brother is in pieces right
next to him. Marlene died, and it broke him. Barty died, and it broke
Regulus. Monty died, and it broke their hearts. All they are now is
scars split open and bleeding, and Sirius can't stitch either of them
up. Can't put anyone's pieces back together.

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 War Aftermath

There's a moment of stillness, neither of them breathing, and then

Regulus' breath punches out of him. It's a little strangled in a way
that sears the inside of Sirius' chest and makes him want to curl into
himself until he disappears. He's sorry. He's so sorry. He can't stop
being sorry.

A pressure, gentle, and Sirius' eyes snap open when he feels the
weight on his shoulder, the tickle of soft hair against his neck and the
bolt of his jaw. He slants his gaze to the side to find Regulus lying his
head there, his face hiding away there, a tremble rippling through
his whole body. He stays there for a long moment, and then he sniffs
and pulls away.

"Okay," Regulus says, the word cracking in his throat. "Okay?" Sirius
repeats blankly.

Regulus nods. "Yeah, Sirius. Okay. Just—um, I'm assuming you'll be

with Remus? Will you two be in district twelve?"

"We—haven't talked about it," Sirius admits, staring at the side of

Regulus' face. "I imagine he'll want to go back and be with his dad
for a while, so I thought that's where we'd go."

"Okay," Regulus repeats on an exhale. "Right. Okay, well, that's—that

could be good for you, then."

"That's...it?" Sirius asks, still staring at him. "You're not—"

"Not what?" Regulus cuts in, turning to meet his eyes, his own
startlingly soft. "Angry?"

"Are you?" Sirius whispers.

"No, Sirius," Regulus says softly. "I'm not angry anymore."

"You should be," Sirius chokes out. "You have to be. I think I want
you to be. I'm abandoning you again, aren't I?"

209
"You never abandoned me. It was never your place to put me before
you. All you did was what was best for you, what you needed, and I
was wrong to ever blame you for that," Regulus murmurs.

"Regulus," Sirius rasps.

"I'm not a child, and you aren't my parent," Regulus states firmly,
and it shouldn't feel so harsh, so ruthless, because it's the truth, but it
hits Sirius hard anyway. "We're brothers, and we can't—we never
really figured out how to walk away from that. You're—Sirius,
you're—" He stops, drops his gaze, and starts again. "It's not on you
to shape your life around what I want, or what you think I need.
You—you have to do what's best for you, because what I really need
is for you to be okay. That's it. So, if you have to go, then go. It's okay.
It really is."

"You don't hate me for it?" Sirius asks weakly.

Regulus releases a hoarse laugh that hitches in his throat, and he

says, "Sirius, I love you more than anything. You're the first person in
this world I ever loved at all. Not Mother, not Father, not

James; it was you. Did you know that? Because, for a while, I
suppose I—I fooled myself into thinking it wasn't true, but the thing
is, I've always loved you, and I always will. It doesn't matter where
you are, where you need to be, even if where you need to be isn't
with me. I'll just—love you anyway."

Sirius' eyes are stinging. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Regulus rasps. "That's all I did for those ten years, you know,
and if it takes ten more before you're okay to come home, I'll love
you through those, too. Me and you, remember? We agreed to that,
didn't we? It's—it's still true no matter where we are or what we're
doing, right?"

"Me and you, no matter what," Sirius agrees, and it comes out
choked. He aches with it in the best and worst way possible at the

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same time, leaving him feeling broken open and bared to the whole
Hallow that can't even see him. He reaches for the back of Regulus'
neck, shaking him a little, making his head wobble and drawing a
broken laugh out of him, always the mirror image of the things
Sirius struggles to look at, and he tugs Regulus close anyway. "It's
the same for me, you know."

"Is it?"

"When—when you were still so small, couldn't even walk yet, I

remember—it's one of the few things I can remember, oddly enough,
but I remember that I'd sneak out of my own bed just to sit beside
yours and reach out so you could hold onto my finger while you
slept. I thought—I don't know, I just—I liked how it felt, like I was
making sure you felt safe by letting you know I was there. And I
didn't really—I didn't have the words for it, what it felt like to do
that every night, like a compulsion I couldn't beat and didn't even
try to, because I liked it, and I felt so—I felt it, like it was my own
heart in my chest, and I didn't even know what hearts were, but I
knew that you were mine, and I knew that I loved you. I knew, then,
that I always would. I know, now, that I always have. And I'll know,
with my final breath, that I always did."

Regulus ducks his head forward, not even that much shorter or
smaller than Sirius in the grand scheme of things, yet in Sirius'
presence, he seems to shrink. He has hated that before, Sirius knows,
but Sirius loves it. He can't help it. He used to carry Regulus around
on his back, and he still would if Regulus would let him, but Regulus
won't, and so he gets this instead.

He gets Regulus folding into him, head under his chin, small and
deflated like he doesn't have to worry about a damn thing as long as
Sirius is there to shield him. Sirius hasn't always been there to shield
him, can't always be there to shield him, and so he takes every
available opportunity offered to him to do so. He does it now,
scrubbing his hand over Regulus' head and holding him, pressing
his face into his hair.

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And it's here, finally, that Sirius finds it in himself to cry. ~•~

Lily blows out a deep breath as she watches Sundry hover around
Kingsley, who she directed them to for any information on their
family. The information wasn't good, as it turns out, and now Sundry
just follows Kingsley around everywhere like they're waiting for
better news.

Lily gets it, really. Kingsley is comforting in his steady calm, and
after the war that took place, everyone aches for a sense of serenity.
Sundry doesn't know that Kingsley is colder than he's ever been,
stiffer, more withdrawn. More militaristic now than he was before
Sybill died. He gives out orders and delegates and never misses a
beat; he's already lost the one he couldn't bear to lose, and so all of
this, now, is just a mission to him. He's always focused during a
mission. Reliable. Lily can't blame Sundry for being drawn to that.
Lily can blame herself for how that's become Kingsley's natural state.

Swallowing, Lily turns and continues on her self-imposed journey

away from the castle. It's a long trek, where she's going, but it's her
turn to make it.

The Hallow is a bustle of activity the day after the final battle. All
Aurors that remain are now working on Dumbledore's orders,
keeping the general public calm and out of the way while volunteers
help clean up. Lily walks through streets that were littered with
bodies only yesterday, streets that are empty now, all except for ash
and bloodstains. The stench of death still lingers, thick enough to
make anyone gag.

Lily has heard updates of the numbers, those steadily on the rise, but
it's hard to have any concrete information either way. Of the armies
sent in to fight in the Hallow, at least half died before they ever
reached the castle. They have recovered a small fraction that were
saved by Hallow sympathizers; that's where Kingsley was. He
would have died had a group of Hallows siding with the resistance
not saved his life.

There's also a whole fraction of people just—missing. Those in the

section with the black tar set as a trap, which devoured people whole

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 War Aftermath

and never spit them back out again. People still look, but they can't
recover any bodies, so some people are just gone. Just like that.
Never seen again.

Teams have gone out to collect weaponry, disarm explosives, and

transport people to and from places they need to be. It's not quite
rebuilding yet, because that takes time, and that takes having

some sort of knowledge of what the fuck to do next. No one knows

what to do next.

The whole world is in a state of disarray now, and Lily can't bring
herself to care about the state of the world at all. She has helped as a
medic when and where she can, but right this second, there's
something she needs to do.

Dorcas is exactly where Lily expected to find her.

For a moment, Lily stops on the sidewalk, her throat feeling clogged
as she gazes at where Dorcas is. Four blocks north of The Dillmar
Suites, Dorcas is waiting.

Two blocks back, Marlene is dead. Or, well, that's where she died.
They've collected her remains already. What remained of her, that is.
The thought turns Lily's stomach; the thought of Marlene in pieces is
so sickening that Lily can barely stand it, and that's the reality. That's
the reality for Sirius, more so than anyone else, because he saw it. He
hasn't been the same since.

Lily inhales, then she exhales. Dread makes her stiff as she moves
forward, drawing closer to Dorcas, who has been in the same spot
since Sirius returned Marlene's ring to her. She came here, and she
won't move. Many people have tried, but Dorcas won't budge.

It's been over twenty-four hours.

A part of Lily has been too scared to try. Too scared to face it. Too
scared to see what becomes of someone who has gone through what

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Dorcas has, because Dorcas started this war to save Marlene, and
then the war killed Marlene anyway. All that she did to make sure
Marlene would live, and all those she recruited to help—Lily
included—and Marlene died anyway.

It's not fair. Life isn't, war isn't, love isn't. That's what Lily knows for
sure now; nothing in this fucking world is fair. Everything else blurs,
but that remains clear.

Dorcas is sitting on the curb, her head pointed towards the south,
gaze fixated in that direction. Her expression is blank. She looks
emptied out. Scraped raw. Hollow.

When Lily crouches down in front of her, Dorcas doesn't look at her,
doesn't acknowledge her, doesn't even move. She just sits there. She's
still covered in blood. She smells like death. Lily wants to bundle her
up and take her to get clean, make her eat, make her sleep. Lily just
wants to

help.

"Dorcas," Lily says softly.

No reply. Nothing. It's as if Lily isn't even here. Lily swallows and
tries again. "Dorcas?"

Still nothing.

Exhaling, Lily shifts and glances towards the direction Dorcas is

staring towards. For a pitiful moment, Lily is looking for Marlene,
too. Wanting to see her so, so badly. Wanting to sit down and wait
right beside Dorcas in solidarity, however long it takes, because
Marlene deserved to walk out the other side of the war. She really
did. She fought so fucking hard to get there and then didn't even
make it.

Just not afraid to die, then?

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 War Aftermath

No, I'm rather used to it, actually.

Maybe that was true. Maybe Marlene held hands with death so long
she never worked out how to let go, or maybe she never could
because death wasn't going to let her go. Lily snatched her away,
once, and she was foolish enough to believe, or hope, that maybe
death was done reaching.

Clearly, it wasn't.

"Dorcas," Lily tries yet again, this time reaching out to touch her arm,
startled when Dorcas snatches away from her.

"Don't touch me," Dorcas grits out, never looking away from the
open road, waiting for a silhouette that'll never come.

"Dorcas," Lily whispers.

"Don't even try it. Don't bother," Dorcas snaps, poison coating her
words, harsh and ugly and furious with the world, along with
everyone in it. "I'm not moving for anyone other than her. You're not
her. You were never her. You'll never be her."

Lily sits on that for a second. It would probably hurt if any part of
Lily wanted to be what Marlene was—and still is, and likely always
will be—to Dorcas. No part of Lily wants that, now.

"She's not coming," Lily says softly, because that's what all this boils
down to. No one can get Dorcas to move, because this is what it
requires, and no one wants to be the one to say it. No one wants to be
this cruel. "Dorcas, she's not coming."

"Maybe—" and Dorcas' voice cracks right in half, her bleary eyes
blinking as she forms that weak noise into a low hiss of anger. "You
don't—she could—maybe she was fine, maybe they found her, and
maybe—"

215
"I'm sorry," Lily murmurs, curling her hands into fists so she won't
reach out and touch her again.

"Don't be. There's no reason to be," Dorcas insists, wild-eyed as she

stares and waits, stares and waits, stares and waits.

Lily takes a deep breath, feeling it skip and stutter inside her chest
from how it hurts, bracing for the pain of what she has to say next.
Not saying it isn't an option, because Dorcas can't sit here and waste
away. Lily knows how much it hurts to not know, but for Dorcas, not
knowing is the only hope she has; knowing is going to hurt so much
more.

"Dorcas, she's—" Lily struggles with it for a moment, the words

fighting against the lump in her throat. She takes a second, then
swallows and exhales. "She's dead. She's confirmed dead. Someone
will be notifying Cordelia today."

Dorcas' legs begin bouncing up and down. She shakes her head. "No.
No, because—because we were—because she—"

"I'm sorry," Lily says again, knowing it's useless.

"It's bullshit!" Dorcas spits out, her head whipping around as she
pins blazing eyes on Lily. "That's not true. It's not true. Fuck you,
Lily. Fuck off. Go. Go away. Get away from me."

"You can't stay here," Lily whispers.

"She shouldn't be—she—" Dorcas is rattling, her legs jumping

rapidly until she's practically rocking. Her face twists with pure fury.
"It shouldn't be her. She shouldn't be dead. Anyone else. Everyone
else, I don't care, but not her."

Lily knows it's the grief, she knows that, but there's something oddly
terrifying about how Dorcas seems to mean it.

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 War Aftermath

"You. Even you," Dorcas declares harshly, glaring at her. "I'd rather it
be you. Instead of her, I'd rather you be dead."

"Okay," Lily replies quietly, gazing upon the most heartbreaking

thing she's ever seen.

"Or Sirius," Dorcas continues. "He was there. Why couldn't it have
been him?"

"I don't know," is all Lily says.

"Even me," Dorcas tells her, and this time, her voice comes out weak
with a whimper. "I wish it had been me."

"She wouldn't." Lily gazes at her, heart panging when Dorcas'

expression twitches like it's about to collapse. "Marlene wouldn't
wish that, Dorcas, so you can't stay here. You can't sit here, neglect
yourself, and wait to die. You have to get up."

"Well, she's not here to stop me, is she?" Dorcas snarls, swinging
between anger and defeat in rotation.

"No, she's not," Lily agrees, "but I am."

"Like I said, you're not her," Dorcas informs her coldly, holding her
gaze. "Leave me alone, or I'll kill you."

Lily sighs. "I'm not—"

Dorcas' hand snaps down to her hip to grab her gun, and she aims it
a scant few inches to the right of Lily's head before promptly pulling
the trigger. It happens in seconds.

A shriek rips free from Lily's mouth as she falls back, tumbling out
into the empty road as her hands fly up to cover her head
instinctively, whole body rattling as her heart shoots up into her
throat, and she's there again, instantly, right in the middle of war she
foolishly believed herself free from, sheer fear ricocheting through

217
her like a bullet. Lily has no idea how long it takes for her to realize
she's okay, not in the midst of a warzone, and entirely uninjured.

Not safe, though. Lily doesn't feel safe. She feels—scared. True fear
unfurls within her as she lowers her arms, chest heaving, body
trembling there on the ground. Dorcas watches her impassively, gun
still in hand, and Lily stares at her with wide eyes before scrambling
back, putting space between them.

"Leave," Dorcas orders.

So, utterly fucking terrified, Lily stumbles to her feet and does just
that. When she leaves, she's running, because that's exactly what you
do when you're in danger. She runs, and she doesn't slow down, and
she doesn't stop.

~•~

They send Minerva next. Days later, or hours, or years, or seconds.

Dorcas doesn't know when. Doesn't care, either. She's not there, then
she is, and Dorcas ignores her, too.

They don't get it, really. It's better if Dorcas stays here, better for
everyone else, because she can't do much damage here. It's in
everyone's best interest that she's not unleashed on the rest of the
world. Her hands itch to burn the Hallow to the ground.

Minerva stands in front of her for a while, then slowly kneels down
until they're right across from each other, eye-level. Dorcas doesn't
look at her; she's still gazing towards the south. She knows

it's pointless, deep down, because Marlene isn't coming. Can't come.
Wouldn't make Dorcas wait if she could come, because unlike
Dorcas, she was never too late. Dorcas knows; she just likes the
comfort of pretending.

"So, what's the plan?" Minerva asks quietly. "Are you planning to just
sit here?" "Yep," Dorcas confirms defiantly.

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 War Aftermath

"Until when?"

Dorcas doesn't deem that question worthy of a response. Until

when? She doesn't know. Forever, maybe. Until she sinks into the
earth and grows flowers through her cracked open ribcage in
memorial of the woman who planted them there. Until Marlene
comes walking down that road from the south, or until Dorcas dies,
whichever comes first.

"Will you miss her funeral, then?" Minerva murmurs.

Again, Dorcas doesn't respond. To this, she has no idea how to

respond. A funeral. The funeral. Marlene's funeral, because she's
dead. She's not coming, because she's dead. She's dead, she's dead,
she's dead, she's—

"Dumbledore is calling a meeting tomorrow," Minerva says into the

silence. Dorcas blinks, her head swiveling, because this does pique
her interest. "He wants to discuss how to memorialize those lost to
the war, as well as talk about what next moves need to be made for
the world as a whole."

Dumbledore, Dorcas thinks, like a harsh scrape on the inside of her

skull, chipping bone. Dumbledore started this war because of love,
and so did Dorcas. By the end, what do they have to show for it?
That's the thing, they have to work for that, too. Leaders don't get to
just stop. That's not how it works. The war is over, but the world
carries on, and they're all trapped in it.

It infuriates Dorcas. Everything infuriates Dorcas. The people who

carry on when Marlene doesn't. The warmth of the sun and the turn
of the earth and the way people have already started to wash away
the blood in the streets. Some of that blood must have been
Marlene's. Dorcas wishes she had bathed in it; Dorcas wants to turn
back time and drown in it.

"I'm not going to tell you that you can't stay here," Minerva
murmurs, reaching around to pull a pack off her shoulders, sitting it

219
down next to Dorcas. "Take more time if you need it. There's food in
here, and water, and a blanket if you get cold. I will need to take
your gun, though."

"You're not taking my gun," Dorcas snaps.

"I am, because not only are you a danger to others, you're a danger to
yourself. I can't trust you not to turn it on yourself," is the calm, level
response. Minerva waits, and when Dorcas doesn't reply, she nods
sharply. "If you want the comfort of holding it, then give me your
bullets. Don't make me take it from you, Dorcas. I don't want to have
to do that."

"I'll shoot you before you get the chance," Dorcas says, and she
means it. Her fingers itch to do it, in fact. "I should do it anyway.
It's—this is your fault. You're the one who told Riddle what rule to
use in the Quarterly Memorial, even if it was on Dumbledore's
orders. Marlene would have never been in the arena a second time, if
not for you. And—and maybe I could have kept her out of the war.
Maybe I could have saved her from all of this. I could have protected
her. I did protect her, until you ruined it. She's dead, and it's your
fault."

"Shoot me, then," Minerva declares bluntly, reaching out to grab the
hand Dorcas has wrapped around her gun. Minerva lifts it and
forcefully pushes the gun against her own head, holding her gaze.
"Go ahead. Shoot me."

Dorcas glares at her.

"Will that grant you peace, Dorcas?" Minerva asks, leaning into the
gun, eyes fluttering closed. "Will it grant me peace? Will it honor
Marlene? If that is what you need, then I'll be your willing target. Is
that not a mother's love?"

"You're not my mother," Dorcas whispers, and then she pulls the
trigger. As soon as she does, she flinches, but Minerva doesn't. She
doesn't even flinch when the gun clicks.

No bullets.

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 War Aftermath

The worst part is, Dorcas didn't know she ran out.

No, maybe the worst part is that Dorcas wishes she hadn't.

Minerva leans back and opens her eyes. For a long beat, they just
stare at each other with the heavy knowledge of what just happened
sitting between them. Dorcas tried to kill her. She tried to shoot her.
She pulled the trigger.

"Hydrate, eat, stay warm," Minerva says softly, pushing to her feet
and stepping back. She doesn't try to take the gun; she has no need
to, now that she knows it's empty. Dorcas stares at her and wishes
she'd had at least one more bullet. "I'll see to it that no one else comes
to bother you. If you haven't returned by tomorrow, I'll bring you
more supplies."

"You're not my mother," Dorcas spits out viciously.

"No, I'm not," Minerva agrees, "but I love you as a mother does.
From what I know, a love such as that is unconditional. I'll love you
through this, too. She's gone, Dorcas, but she did not take all the love
for you in this world when she left it. I am still here. There are many
people still here, and we will still be here when you're ready for us."

"Could take a while," Dorcas says harshly.

Minerva gazes at her with so much sympathy, and all she says is an
unbearably gentle, "Then we'll wait."

With that, Minerva turns and sweeps off. Dorcas grinds her teeth and
points her gun at Minerva's back, listening to the repeated click,
click, click that comes from pulling the trigger. In the aftermath, once
Minerva has left and Dorcas has stopped squeezing her finger, the
world sounds very quiet.

Dorcas kicks aside the pack with a snarl and drops the gun with a
clatter, glaring down at her shaking hands, staring only for a

221
moment at the ring on her finger before quickly looking away.
Refusing to look at it. Ignoring what it means.

Pretending.

Exhaling, Dorcas balls her hands into fists and turns her head to fix
her itchy eyes towards the south.

~•~

When James was young, he would crawl into bed between his
parents just to fall asleep to the feeling of them breathing. It would
probably embarrass others to admit this, but he's not ashamed about
the fact that he'd do this all the way until he was sixteen, when he
finally got too big for them all to fit comfortably for long periods of
time, and before Sirius moved in, leaving James to find his way into
his bed instead.

James can't remember a time he ever enjoyed sleeping alone. He can

remember a time when his parents never made him. No matter what
was going on, if James poked his head through the door of his
parents' room, they'd lift up from their pillows, chuckle fondly, and
make space between them that he would run forward to take up.
Safe there between the wall of love and comfort they made for him
on each side.

Maybe that's why James is so warm, because he's been soaking up

the warmth from them nearly his whole life, full to the brim of all
that they offered him, a combination of them both down to his very
genetic makeup. They made him together, created him together, gave
pieces of themselves to form him together; they gave him life, and
now his dad is gone from it.

James doesn't really know how to handle that.

He's not handling it, honestly. He has mostly just been with his
mum. They have temporary rooms in the castle, and James has one
with Regulus, but he hasn't been in it. He's hardly moved out of bed

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 War Aftermath

with Effie, still instinctively taking up the middle like he's waiting
for Monty to join on the other side.

Effie has been quiet. Well, she has cried, curled up next to James and
breaking into tears with no warning, right in the middle of a
sentence, or in silence. She rests her head on his chest a lot, and he
strokes her back and hair, and nothing is devastating the same way
as your mother crying; nothing in this world hurts the way that
hurts, James now knows.

After all that he's suffered, James has learned that there's new pain to
experience. All these people who lost their parents, or just one, and
James still never dared to entertain the thought that he would, too.
He tried to, once. Back when the Quarterly Memorial came about,
James did try to entertain the thought that he'd lose his mum,
because that was her original plan.

Never, through any of this, did he imagine losing his dad.

Perhaps that was naive of him. Too hopeful. Everyone around him
was losing friends and lovers and family, and he was on the outside
looking in, untouched by such cruelty. Yes, he has lost, but never
someone who was his. Some would have called him lucky, and then
his luck ran out, so they can't anymore.

What strikes him as unfair the most is how close he was. How close
they all were. They nearly scraped by, making it to that final stretch,
and then it all fell apart. But, honestly, James is aware that it doesn't
matter when or how it would have happened—years ago or years
from now— because it was always going to feel unfair to him. It
always will.

What James isn't expecting is his curiosity. The desperate need to

know every little detail of how and when, his mind hung up on the
sequence of events that led to his dad leaving without getting to say
goodbye. Yes, Monty was with Effie, and he got to tell her that he
loved her, and he got to tell her to tell everyone else he loved them,
but James wasn't there. He didn't get to be there, didn't get to tell his

223
dad how much he loves him, didn't get to say goodbye one final
time—and it kills him. He's obsessing over it, constantly biting back
the demands of more, more, more from Effie, because he wants more
of Monty, and there's no more to have.

It's unfair to her, James thinks. Selfish of him, really, to keep asking
her to revisit it. She told him everything, has told him all of it, and
there are no changes between one retelling and the next. It remains
the same from beginning to end, and that's all they get. James wasn't
there, and that's all he gets.

He flinched away from Effie when she reached for him; it's
something that will always sit heavy and sour in his stomach,
something he'll always regret. He didn't mean to. He just—he
couldn't help it, in that moment, because she was the one who had to
tell him that his dad was dead. All he could do was turn to Regulus.
Turn to him and fall apart, just as Regulus had fallen apart before,
because Barty is gone, too.

"James," Effie whispers.

"Yeah, Mum?" James croaks, his voice hoarse from lack of use, other
than sobs. He turns his head to look at her, and it always makes his
chest pang to look at her now. He's never seen her look like this.
Small and listless. Old. She looks like she's aged ten years overnight,
all at once.

"You don't have to stay with me, honey," Effie tells him, reaching out
to cover his hand with her own. "You can—"

"I'm not going anywhere," James rasps, winding his fingers around
hers, squeezing them.

Effie exhales, eyes drifting shut. "We have to go home soon."

"I don't want to go home and not find him there," James admits, then
instantly regrets it when Effie's shoulders hitch, a harsh sob spilling
out of her. "Oh, oh, Mum, I'm—I'm sorry—"

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 War Aftermath

"No, it's—please don't apologize, it's okay," Effie chokes out, clinging
to his hand. "I don't either, James, but he's—he's there. He's wherever
we are. We take him wherever we go."

It's not the same, James wants to say, because it's not. It will never be
the same: it can't be, when James won't be able to reach out and
touch his dad, when Effie won't have someone sleeping next to her
every night, when they'll believe with everything in them that he's
looking after them from wherever he is, but they don't get the chance
to look back.

James can't say that to her. He won't hurt her in such a way. So, he
strokes her hand and blinks itchy eyes, swollen from the unrelenting
sting of tears he did eventually run out of. They're reloading, though.
Building up again. There's always more just waiting to be set loose.
Crying hurts, too.

Effie is still crying, the sort of crying that doesn't stop easily, and
James holds her and comforts her as much as he can, not very
surprised when—later, much later—she drifts off into fretful sleep.
Neither of them have done much sleeping, really. They're exhausted
at this point.

It's getting late. The second day after the war ends is bleeding into
night. James knows this because Sirius slips into the room once it's
dark. He did this the previous night, too, and the chair he sat in
before still sits on Effie's side of the bed. He'd held her hand all
through the night and held James' gaze for as long as either of them
could bear it, and James thinks the only reason he continued to
breathe the night following his father's death is because Sirius was
there for him to breathe with.

Remus stays with Lily at night, or so Sirius said when James asked.
Regulus—well, no one knows where Regulus goes. He always comes
back, not to speak or seek comfort, but simply to be here. That's all
they can do for each other right now; exist in the same space and
make sure the other gets to see them, to be reassured by the very
sight of them. Regulus is grieving Monty as well, but he's also lost
Barty, and that's—it's clearly weighing on him hard. He disappears
sometimes to go wrestle with it alone, and James doesn't want to

225
make him do it alone, but James can't figure out how he's supposed
to get up again.

"Dumbledore is calling a meeting tomorrow," Sirius whispers,

looking at James and looking so

tired. His gaze flicks to Effie, face softening when he takes in how
deeply she's sleeping, and then he focuses on James again. "Will you
go?"

"No," James says immediately, glancing down at his mum, then

looking at Sirius desperately. "Will you go for us?"

"Yes, James, of course," Sirius murmurs.

"I'm sorry. That's not—I shouldn't have—"

"Stop, James. Just stop. Anything you need, you know that."

James blows out a deep breath and peers at Sirius wearily, tracing his
features through the dark. "You don't have to go. Fuck anyone who's
expecting us, yeah? We'll just skip it."

"Regulus wants to go," Sirius murmurs. "I think he feels better

knowing what's going on, and I'm not letting him go alone. Remus
will be there, too, so I'll just...see what happens."

"Alright," James mumbles. "If you're sure."

Sirius nods. "I am. You should get some sleep. You're tired."

"You can—" James stops, then swallows and ignores the harsh clench
in his chest, so harsh that he has to cough around it just to breathe.
"Ah, what are you sitting all the way over there for? You don't have
to do that. Come get in bed. It's—it's big enough for three."

It is. James knows because he's been waiting for the weight of his
dad to settle in warm and secure on the other side, and that isn't

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going to happen. That's never going to happen again, but leaving

that space empty doesn't do anything other than make him more
aware of who doesn't fill it, and James is so tired of no one being
there. He wants his dad. That's who he wants, but that isn't who he's
going to get.

Besides, Sirius is still healing. He shouldn't be sitting up in a chair all

night. So, when Sirius looks at him tentatively, asking if James is sure
without having to open his mouth, James gives him a

careful nod and scoots to make more room.

Sirius stands cautiously and eases around the bed, pausing on the
other side long enough that James shifts a little to look back. Sirius'
eyebrows are furrowed, and there's something there in his gaze,
uncertainty and guilt, as if he's an unwitting intruder. James huffs
and jerks his head, not standing for any of that. Monty loved Sirius
like a father did; Sirius is allowed to mourn him as a son would.

Exhaling, Sirius bends down to brace his hand on the bed, then starts
a little in surprise, blinking. Shockingly, a hoarse chuckle spills out of
him as he whispers, "Sorry, I just wasn't expecting that. Did you keep
it warm for me or something?"

"What?" James asks.

"The bed." Sirius sweeps his hand up and down the spot he's about
to lay in. "Were you just laying here? It's really warm."

"What?" James chokes out a second time, his hand flying out to press
his palm into the sheets, the sting in his eyes building once more as
his vision blurs. It is warm. It's so fucking warm, and James hasn't
been lying there, has kept his back to it for the sake of his own
emotional state. The room is cold and all places that he and his
mother do not lie are cool to the touch, other than this spot. Monty's
spot.

"James?" Sirius asks, his voice small and wary.

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"Can you—will you sleep in the middle?" James whimpers, his voice
cracking as he rolls away from his mother and sinks into the spot
that's even warmer than the one he just rolled out of. Sirius doesn't
ask questions; he just shifts to the end of the bed and crawls up into
the middle, letting Effie latch onto him in her sleep without
complaint, one of his hands reaching out to press in between James'
shoulder blades.

Maybe Monty is here, in his own warm way. Maybe he's not. James
doesn't know, but he presses his face against the bed and lets himself
deflate into a gentle spark of solace.

It's not the same as having his dad there, but since this is all James
gets, it's close enough.

~•~

The gravestone is made of white marble, fresher than most in the

graveyard, not yet aged with time and the continuation of life where
the dead can't carry on with the rest of the world.

It's warm out for the third morning in a row following the war, blue
skies and birds chirping, the sun blanketing everything in warmth
and making the headstone look bleached like bone. There's a name
chiseled into it, along with a date, as well as a short and simple
message that reads:

As the earth turns, someone remembers me.

The graveyard is full—not of people, but of graves. Older graves

through the years, those in the Hallow that died before the war made
it here. In the center is Gellert Grindelwald's final resting place, a
pristine gravestone bigger than the rest with a statue raised in his
honor. He died young, before he made it to thirty; objectively, he was
a handsome man, which is translated well through his statue even
fifty years later.

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Regulus tears his gaze away from Grindelwald's statue to look at the
plaque beneath it. The Hallow's First, Beloved Master.

Riddle won't get a grave, from what Regulus has heard. They had
him cremated—his head, too— and apparently threw his ashes away.
He had no family to give his ashes to, and the only people he has to
remember him by are those too ashamed to, now. Ironic how that
goes, isn't it?

Next to Regulus, there's a soft sigh. Somber. Heavy. Regulus swivels

his head and feels his heart clench as he watches Pandora swipe
tears from her cheeks. One of her arms is tucked through his elbow,
fingers draped over his sleeve.

The date on the headstone had made her cry. Her father died a little
over two weeks ago; she missed him by fifteen days. Only fifteen
days, back when she was giggling at the table in the Great Hall at the
Phoenix, unaware that—at the same time—her father was taking his
final breath. Fourteen days ago, his caretaker handled and arranged
the funeral. Thirteen days ago, the war began with the fighting in the
districts. Three days ago, the war ended in the Hallow.

The war lasted ten days. A build up of fifty years, and all the fighting
sprinkled throughout, but the main battles from start to finish started
and finished in ten days.

In the grand scheme of things, that's nothing. That's not the ten years
of the Trojan War. That's the length of the average hunger games,
really. And yet, it feels like both; it feels like a lifetime and a mere
blink.

Regulus echoes Pandora's sigh, and she flexes her fingers on his arm
before clearing her throat thickly, leaning against him like she needs
to and like she knows he'll allow it. He will. He does. Of course he
will; of course he does.

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"Thank you for coming with me," Pandora whispers, gaze fixed on
her father's gravestone. "I didn't want you to be alone," Regulus
admits quietly.

Pandora inhales deep and exhales slow. "Still... I know you have a lot
going on with—"

She stops. Regulus doesn't need her to fill in the gap. He knows just
as well as she does what he has going on. A lot, as it turns out. He
doesn't want to think about it right now, as selfish as that may be. So,
he stares blankly at the gravestone of someone he never knew, and
he doesn't think.

"Yes, well..." Regulus pauses, then sighs and lifts his free hand to lay
it over where hers drapes over his arm. He swallows past the lump
in his throat and murmurs, "You're family, Pandora. No matter
what's going on, you won't be alone."

"I will be when you all leave," Pandora says. "Or more alone, in any
case. Are you going to the meeting later?"

"Yes," Regulus admits. "Are you?"

"No, I'm going home," Pandora tells him quietly.

"You can come visit us, you know," Regulus says. "Anytime,
Pandora, alright? I know you'll come to funerals and such, but it
doesn't have to be just that. You're always welcome with us."

"I know," Pandora replies quietly. "Just—for a bit, I think... I think, for
now, I'm going to quit working for a little while."

"That's good." Regulus squeezes her hand. "Do what's best for you.
Do whatever you need to, and if you need us, we're here."

"Rodolphus offered to come with me to go through my dad's things,"

Pandora replies. "Well, I mean, I offered to do the same thing when

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he goes home to go through Rabastan's, so I suppose it's an equal

exchange. Tit-for-tat."

Regulus hesitates to reply for a moment, because Pandora just might

be one of the most important people in his life, of those that are left.
So many he has lost now, and so, naturally, he wants to keep her
safe, wants to shield her from any further pain, no matter what form
it takes.

But he thinks about how he dared to hope that Barty, in his last lucid
moments, was comforted to have Regulus there with him. The
comfort of human touch. The comfort of love, no matter what shape
it takes. Everyone deserves that, everyone deserves to feel that, and
everyone deserves to decide for themselves if they'll take the risks
that come with it.

So, Regulus scrunches his face up and says, "He fancies you.
Rodolphus, I mean. Do you know that?"

A pause.

"Yeah," Pandora replies, "I know."

"Fancy him?" Regulus asks.

A longer pause.

"No," Pandora admits. "I care for him very much. Love him, even,
just the same as I love you and many people, but..."

"You don't have to explain," Regulus says.

Clearing her throat, Pandora shakes her head. "No, it's okay. I just—I
don't really distinguish between different types of love. It's not
different to me. Never has been. I just—love. There's no romantic
inclination or anything, you know? I would be happy to spend every
day with him, but I don't have sex, and I don't have romantic
relationships."

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Regulus hums quietly. That makes sense, actually. Pandora has
always been unbridled in her love, giving all of herself to each and
every person that she does love, and there's something so incredibly
special about that. Not everyone in this world wants romance or sex,
or both, and no one needs that to live a happy, fulfilled life full of
love. Pandora is loved by many and loves many in return. That's
special all on its own.

"Do you want to spend every day with him?" Regulus asks instead,
glancing over at her. "I'd like to," Pandora murmurs. "I'd be happy
to."

"You don't owe him—or anyone else—anything, Pandora," Regulus

tells her. "Sex and romance aren't required to spend your life with
someone. Talk to him when the time is right and take the chance, if
you want. You once told me that we don't gain anything by not
trying at all."

"I did say that, didn't I?" Pandora muses.

Regulus' lips twitch faintly. "You did. You were right, too."

"I'll talk to him," Pandora says.

"Alright. If he hurts your feelings, I'll kill him for you."

"I know you will. Thanks."

"Anytime," Regulus assures her, and means it.

Pandora sighs and leans her head over on his shoulder, gazing at her
father's grave. "I hope he went peacefully."

Regulus makes a quiet sound of agreement and listens to the birds

whistle at each other, still wondering after all this time what they
talk about, and he stares at the gravestone before him while hoping
the same thing Pandora does.

These days, dying peacefully is a gift.

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~•~

Remus frowns at Lily as he gently rubs her temples, her head resting
down in his lap, hair spilled out in a scarlet curtain over his thighs.
She's worked herself up to a tension headache at this point, her
whole body so stiff and strung tight that Remus' muscles ache in
sympathy just looking at her.

"I want to see Mary and Bingley," Lily mumbles, eyes closed,
expression strained. It's not the first time she has said it; she keeps
saying it, like if she says it enough, then she can simply manifest it.
"That's all I want, Remus."

"I know," Remus replies quietly. "I think we'll be leaving soon—or
those of us who are done here."

"I'm done here. There's nothing for me here." "I know what you
mean."

Remus gets it. He also has no desire to linger in the Hallow for much
longer. Along with Lily, he'll be one of the ones leaving sooner rather
than later, because he needs to get to his dad and then— and then...

Well, honestly, Remus doesn't know. Or, okay, he sort of does. He

knows there are going to be funerals, so many fucking funerals, both
in the Hallow and in the districts. He knows that, at least, and he
knows he'll be at more than a few. It's a difficult thing to manage,
really. With so many dead, it's hard to schedule funerals and such,
and a lot of the dead won't even be properly buried. Most of them
had to be cremated, simply because the sheer amount of dead
outnumber the living that can handle them, and a good majority
were so injured that an open-casket funeral wouldn't be able to
happen anyway.

So, it's more accurate to say that there will be a whole lot of
memorial services to juggle in separate districts, likely with a lot of
overlap. Some to go to for courtesy's sake, and some to go to that he
actually had connections with. There will be proper memorials for
those who died in the battles leading up to the final one as well,

233
individually planned by those who remain to remember them, and
Remus will go to those, too.

Dumbledore also wants to talk about a proper mass scale of a

memorial for everyone, so the world doesn't forget, or maybe
something like that. Remus doesn't really know, or care. He's tired
now, no energy left in him to scrounge up the emotional response he
should probably be having to these things.

Almost like she senses it, Lily opens her eyes to peer up at him.
"How are you doing? You know, with..."

"Ah, yeah, that," Remus mutters, wrinkling his nose as he blows out
a deep sigh. She doesn't have to elaborate; he knows exactly what
she means. "A part of me... I mean, it's not like I thought that I'd
just—feel better, you know? Because I knew I wouldn't. I knew doing
what I did to Riddle wasn't going to make everything that happened
to me less...of a struggle. Just turning that pain on the person who
helped cause it for me was never going to be enough to make it stop
hurting, I knew that. I know it's not going to stop. It'll fade, with
time, and get easier to handle, but there was nothing hurting Riddle
could do for me. I was aware of that, but I still—I wanted..."

"Retribution?" Lily suggests.

Remus swallows. "I guess? I—I thought, maybe, I'd feel some sort of
relief. Even a little bit. And I didn't. I don't, and I wish I did. Does
that make me a bad person, do you think?"

"I think we're all bad people, in a way, because we live in a really bad
world. I don't know if any of us could have ever escaped that," Lily
murmurs. "I'm a bad person."

"I don't think you are," Remus says quietly.

Lily exhales deeply through her nose. There are sallow bags beneath
her eyes. She looks as tired as he feels. "People are dead because of
me. Not just people I've killed, but people I never wanted to die at
all. My parents. Petunia. Sybill."

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"None of that was your fault," Remus croaks. "I'm as much to blame
for your family as you are, if you want to go that route, and in that
case, we'll share the burden."

"It's so heavy," Lily whispers thickly.

"Then I'll take some of the weight," Remus tells her, and her eyes film
over with tears. He gently brushes his fingers through her hair. "As
for Sybill... Lily, Sybill wanted to be a pilot. She didn't want to die,
and she was scared, but she did want to fly. Dumbledore may have
asked her to because he knew she could, but she chose to agree. The
weight of asking falls on him, not you. Even Kingsley knows,
logically, that you're not at fault, and that you never wanted that to
happen. She was your friend. You loved her."

"I know," Lily rasps. "I do know that, and I know he knows that, but
we—Remus, we'll never overcome that. She's not here, and the truth
is, I had a hand in the lead up to that. I have to carry that now,
and—and he has to live with it, too."

"Maybe, with time..." Remus trails off, his chest clenching.

"I don't think so," Lily says softly, and then she blinks rapidly and
clears her throat. "And then there's Dorcas. I—I was afraid of her.
She...scared me, Remus. I'm so tired of being scared. I don't want to
be scared anymore."

"I know, I know, me too," Remus whispers fervently, hunching down

to collapse in on himself so he can fold over and press his forehead
into hers from upside-down.

"I just want to see Mary and Bingley," Lily chokes out. Remus nods
against her. "You're going to, and then you'll..."

They both stop for a moment, and Remus lifts up to gaze down at
her. Lily's mouth is set awkwardly on her face, twisted up, and her
eyes are a shimmering green of genuine solemnity. It sits there
between them in the silence, an unspoken question.

235
"I don't know," Lily says, finally. "I think—I mean, I think Mary will
want to go home, and I... want to go with her, if she's okay with that.
I—I don't want to go back to district twelve."

"Okay," Remus replies as steadily as possible, despite the way

something in him wilts. He gets it, though. Her home has collapsed,
and there's nothing for her to return to. He can't blame her for not
wanting to go back.

Lily bites her lip. "You—you'll be in twelve, right? With your dad, I
mean."

"Yeah," Remus mumbles. "He's not... He won't leave that house for
good. He basically built it for Mum, and they raised me there. I
wouldn't ask him to. I mean, he'll be with me for all the funerals, I
think, but when it comes time to settle again, that's where he'll go,
and I—I want to be with him for a while. I just—I went so long not
getting to be with him, and I want—I only want to—"

"Remus, Remus, stop," Lily cuts in gently. She reaches up to cup his
cheek. "You don't have to explain to me, yeah? No matter where we
end up, we'll find our way back to each other again. We always do,
don't we?"

Remus nods, a lump in his throat. "Yeah, we do."

Two bodies, one heart. They always make it back to each other. "I
just..." Lily hesitates, then swallows. "What about...Sirius?"

"I don't know," Remus whispers, fighting the stinging in his eyes. He
doesn't want to be selfish. He really doesn't, but he's so tired of
having to be without Sirius. He just—he wants Sirius with him, and
he can't—he won't dare ask for it. "We've spent so much time apart,
and I don't want to do it anymore, but after everything, I can't
imagine that he'd want to be away from Regulus and James. Effie,
too."

Lily's face softens. "Monty was a good man."

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 War Aftermath

"He really was," Remus agrees, his heart heavy with the loss. In the
time spent at the Phoenix, Monty was nothing but kind and
comforting to Remus. He cared for him and treated him with open
acceptance, someone important just because of his importance to
Sirius, and then beyond that. No one quite had the capacity to love
the way Monty did.

"I don't want you to be alone," Lily tells him, her voice tight.

"I won't be," Remus assures her. "I'll have my dad, and—and I'll be
back with everyone soon enough."

"You should ask him, Remus," Lily murmurs, thumb sweeping along
his jaw, her gaze gentle. "I know you won't, because you like to be all
self-sacrificial and such; that's sort of your thing, but I just... I think
you've done more than enough sacrificing now. You can at least ask
him. You have that freedom."

"I know," Remus admits, "and I also have the freedom not to. I want
him to do what's best for him more than I want him with me. I've
been without him before. I can do it for a bit longer."

"You shouldn't have to," Lily whispers.

Remus gives her a wan smile and weak half-shrug, lying his face
over in her palm. "When have I ever done what I should? It's
something, you know. It's not nothing, and that's enough."

Lily clicks her tongue, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows, a

protest clearly perched on her lips, but she never gets to say
anything before a knock on the door grabs both of their attention.
They swivel their heads in unison to see Sirius poke his own inside,
blinking at them.

"Speak of the devil," Lily mutters, giving Remus a pointed look

before she pushes herself up.

237
"Talking about me?" Sirius asks as he steps in the room, then he
pauses and gestures towards the door. "Um, I—I don't want to
intrude, or interrupt. I can come back if—"

"No, you're fine," Lily tells him, rolling away from Remus to get to
her feet. She pauses long enough to hold his head still and lean over
to kiss him, then lets go and approaches Sirius with a tired smile. "I
want to go check on Poppy and see if I can help her a bit more before
the meeting anyway. We still have a few hours. How are James and
Effie?"

"I coaxed Effie and James out of bed to eat and get showers. Effie's
out and asleep again, but James' leg was bothering him, so he said he
needed to take a walk. Pretty sure he's going to find Regulus and try
to spend some time with him before the meeting. You're going,
right?"

"I'm glad to hear they're okay, or as okay as they can be, and yes, I'm
going. I'll meet you two there, yeah?"

"Yeah, Lil, of course," Sirius mumbles, ducking down to let her kiss
his cheek as she wraps him in a hug. He returns the favor with no
enthusiasm, his face blank over her shoulder.

Lily slips out after shutting the door gently—banged doors are a
legitimate issue for a lot of people these days. Sirius looks at Remus,
and his face seems to just sag. His whole body droops, and he
miserably shuffles over to plop down next to Remus, heaving out a
deep sigh as he presses his face into Remus' shoulder. He seems to
seek more, starved for closeness, wanting to inch his way right onto
Remus, or perhaps into him, his face rubbing against Remus'
shoulder as he presses closer and closer, trying to make it to the
crook of his neck.

"Okay, hey, come on," Remus urges softly, scooting back on the bed,
entirely unsurprised when Sirius follows like there's a thread
between them, tugging him along. Remus barely even gets situated
where he's going before Sirius is crawling right on top of him and

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going limp, blanketing Remus' body with his own, face buried into
the curve of Remus' throat. Remus grunts a little, straining to
maneuver them, moving Sirius around like a puppet before reaching
up to card his fingers through Sirius' hair, over and over and over.

They stay like that for a long time in complete silence, just breathing.
The weight of Sirius on top of him makes Remus feel ridiculously
secure, like he can't go anywhere, and when there's no place he'd
rather be, it's the biggest comfort he has.

Eventually, at some point, Sirius speaks, his words muffled into

Remus' skin. All he says is, "We should have run away."

Remus swallows and replies, "We were never going to."

"Yeah, I know," Sirius croaks. He turns his head a little so Remus can
hear him better. "Well, here we are. We made it through, and our
everything still feels so far away."

"Closer than we've ever been, though," Remus murmurs.

"I, um..." Sirius goes quiet for a long moment, then lifts his head to
peer down at Remus, the thin skin on his bottom lip bitten and
peeled away from where he's been worrying at it with his teeth. "I

know you're going back to district twelve with Lyall. After the
funerals, I mean. And I—" "Sirius," Remus cuts in calmly, "it's okay.
I'm not going to—I just—I get it, yeah? I know you'll

want to stay in district six with James, Regulus, and Effie. That's
okay. That's—"

"I want to come with you," Sirius blurts out, his breath catching as
his eyes grow shiny. His lips

tremble as Remus stares up at him. "Remus, I want to stay with you."

239
Remus blinks, genuinely startled, though maybe he shouldn't be.
Sirius always manages to surprise him, always manages to do the
very last thing that Remus expects. In all honesty, this isn't
something Remus saw coming, so his mind is just blank for a long
moment, trying to process that.

This doesn't go over well with Sirius, who needs exactly five seconds
before he starts to get splotchy, wilting in visible dejection and doing
his absolute best not to show it.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," Sirius chokes out. "That's not—I don't mean to
just—just invite myself. That's— that was presumptuous of me,
wasn't it? You want time alone with your dad. That's—"

"Sirius, sweetheart, no," Remus says quickly, hands flying up to

frame his face as he tries to turn it away. "That's not it at all. Of
course you can come; of course you're welcome with us. It's not even
a question, and I—I would love to have you. My dad would, too. I
want you, okay? I just—I thought you'd..."

"I can't," Sirius says, practically gasping. "Remus, I can't stay with
them. Regulus—it'll get bad again. It's—I can feel it, like before,
because I—I can't take care of him, and I feel like I have to, like I
need to, and I can't handle hating myself for not being able to—and
it's not his fault, it's not, but I—I—"

"Sirius," Remus tries, but Sirius isn't done babbling.

"And James," Sirius continues. "I don't want to leave him after
Monty, I don't, except he'll—he'll just fall back on taking care of me,
focus all of his energy into me and his mum instead of taking care of
himself, because I can't hold it together right now, and—and we
always trade out on one of us keeping it together for the other, but
neither of us can, and he'll do it for me, he will, and I can't —I won't
do that to him, Remus."

Remus strokes Sirius' cheeks as his tears fall, trying so hard to soothe
him, but Sirius is falling apart in slow motion, his chest stuttering on

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his hiccuping sobs, stumbling over his words, so much spilling out
of him at once.

"I need to be there for them, and I can't, and it'll kill me. I'll slip away,
and I don't want to slip away anymore," Sirius rasps, his face
twisting. "I can't do it. I can't be there for them this time, and it's
wrong, it's fucked up, but I'm so tired. I'm so—I just—I'd die for
them, but no one's dying anymore, so I can't, and they need me, they
need me to live, and I have to figure out how, because I don't know, I
don't—"

"Sirius—"

"I don't know, Remus. I don't know, because there's so much fucking
guilt. I have so much guilt; it's in me, and I—I was there when
Marlene—if we'd have been swapped, if I'd walked where she did,
she'd still be here, and I—I was supposed to look out for her, but I
forgot the fucking landmines, and she's not—I'm here, and she's not,
and I can't—I can't—"

Remus tugs Sirius down to muffle the harrowing sound of sobs that
spill out of him, the chest- heaving, gut-wrenching sort of sobs that
travel through his whole body. He spills hot tears into Remus' throat,
and Remus holds him.

Some part of Remus knew to expect this, as much as he wished he

didn't have to. The survivor's guilt. They all have it now in various
ways, met with death on such a mass scale like this, an event so
many went into that so many didn't come out of, and why did some
make it out when others didn't? That's the question. Why me? Why
not them?

The thing is, there's no clear answer for that. There's no true reason
for death, and maybe there's no true reason for life. People live, and
then people die. It's all a matter of how and when. That doesn't make
the questions easier to handle.

For Sirius, it's especially hard-hitting, in that he was right there when
he lost a friend. It could have easily been him, if they'd been three

241
steps to the right. Three steps, and it'd be Marlene here asking why.
She wouldn't get an answer, either.

This is an answer no one gets.

"Regulus knows already," Sirius says eventually, once he's settled

down enough to speak. "He was

—so fucking good about it. I don't know, like, supportive?"

"Everyone who loves you only wants you to do whatever you need
to so you're okay, Sirius," Remus murmurs.

Sirius makes a quiet sound. "I—I haven't told James and Effie. I
don't—I'm not sure how. I don't want to hurt them."

"They love you, too, you know," Remus reminds him, sweeping his
hand up and down Sirius' back. "It's not like you're going to be gone
forever, for one thing, and you're not just—up and leaving
immediately. We'll stay in six for a little while, I think. And hey, Lily
will be there even when you and I go."

"Yeah?" Sirius whispers.

Remus mhms. "Yeah. She thinks Mary will want to go back, and she
wants to be there with her. It's —it's just one of those things, really.
She'll be there, and I'll be in twelve, but that doesn't change that she's
my best friend, and I'm hers. It's not going to change that for you
and James. We just— sometimes, life takes us all in different
directions."

"I hate it," Sirius mumbles fretfully. "I hate how much I need it.
Because I really do need it, Remus. I don't want to leave them, I don't
want them to be alone—"

"They're not," Remus insists firmly. "For one thing, like I said, Lily
will be there, and so will Mary, but they'll all have each other, too.
And you're not going to just disappear off the face of the earth. We'll

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 War Aftermath

work out the details, but I know we'll all stay in contact, and we are
going back."

Sirius sniffles. "Yeah, okay. That's—yeah. Right. Just—for right now,

what I need is to be with you. I want—that's what I want. Because
we'll—we can take care of each other and figure this out together,
one day at a time."

"Yeah, sweetheart," Remus says, tipping his face down to bury it in

Sirius' hair, breathing him in. "That's what we'll do."

And so, that's what they'll do. It won't be everything, not quite yet,
but they're closer than ever before. For now, something is enough.

It always has been.

~•~

Regulus has his head between his knees, hyperventilating, when

James finds him. He's not—he isn't supposed to find him; Regulus
has gone to desperate lengths not to be found.

It wasn't enough to make Riddle scream. Barty is still gone. Regulus

knew revenge wouldn't solve anything; what hurts still hurts, but
that doesn't mean he doesn't wish it had given him a little more
room to breathe. These days, breathing is so fucking hard, like he's
drowning all the time.

James makes a small sound and moves over to sink down on the
floor next to Regulus with the help of his cane, getting as close as he
can without touching. Regulus chokes out a harsh sound in the back
of his throat and wants to lean away, and wants to lean closer, and
wants Barty to be alive.

"Oh, love, I'm sorry," James whispers. "I'm so sorry. Hey, come on,
breathe with me, yeah?"

243
Regulus does breathe with him, because breathing is easier when
there's a guide to follow, and James is doing it oh so carefully, oh so
steadily. Regulus gasps for air, chest stuttering, and he can't quite
follow it over the ringing in his ears, so he reaches out and puts his
hand against James' chest to feel it rise and fall beneath his palm. He
matches it, slowly, letting James' heartbeat beneath his fingers soothe
him.

Even when breathing better, Barty is still gone, and what hurts still
hurts. He's gone, and it hurts. It hurts so fucking much.

"I loved him," Regulus rasps, looking at James and feeling sick with
the love he had, and still has, for another man. Because it was never
a love with a name for either of them, but that was still enough for
both of them, and now he's doing it all alone. "Never like you. Not
the way I love you, but it was love."

"I know," James says softly, looking so sad.

"You hated him," Regulus mumbles. "You were jealous, and you
never even had a reason to be. He was never you, and I was never, to
him, what you are to me, and what I am to you. He was just Barty.
He was just Barty, and he was mine. He was the only thing that was
just mine, and he's gone. He's gone, James. He was just Barty, and
he's gone. He was—he was just—"

James wraps his fingers around Regulus' wrist, expression twisted

with sympathetic grief. "Reg, even if you did love him as you love
me, I would never wish for this. I would never be angry at you for
how you feel."

"I wish I did love him that way," Regulus confesses, "because it
would have been easier than this. It would have been easier to define
how losing him feels, but it's not. James, it's not."

"Does it need to be defined?" James asks. "You two never really had a
definition, did you? Sometimes people are just important to each
other, and that's all that matters. Your grief is valid, regardless of

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 War Aftermath

how the relationship worked; you lost him, and it hurts. That's the
only definition you need."

"I felt him die," Regulus chokes out, and he can't help it, can't stop
himself from scooting closer to James and curling into the willing
give of his warmth, pressing into the curve of his body and hiding
against his shoulder.

"I know," James whispers, stroking his hair. "I'm so sorry, Regulus.
I'm sorry I haven't been here for you. I'm—"

"Stop it," Regulus cuts in, gagging almost, and James stops.

They both stop for a while, just breathing together. It's quiet out, and
early, the whole world seeming solemn and still. It's still been three
days since the end of the war, and Regulus wonders when they'll
stop measuring the passage of time that way. He has a stupid
meeting to go to later, which seems laughable and ridiculous in the
face of war, as all things do. How he spends all his time—well, it's
hiding, mostly. He hides a lot.

Regulus knows how to go without being found, which is why it's

hard to work out how James located him to start with. See, Regulus
has been hiding in the dungeons, built below a body of murky, black
water that can be seen rippling out past windows. It's the last place
anyone would expect him to be, considering his issues with water
and such, but something about bodies of water that can't reach him
comforts him. At times, he'll put his hand against the glass and feel
the muted, muffled waves rocking against the pane upon his palm,
and he'll feel safer in that moment than he ever has.

There are a lot of things for Regulus to be upset about, now. He's
pulled into too many directions between it all. It'll hit him out of
nowhere sometimes; he'll be worried about Sirius, and then he'll be
smothering sobs about Monty; he'll be fretting about James, and then
he'll be having a panic attack about the fact that Barty isn't here
anymore. All of it's a jumbled mess within him, and he can't sort any
of it out.

245
He shuts down sometimes, without meaning to. Has to go through
the motions, because he doesn't feel anything at all. Has to let the
world move him around like a puppet, because he doesn't feel quite
human. Has to work to breathe when it's supposed to be instinctive,
because he's pretty sure there's something dead inside him that
doesn't get the point behind the very first step to living; breathing,
that very first step, and he's so much of a fuck-up that he fails at that,
too.

Regulus thinks they're all struggling like this right now. He knows,
logically, that grief is unforgiving and takes this heavy toll on them
all. He understands that he can't escape it, or avoid it, but it feels
simultaneously as if he can't handle it. He will handle it, just as they
all will, because they have no choice.

This is life, this is what it is to live, just the constant repetition of

having to figure out how to. Trying and failing over and over, and
experiencing every lesson learned and every step taken along the
way. Maybe there's hope to be found in that, but it's not a hope any
of them can feel right now.

"I want to go home," Regulus croaks.

"Me too," James whispers, "but I'm scared of what we won't find
when we get there. I think there's a part of us that's always going to
be searching."

"Monty," Regulus breathes out, and James turns his face further into
Regulus' hair. He makes a small, hurt sound that Regulus feels catch
on the inside of his ribs, constricting.

Oh, Monty. Monty, Monty, Monty. James' father, not Regulus', but the
epitome of what a father is supposed to be. Regulus loved Monty
and never found the words to tell him. He'll always wish he did.
He'll always regret that he didn't, because Monty deserved so much
love, all of it in the world, just as he shared his love with the whole
world. A sense of comfort to anyone who needed it. Orion wasn't a
fraction the man Monty was and never once made Regulus feel safe
and loved the way Monty managed to, and yet they're both dead
anyway, and yet Regulus misses them both anyway. Monty did more

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 War Aftermath

for him, though, and how fucked up is that? The fear of his father
sometimes stole Regulus' breath, and Monty taught him breathing
exercises. Maybe that's why breathing is so hard, because Monty
helped him better learn how to, and now he's gone.

"What do I do now?" James chokes out. "Who am I supposed to be,

without him? I—I don't—I can't—"

"I don't know. I'm sorry, I don't know," Regulus confesses helplessly,
brokenly, because he never knows what to say, never has the
answers, and he aches with his inadequacy.

"Just—just tell me we're going to make it." James presses into him
harder and holds him tighter. "We're going to make it, right? We
always do, so somehow we will again, won't we?"

Regulus doesn't know that either—no one knows that, really,

because people make it, or they don't, and it's something you can
only find out once it's done—but he still buries his fingers in James'
hair and says, "We will, James. We'll make it."

"I don't know if you want me right now," James rasps, his voice thick.
"Mum is—she's asleep right now, and I just—I wanted you. All I
want is you. I'm sorry. I'm—I don't know if you want to be alone, or
if it's okay that I'm here—"

"I want you," Regulus says softly, hands slipping down to frame his
face, thumbing at the corners of his eyes, missing his glasses. James
raises his head, those lovely burnt umber of his eyes murky with
tears, a beautiful melancholy. Regulus flicks his gaze all over James'
face, drinking him in, drowning in the comfort of him. "I want you
no matter what, through anything, wherever we are. At all times,
baby, at all times."

James tips forward and presses their foreheads together, his voice a
mere breath full of shame when he says, "I don't know who I am
anymore. I don't recognize myself, and I said there are some
fundamental things that can't be changed, some things that can't be

247
taken from us, but I think I was wrong. I hadn't made it here yet, and
I was wrong. Too much has changed, and too much has been taken,
and what's left?"

"We are," Regulus murmurs, trying so very hard for James, as James
has always done for him, for everyone, for the whole world. He
strokes James' cheeks. "We're here, aren't we? We're here, and we're
going to make it, right?"

James makes a small noise again and rocks his forehead against
Regulus', fists clenched in the sides of Regulus' shirt down by his
hips, clinging for dear life.

"James," Regulus prompts, shaking with it, needing to hear it from

him as much as James needed it in reverse. They're both clinging to
each other now in grief, and it's ugly, ugly, ugly; and it's human; and
it's pain; and it's love.

"Yeah, love," James chokes out, like he's being strangled by it, like he
isn't sure it's the truth and he still struggles to lie. He whimpers.
"Yeah, we're going to make it."

The fact of the matter is, they don't know, and so maybe all they have
is hope. There's not very much of that to be found here, but they
have found each other, and that's what they cling to. It's not enough
to take away the pain, and maybe Regulus was a fool to think it
could be. Here they are, as close as they can get, yet here they are, as
they've always been.

Doomed to be a great, big tragedy.

248
 7
THE PHOENIX TREE
______

Aberforth heaves a sigh when he steps out of his temporary room to

find Albus waiting on the

other side of the door. Oh, so they're finally doing this, then.

"Done avoiding me, are you?" Aberforth asks gruffly.

"I've been busy," is Albus' stiff reply. "Are you coming to the
meeting?"

Aberforth eyes him. "Suppose I am, yeah."

"Very well," Albus says, clipped, then turns and starts to sweep off
without another word.

Aberforth stares after him for a bit, his mind blank, because Albus
has never... Well, frankly, Aberforth can't recall a time that Albus was
ever rude, or curt, or cold. Not to Aberforth, for sure. Make no
mistake, Albus has patience saints would envy, but this translates
into how he has always responded to his anger; Albus can hold a
grudge like no one else in the world, even worse than Aberforth
himself. You need only look at the war he dedicated most of his life
to to be sure of that, and this is perhaps a trait that Aberforth shares
with him, but the truth is, Albus is better at it than Aberforth by far.

Grunting, Aberforth calls out, "Well, it's a damn good thing I wasn't
expecting anything different out of you!"

249
Instantly, Albus stops. When he turns around, it's a slow pivot that
makes the blaze of his eyes stick out stark in Aberforth's mind.
Maybe if they were years younger, back when Aberforth wasn't yet a
grown man, the look in Albus' eyes would make Aberforth want to
shrink down in his own skin and shrivel up from the dread of Albus
being angry at him. Aberforth isn't years younger, though, and he
doesn't care one bit.

"Do elaborate, Aberforth, I'm begging you," Albus bites out,

speaking harshly in the way he only does when Aberforth brings
Grindelwald up to him.

This is—hm.

Yes, okay, Albus is very angry at him. Aberforth has no idea why.
They haven't spoken, even when Albus arrived once the war was
over. Aberforth has hardly spoken to anyone, due to his decision to
help with body transport, ensuring that those from districts who
died are returned safely back to their home districts. He felt better by
the idea that he could oversee that and make sure it was done
correctly, no mixups, keeping his eye for detail as a mayor who cares
about the people in the districts, dead or alive. His district primarily,
yes, but he can just as easily spare that level of concern for all the
rest.

When it comes to the dead, it's easy for the living to let things slip
through the cracks, particularly when it's not anyone dead they care
about. So, he has chosen to be the one who cares.

Aberforth is very sure that most people think he's a crazy old man.
There are stares and whispers wherever he goes, and he's not
entirely sure why. He doesn't really know much at all, if he's honest.
Hell, he didn't even know the war was over until Poppy burst in and
told everyone that Riddle was dead and the fighting had stopped.
He was in the back courtyard with the others abducted during the
war, narrowly escaping being executed on live broadcast by Albus'
secret informant, who turned out to be the Head Auror. A damn
strong player to have in his back pocket, as it turns out.

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 The Phoenix Tree

Aberforth doesn't know much about how it all went down. He's
heard whispers about the boy, so he knows he's involved and hopes,
like a foolish old man, that he's doing alright wherever he is at the
moment. There have been whispers about Remus Lupin and Dorcas
Meadowes as well, but he knows no other details. He's heard
something about Hallow government officials and Riddle killing his
own people; he's heard his own name thrown around here and there
for some reason, along with Albus', but he stopped paying attention
and focused on doing what he could where he

could.

He did hear of Albus' arrival and actually attempted to see him, only
to be...refused. Turned away. Dismissed. Aberforth didn't appreciate
his visceral and unexpected reaction to that; the shock of it, followed
quickly by hurt, which he finds very distasteful. What else was he
expecting? Even when the war is over, everything involved with
it—even the aftermath—is Albus' priority before everything else.

"Don't act like you don't know, Albus," Aberforth tells him, feeling
his molars grind together. "You're focused on what comes next,
because you've decided that's your responsibility. You have the
Hallow all but resting in your palm; no, the whole world, now. Here
you are, the new Master, it seems. You just don't know how to retire,
do you?"

Albus stares at him, gaze sharp, and then he says, "I am no one's
Master, nor do I wish to be. Truly, how small-minded are you? It's
the third day following the final battle, and people want a better
world that takes time. We can't do it overnight, because we have to
do this first."

"We?" Aberforth gives a rusty chuckle. "No, not we. You have no part
of this, in case it escaped your notice. You come here, and you hide
behind your orders, never giving them directly. You let everyone
bring you information and direct them in what to do, but you do
nothing yourself. You don't observe the fallout from the very war
you brought here."

251
"Because I can't!" Albus bursts out. "You think I could be the new
leader people look to, even if I wanted to? Don't be foolish,
Aberforth. No one will follow me."

Aberforth scoffs. "The Aurors—"

"The Aurors follow the Head Auror," Albus snaps, "who takes the
advice I give him on what to do. They will not follow me. The
district volunteers follow Kingsley and you, it seems. The people
that came from the Phoenix follow Minerva, as do most of the
Hallow sympathizers. I can't give direct orders, because I lost all
credibility as a leader during the war."

"You—" Aberforth blinks. "What? Why?"

"Because of you," Albus hisses. "And still, you treat me this way. And
still, you—"

"Because of me?" Aberforth snaps up straight, anger crawling sticky

and abrasive down his spine. "You're angry with me because they
recognized you for the leader you are?"

"Aberforth, I'm not angry about my leadership. I don't care about my

leadership. It is a blessing in disguise, and the moment a plan is set
in motion to properly honor those lost in the war, as well as begin
the wheel turning on a better world for all, I'm done. I'm stepping
back, because I did what I intended to do, and I'm no longer of use to
anyone." Albus shakes his head. "No, I'm angry because you nearly
died, and I think you wanted to, all in the name of teaching me a
lesson. Didn't you? All in the name of punishing me, you said."

Aberforth doesn't react for a moment, his mind turning over with
this new and startling information. He doesn't—get it. He doesn't
understand. Albus not caring about the war, even once it's over;
Albus not caring about his leadership, or how he can't contribute to
the better world he was aiming for in the first place, from the very
start—it doesn't make sense. Aberforth isn't sure how to wrap his
mind around that.

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 The Phoenix Tree

Where will he go?

Home, says a soft, small voice in Aberforth's head that sounds so

dreadfully like Ariana. Ask him to

come home.

Aberforth's pride will not allow for such a thing. Furthermore,

district six is home to Aberforth, and that hasn't been Albus' home in
some time. Would he even want to go back?

In the next second, Aberforth feels his agitation spike as he realizes

the reason Albus is done. He said it, just now. He has no choice but
to be done. The impact of the war has to fall on someone, and for
some reason, people have decided it falls on Albus. Fitting,
Aberforth thinks. He may not be all to blame, but it's adequate
karma.

But of course it's forced. Of course Albus didn't choose this; he never
actively chose this, or anything besides righting his own mistakes
and avenging someone who never would have wanted him to, if it
cost the world this much. Of course it was the war for Albus from
beginning to end. Not anyone else. Not his own brother, and
Aberforth hates the disappointment that courses through him when
he knew that already. He's known that since the day Albus walked
out the door.

"Yes," Aberforth declares harshly. "A part of me hoped you'd have to

lose me, too. Because here you are, at the end of it all, and what have
you learned? What matters to you now, Albus?"

"You and Ariana are the only things in this world that have ever
mattered to me!" Albus bellows. "You two mattered to me more than
myself. If you didn't, Gellert would still be alive! If you didn't, I
would have been selfish enough to let him live and stay with him!
How dare you even—"

253
"If you expect me to praise you for killing the man who killed our
sister, because of you—"

"That's not all he was! He—he loved me, Aberforth! He—"

"I don't care!" Aberforth shouts. "I don't give a damn about your
fucked up love story with our sister's murderer, Albus! The fact that
you even came to love him to begin with sickens me, let alone that
you continued to after he killed Ariana, and still do to this day!"

"I can't help it," Albus chokes out. "I didn't mean to." "But you did,"
Aberforth says coldly. "You do."

Albus releases a punched-out breath. "Yes. Yes, I did then, and I still
do, and for as long as I am breathing, I will always love him—and it
is my greatest burden. Do not think yourself above such a burden.
You are just as capable as I or anyone of loving someone you do
everything in your power not to love."

"I am above it," Aberforth spits out. "I've never done it."

"Do you not love me?" Albus asks, quiet now, and Aberforth feels a
lurch in his stomach as he meets his brother's eyes and realizes, like
the gut-punch of loss, that Albus is right.

Albus is as responsible for Ariana's death as everyone else involved.

He is responsible for so much death, so much loss, so much of this
war that tore this world apart—and Aberforth loves him still,
helplessly, powerlessly. He loves him as he has always loved him,
and hates him doubly as much.

"You're my brother," Aberforth croaks.

"Gellert was my soul," Albus replies. "The only thing he wasn't was
my little sister and my little brother. That is why he's dead and I'm
here now, without him, and you still wish to punish me.

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 The Phoenix Tree

You can't punish me more than I already punished myself the night I
plunged a sword into his heart."

"You can't expect me to pity you for that."

"I don't. I don't ask for your pity, or even your understanding, but I
can't take what you throw at me any longer. I'm done with it,
Aberforth. I'm done with you."

Aberforth firms his jaw. "Haven't you always been? You were done
the day you left me behind."

"Do not lie," Albus snaps, drawing to full height. "You know that's a
lie. You—" Albus stops, his expression twitching before it crumbles,
his eyes growing wet. "Between us, I was never the bad brother."

"Oh, so it's me, is it?" Aberforth asks. "I never left—"

"Exactly!" Albus cuts in explosively. "You wouldn't leave. Yes, you

asked me to stay, but did I not beg you to come with me? Did I not
give you every available opportunity to join me? Did I not offer you
ways to contact me? I gave you a phone; you had it for years, and
you never called, not once, not until you needed me, and I was there.
The instant you called, I was there. I carried that phone on me for
years, every day you didn't call, just in case you did—and, when you
did, I answered instantly. I tried for you, with you, tried everything
in every way I knew how, and it still wasn't good enough. Nothing I
have done was ever good enough for you. What about the fact that I
needed you, Aberforth? I needed you, and you refused to leave."

"I couldn't," Aberforth retorts sharply. "Unlike you, I wasn't going to

leave Ariana. I had to watch over her."

"Ariana has been dead for fifty-two years," Albus says, holding his
gaze. "All you did was watch wood."

Aberforth flinches, feeling that like a slap, his breath going short in
his chest. It feels like he's sipping in acid, as if Albus has exhaled it
with his words, and Aberforth can't escape the necessity of breathing
it in. It burns the inside of his lungs.

255
Albus' lips tremble around words he can't seem to bring himself to
say, and then he closes his eyes.

He breathes in, then he breathes out. "Rarely does life go as we plan,

and not all of that is my fault. You place the blame on me for this
war, but the truth is... It was bigger than us. It was always bigger
than us, or so many people wouldn't have been willing to die for it.
They never needed my reasons; they only needed their own. They
only needed the fact that the war could give us all a chance at a
better world, and now it can. I'm simply the person who helped
make that possible, even when it required the worst decisions no one
should have to make."

"So, why did you?" Aberforth rasps.

"Someone had to, and I took that burden with the intention of
making up for past mistakes," Albus whispers. "That's the truth,
Aberforth. I did what needed to be done, and I am not the evil
brother you have made me out to be. Evil doesn't know love, not
really, and you are the only thing I have left in this world that I love
at all. For you to—to try to remove yourself from it, to hope that I go
untethered from that love, and have to lose it after losing every other
source—I can't forgive that."

Aberforth feels oddly weak all over, a sinking sensation slipping

through him, feeling like a ship cast out at sea with no anchor. His
hands are shaking. There's a sour coating in his mouth; it tastes of
regret. Wait, Aberforth thinks. Please wait—

"After Ariana died, after I killed Gellert, the war was never my
priority," Albus says softly. "You were. The world is going to be a
better place, and you're going to be safe in it. That's all I ever wanted,
really. So, you can go home now."

"Albus," Aberforth whispers.

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 The Phoenix Tree

"Go home, Abby," Albus murmurs, gazing at him for a moment

longer, something irrevocably and unwaveringly sad there in his
blue eyes, and then he turns around.

"Wait, Albus, just—" Aberforth chokes on it, chokes on his pride,

chokes on that tangled, writhing knot of contradictory love and hate
right in the center of his chest. Albus stops and turns back, regarding
him with his eyebrows furrowed. Aberforth nearly croaks like a
damn frog trying to force the words out of his closed-up throat. It's a
fight, a war on its own, just for him to say, strangled and thick,
"Come with me."

Albus stares at him. "I just said—"

"I know what you just said," Aberforth interrupts, his voice low and
sullen. "I don't really care

about what you can't forgive. I didn't die, did I? Still here, against all
odds, and there's plenty I can't forgive you for, but I still want you to
come home anyway. I can live with that, if you can."

"You always were as stubborn as your goats," Albus mutters, huffing

out a weak laugh as he shakes his head, then he sighs and tilts his
head back, staring up at the high ceilings of the castle, lips pursed
beyond his stupid beard.

"Albus." Aberforth waits for Albus to tip his head to the side, peering
at him over his glasses, then his shoulders slump. He is old and
world-weary. All the fight goes out of him like this, here and now,
when Albus is ready to walk away from him yet again. Aberforth
doesn't want him to now any more than he did the first time. "Just
come home. You should see how much Ariana has grown."

The dead sister card is a little underhanded, admittedly, but

Aberforth knows a thing or two about manipulation tactics. He'd
have to. Albus is his older brother, after all. He knows it works the
moment Albus' face softens, and it feels like there's a very old, very
quiet pop in Aberforth's chest, like a frayed rope hanging by a single

257
thread just snapped. He can breathe deeper than he has in over fifty
years, suddenly, and it makes him oddly dizzy. He's so lightheaded
from the relief that he thinks, for just a moment, that he should
apologize. When he exhales next, it's with the knowledge that he
never, ever will.

"Alright," Albus agrees, finally. "I have a few things to take care of,
and that meeting, and then I'm passing the torch, as that saying goes.
After that, we'll go home."

That's what it takes. Over fifty years, a war, a complete lack of

forgiveness, and a persistent love in spite of that—and they finally
agree to have a home again.

At this moment, all Aberforth can think about is that Ariana would
be so proud of them both. ~•~

"Doing okay, Reggie?" Sirius asks quietly as he sinks down into the
chair next to Regulus, the room set in a low murmur as everyone
arrives and takes their seats.

Regulus glances at him and lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, a lazy

and drained motion. His eyes are so—they're so fucking haunted
right now. It makes Sirius want to crawl right out of his skin. He
wants to help him. He can barely look at him.

"Tired," is all Regulus says, even though they both know it's more
than that. Regulus clears his throat. "You?"

"Ready to go home," Sirius admits. He hates it here in the Hallow,

always has, and that hasn't changed even with the war finally over.
"Listen, I—I don't—I know that I'm—"

"Sirius," Regulus mutters, frowning at him.

"I—I know I'm not being here for you like I should," Sirius says,
strained. "I just want you to know you can talk to me. You can tell
me—anything, okay? Even if—even though I don't know what to say

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back. I'll listen. That's all I've got, really, and if—if that can be
enough, for now, then—"

"You're doing enough," Regulus cuts in, and Sirius snaps his mouth
shut. "You're doing what you can, and that's enough. Didn't you tell
me that once?"

Sirius swallows, then he nods.

Regulus nods back. "It doesn't just apply to me, and—" He halts,
then drops his gaze, looking weary. "Look, um, I don't really—I don't
want to talk about...anything right now, if I'm honest. I could tell you
that I can't sleep, and I could tell you that I miss Barty, and I could
tell you that I feel lost, but you already know all that, and you can't
fix that. There's nothing you or anyone can do. This is just...what it
is."

But you're my little brother, Sirius thinks. Always my little brother.

I'm going to take care of you. I'm going to make sure no one ever,
ever hurts you. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure you're safe.

"Alright," Albus calls quietly, gathering everyone's attention as he

sits down, "I believe that's everyone who's coming."

Sirius looks around the table, not too terribly surprised to see less
people here than Albus would probably prefer. Kingsley is sitting on
the other side of the table, as far away from Lily as he can get, with
Minerva sitting between them, and Remus sits right beside her,
across from Sirius. Their ankles are locked under the table. Regulus
sits on the other side of Sirius, and next to him is Filius, with
Slughorn on the end. At the head of the table right next to Sirius is
Albus, naturally, though to his left is Aberforth, sitting closest to
Remus.

"I want to be efficient about this," Albus states calmly. "I know many
of you, and many others, have only the desire to go home. I know
that everyone needs this time to grieve those that were lost.
Regardless, everyone here today—and some that aren't with us

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now—has every right and more to discuss the matter of how to
properly memorialize the losses, as well as what the next steps are
for the state of the world."

Sirius already doesn't like where this is going. Maybe it's selfish of
him, but he doesn't want to have an opinion. He doesn't want to
have any say in this. He just wants this all to be over and done with.
Let the world figure itself out, or let other people handle it. He
doesn't want to be here anymore.

"I think first, we should go over the ideas for a memorial," Albus
murmurs. "Many people here now—and many people who are not
here—have lost someone they love to this war, or to the hunger
games, or to the neglect of those in a position of power that were
meant to take care of them. I think it's important to honor these
people, and I think it's important that what has taken place stands
the test of time and isn't forgotten. This will one day be history, but I
believe we all agree that it shouldn't be repeated."

"Not everyone is going to want their loved ones memorialized, at

least not in the Hallow," Regulus says stiffly.

Albus inclines his head. "I understand that, and I respect that. For
that reason, I would suggest an annual memorial video in place of
the hunger games. Those that wish to partake would be allowed to
give interviews and talk about their loved ones, or even their own
experiences, and approximate numbers of those lost will be released,
rather than names, unless those who remain want the name released.
It would be entirely optional. No one would be forced to do
anything."

"Realistically, that's a good idea," Filius admits carefully, clearing his

throat. "We can't simply brush the past under the rug. The hunger
games did happen, and so did this war. People need to remember
that, and people need to remember why it should never happen
again."

"And what about future generations?" Lily snaps. "Say I have

children someday and they learn Mummy is a murderer. What do I

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do with that? What if I want them to grow up in a world they don't

have to be afraid of?"

Sirius' stomach squirms. She...makes a good point, to be fair. In truth,

Sirius hasn't given much thought to children, and likely won't for
some time, but what if...? He flicks his gaze to Remus, finding him in
a similar state of alarm. They stare at each other, a little wide-eyed,
because neither of them have even considered being parents
someday.

Remus raises his eyebrows and Sirius chokes out, "For fuck's sake,
don't look at me. I've never even thought about it!"

"Sirius—"

"Have you?" Sirius wheezes, fully in panic mode. "Fucking hell, do

you even want—" "Sirius," Remus cuts in, "let's not...do this here.
Later."

Sirius snaps his mouth shut, deflating in instant relief. Remus coughs
and looks over at Lily, who smirks slightly. Sirius looks to Regulus,
who is not smirking. He's frowning, looking at Sirius almost
incredulously.

"What?" Sirius whispers.

"You've never even thought about it?"

"You have?"

Regulus arches an eyebrow. "James and I are going to have four

children."

"Four—" Sirius chokes, staring at Regulus in a mixture of horror and

disbelief. He cannot believe Regulus is more put together about this
than him. What the fuck? And then, belatedly, the idea of Regulus
and James with children hits him, and it hits him in such a rush of

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emotion that tears almost instantly spring to his eyes. "Oh. I'll be an
uncle."

"Someday," is all Regulus says, and Sirius has to look away so he

won't start blubbering immediately. "Will I?"

Sirius groans and blurts out, hysterically, "I don't know, I have no
fucking idea, but—but Lily is right. If—I mean, fuck, none of us want
the future children in our lives to have to face the horror of this.
It's—that's just—"

"To remove it from history entirely will only open doorways to have
it happen again," Albus says quietly. "I do believe it can be done
tactfully, however. It's memorial footage, not videos of past hunger
games or even of the war. Everyone will be granted the opportunity
to handle the matter with their children at their own discretion. I
can't tell anyone how to do that, or how they should. As I said
before, Ms. Evans, it would be entirely optional and only the names
of those who agree or their loved ones that agree would be released."

"It'll be especially good for the Hallows to remember," Slughorn adds

softly, and no one can argue with that.

"Is this acceptable?" Albus asks, and after a few moments, they all
tentatively agree. "I believe Filius, if you're amiable, you should
spearhead the project." Filius nods, and Albus nods back. "Another
thing I wish to discuss. I think the castle should go under
construction to be turned into a place for war relief until the world
evens out again. People are willing to volunteer to help those in need
that have been affected by the war. There is so much space here that
could and should be used. To turn this place into a safe haven for
people, rather than what Riddle used it for, is the only alternative I
can think of that would benefit everyone. There are many children
that are orphaned by the war, along with families that have lost their
homes and their funds, both in the Hallow and in the districts. The
castle could be a major asset to helping."

"People have died here, Albus," Slughorn says, aghast.

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"People have died everywhere," Regulus snaps. "There's no place

anyone can go to escape that."

"Using the castle is smart," Minerva agrees. "I believe it would also
be optional. No one would have to go, would they?"

"No," Albus confirms. "The fact is, there needs to be programs for
war relief, at least until the world recovers. There will be help given
here to those who need it, and it will extend out to the districts as
well. Food made and shipped out there. Any amenities needed.
Build crews. Things such as that."

"Riddle would have hated it," Sirius mutters. "Sounds good to me."
"What else needs to be discussed?" Minerva asks.

"There is, of course, what comes next for the state of the world as a
whole once it has recovered," Albus announces.

"And what do you have to say about that?" Lily demands.

"Utopia is a concept that doesn't exist," Albus murmurs. "It may be

something that people work towards and possibly even get close to,
but it's impossible to fully achieve it. There will always be crime.
Deceit. Loss. Struggle. Starvation. Disasters, either man-made or
natural. Death." He pauses and sweeps his gaze over everyone. "I do
believe, however, there are things in any world that overpowers all
of that. Justice. Trust. Discovery. Hope. Sharing. Rebuilding. Life.
There is so much life in this world, and that alone makes it worth
living in."

Sirius thinks about that for a second, how for everything bad in this
world, there is an opposing good that makes surviving seem a little
less like a chore and a little more like a chance.

Sirius flicks his gaze over to Regulus, studying him for a second,
taking in how tired he looks, how he's flipping his
dagger—Bellatrix's dagger—between his fingers beneath the table,
hidden in his lap, possibly a nervous tick or just a comforting

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motion, or perhaps it's a mindless action that he does because it's as
much a part of him as the way he breathes. There's life there, in
Sirius' little brother, and he feels it hit him how grateful he is for that.

He feels it like the day he heard Regulus' name called the first time,
the day Sirius volunteered at only sixteen years old, just because of
that instinctive need to keep Regulus alive and protected at all costs.
He was so reassured by the knowledge that he was risking his own
life instead, not knowing that, someday, Regulus would face all the
things Sirius feared he would, face all that Sirius saved him from.

What did Sirius save him from, really? In the end, not very much; all
he did, it seems, was prolong the inevitable. And yet, here Regulus is
anyway, alive. His heart is beating.

Everything is so tangled up with Regulus now, simply because Sirius

doesn't know how to love him without making himself meaningless
in the process. It's very hard for Sirius when he's not keeping it
together, because he does put Regulus first; he has always put
Regulus first, and when he can't—when he's struggling too much to
do so—it's like he malfunctions.

Sirius drags his gaze away from Regulus to Remus across the table,
meeting his eyes. They gaze at each other for a moment, and Sirius
feels something in him soften. Oh, there's those eyes. Even now, even
here, Sirius feels the lurch of looking into Remus Lupin's eyes, as if
it's the very first time.

From Regulus to Remus; from difficulty to ease. That's the reality of

it. Ugly and shameful, but honest. The things Sirius has suffered pale
in comparison to the things he has gained.

"The truth of the matter is, the current state of the world is up in the
air," Albus continues. "Replacing an old Master with a new one is not
a solution, this we know through Riddle. What we do know is that
the world needs people in charge to keep things running smoothly,
but I don't believe—and I don't think anyone here believes—that it
needs to be done the way Tom Riddle and Gellert Grindelwald saw

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fit to do it. The power shouldn't be taken from the people. One
person alone shouldn't hold all the power. Does everyone agree to
that?"

Lily frowns at Albus. "What about—"

The sentence is interrupted by a very abrupt click of the door

swinging open, everyone turning to watch as Dorcas marches right
into the room, shutting the door carelessly behind her. She's still
wearing the same clothes she did during the war, covered in
bloodstains, sporting scabbed over minor scrapes and cuts that went
untreated, a few of her braids falling from the large hairpins that
seem to be keeping her hairstyle in place by sheer force of will at this
point. She comes right in without missing a beat, snatching a chair to
place it at the end of the table directly across from Albus and
throwing herself down into it, a rather worryingly wild gleam in her
eyes.

"Sorry I'm late," Dorcas drawls lazily. "What are we talking about?"
There's a heavy silence, stifling, and no one seems eager to break it.
Sirius can barely breathe. Just looking at her makes his guilt flare so
bright that he feels genuinely sick, like he's in danger of throwing
up. Dorcas arches an eyebrow and looks around at everyone. "Well?
Is everyone here fucking dumb? I asked a question. What are we
talking about?"

Albus clears his throat. "Thank you for joining us, Ms. Meadowes.
We were discussing the moves needed to be made next for the world
overall."

Dorcas snorts derisively. "Good luck. What did you come up with,
then?"

"We haven't really—"

"Oh, brilliant, none of you have any idea what the fuck you're doing!
Love that." "Did you have...a suggestion?" Albus asks slowly.

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"No, I'm just here to observe," Dorcas says lightly, in a tone that
suggests she has other motives, which—from how she's acting—is a
concerning thing. "Can't wait to see the world collapse in on itself or
end up in another war in fifty to eighty years. But hey, suppose that
won't be our problem, will it?"

"If this is done correctly," Albus murmurs, "this will be beneficial for
all, and it will uphold equality. It will also take time and be flexible
to changing as needed, though the core point to it should always
remain. This will take years, likely, before it's ever fully running
smoothly, and it will need to be held under constant scrutiny to
ensure that it never deviates from what's important. Of course, if you
have any suggestions that are genuinely viable, we would be happy
to hear them."

"Oh, no, I don't give a shit what happens to the world," Dorcas
replies. "If it goes down in flames, I'll be more than happy to sit back
and laugh. Carry on pouring the fuel."

"Dorcas," Lily says softly.

"Anyway," Dorcas continues, "you were saying something when I

came in, Lily. Go on, what was it?"

Lily hesitates, gazing at Dorcas for a long moment, and then she
swallows harshly and looks away. "I was just—ah, I was going to
ask..." She looks at Dumbledore. "We're talking about who would be
in charge. Will you be?"

Dorcas scoffs. "Of course he will."

"Actually," Albus says, "I won't."

"What?" Dorcas retorts sharply, sitting up straight, something

dangerous flashing in her eyes.

"I won't be in charge," Albus states calmly. "I am not the leader this
world needs or will even accept, and frankly, I'm quite old. I don't
have many more years left, and I may not even see the world in
harmony before I go. I've given most of my entire life to this cause,

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and there are better people who can do more for what comes next
than I can. So, no, I won't be in charge." He slides his gaze towards
Aberforth, the look in his eyes warm. "I'm going home."

"What about the Phoenix?" Kingsley asks, face slack with disbelief.
"What about everyone there?"

"I do believe those in the Phoenix will want to leave and join the
world outside; there is not one person there who wishes to remain
there, and so I intend to have it shut down once it's empty," Albus
informs them. He pauses. "Unless, of course, it can be utilized to
help. If anyone has ideas for how it can, feel free to mention them
now, or when you think of them."

"No, wait, rewind," Dorcas spits out. "You're quitting?" "Retiring,"

Albus corrects. "Sort of."

"You—" Dorcas' nostrils flare. "You can't. You don't get to do that.
This—no, fuck that. Fuck you. After everything, after you brought
everyone right up to this point and barely even did anything, you
don't get to just walk away."

Albus sits with that for a second, then says, gently, "Just as you, Ms.
Meadowes, I have the freedom now to live as I wish."

"You started this war!" Dorcas shouts, slamming her hand to the
table. "Fucking finish it!"

"The war is over," Albus murmurs, and Dorcas glares at him with
pure fury. "I was there from start to finish. The war is no longer the
priority; building a world everyone can be safe and secure in is the
priority now, as well as forming the transitions that will smoothly
allow the world into that state of being."

"Transitions?" Dorcas leans in, eyes blazing, fingers curling into

claws on the tabletop. Most of her nails are chipped and torn. "What
you really mean is something to keep the whole point of the war
fresh in the Hallows' minds when they inevitably get pissed off

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about the war anyway. You want to make sure there's no backlash.
Give them something else to worry about or focus on, right? Well,
hey, here's an idea—why don't you make sure anyone who would
protest understands the point? If they can't grasp it from an outside
view, toss them inside and see how well they handle it."

Sirius feels his heart start to pick up speed. Everyone is staring right
at Dorcas, and so is Sirius, but he thinks he's trembling all over, his
whole body feeling faint and jittery.

"Inside where, Ms. Meadowes?" Albus murmurs.

"The arena," Dorcas says, and she doesn't even flinch when she does.
"Do it. A ceremonial hunger games to signify the end of the war and
the next step into peace. It'll be the same, just raise the age, but leave
the rest; same schedule, same sequence of events; reaping,
introduction parade, training, evaluations, interviews, arena, and
only one Victor."

Yes, Sirius thinks immediately, breathless by the mere idea,

lightheaded just from the mere possibility. Yes, yes, yes. He can't stop
himself from it, that immediate surge of ruthless agreement as a
knee-jerk instinct. It's a rush of pure euphoria to imagine that he
would be safe somewhere, cozy and entirely untouchable, while the
Hallows—for once in their privileged fucking lives—have to
experience what it's like to not have that. Let him—oh, fuck, let him
be the one who gives the interviews. Let him evaluate. Let him
decide who to sponsor, wave his money around, and watch Hallows
who have salivated for his smile groveling at his feet. Yes. Yes.

And then—no.

No, that's not right. Maybe his first thought, or instinct, is cruelty.
Vindictiveness. Revenge. But his second?

His second is being twenty-six years old and hearing his best friend's
name called, followed by his brother's. His third is the way it felt to
watch them fight and suffer and claw their way to the very end. His

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fourth is how he wanted to rip his own heart out of his chest when
he watched his little brother tip over into that crimson river the very
first time. The thing is, when Sirius thinks about the worst thing the
hunger games ever put him through, it's not his own experiences
with the arena that comes to mind; it's theirs. James and Regulus.

It's not the twenty-four Hallows that could go into the arena and
suffer, twenty-three of which would die, that gets him from yes to
no. Sirius has killed twenty-three people. More than. He doesn't even
know how many people he's killed now; no one knows anymore.
What he does know is that he hasn't killed one fucking Hallow in
any of this, ever, and something about that makes him want to go on
a murder spree to show them the weapon they've been worshipping
for years, the weapon they forged him into. He thinks about it, when
he told Remus he wanted to kill them all, and that desire still exists
within him to this day. Perhaps it always will.

But, beyond that, there are those that the twenty-four Hallows
matter to. People that love them. Siblings, friends, lovers, parents,
children. Sirius knows intimately what it feels like to experience
people he loves going into the arena, and it's not an experience he
would wish on anyone, even his worst enemy.

So, no. No. Not again. Never again.

There's a heavy, devastating sort of silence in the aftermath of

Dorcas' declaration. Everyone seems to be holding their breath, and
they are all staring right at her with varying types of expressions.
There is horror. There is pity. But, mostly, in the silence, there is a
dawning sense of opportunity where they all realize that they could
do this, that they have the power to do this, that they would have the
support to do this. And is this how it started decades ago? People
sitting around a table, and then eighty-five years later, here they are.

If James were here, he would be the first to say no. It would fly from
his lips so fast that Dorcas would have barely gotten to finish her
sentence before he was arguing. He wouldn't even have to think
about it. His first thought would be no.

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James isn't here, though, and so the silence stretches. Sirius feels his
protest bang against the sides of his throat, and he knows he has to
set it free, but he is so scared. He is utterly terrified to speak in
Dorcas' presence; he can barely look at her, and she hasn't looked at
him. Not once.

Sirius' dry swallow clicks loudly in the silence, and he parts his lips,
croaking, "No," with more effort than it takes for him to kill. Maybe,
someday, doing the right thing won't be so hard.

As expected, all eyes turn to him.

Dorcas' do, too. There's something there in how she looks at him,
something he's never seen before, something he can't quite put a
name to; it makes his insides feel like the curl of melting plastic
caught on fire. He's dripping everywhere, a teardrop trash of a
person who was there for Marlene's last breath, while the woman
who loved her wasn't. Dorcas looks at him like she wants to steal the
breath from his lungs, like maybe to do so will give her even a piece
of Marlene that she's missing. Sirius shouldn't be guilty about
breathing, but he is.

"No?" Dorcas murmurs, gaze locked on him, focused.

"No," Sirius repeats in a rasp. His mouth is so terribly dry, and his
fingers tremble in his lap. He didn't even do anything; he couldn't do
anything. He was just there. She died, and he didn't, and that's all
there was. That's all there is. "No more hunger games. No more,
Dorcas."

"Says who? Says you?"

"Yes, I say, and—and Marlene would want—"

"Marlene," Dorcas cuts in so sharply that it's like being sliced cleanly
at the jugular, her eyes flashing, "yes—oh, yes, let's get into that, shall
we? You want to talk about what she wanted, Sirius? Sure, let's talk

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 The Phoenix Tree

about it. Marlene wanted to fucking live, but clearly we don't all get
what we want, do we?"

Sirius finds himself incapable of speech. He feels like he's about to

vomit. Their grief clashes, unable to coexist, too different over the
same person. Sirius wants to remind her that Marlene was his friend,
that he knew her for years, that he's carrying the loss, too. He
doesn't, though. Something in her eyes tells him that she wouldn't
care.

"Stop," Minerva says firmly. "Dorcas, stop it. This isn't about what
you believe is fair, or even an idea you wholeheartedly agree with.
You said to lift the age, and I'm assuming you'd fit into the new age
range. How convenient." Her gaze is sharp when Dorcas glares at
her. "You want to go in to die, or to try to be closer to Marlene, but
you won't find her there."

"Maybe we should make it to where only Hallows involved in the

production of the hunger games goes in," Dorcas counters with a
sneer. "Gamemakers. Stylists. Sponsors. Reapers. Maybe we'll go in
together, Minerva. Wouldn't that be a riot?"

"And what about Pandora?" Regulus demands harshly.

Dorcas looks at him blankly. "What about her?"

"You're fucking losing it," Kingsley breathes out, shaking his head
when she scoffs. "No, you are. The whole point—the whole fucking
reason behind everything was the hunger games! How could you
even—" He makes a low, strangled noise, eyes wide. "Sybill died to
help, to save people, to get everyone to a place where this shit
doesn't happen anymore. And you want to smear that? Are you
absolutely mental?"

"Sybill died because Lily asked her to fly a fucking heli-carrier,"

Dorcas argues bluntly, and Lily flinches.

"And who asked her to go on the mission in the first place?" Remus
asks, visibly bristling on Lily's behalf. "You want to blame Lily?
Everyone wants to fucking blame Lily, is that it? Have you

271
considered for one second that Lily isn't to blame, at least no more
than each of you are. Take some responsibility and leave her the hell
out of it."

Dorcas starts to snap something back, but Remus raises his voice,
and Kingsley talks over them both, and Lily is quietly trying to make
them all stop, and everyone is talking all at once until Sirius' head
spins, feeling the war spill out into the room, everything getting
hazy around the edges until he can almost feel Marlene breathing
down his neck, his skin hot and itchy, and then Aberforth bangs on
the table, flat-palmed, until everyone tapers off into heavy, broken
silence.

Sirius doesn't want to be here anymore.

Sirius wants—James. He wants to go curl up in bed next to James

again, sandwiched between him and Effie, feeling them breathe,
even as he aches about the fact that Monty isn't anymore. He wants
Monty, too. Wants one of his hugs that soothed every brittle
nerve-ending in Sirius' body. All his nerve-endings seem to be calling
out for a father now, because he has lost every father he has ever
had, and the only dad he truly ever had, and Monty is gone, and
Marlene is gone, and people are breathing, and people are dead,
and—

"There will be no more hunger games," Albus states, and Sirius

exhales shakily, shaking all over. "There will be no more promotion
of death and slaughter. The world needs to move away from that,
farther and farther with each passing day. What the world needs
now is to heal. It needs hope. It needs love. It needs the dawn to
break through the clouds after the storm and signify the new era of
peace."

"Oh, is that what it needs?" Dorcas asks derisively. "And just how are
you going to suggest managing that?"

Albus' gaze slowly crawls to the left, sweeping past Sirius and
landing on Regulus, stopping there, latching on. Sirius stiffens

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immediately, all of his senses and instincts going on high alert in an

instant. Now is not the time to fuck with Sirius about his little
brother. Not now. Not when he's feeling like this. Not when it lives
right under his skin, that intense feeling he knows inside and out
where he volunteered for him twice, and would die for him, and
would kill for him, and has, and will again. He's so fucking insane
about Regulus right now, and one wrong button pushed is going to
send him spiraling.

Don't do it, Sirius thinks, staring at Albus. Don't you fucking dare.
I'll kill you. In a heartbeat, I'll kill you.

"I would suggest that Regulus help with that," Albus says, entirely
unaware that something

ferocious is coiling up at the base of Sirius' spine, about to snap in

half. "Regulus and James, actually. This war picked up when they
both went to desperate lengths to win their games and make it home
together. The symbolism of their union would be healing for many,
and so a wedding televised—"

"No," Sirius cuts in, practically snarling it, disbelieving at the

audacity of this man to not only still attempt to use Regulus, but also
bring James into it, too. "Absolutely fucking not. It's not happening.
Their relationship belongs to them, no one else, and no one gets any
of it anymore! No more!"

"I understand the wariness to do it," Albus starts.

He never gets to finish because Regulus states, in a very flat voice,

"James' father died three days ago."

Everyone falls silent.

"His dad just died," Regulus continues. "He can barely get out of bed
right now. My—someone very important to me died, too. Barty died.
I laid there, bound and helpless, while he died. I laid there with his

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corpse. In what world do you think either of us are ready to get
married right now?"

"Of course you would be granted time," Albus begins, and again,
he's interrupted before he can finish.

"Granted time?" Remus blurts out incredulously. "Time isn't a gift

given or taken away by your decisions. What, they'd have time until
things slow down, and then they're expected to perform again, no
matter what they feel?"

"I know it's a lot to ask," Albus says quietly. "It's undeniable,
however, that it would be a good transition for the world as a whole.
To see the very people who motivated this war actually glean
something from it and achieve peace as everyone wished them to, as
yourselves have wished for, would symbolize for others that they
can achieve it, too. People believe in you, Regulus. You and James.
Your love."

"Albus," Aberforth mutters, "you can't just expect them to do this.

They're entitled to their damn privacy, for one thing. It's not even
about how much time they'd get; it's about the fact that they never
did anything they did because they were trying to be defiant, or
symbols of rebellion, or

motivation for the war at all. You don't know just how long these
boys have loved each other. You didn't see that, but I did. It's not for
the world, and you can't ask them to give it to everyone, especially
the damn people who stole it from them in the first place."

"Oh, can't he? I mean, he doesn't actually care about them, only how
they can be used," Dorcas announces, and then she starts laughing.
She genuinely just cracks up, fully scooting back to slap her knee and
overflow with mirth. Everyone stares at her as she laughs and
laughs, wheezing to the point that she actually has to gasp for air.

Sirius can't help but agree with Kingsley. Dorcas is losing it.

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"Oh, oh, fucking hell, this is too good," Dorcas chokes out, leaning
back in her chair. She hums on another laugh, but seems to smother
it, looking right at Albus with a gleam in her eyes. "Well, go on, tell
them. Or should I?"

"Ms. Meadowes," Albus says softly, "this isn't about—"

"No, no, don't do that now. Own up to your shit, yeah? Let's see how
well this goes over with everyone, shall we? What was it you said?
You did this. Ms. Meadowes. You don't get to quit now. Same goes
for you." Dorcas leans forward, eyes sparkling with satisfaction, and
she braces her arms on the table. She threads her hands together. She
never looks away from Albus. "I'll give you the chance to say it,
because if you don't, I will."

Albus says nothing. The silence is stifling. Thick. Heavy. Sirius feels
it bearing down on him, and he swings his gaze between Dorcas and
Albus in sheer confusion, not understanding what the fuck is going
on. When he looks around, he can see that no one else knows either.
Everyone looks uncertain, except for perhaps Minerva, who is
stone-faced, but she often is, so Sirius assumes she doesn't know
anything either.

"No?" Dorcas asks. She laughs again, harsh and brittle. "So, not only
are you a fucking hypocrite, but you're a coward. I never thought I'd
see the day. For as long as I've known you, I never would have
labeled you a coward, but look at you now."

"It's not cowardice," Albus whispers. "It's the wish for peace."

"You should have thought of that before you started a fucking war,"
Dorcas retorts ruthlessly. "But you didn't, and here you sit, one of the
biggest hypocrites I've ever met. No more hunger games, right?
Funny, you're saying there should be no more promotion for death
and slaughter, but you were happy enough to promote it yourself
when it suited you."

"Dorcas," Minerva says sharply, a light dawning in her eyes, and she
does know. Sirius can see that she knows what's coming, and he's
never seen her look so alarmed before.

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Dorcas ignores Minerva. "But you did it in secret, didn't you? You
did it through someone else, and I didn't say a fucking word. I guess
it must have slipped my mind when I was worried about protecting
Minerva from the fallout, because you used her as your conduit,
your shield, and you knew just how much I cared about her. Guess
you weren't expecting me to stop caring, I suppose."

"She is not at fault," Albus croaks.

"Oh, she's not an innocent party," Dorcas snaps, "but you're definitely
the one at fault. What was it you wanted? Martyrs, right? And
Regulus—ha, he was the main one!"

Regulus stops flipping his dagger in his lap.

Sirius fixes his gaze on Dorcas, that coil at the base of his spine
growing tighter, at the breaking point. He hears martyr and Regulus
paired together too closely and immediately wants to split the world
apart like busting open fruit-rinds.

"Why can't you say it, hm? Are you ashamed?" Dorcas taunts softly,
tilting her head, playing with her food before the pounce. And, when
she's ready to sink her teeth in and feel Albus' blood coat her tongue,
she strikes. "That's alright. I'll tell them all about it. How the rule for
Quarterly Memorial wasn't Riddle's idea. He didn't even think of it.
No, that was you, wasn't it? You had Minerva give him the idea,
because your plan all along was to have everyone the Hallows
idolized turned into martyrs, but especially Regulus. He was
supposed to suffer—all the Victors were—but him the most. The
tragedy of it all, him dying and James losing him, and Sirius losing
him, and Sirius being the winner. Because you were going to make
sure that Sirius won, just so he'd help end the war for his dead
brother the way you started it for your dead sister."

Sirius' whole body goes cold. His ears ring to the point that he
almost misses the punched-out breath that escapes Regulus right
next to him, echoing in the silence.

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The what-could-have-been reaches up and grabs Sirius by the throat

immediately, squeezing until something ruptures in him and floods
like a brain-bleed. He imagines it—and it's the worst thing

he's ever imagined, Regulus dying in the arena, any arena, after all
that Sirius did to ensure that he wouldn't, up to and including
volunteering for him not just once, but twice, and he would do it
again and again and always. Oh, oh, he would have—he would have
ended the war. He would have done exactly what Albus expected; he
would have given all of himself to it in a way he honestly didn't with
Regulus alive, and Albus knows, because he started the war for his
little sister and tried to surrender it for his little brother.

Slowly, in perfect sync, Sirius and Regulus swivel their heads to stare
at Albus, a carbon-copy of each other in this moment, the mirror they
have always known. Right now, they reflect a deep, yawning sense
of danger that pulses like a heartbeat, an abyss opening up and
revealing teeth. It's the same exact level of bloodthirsty, because
Albus wanted to take Regulus away from Sirius, and they never
really handle that well, do they?

It must be a fright, seeing the same empty expression on their faces,

the same heavy-lidded stare that all Blacks have, the one that
intimidates even the bravest of people, because there's a cursed sort
of madness in this family that writhes like black tendrils around their
souls, predetermined to damnation, doomed from the womb, and
here is the window. Their eyes. Look into them and get that glimpse;
it makes hairs raise on arms, makes spines shudder, makes hearts
speed up in instinctive fear, because it is only a glimpse, a hint, so
much and so heavy, and yet there is still more hidden beneath.

If James were here, perhaps there would be hope. Perhaps there

would be forgiveness. He is the best of them, after all. The best parts
of them both are laden with James' fingerprints, some of their sharp
edges sanded down to smooth curves people would give their life to
trace, but never all. They still have edges that cut deep enough to
turn someone inside out, and James isn't here. Sirius relishes that

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James isn't here, because there is no one else who could, or would,
stop him.

"Is this true?" Sirius asks, his voice measured. Albus tears his gaze
away to look at Sirius, looking old and weary. "Did you give Riddle
the idea to make us go back into the arena?"

"Yes," Albus confirms steadily.

Albus stares at him for a beat, and then he turns his head to look at
Aberforth, who...doesn't look surprised. He knows this, too. He has
known this, and despite the strain on his face that clearly states he
despises what Albus did, he never said a word about it. No one
spoke of it. No one confessed it. They all kept it a secret to protect
someone they love; Dorcas for Minerva, Aberforth for Albus. And
now, Albus looks at Aberforth with a quiet kind of remorse, for
something beyond what he did; perhaps only for what the things he
did will cause.

He's not even sorry for what he did, and the worst part is that Sirius
knows why. Sirius, who knows manipulation better than anyone at
this table other than, as it turns out, Albus himself. Sirius, who
knows what it is to do horrible things for the reason one dedicates
themselves to, and makes the often difficult choice to take
responsibility and full blame. Sirius, who was willing to go into that
arena for Regulus, and then willing to kill everyone in there,
including friends and himself, just to make sure Regulus would get
home; willing to give up everything for Regulus, and go to whatever
lengths necessary to keep him alive and safe. Sirius, who would have
devoted himself—all of himself—to the war in Regulus' name, had
he died, just the same as Albus did, but the difference is he would
have done it until the war was all he cared about; not James, or Effie,
or Monty, or Remus, or anyone, and he wouldn't have had another
sibling to love. He'd only have the one he lost.

For Albus, what he cared about was avenging his sister and making
room for a safer world for his brother. Whatever it took to get there,
no matter how horrendous and heavy, he did it. He did what no one
else could; he did what Sirius would have done in a heartbeat, in his

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position. He did it, and Sirius is in the exact state of mind to do the
same.

"Why?" Sirius asks coldly. Albus holds Aberforth's gaze for a

moment longer, then focuses on Sirius again. "Tell me why."

"You know already," Albus murmurs. "My history and my

motivations are not a secret to anyone any longer. My past is riddled
with mistakes I regret. All I ever wanted to do was whatever needed
to be done for the greater good."

"That's not good enough," Sirius tells him. "You tried to kill my
brother. He's my little brother, and you tried to kill him, and then
you used him, and you still want to use him. Your reasons aren't
good enough."

Albus looks at him, looks into his eyes, and something falls away
from him as he releases a soft sigh. It's not quite a sense of
resignation in his gaze, more like acceptance, even a simple
understanding. Older brother to older brother. Albus nods.

"I know," Albus says. "I just wanted to make things right."

"Sometimes we can't make things right. Sometimes we can only

make them better," Sirius announces, and then he flings his hand out
and buries Regulus' dagger right into the side of Albus' throat. Hears
him choke. Rips it back out. Watches the blood spill and says, calmly,
"Like that."

It's Aberforth who cries out first, Albus' name tumbling from his
mouth in a frantic shout as he stumbles from his chair in visible
panic while Albus sinks to the side and pours out a crimson river
over the chair, in his beard, on the table. His blue eyes are fixed on
Sirius for only a moment, and

then they roll around to locate Aberforth, staring at him as he weakly

folds forward into his hands. It's like he's trying to stand, and he
can't manage it, can't even breathe as he gurgles out something that

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could be Aberforth's name, or an apology, and somehow both sound
the exact same.

Chaos unleashes after that. Minerva rushing towards Albus,

demanding Lily—as a medic—to help, and Lily does not, will not,
just sits impassively and watches it happen. Slughorn taking the
immediate opportunity to flee from the violence, calling for help,
which causes Aurors to arrive. Remus jumping to his feet for Sirius
in a heartbeat, and Regulus going on the defensive, and Kingsley
cursing as he bolts from his chair, and Filius stumbling out of the
way as everything falls apart, losing all semblance of control
immediately.

Aberforth is there with blood on his hands, and he is there when the
light in Albus' eyes goes out, gazing up at his little brother with all
his regrets bleeding out of him. It's not what Sirius ever expected to
see, those tears that drip down an old man's nose, two pairs of eyes
of the same shade and the same sights of shared memories, and only
one pair left with life in them. Albus dies swiftly under his brother's
hands.

Maybe it should be expected that Aberforth would respond to this

by attempting to attack his brother's murderer. Sirius doesn't expect
it, for some reason, and doesn't see it coming. He does nothing to
defend himself and would surely suffer for it, if not for the fact that
Regulus is right there. He moves so fast and with no regard for his
own fondness of this man. It's seconds between Aberforth lunging
for Sirius and Regulus coming out of his chair to put him flat on his
back.

Aberforth goes down with a grunt and a wheeze, one that dies out
into a frustrated, grief-stricken whine, and Regulus stands there
between him and Sirius like a brick wall, daring him to try again.
When they look at each other, it's almost like they're looking at one
another from the other's position.

Somewhere in all of this, Sirius can hear Dorcas laughing in utter

triumph. Leaders lead until they leak their blood all over the floor;
they don't get to quit until they're made to, and this was her motive
all along, wasn't it? The start of the war a husk on the ground with

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blood in his beard and a vacancy in his gaze; the start of the war
finished. Sirius listens to her laugh and laugh in victory, and he looks
at the blood on his hands.

War is over, and what have they done? Sirius doesn't know. He
wishes he could undo everything, but he doesn't know what else he
would do if he could. There's just this.

Sometimes, this is all there is.

~•~

Regulus hears the door to the highest tower creak open and doesn't
turn, because sometimes, for no reason at all, it's as if siblings can
read each other's minds. Sirius knows he's here just as well as
Regulus knew he'd come find him, eventually.

Because it's just Regulus here, he's not right up against the rail where
he can see the stomach- swooping length between here and the
ground. Not brave enough to go that far if Sirius isn't close by. A part
of him resents that. A part of him is resigned to it. Either way, he's
not here to look at the ground. He came here to see the stars. The
Hallow is dark and solemn at night now, and they're visible. Sirius is
the brightest, of course.

Sirius stops next to him, clearing his throat, keeping distance

between their shoulders. Regulus doesn't close it, doesn't want to
right now, and Sirius doesn't either. That's familiar, isn't it?

It's been six days since the war ended, two since Sirius killed Albus
Dumbledore, and in the immediate aftermath, he was dragged away
and held with no information released. Naturally, this didn't go over
well with Regulus, Remus, and Lily. Even Kingsley was upset and
demanding answers. Dorcas found all of it so, so funny.

James and Effie, when they were informed of what happened, got
out of bed and kicked up a fuss worse than anyone knew how to
deal with. Effie on her own is a force to be reckoned with, and no one

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wants to be scolded by an angry James, because an angry James is so
unusual that it just instinctively makes you feel guilty, so paired
together, there's no stopping them, really. Even still, they were going
head-to-head with Aberforth, who had just lost his brother.

Regulus tries to ignore the squirming in his chest that feels a whole
lot like guilt. He does think that Albus sealed his fate for himself,
and got what was coming to him, just karma making its way back
around. But, then again, they've all done horrible things, haven't
they? It wasn't just him, but he made the mistake of crossing the
wrong person. It was his own history, and he still repeated it.

Just... Aberforth watched his brother die. His big brother died in his
arms. It doesn't matter how fraught their relationship was, because
that was his brother. Regulus can't even imagine what that felt like.
Doesn't want to imagine it. He thought Sirius died, and didn't have
to see it, didn't have to be one hundred percent sure the way
Aberforth is forced to.

So, when everything shifted and it was time for someone to make
decisions, that fell on Aberforth as Albus' little brother, as well as
Minerva and Filius, who Albus had originally asked to oversee a lot
of rebuilding decisions to start with. It was those three who
essentially figured out what the hell to do with Sirius, and they shut
themselves away from the large group of people demanding Sirius'
release and promising to start a whole new war if they had to, if they
didn't get what they wanted. Regulus was on the verge of killing
people when, finally, Minerva and Filius said they were going to
have a long meeting with Sirius, discuss some things, then release
him.

Aberforth apparently opted out, choosing instead to handle

everything with Albus' body and go home, briefly. He left tonight
and will arrive in the morning, and when he returns, everyone else
will be going. Tomorrow, a week after the war, Regulus will be home
again, along with James and Effie, along with Sirius and Remus, at
least for some time.

Regulus stuck around long enough to see Sirius be led out of a room
a few hours ago, immediately drawn into a hug by Effie, and then he

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walked away. Left and didn't look back. Came here and waited,
watching the stars shine high above him.

"So, uh. I've been banned from the Hallow as a punishment. That's
what they went with. When I leave, I'm never allowed back." Sirius
clears his throat, then snorts weakly. "Not much of a punishment,
honestly. More like a gift."

Regulus doesn't acknowledge him. The silence is heavy.

"You're angry at me now," Sirius says. He sounds glum about this.

Disappointed, but not surprised.

Regulus turns his head and just stares at him.

"Yeah, you're angry at me now," Sirius confirms with a heavy sigh,

his shoulders slumping. "Not

exactly what I expected you to be angry at me for, I won't lie..."

Regulus stares at him harder.

"You had to know I was going to do it," Sirius mutters, his eyebrows
wrinkling together in the middle. He looks confused. He's such an
idiot. "I mean, you gave me your dagger, Regulus. You knew what I
was about to do. You had to have known."

"I didn't know," Regulus admits quietly. "I just—I saw you tense up
like you were about to move, and I felt—it felt like we were
threatened again, after learning what he did, and I just wanted you
to be safe. That's all. That's why I gave you the dagger, Sirius. I just
wanted you to be safe."

"Oh," Sirius says softly, lips tipping down, though something in his
gaze goes gentle. He seems to sit on that for a long moment, then
bites his lip and looks at Regulus carefully, his eyes a little wide.
"Albus knew."

Regulus blinks. "What?"

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"Yeah." Sirius clears his throat. "He knew I was going to kill him.
He—I don't know. He just... looked at me, and he saw it, and he
knew. I knew he knew, and he—he nodded."

"He nodded," Regulus repeats.

Sirius coughs, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "He accepted it, I

think. I—you know, honestly, I think there was a part of him that
never really expected to...make it out of the war to begin with. But it
wasn't even about that. He knew, because he'd done it first, yeah? He
killed Grindelwald for killing his little sister. He handled the threat
against his little brother. The war was always in the name of them. I
think... Well, I don't think he was a good person, and no one is these
days, but I do think he was a good brother."

"Do you regret killing him?" Regulus asks.

"Yes," Sirius says, and then, "No," and then, "I don't know. I regret
everyone I've killed, and I also don't, and I never know how to feel
about it. But him... That's complicated."

"How?"

"I...understood him, I guess. I—I could have been him. Would have
been, if he got what he wanted. But it's—I mean, he knew what was
coming, because what else could anyone expect? He tried to kill you,
tried to have you killed, and he hurt you. He was still a threat to you,
even at that table."

"So, it was for me," Regulus murmurs.

Sirius blows out a deep breath and tosses his hands up, looking at
Regulus incredulously. "Yes, alright? It was for you. Fucking hell,
Reggie, I know you hate it, but everything I've ever done has been
for you. And it's never just for you, either. I do it for everyone I love.
You said I'm the first thing in this world you've ever loved, and I
meant it when I said it was the same for me. I can't help that you're
the first person that comes to mind, and that doesn't mean I love

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anyone else less and wouldn't do the same exact thing for them. This
is just me, and—and with this, it was more than that. It was more
than just you, or us, or anyone. It was about—everyone."

Regulus exhales, his eyelids fluttering as he blinks rapidly, feeling

those words hit him square in his chest. He looks at Sirius, his
brother, and feels it take shape in his mind how it was more,
repeating the words Sirius spoke back to him in a new
understanding of them. "Sometimes we can't make things right.
Sometimes we can only make them better."

"Yeah," Sirius agrees. He offers Regulus a tentative smile, sad and

tired around the edges. "You know who taught me that?"

"James," Regulus says immediately, knowing it already, because he's

known it most of his life. Sirius shakes his head and says, gently,
"You. It was you, Reggie. You taught me that."

Regulus stares at him and wants, at first, to deny this, because it

doesn't feel possible to him, that he—of all the people in Sirius'
life—would be able to teach him that anything could be made better,
being the perpetual fuck-up that he is, failing more consistently than
anyone Sirius has ever known. And then, well, he thinks about it. He
really thinks about it.

They never really did make things right between them, did they?
Those ten years still exist between them and always will. They're still
unhealthy in how they shape their lives around one another, not
even sure how to begin to make that right. They have said and done
horrible, horrendous things to one another, caused each other pain,
been the reason behind the worst moments in the other's lives, and
there is no changing that, or erasing it. They've failed each other over
and over and over, and it's each other that they struggle to try with
the most over anyone else in their lives, and it'll never just be easy
with them, for all the things that they share, and can't let go of.

And yet, they do try. And yet, they have worked together, with each
other. And yet, here they are, loving each other anyway, on either
side of the war and through it. They put in the effort for each other,
closed distance despite how wide the divide was, and they can

285
again. They always can. Maybe they can't make things right, maybe
they'll never be able to do that, but they can make things better, and
have, and will keep trying to.

Regulus really doesn't have it in him to be angry anymore. He isn't

angry about this the way he would have been a year ago, or even
further back. Now, he supposes he understands it; he remembers
that moment when he realized what Albus had done, the reason that
Sirius ended up in the arena again, and then Azkaban, just as much a
source behind his pain as Regulus—in that moment, Regulus had
wanted to kill him. If it hadn't been Sirius, it would have been him.
And, deep down, Regulus thinks if it hadn't been them, it would
have been Lily. If not her, then it would have been Dorcas.

There was no way Albus was making it home after everything. For a
second, Regulus mourns that for Albus. For Aberforth. It's a tragic
thing, isn't it? A bitter end and a bitter beginning and bitter
throughout. Decades of bitter with the sweet of siblinghood stolen
like branches breaking on family trees.

Regulus shifts to press his arm into Sirius', bumping into him like
leaves swirling in a breeze. It's easy once he's there; it's always easier
once he's there, once they're there, once the distance is closed. It's
closing the distance that's so hard.

Sirius leans into him, murmuring, "We just need some time, and then
we'll make things better again, right?"

"Yeah, Sirius, we will," Regulus says softly.

"Me and you," Sirius whispers, nudging their shoulders together, a

steady weight, a steady comfort.

Regulus tilts his gaze up to look at the sky, his voice just as steady
when speaking to the brightest star there, and the brother who
outshines it when he agrees, "Me and you."

~•~

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Long ago, Aberforth liked explosives. Grenades, landmines,

dynamite—you name it, anything that goes boom, he liked it. This
was because, long ago, Aberforth was always looking for something
bigger. Something more. Something—not home.

Home was...stifling, when Aberforth was young. Ariana was a sickly

girl. Kept them in poverty just from all that she needed. It makes
Aberforth sick to think of it now, how he was back then, because as
much as loved his little sister—and oh, how he loved her, and still
does—she felt like a

chore to him.

For Aberforth, getting away was the dream, not that he had
anywhere to go, properly. He never wanted to go to the arena, just to
get to go to the Hallow—he wasn't that desperate, or that stupid—
but he did want to go...somewhere. Anywhere. Just away, far away
from it all, because he was stuck.

Stuck with dead parents. Stuck with a sickly sister he didn't want to
take care of, not knowing he would one day ache to take care of her
just one more time. Stuck with a brother he could never see
eye-to-eye with, in all their differences, in the patriarch that he
became that only suffocated Aberforth more.

Aberforth found his escape in all things loud. Bleating goats, and the
crunch of some boy's cheek under his fist, and the sizzle-whistle-pop
of tiny, bright fireworks he slowly taught himself to make. He
remembers his first; it was a dud, he thought, and then it went off in
his face.

Well, that's how life goes, isn't it?

Much the same, Aberforth's love for explosives went off in his face,
too. He probably should have seen it coming, but there's no way he
could have predicted it.

He didn't expect that to be how Ariana died.

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Aberforth's love for explosives dwindled after that, and so did his
desire to leave home. He wanted to stay. He wanted to do
something, anything, take it all back that he ever felt and feel
differently the second time around—except there's no second time.
There's just what you get, and what you do with it, and so Aberforth
decided he'd do something with it. He decided he would become
mayor someday, and—make a difference.

Yeah, that went off in his face as well. Just look at him now.

Aberforth is the very first to enter district six after biological warfare
was released within it. The state of his home is hollow. A ghost town.
Misshapen with silent streets and abandoned homes. It's been
months, and the imprint of death still lingers here. The wind that
blows seems to be howling with the screams of people who died
here, who never reached safety, who he was meant to protect and, in
the end, couldn't.

He walks through streets he knows better than the back of his hand,
streets he ran through as a child, streets he has watched children run
through as an older man, streets he has seen children die in—and
that is all he can see now, the children who died, none of them his
sister and all of them his sister. Home has always been his sister,
really. Before, he couldn't bear to leave it. Now, he can hardly stand
to be here.

In the distance, Aberforth can see his house. It's the house he has
lived in his whole life. Albus inherited one in the Victor's Village, but
they didn't go there, and wouldn't go there when Ariana never lived
there. They stayed home until Albus left and never returned. He was
going to and simply didn't get the chance. It hurts more than
anything ever has for Aberforth to exist with the knowledge that he
wasn't the one who would reflect Ariana's fate. Albus was.

Aberforth returns home entirely alone.

He doesn't have much, really, but he has photo albums with old
pictures of Ariana and Albus. He features, too, but it was always

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them he looked at when he reached a point low enough to revisit

memories his aged mind couldn't recall in perfect clarity. It was so
much easier to remember the sound of laughter when he saw it
caught in a photo. That's what people don't tell you about grief,
about loss; you do get farther away from it with time, and as much
as you might wish not to, you forget the very things you want to
cling to. Without pictures, he wouldn't fully remember what Ariana
looked like.

Slowly, methodically, Aberforth sweeps through his home, ignoring

the dust that has collected and keeping the doors closed on Albus
and Ariana's rooms. He hasn't opened them in a long time. Can't
remember the last time he did. It's his last chance to, and he doesn't.
The rooms are empty; they've been empty for longer than they
weren't.

He takes the bags he packs—a whopping total of two—and sits them

on the corner of the street out front, then locks the front door and
pockets the key. The steps on the porch are older than him and creak
more from disuse than they ever did when he'd stomp up them
behind Albus and Ariana, rolling his eyes as they chattered and
laughed.

Would it kill you to be easier on those steps, Abby? Albus asked

once, a mixture of exasperated and scolding.

Leave him be, Albus. He's heavy-footed, like his goats, Ariana had
said, breaking out into giggles when Aberforth yelped in offense,
and Albus had laughed with her. Laughed and laughed. Oh, they
always laughed more than he did.

There was a time the echoes of their laughter greeted him every time
he stomped up and down those steps. That time has passed. He
doesn't hear that anymore and never will again. All he gets is the
echo of his shoes against wood.

Sighing, Aberforth moves around the side of his house, stops by his
shed, then takes the trek out to the edge of his property, a lump in his

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throat as he gazes at Ariana's tree, coming closer and closer. It's been
a while since he's seen it, and he forgot how majestic it really is. Fifty
years of growth, green with life in the summer, and there's the cut up
dents in the bark from that boy, aged to the point they almost blend
in.

When Albus and Aberforth planted this tree, all Albus said was that
it was the phoenix tree. Something miraculous and lovely that would
grow from Ariana's ashes. The Order of the Phoenix —yeah, that
moniker never surprised Aberforth at all. Now, the phoenix tree feels
like it belongs to Albus as much as it does Ariana.

Clearing his throat, Aberforth does something he hasn't in many

years. He reaches out and touches the trunk of the tree, and he
speaks. It comes out gruff and a little strangled when he says,
"Brought someone to see you."

There's no response. The wind doesn't even have the decency to stir
the leaves or make the branches creak. Swallowing harshly,
Aberforth lets his hand drop, then lifts it to grab onto the shovel he's
holding with his other one.

He begins to dig.

I never meant for it to happen, Aberforth. I told him—I swear I told

him I was saving her. I was always trying to save her.

Dig.

He clearly didn't listen, because he killed her. You killed her.

Dig.

I never meant for this to happen.

Dig.

Albus. Albus, stop! What are you doing?

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 The Phoenix Tree

Dig.

I have to go back.

Dig.

Go back? Where? What, the Hallow? They'll never allow it!

Dig.

He will. He'll let me in.

Dig.

For what? What will you do? What can you do, Albus? Haven't you
done enough? Just—just stop. Stop packing the bag. Just—

Dig.

I—I have to go. Aberforth, come with me.

Dig.

Come with you? Are you fucking stupid? No!

Dig.

Abby, please.

Dig.

I can barely stand to be around you now, and you think I'll go with
you? Ariana is buried right out there! I'm not leaving her! How can
you leave her? How dare you be so swift to leave her when it's your
fault she's where she's at in the first place?

Dig.

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I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can—I want to make it right. I—

Dig.

There is no making it right! Ariana is dead!

Dig.

Okay, Aberforth. Okay.

Dig.

Wait. Wait, what are you—where are you going? Albus—

Dig.

Albus!

Dig.

Don't go. Please don't go. Don't do this. Don't leave me.

Dig.

It's okay, Aberforth. It's going to be okay. I'm going to fix it. I'm going
to make it right.

The shovel, when it hits the ground one last time, sounds like the
door slamming when Albus walked out of it. Aberforth flinches now
just as he did then, breathing heavily as he straightens up and leans
against the shovel, wiping sweat from his brow. He hadn't ached
when digging with Albus to plant the tree and bury Ariana's ashes.
Maybe it was because he was young then, or maybe it was because
he had Albus there to halve the strain. This time, he suffers the strain
alone. It's like loss. More than brotherhood, in the end, they shared
loss between them; this is the first loss Aberforth will have to carry
on his own.

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 The Phoenix Tree

With a grunt, Aberforth crouches down before the hole in the

ground, seeing the faded blue of the canister that holds his little
sister's ashes still right where they buried it. Roots of the tree have
grown around it, and there's a spot right next to it that's empty, a
place to nestle a new canister into. Aberforth sits his brother's ashes
there, right next to his sister's.

For a long time, Aberforth just kneels there, staring at the canisters
and feeling homeless. All he can think about is how some part of him
had anticipated this in some way. All that Albus did... Could this
have ended any other way? Was Albus ever going to be able to just
come home?

That's what Aberforth wanted, though he suspects he was alone in

that, as everyone else wanted Albus to pay just as they did Riddle,
just as Albus did Grindelwald long ago. But Aberforth had a unique
perspective on the whole matter, didn't he? Albus was his brother.

Albus couldn't be everyone's brother. To everyone else, he was a

leader. He was a manipulator. He was the harbinger of war. The
worst part is that, somewhere in all the years between them, that's
how Aberforth viewed him, too.

Aberforth didn't find out until after Albus died that he attempted to
surrender the war for him. Give it up, all of it up, for Aberforth. Give
him to me, Albus said. You can have the war, but him—give him to
me. Aberforth was too busy fighting to see the footage, and he didn't
pay attention to the attention he received after, and it was Filius who
spoke of it first, and Filius who played the footage for him when
Albus was already dead.

Aberforth wishes a lot of things, but what he wishes the most is that
he had sat aside his pride to apologize while he still had the chance,
while Albus was still here to hear it.

Albus isn't here to hear it, and Aberforth still releases a shuddering
breath and whispers, "I'm sorry," to the pair of ashes at the base of a
tree. Ariana died young, Albus couldn't make things right, and
Aberforth is all that's left of them both, and he's so sorry. He'll
always be sorry.

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Then, with that, Aberforth stands and shovels the dirt back in
through the blur in his vision, old and weary, aching and alone. The
breeze stirs the leaves, the branches creak, and Aberforth packs the
dirt in, burying Ariana and Albus together.

Aberforth leaves home after that, grabs his bags, boards a train, and
has no plans to go back. No, he's going back to the Hallow, where he
intends to stay, because there is no next time around; no second time,
no third; there is just what's left, and what you do with it, and for
Albus and Ariana, for them, he will do his best. And, when it's all
over, when he's given his last breath, he'll leave it as his last wish to
turn to ash and join them there at the base of that phoenix tree,
beneath the dirt.

Then, finally, they'll all be home.

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 8
HOME
______

District six greets Regulus with dead flowers on his kitchen

windowsill and a knitted hat on his

bedside table with the bell inside it still not ringing.

"Nice digs," Remus comments mildly, running his finger through a

layer of dust on Regulus' countertop.

Regulus understands that Remus is trying to make him crack a

smile, or even scowl the way he used to, but what Remus doesn't
get—what he can't get—is that the state of Regulus' home is utterly
devastating to him.

It was his home. He was making it into a home. He kept it clean, and
now there are cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling, and there's a
faint smell of something stale over everything, the stench of absence.
His flowers are wilted and brown.

The Victor's Village was empty when biological warfare was

released here, so it didn't take the brunt of it, and there are certainly
other homes in the district in a worse state, but this is his home. It
has the furniture Sirius built for him, and the flowers James brought
to him, and books Monty gave to him, and food Effie made sure he
had, and little pieces of himself left lying around because he was
here, he was living here, he was alive here. And now the furniture is
covered in dust, the books haven't been touched, the flowers are
dead, the food has spoiled, and all the little pieces of himself from
before feel foreign to him, like they're from a complete stranger.

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Regulus comes home and doesn't recognize it, doesn't feel at home at
all, doesn't know where home is anymore if it's not James. Certainly
not here. Not this decrepit, hollow excuse for a home. He detests it.
Won't stand for it. No, absolutely not.

Without a word, Regulus starts cleaning.

It's a big house, just as all those in the Victor's Village are. Four
bedrooms, two bathrooms. He only ever used one of the bedrooms
upstairs, the one that conveniently faced the street out front, the
window giving him the perfect view to the house right across the
street. Regulus starts there.

The last time he was in this room, he and James were tangled in the
sheets of his bed, lost in each other's skin and doing their very best to
avoid the reaping that they never should have had to worry about to
start with. The sheets are still wrinkled and tossed aside, but they
don't smell like James anymore. It makes Regulus angry for some
reason, so he's seething as he strips the sheets and pillowcases to
wash them.

Regulus takes all his clothes to wash those, too. Goes from room to
room, gathering all the sheets and blankets, wiping away dust on
furniture, opening doors and windows to let fresh air in. Goes back
to his room to tidy his desk, furious to find all the journals in his
desk drawers covered in layers of dust that he methodically wipes
away, careful not to crumble any of the pressed, dead flowers
between the pages. One of the journals tumbles from his grip, an
older one, falling awkwardly with the pages bent. He picks it up and
straightens it out very carefully, briefly glancing at a page, and then
he stops.

There are two poems on the page, both that still stand the test of
time, still resonating even now. The one above is not as uplifting as
the one below, the very first time he decided he would like to grow, if
he could not climb. He had no idea that he would one day do both.

It's not those poems that get to him, however. It's not even his poem
that makes him feel as fragile as the flower in between the pages, a
curdled pink tinged with brown, the petals on the verge of

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crumbling like ash. No, it's what exists in the margins, ink-blotted
words faded, but still visible.

Roses are red, my dad is a prick, don't make me go to work, I'd

rather die — an idiot who, sadly, thinks he's a genius

Regulus swallows past the lump in his throat, reaching out to

carefully trace his fingers over the words. Stupid, meaningless words
said flippantly, marked down without a care in the world or any way
of knowing that it'd be a quote belonging to a dead man. Regulus
couldn't have imagined it, then. Barty dying. Being dead. He was
safe, aged out from reapings, and he would have made it if the war
hadn't taken him.

Regulus remembers this day. The day Riddle showed up to his

house. The day he really spoke to James the first time after the arena.
He was still dreaming of Evan then. He was still waking up in
Barty's arms then.

It hurts to think about, looking back on all the moments he took for
granted, not appreciating them when he had the chance, not
knowing they'd run out. It hurts to think about a lot of things, and
maybe it always will.

It hurts to think about Barty; it hurts to think about how the most
consistent thing about Barty, now, is how much Regulus misses him.
It hurts to think about how no one will ever miss Barty the way
Regulus does, because no one ever got to have Barty the way
Regulus did. Amos is dead, Barty's mum is dead, and the few other
friends Barty made along the way didn't have quite the same history
with him as Regulus did. The full brunt of the grief over Barty falls
on Regulus' shoulders, and he doesn't want it. He never wanted it.
Barty was supposed to be here. Regulus wishes Barty was still here.

It hurts to think about Monty, who was one of the few older male
influences in Regulus' life that he was actually proud to have.
Regulus wasn't afraid of Monty, not even for a second, not the way
he was afraid of Orion at times. Regulus spent so much time with
Monty at the Phoenix, listening to him laugh and indulging him in
startlingly competitive games of tic-tac-toe and hangman, giving into

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smiles when he would tell stories of James as a baby, as a young
child before he ever met Sirius and then Regulus. Monty was so, so
painfully and reliably kind, far too kind for the world they were
living in; if anyone should have made it to a kinder world, it was
him. He would have fit right in, better than anyone else could have.

It hurts to think about how much it hurts James, Effie, and Sirius that
Monty is gone. Effie knew the moment Monty left this world, but
James and Sirius didn't find out until the war was already over, their
relief to see Effie alive instantly crushed when she had to deliver the
news—and how crushing is that? Just that she had to be the one to
stand before them and watch their hope die and their tears spill over
when they found out, when she could barely hold herself together to
start with? Regulus can't even describe how the loss of Monty has
torn through James, carving something out of him that he'll never get
back, a missing piece that Effie felt slip through her fingers just the
same. And then there's Sirius, who barely knows what to do with his
own pain, struggling to balance it, like he's not allowed to have it,
feeling like an imposter for simply daring to grieve a man who
wasn't his father as a father, as if that man didn't love him as a son.

It hurts to think about Marlene. Maybe it hurts so much because it

was the least expected. Perhaps the universe knew she couldn't make
it through everything, but the people in her life never suspected it,
because she always made it through, didn't she? That was her thing.
Marlene kept surviving, always surviving, and it's hard to fathom
the concept that she didn't; that, after everything, she couldn't.

But Barty... For Regulus, that hits him the hardest.

They never talked about anything. That's the sad part. They weren't
really—friends. It was always something less than that, and
something more. Barty was the first person to see all of Regulus'
scars after he got them. Regulus is the only person who knows the
nursery rhyme Barty's mum used to sing to him. They could have
gone their separate ways the moment sex stopped being something
they wanted from each other, they just chose not to. They could have
lived without one another, they just didn't want to.

In the end, only one of them got their wish. "Regulus?"

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Clearing his throat, Regulus eases the journal shut and puts it back in
the drawer, closing it before swiveling his head to see Remus
lingering awkwardly in his doorway. "Yes, sorry, what is it? Where
are James and Sirius?"

"Across the street, probably merging their souls together or

something," Remus says wryly, and Regulus snorts.

"Yeah, they're a bit..." Regulus trails off, then can't stop himself from
grimacing ever so slightly. It's not jealousy, and Regulus knows this
because Remus grimaces right along with him. "Ah, James is—it's—I
think he's..."

"The problem?" Remus asks.

"Well, he's certainly perpetuating it," Regulus mutters with a weary

sigh.

"Are you going to say anything about that?"

"Sirius is letting him. Are you going to say anything?"

"He's your brother."

"Yes, I didn't get a choice in the matter. You did, and you chose to be
with him. This falls on you."

"You know," Remus says delicately, "maybe now is too soon."

"Let them handle it?" Regulus suggests, and Remus nods, then
swivels his head to look around the room.

"Do you want me to do anything?" Remus asks. "I can—"

"No, you don't have to do that," Regulus cuts in, standing to his feet.
"It's fine, Remus, really."

Remus frowns. "It's the least I could do. I mean, you're practically
giving your house to everyone who can't stay across the street,
including my dad."

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Regulus shrugs awkwardly. Yes, he is doing that. Mary and Bingley's
house is trashed, so they need somewhere to stay until they get it
cleaned up and set to rights. Lily will be staying with them here, of
course. The Potter's house will be full as it is, because James, Sirius,
and Effie all have their own rooms, and the fourth room was used as
Monty's little study. Regulus will be staying with James and Remus
with Sirius, but the others need somewhere to go as well, and
Regulus' house is the only other one on the street that has the
furniture and accommodations to let people live here for a bit.

He volunteered it willingly, without having to be asked, with only

the stipulation that no one uses his room. That one is to stay shut, left
alone until he returns. Lyall will get a room, so will Bingley, while
Mary and Lily will share the last one that's available. Regulus doesn't
feel strange about letting them into his house; they're all people who
matter to him in some way or another, either just as themselves, or
through those that matter to him to start with. Regulus has hardly
spoken to Lyall, but he's Remus' dad. That's enough for him.

"Let me help," Remus murmurs. "I can clean. I'm good at it."

"That's not all you're good for, you know," Regulus says quietly,
resisting the urge to sigh. Really, Sirius is the one who should be
saying these things to Remus, though he probably already has.
Remus is just stubborn.

"I know that. I just—" Remus stops, then huffs out a weak laugh,
shrugging in defeat. "Want to know something stupid? Cooking,
cleaning, doing things for others—I was forced to do it so much that
I started to frame it as a natural state, almost. I hate that I turn to it
when I'm stressed, because it's—that was conditioned into me,
wasn't it? When I don't know what to do, I revert to doing what I
was forced to."

"Well, you're not forced to anymore," Regulus reminds him, holding

his gaze. "You don't have to do anything."

"But I do want to help," Remus admits. "I want to keep my hands

busy. I want to dosomething."

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Regulus stares at him for a bit, then says, "I'm not going to tell you
what to do, Remus. Do whatever you want. You're not a servant, and
you can decide for yourself what to do, and how to do it. Have at it,
or don't. Up to you."

With that, Regulus turns away from him, and Remus makes an
exasperated noise, muttering, "But it's your house."

It doesn't feel like it, Regulus thinks. I'm not sure it ever did.

When Regulus doesn't acknowledge Remus any further, he huffs and

stomps off, and there's

eventually the distant sound of cabinets opening and closing

downstairs.

Regulus finishes up at his desk, putting the pencil he left lying out in
the holder that Sirius made for him, gingerly picking up the silent
hat to run his fingers over it. After years, it's frayed and worn.
Holding it puts a lump in his throat, and a part of him wants to
throw it away, while another part—as ridiculous as it may
be—wants to put it on again. He hasn't worn it since the day he
turned fifteen. Two days before disaster struck.

In the end, Regulus doesn't throw it away or put it on. He sits it

carefully in the top drawer and shuts it, trying to forget it exists and
knowing he never will. The last thing on his desk is his last journal,
no flowers in it, only one entry waiting inside. When he wrote in it,
he believed it was the final time. He did it when he believed he
wasn't coming home. Regulus knows what's waiting there, and he
still opens it to look anyway.

James,

If anyone will return here, I know it'll be you, and not Sirius.

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I'm not going to give you answers, so if that's what you're seeking,
you may as well stop reading now. All I have for you is honesty in
the form of what I have hope for, even in death.

I hope you don't miss me. I hope the only thing in this world that
you stop trying to do is hold onto me. I hope you let me go, and I
hope you have no guilt for it. I hope you live a long, beautiful life
full of love, and I hope that any hollow crevices in your life that once
consisted of me are filled by things much better. I hope you know
that what you may now consider the worst moments of your life—all
those moments with me—were the very best of mine.

I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to
know that I died loving you. I have stolen your heart with no regard
for treating it as well as you did mine and now intend to harm it no
more. I face death in the hope that your life is less of a great, big
tragedy without me in it.

R.A.B.

He remembers writing this letter and saying so little of what he

actually wanted to, because what he really wanted was to beg for
forgiveness. He wanted to explain to James why he did what he was
planning to do, only to refuse to leave James with that burden. He
wanted to beg James to love him, always have love for him, only to
hold that plea back, because he saw that as a burden, too. He looks
back on this letter now and sees how much he hid away, never
sharing it, never letting it see the light of the day, where it exists now,
and shines.

Regulus sighs and rips the page out, crumbling it in his fist and
wanting to burn it to ash. A fool. He was such a fool. It invokes a
sense of pity in him to think of just how badly he viewed himself
back then. Yes, he was a fuck-up, and still is; yes, he rarely gets
things right; yes, James deserves the very best, and Regulus certainly
isn't that. But Regulus tries, but Regulus works to make things better,
but Regulus is what James wants, and so he shall have him.

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The words make Regulus cringe, because he'll be damned if he's

letting James get away from him now. They're in this for the
long-haul, and they'll have a life so far from a great, big tragedy that
they'll forget the meaning. Regulus thinks about this letter that was
supposed to be his final one, and he's so fucking grateful that he
failed.

Closing the journal, Regulus leaves it behind and takes the page
downstairs, finding Remus with a bin bag that he's tossing spoiled
food into. As he passes by, Regulus carelessly dumps the paper
inside without a second thought, and with that, he goes to gently
remove the dead flowers in the window.

It's okay. Someday, James will grow him some more. ~•~

Remus finds Sirius out on the roof, arms wrapped around his legs,
head tilted up towards the moon. One look at his eyes, and Remus
knows he's not really here right now.

Sighing softly, Remus settles in beside him, his body aching from a
long day hard at work. There are a lot of houses in the district that
need help, and he's been helping where he can. There's something
almost beautiful about it, the way the whole community has come
together to work on rebuilding, even around funerals and memorial
services. There's one of those every day, and people still come
together to make this place a viable option to live in. A home.

Monty's funeral was today. Sirius, James, and Effie didn't take the
day off. They could have, probably should have, and many people
insisted on it, but each of them simply said they wanted to help.
Monty would have helped, if he could be here.

From up here, everything is quiet, but everything is often quiet these

days. It's almost peaceful, though. A facade of peace. No one really
knows what peace is supposed to look like yet; the world flashes by
in a blur for everyone, loss a shroud over them all. Remus almost
feels guilty sometimes, getting to see Lyall every single day, getting
to be with him. Hearing his voice. Seeing his smile. Feeling the
comforting weight of his hand upon his shoulder. He went without it

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for years, and some will never get it back, as he did. Sirius and James
won't.

Cautiously, Remus glances over at Sirius, concerned about him. He's

not doing well, but no one really is. It's just—well, this is the first
time he's slipped away since the war.

Sirius is rocking very gently, gaze latched onto the moon, face blank
otherwise. There's always something chilling about how he goes
away, and something equally tender about it, too. He seems empty
and simultaneously innocent. Nothing there and still something to
protect. Dangerous and delicate.

"Sirius," Remus tries softly, because he remembers that Sirius didn't

want to slip away anymore. Remus knows he isn't the cure-all to
bringing Sirius back, like he can just call his name and he'll return,
but he wants to try for him anyway.

It doesn't work. Sirius only briefly glances at him, empty-eyed, then

dismisses him and returns to his moon-gazing. He continues to rock
with his usual self-soothing technique.

Remus whispers, "Okay, sweetheart, that's okay," and says nothing

else, content to sit beside him and wait.

It takes a while. A long time, in fact. Hours of Sirius just sitting there,
utterly enraptured by the moon, rocking in place and not seeming to
notice the steady drop in temperature as the night drags on. Remus
goes back inside to grab a blanket, bringing it back out to carefully
drape it around Sirius, who ignores that as well, though he does stop
shivering, thankfully.

Remus only knows Sirius is back when the rocking stops. It's abrupt
enough that Remus looks over to see him blinking rapidly, looking
around in confusion. When he realizes what happened, his face falls,
and it's fucking heartbreaking.

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"Dammit," Sirius breathes out, eyes fluttering shut, then he opens

them and jolts when he finds Remus right next to him. Remus gives
him a sad smile, and he returns it, looking so pitifully defeated that
Remus could cry. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Remus replies.

"Maybe it's stupid, but a tiny part of me hoped that the issue would
go away when the war was over," Sirius confesses, like he's ashamed
of it. He draws the blanket tighter around himself, heaving out a
weary sigh.

"That's not stupid, Sirius," Remus tells him.

Sirius huffs out a bitter laugh. "The last thing I remember was getting
up to throw dirt in Monty's grave. That was this morning, so I lost a
whole fucking day. It's been a while since I lost that much time." He
shakes his head and looks over at Remus. "Have I been with you?"

"No, you stayed with James and Effie," Remus admits. "We all
grouped up to go help with rebuilding, so you and I haven't gotten
to see each other, really. When we all got back, you just left, so I
didn't even know you'd slipped away until I found you out here.
We've been here for a few hours now. Three, I'd say."

"Lovely." Sirius clicks his tongue, then swings out an arm to open up
one side of the blanket. "Come on, get warm."

Remus isn't really cold, honestly, but he's never going to pass up an
opportunity to be closer to Sirius, so he scoots over and settles in.
They wrap the blanket around themselves, curled together, leaning
on each other.

"Are we star-gazing now?" Remus asks wryly.

"Oh, you can gaze upon all the stars you like, but I will be
appreciating the beauty of the moon," Sirius replies, then pointedly
turns to stare right at him.

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"The moon's that way," Remus says, nodding towards the sky.

"My moon is right here," Sirius counters, pressing closer to him,

something gentle and adoring in his gaze.

"Feeling soppy, are we?"

"What can I say? You soften me."

"Mm, big bad Sirius Black soft for little old me," Remus teases.

"Remus, there's nothing little about you," Sirius says, waggling his
eyebrows at him, and Remus snorts. It makes Sirius grin, which he
hides by pressing it into Remus' shoulder, gazing at him through his
eyelashes. If he looked at the real moon like that, night would never
fall again, because it would come down to earth just to be with him.

"How are you? Really?" Remus asks, voice going quiet with sincerity,
studying Sirius' features.

"Been better," Sirius replies with a sigh, grin fading. "Been worse, too.
Or maybe not. I don't know. Maybe all the worst things are doomed
to feel the same."

"The best thing about the worst things is that they don't last forever,"
Remus murmurs.

"Monty's dead forever," Sirius counters solemnly.

"No, not forever. Just from now on," Remus corrects, taking a deep
breath. "He's not dead forever, because he was alive once, and that
life lives on with us. I—you know, it—it was hard when I lost my
mum, even though I knew it was coming. I had all that time to come
to terms with it, and then I still didn't until after she was gone. It
takes time, and I will always miss her. You'll always miss Monty,
Sirius, but eventually it stops hurting and starts to be a comfort
instead. It's something special to love someone even when they're
not here to receive that love, because that love still finds a way out

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into the world, and that's them, you know? We love them so much
that we keep them in this world with us, even after they've left it."

"I'm not there yet," Sirius croaks. "I still just wish he hadn't left it."

Remus' heart pangs. "Well, that never goes away, I'm afraid. It
just...gets easier to live with, someday."

Sirius swallows and looks down, then just tips his head down and
rests it there against Remus' shoulder. After a moment or two, he
adjusts to snuggle in closer, leaving his head laid there, his face
turned towards the sky. Leaning on the moon he has claimed as his
own to gaze upon the one everyone else gets to know.

"I haven't talked to James about leaving yet," Sirius whispers,

eventually. Shame colors his voice again.

"There's still time," Remus assures him. "There are a lot more funerals
to go to and much more rebuilding to be done."

"Terrible, isn't it?" Sirius asks softly. "How life and death go
hand-in-hand. What's dead was once alive, what's alive will one day
be dead, and we just have to accept that. There's no way around it.
There's no way to escape it."

"Do you want to?" "Don't you?"

"No," Remus says after a long moment of deliberation. He lays his

head over on Sirius' and closes his eyes. "It's not a trap, sweetheart.
It's a journey."

"Yeah, but we all end up in the same place," Sirius chokes out.

Remus mulls that over for a long time, eyes still shut, and before
everything that has happened, every moment through the war, he
would have agreed. He would have felt trapped by a destination he
couldn't get away from, finding no freedom in fate, but war has

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come, and war has passed, and he is still here to embrace the
freedom at his fingertips now.

That makes it easy, almost, to whisper, "Where we end up isn't the

point. What we do before we get there is."

"What are we going to do?" Sirius whispers back.

"Anything," Remus declares, and then he smiles. "Everything."

~•~

District six is...new. Lily isn't sure she likes it at first, but then she
realizes that has a lot to do with the disaster that befell this place and
the people within. It's during the rebuilding efforts that she really
begins to find love for it.

Lily, Mary, and Bingley stay with Lyall in Regulus' house for two and
half weeks. Mary and Bingley's home is smaller, as most houses
outside of the Victor's Village are in all districts, but it's also more
trashed than those in the Victor's Village are. The Aurors apparently
went through homes to find any stragglers that may not have gotten
to escape, and of course they didn't do so gently, likely on Riddle's
orders.

It's hard for Mary and Bingley, having to go into their home and
simultaneously clean it up while also going through their family's
belongings. Boxing things up and discarding broken furniture.
Donating clothes to those who need it more and sweeping up broken
glass. Letting go of what they'd love to keep and having no other
choice but to trash shattered memories of their childhood.

It takes time. Bingley is a bundle of anger and frustration, often

fighting with Mary about what they get rid of, and what they don't.
He finds a toy he had since he was a baby broken on the floor and
runs away, and Mary wants to follow, but she's at a loss on what to
do to help, and so fucking tired. So, Lily puts a hand on her arm and
goes for her.

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Bingley is found in the school, which is how Lily first learns what
Mary's classroom looks like. The school itself is still intact, as no one
was in it when the biological warfare was released. It's just empty
and way too quiet for a place meant to echo with the laughter of
children. Mary's classroom is lovely, though, full of art created by her
students, popping with color. Even empty as it is, it feels warm. Lily
gets why Bingley would go there, and he is there, curled up in a
corner, crying.

Bingley talks to Lily that day. Talks and talks about all his friends
and even some of the children he wasn't close with, and how over
half of them are dead now. It's a heavy thing for a thirteen year old
child to have to live with.

Lily comforts him, listens to him, and then coaxes him home.

Eventually, Mary and Bingley's home is livable again, and though

they're both palpably wary to return, they do go back. For the first
week, it's difficult and strange for them, and Lily feels like they're all
walking around on eggshells, but they continue to go out and help
others rebuild, attend funerals and memorial services, and soon
enough, returning home becomes something they all look forward to
at the end of the day.

For Lily, the hardest adjustment isn't settling into district six; it's
settling into the world as a whole after the war. She isn't expecting
the strange responses that grip her, unprepared for the random
surges of inexplicable fury that rolls through her unprompted, out of
nowhere, with no warning.

She'll close the refrigerator and get so fucking angry about the
suction sound it makes, for seemingly no reason at all, and she will
want to hit it. She'll want her gun. She'll want to fight, and there's
nothing to fight anymore. She wakes up at night out of nightmares
pissed off beyond belief, needing to get up and pace, wanting a new
mission to throw herself into, and there's no new mission for her to
fixate on.

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Remus is the only one who knows about it, for a while. Lily talks to
him, because she tells him everything, and because he gets it. If
anyone understands anger and chaos, it's him.

But really, it's not quite him anymore, not the same way. They do
everything together, but not this. If anyone deserves peace and calm,
it's him; he seems to be getting closer to it every day, while she feels
as if she's getting farther away. Still, she tells him, and he listens, and
he confesses his fears and doubts to her as well, and they comfort
each other.

Lily doesn't talk to Mary about it for some time. Mary wasn't there,
and Lily doesn't resent her for that. Doesn't want to, and can't, really,
because Mary and Bingley being safe was one of the things that got
her through the war at all. It's just—it is hard when they've had two
different experiences, though they have both suffered and are still
struggling, just not in the same way. Lily almost doesn't want to
burden Mary with the weight of what she's feeling, and so she hides
it.

Anger is hard to hide. It's blunt and obvious, an emotion that fills the
body to the brim, red like blood and loud like screams. All intimacy
with Mary has come to a halt, and they barely even touch anymore
outside of when they're sleeping at night, and instead of reaching
out, Lily shies away. It leaves these open spaces for her anger to fill
up, impossible to miss, and Mary always sees right through her.
Every fucking time.

It all comes to a head about a month after the war. Lily has declared
war on the refrigerator in Mary's home, labeling it as her enemy,
despising it every time she opens and closes it. She is aware that this
is ridiculous, but she can't help it, and she can't stop returning to it
over and over, drawn to her own rage.

There are a lot of things Lily is angry about. Her family, still. Sybill,
still. Marlene, still. Dorcas— oh, she's so angry about Dorcas, about
how no one knows where she is or what she's doing or if she's safe,
about how she made Lily afraid and she was never supposed to, not
her, never her. Lily is angry about the muffled cries she can hear
from the bathroom when Mary is in the shower, and she's angry

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about how Bingley looks upset more than he ever smiles, and she's
angry about how her body is so attuned to war that she responds to
everything like fighting is all she'll ever know. Every loud noise is a
threat. Every unknown space is dangerous. Every shadow is a
memory, and every dream is a nightmare, and every dawn is a new
day after the war is over, but the war lingers all around, and
everything just blurs together. Still blurring, even now.

Eventually, Lily just snaps, and the refrigerator—her mortal enemy,

at this point—takes the brunt of her breakdown.

She punches it maybe...five times too many, hitting it over and over
while her chest heaves and a fierce noise grinds out from the very
depth of her through clenched teeth, utterly raging. It doesn't hurt,
and it does, and it feels so fucking good in the midst of it. And then
it's over, and her hand is hurt.

"Ouch. Fuck," Lily spits out, cradling her hand to her chest and
bending over slightly as she releases a stream of colorful curses,
hand bruised and swelling already.

"For fuck's sake, what'd that refrigerator ever do to you?" Mary

mutters from the doorway, which is when Lily realizes that Mary
was an audience to all of that.

"It looked at me funny," Lily snaps, tossing Mary a scowl, then

groaning as she peers down at her hand with a grimace. Oh, it hurts.
That was catastrophically stupid, and to add salt to the wound, the
refrigerator is entirely unharmed.

"Alright, stop it, let me see it," Mary says, sweeping in to cup Lily's
elbow and peer at her injured hand.

Huffing, Lily looks away and ignores the pain shooting down the
back of her hand, radiating out from her two middle knuckles. It's
not broken, she knows that already, but it's definitely going to need
to be set and wrapped for a few days, maybe a week, and she'll need

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to be careful with it until it heals up. Hands are so delicate for all the
pain they can cause.

Sighing, Mary mumbles, "Come on," and guides Lily from the
kitchen, taking her into the bathroom where they keep the first aid
beneath the counter. Mary gestures for Lily to sit on the closed toilet,
then settles on the edge of the tub herself.

"Antiseptic first," Lily tells her, then shuts up when Mary shoots her
a flat look from up under her eyelashes.

"Want to tell me what's been going on with you?" Mary asks quietly
as she starts cleaning Lily's busted knuckles.

"You mean besides the obvious?"

"Yes, Lily, besides the obvious."

"Oh, well, besides that..." Lily snorts. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Hm." Mary lets that hang between them for a while as she works,
possibly just so Lily can sit with how immeasurably stupid it sounds.
Then, finally, Mary sighs and begins gently dabbing away dried
blood as she says, "Is this about Dorcas?"

Lily feels that like a xylophone mallet dragging up the ridges of her
spine. It makes her jolt, her eyes flying wide as Mary pauses and
peers at her, assessing. "Dorcas? What?"

"You love her," Mary states bluntly, and Lily feels that like a fist
shoved down her throat to grip her intestines and yank them out, her
innards exposed. Her mouth runs dry, and she's instantly thrown
into pure terror at the thought that Mary is going to see right
through her as she always does, except she won't understand what
she's looking at. She won't understand what it means. She won't
understand how it works, and then she'll think it's something it's not,
and she'll leave, or she'll make Lily leave, and Lily doesn't want to
leave; Lily wants to stay, Lily wants to be here, Lily wants—

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Lily wants, and so Lily lies, almost without even taking the time to
ask herself what the truth is. The truth is complicated, and she
doesn't fully understand it, but she does know it's a lie when she
blurts out, "What? No! Nooooo. No, ha, no, I don't, not at all. I only
love you."

Mary lets that hang there for a few moments, too, once again forcing
Lily to sit there with how fucking dumb she sounds. Her face grows
hot from the shame of it. Ironic, really. She used to be such a good
liar, entirely unfazed by anyone, and then Mary Macdonald strutted
into her life, and she came undone like Mary found her loose thread
and pulled.

"Want to try that again?" Mary offers, genuinely giving her the
second chance, and Lily deflates all at once on a harsh exhale.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. That was—I don't know why I did that. Why I lied."
Lily grimaces and looks down. "I'm just..."

"Scared," Mary murmurs, her fingers gentle against Lily's swollen

skin, barely even hurting her as she starts wrapping her hand, taking
care of her like it's the most important thing she'll ever do, and Lily
could fucking cry. "You're scared, and you have been, and we all
have been. I just—I want to know what it is, Lily. Whatever it is, you
can talk to me. It's more than just the war, isn't it? Or maybe it is the
war, and not the parts I know about, or parts you think you can't
share with me, or shouldn't—but I'm here. I'll listen."

"It's—" Lily swallows and squeezes her eyes shut, and then she
opens them and looks at Mary helplessly, utterly defeated as she
croaks, "You're here, but you—you weren't there."

Mary pauses again, lips thinning out for a beat, and then she
continues working on Lily's hand. "I know I wasn't there, and I won't
apologize for that, Lily. I—"

"No, no, fucking hell, no," Lily sputters quickly, shaking her head.
"That's not—I didn't mean it like that. I'm not saying I wish you had

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been, and I will forever be grateful that you weren't. It's one of the
things that brought me comfort, and still does now, just that you and
Bing Bing weren't there. I just don't know how to... I—I can't explain
it. All that happened. What it felt like. What we saw. You—you
weren't there, and you had to have been there to understand, and so
you...can't."

"You don't think I would be able to understand considering the

things I've experienced?" Mary asks, not as a challenge, just a
genuine question.

"I don't know," Lily admits. "Maybe." She looks away, dropping her
gaze down to her hand. "The issue is, I don't know how to say it.
What to say. Can't—I can't really say much of anything, and I don't
really want to, and everyone who was there doesn't need me to. Do
you—does that make sense?"

"Lily," Mary whispers, smoothing down the wrap on her hand and
reaching up to cradle Lily's jaw, tilting her face up until they're
looking at each other. "I don't need to know all the details, okay? I
don't need to know anything other than what you want me to know,
or need me to know, whenever you're ready to tell me. But I do need
to know a general idea of what's going on with you. Not the war,
exactly, but how it's making you feel, especially if it's pushing you to
the point that you're assaulting my refrigerator."

"It makes a stupid fucking sound, Mary. I hate it so much."

"Nearly breaking your hand against it for sounding stupid seems a

bit excessive."

"I know." Lily groans and tips her face into Mary's palm, eyes sinking
shut. Mary's thumb strokes her cheek, and Lily breathes out as
something in her seems to ease all at once, just for this moment, a
chasm of safety she falls into by nuzzling at Mary's hand and
ignoring everything wrong in the world to sit here with everything
right—the woman she loves, indisputably. So much love here, like
this, and it's a love that deserves honesty. A love that was built on

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the foundation of transparency. A love that Lily walked into with

eyes wide open and has no desire in her to walk away from. So, she
takes a deep breath, and she speaks. "I don't want to be the person I
was before, because it was wrong—I was wrong, and it wasn't who I
wanted to be, not really, but I don't know how to handle this, Mary. I
just feel so angry, all the time. And what if, after everything that's
happened, all that I've done and caused and been through,
something's gone wrong inside me?"

"Look at me. Hey, look at me," Mary says fiercely, and Lily's eyes
snap open instantly, something inside of her trembling in trepidation
for whatever Mary will say. Mary keeps one hand on Lily's jaw, but
raises the other and points towards the other end of the house, her
eyes glimmering like black diamonds. "I need you to hear this—my
little brother, him, down the hall, he is home. He's home, and he's
safe, and it's—it's hard, yes, for all of us, but we're here. We are, and
he is, and you went into war for him, and for all the Bingleys in this
world, just so that this world could be one we all heal in. And we
can. And we will. And we are. Lily, you know as well as I do that
healing is not an easy process, inside or out. Sometimes, in the midst
of healing is when we feel like never will, but we will anyway. We do
anyway, and you're a part of the reason that's possible, so don't you
dare think for even a second that there's anything wrong in you or
with you for how deeply you love. It's love. It's always been love,
and it still is, and that's why it hurts."

"Sometimes I want to go back there," Lily chokes out, her eyes

stinging. "I want to go back to when I didn't know it was love, when
I thought I didn't care, how fucked is that? I believed everyone I
loved was dead, but at least I didn't have to feel how much it hurts
when that's mostly true."

Mary's expression softens with such sadness. "Lily..."

"My family, they were killed because I refused to leave well enough
alone. Sybill is dead. She's dead, and I had her pick out the
heli-carrier she'd die in. The Thunderbird Thieves—we're the only
ones left, Mary, and how—how do we live with that? Amos, Sybill,
Barty—how are we supposed to—" Lily's voice cracks, and the tears
fall when she blinks. "I wanted to die in the war, I think. Before you, I

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wanted to sacrifice my life for it, for the world, in honor of everyone
I loved that was already gone, but I'm still here, and I've lost even
more."

"Yes, you're still here, and though you've lost so much—too fucking
much—you still have people here with you. We live with what we've
lost by living with what we have."

"But I'm not sure that I am living. I—I can never tell, really. I thought
I'd want to slow down and

stop running, but I want to keep fighting, and I'm so angry that I
can't anymore. It feels like I'm still there sometimes, in the war, just
trying to survive and make my way back to you and Bingley and
everyone I am so fortunate to still have, but I'm here, so why do I
still feel so lost?"

"Do you know why I stole your gun the first day we met?" Mary
murmurs, swallowing harshly. Lily shakes her head, and Mary
exhales harshly. "I—I couldn't find Bingley. When the fighting
started, I saw my parents go down, but Bingley—I lost sight of him,
and all I could think was that I had to get to him. I didn't really know
it until I found him, but there was this sort of relief I felt when I did
find him, because I thought that at least I still had something to fight
for. A reason to pull that trigger if that's what it came to. And there is
no part of me that wouldn't pick up a gun for him or you right now,
no matter how safe the world is supposed to be now. You want to
keep fighting because you have reasons to. You need to give yourself
more time. We don't feel safe yet."

"I'm not sure I ever will," Lily confesses, like it's her greatest sin.

"You will. We all will." Mary offers her a sad smile. "Until then, you
won't be fighting alone."

"I'm addicted to grieving, I think, and that's worse for me. Can't
quite quit that one cold-turkey, but it's an ongoing battle."

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"It's always an ongoing battle. You can quit, but it never does."

"But it's a fight worth fighting, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but sometimes you get tired."

"Which is when you let someone else help you fight. We don't have
to do it alone. That's the beauty of it. Give me the wine, Marlene."

Lily heaves out a harsh sob, feeling the stab of missing Marlene
pierce through her as she remembers that moment, and remembers
helping Marlene fight her on-going battle. Three times Lily helped
Marlene fight; pulling her out of the arena, pushing air into her lungs
and making her heart beat, and then taking that bottle of wine and
being there to take it if she felt the urge to pick it back up again.
Three times, and that was all Lily got. Three times, and she couldn't
the last time.

Three times Marlene died; her first arena, her second, and that
moment on the heli-carrier that Lily refused to let her go. The worst
of it being that she died, and the best being that she got to live on
afterwards anyway. Three times, and that final time, Marlene didn't
get to live on past it.

The world is a cruel, cruel place. Lily has been picked apart by it, left
lost and alone in it, believing herself loveless and continuing on in
spite of that anyway. She said it then, being addicted to grief, and she
still is. She takes all of it in and has to fight to get it out, to let it out
as love, but just as Lily made sure Marlene wasn't alone in her fight,
Lily isn't alone in hers either. Some people she wanted to be here
aren't, but some are, and she'll fight until her last breath.

No matter what part of her life she was in, she always has.

"I'm sorry I haven't been talking to you," Lily rasps, scrubbing

roughly at her tear-stained cheeks. Mary gently pushes her uninjured
hand down and wipes the tears away with her own hands much

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more tenderly. "I never wanted to let the war come between us. I'm
sorry, Mary."

"Shh, nothing has come between us, lover," Mary whispers, leaning
in to press a gentle, fleeting kiss underneath each of Lily's eyes.
"There's no rush, okay? We can go slow through love and life, at our
own pace, and do what we can when we're ready. Like, for me,
I'm—I'm not ready to go back to the school yet. I don't know when I
will be. We all have things we have to work through, and we'll work
through them together."

"I'm here for you, you know," Lily croaks. "For anything."

"I know," Mary says softly. She pulls back and gazes at her, taking a
deep breath. "I only ask that you don't lie to me again. If you don't
want to talk, just tell me that."

Lily's stomach cramps up. "Okay. I'm—I shouldn't have. I know that.
Dorcas is just... complicated."

"Dorcas is, or you two are?" Mary asks.

"At the moment, I'm sure Dorcas is, wherever she is," Lily admits,
"but it's—it's both. I do love her, Mary, but it's all—history. Like a
scar. The wound is healed up, but the scar remains, and it's not going
to go away. It's just a part of me now, you know? I just—loved her
once, and I suppose I'll always have love for her from that, even if it's
different now. I wouldn't—it's not about want, okay? I want you.
That's not a lie. I—"

"Lily," Mary cuts in. "Stop. You're not a bad person for loving as you
do. Did we not just go over this? And, for the record, I'm not jealous
or worried, or anything like that. Do you know that you look at me
like—like I'm the embodiment of peace? Like nothing or no one in
this world brings you a sense of calm, such as simply existing with
me? And that's—it's a bit scary, that I can make you feel that way, if
I'm honest, because all you want is peace and I can help give that to
you, and I —I've never wanted to get something right like this

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before, when it comes to love. I'm so used to just—making peace

with it not working out that maybe I'd give up before I even began,
but with you, I don't make peace with it. I refuse to give up anything
with you; there's nothing in this world we can't overcome, okay?
Nothing."

"Dorcas isn't something we have to overcome at all," Lily murmurs.

"But—maybe my anger is. I just—I don't know where to start."

Mary surveys her for a long moment, calmly, then huffs a weak
laugh and says, "Yeah, I get that, and I think...maybe we should talk
to James and Regulus, or Sirius and Remus, just to see if they have
any advice. And, as for Dorcas, I do want you to know something,
though. You can—Lily, you can go find her. If any part of you wants
that, don't think that would come in between us, because it won't. If
you—"

"No," Lily cuts in firmly, setting her shoulders, and she has to
swallow past the block in her throat. "I—I'm worried about her, I
won't lie. I know you are, too. I know we all are, but I want to be
here with you. She scared me, Mary, and—and it's not that we can't
overcome that, or anything, but you were right. I don't feel safe yet,
but with you, I get closer to it every day, and this is where I need to
be. This is where I want to be. If she makes her way to me, then I'll
open the door. I'm not the one who closed it; she was, and I
understand why, but she's the only one who can decide if it opens
again. Not me. And, if she never does... All I can do is hope that she's
okay. I—I really fucking hope she's okay, and for now, that's all I can
do."

"I am worried for her, you know. She's a good person, and I care
about her, too," Mary murmurs. "Maybe she'll find it in herself to
knock again."

"Maybe," Lily says softly, but she doesn't dwell on it any further,
because she knows better than anyone what it is to close yourself off
from everyone and everything. Dorcas has her own battles to fight,
and Lily will gladly help her, if she'll allow it, but she cannot
abandon her own to do so. No one is alone, and maybe, maybe,
maybe Dorcas will find comfort in that someday. Lily is here, as are

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many others, whenever she's ready. All she has to do is be ready, and
she isn't yet.

Lily is, though. Lily's ready, and so, as much as it hurts, as difficult as
it is, she lets her grief twist up in her until it aches more than her
hand does, and then she lets it flow out, gives it away in the form of
love. She tips in and meets Mary's lips with her own, and she is still
angry, still ready to

fight, but the cliche of it all is that she's also the safest she's ever
been.

The world speeds around her in a blur, the war a background

soundtrack she still can't get out of her head, but she forces herself to
slow down and feel this moment for what it is.

Just a moment. A moment. One moment among many where she's

healing, even if she can't feel it yet. But she's going to.

Someday, she will.

~•~

James is in his backyard, looking at his dead flowers again.

Don't ask him why, really. He keeps waiting for himself to get up and
start over, and try again, and grow something new. It seems harder
to do with each passing day.

His dad watched these flowers bloom. His dad never saw them die.

Time moves strangely after war, as it turns out. James is in and out of
it, sometimes struggling so much to figure out when he is that he has
to be told his dad is dead all over again. It's not that he forgets, it's
just that he is home, with his cane and his glasses, and the Quarterly
Memorial hasn't happened yet, and Regulus is still across the street
asleep with Barty, and Sirius is missing Remus, and James' dad
should be somewhere in the house, but James can't find him. No

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matter how hard he looks, he can't find his dad, and then someone
has to tell him why.

James, it's been a week and a half since the war. Your dad's funeral
was today. James, it's been thirteen days since the war. Your dad's
funeral was three days ago. James, it's been nineteen days since the
war. Your dad's funeral was nine days ago.

James, it's been a month since the war. Your dad's funeral was nearly
three weeks ago.

James, it's been—

It's been a hard month and a half. Seven weeks in total since the end
of the war. They came home after, to an abandoned district with only
a fraction of the people who started here. Others came, too. Some to
just get away from their own worst memories in some other place in
this world, and others because they had nowhere else to go.
Everyone has been rebuilding together, as much as they can around a
very packed schedule, death and mourning penciled in the most.

James has been to memorial services. Or funerals. Or some fucked

up amalgamation of the two, because death in the midst of war is
rarely simple. Some bodies never found, some not prepped in time,
some dead before there was even space or time for there to be space
and time to mourn them.

James had never been to a funeral before. Or, well, yes he has, but he
was too young to remember it. His grandparents on his dad's side
died before he was ever born, but he was nearly two when his
grandparents on his mum's side passed away, both of them within
days of each other. He knows he was there, of course, but he has no
recollection of it. There was the funeral held for his cat when he was
eighteen, but that was different, because it took place in this
backyard; though, if it does count, James was a blubbering mess
throughout the whole thing.

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James wonders if Vanity got a funeral. What about Irene? Their
bodies made it back home, even if they didn't. Hodge's body didn't
make it back. Neither did Mathias, Axus, or Bernice's. Or Peter's.
They were all in that river, torn apart.

In some way or another, James is at fault for that.

James doesn't like it. Funerals, or memorial services, or whatever.

He'd never say that out loud, obviously, and it's clearly important for
those mourning, but to him, it's stifling.

Fleamont Potter's funeral was the worst. There was a body to bury in
the graveyard in district six, because Effie was with him when he
died and took care of all of that. It was the first funeral James ever
went to, that he could remember. The very first funeral—his dad. His
fucking dad.

James didn't cry at his dad's funeral. It didn't feel...like his dad, so
maybe that's why. They'd dressed Monty up in something warm and
nice, and his face was set into something peaceful, and

it—that wasn't James' dad. It just wasn't. James' dad was gone, is
gone, and they closed the casket on an echo of him and lowered him
into the ground, and James didn't cry. James didn't speak. James
didn't throw dirt into his grave, asked Sirius to do it for him, just sat
in the front row with Regulus' hand in his, then stood up and let
people tell him how sorry they were for his loss. He thought of Alice.
Sorry really is like a slap in the face, more than he ever realized.

Alice wasn't there at the funeral, not that James expected them to be.
Marlene wasn't, but she would have been, if she could have been.
Rodolphus came, and so did Pandora. Emmeline showed up, as did
Minerva and Poppy, and of course Lily, Mary, Remus, and Lyall were
there. Aberforth didn't come, and Dorcas didn't either. Dorcas hasn't
shown up anywhere.

James expected to see her at Marlene's memorial service, but she

didn't go. That one... Well, there was no body to bury, no casket to

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lower into the ground, and so they blew up a picture of her and
mourned her through memory. Cordelia was a wreck, and Sirius
threw up after it was over. Minerva and Poppy came on Dorcas'
behalf, but when Cordelia asked for her, desperately, they had no
answers for her whereabouts. They all waited for Dorcas to arrive,
believing in her to show up all the way to the end and then beyond,
dragging it out so she would get the chance to pay her respects, and
then Dorcas never came. James almost envied her.

That's fucked up, he knows, but he didn't want to be there, or any

other memorial service or funeral he has gone to. For once, he
wanted to be the type of person who would walk away from such
things. He's not, though. He's expected to be there, and so he has
gone, gritting his teeth and bearing it the whole way through, hating
every second and immeasurably relieved when it was over, so he
could leave.

Barty got a funeral, too. Regulus planned that one, and you could
tell, because it was done so delicately. There was a lot of gentle love
threaded throughout, something James isn't quite sure Barty would
have liked, honestly. James thinks Barty would have wanted a party
or something; everyone getting drunk or high in his honor, raising
glasses and laughing about all his greatest hits. No one is really in a
place to manage that energy or atmosphere, so Barty didn't get what
he would have wanted—but then again, Regulus knew Barty better
than James did, so maybe he's wrong. The service was lovely, in
abstract. Barty's mum was memorialized with him, which Regulus
insists he would have wanted, while Barty's dad wasn't so much as
mentioned. Regulus wrote something, then couldn't read it in front
of everyone, so he just folded up the paper and let it get buried with
him.

Around a month in, the funerals and memorial services slowed to a

stop, or at least those they were required to go to. There were others,
of course. James went to the funeral for the Casselberrys, guilt
choking him as he witnessed Sundry's grief firsthand.
Dorcas—arguably responsible for it—didn't show up to that one
either. There was a proper memorial service for Frank and Augusta,
which James went to, and it was him that threw up afterwards on
that one. Rabastan got one, and so did Sybill, and so did Amos.

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There were so many in district six alone, for all those that died before
the war even picked up.

There wasn't anything for Albus, or Lily's family, or those that died
with no family left, because all their family was dead already. There
were a lot of Hallow funerals, and James didn't go to very many of
those. Rita got a funeral; more people went to that one than those
that showed up to Marlene's, because this world is always going to
be fucked up, no matter how much better it gets over time. There's
no changing that.

The world has started to get better, though, or so James has heard.
Little bits and pieces trickle through the grapevine, announcements
made and events thrown. Vanity got honored as a war hero in the
Hallow, a statue raised in her honor on the castle grounds, replacing
Riddle's legacy. They wanted it to be Remus, originally, but he
refused and suggested her instead. Vanity's family—all of them alive
and safe—have been given money and anything they could want,
except for Vanity back. They can't get that. No one gets that.

The train opened up to free travel for all two weeks ago, and they're
planning to use the underground stations throughout all the districts
as well, which opens up more jobs for build crews and maintenance
upkeep, as well as conductors. Sponsors have been throwing money
around left and right for war relief, like that can overshadow all the
money they threw around in the name of slaughter. The arena has
been fully dismantled and destroyed, leaving it an abandoned
battlefield soaked in dried blood and crowded with countless ghosts.
A committee has come together in the place of one Master to work
on things like new Auror reform programs, building a proper justice
system, reworking laws, releasing and rehabilitating those that were
in Azkaban, removing the concept of unwilling and unpaid servants
altogether, and just in general better-world things, or whatever.
James doesn't know and doesn't care, honestly, not that many of
them do.

It's ironic, really. They all fought in the war for a better world, and
then don't even care about how the better world comes to be. They
don't have to fight anymore; other people are handling it. Aberforth
is on the committee. Minerva and Poppy. Filius. Kingsley. The Head

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Auror who betrayed Riddle. Slughorn. Mayors from districts. Even

some Hallows. It's a wide variety, a balanced system with
representatives for all. The power to the people, apparently.

James doesn't feel very powerful these days. Mostly, he feels weak.
He feels tired.

Death... He's tired of death. He feels like there's no escape from it,
and he struggles to find the point in it. What's the point of death?
That's the end of it all, a finality that he can't wrap his head around.
He doesn't appreciate endings, or finality; to someone who never
gives up, who is always trying, maybe it makes sense for this to be
senseless.

James stares at his flowers a lot and thinks about how pointless it is
that they're dead. How pointless it was that he grew them in the first
place. How pointless it was when his dad complimented them.
They're beautiful, son.

"James?"

"Hi, Mum," James mumbles as Effie comes to join him in staring at

his dead flowers. He does this a lot, practically every day now, so
they know where to find him when he isn't in the house with
everyone else. They put a chair out here for him, but he never sits in
it. He stands for hours and leans on his cane and lets his leg ache.

Effie stops next to him and sighs. It's her we-need-to-talk sigh. He
has heard it a lot lately and usually tries to avoid whatever comes
after, and would this time, too, except she says, "Sirius is about to
come out here to talk to you."

"Okay," James murmurs.

"Before that..." Effie trails off, quiet, breathing. She's more careful
these days, like she feels unsteady, still getting her footing in a world
without Monty in it. Sometimes, he slips out of bed at night and
finds her at the table in the kitchen, crying silently into her hands.

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"What, Mum?" James asks.

"Your flowers are rotting," Effie comments softly, idly, like this isn't
what she came here to say, but it's something to say anyway. Filling
silences. Observations they all can see.

"Yeah, I know," James says. "Have been for a while now." "Still
hanging on, though."

"They'll fall eventually."

"You don't want to save them?" Effie asks.

James swallows. "I don't think I can. I'm pretty sure they're beyond
help by now."

"You could try," Effie suggests.

"Don't see the point," James admits.

Effie is silent for a bit, then says, "Honey, I'm—I'm worried about
you." "Okay."

"James—"

"I know, Mum," James cuts in, utterly exhausted.

"No, I don't think you do." Effie sets her shoulders and swivels to
stand in front of him, her jaw set. There are many things that James
got from his father, but his stubborn streak? That comes right from
his mother. "I will not tell you how to grieve, nor will I demand a
damn thing from you, James, do you hear me? But I will not stand by
and let you feel alone in this."

"I'm not alone," James whispers. "I know I'm not. I'm just..."

"What?" Effie prompts. "Honey, talk to me. You can talk to me. You
can—you can tell me

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anything."

James' throat aches. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I know you don't, no more than I want to hurt you, but the thing is,
this hurts. We are hurting. There's no way around that," Effie tells
him. "I'm your mother, James. I'm here to be hurt, and to be loved,
and all of it. I'm here with you for all of it, anything, so don't bottle it
up. Share it with me."

"I don't feel him here," James chokes out, giving in swiftly and hating
himself for it, and needing it. "I don't feel Dad here anymore, or
anywhere. It's just his absence. He's gone, Mum, and you—you talk
about him like he's still with us, and I don't want to take that away
from you, but it doesn't feel like he is. I'm so—I'm so mad at him,
because he told you he'd still be here, and I don't feel it. I can't feel
him anymore."

Effie's throat clicks on a harsh swallow, and she gives a slow nod.
"Well, that's—that's okay, James. You don't have to hide how you feel
from me. We don't have to feel the same, you know. Neither of us is
wrong, and no one really feels pain the same exact way. Sometimes I
wish I didn't feel him, and I'm—I'm guilty about that. It's grief. It's all
grief."

"I wish I could feel him," James croaks, then gives a brittle laugh.
"Hey, let's swap."

"Do you want to know the truth?" Effie asks gently, and James nods,
even though he's scared. "It's not that he's just here. I have to look for
him to find him. To feel, you have to reach out through the pain and
hope something reaches back."

"It hurts," James rasps, blinking rapidly and looking away.

"Yes, it does," Effie agrees. "It hurts to reach out, even more so when
something doesn't reach back, but I keep reaching. I will always

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reach, and I will find him when I can, and you don't have to if you
don't want to, but you can, too."

"I don't know how," James confesses. "It's all just... It's dead flowers. I
can't, Mum. They're dead, and what was the point? He's dead, and
what—what was the fucking point?"

Effie breathes in, then out, and when James looks at her, she is
swiping tears off her cheeks. He knows he has hurt her, deeply, by
saying this, and wishes he never spoke at all, but she gives him a
trembling smile and murmurs, "You were the point. The way he
made his tea was the point. How he sang happily the first morning
after we moved in together was the point. All the times he held you
in his arms, and every kiss he gave me, and each time he smiled at
Sirius—that was the point. James, death does not erase the point of
life. A dead flower does not mean it never bloomed. It did, and it
was beautiful."

James is pretty sure that cracks him wide open, splits him in half
right down the middle, unzips him from throat to navel until the
mess of blood and organs inside him are exposed. He makes a
horrible, beautiful sound of pain and love in the back of his throat,
eyes stinging as the tears immediately start to flow. It takes him
apart. That absolutely takes him apart.

"Oh, James," Effie whispers, reaching for him, hands on his cheeks,
thumbs brushing away his tears. She smiles at him through her own.
"The flowers are rotting, but you can grow more. Those that bloom
after honor the beauty of the ones before them. Your father is gone,
and it hurts, but every single second with him makes up for every
single second without."

James nods, unable to speak through his sobs, and he keeps nodding
as he falls into her and holds on, clinging to his mum like a small
child. His mum. It's in his mum's arms, in this very moment, that he
feels his dad again.

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They stay together like that for some time, Effie petting over his hair
and murmuring soothingly in his ear, and they don't break apart
until the door opens and Sirius slips outside. He halts, visibly unsure
about coming out, clearly not wanting to break up the moment. Effie
kisses James' cheek and waves Sirius over, pausing to kiss Sirius'
cheek on the way back into the house. Lyall might be over, James
hasn't checked, but he and Effie play cards almost every day.

James appreciates Lyall more than he can express, because he's

friends with Effie and helps her a lot. He lost his wife years ago and
knows how hard it is to handle that loss. James and Sirius lost a dad,
so it's different, and Lyall helps Effie in ways that they can't. James
can never repay Lyall for that.

"Everything okay?" Sirius asks as he comes to a stop next to James,

hands shoved in his pockets. There's an anxious sort of energy to
him. He can't quite meet James' eyes.

"Yeah, um—yeah," James mumbles lamely, not really having the

words to explain what just happened. His eyes still itch, but he
ignores it and slaps on a smile, leaning over to knock their shoulders
together. "Anyway, Mum says you wanted to talk to me. What's up?"

Sirius looks at him cautiously and swallows.

James forces himself not to show his anxiety. He forces himself to

remain calm and casual, not letting on just how close to falling apart
he feels right now, and all times, really. It's easier with Sirius, because
taking care of Sirius is as instinctive as breathing. When Sirius is
down, James is the one who lifts him up, and the same in reverse.
Just...lately, James hasn't been letting himself be down around Sirius,
because he likes pretending that there's nothing to be down about.
He doesn't want to be lifted up. He doesn't want anything.

He knows, distantly, that this isn't healthy. He knows that, and he

knows he needs to stop, but he doesn't want to. He isn't sure that he
can. Can't he just take care of Sirius? Check on him, focus on making
him laugh, put all his energy into being sure that he's okay, rather
than worrying about himself. Why can't he do that? Really, that's all
he wants to do.

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Remus has bluntly told him that it's worse for him. James has
ignored him. Regulus has tried to talk

to him about it, but that's a very, very complicated topic between
them, so they gave up before they even began. It's not a conversation
that ever really gets anywhere with anyone; even James and Sirius
haven't talked about it. James thinks they're about to, and he's
dreading it. Everyone else gets unhealthy coping mechanisms, so
why can't he? It's not even drugs or anything; it's literally just him
pretending he's fine when he's not, because his best friend is also not
fine, and he chooses to worry about that instead. As far as unhealthy
coping mechanisms go, that one's not even that bad, so really, can't
they just leave him alone?

Apparently not, because Sirius takes a deep breath and says, quietly,
"We, uh. We need to talk, James."

"Breaking up with me?" James teases weakly.

"Well..." Sirius grimaces. "I mean, kind of? Temporarily?"

James rears back, immediately alarmed. "What? No. You can't do

that. Don't do that."

"Oh, come off it, you know you're still my better half," Sirius says
with a snort. "I just..."

"Sirius," James mutters, "let's—can we not do this? Just—just let it lie,

yeah? Let it be. We're fine."

"We're really not," Sirius whispers.

"We've always been fine," James whispers back, getting a little heated
now. "Don't—please don't do this to me. You don't get to do this to
me. Not you."

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Sirius closes his eyes and hangs his head forward, blowing out a
deep breath. "Fucking hell, James, we're still in love, so calm down.
It's—it's not an actual breakup, you know."

"Then why does it feel like it?" James demands, on the verge of
desperation already, just that quickly. Sirius really did not start this
off properly, because James is flying into damage control
immediately. "What did I do? What did I not do? Just—if you need
something from me, whatever it is, it's yours. If I did something
wrong, or—or—"

"Okay, no, stop," Sirius cuts in firmly, and James snaps his mouth
shut. "James, this has nothing to do with you."

"Oh, the 'it's not you, it's me' line? Really?" "In this case, it's true."

James scoffs. "Well, okay, so—so what do you need, then? We'll fix it.
Figure it out together, like we always have. We—"

"We can't," Sirius snaps, face twisting up. "James, it's not—I mean, it's
what we need. Not just me. And, right now, you need to stop
focusing your every breath on me the moment I walk into a room.
You need to focus on yourself, too, and it's like you can't do that
when I'm so fucked up. Do you remember before your first games?
All you fucking did was take care of me, and you were planning to
die. You broke down and cried once. Just one time in all of that. We
can't—we've never really figured out that balance, because when I
can't take care of myself or anyone else, you step up every time, and
you don't need that right now. You shouldn't have to do that."

"You're my best friend," James croaks. "What else am I going to do?

Am I not supposed to do that? You do that. You take care of me
plenty. You're always there for me, Sirius."

"Yes, okay, I know that," Sirius says softly, "but you're using me to
block everything else out."

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"I—" James chokes. "I don't want to see it, and you're brighter than it
is. Brighter than all of it."

"You can't avoid it forever, James. We know that already. We've both
learned that by now. We know it doesn't do us any good," Sirius
whispers, and James does know that, but James is clinging to him for
dear life.

He doesn't have to think, or hurt, or struggle when Sirius is his focus.

In that, he also doesn't work through anything, or heal, and that's the
choice he makes. It's Sirius, his best friend, every breath in and out of
his lungs, and James will always take care of him, because Sirius will
always let him. Regulus—he doesn't always let James the way Sirius
does. James and Sirius will rip themselves apart trying to keep each
other together, and cling to one another through the mess, but
Regulus won't let James rip himself apart, and Remus won't let Sirius
rip himself apart, and how did they get here? How did they end up
here, where they made it all the way into war breathing in sync, and
on the other side of it, they're both gasping for air and can't catch
their breath?

"Remus and Lyall are returning to district twelve in a week," Sirius

murmurs, and James gets it. He immediately gets why they're
having this conversation.

Sirius is going to be a mess about Remus leaving, and he's

preemptively trying to stop James from avoiding his problems by
focusing on his. It's kind of him, James thinks. So kind. It also won't
work. James is going to be there for him every step of the way for
anything he needs, James' own needs be damned. Of course he is.
This discussion is pointless.

Then Sirius says, "I'm going with them," and oh.

Oh.

"You're what," James says flatly, his mind blank, and the first thought
he has when his mind kicks back online is that he isn't sure how he'll

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like being in district twelve, but okay, he'll just...get used to it,
maybe.

"I'm going with them," Sirius repeats on a shaky exhale, looking at

him with wide eyes. "I'm—I plan to stay with them for a while."

It hits James belatedly that Sirius is using a lot of I statements. He is

not asking James to come with him. James will not be going with
him. Oh, shit, Sirius really is breaking up with him.

Honestly, James needs a minute or two to process that. It doesn't go

well for him, as you can imagine.

"How long is a while?!" James bursts out, eyes bulging.

Sirius winces. "Ah, I don't—I mean, I don't have an exact timeframe,

James. Just, ya know, Remus will want to spend more time at home
with his dad, make sure he's settled in, and we'll—of course we'll be
back. We will come back, and we'll stay in touch the whole time,
and—"

"And I won't know if you're okay," James rasps. "I won't be there to
make sure you're okay. I won't —"

"You need—"

"Fuck what I need. I don't care—"

"I care!" Sirius explodes, all at once, his voice raised to a shout and
his eyes a little wild. "I care, James. I care about you, and what you
need, and what's best for you. Don't you get that?"

"You said that there were things that could never be taken from us,"
James croaks. "You said I was that for you. Sirius, I've had everything
taken away from me. I've lost my dad, and I've lost hope, and now
this. You lied."

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"Just as you have me, I have you, and nothing can take that away
from us," Sirius argues firmly, his jaw clenched. "I didn't lie to you,
because you're not losing me now, you will find hope again— we all
will—and your dad... James, you said to me once that those who love
us never really leave us. Monty loved us, and we loved him, and we
still do. He may be gone, but we carry him with us, and we always
will."

"Sirius," James starts, his eyes stinging.

Shaking his head, Sirius grits out, "Listen to me, it's not just about
you, okay? You want the truth? I need this, too. I—I need—I can't do
it, James. I can't do it the way I did the first time, after my first arena.
It's every day. Every fucking day. I want to drown myself in drinks
and drugs, and I can barely stand to look at my own brother, because
he's hurting, and I can't stop it. I can't be there for him, not while I'm
falling apart all the time. I lose hours at a time, sometimes half of a
day, and I can't get it back, and I can't fucking breathe. I have too
much to be guilty about now, too many people I've failed; Marlene,
Dorcas, Regulus. And I refuse—I refuse to add you to that list. You're
going to get better. We are going to get better, no matter what it takes
to do it, no matter how hard it is."

"But I—" James chokes, ashamed, and drops his gaze. "I need you for
that, don't I?"

"You have me," Sirius replies bluntly. "Of course you do. Fucking
hell, there's nowhere in this world we could be where that's not true.
Every time we breathe, even struggling as we are, we're right there
with each other. But please, please just be honest with me. Is
focusing on taking care of

me an excuse not to take care of yourself?"

James stares at the ground, his vision blurring, mouth twisted up. It
feels like there's a hand shoved

through his chest, holding onto his lungs, squeezing them.

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"Look at me." Sirius waits, and then he exhales shakily when James
lifts his teary gaze. Sirius swallows harshly, his throat working. "If I
stay here, I'm scared I'm going to spiral. I'm scared I'm going to lose
Regulus, or not be able to build a healthy relationship back up with
him the way he deserves, and the way I do. I'm scared I'm going to
slip away, not meaning to; I won't remember any of it, and I'll fail
anyway. I'm scared the guilt is going to kill me, and I want to live. I
want to live and be alive with all of you and be present, and I want
to reach a place where I am okay, where we all are. I'm scared,
alright? Of so many things. Of everything. And I think we both are,
and I think we're clinging to each other to avoid working through
our fears, and I think we need to work through them."

And still, still, there is something inside James railing against this.
Whining like a child. Wailing in despair. Let's fall apart. Let's
crumble to pieces. Let's lose everything, until we have nothing to
lose. Let's lose it all, and never have to lose again.

It's not good. James knows it's not good. He knows it's wrong and
even a bit selfish, and he knows he's in a terrible place right now, so
embedded into it that most of him is too exhausted to find his way
out. He wants to succumb to it.

He doesn't want to try anymore.

"Regulus knows I'm going, and he said I need to do what's best for
me, but if he didn't..." Sirius trails off, his eyes getting brighter with
building tears. "If he didn't, and if he asked me to stay, I would stay
here, even knowing that's not what's best for any of us. It's the same
for you. If you ask me to, James, I'll stay. Just, before you do, ask
yourself if that's what's best for you. Is that what you need? Do you
need me to stay?"

James wants to reflexively say yes, because the idea of anything else
is unfathomable to him, but he can't speak past the lump in his
throat. He feels strangled, and slowly, aching inside and out, James
turns his gaze to his dead flowers.

The thing about trying is, there's always a reason to. If not for
yourself, then for others, and James can't find the point in trying for

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himself, or in trying for the sake of trying, but maybe a part of him
wants to again, someday, because that's always been a part of him,
and he doesn't want to lose that. He can't feel that yet, but he thinks
he will. There's the faintest glimmer of hope in him that he will;

it's reflected in Sirius' eyes, visible on Regulus' face every day, heard
in the way Remus speaks to him, felt in the touch of his mother's
hands.

James looks at the dead flowers and thinks about the fact that
Regulus doesn't have any sitting in his windowsill, and isn't that
reason enough to grow more? James turns his gaze to Sirius and
thinks about the fact that he loves Remus so fucking much, doesn't
want to be without him more than he's already been forced to, and
wants to work on himself—and isn't that enough reason to let him
go, to follow his lead and get past this, to let them all heal how they
need to?

There was a time, years ago, when Sirius was neck-deep in drinks
and drugs, and James took care of him every single step of the way
without asking for anything in return, without even asking for Sirius
to get better. When Sirius did get better, he always said that he did it
for James. It's only now that James truly gets the meaning of that,
because sometimes, it's through caring for others that you learn the
importance of caring for yourself. James will learn. They'll all learn.

The building heat in James' eyes erupts, spilling over in tears, and he
gives a choked laugh, half- smiling and half-sobbing as he looks at
Sirius, who looks at him so tenderly in return, and says, "You have to
call me every day. Video call, so I can see your face. We—even if it's
for an hour, just—just—"

Sirius makes a small sound, pained, when James' words hiccup out
of him, his shoulders bowing in as he hunches down, head dropping
as he loses the thread of his laughter, his smile, his facade. He breaks
down there, and it's instantaneous the way Sirius comes for him,
gathering him up in his arms and letting James collapse into him,
everything in him seeming to heave.

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"It's okay, we're okay, we're going to be okay," Sirius whispers

fretfully. "I'll call you every day, James, I swear. And—and you know
I won't be able to stay away too long. We just—we all need time,
yeah? In the meantime, we'll just keep breathing."

James nods against his shoulder, clinging to him, listening to him

murmur 'in and out, in and out, that's it, in and out' over and over as
James follows him, slowly starting to calm. It feels good to cry like
this, like some sort of pressure is lifting. It also feels awful, makes
him feel sick, because the only one who is responsible for this
pressure on him is him. Monty would be so sad that he's not going
easier on himself.

I'm sorry, Dad, James thinks. I'll try. For you, for them, I'll try.
Someday, maybe he'll even try for himself, too.

"I love you, you know," Sirius says gently, when he and James slowly
shift apart, looking at each other.

James sniffles hard and nods. "I know. I love you, too."

"I'm sorry," Sirius mutters, his voice low, threaded with guilt in every
word. "I'm sorry for leaving so soon after—"

"Don't," James cuts in, and Sirius stops. "That's not—you're not a bad
person for leaving, Sirius. Please don't think that. Besides, two
months is—I mean, you've stuck around this long and...what? Have
you been—well, I know it's been bad, but have you just
been...tolerating it?"

"I wasn't going to leave you and Effie so soon, or Regulus for that
matter," Sirius admits. "It helps that Remus is here. Lily and Mary,
too. I...may have kept pushing it back, delaying it, but I couldn't do
that forever, especially not when it was actively worse for both of
us."

"I'll thank you for this someday, you know," James murmurs.

337
"Hopefully," Sirius says.

"In the meantime," James declares, "we keep breathing."

Sirius hums. "Yeah, exactly. We're okay. We will be. Come here, can
we kiss and make up now?" "Regulus and Remus are peering
through the drapes, being nosy," James muses. "Mum, too."

"Ah, in that case," Sirius teases lightly, then makes a big show of
throwing his arms around James very dramatically while pressing an
over-the-top, smacking kiss to each of James' cheeks, winking at him
as he pulls away. "There, now they'll know we're alright. Nothing to
worry about."

James frowns. "Did they all know before me?"

Sirius freezes like a spooked horse, then coughs and tosses his arm
over James' shoulders. "Say, let's head in, yeah? Come on, if we turn
around really fast, we can make the others scramble all over
themselves to get away from the window."

Sighing, James lets it go, because he gets it. If roles were reversed, it
probably would have taken him time to work up the courage to talk
to Sirius about it. Breaking up is hard—or, well, they're just on a
break, really. That's all it is.

When he and Sirius swivel around in perfect sync, Regulus and

Remus do, in fact, hastily jerk back from the window. Effie doesn't.
She looks out at them, and she smiles.

Ten minutes later, James is riding the seat Sirius built him up the
stairs and limping his way into his room, finding Regulus there as if
he has no idea what's going on, the prick. There's a nervous energy
to him, and he never handles being nervous well. It makes him
overcompensate with rudeness, or it makes him fussy, no in
between. James adores that he knows these little quirks about
Regulus.

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 Home

"How many times have I told you to keep this blasted thing in its jar,
James?" Regulus fusses—he's apparently in fussy mode, due to his
nerves—and he scoops up the Horcrux Hornet that James did
admittedly leave out of the jar again.

It's the same one Riddle left as a warning for them, having no idea
that it would one day hold no threat to them. It was in the exact
place James left it, sitting on his dresser, a green glow cast across the
dim room the first time he entered it. James has been trying to work
up to taking it into the forest to release it where it belongs, far away
from where anyone could come within range of anyone afraid, not
that anyone afraid would be at risk, because everyone here is
immune, but that's besides the point. The point is, James should let it
go and knows that, but hasn't found the energy or the will to just yet.

Regulus dumps it back in the jar with a huff.

"Oh, and would it kill you to straighten the bed when you get out of
it after me in the morning?" Regulus continues, turning swiftly away
from him to start making the bed, because James carelessly left the
sheets and blankets wadded up. "It takes five minutes, at most, and
no one wants to have to fight with the blankets when they're ready
to sleep, do they? And wrinkles. I know you don't care, but the
wrinkles, James; they're criminal, and I hate them, and if you just—"

"You told him it was okay to go," James announces.

Regulus stops talking. The silence is jarring, and so is how abruptly

he comes to a halt, just standing there with his back to James, tension
bleeding into his shoulders. After a moment, he turns around and
meets James' eyes, lips pursed, then he tilts his chin up and says,
"Yes, I did. You better have, too."

James stares at him for long, long moments of silence, and Regulus
spends every second remaining resolute, not backing down.
Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn.

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It's sudden and quick, the way James' hands dart out to capture
Regulus' face in between them, palms framing his face and guiding it
to meet his own. Regulus jolts the second James gets their mouths
together, a startled and muffled noise escaping him, because he
clearly wasn't expecting it. Maybe he was expecting a fight. Not this.
But oh, this.

The thing is—well, the thing is, they haven't kissed in two months.
Haven't kissed since the night before the war, and James forgot just
how all-consuming it can be. For a second, it surges through him so
fresh and wonderful and lovely that he goes in and out of time,
never having kissed the man he's been hopelessly pining after for a
decade, and he's triumphant with finally getting to. His heart is
racing, every single atom in his body lit up with delight and triumph
and love, so much love, because he's kissing Regulus Black. Oh, fuck,
he's kissing Regulus Black. Has he ever done that? It's the first, isn't
it? This feels like the very first, and so it must be, and James doesn't
know how they ended up here, but he is so thankful to have ended
up here. James only knows that this is the only kiss that exists
between them, and already, he wants another.

And then Regulus is pressing closer, breathless, and it's familiar.

James' body responds like an instinct, something inside him waking
up with a yawn, stretching languidly and flexing muscles suffering
from disuse. James is launched firmly back into the present, into
reality, and he has kissed his fiancé so many times now, but not in a
while, and he's so glad to remedy that. It's been far too long.

"What?" Regulus asks, dazed and panting when they break apart,
lips kiss-bitten and delectable. His eyes are glazed, a dawning clarity
taking time to make its way back. He blinks rapidly. "I don't
—what?"

"You told him it was okay to go," James breathes out, gazing at him,
cradling his face. "Why?"

"Because it's what's best for him. Because it's what he needs,"
Regulus says, eyebrows wrinkled with confusion. "Because it was
the right thing to do."

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 Home

A beat.

Regulus blinks.

Regulus' eyes absolutely light the fuck up.

"Oh," he whispers, "it was the right thing to do."

"Yeah, love, it was the right thing to do," James agrees, lips curling
up, "and you did it first."

"Did—did you?"

"It wasn't my first instinct, but yes."

"So, he's—he's really going, then?"

"He is, yes. He's going."

"It's okay," Regulus whispers. "We'll be okay, won't we?"

James closes his eyes and leans in to let their foreheads settle
together with a tap, and he says, "Yeah, we'll be okay."

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 9
BEGIN AGAIN
______

Euphemia stares down into her coffee mug, ears straining for the
whirring sound of James' chair starting up on the stairs, a heavy
clunk and slow glide, or the sound of Regulus' light step on the
middle stair. It's a toss up whether she'll hear that or not, because
Regulus is so quiet and steps so lightly that there are some mornings
when he doesn't make that stair squeak like it always habitually has.

Sometimes, without meaning to, Euphemia still listens for Fleamont.

He had a very specific cadence to the way he walked, or perhaps she
simply heard it so much in all their years together that it became
unique to her. As much as it hurts that she'll never hear it again,
there's something truly lovely about that. Something truly lovely
about Fleamont, always, and the memory of him.

If you asked Euphemia months ago, she would have never believed
that she could live in a world without Fleamont, at least not steadily.
Not without her rock. She would have pictured unending grief that
ate away at her until she was nothing, which—upon reflection—was
incredibly dismissive of her children, who are still here and give her
more than enough reason to get out of bed in the morning. But,
when you love someone, it can feel like you'll never survive the loss
of them, and then, somehow, you do.

Euphemia has survived the loss of Fleamont. She does every day,
and some days, a selfish part of her wishes that she didn't. Other
days, it's almost as if she hasn't lost him at all; the echoes of him are
so loud that she need only close her eyes to feel him right next to her,
or stand in the wind and feel it swaddle her body like his arms, and
he'll be so close that she stops mourning him for a second, for just a

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 Begin Again

second. Most days, though, she opens her eyes and finds herself
without him, and it kills her, and she survives anyway.

In any case, with time, her grief turns gentle. It eases farther away
from screaming with all that she has lost and turns towards
cherishing what she still has. She looks at James and Regulus every
day, and speaks to Sirius and Remus every day, and checks on Lily
and Mary and that Bingley every day, and takes in the steady growth
of her home every day—and she thinks Flea, it's getting better, it's
becoming a better world, you were right; look at those we love, look
at where they are, look at where they're going; I know you're proud,
aren't you proud?

He does not have to be here for her to know his answer. She knows,
and so, in a way, he's here anyway.

The sound of a tiny, there-and-gone creak of a stair makes Euphemia

lift her head and reach for a second mug. She's pouring a second cup
when Regulus pads into the kitchen. It was a beautiful thing to
watch him go from moving around her house like he was terrified to
take up any space to feeling at home enough to exist in all spaces,
with or without James. He is such a sweet boy, and yes, yes, she has
seen him murder, but that matters very little to her, overall. She
doesn't pay attention to who someone is in combat, not in this world;
it's who they are out of it that really reveals the core of them.

Out of combat, Regulus has been restless, and exhausted, and with
Euphemia and James specifically, very sweet. Like her, his grief has
turned gentle, too. He was the first person who would talk about
Fleamont with her without it being this big, painful production of
dumping grief at each other's feet. He let her murmur about him,
small things, quiet things; he murmured back, and that's all there
was. Tranquility.

She returned the favor for him, when she could. It's hard for Regulus
to talk about Barty, and he never seems to have the words he wants
to say, but it's clear to her that he doesn't want to bury Barty in
memories and never speak of him again, and never feel the duality
of pain and joy that comes from loving someone who is lost and
losing someone who was loved. It's a gentle show of inner strength

343
that he wants to find peace with Barty's loss, and that means
accepting it, and learning how to exist with it. For him, that seems to
mean offering little facts about him, often stilted and awkward,
occasionally humorous; it also means visible relief when anyone else
talks about Barty with him, like it's confirmation that he was here,
and Regulus isn't alone in keeping his memory alive. It's a difficult
thing to do alone, and no one wants to, and no one should have to.

Euphemia doesn't make him. The first time she slipped up and said
'that boy of yours, Barty', it drew a choked laugh out of Regulus,
who had covered his mouth and looked genuinely alarmed by the
fact that he was cracking up. It was the first time she heard him
laugh after the war, and it felt

good to be the person to cause it. All Regulus did was apologize at
first, like mirth in the midst of grief was something to be ashamed of,
and so she laughed with him until they were laughing together,
because Regulus swore up and down that Barty would have found
that title hilarious.

"Good morning, Effie," Regulus murmurs as she slides to the side so

he can step up next her and make his tea as he likes. Usually black,
no milk, but with a spoonful of sugar or two to take the bite out of it.
A bit like him, she thinks, internally amused.

"Morning, dear," Effie greets, and then, "I'm kicking you and James
out today." Regulus' head snaps up, eyes wide. "You're—what?"

Euphemia can't stop herself from laughing at the disbelief and mild
alarm in his eyes. "Oh, relax. It's only across the street, and it's not as
if you two won't be over all the time as it is."

"Did we...did I do something wrong?" Regulus asks carefully.

"No, darling," Euphemia says kindly, her heart clenching as she

reaches out to cup the side of his head over his hair very briefly.
She's aware it's harder for him to accept parental affection, as it likely
feels like a betrayal to his own parents, and even Sirius in a way. She
can tell he likes it, though, at least from her. He didn't used to, so

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they've come a long way, and they've got much more room to grow.
"You haven't done anything wrong, nor has James. It's just time,
that's all."

"How do you know?" Regulus says quietly.

"Well, it's time when we decide it is, I suppose, and I know you two
are here for me as much as yourselves, but mostly so I won't be alone
in the house," Euphemia explains. Regulus frowns, and she smiles
gently. "We have to start somewhere, Regulus. That goes for me, too."

For a bit, Regulus seems to wrestle with that, and then he mumbles,
"I don't like it. I don't want you to be alone."

"Oh, I won't be. You're right across the street, remember? Sirius is
only a phone call away, and he'll come home soon enough,"
Euphemia reminds him.

Regulus makes a noncommittal sound and drops his gaze. It's been
hard for him, not having Sirius around, though he goes to desperate
lengths not to show it. Euphemia sees it, how much he misses his
brother, likely the same amount that Sirius misses him. He's gentle
about this, too. Sad, yet accepting.

"James and I can stay," Regulus says, after a long beat. He looks up
again, holding her gaze. "As long as you like, we will. You know
that, don't you?"

"I know, but it can't be forever."

"It could be, if you wanted."

Euphemia chuckles. "I suppose a part of me will always want

everyone I love with me at all times, but there's another part that is
ready for the next step. You have a home, Regulus, and James' home
will always be here, but it's with you, too. You should get to make a
home together. It's a beautiful thing, you know. One of my fondest
memories with Fleamont was making this house into a home."

345
"Didn't you live here before you and him got together?" Regulus asks
curiously.

"I did, yes," Euphemia admits. "Since I was thirteen, I've lived in this
house, but it never felt like a home until Fleamont and I made it into
one. My parents moved out, back to my childhood home when I was
eighteen, when I started mentoring. I was gone during parts of the
year, and they—ah, well, they were never really fond of...the
neighbors."

Regulus pauses, then his lips twitch. "Those dastardly Blacks, I'm
assuming."

"Yeah, those are the ones," Euphemia says, and Regulus huffs a
laugh. "In any case, Fleamont moved in, and it was truly special to
simply live with him. Just me and him. I look back on those years so
grateful to have had them, and I want that for you and James. You're
both welcome here always, never doubt that, but it's time for you to
make a home together. It's a beautiful start to building a life. I want
that for all of you."

"I understand," Regulus says softly, then clears his throat and sips his
tea before continuing, "but you're telling James."

Euphemia clicks her tongue and waves a hand. "Oh, he'll be fine. He
has flowers to tend to over here every day anyway, so it's not like I'm
shipping him off across the world or anything. He's doing better,
yeah? It's time. If not now, when?"

"I suppose that's a question we're all going to have to start asking
ourselves," Regulus murmurs. He stares down at his tea for a bit,
then looks up at her, his gaze soft. "I, um. I never said—I never got to
tell Monty that I—I loved him. I wish I did. I'll always wish I did."

"Oh, honey, he knew," Euphemia whispers. "He knows."

Regulus blinks hard and swallows harshly. "I can only hope that's
true now, and I really do hope that, but it's—well, that's not the case

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for you. I—I can still tell you. I just—I have a hard time with —I
struggle to—to say—"

"I know, dear boy, I know," Euphemia tells him, and he deflates a
little, choking out a deep, shaky breath. "You have so much love in
you, of course I know, and I've known for some time. I love you, too.
Fleamont loves you too, still, even now."

"Thank you," Regulus whispers.

Euphemia can't resist reaching out one more time to cup his cheek,
and this time, he closes his eyes and leans into her hand. She's so
proud of him and knows, as if he's standing right next to her, that
Fleamont is, too.

~•~

Remus can honestly say that being home has been quite the
unexpected delight of his life. Truly, he had no idea just how much
he wanted it until he got here, and now that he's here, it feels like his
inner-child is healing a little.

Of course, it has a lot to do with memory, too. Nostalgia. Returning

to the places he grew up to really reflect on how much he has grown.
It helps that he's something of a local legend at the moment, while
simultaneously still that troublesome Lupin boy from down the
street to those who knew him when he was just a boy, which is
admittedly sort of hilarious. He can't help but appreciate the duality,
the human aspect to it, the callbacks to a life he had before he lost his
freedom and the acknowledgement of the choices he made when he
took freedom back for himself before he returned.

It's just—well, some people saw Remus fight in the war, and it's not
quite the secret it once was just how imperative to ending the war he
became. Not only that, but he was one of the ones who opened the
door and escorted Dorcas out with Tom Riddle's head gripped in her
hand. That's not really something people tend to forget.

347
It's also the fact that Remus showed up back home with one Sirius
Black in tow, sticking close to him and looking at him that way he
does, with those stars in his eyes, like Remus is the most wonderful
thing he's ever seen. Glorious. After all this time, after all they've
been through, Sirius still gazes at him like he's something fucking
glorious. Remus isn't sure he'll ever get over that. He thinks it'll
always make him feel amazing.

In any case, everyone knows Sirius, and the fact that he arrives with
Remus, quite blatantly with Remus, has people scratching their
heads in confusion and trying to figure out how the hell it even
happened. They're polite enough that they mind their business,
though, for the most part. No one bothers them, past extending
heartfelt happiness that he's okay, that he's back, that he's here with
Lyall, who has been alone for so long now.

The change of scenery is good for Sirius. He doesn't get out much at
first, mostly spending his days in the house with Lyall and Remus,
letting Lyall teach him recipes out of Hope's old cookbook or
showing him his model ship collection that Sirius rapidly becomes
obsessed with. Sirius likes to build, so it's something he loves from
the moment Lyall breaks one out he never got around to doing.
Remus swears they sit down at a table and build an incredibly
detailed, miniature ship for over four hours. It's the calmest Remus
has seen Sirius in months.

Eventually, though, Sirius does start to venture out when Remus

wants to show him things. The abandoned park where he and Lily
kissed the one and only time they ever did—he and Sirius sit out on
the swings for nearly the whole day, smoking and talking until night
creeps in and they go home. The school Remus went to—Sirius
wants to break in because it's closed down for now, and Remus starts
off saying no, but by the time night falls, he and Sirius are sneaking
through the halls while Remus whispers stories of the memories he
made there in Sirius' ear. The market—it's not what it used to be,
once it shut down during the war, but people are already trying to
get it going again, and Sirius blatantly likes to see Remus treated like
a human being by people who know him, so he enjoys going there
just to watch. The spot by the train tracks where he and Lily used to
get high every year before the reaping—a lovely little patch of
dandelions that Sirius likes to pluck and blow in the wind, inevitably

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bringing Regulus up every time, because flowers always remind him

of his brother.

Being in district twelve really does help Sirius, which Remus sees
more and more with each passing day. He can focus on himself here
in this new environment, and he can let himself fall apart when he
needs to, and then he can build himself back up. Remus watches it
happen. Remus helps him, all while he's doing the very same thing
himself.

The truth is, they both have things to work through. Guilt. Trauma.
Grief. Fear. Nightmares. Sometimes, they don't talk about it, too
exhausted to, some days worse than others. But, with rising
frequency, they lean on each other. They take care of each other. They
start taking in their everything one little bite at a time, chewing
slowly, savoring it.

Sirius calls James every day, usually a camera call where they babble
at each other on screens, and it's good for them both, Remus thinks.
This separation where they're still linked, having space and still
being together. Because the calls end, and that's it. The calls end, and
they have to focus on themselves rather than avoid it through one
another.

Because Lily and Remus are not-so-secretly as attached to each other

as Sirius and James are, Remus also calls Lily every day. They're
more discreet about it, not practically confessing their love and
trying to make out through the screen the way James and Sirius do,
but it's just as good for them as well. It's healing to see Lily healing,
and Mary and Bingley with her, all of them taking it one day at a
time.

They're all taking it one day at a time.

In the beginning, Sirius frets about Regulus almost more than he

breathes. Remus vaguely thinks of the term helicopter parent and
very wisely does not say it to Sirius. Instead, he patiently and
repeatedly talks Sirius down from boarding the first train back to

349
district six, patiently and repeatedly reminding him that Regulus has
James, Effie, Lily, and Mary and he's fine and he's alive and Sirius
isn't failing him or anyone by being here and Sirius doesn't have to
devote his whole life to his little brother, who is an adult and
supports him doing what's best for him, which is being here,
remember? Hey, remember?

Sirius remembers. He hasn't slipped away once since getting to

district twelve, which is more than enough of a sign that he needed
to let himself get away. It's just hard. Remus doesn't quite get it the
same way, as he's an only child and doesn't have children, but the
reminders do break through to Sirius eventually. It probably helps
that—in the background of Sirius' calls to James—Regulus is nearly
always there, often rotating between assuring Sirius he's fine in an
exasperated tone, or calling Sirius an idiot while rolling his eyes.

Remus talks to Regulus frequently, too. They message each other

randomly to bitch about things, or just gossip about shit in their
respective districts. Remus appreciates having someone he can
always complain with. In that aspect, Regulus is genuinely his
favorite person, because no one quite matches his level of pettiness
and rude commentary as Regulus does.

A huge step for Sirius in healing is coming to terms about what

happened with Marlene. That's one

of the heavier things for him to contend with. He struggles with that
one the most, and confesses to Remus late one night after a very
common nightmare reliving Marlene's death that he's not sure he'll
ever stop feeling the guilt over her, or the pain of her loss.

Nonetheless, humans can only hold onto a weight like that for so
long before they reach a breaking point, and Sirius reaches his
altogether swiftly. It ends with him curled up on the cold tile in
Remus' bathroom, a mess of vomit and tears, head in Remus' lap
while it all spills out of him. Horrible things. The worst things
Remus never wanted to hear from him. How much it hurts. How he
wishes it could have been him, just so she could be here. How he
always tried to look out for her, and how he failed, and how he

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misses her, and how he wishes he could slip away forever and never
have to feel this way again.

The next morning, Remus helps him off the floor and coaxes him
into the shower, moving him around like a puppet to get him clean.
Sirius does not slip away, and he has to keep feeling it, and he
spends three hours on the phone with James just trying to find the
will to forgive himself. Sirius tries to, and maybe he gets closer to it
just through the effort, just through talking about Marlene. He says
once that she would give him a good wallop upside the head if she
could, just for how he's acting. She'd say 'get your shit together,
Black, this is embarrassing for both of us', Sirius had mumbled, and
then he laughed until he cried. It's a turning point for him, though,
because he takes the steps to build forgiveness for himself from then
on.

So, all in all, they're finding their way in this world, slowly but
surely, each and every single one of them. Maybe they're not where
they all expected to end up, but that doesn't mean they're not where
they need to be.

For Remus, his struggles have a lot to do with the war being over.
Trying to feel the freedom he hasn't had in six years. Trying to figure
out what he wants to do with it. Trying to figure out who he is in it.
His morals haven't changed very much, like he expected them to. He
still doesn't really feel the guilt for the things he has done in war the
way he thinks he probably should. Maybe some people just don't,
and maybe he's one of them. It's—well, he does, sometimes, but even
that isn't the same as it is for others. There's still too many other
horrors in his head to really leave space for the things he had to do in
order to reach this point of freedom at all.

Oddly, what he did to Riddle is what makes him the most

uncomfortable, and it's because he knows he didn't have to do that.
Remus, Regulus, and Dorcas didn't have to take it that far; they
just...wanted to. They wanted to hurt him. They wanted to torture
him. They wanted to make him suffer, and they did. Oh, they really
did, and Remus knows his motivations had very little to do with
ending the war at all; it was revenge, it was cruelty, and it was not a
situation thrust upon them for the sake of survival. The worst of

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Remus now exists not in killing Greyback, but in what he did to
Riddle.

He hates that. He hates that it weighs on him, and he hates that a

part of him became so twisted that

he isn't sure he would go back and undo it if he was given the

chance. He dreams of it, sometimes; the way Riddle screamed.
They're not nightmares. Remus doesn't wake up afraid; he wakes up
yearning, and then he feels sick of himself for it.

The first time Remus admits this to Sirius, and tells him exactly what
he did, he is scared that Sirius won't look at him the same for it. He
should have known better, because Sirius is nothing if not Remus'
number one source of encouragement. That's the first time they have
sex after the war, when Remus tells Sirius how he made Riddle pay
for all that he'd done. It's not the response

Remus is expecting, but Sirius always takes him by surprise, and

Sirius genuinely can't seem to keep his hands off of him after the
confession, and Remus is nothing if not a weak man for anything
and all things Sirius Black.

With time, the dreams and guilt and discomfort grow less frequent
for both of them, and then it's just figuring themselves out and
letting themselves heal. A process. One that gets easier day after day.
Remus is more settled than he's ever been, and it seems that Sirius is,
too.

"Big plans today?" Lyall asks from the table, idly flipping through the
paper, eyebrows raised as he reads it. That's one of the newer things;
the press. Updates on the world are released to everyone these days,
sent out to all who care to look. More often than not, Remus doesn't
look, but Lyall always seems interested in what's going on out there.
Good things, usually, or so he says. Remus decides to believe him.

"Not really," Remus muses, swiveling his spoon in his tea as he gazes
down at his phone, lips curled up. James has sent him a photo of a

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little grasshopper he found, so green it almost blends in with the

grass.

"Sirius still asleep?"

"You know he likes to sleep in, Dad."

Lyall hums, amused. "Makes that whole bit about you being the
moon cuter since he prefers to be awake at night. Where did that
come from, by the way? Why are you the moon?"

Remus pauses, considering the merits of telling his father that he

compared the scars on his back to the craters of the moon. Hm,
maybe not. "Sirius is a sap. That's all it is."

"You should appreciate that more, you know," Lyall comments as he

casually flips to the next

page. "It's special how he loves you, Remus. You don't find that
every day."

"Yes, Dad, I'm very aware," Remus mutters, ducking his head to hide
how he rolls his eyes. Lyall sings Sirius' praises constantly, which
was sweet at first, but now Remus is a little exasperated by it. Deep
down, though, Remus is ridiculously charmed by the fact that his
dad approves of his boyfriend.

A knock on the front door makes Remus and Lyall look at each other,
frowning. Neither of them make a move to go open the door, because
they're not the sociable ones. Generally, it was always Hope who
would answer the door and chat with the neighbors, carrying on
conversations in the background while Lyall and Remus were
grateful to avoid any social interaction whatsoever. If Sirius was
awake, he'd be the one to handle it, because—like Hope—he can
stand around talking to people for ages and charm them all, and he
even seems to enjoy it when they don't expect anything from him.

353
Sirius, unfortunately, is still drooling in Remus' bed, and Lyall hastily
buries his face behind the paper, making Remus stifle a groan as he
plops his tea down and shuffles towards the door.

When Remus opens the door, he blinks.

Ah. Well, this is odd.

MacKenzie Barlowe, or—as he prefers—Ken. Remus really isn't

expecting Ken to be standing out on his porch for a number of
reasons. One, Ken is Remus' ex-boyfriend and hasn't been back to his
house since they broke up after a whirlwind romance that lasted all
of five months, when they were both nineteen. Two, Ken is holding
puppies, and Remus can't really make sense of that, why he is, and
why he's doing so while standing at Remus' front door.

Remus blinks. "Ken. Hello."

"Hiya, Remus," Ken greets sheepishly, huffing out a weak laugh and
trying to rearrange the wriggling puppies in his grip. He has one in
each arm. "Sorry to bother, but I was hoping I could have a word."

Remus blinks some more, still stuck on the puppy thing. They're
very adorable and very small, just babies, really, and their ears are
quite floppy. Ken clears his throat and blows his swooping blond
hair out of his eyes, looking rather pathetic and desperate, but then,
he always had that look about

him.

"I'll leave the puppies out here," Ken offers hopefully, stooping over
to let them down. They're on leashes, which he ties off to the rails on
the porch. "Sorry, I just had to carry them up the stairs. They're
suspicious of stairs."

"Right, ah, come in," Remus says, opening the door and stepping
back. "Should I...bring them some water out?"

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"No, it's okay. I don't plan to stay long," Ken assures him, sweeping
into the house with familiarity. He smiles when he enters the kitchen.
"Hey, Mr. Lupin."

"Barlowe," Lyall replies with a grunt, briefly looking up from the

paper before dismissing Ken altogether. Lyall never liked Ken.
Actually, Lyall never liked...any of Remus' past partners, now that
Remus is thinking about it. Or, it wasn't that he didn't like them. It
was more that he didn't trust them with Remus, upon reflection. So,
apparently, the one Lyall trusts with his son is Sirius. Ah, yes, the
murderer. Good going, Dad, Remus thinks, vaguely entertained by
the realization. Not that Sirius is just a murderer, but Remus is
almost positive that out of all his partners, Sirius is the only one
who's killed before.

"Cuppa?" Remus offers, gesturing to the kettle. Ken shakes his head
quickly. "No, but thank you."

Remus hums and moves back over to his cup, leaning against the
counter and raising his eyebrows at Ken. "So, you wanted to speak to
me?"

"You and—well, both of you, really." Ken fiddles with his fingers,
shifting from foot-to-foot. "Ah, basically, my dog decided to go off
and get knocked up to celebrate the war being over, I reckon,
because she popped out a whole litter with no warning. Like, I just
thought she was getting fat, you know? But no, guess not, 'cause she
jumped up on my bed and started giving birth and—I mean, do you
have any idea how traumatic that was for me?" He waves a hand.
"Anyway, she had twelve— twelve!—babies, Remus. Twelve. I've
been giving them away to everyone who wants 'em, and I was
hoping..."

"Oh, you—you want us to take them?" Remus asks, startled.

Ken bites his lip. "I've asked everyone else, and they're the last two. I
can't take care of them, because Marsha—that's the mother
pup—keeps fighting them. She's... I don't know, she's different after

355
the war just like everyone is. No one really thinks about the animals
during things like that, but it affected her, too, ya know? And—and
she's a good dog, she really is, she's just not cut out to be a mother, I
guess. Do you—I mean, is there any chance you want them?"

Remus immediately looks at his dad, who looks back and mutters,
"Don't look at me. Get them if you want, but I'm not taking care of
them. That's on you, son. It won't be my pet."

"Um, well—" Remus halts, swiveling his head as the sound of feet on
the floor reaches his ears. He smiles reflexively the moment Sirius
swings out of the hall from the bathroom mid-yawn, knuckling at his
eyes and shuffling right towards Remus without even having to
look. Precious. Just precious.

Sirius starts out smiling as he enters the room, and then he sees Ken,
and his smile fades. He looks confused as to why someone is in the
kitchen, eyebrows tugging together as he surveys Ken, and
then—without warning—his expression goes from mild curiosity to
hostile. It lasts only a split second, that flicker of danger, and then it's
gone so quickly that it'd be easy to believe they imagined it. Sirius'
face journey ends on neutral, but his eyes—ah. Not good.

"Sirius," Remus says slowly, "this is MacKenzie Barlowe."

"I go by Ken, though. It's nice to meet you," Ken greets, holding his
hand out in offering.

Sirius slaps on a smile so brilliant that Ken gives a harsh blink,

helplessly dazed by it, just the full force of it. Remus can't blame him;
it's a very beautiful smile, so beautiful it could bring the world to its
knees, and the most dangerous thing about it is that it's fake. Sirius
can just—do that. Just whip out a smile that lovely at will. It'd be
frightening if it didn't make Remus want to kiss him within an inch
of his life.

"Sirius Black," Sirius greets, reaching out to shake Ken's hand,

leaning in to wink and whisper, "but you knew that."

"I—yeah, hey, hi," Ken replies, stumbling over his words, so visibly
flustered that Remus almost pities him. Almost.

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"I'm sure you have a very good reason for being here, Low Bar,
but—"

"Barlowe, actually, um—"

"Very low bar. I could trip over you," Sirius says, then laughs like
that's not even the least bit insulting, and his laugh is so lovely and
charming that Ken—poor Ken—laughs with him, as if the insult
hasn't even registered to him. "Anyway, this can continue in just a
moment, whatever reason you have to be here. Remus has to turn his
attention to something more important, which is me."

Then, with that, Sirius twirls around and plucks the mug out of
Remus' hands before smiling at him, warm and sweet, and reaching
up to cradle his face tenderly, intimately, then kisses him. To be clear,
he does not do this every morning—or, well, he does greet Remus
with a kiss most of the time, but not like this, especially not in front
of Lyall. Because this kiss is very deep and very long, the sort of kiss
Remus can't help but fall into, his eyebrows flying up as Sirius
swipes his tongue into his mouth, slow and deliberate, winding his
arms around Remus' shoulders and leaning into him.

Helplessly, Remus' hands come up to land on Sirius' waist, and a

distant part of his brain reminds him that his dad is sitting at the
table, and they have an audience, but mostly he's way too invested
in the feeling of Sirius' kissing him like it's as vital as oxygen to care
about anyone or anything else. Frankly, nothing else exists other than
this. It all drains away until he's caught up in it, the kiss his only
focus at the moment.

And then, after a truly indecent amount of time—when it's likely

uncomfortable for everyone else —Sirius peels away slowly and
says, sweetly, "Good morning, moon of mine. You're glowing today,
Remus. Glorious, as always. Hi."

"Hi," Remus murmurs, still a bit dazed, but his exasperation is

starting to creep in. Oh, he's going to laugh so much about this later.
Already, he's fighting a smile.

357
Sirius hums in satisfaction and pats Remus' chest before swiping his
hand up and down, an unspoken sort of claiming, a gesture that
quite clearly states this is mine. He keeps himself draped all over
Remus and rests his head on his shoulder, glancing dismissively
towards Ken.

Remus is bemused by his response, honestly. How could Sirius

possibly know that Ken is his ex? Can he just fucking sense it, or
something? It's baffling, but also sort of entertaining. Sirius could
snap Ken's neck in the space of a blink—not that Remus would let
him, but the point still stands— and yet he's just doing this? Being
adorably territorial?

Glancing over at his dad, Remus finds Lyall clearly fighting for his
life not to bust out laughing. He seems to find this all very amusing,
just sitting back and watching like it's the most entertainment he's
had in years.

Ken coughs. It's very awkward—well, it is for him. Remus, on the

other hand, is so glad he stopped by. "So, about the dogs..."

"Ken wants to give me puppies," Remus explains, and he hears Sirius

audibly grind his teeth. Maybe he could have phrased that better.
"Ah, well, he was hoping we'd take the last two he's trying to get rid
of. Interested?"

Remus expects Sirius to say no, just on principle, but he hesitates,

then mumbles, "If I want them, we can get them?"

"Whatever you want, sweetheart," Remus assures him, his affection

surging as Sirius' desire for puppies seems to go to war with his level
of pettiness. Remus sweeps a hand up and down his back,
wondering which will win.

In the end, it doesn't really surprise him that Sirius' delight with
anything vaguely hinting at domesticity and peace beats out the urge
to fight. He sighs and says, "Okay, I won't lie, I want them. I love
dogs."

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"Oh, thank fuck," Ken exhales all at once, deflating in instant relief.
"Brilliant! Thank you, Sirius, truly. Okay, okay, so I'll take them home
and bring them back tomorrow with food and their leashes and
such—my little cousin will want to say bye to them, too. Is that
alright? Does that work?"

"Yeah, Ken, that works," Remus says. "Thanks."

"You're a miracle, Re-Re, always have been," Ken replies, and Remus
struggles not to cringe. "Alright, I'll go now. Nice to see you again,
Mr. Lupin, and nice to meet you, Sirius."

Ken does not receive a response before he's out the door.

"A miracle. He called you a miracle, right in front of me! I'm standing
right here! Hello? Can you see me? Am I invisible?" Sirius sputters,
looking absolutely appalled.

Lyall immediately dissolves into laughter.

"I have killed people!" Sirius yelps. "I've killed so many people that I
don't even know how many

it's been, and he just—oh, I could have killed him so easily, what the
fuck?!"

Lyall is wheezing.

"He's gifting you puppies and calling you a miracle—am I fucking

joke to him?" Sirius demands. "Does he not know I can and will rip
his tongue out of his head? I can do it! I—"

Lyall bangs his hand down on the table, gasping for air, laughing so
hard he's in tears.

"Sirius," Remus says, biting down on the inside of cheek.

359
Nostrils flaring, Sirius fixes his gaze on Remus, lips pursing like he's
tasting something sour. "He's trying to win you over. He comes with
compliments and puppies—"

"It's not a competition—"

"He comes here and tries to act chummy with your dad—"

"I think he was just being polite—"

"Barlowe? Barlowe? What a pathetic name. Fucking low bar of a

name and a low bar of a human being—"

"Well, that's not very polite—"

"Offering you puppies—"

"Sirius—"

"Calling you a miracle—"

"Sirius—"

"Addressing you by that stupid fucking nickname—"

Lyall is going to keel over here in a second, just from laughing so

hard, and Remus is almost genuinely concerned for his health. He's
an older man, quite out of breath, getting a bit red in the face.
Huffing in fond exasperation, Remus reaches out to catch Sirius' arm
and drag him out of the room.

Sirius comes with him willingly enough, grumbling under his breath
the whole way. It seems like his jealousy is more about how offensive
he finds it that Ken—or anyone—would even attempt anything
untoward with Remus, or try to outdo him in any capacity in regards
to Remus, not that Ken was doing that, necessarily, but it never takes
much to send Sirius' mind in a turbulent whirlwind of turmoil.
Honestly, Ken definitely wasn't trying to do anything untoward, or
trying to compete, but Sirius has taken this personally anyway.

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"How dare he? Puppies?" Sirius hisses as Remus shuts the door
behind them. "Remus, he brought puppies!"

"He did, yes," Remus agrees. Sirius looks absolutely enraged by this,
which shouldn't be as hilarious as it is. "Obviously since he brought
puppies, I now have to run off with him, as he is the superior
gift-giver and has won my affections once more. That is all it takes
for me. Puppies."

Sirius looks like he wants to stomp his feet. "I know you're fucking
with me to point out how stupid I'm being—"

"Mm, not stupid. Don't call yourself stupid."

"I am, though. Oh, fucking hell, that was so stupid. I practically
tongue-fucked your mouth in front of him and your dad just because
I saw a photo of you and Ken kissing once."

Remus has to stifle a laugh at how mortified Sirius looks, and then
he doesn't hide his smile when Sirius covers his face with both
hands, his blush peeking through. "Ah, so that's how you knew he
was my ex..."

"M'so stupid," Sirius mumbles into his palms, then drops his hands
and huffs. "He's the one, right? Who could—ah, you know. The one
you stayed with just because of his...skills."

"His cock-sucking skills, you mean?" Remus asks, amused.

"Yeah, whatever, those," Sirius says derisively, wrinkling his nose

and somehow making it sound filthy, like something worthy of
judgement, as if he's not right obsessed with the act himself. Here he
stands before Remus now, his nose turned up like it's a stain upon
someone's pristine image, yet Remus can so vividly recall the
amount of times he's been on his knees, mouth slack with slapstick
stars in his hazy eyes, enjoying himself immensely. "That's him,
right?"

361
"Yes, but those skills alone are not enough to make any couple last,
hence the reason he and I did not. Also, I just—wasn't in love with
him, if I'm honest. We were a very 'this was nice while it lasted, but it
was never going to last' sort of pair," Remus reflects thoughtfully.

Sirius waves a hand carelessly. "Oh, I'm not fussed about your
history, nor do I need reassurances about why you're with me and
not him, and that you'll never leave me for him, or anyone else, yada
yada yada. Yes, I know all of that already. My issue is that he brought
you puppies, and he called you a miracle, and he has sucked your
cock well enough for it to be notable."

"These are issues?" Remus asks, lips twitching.

"Yes," Sirius insists, eyes narrowing, "because now I have to prove I

am better for you and to you than anyone else. I have to one-up the
puppies, and the miracle thing, and the whole notable cock- sucking
skills bit."

Remus snorts. "Sweetheart, you absolutely do not have anything to

prove. You've more than—"

"No, I'm gonna," Sirius declares, and then he's dragging Remus into
a dizzying kiss. Hands in Remus' hair, opening his mouth like he's
going to swallow him down. Chest-to-chest, arching into Remus like
he wants to stitch them together. One kiss is all it takes. One fucking
kiss, and it's better than puppies and miracles and—

Ah, well, Sirius is someone to watch out for. He's not just someone
who can kill; he's a tactical strategist, and he can form plans on the
fly that no one sees coming. Do not ask Remus where his shirt goes,
or how Sirius gets it off of him, because he genuinely has no idea. All
he knows is that his skin is bare in the cool air, heated under Sirius'
feverish hands, and Remus gets agitated about the fact that his shirt
is off while Sirius' isn't. He tries to fix this problem by kissing Sirius
harder, his brain quite sure that this is the solution, and much to his
annoyance, it does not solve anything other than Remus' deep need
to feel and hear Sirius moan into his mouth.

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Eventually, though, Remus does succeed in getting Sirius' shirt off,

feeling like the fucking winner of all things the moment he does and
he's greeted with fading, aged marks he left behind. It's no secret that
Sirius likes the hickies, but it's not just him; the truth is, the only
thing Remus likes more than getting to put them there is getting to
see them there.

It's easy to get lost in it, lost in Sirius, lost in kissing him. He forgets
that Sirius has something to prove, just standing there for several
minutes and getting to enjoy each second of Sirius' mouth against
his, hot and wet. He takes his time mapping out the shape of Sirius,
eventually giving in and slipping his arms around Sirius' shoulders,
leaning into him, feeling shaky and wobbly like his knees are about
to give out. Fuck, that's so embarrassing, but. Well. It is what it is,
and it turns out to be a good thing, because Sirius makes a rough
sound and uses his grip on Remus' waist to lift.

Remus starts to scramble on instinct, not at all prepared—yet Sirius

just catches him under his thighs and hauls him up without any
strain whatsoever, almost casually boosting him up until Remus is
secure, staring down at him. Remus is left flushed and panting, legs
around Sirius' waist.

The thing is, Sirius is—he's so fucking strong. Remus has known this,
has had this proven over many, many times, but this is still a
revelation to him. He's a bit taller than Sirius, and for a while, he was
quite muscular; that's faded a bit, since the war, because apparently
you lose muscle mass when you have the metabolism that he does
and you're not working out every day. Remus is pretty sure it has a
lot to do with the grief and the stress, too, but he's honestly a bit
lanky these days. Sirius doesn't care, still seems to find him beautiful
regardless, but the point is—no matter Remus' body type, Sirius has
always been capable of handling him. Lifting him. Just—using his
strength overall. Remus' mouth perhaps goes dry, his head spinning,
because he can feel the strain of the muscles in Sirius' arms, feel the
flex of them and the strong grip of his hands, and it's threatening to
turn Remus' brain into soup.

363
"It's okay, I won't drop you," Sirius says, seemingly with complete
sincerity that nearly feels out of place in this moment so strife with
tension.

"Ooh, big, strong man," Remus whispers teasingly, breathless and

trying to hide it, trying to act like he's not shaking from sheer
adrenaline and unending want.

"I'm the biggest, strongest man you know," Sirius informs him with
enough unshakeable confidence that Remus genuinely believes he'd
be bigger and stronger than God if Remus just so happened to meet
him. "Bigger and stronger is a state of mind, by the way. The only
person I could think of that's bigger and stronger than me is you,
maybe, but I could have my way with you, couldn't I? You'd let me,
wouldn't you?"

Remus lets his fingers dive into Sirius' hair, tilting his head back, and
then he tips down to kiss him. It's filthy. A naughty little reward for
making Remus feel absolutely fucking insane without Remus even
having to ask for it. Fuck, he's perfect.

"I could leave you in shambles, couldn't I? Because you're mine, and
you want me to, and I'll give you anything, anything, you want.
This, too," Sirius pants into his mouth, sounding hoarse and ragged,
almost slurring like he's drunk on desire. It's a heady drug. Remus
has been addicted for a long time, but Sirius is his favorite way to get
high.

"Yes," Remus chokes out, mouth falling slack, eyes fluttering shut,
everything in his body keening for the one holding it.

"I could fucking take you apart," Sirius whispers in Remus' ear, like
it's a dirty little secret, and Remus doesn't have it in him to be
ashamed of the soft please that tumbles out of his mouth in response,
and he doesn't regret it for a second when it brings Sirius' mouth
back to his like he's trying to bite into that plea and chew on it.
Remus wonders what it tastes like.

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A few minutes later, Remus' back is pressed into the wall, hitting
with a thud. It's not hard enough to hurt, but it is enough of a
collision that yet another thrill shoots through Remus. He's pinned to
the wall, thighs split around Sirius, who holds him there and barely
lets him catch his breath. He does let Remus sink down a little,
keeping his fingers on Remus' thighs, digging into the curve to hold
him up, and Remus' mind is buzzing so loud that he's actually
worried they're never going to make it to the bed at this rate.

"Not like this," Remus wheezes, tossing his head back against the
wall. Sirius just takes to mouthing at his throat, sucking and biting at
skin. Remus' fingers tremble as he fists his hand in Sirius' hair,
keeping him there. "Slow down, sweetheart. Slow down. Not like
this."

Sirius presses into him harder, but he does slow down. His lips
soften on Remus' neck, gentler, pressing tender kisses of apology into
his pulse. It makes Remus loosen his hand, carding his fingers
through his hair, a soft moan falling out against his will because it's
all so good. It's so damn good.

Sirius pulls away briefly, staring at him hungrily, lips parted. "He
was right. You are a miracle." "You called me glorious first, did you
know that?"

"I did?"

"Yes."

"I was right, too. You are. You're glorious: you're a miracle, Remus,
and that means I'm blessed. Oh, I'm so fucking blessed to have you.
I—I would do anything. Give you anything. Let you have anything.
All this talk of everything, and I had it from the moment I met you.
You're my everything."

"Sirius," Remus whispers, then shakes his head and pulls Sirius back
in, their mouths meeting with an eagerness perfectly matched.

365
Remus' chest pulses, aching with the earnest addition that Sirius has
just given him.

"I love you," Sirius murmurs into his mouth. "No one is ever going to
love you the way I can, the way I do, the way I always will. I'm
going to take such good care of you. Can I take care of you, Remus?
Please let me."

"Yeah, sweetheart. Fuck," Remus agrees, his head rolling back as

Sirius latches onto the underside of his chin with a rough hum of
appreciation.

Remus is promptly tugged away from the wall, hauled further up

again, and then carried to bed. Sirius just. He just whisks Remus off,
not a falter in his stride, moving with purpose. Shit, he doesn't even
stop sucking on Remus' Adam's apple as he goes. He probably feels
it vibrate against his tongue when Remus moans, and the thought is
dizzying.

Sirius lowers him to the bed with such care, murmuring into his
skin, breathless, hands all over him and love spilling out in every
touch. It's everything Remus didn't know he wanted, but fuck, he's
so grateful to have it.

The truth is, anything with Sirius has always been everything.

~•~

James watches avidly as Regulus and Lily roll around on the ground,
wondering idly if he should be enjoying the sight as much as he is,
but then he glances over to where he's standing shoulder-to-
shoulder with Mary and finds her just as rapt as him, the same glint
of appreciation in her eyes.

"This truly never gets old, does it?" James muses. "Never," Mary
agrees.

"Do you think this says anything about us?" James asks, way too
invested in Lily rolling on top of Regulus and straddling him while

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he laughs underneath her. There could not be less of a spark of

interest between two people, but James' brain simply does not care
about that. They're very attractive, okay? He can't help it. Really, it's
a harmless appreciation.

"Probably," Mary allows. She snorts. "Then again, maybe not. We

scored, James. I mean, we really scored."

James hums. "Yeah, there's no denying that."

In the next moment, Regulus is the one tossing Lily down, hand flat
against her sternum that rises and falls, kneeling over her in a truly
provocative position for all that they'd never so much as come
within spitting distance of each other in a sexual manner. James tilts
his head to the side, taking it in.

"Fucking hell, we are so lucky," James breathes out.

Mary, who also has her head tilted, makes a small noise of gleeful
agreement. Lily is the one laughing now, and she swats Regulus
playfully to the side. He dumps himself on the ground next

to her, splayed out. Their chests heave as they lay next to each other,
then Lily says something, and they both raise their heads at the same
time to look right and James and Mary, both of which hastily
straighten their heads and try to look casual. By the way Regulus
and Lily start laughing at them, they're not convincing enough.
James' chest feels warm.

Lily and Regulus have taken to doing this now. Sparring. It's helpful
for them, as it turns out, because they have the similar need to blow
off steam in a safe environment with someone they

don't actually want to harm. Lily had a hard time adjusting after the
war, so pent up that she needed to release pressure, and Regulus
knows what it is to have issues dealing with anger. He taught her the
same breathing exercises that Monty taught him, but just getting to
do this together has worked wonders for them, Lily especially.

367
"There was a reason we came over today," Mary murmurs as Lily
and Regulus settle down in the yard, talking quietly now.

"Yeah?" James asks.

Mary clears her throat. "The school is opening back up soon. We're,
ah, looking for..." She swallows. "Well, after everything, we're down
quite a few teachers, and I was wondering if..."

James blinks and looks over at her. "You...? Me?" "You're good with
the kids, James. Always have been." "Yeah, but I—I'm not qualified,
am I?"

"Everything is so barebones now that the administration is building

the syllabus for all teachers. The whole course will be set up for the
terms, and once we're all settled in again, we can build our own the
way we want. At this point, no one needs qualifications other than
wanting to do it."

"Oh."

Mary gives him a soft smile. "You won't be the only one, if you agree.
Lily has agreed to be the school nurse, and I've been talking to
Remus, too. He—well, he's interested in having a career, something
to call his own, you know? And he likes the idea of being a teacher,
so he has a place in the school when he and Sirius come back. There's
no pressure, but if you want—"

"What would I even teach?" James asks, his mouth dry and his heart
thumping hard in his chest. He flexes his hand on his cane, trying to
figure out if he's enticed by this or not.

"We have a few different positions open," Mary says. "I thought
maybe you'd like to be in charge

of fun."

James blinks again. "Fun? That's a subject?"

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"It is now," Mary tells him, lips twitching. "You'd essentially be in

charge of clubs and extracurricular activities, like sports and—I don't
know—someone suggested chess. Just...things the kids can do to
enjoy life a little more. After everything, fun is something they have
to be taught, too, and honestly, James, I can't think of anyone better
to teach them than you."

That nearly makes James cry. He can't help how emotional it makes
him, because that's—that was always his thing, wasn't it? Enjoying
life. Having fun. Hope. Trying. He was the one that beatboxed in the
arena, the one who grew flowers in a world where it's much easier to
die than bloom, the one who found ways to make people laugh
when laughing was the hardest thing to do. It's something he's
proud of, his tenacity, and he's been struggling to find that again.

He thought he lost it. He was so sure it was gone, but there's a

flowerbed to his right in his backyard just beginning to grow, and
there are flowers across the street in his mother's yard so close to
blooming, and he laughs on the phone with Sirius, and he smiles
when he rolls over to find Regulus right next to him every morning,
and he hugs his mother with so much love in him that the weight of
it could splinter his bones. He was trying to find his old self again
and couldn't find it, and maybe he never will, but he's finding that
he's still him.

All the changes, and some things never do.

Time has stopped abusing him, feeling less like a change he can't
adjust to and more like a chance at better horizons. He never
expected to feel hope again, but he has. He wakes up with the hope
that his flowers are okay, that Sirius is okay, that everyone he loves is
okay. He goes to sleep with the hope that he'll get to wake up to a
new day and find what comes next.

That was out of reach to him, in his grief. He knows now that he
wasn't handling it well, that he was hurting himself—and
Sirius—more than he was helping, that for all he could dive in to
care for others through their grief, he failed to do that for himself. He
thought it, didn't he? Grief is love, and love shouldn't be done alone.
Yet, when it was his turn, he couldn't find the love through it all past

369
the pain. It was like he was burning alive again. All he could think
about was how much it hurt, and oh, oh, it really fucking hurt.

It still hurts, these days, but it's a tender soreness now. He still feels
the absence of his dad more than he feels his dad at all, but that
makes the past with his dad, and all those moments he does get to
feel him again, so much more special.

And life goes on. Life does do that, because that's all it's guaranteed
to do. All that life can throw at them, and one thing never changes
about it.

It goes on, and on, and on.

People heal. The world heals. The weight of grief never lightens, but
it gets easier to hold. Dead flowers find their use between the pages
containing poems, and new flowers bloom. They're beautiful.
They're all so beautiful.

"I, um—yeah, yeah, I want to do that," James says, exhaling all at

once as something relaxes in his chest like relief. Life goes on, and
time continues to flow, but he is not an unwilling victim snatched
along by it. He's living. He's trying, not just for everyone else, but for
himself, too.

"Lovely," Mary announces, clearly satisfied. "I was hoping to get

Sirius and Regulus on board, too, but they refused."

"Did they?" James asks, startled.

Mary nods. "Yeah, apparently they have other plans. They haven't
mentioned it? They're being awfully secretive about it, you know.
Even Lily and Remus are in the dark."

"Regulus hasn't said anything." James shrugs. "Maybe it's, like, a

sibling thing?" "Possibly. Siblings do have their secrets."

"Mm, how is Bing Bing?"

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"He's..." Mary pauses, then sighs. "Yeah, he's—he's doing better, but
he's not too excited about the school opening again. He may have
yelled at me about not wanting to go back since half of his friends
won't be there."

James winces. "Fuck."

"It was the first time Lily scolded him," Mary whispers, glancing
over at him. "Not because he was wrong to feel that way, but because
of how he spoke to me. She usually stays out of it, you know, but
that was a hard day for me. I—I mean, this is hard for me, the school
opening again. She knows that, so she—she got a bit stern. Pretty
sure it broke his heart."

Yikes, James thinks, but does not say so. That's a whole complex
situation on its own, their little family dynamic. Lily and Mary are
essentially raising Bingley, and that's surely a hard thing to navigate.
"Did it upset you?"

"Yes and no," Mary admits. "It's...difficult. I'm his sister, so I feel the
need to defend him and make sure no one scolds him who doesn't
have a right to, but she—I mean, shit, James, she cooks for him and
looks after him and practically tucks him into bed every night right
along with me. The lines are all blurred, you know? That's what Lily
says, in any case, and she's not wrong. He's not our kid, but...he is."

"It's a hard balance to find, I imagine."

"It is, yeah, and we're all trying to find it together. I mean, he's a
teenager. You remember how hard being a teenager was."

"I do, yeah. Puberty makes us all its bitch. Is he okay now?"

"Yeah, mostly. He apologized to me, then gave Lily the cold shoulder
for a few days—which I'm pretty sure broke her heart,
honestly—and then he apologized to her, too. He's still really wary
about going back to school. He's scared, and I can't blame him, and I

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can't—I can't fix that fear. But um, knowing you'll be there might
help, so—thank you, James, really."

"You don't have to thank me, Mary, you know that," James murmurs,
reaching out to take her hand and squeeze it. She squeezes back and
smiles. It feels good getting to help her now, and Bingley, and just
having the opportunity to help with the school; he remembers how
much they helped him after his first arena, and he likes that he can
return the favor, and that he can hope it will help him again.

After a few moments of calm, Mary idly muses, "You don't think
Sirius and Regulus are plotting world domination or something, do
you?"

James looks over at her in mild alarm, and they stare at each other
for a beat, and then they both crack up until they're leaning on one
another and roaring with laughter. When they finally relax again,
several moments later, it's Lily and Regulus watching them with
appreciation, so utterly shameless in doing so that neither makes a
move to hide it.

It sticks with James, though, the curiosity surrounding whatever

Regulus and Sirius intend to do with their lives. Not that they'd have
to do anything, really, because it's not like the fortune that they
received for being Victors just went away. They did, however, agree
to stop getting payouts for it, along with all the rest of the living
Victors, all of which agreed that the money should go towards better
things, like rebuilding districts and helping the less fortunate.
Regardless, they're all set for life with the money they have and the
houses in the Victor's Villages they still own. None of them have to
work.

But, in the same breath, people like having purpose, so it makes

sense that they'd want to do

something.

Just—what is it?

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Regulus clearly knows that Mary wanted to ask James about

becoming a teacher, because after Mary and Lily leave, he's the one
who brings it up first with a simple, "Did you say yes?"

"I did," James admits, kicking his feet at the counter in the kitchen
with his chin resting in his hand as he watches Regulus make them a
snack. Bagels. They're not an everyday thing, but they're frequent
enough that James is reminded why he was Pavloved into thinking
of them as his favorite. He remembers saying he hated them when he
was angry at Regulus. People really do not give him the credit he
deserves for being a liar when the situation calls for it.

"So, Mr. Fun, hm?" Regulus muses thoughtfully, smearing cream

cheese with an elegant twist of table knife. Not a dagger, but the
sight of him handling any knife of any kind still does funny things to
James' stomach. "Personally, if you were my teacher, I would have
skipped all your classes."

James snorts. "Bullshit. You would have failed all my classes just to
keep taking them." "I would have dropped out."

"You would have been in the front row."

"You're very cute when you're delusional," Regulus tells him

flippantly, flipping the knife between his knuckles to turn it vertical
and bring it up to his mouth, delicately sucking the cream cheese
clean off. James is going to die.

"You can't pretend you don't like me anymore, Reg. That ship has
sailed so far we can't even see it."

"What are you talking about? I hate you."

"You're very cute when you're delusional," James tells him. Regulus
gives him a flat stare. "I'm never delusional."

James clears his throat and straightens up in his chair, scrunching his
face into a scowl. "You're not going to make it to the end, even if it's

373
by my hand, James. No matter how important to Sirius you are, I'll
do what needs to be done. I won't hesitate."

"Who said that? I never said that," Regulus tells him.

"You—" James sputters. "Fuck you, yes you did! You said something
along those lines multiple

times!"

"Mm, no, I don't think so," Regulus replies lazily. "I think you're
wrong, is what I think, and I'm always right and never delusional, so
I win. Now, shut up and eat your bagel."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're ridiculous. Eat your bagel."

"I refuse to, until you admit you were wrong," James says, which
only ends with Regulus picking up the bagel and placing it directly
in James' mouth.

"Spit it out, I dare you," Regulus warns, eyes narrowing, and James
halts right in the middle of

unlocking his jaws, as he was indeed about to let the bagel fall out of
his mouth.

In the end, James makes a muffled noise between a huff and laugh,
then reaches up to bite into the bagel and chew with his mouth wide
open just to see Regulus' nose crinkle up. It's unbearable. James loves
him so much.

"So," James starts a bit later when he's already finished with his bagel
and Regulus is still taking delicate, polite bites because he's never
lost his table manners, "Mary says you and Sirius apparently have
future plans or something?"

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Regulus hums, holding up a hand in front of his mouth as he chews

and bobs his head. He is what James likes to think of as
accidentally-adorable, where he isn't aware that he's doing it, and
has no idea the effect he has on James' heart. Once he swallows, he
says, "Yes, we do."

"So...what's the plan?" James asks curiously, eager to know.

Only for Regulus to say, quite bluntly, "None of your business."

"None of—" James gapes at him in disbelief, but Regulus does not
appear to be joking. "What? Regulus, you and Sirius are all of my
business!"

"Mm, what miserable business to have," Regulus muses. "Come on,

love, I'll wither away not knowing," James needles.

"Shame," is all Regulus says, and then he takes another small bite,
slow-blinking at him like an unbothered cat.

James frowns at him. "You're not going to tell me?"

"There's not much to tell, really," Regulus murmurs, once he's

swallowed again. "We're still working out the details, that's all.
Plus—I don't know, it's just..." He trails off, then sighs and sits there
in pensive silence as he finishes off his bagel, slowly. James gives him
his time, waiting him out. Finally, when all Regulus has to fiddle
with is the knife he used to spread cream cheese on the

bagels, he speaks again. "I think we don't want to jinx it. Like, we
both want to do it together, and —and stick to it until we...retire, I
suppose, but we're tentative in the same way, because we want it to
work out how we hope it will. And it's nothing special or
spectacular—frankly, our parents would have been appalled, but it's
our idea, you know? We talked about it. We decided to do it. We're
working it out, how it'll work, and it's—it's for us. It's ours."

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Ah, well, James gets that. He knows how delicate things are between
Regulus and Sirius. The space has been good for both of them, which
James is aware sort of stings for them, because they never wanted to
need space. Nonetheless, the space was needed and has provided a
very good foundation for them to build off of, as far as having a
healthy dynamic that's better for them both. James gets that, too, in
the sense that he never wanted to be away from Sirius either, but
they've both been healing how they need to because of it.

Even still, Regulus gets so sad about Sirius sometimes. James thinks
the capacity of Regulus' melancholia is a spectrum with Sirius at
both ends. No one can make him sadder, and no one can soothe his
sadness better. James thinks he's dead center on that spectrum,
because it's with him that Regulus seems to find his peace. That's a
healing thing, too, how it spits in the face of the great, big tragedy
this world wanted them to be.

"Alright," James says softly. "Well, I'll just find out when he makes it
back and you two get started on it, I suppose."

Regulus drops his gaze to the table. "Any word on when that'll be?
Has he mentioned that to you yet?"

James' heart clenches, and he whispers, "Not yet."

"Oh." Regulus scrapes his thumb over the steel swoop-carving on the
handle of the knife, then swallows. "That's okay."

"Is it?" James checks, studying him.

Regulus shrugs one shoulder and looks up. "Yeah, it's okay. We're
doing okay, aren't we?" "We are," James confirms, oddly warmed by
it.

There's a strange sense of independence that comes with this, just

James and Regulus left to their own devices, not having to give their
attention to anyone else if they don't want to.

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Sometimes, they don't. Sometimes, James and Regulus hide away in

their house all alone, just them and nothing else. Sometimes, they're
all that exists, the two of them shutting the door and closing the
curtains on their windows, letting no one in and simply being at
home together.

James loves their home, which is ironic, because he was mildly

betrayed when his mum kicked him out. He did not want to leave
her, even to go across the street, but they had a long talk and she
helped him pack and she was, of course, right about literally
everything she said. It is so special to have a home with Regulus.
They've never done that before. It's new and exciting, and James
loves everything about it.

He loves that Regulus spent nearly four hours bickering with Sirius
on the phone to figure out how to uninstall the chair on the stairs in
Effie's house and install it into this one. He loves that Regulus bitches
at him for leaving his shoes wherever he so happens to kick them off.
He loves that he wakes up earlier than Regulus most days and goes
to tend to his flowers, then finds one to bring back to him every
morning, a routine of seeing Regulus smile before his day even
starts.

He loves that Regulus sits at his desk and pretends to ignore James
watching him write his sad boy poetry, though maybe it's a little
happier these days; James likes to think so. He loves that Regulus
reminds him to water his flowerbeds in the yard, because he's still
not used to having some back there yet. He loves that Regulus has
Bellatrix's dagger displayed in a case on the wall, clean and well
taken care of. He loves that he got to bring the Horcrux Hornet,
because Regulus is terrible at telling him no. He loves that he has a
whole collection of canes Sirius made him, and a place for his glasses
on the nightstand, and a designated side of the bed always left open
to him. He loves the art they have hanging up that Mary made them,
and the lumpy throw pillow Lily always claims as her own when
she's over, and the books Regulus reads—sometimes out loud to
him—that James recognizes as his dad's.

He loves the rug in the sitting room, and the clock that ticks in the
kitchen, and the orange peels they boil to make the house smell nice.

377
He loves how warm it is here, and he loves how safe it feels here,
and he loves that it is a home and, most of all, that he has helped
make it one. Make it his, with Regulus.

"What?" Regulus murmurs, eyebrows furrowed, because James has

all but melted just looking at him and thinking about it; how far
they've come, how far they'll go.

"Come here, come with me," James mumbles, reaching for Regulus'
hand, always so pleased when Regulus lets him have it. Their fingers
still fit together. That hasn't changed either.

"The dishes, James—"

"Sod the dishes. I'll do them later."

Regulus hums out a skeptical noise but protests no further as James

tugs him from the chair and right out of the kitchen, into the sitting
room. James breaks away to go to the stereo, nodding towards the
fireplace without meeting Regulus' eyes.

"You never do this, you know," Regulus announces when he's

kneeling down in front of the fireplace and placing a couple of logs
inside, starting the flames. "I've noticed that."

James' stomach squirms as he stares blankly at the stereo, just

waiting to press play. He hasn't... told anyone. Sirius knows, he
thinks, because of how James reacted to the explosions in the midst
of taking district two, but Sirius never told anyone or made him talk
about it. Too much happened for them to revisit it, and James never
wanted to talk about it at all.

He doesn't know why he's so ashamed of the fear. Maybe it's because
it hasn't gone away or faded in the least. Maybe it's because it's a fear
no one expected him to have, least of all himself. To this day, no one
knows that James remembers what it was like to burn alive, even
briefly. It's not their fault; he may have waved it off and acted like it
was fine, leading everyone to believe he was fine, and it wasn't an

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issue, because so many things were already an issue, and he was

tired of the issues. He was tired of the pain. He was tired.

James swallows. Of course Regulus has noticed, seeing as he's very

observant, especially when it comes to James and the things that hurt
him. Fear hurts in its own way, and James is afraid of fire. He never
gets too close to the fireplace, and he makes sure Regulus puts it out
before they leave the room, so anxious about the possibility that it
could blaze out of control. Even in the kitchen, James won't go too
close to the stove, and he still sometimes dreams of what it was like
to burn. The fear isn't as bad as it was in the war, but then again,
nothing is.

"I, um." James swallows again, chewing on the inside of his lip for a
moment. He hears the quiet whoosh of flames catching, and he
squeezes his eyes shut. He loves to be warm, is the thing. He really
does. It's strange how the things he loves can be right on the cusp of
agony and terror, and how he doesn't love it any less. There's
something beautiful about that, too, and it took him a while to see it
that way. "You—do you know how you struggle with water and
stuff?"

There's a beat, then Regulus says, "My aquaphobia?"

"Yeah." James takes a deep breath and swipes his thumb over the
play button on the stereo. He hasn't pressed it yet. "I have struggles
with—with fire. Intense heat. Explosions."

"Pyrophobia," Regulus clarifies.

"That's the word for it, I suppose," James agrees, clearing his throat
as he glances over his shoulder to find Regulus looking at him, gaze
sad. "When we escaped Azkaban, and I got caught in the explosion,
I—I felt it. I remember it."

"You—" Regulus' expression goes slack with horror. "James, I

thought you didn't. I had no idea —"

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"I know," James cuts in. "I know, Reg. I—I sort of...wanted it that way.
I didn't want to talk about it, honestly. Or face it. Or even—believe it,
I guess. There's something almost frustrating about fearing the
elements, isn't there?"

"Yeah, there is," Regulus agrees softly, frowning. He flicks his gaze to
the fire, eyebrows furrowed. "It's—the lack of control, I think. No
matter how afraid I am, it's still going to rain."

"And when we get cold, we have to build a fire," James murmurs.

"It's like—I don't know, it's like these things aren't things we're
meant to be afraid of, because they're helpful to survival, in their
own ways. Fire keeps us warm. Rain makes things grow. It—it
doesn't have to be destructive, and maybe it was never meant to be,
but that's the part we were exposed to. Because it can be destructive;
you know what it is to drown, and I know what it is to burn, and it
scares us."

"But..." Regulus pauses, and he gets that look on his face that he does
when he's putting in the effort to be comforting, to lean into the
optimism James is usually the one presenting; when he can't,
Regulus tries for him, always. "But we still get to be warm and there
is still growth. As afraid as we are, we still get that. No amount of
fear can take that from us."

"Yeah, love, exactly," James says, lips curling up. He meets Regulus'
eyes and stays there, in the safety of his gaze. Those eyes of his. "I'm
sorry I didn't tell you."

"That's okay, James," Regulus replies instantly. "Just—now that I

know, you don't have to worry about it, alright? I'll start all the fires
and put them all out."

"Just for me?" James asks, softening.

"Just for you." Regulus turns his gaze back to the fire. "I don't want
you to be scared, but it's okay that you are. Some fears go away, and
some don't, and it's not always about overcoming all of them, so

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don't think it's a failure if you don't, or can't. Being afraid is being
human, I think."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Riddle taught me that. He never seemed more human to me

than in his last moments, when he was terrified."

James gazes at him for a long moment, watching him watch the
flames with a distant look in his eyes, like he's somewhere else
entirely. Regulus doesn't talk about what he, Remus, and Dorcas did
to Riddle. James saw his decapitated head, his empty eye-sockets,
and he can take a guess at how bad it was. Frankly, James doesn't
want to know the details, and perhaps that's why Regulus hasn't
shared them.

Sometimes, James is struck by the violence that exists within the man
he loves, and then struck twice by the violence he himself is capable
of for the man he loves. It should sicken him, maybe, but it doesn't
now any more than it did when he made his first kill. Cole, from
district eight. James hasn't forgotten him. James hasn't forgotten
anyone.

But Riddle... Well, James thinks it startles him to imagine Riddle with
any humanity in him. He supposes that makes how he died an easier
pill to swallow. Dehumanizing anyone makes their death, their fear,
their pain have less of an impact, and is that not the trap many
Hallows fell into when it came to the hunger games? It's strange how
there's not very much distance between the Hallows and everyone
who suffered at their hands; in the end, they're all human. In the end,
they're all born and they all die, and everything in between is what
they make it. James always cared about them. All of them. The whole
world. Riddle was on the outside of that, in a way, especially seeing
firsthand who he was. But, in his last moment, he was no different
from the rest.

He was born, he lived, and then he died. He felt fear, and he felt
pain. He was here, and he meant something to some people, and
then he was gone. Strip it all down, and it's no different from anyone
else. And yet, all that he did while he lived made all the difference in

381
the world. Perhaps James would have felt sympathy for him once
upon a time, but he has that in him no longer. Of all the changes he's
gone through, that one isn't a change that weighs too heavy to carry.

James turns and presses play on the stereo.

There's a light glimmering in Regulus' eyes, casted in the glow of the

flames they don't stand too close to, only close enough to feel the
warmth from it. Not too warm, but just right. This is something
James gets to have, too, in spite of his fear. The way Regulus' eyes
look in firelight, so pretty and so pleased as James moves to him and
draws him close.

The song from the stereo is something old, something he does not
know the name of, but one that has become his favorite. A song on a
disc that Regulus found in the attic of this house, covered in dust
and unlabeled, likely kept by someone who lived here long ago
before they were ever born. A memory of someone else's that they
pull out and keep alive. Someday, generations in the future, when no
one alive even remembers his name, James hopes someone will play
it again, and the echo of his love will spill out with the melody.

James holds Regulus close by the fire, and they dance in the soft
swaddle of a quiet world, where no one is watching.

There is a house built out of stone Wooden floors, walls and window
sills Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust This is a place where I
don't feel alone This is a place where I feel at home

Regulus is as relaxed as he's ever been, arms gently looped over

James' shoulders, their cheeks pressed together as they sway. The
steady beat of his heart knocks into James'.

'Cause, I built a home For you

For me

Until it disappeared From me

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From you

And now, it's time to leave and turn to dust

James thinks about it a lot. How long it took to get here. So much
packed into all that time between them, and yet here they are.
Standing close. So close.

Out in the garden where we planted the seeds There is a tree as old
as me

Branches were sewn by the color of green Ground had arose and
passed it's knees

By the cracks of the skin I climbed to the top I climbed the tree to see
the world

When James was young, he didn't think of moments such as this.

Didn't even know to hope for it. That was Regulus, wasn't it? He was
the one with all that hope in him, even from the start, and James is
the one learning that things can be worse than you ever feared, and
better than you ever hoped.

When the gusts came around to blow me down I held on as tightly

as you held onto me

I held on as tightly as you held onto me

After everything they've been through, they made it.

And, I built a home For you

For me

Until it disappeared From me

From you

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And now, it's time to leave and turn to dust

They made it, and it's everlasting. They didn't just make it through;
they made it with careful hands of creation, love built and shaped
through years, never changing, forever changing, and it is theirs. It
will always be theirs, and no one can take that from them. They
made it, and they were always going to, and it's only more special
for all that it took to do so. That other life of theirs has nothing on
this one.

For all the great, big tragedies they have experienced, that's not what
they are. What they are, together, is home.

James brushes his lips over Regulus' cheek as the last croon of the
song fades out, and he whispers, "Will you marry me?"

It is spoken softly beside Regulus' ear, like a secret, even though no

one can overhear. James has never felt more at peace than when he
says the words, and he feels so calm, so content, when Regulus eases
back to gaze at him.

"We're already engaged," Regulus murmurs.

"I know," James says, and then, "but will you marry me?"

That sits between them for a long moment. Regulus' breath audibly
hitches, and James waits. They haven't spoken about getting married
since before the war. Regulus hasn't called him his fiancé in so long,
treading carefully around the topic, because it's difficult, isn't it? It's
so dreadfully difficult to continue in the aftermath of loss, and they
both have people they wanted to be at their wedding that no longer
can be. For that, continuation has been hard, and they've been very
wary to try. It was always their decision, something they had to
decide together to do when they felt it was the right time.

The truth is, there is no time where it will ever feel completely right;
there is only the time they decide to do it anyway. To take the steps
to do what they want in spite of those who can't be there in the flesh
to witness and offer support. But they would have been supportive,
James knows. Everyone who can't be there would be happy to know
that it's happening, and that is a bittersweet sense of peace that

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emboldens James to let it happen. To let himself be happy. To let

himself continue.

"Yes," Regulus breathes out, "I'll marry you."

"Reg," James says, breathless, hand coming up to Regulus' jaw,

fingers curling to grip his chin.

"Reg, love, let's get married."

"Okay," Regulus whispers, a soft laugh tumbling out of his mouth,

eyes bright in the sunrise glow of the fire. He breaks out into a smile
and nods vigorously. "Let's get married."

James' smile stretches so wide it hurts, and pain can be a beautiful

thing, too. He's laughing, giddy and delighted, and so is Regulus.
They're so happy at this moment, laughing and grinning at each
other, that it's difficult for them to kiss around it, but oh do they try.

They really try.

385
 10
SECRETS OF WAR
______

The day of Marlene's memorial is the first time Dorcas decides she's
going to kill herself.

It's been in her to want to since she realized Marlene was dead, just
this vague, repeated thought of

I want to be dead with you, I want to be dead too, I want to be dead

instead of this, I want to be dead, I want to be dead, I want to be—

That's the only thing she wants, but it's less of a gripping desire and
more of rib-splitting desperation, like a wounded animal dragging
itself away from its herd to find somewhere to die, to starve to death,
to waste into nothing and take its turn as a carcass for vulture's to
pick over.

Dorcas is wounded.

She didn't even know wounds could go this deep.

It feels like—it feels as if there are hooks in the palm of each hand
and top of each foot, stretching her out as far as she'll go and then
farther, to her limit and then beyond, leaving her suspended there
with pain radiating out from the lack of reprieve in her aching
muscles where she's strung up and from being pierced in her four
corners. It feels like the world is trying to examine her from all
angles, hold test-tubes under her dripping blood to collect samples,
hum pensively and scribble on a clipboard as she whines and
writhes helplessly, her pain a new discovery to be studied.

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They don't get it. No one gets it. Put a microscope to it, and there is
some undiscovered microorganism to watch bloom into existence.
Run tests and find new words to decipher the meaning of it, all the
components unknown—and ah, yes, of course the unknown is
dangerous. People fear the unknown. Dorcas can't blame them. She
fears her unknown, too.

Pain like this kills people. Pain like this destroys people.

That unrelenting pressure on her chest. I can't breathe. I can't

breathe. No, I can, but it hurts to. I am breathing in razor blades, and
every exhale tears me apart. Help me. Help me, please, it hurts. It's
not supposed to feel like this.

That low pit in her stomach. I am empty. Something has been carved
out of me. We must eat so we can feed our soul, and I am no longer
hungry. I will pick at my food and dig through this world just to find
you. I'm starved of you. I'm starving. Please. Please grant me
generosity. Please find a shred of human decency. I'm starving.

That itch under her skin. The echo of your touch is a rash. I can feel
you there. I can't feel you there. I do not know which is worse. Your
hand upon me, and I ache to shed my skin like a snake, hang it up
like a trophy to see the marks your fingerprints left behind. I can't
stand to replace them. You make me burn. I will be ash soon.

That absence. Where are you? Why did you leave? Come back.
Please come back, Marlene. Come back, come back, come back.
Please, please, please. Darling, I'm so alone.

There are a lot of symptoms of grief, like a sickness. A disease.

Something gone wrong inside with no cure, killing you slowly. Too
slowly. For Dorcas, it's not fast enough.

What Dorcas wants, more than anything, is to be dead. She doesn't

care about the person who will discover her body. She doesn't care
about the person who will have to inform anyone who loves her. She
doesn't care about anyone who loves her. She doesn't care that this is
a disease that could catch and she would be spreading it. She only

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cares to put herself out of her misery, nothing more than an animal
with rabies, needing to be taken out back and fucking shot.

And so she is there. And so she is there, screaming for relief with no
sound ever leaving her mouth. And so she is there, eyes closed, no
one alive who could stop her, or save her, when the only person who
could, who is dead, still somehow manages to anyway. And so she is
there, and she thinks of those moments, she thinks of those
memories...

"You—you go beyond this war. Whether or not you're made for it,
you exist outside of it. You exist past this war. You exist for more
than the war."

"You think you don't?"

"I can't remember a time that I ever did. Not until you. Do you
understand? You have to make it through this war. I need you to,
and so many others need you to. People need you, Marlene. But me?
No one needs me."

"I do. I need you."

"That's not fair," Dorcas chokes out, rocking her head back with a
gasp, resting it against the wall as she squeezes her eyes shut tighter.
"You're not—you're not even here to need me."

"Maybe, but the difference is, you won't be alone when you're old.
You'll have me. If I make it

through this war, at least."

"You will. Just so I won't be alone."

"Oh, is that why?"

"Yes."

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"Mm, motivation enough, I suppose. Although, even if I didn't, you

wouldn't be alone."

"I don't care, I don't care, I don't want anyone else," Dorcas gasps,
chest stuttering, hyperventilating. "I don't care about them, any of
them. It's just you."

"We do need to work on that, though. Your world revolving around

me, I mean. It's not healthy, you know. That's—Dorcas, that's a lot to
put on one person. It can't just be me. You need more than me."

"I'm not—I swear I'm not blaming you," Dorcas whimpers, shaking
her head. "It's not your fault, okay? It's not. It just hurts. It really
fucking hurts. I can't—I can't do it—and I know you wouldn't —I
know you'd want—"

"Even me. I wish it had been me."

"She wouldn't. Marlene wouldn't wish that, Dorcas, so you can't stay
here. You can't sit here, neglect yourself, and wait to die. You have to
get up."

"Stop. Please stop, don't do this to me," Dorcas says, and it falls out
of her on great, heaving sobs that make her shoulders shake and her
chest bow in like it's caving in. It feels that way. It feels worse than
that. "Please don't put this on me. I don't want to do it, okay? Please
don't make me do it."

"There was—there was a landmine—"

Dorcas groans, rocking her head back and forth against the wall, her
whole body trembling as she weeps. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Marlene.
I—I forgot. I didn't mean to forget. I just wanted to see you again. All
I wanted—" She chokes, her face twisting up. "I didn't mean to,
okay? I'm sorry. Please don't punish me with this. With living.
Please. I'm sorry."

"I'd do anything for Alphard. Even live. And I did, as best as I could.
I hope you find that someday."

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She already has. Anything, anything, anything.

Dorcas makes a small sound in the back of her throat, the wounded
animal recognizing its fate, left to a slow, painful death of starvation.
The herd moves on and leaves it there to die. No predators to come
by and end it before it happens naturally. Just the vultures circling.
Waiting.

And so she is there, left alone with the mockery of her memories,
wounded by her own mistake, burdened by the symptoms of her
grief.

That gun in her hand. Let me pull the trigger. Let me, let me, let me.
Let the bullet eat through my brain the way you ate through my life,
you fucking monster. I'm in love with a monster, and your most
monstrous act was what you left me with.

"I'm good with that, but the sooner we find everyone, the better I'll
feel. It's not safe for Sirius and I to move through this section, but—"

"No, hey, we're handling that now. We're about to dismantle all the
traps and head out. I know your current position, and if you
backtrack to where Lily and I lost you and go four blocks north, the
rest of us can meet you and take a straight shot to the castle."

"We can do that. We can't take the radio, though. It's about to die, I
think. Will you be able to find us?"

"Yeah, I know exactly where to go. You two go ahead and wait for us
there. It'll be twenty minutes, at most."

"Alright, we're leaving now. Don't be late."

"Nothing is going to stop me from getting to you, Marlene. I'll end

the fucking war if that's what it takes to make it to you."

"I know you would, you fucking lunatic. I—oh, fucking hell, I love
you."

"I love you, too."

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Dorcas gags on her tears. Wounded, wounded, wounded. Gently, she

sits the gun down on the floor with a dull clatter, drawing her legs
up to her chest and bracing her empty hands against the back of her
head, clenching her fingers around her braids and tugging,
hyperventilating into her knees.

The day of Marlene's memorial is the first time Dorcas decides she's
going to kill herself, and it is her last, because she does not deserve
the reprieve a swift death will grant her. She will die slowly, a
wounded animal, the vultures circling. The monster in her memories
will love her there, and Dorcas will love that monster just the same.

Just alone.

~•~

Things they don't tell you about war—the enemies look like people,
and the people look like enemies.

~•~

Three months after the war finds Dorcas sitting under a bridge in the
Hallow. She's been here for a while. She sleeps here. She sits here
day-after-day, night-after-night, and mentally catalogues the curious
way her body adjusts to the concrete beneath it, like she's never
known the comfort of a home at all.

She has a routine now. Get up in the morning. Climb the incline to
the back alley seven blocks south of the Dillmar Suites. Walk two
blocks north, stop by the small cafe to refill her water bottle in the
bathroom, buy a coffee and a muffin. Walk that final block north,
four blocks south of the Dillmar Suites, sit on the curb and choke
down breakfast, and wait. She never lasts long before

she's up again, stopping by the cafe bathroom to get clean, then

returning to her bridge. Rinse and repeat. Do it all over again.

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She's not homeless, technically. Only by choice, which possibly spits
in the face of those who have been homeless, not by choice. Twelve
blocks south of the Dillmar Suites is where Dorcas used to live. She
could go there, sleep in a bed, use her own shower; she just doesn't.
Her things are there, except she doesn't really feel like she owns
anything anymore. She has paid for the place in full and can return
at any time.

Instead, she does this. Instead, she makes sure no one will find her.
They could, if they'd look, but maybe they're scared of what they'd
find. Maybe they expect her to stop going where she does, to stop
waiting, because surely she knows by now that what she's waiting
for will never come, right? She knows. That's not what it's about. It's
about devotion. Punishment. Stupid and relentless hope in the face
of the impossible. It's about what she can't let go of. She can't let go.

Maybe they did look for her, just at the wrong time, and they don't
know where to find her.

Why beneath a bridge? You want the truth? Dorcas was running on
approximately three hours of sleep across three days, circling the
perimeter of where Marlene died like a vulture furious there's no
carcass to feast on, and she kept spreading out, going on fumes, not
sure how to stop. One misstep, and she tumbled down the incline all
the way to the bottom, scraped up and aching, then crawled under
the bridge and stayed there, because it doesn't matter where she is.
She really, truly doesn't care where she is at all.

They know her in the cafe. Know her face. Know her name. Know
what she did. Because of that, they fear her. They're too scared to ask
her to stop haunting the place, to stop using their establishment as a
rest stop on her daily trip through her grief. But, even grieving, she
has to use the bathroom, has to hydrate, has to eat, has to clean up.
It's not her best; she's never been this filthy, this thin, this dried up
and drained.

They know her on the street, on the sidewalks they move along,
bypassing her and keeping a wide berth. A blur of faces that tilt
away from her, not wanting to see. They can't bear to look at it,
because they're all cowards. Dorcas glares at them, bold even now,
daring them to look at what they did. She wishes they'd look back,

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so she'd have an excuse to speak, to start something and then finish

it. The streets are empty of blood now. She'd like to flood them again.

She wants, furiously, to kill them all.

What should worry Dorcas, but doesn't, is that she doesn't trust
children. The sound of them crying as their parents drag them along
the sidewalk makes her tense up, makes her stare them down,
waiting for the moment they'll split out of their skin and attack. They
never do. They just cry.

Some of them don't. Some of them giggle and skip over the cracks in
the sidewalk, splintered from explosions and filled in already, the
kids only able to see it as a game and not for what it really was. They
don't understand yet. They don't know that the chipped spot on the
curb was a piece of shrapnel that didn't hit Marlene, when so many
others did. They kick at it with tiny, light-up shoes, and sometimes
they look at Dorcas with curiosity for how she guards it like a
starving dog hunkered over a bone that can't satiate her hunger in
the first place. Mummy, why is that lady

sitting there? Mummy, why does she look mad at me? Mummy, why
is she crying?

Nine times out of ten, Mummy drags her child away. Nine times out
of ten, Dorcas is screaming inside her own mind for Mummy to run
and take her child with her, and never look back, because Mummy
and child look like targets.

The first time a child rips away from their parents, crying and
running down the street towards Dorcas, and she reaches for a gun
she doesn't have anymore—that's when Dorcas gets up and leaves.
That's when Dorcas never goes back.

~•~

Things they don't tell you about war—for some of you, when you are
done, you feel like you don't have a purpose anymore.

~•~

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Molly is so happy to see her.

Dorcas jolts when Molly drags her into a hug, tensing up in her
arms, everything inside her

protesting it, on the defense immediately. Don't touch me. Don't

erase her touch.

Dorcas pulls away fast, stiffly, her jaw clenched. Molly clearly
notices, but she hesitates only a moment before clearing her throat
and ushering her inside.

There's a baby crying, squalling, in the background.

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that. Bill's got a pair of lungs on him that'll
make your ears bleed," Molly

says with a chuckle, waving Dorcas further into the house.

Arthur is inside, trying to work a bottle into a baby's mouth, looking

aggrieved and also like the happiest man alive. The baby isn't having
it, kicking up a fuss and throwing around the tiniest fists Dorcas has
ever seen. Red-faced with red tufts of hair poking out from the little
hat on his head.

"Who was at—" Arthur stops when he looks up and sees Dorcas
standing in the doorway. He blinks. "Oh. Dorcas! My goodness,
where have you been? Everyone's been so—"

"Arthur," Molly cuts in. Silence falls.

Dorcas wishes she hadn't come here. She doesn't know why she
came here. She just—didn't know where else to go. She couldn't go to
Pandora, who would surely call everyone, no matter how much
Dorcas begged her not to. She refuses to go to Minerva and Poppy;
she'd rather die.

Molly seemed like a viable option. She's in the Hallow, home again,
and she's a suitable pulse of penance. Her brothers are dead, and it's
Dorcas' fault. Marlene wasn't the first; she wasn't even the last. That
honor goes to Albus. But Molly, well, Dorcas felt she should come

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here to tell her. To come clean about Fabian and Gideon, and maybe,
this time, not defend herself when Molly strangles her.

That was before Dorcas knew Molly had a baby here. "You have a
baby," Dorcas states.

Molly clears her throat. "Yeah, it came as a right shock to us, too.
Didn't plan him, our Bill, and didn't even notice with the war and all.
I lost weight, didn't gain it—probably from the stress—so when we
found out, I was already five months along. I didn't carry to full
term, though. He was premature; had him at seven months. Nearly
lost him, too, but he's a fighter."

Dorcas blinks. Imagine that, coming out of a war and finding out,
right after, that you're five months into a pregnancy. It's been nearly
four months since the war, so Bill can't be more than two months old.
Dorcas doesn't think she's ever seen a baby as small as him, and she's
barely looking at him.

"Ah, well, come and see him, then," Arthur says into the silence,
sitting forward and adjusting Bill in his arms, like a baby solves all
the problems in the world, like new life can make up for the lives
lost. He looks the picture of a proud father. "He's beautiful, isn't he?"

Dorcas shuffles closer, because it's expected of her, not because she
actually wants to go. Molly shadows her, hovering, something tense
radiating off of her. A mother's instinct to sense danger. Dorcas
swallows and does her best to ignore it, looking down at the baby,
who is not—in the grand scheme of things—beautiful at all. Bill
looks like a half-smooshed potato, a red one, face contorted as he
screams, both wrinkly and smooth simultaneously, eyebrows
practically nonexistent, mouth too small. New life is ugly, as it turns
out.

Arthur gazes upon him like he's the most beautiful thing he's ever
seen. So does Molly. Maybe... Well, maybe Dorcas is just judging too
harshly, just too harsh inside and out and all the way around. Maybe
she can't find beauty in anything anymore.

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"Do you want to hold him?" Arthur offers, glancing up at her with
his proud smile still firmly in place.

Molly gets visibly more tense, her shoulders going tight, her
expression stiff. Those instincts. Dorcas has just swept into her house
looking half-dead, having hardly spoken a word, clearly
uncomfortable around her child. She's smart to be wary of Dorcas
getting her hands on her baby.

Dorcas doesn't want to hold Bill. Doesn't feel gentle enough, doesn't
know how to be gentle anymore, and she could cry about that,
because Marlene knew what this felt like first. Marlene had to feel
this first. It's not a good feeling, this horrible frustration with who
you are, not wanting to be this way and not knowing how to be
anything else. It's not a good feeling, being afraid of your own
hands.

"Oh, Arthur, she's hardly gotten in the door," Molly says with a
strained chuckle. She reaches out and hovers her hand over Dorcas'
elbow, not touching yet somehow still managing to usher Dorcas
aside, away from Bill. "Don't mind him, he tries to show off Bill to
anyone who'll look. Come now, dear, you're so thin, let's get you
something to eat, yeah? Why don't you stop in the bathroom, get
cleaned up, hm? I should have some clothes that'll fit. Might be a bit
big, but they'll do."

So, Dorcas has a shower for the first time in months. Not just
stripping down in a cafe bathroom and getting clean out of a sink.
It's—well, she forgot how human it makes you feel. Molly doesn't
have any of the hair products she needs, but Dorcas has been
neglecting her hair as it is, so she hardly cares. What Molly does
have is lovely smelling body wash that Dorcas gets the insane urge
to eat, because it's the best thing she's smelled in so long. For too
long, the smell of smoke and blood has existed in her nose, lingering
aftereffects of war.

Dorcas knows it's bad when she gets out of the shower and towels
off. Layers of filth come off like skin peeling. Little rolls of softened
dirt and coagulated sweat. She scrubs at it, then has to get right back
in the shower. The second time works better than the first, and

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afterwards, she stands naked before the mirror and meets her own
hollow gaze.

How anyone recognizes her these days, she doesn't know. She
wishes she had it in her to be embarrassed of what's become of her,
after so much neglect, but she doesn't. She just—doesn't care. Can't
care. Hasn't figured out how to care.

With shaky hands, Dorcas begins to search the bathroom until she
locates the scissors in the mirror- cabinet. After she closes it, she
stares at her reflection, reaches up, and starts cutting.

It's normal to cut the braids. She's done it plenty of times. Cut them,
then unwind them from the starts of her hair she first threaded
through, from the bottom to the top. She scratches her scalp after
each one and remembers how her mother used to, and how—as a
child—she would laugh and whisper to her mother that nothing
could ever feel as good as that does. It was one of her favorite things
to do with her, so many hours spent on her hair. That stopped, soon
enough.

Dorcas stares at herself and could cry, and does cry, in the end. Her
hair is knotted and neglected, and she's so fucking tired. She picks
up the scissors and wills herself to cut it. Tries to make her hand
move. Begs herself. Please, please, please just let it go. It doesn't have
to mean anything. Please.

"Sometimes, I look at myself and don't recognize the person staring

back at me. She looks like— before. If her hair falls the right way, you
can't see the scar on her neck, and she—she used to love her hair,
you know. Curled it sometimes or let her cousin do some cute
hairstyle, but she doesn't do that anymore. She doesn't care about it
anymore. She's not even here anymore. It's just me now, and I—I
want to see me. I've gone so long without seeing me."

Dorcas sits the scissors down, bracing her trembling hands on the
edges of the sink and curling forward, breathing in and breathing
out. She thinks, fretfully, this is me, even this is me. Her hair is so
much a part of her she can't imagine parting with it. Hours she

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dedicated to it. Hours her mother did. Years she's spent growing it.
Years she's spent loving it.

She doesn't recognize herself, but she knows her hair. That's her. She
sees herself like this, just the most fucked up she's ever been. Her
hair is a part of this, too, on the journey with her. She can't cut it. She
is not Marlene.

"Do you like it?"

"That doesn't matter, for the record. It only matters that you do. But
yes, I do. It suits you."

"That's good. When I die, I want to die as me."

Did she? Was it impossible for her to do anything else?

Dorcas gets that now. Her slow descent into death has taken its toll,
and she reflects that. When she dies, she will do so as herself. All the
knotted and neglected parts of her.

You're not dying, Dorcas had said, and oh, oh, she was wrong. So
very fucking wrong and couldn't fathom it even then. So full of love,
so fraught with it, standing there with Marlene under her fingers,
wanting to cling. Refusing to let go. Starting the war for Marlene,
Marlene, Marlene and not knowing—she didn't know, couldn't
possibly know, that it was pointless.

"Survive. Survive, Marlene, and keep surviving, and don't stop

surviving. Do you hear me? That's what you do. Just survive."

"That's all I ever do anyway."

"Liar," Dorcas whispers to no one. Liar, liar, liar, she thinks on repeat,
furious with it. Furious with Marlene, most of all. She chokes on it
sometimes, how much she hates her. Hates the fucking monster still
stalking her from the grave.

She didn't even get a grave. Dorcas closes her eyes.

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"You can—I mean, if you want... More?"

"Mm, I always want more. Between you and me, we'll find it."

Yeah, they found it, alright. Doesn't get much more than multiple
pieces, does it? Dorcas would have picked each and every piece of
Marlene up just to have more of her. But no, she carried a piece of
Riddle, a trophy she would have gladly tossed aside if she knew
Marlene could be held instead.

Exhaling shakily, Dorcas peels her fingers away from the porcelain
and straightens up. She tears a strip off her old shirt and gathers her
hair into a thick, mildly lumpy knot at the back of her head, curls
spilling out like volcanic eruption; she tames it by winding the strip
around and securing it. She puts the scissors away and gets dressed
in the clean clothes that Molly kindly left for her.

For now, that'll do.

Molly is waiting for her inside the kitchen with an entire plate of
food steaming and lovely, which smells mouthwatering. It's not a
whole lot, from closer inspection, which Dorcas supposes makes
sense. Clearly she hasn't been eating too well; eating too much will
just make her sick.

Arthur has retired somewhere, likely into a nursery, and he's taken
Bill with him. Dorcas sort of saw that one coming.

"Here," Molly says, sitting a glass of juice down on the table after
ushering her in a chair, starting to squeeze her shoulder and then
seeming to think twice of it, retracting her hand. Against her will,
Dorcas begins scarfing the food down after her first initial bite, like
she's never had a meal in her life. It tastes good. It's the first time
Dorcas really tastes anything, after the war. Molly watches her, for a
bit, something utterly pitiful there in her gaze, and then she clears
her throat and turns away. "We have a guest room if you—"

399
"Don't bother," Dorcas tries to say, except her mouth is full and the
food gets caught in her throat, and she thinks is this it, can this be it?
She doesn't try to swallow past it, just lets it sit there and chokes on it
a little bit, wondering if it'll suffocate her. It's not killing herself if she
just happens to die, is it?

She's not sure how well that argument holds up when her throat
convulses instinctively, and she can breathe again, and ultimately,
she's disappointed about it.

"Don't bother," Dorcas speaks again, when she can be heard. Molly
glances back at her, eyebrows furrowed. "I, um. I'm actually heading
out soon, so."

"Oh?" Molly asks curiously.

Dorcas nods through her next bite, swallows, then says, "Yeah, I'm
leaving the Hallow. Planning to go see Cordelia. I—I guess I just
wanted to stop by before I did. See how you were."

This isn't technically true. It's not even close to true. It's just words to
say, maybe. Just words.

"Oh, well, that's—that's lovely," Molly says, with false brightness in

her voice. "That'll be good for you—"

How do you know what's good for me?

"—seeing Cordelia—"

Why, because she's one step closer to Marlene?

"—and getting away from the Hallow—"

Don't lie, it's the most hollow place in the world, and I fit right in.

"—just to be with—"

"They're dead because of me," Dorcas cuts in, and Molly stops. Molly
falls silent and stares at her. Dorcas spears a potato, eats it carelessly,

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swallows. It tastes bland again. She puts her fork down. "Gideon and
Fabian. They're dead because of me."

Molly stands in her kitchen and, from another room, her baby cries.
Molly stands in her kitchen and, from another time, her brothers
were alive. Molly stands in her kitchen and, from another angle,
Dorcas sits at her table.

The war is over, and when does it end?

"Riddle learned that there was a Hallow traitor of some sort,

someone who helped steal things important to him, and I was the
main suspect. Fabian and Gideon were on that mission to steal from
him, but they weren't suspects. Because of my position in the war,
Dumbledore decided I was too important to risk, but they weren't.
Someone had to take the fall, and it couldn't be me, so it was them,"
Dorcas explains.

Molly stands in her kitchen, and she breathes. In, then out. In, then
out. In...out... Her eyes drift shut. Her fingers tangle up in a tea
towel, clenching, and then they release. They relax. She breathes in,
she breathes out, and she sits the tea towel down. She opens her eyes
and moves to sit at the table across from Dorcas, lowering herself
gingerly.

Slowly, almost cautiously, Molly reaches across the table and gently
covers Dorcas' hand with her own. Her hands are pink from the hot
water and plump with life. Her eyes—she doesn't have eyes like her
brothers, does she?

Dorcas can't remember anymore.

"Have you carried guilt for it this whole time?" Molly whispers, like
that's the most tragic thing she's ever heard.

"I had to," Dorcas tells her, confused.

"Oh, Dorcas, darling," Molly says, her voice soft. Dorcas' fingers
twitch beneath her hand, not prepared for the sweet brush of
kindness. She wants to pull away and starts to, but Molly clamps

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down, holding her there. "There was a time, maybe, that I would
have blamed you for that. That time has passed. Dumbledore—well,
I think there's no end to what so many have blamed him for. It's easy
sometimes to forget the true evil behind it all. Who killed them,
really? Who?"

"Riddle," Dorcas croaks.

Molly nods. "Riddle. He alone has earned my anger, and I do not

have it in me to grant even his memory the satisfaction. Fabian and
Gideon are dead, and every day, I miss them. Every day, I wish they
weren't. Riddle is dead, and his death doesn't change what I feel for
my brothers every day. Nothing can do that. Only I can decide what
to do with it, and I've decided to stop asking the questions that lead
me nowhere, demanding closure for what will never truly be closed
at all. I make my peace. I make it, Dorcas, and I've made it. They
would want that for me. They would be proud of me."

Dorcas says nothing, inexplicably angry with this response. She

doesn't want Molly to hold her hand. She wants Molly to break it.
She wants Molly to want to, and Molly doesn't.

"Why did you tell me that?" Molly asks quietly, searching her face.
"After all this time, what did you expect to happen?"

"I don't know," Dorcas replies, and it's a lie.

She expected the hand holding hers to wrap around her throat and
squeeze. She expected everyone else to feel as she does, lost with
nowhere to go, stuck with no way out. She expected peace to be out
of reach for all those around her, just as it is for her. She expected the
lack of meaning in life to extend to anybody alive, no purpose and
no drive, because how do they find it? How do they have it? What
does it take to get it?

"You know, we talk a lot about the war ending, but never what we'll
do after." "Maybe that's because a part of us never expected us to
make it this far." "Maybe, but we have."

"Only a bit more to go, and then what?"

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Dorcas doesn't know. She didn't know then, and neither did
Marlene. Both of them lost, lost, lost. Both of them struck with the
alien concept of peace and no idea what to do with it. They weren't
ready, and they didn't get a choice, because it was coming for them
anyway. What's more terrifying than war? To them, it was always the
end of it.

"I don't really know what we're supposed to do either, but it's not
impossible to figure out. Between us, we can figure it out, right?
Together."

"Yeah, we can figure it out together."

And what the fuck does Dorcas do with that? What does Dorcas do
now? They were supposed to figure it out together, so how is Dorcas
meant to do it alone? No one else has to. Molly didn't have to. She
had Arthur, still has Arthur, and Bill as well now. Purpose and peace
found in both.

Dorcas looks at Molly and thinks I wanted you to tell me that it

would have been better if they lived instead of me, if they still had a
life to live, because at least they'd know how to live it.

Dorcas looks at Molly and says, "I'm full," even though she's empty,
and says, "I have to go," even though she has nowhere to be, and
says, "Thanks for letting me stop by," even though she wishes she
never came, and says, "Your son really is beautiful," even though
nothing is anymore, not to her.

"Come visit again sometime," Molly murmurs when they're both at

the door. "We—we're here for you, you know, and we do worry. All
of us do. Just...don't—don't—"

"I'm not going to off myself, Molly," Dorcas snaps, her tone brutal,
sneering. As if she hasn't held a gun to her head. As if she doesn't
wish, every day, that she pulled the trigger.

Molly flinches, then gazes at her with pity, whispering, "Yes, well,
letting yourself waste away is basically the same thing. Just take care

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of yourself, Dorcas, that's all I ask. That's all we want for you, all of
us. Find a reason to."

There isn't one.

"Any reason at all."

It doesn't exist.

"All you have to do is look."

There's no beauty to be found in anything.

"Just try to look."

There's nothing worth looking at.

"Take care, Dorcas," Molly says softly.

"Yeah, Molly, you do the same," Dorcas mutters, and really hopes she
doesn't, at least not the way Dorcas does. Molly has her peace. Molly
has her purpose.

Dorcas walks away with nothing, as usual.

~•~

Things they don't tell you about war—afterwards, old pain feels
new.

~•~

In the most popular graveyard in the Hallow, off in the right corner
away from Gellert Grindelwald's gravestone statue, there is a marble
headstone belonging to Dorcas' mother.

You wouldn't know it, just looking at it, because Dorcas has her
father's last name, and her mother remarried when still pregnant
with Dorcas; there had been an affair involved, or so the story goes.
Dorcas' father died before she was born, and her step-father died
when she was one. Dorcas' mother all but gave up on love after that,

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not that it was ever really about love for her in the first place.
Coincidentally, Dorcas' father was a government official before his
untimely demise, and Dorcas' step-father after him was the head
gamemaker of the fifty-fifth hunger games. Wildly successful, if the
rumors were true.

Dorcas' mother—well, she got what she wanted, by the end. The
head gamemaker of the second Quarterly Memorial, the sixtieth
hunger games. Dorcas, at the time, was only two years old, and her
mother was a career-oriented woman who never really loved the
men she married to get where she wanted to go. Nothing pays as
well as being a head gamemaker, and they were set for life. Dorcas
never wanted for anything.

Not one damn thing.

Not even a father, really, because she was too young to realize she
even lost two, and because her mother filled that role very well on
her own. Not just a mother, but a father, too. Both parents in one. A
good parent, in the eyes of most. Dorcas was well cared for, spoiled
even, and was so very loved by her mum.

People envied her when they found out who her mother was. You
mum was the head gamemaker of the Quarterly Memorial? That's so
cool! It was cool to Dorcas, too, for a while.

And then, one day, for no real rhyme or reason, Dorcas ran with all
her friends to watch the new tributes come in, lost among the crowd
in a wave of buzzing excitement, shrieking in delight when the train
rolled in. She saw a few, more than a few, trying to pick out who her
favorite would be.

Then she saw the girl. Dorcas doesn't remember her name. She didn't
live past the first day, didn't live long past the very first cannon, if
memory serves. That's not what sticks out in Dorcas' mind, though,
even after all this time. It's the way she saw the girl through the
window of the train, the girl who was the same size and same age as
her, the girl whose gaze locked onto her and there—in her eyes—was
pure fear.

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True, undeniable terror. It had warped in Dorcas' mind that day,
seeing that fear, because the light hit the window just right, and the
reflection seemed to swap them until her own face was an overlayed
image of the girl's, and it was like she was staring at herself. The
worst part is that Dorcas was confused, because she couldn't
understand what the girl was afraid of. What did she have to be
afraid of?

That was the start. That was when Dorcas began to grow up. That
was when Dorcas began to question everything.

"But what if it was me, Mum?!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Dorcas. You're a Hallow."

"Yes, but what if I wasn't? How would you feel?" "Dorcas, stop this
nonsense. It's an honor to be a tribute." "Mum! How can it be? How
is there honor in slaughter?!" "Dorcas, that's enough!"

"You don't think about them? The people you helped kill?"

Dorcas will never forget the way her mother looked at her that day,
when she asked that question. She'll never forget the sting in her
cheek, or the ringing silence, after her mother slapped her. She'll
never forget that her mother couldn't answer her question. The
people I helped kill, as you say, keep food on the table, is all she said,
and then she sent Dorcas to her room.

They never really recovered from that. It was the same fight, the
same cycle, over and over. Dorcas was an ungrateful child, according
to her mother. Dorcas started thinking of her mother as an
irredeemable murderer, and after that, there was no going back,
really. Too young then to find the nuance in it. Too young then to see
her mother as a person outside of motherhood. Too young then to
dig in deep and get to the root of what was wrong, the conditioning,
the way the belief system was a safety net for those who didn't want
to be held accountable. Dorcas hadn't done anything wrong then, not
really, and she swore then that she never would.

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"Look at me now, Mum," Dorcas whispers to the marble, sitting next

to the grave, plucking at the blades of grass as the sun beats down
against her back.

Dorcas' mother wanted her to be a gamemaker like her. A head

gamemaker someday, in fact. She had dreams of Dorcas being head
gamemaker for the next Quarterly Memorial, isn't that ironic? Dorcas
didn't make those games. She stopped them.

Naturally, Dorcas had no desire to do that. Dorcas wanted nothing to

do with the games, and nothing to do with her mum either. The
moment she was able, she moved out and never looked back. Didn't
pick up her mother's calls, didn't visit, didn't go down that road
when she knew where it led. It always went to the same place.
Dorcas put so much distance between herself and her mother in any
way possible that, over time, no one even knew who her mother
was. She used to boast about it when she was a kid, but by the time
she left home, she was thankful they had different last names, so no
one could ever make the connection.

As far as Dorcas was concerned, her mother was dead to her.

Dorcas, you can't keep ignoring my calls. Dorcas, I'm your mother.

Dorcas, everything you have, I made sure you could have. How can
you act like this when your life was granted to you by the very thing
you turn your back on?

Dorcas, we do not have to agree on everything. You talk about their

rights, and what is wrong, but this is the way it is. This is the way it
has always been. Why punish me for it? I didn't create the system,
my love. I just used it to my benefit, and yours.

Dorcas, baby girl, life is war. There are no good people in war. You
may understand someday, but I truly hope you never do.

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Dorcas, old O'Malley retired from the board and says you're his
neighbor. I'd like to come see you. I'd like to see how you are. You're
my daughter. I worry for you, constantly. I miss you.

Dorcas, when I get there, please open the door. Dorcas... Dorcas, I
was...

"Hi, yes, is this Dorcas Meadowes? This is the emergency

department of Hallow General Hospital. It says here that you're
listed as an emergency contact for a patient we just received. I'm
sorry to inform you, but there's been an accident..."

And then, before Dorcas knew it, her mother really was dead. Not
just to her, but to everyone. Driving to see her baby girl, the strong
and independent woman she raised, driving in the rain. A current in
the street caught the tire, tugged it, and she hydroplaned. The car
flipped, but her last call still blinked on the dash, Dorcas' phone gone
to voicemail, as always.

Dorcas... Dorcas, I was...

"What?" Dorcas mumbles. "You never did finish. Your last call, and
you didn't even have the decency to finish. Why the fuck did you
call at all? It's not like I ever picked up."

Dorcas... Dorcas, I was...

"Wrong," Dorcas whispers, eyes fluttering shut. "You could never see
it, how wrong you were. If you could see me now... Fuck, Mum, if
you could see me now, you'd—" She halts there, because in reality,
she doesn't know. She opens her eyes and looks at the grass in her
palm. "I think, maybe if you could have known her, and how I love
her, you'd be able to see. You'd understand. I like to think you would
have, anyway."

Dorcas... Dorcas, I was...

"I know," Dorcas rasps, her eyes burning. She curls her fingers
around the blades of glass, crumbles them up, then lets them drift

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back down. "I know now, Mum. Everything that I did, just to call her
mine... I did some horrible things, you know, and I—I tried to do
them right. I tried to do all of it for the right reasons, but it—it all got
so convoluted. You said it first, didn't you? There are no good people
in war. I lived by those words, did you know that? All that you were
wrong about, but that..." She gives a brittle laugh. "You were right
about that."

Dorcas... Dorcas, I was...

The reason behind it all, at the start. The very thing that led Dorcas
to this point. Dorcas never intended to become a stylist for the
games, and that day Moody found her in the bar, she was there to
stare into a glass and try not to mourn the mother who it filled her
with shame to mourn at all. Moody found out who she was, who her
mother was, and how it could be used. If only she wanted it. And
yes, Dorcas wanted it.

Dorcas wanted it, because she thought it was right. Dorcas wanted it,
because her mother wouldn't have wanted it for her. Dorcas wanted
it, because maybe it could make up for how much she missed her
mother, when she felt she shouldn't have. Dorcas wanted it, and
Dorcas got it, and look at her now.

"I still miss you, sometimes," Dorcas confesses, lifting her gaze to the
grey marble before her. "I'm not ashamed of doing that anymore. I
wish I hadn't been, when you were alive. I just want—I want

you to know—I mean, you can't know, not really, but—but I want
you to know that I'm sorry. You were wrong, and you did wrong, but
haven't we all? Maybe... Mum, maybe if I knew then what I know
now..." She closes her eyes. Shakes her head. "I don't know. I don't
know anything."

There are no good people in war.

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"Yeah." Dorcas chokes out a laugh, a fresh wave of hot tears tumbling
down her cheeks. "Yeah, Mum, that I do know, but what about out of
it? It's over now. The war's over now."

But Dorcas' mother had an answer for that, too. Dorcas, baby girl, life
is war. Yeah. Yeah, so it would seem. Life is war. Dorcas is still living,
and war is still waging.

All wars end, just as all lives do. It's just not Dorcas' turn yet. She
wonders, vaguely, if her mother is at peace.

She wonders, vaguely, if her mother ever was.

~•~

Things they don't tell you about war—just because you make it out
doesn't mean you'll make it anywhere.

~•~ Five months after the war finds Dorcas drunk.

She picks up her first bottle three days after arriving in district
eleven. Cordelia had cried when Dorcas showed up at her door, and
they were genuine tears of joy. Dorcas wondered then how long it
would take before Cordelia was crying for the opposite, out of
sorrow.

In the grand scheme of things, not very long at all.

Dorcas stays in district eleven for two and half months. Her first
night is spent in Cordelia's house, dodging Maximus' reaching hands
because he recognizes her, still, and has missed her. Riker tries to
feed her all the time, always close by with a snack to offer her,
because food is how he shows love. It's sweet. Dorcas wishes it
mattered to her.

The next morning, Cordelia takes Dorcas to where Marlene has been
memorialized. This is a mistake.

It's her old house in the Victor's Village, her name engraved on the
front gate, along with her date of birth and date of death, and a
quote that reads:

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 Secrets of War

In Proud Memory of The Woman Who Stood First For The Fight

Inside the house, there's no traces of Marlene at all. Cordelia tells her
that she went through her things and cleaned the place out by now,
everything packed up and put away. Even still, it is her home. That
bed is her bed. That empty closet was once filled with her clothes.
That doorway has framed her silhouette. That table is where she
must have had meals. No traces of her now, but there was before.

To Dorcas, that's enough.

It's so much of enough that Dorcas moves in like she would have
gladly taken up residence in Marlene's very bones, her very blood,
wriggling away under her skin and making a home there. Blown
apart with it when she was blown apart, too. It would have been so
easy. This, too, is so easy.

It takes Dorcas a total of two days to examine each and every inch of
Marlene's old house, and on the second day, she finds Marlene's
stash. Mm, bet Marlene never wanted anyone to find that. She
should have hid it better, or lived to hide it again.

"Well," Dorcas mutters, sliding down the wall to plop on the floor
carelessly, raising one of the bottles in an unspoken toast, "it's not
like you'll get any use out of it. Here's to you, dearest. Miss you
loads. Hate your fucking guts. Fuck you, Marlene McKinnnon. Fuck
you, and come back."

Marlene does not, naturally, because Dorcas doesn't get nice things.
She scoffs and turns the bottle up, settling into the burn of it.
Swallowing fire and choking on the flames.

"Yeah, I—well, my mum helped me dry out. Dad tossed all the liquor
in my house and threatened everyone who would sell me booze, so
they—stopped. I still had a stash. Just one. I—I couldn't—I don't
know why, but I couldn't bring myself to toss it out. I would just...go
look at it and let it, like, mock me or something. Fight the temptation
daily, because it's like I need something to fight."

"It's good that you asked for help, though."

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"Maybe, but I—I relapsed. I still had my stash, and the night of the
Quarterly Memorial announcement, I went right to it. That's when I
realized I was just saving it in case I ever needed it. I was fighting,
alright, just for the wrong thing."

"Never fully got rid of that stash, did you?" Dorcas mutters, running
her thumb along the mouth of the bottle. Her chest is warm for the
first time in a while. Alcohol warms you from the inside out; you'd
think they'd mention that when explaining the dangers of it, why it's
so easy to become addicted to it, why it's so simple to fall into the
trap of depending on it. Dorcas hasn't been this warm in a long time.
"You know, that's okay. You did your best, you did so well, and I'm
still— even now, about this, I'm still proud of you."

"I'm proud of me, too."

That's the first night Dorcas gets wasted. It's not the last. She spends
practically the entire two and a half months in district eleven locked
in the haze of inebriation, the days running together and everything
swirling down a drain and out of reach from moment-to-moment.
Nothing really sticks except the flask on her hip and her weekly trip
to get more drinks.

There's a man in the market who sells homemade hooch strong

enough to curl the paint off the walls, and that's just about Dorcas'
favorite person for a while. Cordelia lasts a total of two weeks before
she's asking that man to stop selling to her, but she's a war hero, he
says, and she pays extremely well, he doesn't say, and Dorcas tells
her, slurred and blunt, when she finds out about it to never, ever try
to control her life like that again. There might be a death threat in
there somewhere, she doesn't know, but either way, Cordelia doesn't
do it again.

Drinking makes everything easier. Drowns everything out. Dulls the

sharp edges of the world that she can't shrink to avoid. Drinking
doesn't make her shrink, really, but it does help her fail to notice how
much she's bleeding.

She's not addicted. Doesn't have an addictive personality, as that

saying goes, and she can quit at any time. It's not like she needs it,
like she feels as if it'll kill her to go without it. Really, she just—

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doesn't want to do this shit sober. She could, she just chooses not to,
and so she doesn't.

Besides, for a while, Dorcas even thinks drinking makes her a more
bearable person. Someone

who shows up to things. She actually gets out of bed and socializes
when she has drinks to fall back on. She's okay to be around
Maximus, but—for some reason—that never lasts long before
Cordelia is putting him down for a nap. She's okay to go into the
market, but—for some reason—no one

will talk to her for long. Maybe the constant revisiting the war makes
them uncomfortable. A lot of people don't like to talk about the war,
or the fact that Dorcas' dead girlfriend stepped on a landmine, and
isn't that just the dumbest fucking way to die? Anticlimactic, really.

Since everyone else are losers, and she's the only person in the world
who isn't lame, Dorcas gets into the habit of sticking to herself. She
sits on Marlene's porch, her porch, their porch, and she watches the
world go by. Everyone has a terrible fashion sense, so she's mostly
just muttering to herself about how style-deficient they all are. Sure,
she looks like shit herself, most days, but at least she knows it. At
least she knows how to look hot, if she wanted to. Fucking hell, at
least she knows how to accessorize. Rings, for example. Always a
good addition to any outfit. Dorcas, of course, has a favorite.

The ring.

It's. Yeah, it's always there. Nestled on her pointer finger, where it
used to sit before it found home on Marlene's thumb. It's. It's. Oh, it's
beautiful. Sometimes, it's the only beautiful thing in this world, and
out of it, just for the fact that it once carried the last of Marlene's
warmth.

Anyway, after two and a half months, Cordelia has apparently had
enough. She put up with it as long as she could, in her words, and
she can no longer. She's a bit of a loser, too.

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"You're a bit of a loser, you know," Dorcas informs her, sticking her
tongue out and blowing a raspberry.

Cordelia, from where she is standing by the door, arms crossed and
jaw clenched, doesn't look amused. "You can't keep doing this to
yourself, Dorcas. I—I can't do it again. I can't stand by and watch
someone I love destroy themselves with this shit."

"Oh, Cordie, I didn't know you felt this way," Dorcas whispers with a
gasp, hand to her chest, bottle sloshing from within her grip. She
looks at Cordelia from under her lashes, a tiny smile at the corners of
her mouth. "Whatever would Riker say?"

"Dorcas," Cordelia snaps, her shoulders tight, her fingers gripping

the inner bend of her elbows like a lifeline. "I know this seems
like—like a fucking joke to you, but I—" She blows out a deep breath
and grimaces. "I don't want you to come around Maximus anymore,
not—not like this. Not when you're like this, and you're always like
this. And—and you can't keep stumbling around the district,
insulting people and their clothes, leaving messes wherever you go."

Dorcas stares at her, and she says, quietly, "You know the worst thing
about you, Cordelia?" "Dorcas—"

"It's that you look like her worst fear."

Cordelia stops and stiffens. "What?"

They both know what. It's so obvious just looking at her. She does
look a bit like Marlene. Some of the same features, shared family
traits, just tiny differences. Same shade of hair, same type, just worn
differently. Stand them next to each other, and you'd know they were
from the same family, and no one would be surprised if you
assumed they were siblings.

But, in reality, Cordelia is prettier than Marlene was. Beauty is in the

eye of the beholder, and to Dorcas, there was no one more beautiful
than Marlene, but reduce them to their tiny little attributes to see
how they hold up against the societal expectations for what counts
as beautiful, and yeah, Cordelia is winning that one. Society would

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have picked Cordelia. She would have excelled in the games, if it

had been her instead.

She looks more like Marlene's boggart than Marlene herself, and isn't
that something? Imagine that. Imagine reflecting someone's worst
fear. Imagine, perhaps, representing that worst fear. Marlene was
terrified of it, wasn't she? Being something she wasn't. Being what
everyone wanted her to be. Being what Cordelia is with her
conventional beauty and her spouse and baby and little ready-made
family.

It's a harsh way to learn that Marlene was utterly petrified of things
that Dorcas dared to want. Not even one kid, Marlene? Dorcas
thinks. Would you have considered it, for me?

No answer. She'll never have the answer and can't locate them in a
memory, because they never talked about it, not once. What was
there to talk about? There was a war on, and as much as Marlene
loved kids, and wanted to protect them, she could hardly bear to
hold a baby, let alone imagine having one.

Dorcas doesn't even know how Marlene felt about marriage.

"You remember her boggart," Dorcas mumbles, for clarification.

"You're the spitting image."

"Dorcas—" Cordelia looks stricken, staring at her like she's never

seen her before. "Why the fuck would you say that?"

"S'the truth," Dorcas replies. She shrugs. "I bet—I bet you had
something to do with it, huh? Just— expectations. Be like this,
Marlene. Do this, Marlene. Don't do that, Marlene. What went
wrong, Marlene? Why can't you be something that makes us more
comfortable, Marlene? We want old Marlene, Marlene, where is she?
For fuck's sake, you couldn't figure out why she started drinking?
You blamed her for—for—"

Cordelia balks. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm the only one—" Dorcas hiccups. "I'm the only one—"

415
"Oh, don't go there," Cordelia starts, her eyes flashing.

Dorcas ignores her. Hiccups again. "I'm the only one who knew her,
the real her, and so I'm—I'm the only one who loved her. Really
loved her. Really still love her. I'm—I'm the only—"

"You have got to stop!" Cordelia bursts out. "You think you're the
only fucking person in this world who loved her, Dorcas? You're not,
and wouldn't that be the saddest thing in the world, if it were true?
She had friends. She had family. All of us loved her; all of us still do.
It's not just you."

"It feels like—it feels like jus' me," Dorcas confesses with a frown, her
eyebrows furrowed as she looks at her hands. Like this, drunk as she
is, the outline of a bottle against her palm doesn't feel that much
different than a gun. Maybe she can put the bottle to her head and
pull the trigger.

"Because you're letting it consume your whole life. Because you're

letting it consume you whole," Cordelia snaps. "You walk around
like you're the only person who feels this way when you're not. Do
you think you're the only person who's hurt? But we—we push
through it, we push through the pain, and we pick ourselves back
up, and we move the fuck on."

Dorcas laughs, her eyes burning, and she laughs so she won't cry,
and maybe, already, she is doing both. "Yeah, yeah, okay, real fuckin'
easy for you to say. You've got it made, don't you? Got the bouncing
baby boy to try for and the spouse to cry to, and what—what do I
have? What do I have, Cordelia?! Don't you get it?! I didn't just lose
Marlene; I lost my entire fucking future! You've got a baby and a
spouse and a place to call home, but I lost that. I lost everything!"

"A baby and a spouse is not everything!" Cordelia shouts, and she
releases a sound of frustration when Dorcas scoffs, a noise that's
partially a sob. "No, no, it isn't, Dorcas. The measure of worth in a
life is not found in parenthood or marriage. No one has to have those
things to have a life worth living!"

"Says someone with a baby and a spouse!"

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"And how many people have lost their babies, their spouses, their
homes and every fucking thing else?! And yet, they keep going, they
keep pushing, because they have to! Maybe you're not used to it as a
Hallow, but for everyone else, that's just a regular damn Monday!
Welcome to our world!"

Dorcas snarls and stumbles to her feet, bracing against the wall as
the world she's been welcomed to sways and dips all around her. For
a moment, things look like wax melting, her surroundings dripping
down to nowhere. She breathes hard, chest heaving, clinging to her
bottle and glaring at Cordelia through bleary eyes. If—if she squints,
it's almost—almost—

"Maybe not, okay?" Dorcas chokes out. "Maybe that's not all life's
about. But I—I wanted it, ya know? With her, I wanted it, and that's
gone now. She's gone now, Cordie. She's gone, and she's never
coming back, and what do I have?"

Cordelia's face softens, not in a sweet way, but in a sad one. There's a
tragedy there in the fractures of her expression, and it hurts to see. "I
know you wanted it with her, and I know she's gone, and I know
that you have—" Her words seem to stick, and she swallows harshly.
"You have so much, Dorcas. You have the same exact thing that I do,
that all the living do, and what Marlene no longer does.
Opportunity."

"Cordelia—"

"Babe, you've got to live your life. You've been trying to lay down
and die, not even survive, but you've got to live. You want to get
married and have kids? Then—then get the fuck up, get your shit
together, and let yourself have it."

"No, no," Dorcas sputters, utterly aghast. "It's—no. What's wrong

with you? There will never be anyone else. It's just her."

"Then call yourself a widow, adopt, and tell your kids about the
mother they never got to meet," Cordelia says. "I can't tell you how
to live your life, but dammit, you've got to live it. You can't keep
going like this. You're going to destroy yourself."

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"Let me," Dorcas grits out.

"Not here," Cordelia replies coldly. "Not in this house."

Dorcas garbles out a high-pitched sound of disbelief. "You can't

make me go. Fuck you, Cordelia.

Fuck you."

"You will not disrespect Marlene this way. I won't fucking stand for
it. I won't," Cordelia says, her voice firm, and her shoulders back,
chin tilted up.

It's the wrong thing to say. Disrespect? Disrespect? Dorcas isn't

disrespecting Marlene, or her memory. She's the only fucking person
who honors her. Everyone else just carries on, everyone else
succumbs to the allure of peace, everyone else forgets to need her
now that she's gone— everyone else, except Dorcas. She's the one
who clings. She's the one who single-handedly keeps Marlene alive,
by never letting go of her death. No one needed her the way Dorcas
did, that much is clear.

And Dorcas hates them. All of them. Everyone who claims to have
lost her, who dares to pretend it hurts, because if it really did, if it
hurt like this, they'd be in the same state as she is. They don't deserve
Marlene. They never deserved her. How dare they just move on?
How can the world keep turning for them? How can they just—keep
living? Here Dorcas is, dying in slow motion, and no one else is bold
enough to join her.

That's true disrespect, the way Cordelia laughs when Maximus

comes running towards her with a beaming smile, and the way
Riker's eyes go soft with love when Cordelia leans in to kiss his
cheek, and the way parents hold their children, and families patch
themselves together around the empty spaces left behind, instead of
falling into them like early graves, and the way lovers find comfort
in each other as if that can fill the void grief opens up inside you,
tearing you asunder.

Dorcas wobbles on her feet, more furious than she's ever been, and
she screams at Cordelia, shouts something at her, but whatever it

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was is lost among the sound of shattered glass from where Dorcas
flings the bottle at her. Due to the skewed depth perception, Dorcas
misses, but only by inches. The bottle hits the wall next to Cordelia,
falling to pieces as the liquor splashes out and stains the wall,
dripping down.

Cordelia flinches back and to the side, instinctively holding her arm
up, but she's unharmed. It's just an immediate response, and then the
one right after has Cordelia lowering her arm and slowly turning her
head to stare at Dorcas, who stares defiantly back. Something sharp
glints in Cordelia's eyes, and she exhales harshly, hands balling into
fists.

In the next second, Cordelia is marching across the room to fist the
front of Dorcas' shirt, then slamming her back into the wall. Dorcas
gasps, tripping over her own feet, slumping and unable to get her
footing, dazed and drunk and not really prepared for this at all. She
doesn't see it coming. Somehow, after all the fighting, she doesn't see
it coming.

"You are well on the way to ruining your fucking life, Dorcas, and
you will not use Marlene as an excuse!" Cordelia hisses, shaking her
there against the wall, rattling her frame. "I know losing her knocked
you down, okay? I know! I loved her, too, and I still fucking do! But
you have to stand up! Get up!"

"And when it's you, your lovers, your friends, your family, your
kids—what will you do? Will you stand up then? You would,
wouldn't you? So stand up now! Stand the fuck up! Get up!"

"It's me," Dorcas gasps out. "It wasn't supposed to be me. It wasn't
supposed to happen to me. I'm a Hallow."

"You're human," Cordelia snaps. "It happens to all of us."

Dorcas whimpers, quietly, and turns her face away. Squeezes her
eyes shut. Marlene first. Fuck everything else. Takes a deep breath.
Tries not to vomit. I'm sorry, but it's her. I love you—I do love you,
Lily, and you will always, always, always have a part of me, okay?
But it's her. It's Marlene. Feels every dreadful beat of her heart.

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Suffers the turn of her stomach. Yes, all of it, because I'm so fucking
selfish, so fucking entitled, so fucking crazy in love with you that I
can't bear the thought of losing you! Can't believe she's alive. Can't
understand how she managed to survive it, this loss, or how she's
supposed to keep doing so. A toxic waste type of love. What does
she do? What can she do? I love you so much that I think, if I lost
you, I would set the whole world on fire. Let it burn. Please just let
her burn. I love all of you, Marlene. She loved her so much. She still
does. I love all of you, and more.

"You're not ready to be here," Cordelia says, shaking her to get her to
look again, to focus. "You're not ready, Dorcas, and it's killing you. If
you can't do it—"

"I won't do it," Dorcas whispers. "I can, but I won't."

Cordelia drops her hands from her and steps back, holding her gaze.
"Then get out. Get your things, and get out of Marlene's house,
because you're not staying here to do this to her memory. I won't
allow it. You can either leave by your own choice, or I can drag you
out. Which is it?"

Dorcas looks at her, gazes at her with a pang in her chest, and she
croaks, "Now you don't look like her worst fear. Like this, you just
look like her."

"Maybe that's because you believe, deep down, that everything I'm
saying to you is what she'd say if she could," Cordelia murmurs, her
shoulders slumping.

"But she can't," Dorcas says softly, "so I guess we'll never know."

The only thing Dorcas takes, when she goes, is herself and Marlene's
old flask, full to the brim.

~•~

Things they don't tell you about war—you hope the people you
fought with get better, even if you're not sure you ever will.

"Come on, Kingsley, dance with me."

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~•~

At the name and the low, smooth, familiar chuckle that follows it,
Dorcas turns to lean against the bar and seek out the source, and
what do ya know? It's Kingsley and—

Dorcas squints. Who is that? It takes her a second.

Oh, right! Sundry. That Sundry Casselberry, the last remaining

Casselberry alive, if she remembers it right. The rest were all killed.
Dorcas is pretty sure she's at least partially, if not mostly, responsible
for that, but she can't be expected to keep track of all this shit, can
she? She's responsible in varying degrees for a lot of things. It's a lot
to keep up with.

Sundry looks good under the pulsating lights of the club, all glittery
and glowing, every inch of a Hallow who's hot and knows how to
be, and oh, oh, they're clearly trying. Every single signal they're
throwing off screams it's for Kingsley, and poor Kingsley—poor
Kingsley would have to be an idiot to miss it, even with him trying
so hard not to look.

"Come on, Kingsley, don't you wanna dance with me?" Sundry asks,
the picture of temptation all the way down to how they gently,
gingerly rest their hand on his arm.

Kingsley's in a black shirt. It's tight. It makes it easy to see how he

has to take a deep breath the split second Sundry touches him. A
steadying breath, and his voice is still a little unsteady when he
weakly says, "Dancing isn't really—my thing, Sundry. Um. You go,
though. I'll...watch out for you."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, the club doesn't need someone watching the
perimeter," Sundry says, exasperated. "It's perfectly safe here."
Kingsley ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck, and Dorcas sees
Sundry's face soften. Their hand slides down, tentatively slipping
into his hand. It makes his whole body freeze. "You can let go for a

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bit, is all I'm saying. Just for one night, you can let go. We can. It's
okay."

Predictably—to Dorcas, at least—Kingsley lets go of Sundry's hand,

rocking back as he blows out a deep breath. Dorcas sees the side of
his face as he grimaces when Sundry's face falls, and she sees the
way his fingers twitch before he can't seem to stop himself from
flexing his hand. She bets if she could see the heart in his chest, it'd
be beating as hard as it bleeds.

"Go dance, Sundry," is all Kingsley says, in the end.

That's not all Sundry has to say, though. They step closer, jaw locked,
eyes blazing. "I see the way you look at me."

"Sundry—"

"I watch you hold yourself back every day."

"Sundry—"

"I know you want me."

"Sundry!" Kingsley snaps, his voice harsh enough that Sundry does
back down, but only a little bit.

"It eats you alive," Sundry grits out. "Can you even imagine what
that feels like? And, you know, I don't want to hate her, your Sybill,
but you make damn sure I do."

Kingsley visibly tenses. "Don't. Sundry, don't."

"Right, I forgot. Don't speak the sacred name of the woman you lost.
Got it." Sundry turns around, then releases a harsh laugh and pivots
right back. "I know I'll never be her, but what you don't ever seem to
understand is that I don't want to be. I'm not trying to be. And,
eventually, before you know it, I'll stop trying anything at all. I can't
keep doing this, Kingsley."

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"Go dance, Sundry," Kingsley murmurs, after a long stretch of

silence. He sounds exhausted. His hand has come up to fiddle with
his earring. Dorcas remembers piercing it for him.

Sundry's eyes flash. "Yeah, alright, I will."

And then, with that, Sundry swivels on the spot and marches away.
Goes right to the crowd of writhing bodies, and it takes barely any
time at all for them to find a body that's more than happy to wind
around them. Chest-to-back, hands on hips and in places bordering
on public indecency. A statement more than anything, and Kingsley
gets it loud and clear. He watches, the muscle in his jaw twitching,
lips thinned out.

Dorcas slips further down the bar, a drink in hand, and casually says,
"Talk about a kick in the teeth, huh?"

Kingsley blinks, his head whipping towards her. He stares, and then
he blurts out, "Dorcas! Shit. It's been—"

He stops. She wonders if he knows how long it's been. She does.
Going on eight months after the war now, and the last time they
spoke, they were sitting around a table in the castle, yelling at each
other. He said she was losing it.

He was right.

"Hey, King," Dorcas greets, lips twitching faintly. He smiles a little,

like a reflex, and she's grateful he doesn't try to hug her. They were
friends longer than they were grieving, and maybe that lingers more
than grief ever could.

"I—did not expect to see you here," Kingsley admits on a deep

exhale. He keeps blinking at her, like maybe she's an illusion.

Dorcas chuckles. "I could say the same to you. What the hell are you
doing in the Hallow?"

"I, um—I never left," Kingsley says, sounding sheepish about it. He
tugs on his earring some more before seeming to force himself to

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drop his hand. "I mean, I do leave to go visit Alice from time-
to-time. They're in nine with Emmeline, for now."

"For now?" Dorcas raises her eyebrows. Kingsley winces a little. "Oh,
they're not doing well, huh?"

"In my personal opinion, no," Kingsley mutters, then clears his throat
and shrugs. "Well, they're okay, overall. Just not...you know. But
that's not my business."

"Mm," Dorcas hums. "They'll be alright. You make it through a war,

you can make it through any relationship bumps." She takes a
swallow of her drink, then sighs. "What about anyone else? You keep
up with anyone else?"

Kingsley purses his lips. "I go out and get drinks with Rodolphus
sometimes. He's here in the Hallow, too. Stays with Pandora and
someone else. Their partner, I think. I don't really know all the
details. Oh, and Molly's pregnant again."

Dorcas squints. "Didn't she just...?"

"Yup."

"Damn, Arthur."

Kingsley laughs, low and smooth. "Yeah, that sums it up."

"What about Lily?" Dorcas asks. "You ever talk to Lily?"

"Ah." Kingsley's laughter fades immediately. "No, um, not... No. I

mean, I saw her at some funerals when they were still going on, but
not since then."

"Was she...?" Dorcas stops. She can feel Kingsley looking at the side
of her face, studying her. "Just—how was she?"

"Well, it was funerals."

"Right. Fair enough. Did she—was she with...Mary?" "Yeah,"

Kingsley says quietly, "she was with Mary."

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Dorcas clears her throat. "That's good. That's—good, for her. Really
good." After a beat, Dorcas downs the rest of her drink and gives a
silly little laugh. "Well, uh, you—have you ever heard the saying?
Hitching your wagon to the wrong horse?"

"Yes," Kingsley murmurs.

"Ta-da!" Dorcas sing-songs, lifting her glass. She snorts and leans
back, raising her eyebrows at him. "I definitely hitched my wagon to
the wrong horse, and so did you. Sucks, right?"

Kingsley stares at her for a long moment, and then he deflates all at
once, dragging a hand over his face. "Fuck, it really fucking sucks,
Dorcas."

Dorcas fiddles with her empty glass between her hands, heaving a
sigh. "I hitched my wagon to the wrong horse, and the other horse
ran away and found a new home. Not that I could have expected
anything different, really."

"Do you regret it, then?" Kingsley asks quietly. "Hitching to the horse
that you did?"

"Sometimes," Dorcas admits, feeling it tear into her, that ugly truth
that hurts to say as much as it hurts to exist with it. She blows out a
deep breath, swallowing harshly. "Only because the horse gave out
before we made it home, though. Not because I wish I had a different
horse. If—even if I could go back, I wouldn't—I couldn't do it any
differently, despite ending up here. It was that horse. It had to be that
horse."

"Yeah," Kingsley rasps. "Yeah, I—I get that."

"Better watch out, King," Dorcas murmurs, nodding towards the

dance floor, where Sundry is pressed close to someone, head tipped
back as lips travel along their neck. "The horse you chose to hitch
your wagon to may have given out, and the one you're ashamed to
want after hasn't run away just yet, but if you're not careful, it'll take
someone else for a ride. Then you'll be just like me, stuck in a wagon
with nowhere to go."

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Kingsley follows her gaze and inhales sharply, going tense all over in
that way he does. He looks— jealous. Yeah, jealous is the word, but
there's something underneath that. Defeat, almost. Resignation. A
self-imposed restraint. It's sad.

"That's about as different from Sybill as you can get," Dorcas muses,
tilting her head, and it's true. Sundry is a Hallow, and there's
something—interesting there, something that likely adds to
Kingsley's reasons to hold himself back, just that they were the
Hallow responsible for a lot of death in the war, the one Kingsley
was fighting in, at that point, more for Sybill's memory than
anything else. Does falling in love with Sundry smear Sybill's
memory? Even if it did, what can he do about it? It's too late, isn't it?
Look at him. Sundry was right; it's eating him alive that he dared to
love after loss, and not just anyone, but them. What a hard pill to
swallow. She doesn't envy him.

"They never do or say anything like Sybill would have," Kingsley

mutters, gaze locked on them as they dance, dance, dance. "I wasn't
supposed to—I didn't mean to—" His nostrils flare, that muscle in
his jaw flexing again. "I didn't know it would happen. They
just—didn't go away. It—it was hard for them after they lost their
family, and I guess I...comforted them, somehow. Because I looked
like I knew what I was doing, but I didn't, really. And then, when
things finally calmed down, they were so fucking difficult to get rid
of. I mean, I tried. I did try to tell them to go away, but it was like
kicking a fucking dog, Dorcas, I'm not even kidding."

"You always were a secret softie," Dorcas teases lightly.

"Yeah, well, that was my downfall in the end," Kingsley grumbles,

giving her a dry look before going right back to scowling out at
Sundry. "I didn't even notice, at first. That was on me. I should
have—I guess I just thought it was fucking impossible, so it didn't
matter. Nothing mattered. So what if they crawled into bed with me
when they were having nightmares? So what if they talked to me,
told me things, opened up to me—and so what if I did it in return?
So what if they made me laugh sometimes, and made the effort to?
So what if it went from me just indulging them to wanting to give
them whatever they wanted, anything, everything—except that one
thing? So what? Because it wasn't supposed to matter, because it

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wasn't supposed to be possible, but it happens. Dorcas, it happens.

You think it won't, that it can't, but it can, and then—then—fuck, it's
wrong, isn't it? I can't have it."

"You know, Kingsley, that horse you hitched your wagon to, the
wrong one—it doesn't care where or how you hitch it next. It can't
care," Dorcas says, holding his gaze. "It's dead."

"I—" Kingsley opens and closes his mouth, staring at her, utterly
stricken. Gobsmacked, even. "Fucking hell, that's—"

"The only other horse I could ever imagine picking ran away and
found a new home. I don't even know if I'll ever see it again, because
I spooked it." Dorcas straightens up and plunks her glass down.
"You? You're lucky. The only other horse you want happens to want
the wagon, so don't be a little bitch about it. Hitch the fucking
wagon, Kingsley."

Kingsley stares at her, wide-eyed, and chokes out, "Sybill—"

"—is dead, Sybill is dead, and she's going to stay that way no matter
what you do." Dorcas reaches out, clasps Kingsley by the shoulder,
and gives him a little push. "So, go dance."

"But I—I don't know how—"

"Then learn. Let Sundry teach you."

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," Kingsley chants, sounding slightly more

hysterical with each step he takes farther away from Dorcas and
closer to Sundry, but he's going. He is going.

Dorcas turns slightly and tosses her hand up at the bartender,

exchanging a nod for another drink. By the time she has it in hand,
after paying and tipping, Dorcas swivels back with her full glass to
lazily scan the dance floor.

There he is, the last place Dorcas would ever expect to find him, but
she never expected him to want an earring either. Some people do
the unexpected for love, and for Kingsley, now, that's dancing. Under

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his hands, Sundry glitters, and Sundry glows, and maybe Sybill
would be jealous if she were here, or maybe she would be happy, but
the point is, she can't be here, so living around what she would be
doesn't work.

It's funny, almost, watching Kingsley and Sundry dance. At some

point, it doesn't seem to matter to either of them that he doesn't
know how. All they seem to care about is every point of where they
touch, where they're close, where it's just them and there's no room
for anyone between them.

Not even a ghost.

Dorcas watches them for a bit, and drinks, and drinks some
more—and, when someone asks her to dance, even though she
knows how to, she always says no.

No one can get closer to her than Marlene's ghost, and so she
remains there, with no horse to hitch her wagon to.

Hey, at least someone gets to go home.

~•~

Things they don't tell you about war—why you're at war.

~•~

They never find her. Maybe they didn't know to look. Maybe they
knew she didn't want to be found. Maybe they knew that they'd
have to wait for her to come to them.

Ten months after the war, Dorcas goes to them.

There's no catalyst to it, no major event that leads her there, no

turning point or epiphany that rearranges what she feels and how
she thinks. Marlene doesn't come to her in a dream and tell her to
live. There's no new woman she accidentally falls in love with, or an
almost lover waiting for her. A switch doesn't flip inside, and the
better world doesn't call to her, and the drinks don't stop keeping her
warm.

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None of that is what pushes Dorcas to ask for help. Maybe, in the
end, it's the absence of it. It's raining when Minerva answers the
door.

Dorcas stands on her stoop, sopping wet, drunk and swaying as the
tears mix with the rain, and she looks Minerva dead in the eye and
says, "I'm here to ruin your fucking life."

And Minerva lets her in anyway.

It's not a pretty process, and Dorcas regrets it every day, at least until
she doesn't. But, before that, she's a lump in Poppy and Minerva's
guest room. She spends three days drying out, and on the other side
of the withdrawals is when she can admit, internally, that she does,
in fact, have a problem. She really did think that she didn't. Turns
out, that's a common misconception many addicts have.

The worst part is, she walked right into the problem with all the
boldness of a person who believed it couldn't touch her, couldn't
ensnare her, like since one thing in her life was the worst it could
ever be, she could never experience anything else. She can. Yeah, she
definitely can.

It works both ways, even if she doesn't know it just yet. The best she
ever felt when Marlene was alive can be found again, in various
other ways. Small ways, even. The sound of Poppy scolding Minerva
for staying up too late, and Minerva's low hum of warm amusement
in response, before she claims that she's a nocturnal creature. The
smell of Minerva's tea, steaming by Dorcas' bedside every morning
without fail. The soft touch of Minerva's hand against her forehead
when she's sweating the alcohol out and lost in delirium, so sure that
it's her mother there to comfort her, and the way it's true when that
should be impossible. The sight of Poppy's smile as she asks her
what hair products she needs, so Poppy can go get it for her, to have
it on hand. The taste of toothpaste after she's done throwing up,
everything in her finally getting out, leaving her simultaneously
hollow and cleansed, ready to take more in.

Before that, though, Dorcas puts them through the paces. Minerva,
mostly. Dorcas showed up to ruin her life, she said, and she damn

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well does her best to. She's grouchy, and awful, and mean. She says
things no human being should ever say to another. She lashes out,
and fights, just to push and push and push until Minerva finally puts
her flat on her back, just like Dorcas always knew she could. She
hates her. She absolutely, unequivocally hates her with everything
she has in her.

It takes only a week before Dorcas collapses in her arms, drags them
both to the floor, and sobs. I miss her, I miss her, I miss her, she cries.
I wait, and she doesn't come. I look, and I can't find her anywhere.
It's as much of a fight as it is an embrace, because it hurts, and so
Dorcas wants Minerva to hurt; because it feels good to be held, and
so Minerva doesn't let go.

After the denial, there was anger. After that, there was bargaining.
After that, there's depression. That one's rough. Dorcas has never
experienced anything like it before, the sheer exhaustion of it. How
empty it feels. Lying in bed with no motivation to move. Staring at
the ceiling with no thoughts. Starting to stink when showers aren't
just a chore, but a whole fucking mountain to climb, and she's at the
very bottom with no strength in her to take the first step.

Depression turns everything grey. Dull. It's all so dull. There's not
even any pain. There's nothing, really. It doesn't hurt to breathe, and
she doesn't miss Marlene, and she's too tired to speak or eat or move.
It comes, and she doesn't think it'll pass.

It's not something that just passes. She needs help with this, too. She
needs Poppy to take her hand and coax her out of bed, leading her
into the bathroom where a warm bath is waiting. It's the first time
Dorcas thinks of Regulus in a long time, and there's a twinge of guilt
for that.

But Dorcas has her bath, and again, she remembers how human it
makes you feel. And, the next day, Minerva won't leave her alone
until she gets up and goes for a walk with her. Outside in the
sunshine, among the breeze, that's a place she feels small and
human, but in a good way. When she gets back, she's worn out, and
she crawls right back in bed. And, the next day, Poppy and Minerva
herald her up to make breakfast with them, and eating something
you've made holds its own charm, but not the same charm that exists

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in watching people you love eat what you've made with them. That
day, she doesn't go back to bed until the moon is out.

Healing isn't linear. Some days are harder than others. Some days,
she doesn't get out of bed no matter what Poppy and Minerva do.
Other days, she's out of bed before they are, out on the front step
smoking as kids across the street giggle, a sound that—after all this
time—makes her lips curl up. On her best days, she can let herself
take a deep breath and feel the sun on her face. On her worst, she
wants to start a war.

Denial, anger, bargaining, and depression don't really stop, but when
the acceptance hits, they get more spaced apart. They get repetitive,
even, to the point that she learns how to navigate them and take
them day-by-day. They feel different when paired with the
acceptance that never leaves her.

Her moment of acceptance, in the end, is as bold as the rest of her,

but to no one except her. She turns over in bed one night and reaches
out to the empty spot next to her, knowing that nothing is waiting at
the end of her fingertips. And she asks herself, then, what was the
point of the war?

She doesn't know, and she thinks, maybe, no one does, and she
thinks, maybe, it's a question she'll never have an answer to, a
question she has to let go of, because the point of the war has to
matter less than the fact that it ended.

It ended, and now, finally, Dorcas lets herself begin. ~•~

Things they don't tell you about war—the will to survive is not the
will to live, but when you're ready, you can have both.

~•~

Eleven months after the war is first time Dorcas goes to make
amends with someone, and it ends in a drink thrown in her face,
which she takes with grace, if she does say so herself. A fight doesn't
break out, and no one ends up dead, so really, she considers that
personal growth.

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"I am so sorry," Kingsley says with a grimace, staring after Sundry as
they march out the bar, slamming the door as they go. Kingsley
sheepishly offers Dorcas a napkin. "They're, ah... Well, I'll—I'll talk to
them. It's just—hard."

Dorcas wipes her face clean with a sigh and says, "Speaking from
experience, King?" "Dorcas—"

"You should call her. Or go visit. Or just—"

"Dorcas—"

"If you hate Lily, you have to hate me, too."

Kingsley blows out a deep breath. "I don't hate Lily, alright? I don't.
It's just not something I can get past, but it's not festering either. I
wish her well. I hope she has a wonderful life, but I just can't be in it.
Frankly, Dorcas, I don't particularly want to see you that much."

"Well, damn, tell a girl how you really feel."

"Sorry. I wish you well, too, if that helps."

"It was war, Kingsley. It wasn't fair, not to any of us. I can't fault you
for how you live after, in the endeavor to be happy and comfortable.
If we don't bring you peace, then you have to do what you have to
do. Like me—I had to do that."

"Get a drink thrown in your face?"

"Ha ha," Dorcas says flatly, still dabbing at the front of her shirt with
the napkin. "No, not that. I mean, I sort of expected that, or
something even worse. But I had to at least try."

"Yeah, I get that." Kingsley's face softens. "If they're ever at a place
where they're ready for you to try again, I'll call you."

"If you're ever at a place to let me or Lily try, don't hesitate to call and
let us. You know we always will," Dorcas murmurs.

"I know. Maybe one day that'll be enough."

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"And, if it's not, that's okay, too."

"Thanks, Meadowes," Kingsley says softly.

Dorcas gives him a small smile. "Take care of yourself, King."

The next time Dorcas goes to make amends, it goes much better for
her. It's the first time she leaves the Hallow after Cordelia essentially
kicked her out of district eleven. She isn't going back to district
eleven, though, not just yet. She has two stops, and her first is district
six.

It's like following a bread trail to find Lily. First, she stops by Effie's,
who looks absolutely delighted to see her and draws her into a hug
before Dorcas can even really say hello. That makes her feel oddly
guilty, but Effie doesn't miss a beat with her, as if Dorcas didn't
basically disappear for nearly a year without a word to practically
anyone, as if she didn't go off the deep end for a bit. Effie tells her,
when she asks, that she thinks Lily is at Regulus and James', and so
that's where Dorcas goes next, but Lily isn't there either. Regulus is,
though.

"You just missed her," Regulus says the moment he opens the door,
not startled to find her on the other side at all.

"How the hell did you know I was here?" Dorcas asks.

Regulus arches an eyebrow and says, brattily, "Effie has this thing
called a phone, which allows two people to communicate across
distances. I rather thought you'd know all about that, since Hallows
were the only ones with them for a while."

"Ah, the real reason for the war. Fighting for the freedom for all to
have access to technology," Dorcas says, just as brattily.

"Well, people will use any excuse, won't they?" Regulus retorts,
which surprises her. Most people are uncomfortable at any mention
of the war.

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Dorcas purses her lips. "You know, maybe this makes me a bitch, but
I wasn't actually planning to apologize to you."

"Good, don't. Moments of emotion make me uncomfortable,"

Regulus tells her, wrinkling his nose. "And, frankly, you don't have
shit to apologize for."

"I mean, I sort of went insane and treated everyone like shit after my
girlfriend died, so..."

"You weren't exactly the picture of sane before, and if I lost James, I
would have needed to be locked away. I'd either kill everyone else,
or kill myself, so if you ask me, you handled yourself quite well, all
things considered."

"You don't know how I handled myself at all."

"I don't need to. You're here now, and you look good. That tells me
all I need to know." "You know, I appreciate that," Dorcas muses.

Regulus chuckles, and then he's smiling, a full smile that Dorcas has
never seen on his face before. As if she didn't walk out of his life, and
every life, including her own, for the last year, he says, "James and I
recently agreed to get married, like planning the wedding and such.
You'll be in my lineup. James can't have you, which he's been
pouting about, but he's not the best at multitasking when it comes to
fighting. He's throwing his whole lot in with claiming Sirius."

"I'm—in the wedding?" Dorcas asks.

"Obviously."

"Oh, obviously. You couldn't have known I'd be back in time."

"No," Regulus agrees with a shrug, "but I hoped." Dorcas' heart

clenches. "Thank you, for hoping."

Regulus' face softens, a bit, and then he murmurs, "Lily went home
before Effie reached out. Here, I'll give you directions."

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 Secrets of War

Because word apparently travels fast around here—and this is the

district of the loyal—Lily doesn't look at all surprised to find Dorcas
at her door, when Dorcas makes it there.

For a long beat, they just stare at each other. She's Dorcas' last stop
before heading to district twelve, and what a view to send her off on.
Lily looks really fucking good, healthy and flushed, practically
glowing. She looks happy.

"Let me guess," Dorcas says wryly, "Remus told you?"

"I actually have a groupchat with Regulus and Remus. Regulus told
us at the same time," Lily explains, then breaks out into a grin when
Dorcas snorts. Surprisingly, with no wariness, Lily opens the door
wider, her gaze sparkling, and she says, "Get in here, Meadowes."

Dorcas knocked on the door, and as easy as that, Lily lets her in. The
house is bright and warm, and also cluttered. Bingley is in the sitting
room, sprawled upside down on the couch with his head hanging
over the cushions towards the floor, his phone pressed to his ear and
what sounds like a very intense debate about the solar system
spilling from his mouth.

"Don't mind the mess, Bingley is working on this project for when
school starts back. It's like a soft-opening to get them used to the
idea," Lily says as they move through the room, stepping over glitter
pens and styrofoam balls. Lily picks up one and throws it at
Bingley's head, making him sputter. "Oi, be polite. I know you saw
Dorcas come in. Say hi."

Bingley sighs and rolls his eyes. "Hold on, Xac, just—no, no, I'm not
wrong! Just—oh, piss off, hold on." He covers the phone and flashes
Dorcas a broad smile. "Hi, Dorcas. Glad you're alive and stuff." With
that, he goes right back to his phone. "Okay, I'm back. Pluto was a
fucking planet!"

"You know, he's not wrong," Dorcas mutters as she follows Lily
further through the house, towards the sounds of sizzling in the
kitchen. "It was classified as a planet once."

435
"Yeah, I think Xac knows that, but she likes to wind him up," Lily
says with a chuckle. "He'll be more talkative over dinner. You're
staying for dinner, right? Mary's making..." She trails off as they
enter the kitchen, where Mary is bobbing up and down at the stove,
singing under her breath as she pushes food around in a pan. "Mary,
what are you making?"

"Stir-fry," Mary chirps, glancing back at them with a smile. "I have
veggies, chicken, and some potatoes."

Lily heads towards the fridge, pausing long enough to peer over
Mary's shoulder in the pan. She makes a soft ooh noise of approval
and smacks a kiss to Mary's cheek. "That does look good. How'd you
sear the chicken like that?"

"A magician never reveals their secrets," Mary teases, then laughs
when Lily huffs at her and grips her hips, whispering in her ear, then
pretends to bite it. They sway together, laughing, and Dorcas feels
this bittersweet twist in her chest. It's not quite jealousy, but there is a
yearning there. Maybe not for Lily. Maybe just for someone to laugh
at the stove with.

Dorcas sits at the table and looks down at her hands, swiveling the
ring around her finger, lost in a wistful haze for a while, at least until
Lily comes back to sit at the table with her, sliding a glass of water to
her with a warm smile.

"You look—really fucking good, Dorcas," Lily murmurs, and Dorcas

wishes she wouldn't say such things, all while running her gaze over
her in blatant appreciation.

"Thank you," Dorcas replies, taking a swallow of the water, which is

chilled from the fridge. It's good, refreshing, almost like a shock to
the system that briefly clears her head.

The thing is, Dorcas doesn't think she's ever going to be able to love
anyone after Marlene. She's thought about it, really sat down and let
herself ruminate on whether or not she'd ever have love again, and
it's ironic, almost, how badly she didn't want to be like Dumbledore,
didn't want to end up like him, and that's exactly what she's done. In
this regard, she relates to him the most. His lover died because of

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 Secrets of War

him, and whether he was ever with others or not, he never did love
again. Never wanted to, never tried to, never could. That was the
love of his life, and that was it. Simple as that.

Dorcas is in the same situation, essentially. She wants to live, and she
wants to love, but in this aspect—romance—she feels quite content
with being finished. Marlene was the love of her life, and that's it.
Simple as that. She'll never love another.

But, with Lily, it's different. She loved Lily before Marlene ever came
along. She could love her again, still does love her, even now,
because Lily does—and will always—have a part of her. Dorcas
wouldn't be able to love her the same, though, as she did Marlene, or
as she did before Marlene. It would never be the same. It would
never be fully, completely untouched by grief, or a yearning for
someone else, not for either of them.

Not that Lily would run off with her or anything. In fact, Dorcas
knows Lily wouldn't, and she knows it would break Lily's heart to
have to tell her no. If Dorcas was selfish, she would ask anyway, and
make Lily break both of their hearts. It's not the same as Lily telling
her she's loved when she and Marlene were on outs, just needing to
let go and move on; it's very different, because Lily is so obviously
happy with Mary; she has a lovely home, and a family, and life of her
own she'll never turn her back on, one that it would be disrespectful
for Dorcas to ever, ever ask her to.

So, Dorcas won't ask. But Dorcas isn't a good person, even now, and
she wants to. A part of her wants to, despite knowing neither of
them would be completely happy if Lily agreed, and that neither of
them would be completely happy if Lily didn't.

And so, Dorcas won't ask. It's not about being a good person; it's
about trying to be, no matter the difficulty, so she swallows the
question and lets it sit in her chest, a warm ember always flickering
that she'll never see catch flame again. She doesn't need to burn to be
alive. Being warm is more than enough.

She will be in Lily's life, and that's more than enough. She will see
Lily be happy, and that's more than enough. She will make sure Lily

437
never knows that Dorcas looks at her now and thinks before this life,
it could have been us; maybe in some other life, it is. And that's more
than enough.

"I'm glad you came by, you know," Lily murmurs, reaching out to
cover her hand on the table, gazing at her gently. Like a friend
would. Like someone who loves her would. "I knew you'd show up
eventually."

"Regulus said something like that," Dorcas tells her with a huff of
laughter. "He said he just— hoped."

"Well, we all did, I suppose. Me the most, though, I promise."

"Really?"

"Yeah, 'course. Why wouldn't I?"

Dorcas coughs. "I... Well, Lily, I shot at you."

"A warning shot," Lily says. "You missed anyway. Although, you did
fuck up my hearing a bit. I can't hear the best out that ear now."

"That was fucked up," Dorcas mumbles. "I'm sorry."

"I got over it." Lily shrugs. "Besides, it's not like I didn't get it, yeah? I
know how—"

Dorcas lifts a hand, sighing. "Yeah, I've gotten the same reply out of
Poppy and Minerva. Blah blah blah, your girlfriend just died, blah
blah blah, we're all crazy just like you, blah blah blah, your grief is
valid and you're forgiven and we love you."

"Blah blah blah," Lily adds on, grinning as Dorcas snorts. "I mean, I
suppose there's not much to say, then."

"No, there is. I—scared you," Dorcas tells her, and Lily drops her
gaze. Dorcas squeezes her hand to seek it out again and catch it,
holding it. "You were scared of me, Lily."

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 Secrets of War

"I was scared of everything. It wasn't about you, so much as...all of it.
Anyone could have done that to me in that moment, even fucking
Remus, and I would have been scared. It was the trauma, Dorcas, not
you."

"But I'm the one who did it to you. I instigated it. I—shot at you not
even a fucking week after a war. I triggered you, and you're
never—you'll never fully trust that I won't again, and you'll always
associate that with me, and you'll—"

"Okay, one," Lily cuts in, "I'm going to need you to dial it back on
assuming what I'm going to do or feel. And two, whatever soft,
scared little lamb you've painted me as post-war because of how I
reacted when you did shoot at me needs to go. I am not her. If you
raised a gun at me now, I'd knock you the fuck out, or I'd shoot you
first, and we both know I don't miss."

"Don't flirt, Evans," Dorcas says, cracking a weak smile as a pressure

lifts off her chest, just hearing Lily contradict what Dorcas feared the
most: that Lily would always be afraid of her after what she did.
"Your girlfriend's right there, you know."

"Her girlfriend is listening and finds all that she just said wildly
attractive," Mary announces lightly. "Keep reminding people how
good of a shot you are, lover, it's sexy."

"I thought my ego was too big?" Lily teases.

"Well, when you're right, you're right," Mary replies with a shrug,
throwing them a wink over her shoulder. "As long as you don't
forget how good of a shot I am."

"Couldn't possibly," Lily says. "I have the scar to prove it."

Dorcas chuckles and draws her hand back from Lily's, who is
grinning rather goofily, like it pleases her to no end that Mary shot
her once. They're very well-suited, there's no denying that. "Listen,
I'd love to stay for dinner, but is there any way we can do a
raincheck, maybe? I—I do intend to come back around, and Regulus

439
is likely going to bully me into getting a phone, so I'll be in touch
before I come visit again, but I actually have a train to catch."

"Where are you headed?" Lily asks.

"District twelve to see Sirius, and then eleven," Dorcas says, taking a
deep breath. "Ah, I've been staying with Minerva and Poppy, and
they're doing a lot of great work in the Hallow, but the world is still
recovering in certain aspects after the war. It's hard to get orphans
adopted from the Hallow, so they've been trying to set up
orphanages in the districts to help. I, um. I'm planning to run one out
of the Victor's Village, including Marlene's old place, as long as
Cordelia is alright with it."

"Shit, Dorcas, that's amazing," Lily blurts out, her eyes widening.
"You know we'd love to help, if you ever need anything. Don't
hesitate to call, and don't be a stranger."

"I won't," Dorcas promises. "Walk me out, yeah?"

"Yeah, of course," Lily agrees, springing up to do just that.

Lily walks her all the way to the door and out of it, closing it gently.
There, secluded, Lily draws Dorcas into her arms and holds her for a
very long time. Dorcas squeezes her eyes shut and tucks her face into
Lily's shoulder, pretending for one moment that this is a life they
could have found a happy ending together in, holding her for the
entirety of this as if Lily is hers. And then she lets her go, because
Lily has found her happy ending, and Dorcas is still making her
own.

"I'm happy for you, you know," Dorcas whispers as Lily pulls back,
searching her face. Dorcas swallows harshly and gives her a watery
smile. "You've done really good for yourself, Red. You deserve it, all
of it, and thank you for letting me be a part of it, even after
everything. That means a lot to me."

Lily's hand comes up to cradle her cheek, and she whispers back, just
as tenderly, "You mean a lot to me, Dorcas. To all of us. I love you,
okay? Don't ever forget that."

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 Secrets of War

"I love you, too," Dorcas says, and she tries to keep her voice level,
but it cracks right in half.

"I know." Lily sniffs hard, her lips trembling, tears there in her eyes,
and she nods. Both of her hands cradle Dorcas' face, and she huffs
out a hoarse laugh, still nodding. "I know."

And that's more than enough.

Next stop is district twelve, bypassing eleven first, which puts a deep
hook of yearning in Dorcas' chest, but not yet. Not yet, she has to do
this first. Sirius first.

Sirius, as it turns out, doesn't live too far from the station, so she
makes it there faster than she actually wants to. She feels like she
needs to prepare herself, and she's not at all prepared when she's in
front of the door. And yet, she still knocks.

Remus is the one who opens the door, and he doesn't look the least
bit surprised to see her. He runs his gaze over her, sharp and
assessing, and his voice is clipped when he says, "Sirius is out on the
back porch."

Dorcas doesn't know what to say to that.

Remus looks at her for a long beat, a protective glint there in his eyes
that says a lot of things. It says don't hurt him. It says you don't
know what he's been through. It says you can ruin him with one
wrong word, and I'd sooner kill you than let you. It says you would
do the same, if roles were reversed. It says he's happy, we're happy,
don't you dare fucking ruin it.

Dorcas sighs and says, "I just want to see him. That's it."

They both know—they all know, really—that it's more than that, but
that seems to appease him and make it clear that she has good
intentions. The mistrust is fair, and it's not like Remus has ever hid
how much he cares for Sirius. Dorcas thinks that, if the roles had
been reversed, Remus would have started a war for Sirius, too.

441
Remus does let her in, leading her through the house. It's not the
houses she's used to, outside of the ones she saw in district eleven.
The houses that seemed so small and compact, run down from the
outside in, and she didn't know that they could be this warm. Size
doesn't make a home, though, and Dorcas knows that now after
spending a year in so many places and feeling like nothing would
ever be home to her again. The closest she got was Marlene's home,
but she wasn't ready yet. She's still not ready; she has to do this first.

Sirius is sitting in the steps when she pushes through the screen
door. There's a dog next to him that he's petting over and over,
restlessly, and it growls at her as soon as she comes out. Sirius makes
a stern shht noise, and the dog instantly stops and settles down,
laying its head over in his lap.

"Sorry," Sirius mumbles, darting his gaze to her, a little wide-eyed.

"She won't bite, I swear. She just knows I'm stressed, is all. I mean,
she probably would bite if I was attacked, but—well, obviously it's
fine. It's fine. Ah, the—you can sit, if you want. She really won't bite."

Dorcas eases forward tentatively, coming closer and holding the back
of her hand out for the dog to sniff. Dorcas had a dog once, but her
mother got rid of it as a punishment after one of their fights. She
holds still and waits, and the dog turns out to be quite sweet, in the
end. She nudges under Dorcas' hand, licks it, then plops her head
back in Sirius' lap. Dorcas cracks a smile and sits down, taking a
deep breath.

"You look lovely," Sirius comments quietly. "I like your hair."

Dorcas smiles, slightly. She also likes her hair. Faux crochet locs with
silver ornaments she used to wear on her braids. A little bit of old
and a little bit of new. Endings and beginnings, because endings are
beginnings.

"Thanks," Dorcas murmurs. "You look good."

Sirius gives a low chuckle and says, "When do I not?" After a beat, he
grimaces and coughs. "Sorry, that was—I get like this sometimes,
when I'm nervous. Still, um, good at putting on a show, I guess. The
Hallow Heartthrob, ya know? Not—I didn't mean because you're a

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 Secrets of War

Hallow, it's just like a defense mechanism or something, I only

meant—"

"Sirius, it's okay," Dorcas cuts in, and he shuts up. She takes a deep
breath. "It's—it really is okay. You don't have to be nervous. It's just
me."

"I—I don't really know what that entails anymore..."

"Yeah, that's...fair. What I mean to say is that who I was when I

treated you—and everyone else— the way I did after Marlene died
isn't the person I want to be. I accepted her, alright? I had to so I
could leave her behind, but I am leaving her behind."

"Oh," Sirius says softly. He studies her for a long moment, his
eyebrows furrowed. "You know, uh, Marlene—she kind of said
something like that before she—"

Dorcas' heart practically skips a beat. It leaves her a little

lightheaded, just how desperate she is to know, but she forces herself
to breathe, and she forces herself not to claw at him and shake him
and try to empty him out, all that he has of Marlene, just to take it
herself. She asks him for it, asks him to share, because he's him and
he will. "What did she say?"

"When you accept yourself for who you are, you open yourself up to
who you will be. We can't find peace with ourselves if we can't
accept that we evolve," Sirius quotes slowly, with care, like he's
trying his very best to remember and get it right.

"Yeah," Dorcas whispers, blinking harshly against the stinging in her

eyes. "Yes, that. Exactly that."

"Please don't cry," Sirius whispers. "I don't mean to make you cry. I
wanted to get this right with, not fuck it up. I'm sor—"

"No, no, don't apologize. Please don't." Dorcas swipes hastily at her
cheeks and exhales a harsh breath. "They're good tears. I love getting
to know anything about Marlene, Sirius, I really do. I always want

443
more of her, even now. But that's not—it's not why I'm here. She's not
why I'm here."

"No?"

"No, I'm here because I think I helped add to any guilt you may have
felt. I—was harsh with you, and I said things, and I thought worse
things, because I wasn't at a place to tell you it wasn't your fault, or
to care about your own grief over the volume of mine. And I—I lied
to you, to all of you, in the past, then used you like a weapon, no
different from any other Hallows. For that, for all of that, I'm sorry."

Sirius stares at her for a long time, running his hand over his dog's
head, through her fur, idly now. It takes him a while, and then he
says, "I was going to be guilty no matter what you did or didn't say,
Dorcas. I think I will always have this hollow sort of guilt in me, and
I—live with that the only way I know how. I just—I think, like you,
I've chosen to continue. I'm not upset with you for how you acted in
grief; as if anyone else in this damn world is any better, or could
have done better, in your shoes. And now, with you here, I'm just
thankful."

"Thankful?" Dorcas murmurs.

"Thankful you're here." Sirius lifts his hand away from his dog and
takes her hand. She lets him. "Thankful you've continued."

Then, with that, Sirius lifts her hand and kisses it tenderly, in the
Hallow sign of admiration. It's enough to bring tears to her eyes, and
she lets them go, lets them fall, lets herself feel. When he goes to
drop her hand, she fumbles for his and brings it to her mouth,
kissing the back of his knuckles and then the inside of his hand,
where he held the ring, then buries her face there in his palm and lets
the tears run their course.

He didn't have to bring the ring that rests on her thumb back to her.
He didn't have to do that, wounded and wracked with grief, in the
aftermath of having to see things that would drive lesser men insane.
He didn't have to, and he did it anyway.

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 Secrets of War

"Thank you," Dorcas chokes out. "Thank you for bringing me the
ring. Thank you for being here.

I'm—I'm so thankful you're here. I'm so proud of you for continuing.

She would be so—just so proud of you, Sirius."

"She'd be proud of you, too. She'd be proud of all of us," Sirius

croaks, and Dorcas hiccups a sob, nodding into his hand. His other
hand reaches for her, tugging on her arm, and she falls into him as
much as she can with a dog nestled in between.

Dorcas laughs, once she's not crying anymore, and Sirius laughs with
her. Sometimes, healing can be so sudden and bright that it's
exhilarating, like something snapping back into place. It hurts for
that moment, then the ache fades, what was out of place is working
again, and it feels good. It's reprieve.

"Sorry for, ah, crying all over your dog," Dorcas mumbles.

"Oh, Stella is used to it," Sirius tells her, grinning. "I do it all the time.
You can, too. Anytime. You're welcome anytime."

"I will hold you to that," Dorcas warns. "I miss my friends." "Well,
we're here," Sirius murmurs, his smile softening.

"I miss her, too," Dorcas admits with a deep breath. "Every day I do.
We—we talked about figuring life out together after the war, and I
never really expected to have to do it without her, but I —I want to
do it, even though she isn't here. What hurts the most, now, is
knowing she never even got to try."

"No, Dorcas, she did," Sirius breathes out, surging forward to take
her hand again. "I—you said you want more of her, that you love
getting more, and I—I want to give you this, but I don't want you to
be hurt by it more than you find joy in it, because as much as it hurts
that it couldn't be, it's such a beautiful thing that she got to feel, such
a beautiful thing how she loved you. I want it to make you feel
loved, not hurt."

445
"You—yes, you can tell me," Dorcas says, just as breathless as him,
clinging to his hand now, her heart pounding. "If it hurts, then it
hurts. It all hurts anyway, and I'm—I'm still going. I'm still going,
and I want more. Please tell me."

"Marlene was going to propose," Sirius whispers, and Dorcas' whole

world comes crumbling down around her in an instant, with one
sentence, five words, and past-tense. He holds her hand, thumb
pressing into her ring. "She—she wanted to do something flashy
and—and bold, just for you. And she said she wanted—she told me
she was going to propose after the war, once everything settled, and
she was going to do it with the ring. She was so—Dorcas, she was so
happy about it, about you and a future with you, and she wanted to
try. She did."

Dorcas feels like she can fold in half, and so she does, a bit. Her ears
are ringing, and Sirius is still babbling, growing more anxious as she
erupts all over again, chest heaving on deep gasping sobs. The
fingers on her free hand tangle in Stella's fur, holding on for dear life,
and there's Stella's cold, wet nose pressed to the crook of her neck,
the background buzz of Sirius' voice in her head, fading in and out.

Marlene was going to propose. She was going to—

Yes, Dorcas thinks, screaming it on the inside of her head like a

demand more than an answer. Yes, yes, yes, she'll marry Marlene. Of
course she'll marry Marlene. It's not even a question. Dorcas didn't
need anything bold; she would have said yes if Marlene passed her a
note; she's saying yes when Marlene is dead. Yes, yes, yes.

A hand presses flat to her back, and Stella whines in her ear, and
Dorcas breathes. Dorcas breathes and thinks it again, yes, and
breathes some more, just to think, but I can't, and breathes some
more, to suffer through the thought, I would have married you, if I
could have, but now I can't. Darling, I'm so sorry I can't.

Because she can't. That's the reality. The reality of it is, Dorcas can't
marry Marlene, because Marlene is dead, and Marlene is never
making it four blocks north of the Dillmar Suites, and Marlene is
never making it through that fucking war.

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 Secrets of War

And the war ended. And Dorcas is here. And Dorcas continues.

Sucking in a deep inhale, hitched and bordering on a broken

whimper, Dorcas builds the world back up around her. Feels the fur
between her fingers and the cold nose against her throat. Listens to
Sirius' hand across the fabric of her shirt as he rubs her back. Tastes
her own tears and the sunshine in the air. Smells the wood dust of
the porch and the fresh scent of grass out past it. Opens her eyes and
looks out through the blur of her vision to see the future she could
have had turned into streams of light-confetti as the horizon creeps
down past the trees, leaving her only with here and now.

Here and now, Dorcas breathes, and she straightens up through the
pressure on her chest, the weight of it enough to crush her, but she
picks herself back up and doesn't let it suffocate her. Finds the beauty
in it, in Marlene, in the more of her that Dorcas now has. She was
going to try to figure it out. She was making a plan. She was going to
propose, and she had hopes, and she wanted to live; she really did,
and that's—it's so painful, but so fucking special. That's important,
because she was so used to death, to dying, and only surviving, but
she finally knew what it was to want to live. To really, really live.

Dorcas wants to live, too. She is living. She's going to keep living,
and she'll make her plans, and she'll figure it out. And, every single
day, she will find more of Marlene everywhere she goes, in the
friends she holds onto, in the birds that fly and the children that
laugh and the ring on her finger.

"Okay," Dorcas croaks, nodding, and then she laughs. It's a soft
laugh. Gentle. Tender. Happy. "Yeah, that is exciting. Thank you,
Sirius." She looks over at him, taking a deep breath in and letting it
out. "Thank you for telling me that. If—if you wanted to—you don't
have to, but if you wanted to talk about her, even before I knew her,
I'd be happy to hear all of it."

"I'd really love to," Sirius murmurs, sincere about it, and so that's
exactly what he does. He talks, and gives her more of Marlene, and
Dorcas sits with him to listen.

447
Later—hours later—when Dorcas leaves his house, she pauses on
her journey to her next destination to slip the ring off and slide it on
her left hand, fourth down from her thumb.

Dorcas goes to catch a train with a ring finger occupied and a

blooming peace settling in her bones. She takes the ride with a gentle
kind of quiet, lips curled up as she leans her head against the cool
plane of glass and thinks about how all that she has lost is closer to
her when she lets herself have what remains. Most of all, a life she
wants to live.

Opportunity.

When Cordelia answers the door to find Dorcas waiting on the other
side later that evening, she inhales sharply, eyes going shiny. A beat,
and she says, "You're home."

"I'm home," Dorcas agrees.

"Are you ready to be?" Cordelia asks, with the background

soundtrack of Maximus laughing with Riker from within the house,
and Marlene's home ready to be filled with children she can keep
safe, until they have a home of their own.

"Yeah," Dorcas says boldly, "I'm ready."

448
 11

THE WEDDING
______

Sirius tries to keep his hands from shaking as he sits the phone
down, the screen black where he clicked it off after ending the call
with James. Exhaling explosively, Sirius reaches out and puts his
hand on Stella's back, swiping gently over her fur. Her tail thumps
against the bed.

"They're getting married, Stella," Sirius whispers, and she lifts her
head to start licking his wrist. He takes a deep breath in, and then it
comes out on a quiet, muffled sob.

It's stupid to cry about this. He already knew James and Regulus
were engaged and would one day get married, so he finds it
ridiculous that he's weeping about it now. The worst part is that it's
not entirely happy weeping. It should be. He hates that it's not,
because it definitely should be.

It's just... Well, Sirius is here. He's here and they're there, and they're
planning their wedding, and Sirius misses them. He's so homesick
all of a sudden, a deep well of longing bubbling up within him until
it overflows.

Sirius does not regret coming to district twelve. He does not regret
that he has spent nearly ten months here. It's been almost a whole
year since the war ended. Regulus and James want to get married in
May, only two months away. They'll have two months to plan, to get
everything set up and all the invitations sent out, and then they'll be
married. They've been talking to Sirius about it through a screen
plenty, but the more they do, the more it starts to feel like not
enough.

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 The Wedding

Stella clambers up to wriggle into his lap, whining softly, trying to

lick the tears off his face. She's ridiculously in tune with his
emotions, even more so than him, he thinks. She can tell when he's
having a bad day even before he can, most of the time. Remus calls
her Sirius' emotional support animal, which honestly has a lot of
truth to it.

Stella and Styx—her brother—have been members of the Lupin

household ever since Low Bar dropped them off, and Sirius was not
joking when he said he loves dogs. He always wanted one when he
was a kid, though it was never feasible, so he naturally fell in love
with the two puppies the moment he officially met them. But
Stella—she's his. She's the one he really bonded with, and he's the
one she chose as her own.

Styx has a preference towards Lyall, who pretends that he doesn't

like the dog at all, but Sirius has caught Lyall with Styx up in his
chair many times, or sneaking Styx food when he thinks no one is
looking, and Styx always ends up in Lyall's room to sleep, so Lyall
isn't fooling Sirius in the least.

Stella stays with Sirius. Remus too, technically, but they all know
Sirius is her favorite. She likes Remus, loves him even, and Remus
adores her just as much; it's just that, maybe, in the grand scheme of
things, Sirius is the one who needed her more. She's helpful, not just
for companionship and love, but also because she can sense Sirius
having nightmares and wakes him up before he even realizes he's
having them. She does it for Remus, too, which makes Sirius think
she's their own little miracle. She can tell when Sirius is feeling really
bad and knows to come make him feel better, just by being with him.
Genuinely, she has enriched his life in so many ways.

"I don't know why I'm crying," Sirius chokes out, tucking his face
down against her head, waiting for the tears to pass.

But, well, Sirius does know. James and Regulus are entering new
stages in their lives, and Sirius is missing it, and he misses them. He
misses Effie. He misses his home. He wants to go home and has no
idea if he's ready to. He has made all these plans and set up his life
for what it'll look like with Remus when they get back there, and he's
scared to return.

450
District twelve is his safety net, really. He has healed here, has taken
care of himself separate from anyone else, has found a sense of peace
with who he is and what he wants out of life, and he needed to be
here to do it. The idea of leaving scares him, because what if it falls
apart? What if he does?

It's all about taking that leap. Can he? Should he? Is he ready to? Will
he be able to pick himself back up if he lands badly? Is he going to
land badly? Hasn't he made sure he won't?

The most terrifying question—what if it's not the same?

What if none of it is the same? What if leaving took things from him
that he'll always have to miss? What if Regulus is better off with him
gone? What if he and James don't breathe in sync anymore? What if
home doesn't feel like home?

What if, what if, what if.

"Sirius?" Remus asks, and Sirius groans, face buried into Stella's
scruff, wishing Remus had stayed in the shower a little longer, just so
Sirius had more time to get his shit together. "Sirius, what's wrong?
Hey—hey, sweetheart, what's—"

"Reggie and James are getting married," Sirius practically wails, very
dramatically, like it's the end of the world or something. He lifts his
head to find Remus rather confused.

"Um, haven't they...always been? Like, for a while?" Remus asks

cautiously.

Sirius huffs at him, his eyes swollen and teary. "Yes, but like, actually
getting married. They're planning now, Remus! The wedding will be
in May!"

"Yes, I know. It's lovely," Remus says, smiling, and then he looks
alarmed when Sirius goes right back to crying, because it is lovely,
isn't it? It's so lovely, and Sirius is so happy for them, and so fucking
upset that he wasn't there to throw them a proper engagement party.

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 The Wedding

"Or...not. Not lovely? Sirius, please, I need some sort of guidance

here."

What comes out next is a small and defeated, "I miss them."

"Oh," Remus replies softly. A few beats pass, and then Remus moves
over to sit down next to him on the bed. Stella does a sweet little
crawl so she can lie half in his lap as well as Sirius', her tail flying as
Remus distractedly pets her head. Sirius gets it; he feels just as
happy when he gets to be all over Remus. "I see. Right. You miss
them. You want to go home."

Sirius looks at him helplessly, because yes he does, and he's scared
to, and what about Remus? What about Remus' home? What about
what Remus wants?

Remus' face softens. Of course he knows Sirius' concerns, just that

easily. "Sweetheart, I was

always going back with you. It was just a matter of when." "Do you
want to, though?" Sirius croaks.

"Dad's been dropping hints for me to kick rocks for the last few
weeks," Remus says wryly, rolling his eyes. "We spend so much time
together, and then we start..."

Sirius politely keeps quiet, because he wasn't going to mention it.

Remus is a very, very headstrong person; Lyall is clearly where he
got it from. The first time they fought was mildly traumatizing for
Sirius, who had never heard Remus slam a door or put that much
bass in his voice before. He'd also never heard Lyall yell, and
something about parents yelling doesn't really go over well with
Sirius, understandably, so he learned to dip out at the first signs of
them starting to argue, which they do now. It's—well, Remus says
it's a good thing, actually, just that they feel comfortable enough to
argue.

Apparently, arguing is sort of normal for them, and it doesn't

indicate that they're going to harm one another. Sirius wasn't aware
that parents and children could argue without it getting physical,

452
because it's not like he ever argued with Effie and Monty, so he
genuinely had no idea, considering any time he argued with his
parents before his first arena, they put their hands on him in some
way or another, even just to shove him. The first time Remus and
Lyall fought, Sirius was so tense, inwardly calculating the easiest
way to knock Lyall the fuck out, because he'd never stand by and let
anyone harm Remus.

In the end, that was not necessary, and their argument didn't change
very much overall. They grunted at each other and made petty
comments for about a day, and then the very next one, they were
making each other smile. Remus admitted to finding relief in that, in
the way they could fight and still find forgiveness. He said it was
important to him.

In the same breath, Remus has also explained that they drive each
other mad sometimes. Sirius gets it, sort of. He knows better than
most that no one can infuriate you like family, even more so when
you're dreadfully similar. Remus and Lyall? For all their differences,
they have a lot of similarities, too. And so they clash sometimes. And
so they argue. And so they forgive each other. And so there is love
there, between them, always.

"Dad's been talking about nests and how birds have to learn to fly
and such," Remus continues, "which means he's ready for me to stop
fussing at him for what he eats and for being too active with his hip,
and he also wants to be able to sleep in his chair half the day without
being woken up, things like that. I get it. I'd definitely like to live in a
house where we can fuck without worrying about my dad
overhearing."

Sirius' face explodes with reflexive heat, just from the crude way
Remus words it—he's so filthy— and also from the truth to it. Sirius
has never been quiet during sex, and this has led to Remus having to
cover his mouth to muffle his moans many times, which honestly
makes Sirius lose his brain a bit and ends with him either crying or
getting louder, so the chances that Lyall has heard them is very high.
And mortifying as hell. Sirius has no idea how he looks that man in
the eye, ever.

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 The Wedding

"The plan was always to go back to district six with you, and Dad
knows that. He knows I'll come around to visit, probably bring you
with me, and I'm as happy with that arrangement as he is. Honestly,
I—well, he and I sort of assumed I'd have left sooner," Remus
explains, rolling his shoulders in a shrug.

"But—okay, yes, but do you want to leave?" Sirius insists.

Remus pauses, then nods. "Yeah, as long as you're ready to. I

want—I mean, I'm—I'm excited

about working at the school, yeah? And having a house with you.
Our own house..."

Sirius can tell by the look on Remus' face that he really does want
this. He looks like he's having a blissful daydream, smiling
unconsciously as he goes there, lost in whatever he's picturing. Sirius
imagines it's their plan for everything that they had. A homely little
home with a porch-swing under the stars. Sirius is homesick for that,
too.

"The thing is, I don't know if I'm ready," Sirius confesses.

Remus blinks like he's being smacked down to earth. He looks at

Sirius, pats Stella's head, and says, "Well, that's okay. We don't have
to go until you're ready."

"No, I mean...I really don't know," Sirius admits, stressed, his voice
strained. "I want to, okay? I— oh, fuck, I really want to. But is it
time? Am I—can I handle it? Will I—will we—will everyone be okay
when I do? What if—"

"Sirius, you're working yourself up," Remus cuts in, eyebrows raised,
and Sirius deflates. "You're going to be worried about these things
until you get back, and then you'll get back and find you had
nothing to worry about, and—no matter what else—you'll have me
with you. You want to go, right?"

Sirius swallows, then nods and whispers, "Yes."

"Alright." Remus smiles at him. "So, we'll go."

454
~•~

Ten months after his departure—a year after the war—is when Sirius
comes home. He brings a storm with him when he does.

Regulus doesn't like the rain, mostly. Doesn't like to be out in it.
Doesn't like the puddles it leaves behind, or how wet every single
fucking thing is after, or how it can start with no warning like an
aerial attack—that's how it feels, to him, like death from above—and
go from calm to absolutely ridiculous in mere seconds. How does it
do that? Why does it do that?

Regulus' favorite way to...weather the storms, or brave the rain, as

those sayings go, are from within a very safe, very dry location.
Inside, under a roof. Untouchable. It's not—it doesn't scare him, just
hearing the rain, as long as he knows he's not going to be caught by
any of it. In fact, as long as he's sure that he doesn't have to be in it,
he almost thinks of it as peaceful.

James does, too. James—well, he likes the idea that a steady build-up
of exposure can help with the fear, at least a little. He also likes the
idea that he's making Regulus feel safe when it rains, even though he
hasn't said it. He doesn't have to say it. Regulus knows he gets a
sense of fulfillment from protecting the people he loves. Comforting
them. Taking care of them. James just wants to hold him, and help
him, and love him.

It's sweet, really. Gag-worthy, but sweet.

So, sometimes, when it's raining, Regulus perches on the edge of the
bed by the window, and watches. Bare feet against the bedframe,
arms draped over the side of his legs, fingers locked around his own
ankles and his chin resting on his knee. He watches little streams of
rain slip down the window pane, and he watches the blur of the
ruthless downpour fall in a grey slash across the sky, and he basks in
his lack of fear, from here.

James, naturally, is touching him. He almost always is, when

Regulus isn't angry at him about something probably stupid, glaring
and hissing and ready to claw his fucking face off if he comes too
close. That's not entirely a joke; he has, at least once, thought of

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 The Wedding

ripping James' face off in his anger, because a prick like him didn't
deserve a beautiful face like that. James is a brave soul and usually
just—touches him anyway; it's slow, coaxing touches like he can
evaporate all of Regulus' anger and upset with a brush of his fingers.
Usually, he can. It's amazing and baffling in equal

measure, how James is magic.

At the moment, James is sprawled out on the bed behind him,

propped up on his elbow and only getting closer. He's inching right
up to him like he has to sneak to do it, questing hands trying to leave
no path to track. It started out innocently enough—it usually
does—but the more skin James has felt, the more skin that he wants.
Regulus isn't wearing a shirt. James is dragging his hand down the
curve of his spine, gently.

"Reg," James mumbles, a very specific note in his tone that is very,
very familiar. Regulus has heard it a lot, many times, that suggestive
cadence to it. Sensual. Seductive.

"Hm?" Regulus hums, gaze locked on the window, lips curling up as

James finally sneaks right where he was always trying to go. Right
up against him. Pushing himself up to let them touch. Predictably,
his mouth grazes Regulus' shoulder.

"Watching the rain?" James murmurs, his hand flat against Regulus'
back slowly sliding around, following along his ribs, making it to his
chest and easing down.

Regulus' eyes drift shut. "Yeah, I'm watching the rain."

"Bad out there," James comments, lazily, and pushes his hand flat
against Regulus' front to get him to ease back, unfurl from where he
has collapsed on himself, open up and leave himself open, like a
flower blooms. James grows the prettiest flowers.

"Mhm," Regulus hums, head rolling until, finally, it settles against

James' shoulder. It leaves him all kinds of open and vulnerable, but
that's okay. The rain can't touch him.

456
James' mouth has noticed all the open space of Regulus' shoulder
and throat, and seems quite content to explore it, as if there's an inch
of Regulus' body James doesn't know by now. Regulus' hands
remain on the edge of the bed, useless, and he's getting restless, so
his fingers are starting to twist in the sheets. James has stubble that
genuinely drives Regulus fucking insane, that scrape- and-drag
that's almost a burn, and his mouth is busy, busy, busy on his skin.

"So beautiful," James whispers dreamily, sounding awed as he drags

his mouth along the scar that arcs over Regulus' neck, one he's long
since stopped being ashamed of. James uses his scars like a
guideline, never shying away from them, never wary to kiss them
the same way he kisses the unmarred spaces in between. "You're so
fucking beautiful, love."

Regulus is getting really, really warm. And tingly. And floaty. And
maybe a bit carried away. So, it's truly like a slap in the face when his
eyes open slowly, and he catches sight of the forms darting through
the rain, across the street.

Even this far, through the storm, Regulus knows the shape of his
brother like he knows his own heart beating in his chest.

Predictably, all of Regulus' rising desire shrivels up in him and dies

on the spot—brothers have that effect—and Regulus would smack
the shit out of Sirius for interrupting if he could reach him right now,
because he just knows what was about to happen was going to be so,
so fucking good. Damn him.

Instead, Regulus huffs out a startled, "Sirius."

James pauses, lifts his head, and awkwardly says, "Um."

"No, James, Sirius," Regulus insists, shooting forward to stumble out

of bed and out of James' arms so fast that James falls forward and
faceplants the bed. Regulus ignores him in favor of reaching the
window and squinting out past the rain, watching—yes, yup, that's
definitely Sirius diving into Effie's house with Remus right on his
heels. The door shuts, and Regulus shakes his head in disbelief,

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 The Wedding

because Sirius never said he was coming home. "James, Sirius is

here."

"What?" James tumbles out of bed to join Regulus at the window,

except he has missed Sirius and Remus entirely, which leaves him
awkwardly peering out at nothing. He clears his throat. "Okay, um, I
think—well, maybe missing your brother has gone a bit too far if
you're starting to hallucinate, especially while we're—"

Regulus rolls his eyes, hard, and swivels away from the window to
grab the first piece of clothing he comes across, which just so
happens to be James' pullover, as warm on the inside as James is,
warm against his skin and slipping down over his knuckles a bit.
James makes a small noise of appreciation at the sight, briefly, then
yelps when Regulus starts for the door.

"Hey, hey, where are you going?" James calls after him.

Regulus is already out of the room and darting down the stairs,
practically taking them two at a time without much thought. There's
not much thought in this at all, past the fact that Sirius is

across the street, and Regulus hasn't seen him in ten months except
through a screen.

Which—that's fine. That's okay, really, because Regulus has been fine
without him. He didn't think he would be, and then he was. It
was—good, even, in a way that hurt as much as it helped. Just to
know that they could, all because they had to, even if they didn't
want to. Same with James, too.

Sirius has always sort of been a fixed point for both of them, because
no matter what they were, Sirius was always going to be Regulus'
brother and James' best friend, set in stone and unshakable. There
was no way around that, and they never really had a relationship
outside of that, or knew they needed one, but this has been—it's
been good for them, more than any of them could have imagined it
would be.

458
Still, Sirius is here, and so naturally Regulus is going to see him. Why
wouldn't he? Why the hell didn't Sirius say he was coming back to
district six? That fucking idiot—

"Regulus, Regulus, wait," James blurts out, following him as swiftly

as he can down the steps, cursing as he goes. "Just—"

Regulus ignores him, because he isn't stopping, can't fathom a reason

why he should or why he ever would, and then he's moving for the
door, staring to pull it open, and—

The door slams shut in front of him before it even fully opens, James
practically crushing him against it, releasing an incredulous huff of
air when Regulus makes a reflexive sound of protest into the wood,
his cheek smooshed against it, and he's reacting on instinct to throw
his elbow back, which makes James grunt and double-down,
pressing in harder.

"Reg, love, it's raining," James reminds him, and Regulus goes still,
blinking in surprise.

"Oh," Regulus says. "Right."

"Let's just wait for him. You know he'll be over soon, if he actually is
here," James replies, which tells Regulus that he doesn't quite believe
that Sirius is back, but he does have a point about Sirius showing up
soon enough, so Regulus decides to make him eat his words.

James does indeed eat his words when, less than twenty minutes
later, Sirius is barreling in through their door.

It's easy in a way Regulus didn't know it could be, when Sirius gets
back. He shows up in their house with dripping hair and rain-damp
clothes, breathless and delighted to see them again past a screen,
drenched in something Regulus fears the most, and Regulus hugs
him anyway. Maybe the storm that coats his skin should tarnish his
return, but Regulus finds that it doesn't, that maybe nothing in this
world can. There is just his brother, too excited to see them to dry off
first.

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 The Wedding

James cries, of course. Regulus refuses to. Sirius is all lit up and
settled into his own skin, an extension of them and yet entirely his
own. He is Regulus' big brother, he is James' best friend, but first, he
is Sirius. That's new, and that's better.

It's the happiest Regulus thinks he's ever seen Sirius, just to be home,
and feel at home close to them again, and have Remus with him.
Like all the pieces are finally clicking into place.

Effie cooks a huge meal and demands everyone to come to hers to

eat together, which no one protests. Lily, Mary, and Bingley are there,
Remus laughing each time Lily throws peas at Sirius and James in
rotation when Effie isn't looking. There is a dog there, Stella, lying
under the table at Sirius' feet and oh so gently lapping up the little
pieces he sneaks her, which Regulus intends to scold him for, then
forces himself not to, because their parents are dead, and most parts
of them aren't worth keeping alive. James retaliates for the
pea-throwing and gets caught by Effie, who tells him he needs to eat
his peas, like he's a child instead of an adult, and James pouts as if he
is.

That night, Regulus helps Effie clean up with Mary and Bingley,
while Remus and Lily sit out on the front steps and smoke together,
and Sirius and James end up one room over, talking more quietly
than Regulus has ever known them to.

Regulus doesn't mean to overhear them, but he steps out to ask

James if he wants to take any leftovers across the street, only to hear
Sirius murmuring, "I'm sorry I took so long."

And James says, softly, "There's no such thing. You took all the time
you needed. I'm proud of you for that."

There's a certain level of quiet maturity there in the way they speak
to each other, so much unwavering respect in how they address each
other, and Regulus has never heard that between them before, not
really. Maybe it's not something they show to others, and Regulus
doesn't think it's for him, so he silently backs out of the room and
tells Effie they'll be happy to eat the leftovers for breakfast. James
won't mind. It makes Effie smile.

460
Regulus doesn't get a moment alone with Sirius that night, not once,
and that's okay. He doesn't need it, really. Doesn't need to check that
he and Sirius are alright, because he knows they are. Doesn't need
his undivided attention, because he knows Sirius cares. Doesn't need
reassurances and platitudes that Sirius missed him, because he
knows he did.

There's a hug when he returns, and there's a hug on the doorstep

when Regulus and James leave to go home, after Lily already has
with Mary and Bingley. Sirius holds him tight for a moment, ruffles
his hair, and then lets him go.

And life goes on.

The school opens back up in the district with a depleted amount in

attendance, but there are still some children to be taught, to look
after, to help grow. Regulus thinks it's really beautiful, in a way, that
this is how most of them have chosen to help build the better world,
not putting their efforts into the power that exists now in place of the
power they eradicated, but throwing all their energy into the future
generations, the bright minds who will know the before and
contribute better to the after than they ever could.

James loves his job. It lights up his entire life and often is his favorite
topic to come home yammering about. He oversees fun, which
Regulus agrees is fitting for him. The perfect person in this world to
extend hope, to encourage laughter, to remind those who have
forgotten the beauty in simply trying.

He has a little sports club and creates games for kids to play, and he
puts together a book club, but his favorite—rather predictably—is
the gardening the school cleared him to do with the students. They
plant flowers and food they'll get to take home to their families, and
they water them and some kids name them silly things, and some
uproot them too early and have to start all over, but after everything
these kids have been through, perhaps the chance to make things
grow and see life bloom under their hands can only be soothing.

Regulus hasn't thrown his lot in with the future, though, because
he—doesn't have to. They're in good hands as it is, and he doesn't
even like kids. (This is a lie. The first time James asks him to write

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 The Wedding

flashcards for his students with little gardening facts, because his
handwriting is prettier, Regulus stays up all night doing it, and he
color-codes them, then threatens to go to the school and stuff James
in a locker in front of all his students when he coos at him and calls
him adorable for putting so much effort into it.) In any case,
Regulus—and Sirius—have something else in mind.

The last time Regulus was in district six's forge, he was being run
right back out by Barty's dad, who did not appreciate the fact that
Regulus was hanging around his son. Thought he was a bad
influence. Thought he was a delinquent. Thought he was the one
encouraging Barty to act out.

None of this was true.

Regulus wasn't a bad influence on Barty. He wasn't really an

influence on him at all, because Barty was the sort of person who
needed no outside guidance into being a bit insane. There was
nothing Regulus could have done to make Barty worse; he managed
that just fine on his own, and his dad had the audacity to blame
Regulus for it. And, for the record, Regulus was never a delinquent.
He just sat in his house writing sad poetry and never wanted to go
anywhere or do anything; the idea that he was the one getting Barty
into trouble is laughable. But, in fairness, Regulus did encourage
Barty to act out. Or, no, he simply stood by Barty no matter what he
did.

When Barty didn't want to work, Regulus gave him money. When
Barty wanted to fuck strangers, Regulus told him to have fun. When
Barty wanted to try drugs, Regulus let him take as much as he
wanted. When Barty wanted to fight, Regulus showed him how to
throw a punch. Regulus, in every sense, was the least and most
impactful person in Barty's life, never one to tell him how he should
live it, just the person who stuck by him from the moment he walked
into it to the moment it

ended. That was their thing. Consistency.

Being back in the forge is strange. Barty hated it here, but he also
grew up here. His dad practically lived here, and Barty's initials are

462
carved into the underside of the desk in the front. Barty once kissed
him out by the back door, stomping out in a fit of fury after yelling at
his dad, then pushing Regulus up against the wall to make him
swallow all of his anger, and Regulus probably should have gagged
on it, could have with all the anger he carried for his own parents at
the time, and Sirius, but he just bit Barty's lip hard enough to make it
bleed and told him to grow up. Barty laughed and swore he never
would. Turned out to be right, in the end.

The worst part, now, is that Regulus doesn't know how Barty would
feel about this. About what Regulus is doing. Maybe he'd like it.
Find it funny. Maybe he'd even be touched. Maybe, from wherever
he is, he's groaning in despair and yelling at Regulus to just burn the
damn place down. Regulus doesn't know, but what he does know is
that living solely for the dead doesn't allow for much room to live at
all.

At some point, you do have to pick yourself back up and live for
yourself, and accept that those that are gone are gone, and appreciate
the impact that they had while they were here, along with the impact
they'll always have because they were.

It's strange to think about, but Regulus has had a lot of people
impact his life now, hasn't he? He never would have imagined that at
the start, all the way back to two days after his twenty-fifth birthday,
what was supposed to be his last reaping. He was so close to
avoiding all this pain, but he was also so fucking close to missing out
on some of the best people he's ever known. Pandora, Dorcas,
Remus, Evan, just to name a few. He's lost so much, but thinking
about it now, he had to

gain all that he did to lose all that he has. Losing is a part of loving,
but the love of it all makes it hard to regret what he got to have, even
for a short time.

Regulus sits on that epiphany, basking in it, because it's true. All the
pain he has felt, and still feels, and will always feel—he would not
erase even an ounce of it if it cost him the chance to love and be

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 The Wedding

loved. In this world, if they go hand-in-hand, if they have to, then he

would not give up either.

He keeps all of it. He keeps everything and anything he gets to have,

and keeps all that he has lost. And he lives, and lives, and lives.

So, when Sirius stands beside him and asks if he's really sure about
this, Regulus looks around the forge and says, "Yes."

"You know you'll basically be my assistant forever, right?" Sirius

teases, raising his eyebrows at him.

"No, absolutely not. I'm the owner," Regulus retorts, because he did
indeed buy the forge. "I'm literally your boss."

"Oh, so you do tell jokes these days? You waited for me to leave and
started practicing, clearly, because that's absolutely the most
hilarious thing you've ever said."

"This is probably a bad idea. At some point, I'm going to be tempted

to push you in an oven or stab you with one of these weird tools. No
one would blame me, you know."

"You don't even know how to turn the ovens on."

"But I do know how to stab."

Sirius snorts. "No touching the tools until you can name them. That's
rule number one." "You're not making the rules here," Regulus
sputters.

"Rule number two," Sirius continues blithely, "Stella is allowed inside

at all times. Rule number three—"

"You're not making the rules!"

"Rule number three, it's okay if we hate it, and we can stop at any
time. No pressure, yeah?"

464
At this, Regulus pauses, staring at Sirius for a beat. It was a big thing
for them to agree to do this. A commitment, in a way, to go into
business together, technically.

Sirius is a builder across multiple mediums, including

blacksmithing, just good at creating things in general. Regulus
doesn't have the same talent, but he couldn't imagine letting anyone
else buy this place and take it over. Barty hated it, yes, but it has
Barty all over it. Originally, Regulus thought about tearing the place
down, or repurposing it, but then Sirius made the wistful comment
on the phone that it'd be a shame for all that's inside to go to waste,
and Regulus...

Well, if Regulus could let anyone inside, it'd be Sirius. No one quite
takes the sting out of things like Sirius manages to, and it doesn't
hurt so much to be here with him. So, they talked about it, talked
about how much their parents would have hated it, and they
tentatively came up with a plan.

This plan consists of, essentially, working together until they retire.
Sirius said he'd teach Regulus how to do everything in the forge, but
Regulus will be handling the finances and what commissions they
get. It was a choice they made to work together, and spend time
together, a choice that neither of them could have imagined making
three years ago. Or ten.

Because they really, really want it to work out, and they really, really
want to have something that's theirs, that they do together, there is
this natural inclination in both of them terrified of fucking up, wary
of failure, because it could feel like letting each other down. So, to
say this now, to agree that there isn't pressure and they can simply
try, it's good.

The worst part about Sirius being gone, for Regulus, was learning
that it was the best thing for both of them. Not just Sirius, but
Regulus, too.

He missed him, and knew that he did, which was starkly different
from missing Sirius for ten years and not even realizing that's what
he was feeling. It didn't make him angry. It made him sad,

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 The Wedding

mostly, but in a gentle way; a happy way, almost. Because he was

proud of them. Proud of himself and Sirius for doing it, because it
needed to be done.

But, honestly, something hurt and small in Regulus was whining the
entire time Sirius was gone, which has finally, thankfully shut the
hell up. It's embarrassing. The pain of it is so fucking embarrassing
now, especially with how simple things have been since Sirius has
gotten back. It's like none of them have missed a beat, like the war
never dug claws in and ripped them apart, as if the distance never
even existed.

It did. The distance existed, and through that, they know just how
important it is to close it, and keep it closed. The forge is a good way
to help with that, but it's not the only way. The health of their
relationship does not hinge on this, but rather on the effort they put
in. After all this time, it's almost easy. Maybe, after everything, it was
always going to be.

Me and you, Regulus thinks, and doesn't have to say it, because they
know. If they know nothing else, they know that.

"That's the only valid rule," Regulus murmurs.

"Rule number four," Sirius begins with a grin, and Regulus reaches
out to stiff-arm him directly into a wall. Sirius grunts when he lands,
then huffs an incredulous laugh, staring at him in sheer disbelief.
"You just broke rule number four."

"Which is?" Regulus asks, arching an eyebrow.

"Don't be a little shit," Sirius replies.

"Yeah, well, that's on you. I don't go around making rules for you
that I know you can't help but break. Imagine the rule: don't be an
idiot. That's just setting you up for failure."

"You know, Reggie, I know how to turn on the ovens."

They stare at each other for a beat, and the second Sirius' foot
twitches, Regulus takes off running. Sirius curses, then cackles, then

466
takes off after him. Really, the worry they have for this working out
is all for naught.

They're going to be just fine.

Regulus thinks, considering the chaos and laughter unleashed within

the building, Barty would hate this place a whole lot less if he could
be here to see it now.

Strangely enough, even though he can't, Regulus is sure Barty is

happy for him anyway. ~•~

Sirius has only ever seen James and Regulus fight once, back when
the Quarterly Memorial came and Regulus broke his promise to
James. To be clear, it was fucking awful.

This? This is brilliant.

"He's my best friend," James bursts out, eyes flinty in the way Sirius
has only ever seen them get

for Regulus. No one in this world has ever, ever, ever riled him up
like this except Regulus.

"He's my brother, you fucking nitwit!" Regulus snaps back. In turn,

anyone can piss Regulus off; most people do, in fact, because he
thinks he's surrounded by idiots. But no one has ever, ever, ever
softened him except James.

Just...not at the moment. Not about this. Sirius is having a great time.

"You don't even like him that much!" James sputters, which is fair.
Brothers rarely do, on the surface, but that's not really the important
bit about being brothers.

"So?" Regulus retorts, not even denying it, which is objectively

hilarious. As a brother, he gets it, though. Liking each other is not a
requirement for brotherhood, that's for sure.

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 The Wedding

"So, you should at least like your best man!" James declares, waving
his hands around like Regulus is mental. Sirius gets that, too.
Regulus is mental. Regulus opens his mouth, and James slices his
hand through the air, talking over him. "No. No, Regulus. I'm not
backing down about this. I'm not. You can have anything, anything,
you want, but I'm putting my foot down about this. The only thing I
was ever sure of about my wedding was that Sirius would be my
best man."

"Hate to break it to you, but so was I!" Regulus hisses. "And who the
fuck do you think you are? Putting your foot down. Oh, everyone
make way, James Potter has spoken. Fuck off."

Remus coughs into his fist, and Sirius elbows him discreetly in the
side. It's not funny, or it shouldn't be, but—well, okay, it is a little bit.
Regulus is probably the only person who can trivialize James in any
capacity. Make him more human, rather than just the embodiment of
sunshine and all the best things in this world, which is ironic,
because Sirius is also pretty sure that no one quite adores James the
way Regulus does.

James is visibly frustrated. He looks like he wants to wring Regulus'

neck. "If anyone has earned the right—"

"Earned?" Regulus cuts in, eyebrows flying up. "Oh? Oh?"

"Yes, dammit, earned!" James very nearly stomps his foot. His eyes
are narrowed. He is indeed not backing down about this. Sirius
admires his bravery, honestly. "What have I asked for, Regulus? In
any of this, what have I not compromised on? I've earned the right to
be stubborn about this one thing."

"You haven't asked for anything because all you want is to marry
me! That's it! You said that!" "It's true! That and this! That's all I
want!"

"Well, you're not getting this," Regulus bites out. "You get me. Is that
not enough for you?" "He's good at this," Remus whispers in Sirius'
ear.

"Yeah, it's because he's a prick," Sirius whispers back.

468
"Are you ever going to intervene?"

"Are you joking? This is the most entertained I've ever been. Remus,
they're fighting over me. I'm

thriving."

James points at Regulus. "Don't do that. Don't you dare start with
that—that emotional manipulation shit. I know what you're doing. I
know you, and it's not going to work."

"So, you're set on this?" Regulus asks sharply. "Stealing my brother

away from me. That's the hill you'll die on."

"What—"

"And you will die, to be clear. I'll kill you there myself."

"Oh, please," James scoffs, rolling his eyes. "One, I'm not stealing
your brother away from you, and you know it. Two, who the fuck
else would be my best man, hm? Who? Go on."

"Oh, you want to go there?!" Regulus shouts. "What about me? Yeah,
didn't think about that, did you? My best friend is dead. Oh, and so
is Barty. Who do I have, James? Hm?"

"I—oh, that's—that's not fair," James whines. "You can't bring up

dead people! That's a low blow!"

"Welcome to my world," Regulus says snidely. "Face it, James, my

whole life is tragic and all my friends are dead, so if anyone has
earned this one thing, it's me. It's absolutely me. He's my brother!
Why is this even an argument?!"

"Why are you so—so fucking—"

"What? What am I, baby? Go on, say something you'll regret." "You

do this every time. It's like you want me to be mean."

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 The Wedding

"You don't have it in you."

"See?!" James shouts, gesturing frantically at him, looking over at

Sirius and Remus, and looking like he wants to rip his hair out. "Do
you see what he does? He makes me fucking crazy!"

"You're the one marrying him," Sirius points out.

"I—" James opens and closes his mouth, then deflates when he seems
to realize that he has no argument against that. "Yeah, okay, I am,
and I'm happy to, but—"

"But?" Regulus yelps, eyes widening. "There should be no but. That

should have been the end of the sentence. You mean to tell me that
your desire to marry me is dependent on Sirius being your best
man?"

"That's not even close to what I said."

"You insinuated it!"

"Oh, don't even try it! You said you'd leave me at the altar if Sirius
wasn't there!" James argues.

Regulus narrows his eyes dangerously. "So, what, you won't marry
me if Sirius isn't your best man?"

"That's not even close to what I said!" James bellows, apparently

reaching the end of his rope. "Wanting Sirius to be my best man has
nothing to do with our marriage, okay? I want to marry you so badly
I can't fucking see straight, and I would do it with no one there, but I
want him there as my best man to support me in marrying the love
of my life, who just so happens to be his brother. I want him to stand
right behind me where he can look over my shoulder and see how
happy I make you and know, really know, that I'm going to take care
of you."

"James—"

470
"He's mine," James cuts in with finality, allowing no further
arguments. "I'm not looking back on my wedding day with any
regrets, and I would regret that he wasn't my best man."

"If I can't have him, you sure as shit can't," Regulus declares bluntly,
because he'll argue until he dies. "Absolutely not. It's not happening
a second time. You already got him once—"

"We aren't competing!"

"We've been competing since you and your stupid smile showed up
at the door! Fuck, fuck, I fucking hate you! I knew. I knew the
moment Sirius told me about his stupid new best friend that you'd
be a fucking problem!"

"You're the one marrying me," James reminds him.

"I'm aware," Regulus hisses, looking very much like he wants to stab
something. "Oh, I'm so mad.

I'm so mad I love you."

"Well," James grumbles, "too bad. You do, so."

"You know what? No, this is—it's ridiculous. Seniority takes this one.
I had him first. Literally since birth."

"Until you were ten, then I came along and shared him with you for
five, then you all but gave him to me for ten, and we've been sharing
him ever since, so really, we're even."

"Okay, well, why would you even bring that up?" Regulus asks, his
shoulders slumping, face falling. "Why would you—"

James points at him vigorously. "Emotional manipulation!" "No, you

just hurt my feelings."

"Bullshit. If I did, you'd never admit it."

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 The Wedding

"I try to share my feelings, and you disregard them, James? Is that
what you do? You just ignore me?"

"He's so dramatic," Remus whispers, sounding impressed. "Yeah, he

gets it honest," Sirius whispers back.

Remus sighs and mutters, "How long are you going to let them go in
circles about this? Haven't you had enough?"

"It's so much fun, though," Sirius complains. "Sirius," Remus says,

giving him a look.

"What? I'm human. I like to feel loved and appreciated, too," Sirius
grumbles. Remus continues to look at him, so Sirius sighs and rolls
his eyes before clapping his hands to his thighs and pushing to his
feet. "Alright, alright, enough!"

"You stay out of this," Regulus snaps.

"I won't, because you're both dumb," Sirius informs them, ignoring
their looks of affront. "I have the answer."

"Neither of us get you," Regulus says. "Seems fair. Actually, can we

just kick you out of the wedding?"

Sirius ignores that, too. "You both get me. James, your mum is
walking you down the aisle, right?"

"Yeah, of course," James says, blinking.

"And Regulus, who's walking you down the aisle?"

"No one. I don't have anyone."

Sirius swats him upside the head. "Idiot. I am, obviously."

Regulus rubs the side of his head with a frown. "Usually, it's parents
who do that, idiot."

"Close enough," Sirius replies, arching an eyebrow at him and daring

him to argue. Wisely, he does not. "So, James walks out first with

472
Effie, no best man. I walk out, hand Regulus off first, then boom,
James has a best man. We're all winners."

"That's actually really sweet," James whispers.

"It's—" Regulus violently clears his throat, trying to cover the

emotion in it. "Yeah, that's—an acceptable compromise." He blinks
really hard, visibly trying with all his might not to cry, and Sirius
feels his chest clench to know how much that means to him. It's not
about wanting Sirius to be his best man, really. He just wants Sirius
with him in some capacity, in his corner, making sure he feels how
important he is to him. How important they are to each other, as
brothers.

"So, we're good? Everyone's good? Did I solve the great debate that
you two have been going on and on about?" Sirius asks.

"It's fine," Regulus says blandly, then shoots James a look. "See? I can
compromise." A pause. "Okay, so you get Sirius. I'll call Pandora and
ask her in Sirius' place, for me. That's fine, but Remus is in my
lineup."

James balks. "What?! No! He saved my life!"

"Okay, and?" Regulus arches an eyebrow. "He—"

"No!" Remus bolts up from his chair, waving his hands, looking
ready to murder them both. "No, no, absolutely not. There will be no
arguing over me. Either flip a coin or I won't be up there for either of
you!"

"Remus," James starts.

"No," Remus snaps, eyes narrowed. "You two are exhausting, you
know that? I'm not listening to you fight about this, going around in
circles like—like—" He waves his hands around in a grand show of
frustration. "Just flip a fucking coin!"

Regulus and James share a look, then glance at Remus, who looks
like he's about to explode. Sirius reaches out and gently strokes

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 The Wedding

Remus' back, admittedly lost in little fantasies about how he can help
Remus work off some of this tension later.

"This is so stupid," Regulus grumbles, as a coin is produced to be

flipped. "I have the worst fucking luck."

"So you don't consider yourself lucky to be marrying me?" James

asks softly, lips tipping down.

Regulus squints at him, then hisses, "Emotional manipulation!" A

smile plays at the corners of James' mouth, and Sirius stifles a laugh
as Regulus whips around to face Remus. "Flip the fucking coin. Do
it."

Remus does, and it goes up. While it's still in the air, James and
Regulus both call it. As it turns out, James is just as good as Regulus
when he wants to be, and Regulus really might be a prophet of some
sort, because the coin is up, and when it finally comes down, the
lucky winner isn't him.

~•~

Regulus has to drop Sirius off in district one on the way to the
Hallow, but it is nice to stop in and see family. That's not a sentiment
he ever thought he'd relate to, but stranger things have happened.
This isn't so strange, when the family is Narcissa, Andromeda, and
Nymphadora.

"Cissa pregnant yet?" Sirius asks.

"Trying, but it's not taking. She's determined to use Lucius', ah,
assistance—something about the importance of raising a child, not a
Victor." Andromeda sighs. "I don't know how long it's going to take,
or how many times she'll try. She's already lost one, but she's
determined to do it this way."

This doesn't surprise Regulus. Stubbornness runs in the family, too.

Narcissa won't quit until she has no choice, and from what he's
heard, she has plenty of Lucius' assistance to keep her trying for at
least a fucking decade.

"In any case," Andy continues, turning to smile at Regulus, her gaze
warmer than he's seen it in some time, "thank you for this. For letting

474
Tonks be in your wedding. That means a lot, more than you'll know.
"

"Is that your way of telling us to come around more?" Regulus asks,
mildly amused.

Andromeda snorts. "Personally, it's enough just to see you two

through a screen, but Tonks isn't going to complain if you two
actually come to visit."

"Cissa might, though," Regulus points out.

"Only for show," Andy replies, then shrugs. "Besides, she doesn't
even live here. She has her own house here with Alecto, and anyway,
it's not like she can tell me who can and can't be in my house."

Regulus clears his throat. "I just—don't want to cause issues."

"Between me and my sister?" Andromeda laughs. "You can't. We're

solid. I mean, I planned out her murder in vivid detail last week
when she stole my shoes, but we're solid."

"She's mad because I wore them better," Narcissa announces as she

sweeps into the room, holding Tonks' hand and letting herself be led
in. Narcissa raises her eyebrows at Sirius, who mirrors the look, and
then they share a quick grin. It's gone from Narcissa's face when she
sits at the table, looking at Regulus as she holds a chair steady for
Tonks to climb into. "I want to know the details about the wedding."

"You do?" Regulus blinks.

Narcissa arches an eyebrow. "I love weddings. Mine was grand, you
know. We had five chandeliers."

"I won't have one chandelier."

"Good, you don't deserve them, but tell me you'll have centerpieces
for the table at the very least."

Sirius coughs around a laugh. "Oh, Reggie has it all down to the
finest detail. Only thing he'll let James handle is the flowers, which

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 The Wedding

James is fine with, but everything else? He's making sure it's all
perfect."

"I hope you trip on your way down the aisle," Narcissa tells Regulus.

"I hope you have a baby, and I hope it's the ugliest, snottiest, brattiest
little shit that ever graced this earth," Regulus snips.

"Impossible," Narcissa retorts, hand to her chest. "I will be their

mother, so they will be, at the very least, quite beautiful."

"And the rest?"

"Well, no one's perfect."

Sirius roars with laughter while Andromeda raises her glass in a

toast, as if to agree. Narcissa chuckles, mindlessly sweeping her hand
over Tonks' hair, and she looks at Regulus with no extra warmth that
she lost when she found out he murdered her sister, but her eyes
aren't entirely devoid of warmth either. Regulus will take it. For him,
that's enough.

So, until he has to leave, Regulus sits right there with family to tell
them about his wedding. And, before he goes, they listen.

~•~

Aberforth isn't expecting the boy to be in his office.

It's a bit like a slap to the face to walk in and find him there, sitting in
one of the chairs and looking rather bored, chin propped on his fist.
He looks older—it's been a year now, hasn't it? Still a boy, though, at
least to Aberforth.

The last time Aberforth properly saw him, Regulus was knocking
him flat on his back. They haven't spoken or interacted since. Oh,
this doesn't bode well.

"The hell do you want?" Aberforth grunts as he sweeps past him to

plop down behind his desk.

476
"Cheerful as ever," Regulus notes dryly. "Hello to you, too. Nice
setup you've got here, by the way. I've only heard good things about
you and how you're helping the whole world."

Aberforth narrows his eyes at the boy. It's not like him to beat around
the bush; he's always appreciated getting right to the point, a very
direct person, which Aberforth has always rather liked about him.
"Skip the pleasantries, boy, and tell me what you want. What are you
doing here?"

"I want you to officiate my wedding," Regulus says. "No," Aberforth

replies.

Regulus purses his lips, clearly displeased by this response. A beat,

and then he says, "I know you can. You used to be a Mayor, so
you—"

"It's not about capability," Aberforth cuts in. "I can. I just won't."

"Why?" Regulus asks.

"Why do you want me to?" Aberforth retorts bluntly.

"Because I just do," Regulus snaps. "There are very few people I'd
trust to be at my wedding, so my options are limited."

"Okay, well, that's not good enough for me," Aberforth tells him
unapologetically. "I can recommend—"

"No," Regulus cuts in. "It has to be you."

"Well, it won't be me, and you're not getting your damn way, so
either suck it up and accept someone else, or just don't get married,"
Aberforth says harshly. "Either way, it's not my problem. Take my
recommendations, or don't, and get the hell out of my office."

"It can't be anyone else, and I am getting married, so you suck it up

and put aside your spite for one damn day to officiate a fucking
wedding. I am not my brother, and I didn't kill yours. I'm not going

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 The Wedding

to take responsibility for his choices, no more than he should mine,

and you don't get to blame me for them."

"Look, I don't particularly like you either—"

"I don't care," Regulus interrupts sharply. "I don't care if you hate me
and my brother, and I don't care if the last thing in this world you
want to do is go back to district six, and I don't particularly care
whether or not you actually give a shit that James and I are getting
married. That's not the point. You are the only person who—" He
stops, nostrils flaring, then exhales harshly. "You got it, okay? You
said it in the meeting, before everything happened, that Albus didn't
know just how long James and I loved each other, and that we never
did it for defiance, but you knew. You saw it, all of it, and you cared.
So, it has to be you. It can't be anyone else, because no one else can
prove they respect it for what it is, but you already did."

Dammit.

Fucking dammit. This kid. This rude, demanding, unrepentant boy.

The mess of it is, Aberforth does like the boy, likes him a hell of a lot
more than he likes most people, and hell of a lot more than ever liked
his brother. Aberforth just might be one of the few people in this
world—maybe the only one—who preferred Regulus to Sirius even
when they were just dumb little shits building snow forts that
blocked the sidewalks, which Aberforth had to shovel out the way,
grunting and grumbling under his breath the whole time. Maybe it
was because Regulus reminded him of Ariana, and himself; maybe it
was because Sirius reminded him of Albus. He doesn't know what it
was, but Aberforth has found himself thankful many times since
Albus died that it was Sirius who gave the killing blow, not Regulus.
It's easier to hate Sirius.

For Aberforth, hating Regulus isn't quite working out. He doesn't

particularly care that the boy is getting married, and Aberforth had
no urge to even attend the damn wedding, but then the boy showed
up to demand he officiate it. The impulse to do so now, just because
it matters that much, just because he matters that much to someone,
still, to someone alive...it's strong. The impulse is really strong,
except Sirius will be there, and Aberforth swore to never go back to

478
district six until he was a pile of ashes. He won't, not even for the
boy, arguably the last person in this world Aberforth even cares
about on a personal level, and that's a bit of a stretch as it is.

"This is very important to me," Regulus says stiffly. "So, if you would
please set aside your pride, along with your many other grievances
with me and my brother, I'd appreciate it."

"Do you realize how selfish it is to ask this of me?"

"I don't care about that either. You know, some would see it as an
honor. Do you know how many people would kill to get the
chance?"

"So, ask them," Aberforth grits out.

"I don't want them," Regulus declares simply. "I want you."

Aberforth heaves a deep sigh, shaking his head and glancing off to
the side, only to grimace when he sees Ariana's portrait. He feels the
judgment in her gaze, or merely her presence, and perhaps even
Albus'. He can feel it like they're personally urging him. Don't do it
like last time, Abby. Don't cling to your pride. Don't watch wood.
Yes, alright, shut the hell up.

"If," Aberforth starts, and Regulus' eyes instantly light up like he is a

little kid, just a boy, "and I do mean this, if your brother so much as
speaks to me—"

"He won't," Regulus blurts out, sitting ramrod straight in his chair.
"It's my day. He won't fuck it up, I swear."

"Boy—"

"You don't have to do anything but officiate the wedding. That's it.
You can stay out the way, show up, then leave as soon as you're
done. You don't have to talk to anyone, or go anywhere, or you can
go to the tree while everyone else is at the wedding, just—just
whatever you want to do, it's fine. I'm not—I don't want to make you
uncomfortable, alright? That's not what I'm trying to do, but I—I

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 The Wedding

always imagined that the mayor of district six would officiate my

wedding with James, even when I was just ten years old, and you're
the only Mayor I've ever known. So, even before I knew a

damn thing about you, it was always you. And, knowing what I do,
now, I'm only more convinced it still has to be."

"Alright, alright," Aberforth grunts, grimacing at the truly ridiculous

amount of warm-and-fuzzies implied with all of that. The boy is
usually better about keeping that shit to himself, unlike his
over-emotional brother. Makes sense why Aberforth prefers him.
"Fine, I'll—stop in to officiate your wedding, but I'm doing that and
nothing else. I'm doing it on one condition, you hear me?"

"Okay," Regulus says, eyes narrowing again.

"I'm old. I'm probably gonna die in the next fifteen years or so, if I'm
lucky," Aberforth announces with a grunt, and he appreciates that
the boy doesn't protest, or try to deny it, or even seem to care very
much. He only blinks and, after a moment of hesitation, nods. "I
don't have kids, never cared to have a spouse, and all my family is
dead. I don't much care what happens to my property or possessions
after I'm gone, but I need someone to carry out my last wishes for
my burial."

"The tree," Regulus murmurs.

Aberforth nods. "I want to be cremated, then buried with Albus and
Ariana. Think you can handle that?"

"You—me?" Regulus blinks again, this time with mild alarm, visibly
startled. "Wait, you're putting me in your will? No, that's too much. I
don't want your stuff, or to deal with all that shit. It's stressful. Pick
someone else."

"How bad do you want me to officiate your wedding?" Aberforth

asks, eyebrows raised. Regulus holds his hand out immediately. "I'd
be happy to bury you. You have yourself a deal." Aberforth chuckles,
helplessly, and reaches out to shake his hand.

~•~

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The wedding creeps up on them. It's—not supposed to. Regulus has
all of this under control, planned out down to the finest detail, and
he keeps James very up to date, so there is absolutely no reason that
it should be the least bit startling when it's only right around the
corner.

Pandora cries when Regulus asks her if she'll be his best man—or
best of honor, as she rather swiftly decides on, for a title. Regulus
says if it wasn't going to be Sirius, it had to be her, and James thinks
he gets that. Pandora, Pandora, Pandora. She's always been there for
them. She's one of the few people in this world that Regulus ever
willingly handed his dagger off to. Someone who has altered his life,
and someone he has been open and honest with, and someone he
unquestionably loves.

With Pandora, in Regulus' lineup, he has Rodolphus, Dorcas, and

Lily. James has Sirius, Remus, Mary, and Bingley. It's funny, really,
how they bickered over people, and it worked out to be even on each
side anyway. More than that, the truth is, they know it doesn't matter
which side anyone stands on; this is not a fight, it's union, and
everyone standing up there with them, on either side, supports it.
Supports them.

People start showing up from all over, those that are early to help
with putting it all together. Pandora and Sirius separate James and
Regulus for a night, competing for which group can have the most
fun. Pandora apparently gets Regulus roaringly drunk to the point
that he's giggly and sweet, so much so that he sneaks out of his own
party to go crash James', coaxing him away while everyone else
frantically searches the district for them, but he and James are too
busy riding the train in their locked compartment where they take
the time to, ah, christen every single stop along the way, including
the Hallow. They never leave the train, too caught up in each other,
and they're both hungover when they do the following walk of
shame after arriving home. James has to suffer Sirius scolding him
for leaving without even fucking notifying anyone.

Dorcas arrives in a flurry of activity and fabric, never once telling

them that she would be designing what they'd wear to their
wedding, and seemingly appalled that they would dare to wear
anything else. She tells them that she is their stylist, always that, and

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 The Wedding

they can't argue. They don't even want to. The outfits are lovely and
bold, James in a suit that has a flare of lace on the cuffs of his sleeves;
Regulus in a corset-vest with the same lace detailing along his collar.

Every single little thing is going just as Regulus planned, right down
to the flower arch that's meant to frame them at the altar, a large
project James has been working on rather studiously and can't shut
up about. Regulus has listened to him list the flowers and what they
represent, paired with what they mean; those that are for peace and
remembrance, and the one that means forever mine , all these fun
little facts that generally don't really stick out to Regulus, because for
him, it's as simple as ooh, pretty flower.

However, the details matter to James, so Regulus listens dutifully,

generous with his attention no matter what else he's doing, and for
how seriously he listens to the things James is passionate about,
James always ends up feeling like he has to kiss Regulus, or he'll just
fucking die. There's something about someone you love caring about
your passions just because you do; it makes James melt with this
overwhelming surge of affection. He can barely stand it, most days.
Feels like he'll suffocate from it, and so he turns to kissing Regulus
like that'll help him catch his breath. Spoiler alert, it does not. It
leaves him breathless every time, and yet, and yet.

They do a lot of that, in the lead up to the wedding. Kissing. Short

kisses. Long kisses. Light kisses. Deep kisses. A kiss in passing, and a
kiss that stops them right in their tracks. A kiss in the middle of
laughter, and a kiss mid-argument so intense that a kiss doesn't
make sense. They kiss so much that James is pretty sure he knows
Regulus' mouth better than his own, and it's this relentless, unending
sort of hunger for each other that they can't shake themselves free of.
Not that they're trying very hard, to be fair. James is nowhere near
starved of Regulus, but he knew what it was to be; you can't put
someone who knows what it is to be hungry in a buffet and not
expect them to eat.

So, perhaps this is why the wedding creeps up on James. Too busy
with flowers, and kissing, and letting Regulus handle all the plans.
Then, naturally, life throws a curveball at them; or maybe it's better
to say Sirius does, because he does something Regulus could never
have planned for, or James for that matter.

482
"Stay right here. Do not move," Sirius orders, after dragging James
and Regulus out of their house, only to take them across the
street—not to go inside, but to go to the backyard. He holds his
hands up to them, then whips around and dives into his shed that's
really still his, even if half the things inside have been moved into the
forge now.

James glances over at Regulus, who is—as usual—scowling. He was

in the middle of working out some sort of shift in the schedule, and
he's clearly agitated that Sirius has pulled him away from what he
was doing. James is just about the only person he'll tolerate pulling
him away from anything, likely because James is pulling him
somewhere private so they can shut the rest of the world out and get
lost in each other.

"Sirius, hurry the fuck up!" Regulus snaps.

"Don't rush me!" Sirius retorts from inside, his voice muffled, but his
excitement palpable. "James, entertain him, will you?"

James breaks out into a grin. "Yeah, okay!"

"That is not what I meant," Sirius complains when he steps back out
of the shed five minutes later to find James heartily making out with
Regulus, hands in his hair, wrapped all around him, the whole
shebang. "For fuck's sake, will you two cut it out? I'm not joking! I
want to show you something!"

"You said for me to entertain him," James counters, burying his smile
against Regulus' cheek, so pleased to be there.

"I meant for you to shut him up!"

"I did. This is my favorite way to shut him up."

Sirius makes a noise of agitation while Regulus laughs at him, just as

pleased as James is. "Oh, whatever. Just—come in here. If you two
can stop sucking face long enough to let me show you this, I'd
appreciate it."

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 The Wedding

"Later," Regulus whispers in James' ear, much to James' delight, then

he pulls away, less to James' delight. "Alright, what is it, and why is
it in a shed?"

"Okay, so!" Sirius perks up, back to excitement all over again as he
leads them into the shed. They don't go far. He stops almost instantly
and waves them over to something tall and wide under a sheet. "I
thought, since you're getting married in three days, I'd go ahead and
give this to both of you. I may have—I mean, I know no one likes
remembering the arenas, but—well, just take a look."

Three days rings in James' ears for a second. He knows he's getting
married in three days, yet it still manages to steal his breath. Time is
so... It's difficult, for James, to measure it or feel it the way others do.
Three days is a concept that only exists in snapshots, a whole lifetime
between one three days and the next, yet a mere blink. It feels like
just yesterday that they were dancing by a fire and agreeing to get
married, so getting married as soon as three days feels fucking
surreal. Like a dream, one that was out of reach for so long that, with
it so close, it hardly even feels possible.

Someday, possibly as soon as three days, James will feel as if he's

been married to Regulus for ten years. Someday, possibly ten years
down the road, James will feel as if he's three days away from
marrying the man he loves. There is no rush, and there is no wait.
Either way, they're making it down that aisle to each other
eventually.

James isn't ever going to know their anniversary, but Regulus won't
hesitate to remind him, and in the end, that's all that matters. If the
seasons won't tell James, or his glasses, or his cane, then someone
who loves him will.

What more does he need?

"Can I...?" James checks as he steps up and reaches out to the sheet,
waiting to pull it off. The shed is Sirius', always has been, and no one
goes in it. No one touches his things without express permission. It's
just a respect thing, a boundary, because building is so very
important to him.

484
"Yeah, go ahead. It's yours and Regulus'," Sirius whispers, nodding.
"I made it for both of you."

After a beat, James tugs on the sheet, letting it drip down and pool
on the floor, revealing what's underneath. The first thing that James
registers is the wood, a rich mahogany that James recognizes easily,
considering it's what a few of the canes Sirius has built him are made
out of.

James blinks. A bookshelf. One taller than him, the top shelf just
within his reach, closed off with a carved roof that's engraved with
quite possibly the most detailed flowers James has ever seen. Each
shelf has dividers on a track, showing that they can slide or be
removed entirely. The whole thing is smooth and shiny, blatantly
luxurious, and very well-crafted. It's clear that the crafter put a lot of
love into this.

It takes James a second. Maybe three. Maybe ten.

And then—

"We have a bookshelf. Sirius built us a bookshelf, and you have the
top shelves because you're taller, and I have the lower shelves
because I keep all my journals on the very bottom."

James feels a lump form in his throat. He can't help it, the rush of
emotion that crashes through him. You know that other life? The one
where we could have been happy together? Where we're not a great,
big tragedy? James had said. Tell me something about it, James had
said. Regulus did, Regulus told him about this, and so much more.
All these things—all of them left to another life, not this one, because
they didn't get it in this one.

They were wrong. They were so fucking wrong.

Regulus has drifted forward, eyes wide with child-like wonder,

something so painfully innocent there in his expression. His fingers
run across the wood tenderly, with care, and his voice is so soft when
he whispers, "This is beautiful, Sirius. How long have you been
working on this?"

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 The Wedding

"Ah, well, I actually started it after your first arena, when we all got
back," Sirius murmurs.

"We weren't together then," James croaks, staring at him with his
eyes stinging. "Regulus and I— we weren't together, and we didn't
even know if we would be, but this—it's our bookshelf. The one
—it's the one we talked about in the arena, isn't it?"

"It is," Sirius confirms.

Regulus glances back at him. "You didn't know we'd get together.
You didn't know we'd end up here."

Sirius gives a small shrug and smiles. "Yeah, I did."

James is—crying. Stupidly, happily, helplessly. Crying and laughing

and existing in this one moment, along with every other moment in
his life, and all those he hasn't made it to yet. So much love threaded
throughout each one that it's easy to get lost in, but that's okay;
they're all good places to be.

Regulus is so enthralled with the bookshelf that James is the one who
gets to Sirius first, nearly tackling him to the floor, breathing in and
out of time with him. Sirius holds him, and laughs, and rocks in
place with him.

"Thank you," James chokes out, for so much, for so many things. For
the breath in and out of their lungs. For leaving and for coming back.
For loving them all and for saving them all; he saved them all, they
all saved each other, and they got here. Here they are. Thank you,
thank you, thank you.

It's here, like this, with Sirius holding onto him and Regulus tracing
their bookshelf behind him with awe that James realizes why he was
wrong to ever think there was a change he could go through that
would ever cost him the things that can never be taken from him.
Things change, and time warps with it, just as they do, but life—all
lives are what they make it.

That other life is this one. This life is that one. All their lives have
even a split second of joy, and hope, and effort. It doesn't matter
what life it is; James knows that, in every single one, they have so

486
much love to give, and so much love granted to them. Even if for
only a moment, and that one moment can make any life worth
living. Despite all the grief. Despite all the pain. Despite all the loss.
Because there's love. Because there's a bookshelf. They do get it.
They have it. They make it, and people who love them help make it,
too.

Sometimes, it takes a village. Sometimes, it takes a war. All it takes,

in the end, is time.

~•~

Regulus has an ever-growing dagger collection, and Sirius is almost

mostly to blame for this, because Sirius will make him daggers in the
forge when he wants to try a technique he never has before, or use
new materials, or just keep his hands busy between projects when no
one has requested chairs for their patio, or new hinges for their
doors, or all the odds and ins that people can think of when placing
orders.

Of course, Regulus has the dagger. Bellatrix's dagger, the one that
killed or hurt a lot of people, including Tom Riddle and Albus
Dumbledore. Regulus keeps it well-maintained, as well as put up in
a display case on the wall, separate from the rest of his collection.
The rest are now in his desk drawers, replacing where all his journals
used to be, because now those reside on the bookshelf in their living
room downstairs.

Regulus has cleaning kits, as well as dagger sleeves, and okay, so

maybe he has a tiny obsession with them. It's not even that much
different from his love of flowers, except for how one is rather cute
while the other is...ah, quite dangerous, actually. In any case, Regulus
has reached a point in his life where he doesn't sleep with a dagger
under his pillow or in his hand—it would make James
uncomfortable, surely, so Regulus has made sure not to—and he's
even okay with not carrying a dagger on him at all times. He does,
however, have targets set up in the backyard (not close to James'
flowerbeds), and he regularly goes out to toss daggers at them when
the urge strikes, which it does often. And, if he's not writing at his
desk, he's almost always just sitting there, going through the whole
process of cleaning and sharpening and maintaining his collection.

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 The Wedding

He tries not to do this around James, if he can help it, because he gets
it. He really does get why James would have discomfort around
daggers. For fuck's sake, he was stabbed. And just how many times
did Regulus put a dagger to his throat? He hasn't done it
since—fuck, the first arena? Why wouldn't daggers just be a
reminder of that, of how harsh Regulus was then, of all the pain and
trauma James experienced in the arena?

So, he's been careful, and it's usually something he does when James
is at the school, working. Today, however, due to the ever-growing
collection Regulus has decided to blame Sirius for, there's a slight
miscalculation in how long it's going to take to maintain them. This
is partially just because it's almost a meditative state for Regulus,
something calm and repetitive that he could easily do in his sleep.
With his wedding coming up tomorrow, it's a good way for him to
unwind.

He maybe gets a bit caught up—which is Sirius' fault for giving him
so many daggers in the first place—and this means he's still right in
the middle of it, lost in a peaceful little trance, when James comes
stumbling into their room, already chattering away about his day.

Very swiftly, James' chatter comes to a halt, and Regulus feels oddly
as if he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. It's the notable
silence, breaths held, and Regulus is ashamed. Oh, for fuck's sake,
he's acting like he's carrying on a fucking affair behind his fiance's
back—with daggers.

This is so stupid.

Regulus clears his throat and begins putting each dagger in their
special-made holster. "How was your day, James?"

"Good," James says faintly, "and getting better..."

"Right, well, just—just give me a moment, and I'll finish up here, and
we can—" "No! No, hey, no rush."

"Won't take long," Regulus assures him, struggling not to groan

when James hurries over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it and
watching him avidly. "Really, James, I'm putting them away. Nothing

488
to worry about. You can go on downstairs, and I'll meet you there
in...five minutes, tops."

"I'd rather stay, thanks," James counters swiftly, leaning forward with
his elbows on his knees. Regulus picks up his pace, mildly agitated
that he's careless under the scrutiny, opening drawers to dump the
sheathed blades in with none of his usual organization. James makes
a small sound. "Wait, but you're—oh, you're putting them away."

"Yes, obviously," Regulus snaps, trying not to get frustrated with

him, or maybe the whole situation, but he can't help it.

He doesn't blame James. Of course he doesn't, and he'd never be

angry at him for what he's afraid of, but it does sting a little that he'd
ever feel worried around Regulus. There are times that Regulus is in
the bathroom while James is in the shower, because they're having a
conversation or because he's brushing his teeth or just to look at
James while he's naked and wet (truly a sight to behold, just as an
aside), but he's never scared that James is going to drag him into the
shower or anything. And, really, if Regulus was afraid of flowers, he
wouldn't go linger around James while he's tending to them.

This is one of Regulus' hobbies. They're getting married, so they

have to find some sort of compromise, right? Regulus is more than
willing to keep the daggers away from James, and has been out of
simple courtesy, but James is making that a little difficult by placing
himself around them on his own.

"You missed one," James mumbles after Regulus has slammed all his
drawers shut and stood up.

Sure enough, there's a lone dagger towards the corner of the desk
farthest from them, and the holster for it seems to have gotten lost.
Huffing, Regulus picks it up with the intention to toss it in a drawer
and deal with it later, stretching over his chair to grab it, and then he
has it, and then James has him.

"Shit—James!" Regulus blurts out, possibly yelping a little as James

tugs on him recklessly, pulling him back and off balance. Regulus
stumbles, holding the dagger up high, away from them both, as
James pulls him close. "The—"

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 The Wedding

"I missed you, love," James cuts in, grinning as he hooks his hand
behind Regulus' knee, outright urging him into his lap. With one
hand in the air and the other barely keeping his balance on James'
shoulder, it's difficult to pull away—not that Regulus is trying very
hard, honestly, because the way James is looking at him—ah, yes,
Regulus knows that look. "We're getting married tomorrow. Let's
celebrate."

"Yes, okay, just—" Regulus hisses between his teeth, eyes flying wide
as James wraps both arms around him and falls back, tipping them
both on the bed. "James!"

"It's okay, I've got you, come here." "No, I know, but I have—I still
have—" "Yeah, there you go, put your leg there." "Wait, fuck, I need
to—"

In all the maneuvering to get on the bed properly, James never once
gets hurt, because Regulus is keeping the dagger away from him,
despite how difficult he's making it. James doesn't seem to care
about the potential danger, rather caught up in helping Regulus
straddle him, getting them situated, then surging up to capture
Regulus' mouth with his own.

The moment James kisses him, Regulus wants, desperately, to pour

all of himself into James, and doesn't even care if he's poison. James
would take him gladly, he knows. Would take all of him, all the best
and worst, and still be ready for more of either. Regulus can be
anything as long as James is kissing him, touching him, and he's
often nothing but a buzzing conduit of sheer want. Overcome with
it. Gagging on it. Drowning in it, and happy to.

It's easy, as always, to get lost in James. So easy. It's so fucking easy
that Regulus can't understand how they weren't doing it their whole
lives. Why did they hold themselves back? Oh, take Regulus back to
any point in time, and if only he had this treasure trove of touch to
call his own, there would have been no room to believe tragedy
could ever leave its mark.

James' palm is warm and cane-callused against the side of his neck,
and Regulus wants to crawl into him. Loves him madly, wildly,
passionately. He feels—oh, he feels. Nothing makes him feel the way
James does, as much as James does, all lit up from the inside out

490
with so much sensation and emotion like it all comes across more felt
and louder with James there to translate it through him, and to him.

Regulus is sure he was born just to belong to James.

Regulus also is sure that nothing can be as important as being with

James right now, so he fumbles the dagger and loses it under the
pillow somewhere and, frankly, can't be bothered to find it again, or
even care. He's immediately focused only on James, and nothing else
in this world matters.

With care, Regulus peels James out of his shirt, dragging over his
head, the both of them so caught up that they don't care that his
glasses get lost along the way. Regulus groans like a man in a
drought as he runs his hands over James' chest, just feeling him,
adoring every inch. James cups the back of his neck and drags him
back into a kiss, obsessed with his mouth as he usually is. Regulus
fuels his obsession, biting his bottom lip hard enough that he moans,
because that's how he likes it. He likes being caught between
Regulus' teeth, and Regulus wants nothing more to keep him there.

Nonetheless, Regulus is not deterred, because his main goal now is

getting James naked. James isn't very cooperative, far too busy trying
to kiss, kiss, kiss and touch, touch, touch and more, more, more to
really help Regulus fight with his pants. This is okay, because
Regulus is a very good fighter and needs no assistance when he's
this focused and determined. He can manage well enough on his
own, and does.

James seems to pick up on the fact that he's stripped down while
Regulus is woefully overdressed, and usually, he would complain
about this—Regulus knows, he has before—but he gets preoccupied
by watching Regulus lean over to slap frantically at the only drawer
on the desk they both know and go into, one without a dagger, too
full of what they need for sex, if they even make it this far at all. The
plan becomes ever so much clearer, and James' eyes light up.

The thing is, most of the time, they don't even make it past hands
and mouths. They're so greedy when they get started, and so easily
caught up in one another, that it generally takes proper planning and
genuine effort to go any further. When they do, it's Regulus more

491
 The Wedding

often than not that splays out and lets James take him apart, because
James likes to make him squirm and likes to break past all his little
barriers to see him stripped down to his most base responses, and
Regulus— well, he likes to squirm and likes letting go for a bit.

But, of course, they've had sex in all ways, different ways, different
positions. Everything James has done to and with Regulus, Regulus
has done to and with James. It's not that James doesn't like it in
reverse, because he does; it's just that he takes great pleasure in
giving great pleasure, and he really enjoys the sounds Regulus
makes when he's fucking him.

Regulus knows this, because James has told him, shamelessly,

because James has exactly zero shame about—anything, pretty
much. He's very at home in his body, coexisting with his desire with
no trouble, and Regulus feels more comfortable just because of that.
James has also made it very clear that he does like to be fucked, but
good luck beating him to the punch, because he tends to get
overeager. Regulus usually lets him, because it's not like they're not
feeling good no matter what they do, but today, he reminds James
that he's faster.

"Ooh, you're going to realign my spiiine," James sing-songs,

sounding utterly delighted before he laughs like there's a joke
Regulus doesn't know. He's an idiot, truly. "I wonder if you could
break me clean in half. Can you break me clean in half? Be a love and
break me clean in half."

"You're so stupid," Regulus says.

"Yes, but I'm your stupid," James tells him, grinning.

"Unfortunately," Regulus mutters, like he wouldn't die before ever

giving him up, as if he's not swift in sitting himself on the bed
between James' legs. He has to fumble for a pillow for James' injured
leg, letting him adjust it to where it won't hurt, and then they're off
to the races, as that saying goes.

Regulus takes his time. He likes to when they're doing this, because
the possessive part of his brain thinks they should just stay like this
forever. James under him, chanting his name like a prayer, because
that's all he knows. Like this, Regulus makes sure he is the only thing

492
James knows, or feels, or thinks about. Him. Just him. It's
intoxicating.

After, when James is at the point of begging—Regulus wants to give

him everything, when he begs—that's when Regulus finally shuffles
back to start peeling out of his clothes, and the redistribution of
weight from the dip of the bed shows that taking the pillow he did
for James' leg was the wrong choice, because the dagger proceeds to
slide down the bed and comes to a halt right next to them.

James' hazy eyes latch onto it.

James' hazy eyes do not waver from it.

"Shit, sorry," Regulus blurts out with a wince, hastily kicking out of
the rest of his clothes and shifting around to settle between James'
legs, hoping to gather his attention away from the dagger
with—well, him. And sex. Regulus and sex are shiny topics for
James, so it usually works, but the damn dagger apparently shines
brighter, because James is still looking at it when Regulus leans over
him. "James."

"Yeah?" James breathes out.

"Look at me, it's fine," Regulus murmurs, tilting his head to kiss
him—and yes, that will always shine brightest, Regulus thinks.
James sinks into that at the same time Regulus sinks into him, and
the dagger has to become inconsequential then, surely, because
James is clutching at him and sighing into his mouth and arching
and Regulus forgets all about the dagger, but he forgets everything,
to be honest. The whole world whites out, and it's just James, just the
warmth of him.

But. Well, apparently not. Apparently, James can't forget the dagger,
because when Regulus breaks the kiss and shifts to get situated,
starting off slow and gentle as James deserves, James cranes his head
to look at the dagger again. Keeps looking at it, mouth parted, eyes
wide like he's seeing in an array of different dimensions as Regulus
moves.

Yeah, no, James isn't letting the dagger go.

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 The Wedding

Regulus stops. James does look at him then, confused and mildly
betrayed, a protest already on his lips. Regulus sighs and reaches out
to grab the dagger, instinctively flipping it between his fingers as he
always does, while saying, "Okay, I'm going to drop this on the floor
so you don't have to worry—"

"Wait, fuck, please wait," James chokes out, his hand snapping out
with a startlingly firm grip to catch Regulus' wrist where he was
hovering his hand over the side of the bed.

"James?" Regulus asks, blinking. He's wary, but also very out of sorts
at the moment, struggling to concentrate when all he wants to do is
move his hips again.

"Can you—would you—" James stops. He swallows thickly, then

licks his lips, a quick nervous tick that ends with a deep breath of
courage. He folds his uninjured leg behind Regulus' waist, tugging
at him to pull him in, and Regulus is lost in the thrill of sensation,
everything between his ears turning to static, so it's not his fault that
he misses James easing his hand through the air, guiding it where he
wants it to go.

James is more devious than anyone realizes, because Regulus doesn't

even know how he ends up where he does. Hand on the bed by
James' head, his hips flush against him, hovering over him with his
last hand tucked under James' chin, where James put it, the dagger
nestled right against his throat.

Regulus watches James' pupils grow until they're blown.

"Oh, you're joking," Regulus says, mouth dropping open.

"Not in the slightest," James replies, chest heaving.

"But—" Regulus gapes at him. "But you've been stabbed."

"I know, I know, I wish it had been by you," James practically

whimpers, tilting his head back. "Can you just—love, please—"

Regulus blinks. A lot. He really thought—he actually thought that

James was traumatized by the daggers, a bit. Sure, James has made
comments here and there, but Regulus thought they were jokes.
Okay. Okay, so—clearly, they were not.

494
This works out, though. It's honestly rather convenient, because
Regulus is great with daggers. He knows how to handle them. Sure,
he can do this. Easy, no problem.

"Yes, just—hey, focus on me for a second. Listen. Are you listening?"

Regulus waits for James to blink some of the fog out of his eyes
before giving a careful nod. "I'm not going to cut you. I have issues
with blood, you know that."

"Okay. Okay, that's okay. This is—just this is good. It's good.
Anything," James croaks, his voice strained.

"I have to focus and pay attention, so you can't touch me, or I'll get
too distracted. Hands on the headboard."

"Oh, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you so much." "Don't let
go, James. I mean it."

"I love you so fucking much. Oh, I—"

Regulus shuts him up after that. He—well, there's no other way to

put it. He fucks James with a dagger to his throat, and really,
considering all they've been through, perhaps it shouldn't be as good
as it is. Or, considering how they started out before their first games,
and through them, perhaps it was inevitable that they'd end up here,
enjoying it this much.

Regulus likes it more than he was expecting to. He likes how much
James likes it, and James really likes it. He likes making James feel
good, and James clearly feels really good. He likes how James looks,
too, which he should have seen coming. He's pretty like that, pinned
to the bed with a dagger to his throat, so blissed out that he looks
like he might cry.

Due to the fact that Regulus has issues with blood and also has no
desire to properly hurt James, there's no actual cutting, but he knows
that he could. He knows, now, that James would let him and would
like it, even. They can work out something in the future, maybe, but
for now, this will do. It does do, in fact, because Regulus knows
exactly how much pressure to exert to press the blade in without
breaking the skin, and he isn't shy about dragging the tip up, over

495
 The Wedding

James' jaw, pushing the point into meat of his cheek and then
scraping the edge along James' slack mouth while he moans and asks
for more.

It's probably the fastest James has ever gotten off with him. He
usually lasts longer, but this appears to unravel him entirely, until
he's coming apart at the seams, and then he's a puddle spilled out in
their bed, slumped like all of his strings have been cut. Regulus
couldn't really get off, too focused on James, but he's close enough
that he can drop the dagger to the floor now that it's exhausted its
uses, then fold into James, lick the whimpers right out of his mouth,
and follow swiftly behind.

Regulus has it in mind to tease James afterwards, except James is

basically high, and also clingy, and sort of just...out of it. In all
honesty, Regulus briefly worries that he has broken him. "James, are
you alright?" Regulus asks quietly.

"M'great," James rasps. "Fuckin' fantastical."

James is a mess, actually. He needs—he has needs and seems to not

care about any of them in the least, so Regulus tends to them for him.
Makes him drink some water. Coaxes him clean. Gets him back into
clothes. They end up in bed together, once they're both settled; James
is so lax and calm that Regulus is pretty sure he's going to fall asleep.

Regulus cards his fingers through James' hair, letting James lay all
over him like a blanket, face tucked into his throat as he breathes
deeply, steadily, easily. Regulus thinks he has fallen asleep until he
eventually speaks up.

"Hey, Reg?"

"Hm?"

"Can we do that again?" James mumbles.

Regulus huffs a laugh and says, "Yeah, baby, we can do that again,"
which earns him the feeling of James grinning against his throat.
Regulus feels that grin slowly soften, turning slack, and eventually
James does drift asleep right there against him.

Well, that's one way to spend the night before a wedding. ~•~

496
James hasn't been allowed to see Regulus all day. Everyone is
running around to get the final touches in place, and James has been
rather rudely forced to stay away from Regulus, as well as vice versa.
Tradition, or something.

"The hunger games were tradition, too," James grumbles, fidgeting

restlessly. "Fuck tradition, I say. Can't I just—"

Sirius swats his hand away. "No, you can't, and leave that be. Dorcas
will kill you if you tear it." "I just want to see him," James says,
strained.

"You'll see him when he's walking down the aisle," Sirius tells him,
grabbing him by the shoulders to swivel him around. He has a slight
frown on his face. "You're—genuinely upset."

"Yes," James confirms. "I want to see him, Sirius."

"I—fuck, James, they're never going to let you in the room with him.
Lily and Dorcas are guarding it," Sirius says.

James groans. "Oh, come on, between us, Remus, and Mary, we can
absolutely get in there."

"Yeah, by force, and is that really how you want to kick off your
wedding? Busted knuckles and bruises? Possible gunshots?"

"No one has a gun at my wedding."

"I'm, like, ninety-nine percent sure that Lily has a gun everywhere. I
swear I saw her pull one out of her fucking bra one time, James, I'm
not even joking. She's mental."

"Sirius."

"Hey, okay, hey," Sirius says, responding to the urgency in James'

tone by bringing his hands up to James' face, cradling James between
his palms. "Talk to me. What is it?"

"I want to see him."

"Yes, you keep saying. It's just—ah, why?"

497
 The Wedding

James swallows and says nothing, wishing Sirius hadn't asked.

"James," Sirius murmurs, "I can't help if you won't tell me what's
wrong. Whatever it is, it's what I'm here for, right?"

"Yeah, but—Regulus is your brother."

"He is that, but I'm your best man. I'm your best friend, James. This
is literally my job, so lay it on me."

"What if—" and James stops, grimacing, feeling his stomach twist.
Sirius waits, no judgment in his expression, and James still can't meet
his eyes as he continues. "It's—I know it's stupid, but what if he
doesn't go through with it?"

"With marrying you?" Sirius asks quietly.

"Yeah," James whispers, ridiculously ashamed. It's just. It's a fear, he

thinks, one that has had a lot more time to fester than the opposing
relief. All those years Regulus spent turning away from him, turning
him away, claiming to hate him and ignoring him and not wanting
him. He knows—he does know what it really was, after Regulus has
said it, and shown it; just the same, that's ten years of buildup for
these insecurities, compared to the three that counteract them.
Regulus wanted him once, and then he stopped. He could again.

It's so fucking stupid, because James knows Regulus loves him, and
wants him. He knows that like he knows Regulus' eyes. He knows
that like he knows his home in the dark. He knows that like he
knows the handle of his cane and the weight of his glasses on his
face. He knows. He has no doubts, and yet the stupid fucking fear
exists within him anyway.

"If he can't go through with marrying you," Sirius ventures

cautiously, "what will seeing him before the wedding change?"

"I don't know," James admits, and it almost comes out as a whimper.
"Maybe he'll remember he loves me?"

Sirius' face softens, the pads of his thumbs pressing into the bolts of
James' jaw. "Trust me on this, no one forgets someone they love. We
can lose our minds, lose every sense of this world, get it all mixed up
until we think things are what they aren't—but we don't forget love.

498
I promise you, he hasn't forgotten. Even if he couldn't make it down
that aisle, for whatever reason, he wouldn't forget that he loves you."

"Okay, but—but what if he can't make it down the aisle?"

"So what if he can't? Will you forget you love him if he doesn't?"

"No," James croaks.

"Well, there you go," Sirius murmurs. "I don't really think your love
for each other hinges on reaching the altar, James. I know you'll wait
for him there, so just trust that he'll come to you."

That's honestly like a slap to the face. James gives a violent blink,
feeling the fear reframed in his mind with six simple words. Trust
that he'll come to you.

James does. He trusts Regulus without wavering, with everything,

with himself. He trusted Regulus when all evidence suggested he
shouldn't, and he'll trust him with this, too. He'll trust him to his last
breath, and what's there to be afraid of, then?

All at once, instantly, James relaxes. He just—goes loose, all of his

jitters fleeing in the face of hope. This leaves him with an earnest
desire to see Regulus still, just for a new reason. Oh, he wants to kiss
that man.

"Let me see him," James says breathlessly, surging forward for the
door, caught quickly by Sirius. "Hey, no, it's fine. I'm fine, I just—I
love him. I—Sirius, I really fucking love him."

"I know," Sirius replies through a grunt of laughter, hauling him back
a few steps.

"I'm going to love him until I die," James announces, practically

bouncing on his toes, eager now. "And then beyond that, to whatever
comes next. I bet he looks so beautiful. Can't I just steal a little peek?
Just—"

Sirius snorts and blocks the door. "Not on your life, James. This is
one tradition there's no need to break."

499
 The Wedding

"I'm marrying that man. I'm marrying him," James states in a fit of
wonder, then it feels like his legs are giving out; he's so excited he's
shaking, so he has to find a chair. "Oh, fuck, Sirius, I'm marrying
Regulus."

"Yes, that is what this whole day is about." "This is the best day of my
life."

"Thought that'd be when you met me, actually." "Sorry, this tops it."

"As your best friend, bad answer," Sirius scolds, then pauses for
dramatic effect. "As his older brother, best answer."

James gazes at him, chest pulsing with warmth. "I'm going to take
such good care of him, do you know that? I'm going to be so good to
him, Sirius."

"I know," Sirius whispers, slightly misty-eyed, and he clears his

throat. "Yeah, I never doubted that. Not once. There's no one I could
ever trust more with him than you."

"Fuck." James struggles not to cry, then holds his breath so he won't
scream, full to the brim with so much emotion he can barely stand it.
Again, helplessly, he springs up out of the chair and tries for the
door. "Can I just—"

Sirius laughs at him fondly, but doesn't let him leave. James never
once stops trying.

~•~

Regulus and James get married on a warm day in May, under the
gentle blanket of sunshine, in front of only their closest friends and
families, surrounded by flowers and a lot of love.

It's a small, private wedding with every detail carefully in place,

maintained, no mix-ups and no messes. Everything that could go
wrong on this day doesn't; there is no surprise rain, all the food is
perfect, everyone respects the rule to not take pictures or videos, and
no part of this day is leaked for anyone to see who wasn't already
here to bear witness.

500
Effie walks James down the aisle alone, the open space on his other
side where his father is meant to be a gap noticed by all, but James
leans on his mother and lets the memory of his father warm him, and
they're both there, every step of the way.

Sirius walks Regulus down the aisle, and no one knows this except
them, but before the wedding started, Sirius gently fixed Regulus' tie
and whispered to him that if, at any point, he wanted to stop or run
away, Sirius would make a scene for him if that's what it came to.
Regulus had laughed at him at the time, mildly appalled that Sirius
would even suggest it, and then halfway up the aisle, he comes to a
screeching halt.

"Regulus?" Sirius whispers, and Regulus can't breathe.

They're all looking at him. They're all watching. Effie is there in the
front row, swiveled in her chair with her smile never fading. Other
people are sinking down in their chairs as the secondhand
embarrassment hits, because what's more embarrassing than a
wedding everyone's been waiting on coming to a dead halt because
one half of the couple is frozen in place and debating running in the
opposite direction? Yeah, it doesn't really get much more humiliating
than that, does it?

But James... He doesn't look humiliated. He's just standing there

patiently, so patient, like he will stand right there for as long as it
takes Regulus to reach him. Ten seconds, ten minutes, or ten years
—it doesn't matter, because that's the face of a man who hasn't ever
given up and won't start now. Regulus is stubborn? No, no, there's
no one in this world more stubborn than James Fleamont Potter.

"Reggie?" Sirius mumbles. "What are we doing? Running? Do you

need a minute? Should I faint? I can pretend to faint; just say the
word, and I'll pretend to faint."

Regulus shakily jerks his head, unable to speak, but he desperately

doesn't want Sirius to pretend to faint. He doesn't really know what
he's doing, why he stopped, why he can't move. He doesn't know
what he needs right now.

501
 The Wedding

It's just. It's a hell of a time to remember all the things wrong with
him, isn't it? To think about the scars, inside and out, and how he got
them, and how they've faded as much as they're ever going to, but
they'll never fully go away. To think about how he's mean and
miserable and can't take a shower. To think about how one of his
greatest sources of comfort is a blade, and the fact that he doesn't
care about the world or most of the people in it, and the way he can
still taste blood in his worst moments. To think about the pain he is
responsible for and the deaths he has caused, either just by
circumstances or by his own hand. To think about how he loves, and
how he's never really been the best at it. It's a hell of a time to stand
in front of the man he's been dreaming of marrying since he was ten
and think about how, maybe, he doesn't deserve to.

James looks so, so beautiful before him. So beautiful Regulus could

cry, and will cry, probably, because how? How can one person be that
beautiful on the outside as much as they are on the inside, and how
the fuck did Regulus trick him into thinking the same thing when he
looks at him? How can he look at Regulus and think of anything
good at all?

Regulus is not brave. He is, in fact, a coward. Any act he has

committed that could be labeled as bravery was always rooted either
in spite or survival, anger and fear, lashing out and simple self-
preservation. He is a Black, at his core, in a way Sirius is not, in the
worst way, and it doesn't matter what name he takes; he will never
be able to shed that weight.

His parents, if they were alive, would not be at this wedding, and
that shouldn't matter to him. That shouldn't hurt him. But it does.
But it always will. He is not Sirius; it is not enough that Effie is here,
lit up with approval and delight. But Sirius is Sirius, and so it is
enough that he is here, clamped down on Regulus' arm like he will
drag him away or drag him up the aisle, whatever Regulus asks him
to do, and in the meantime, simply hold him up so he won't fall.

And James is here, at the end of the aisle, standing so bravely and
with no shame in front of everyone, happy to marry a man that the
whole world knows is a perpetual fuck-up, as if it does not strike
him to care that Regulus is most likely going to fuck up again and
again and again for the rest of their lives, because to him, it doesn't

502
matter how many times Regulus fucks up as long as he continues to
try.

Regulus stands in place as the seconds tick by.

One, and he remembers the day he came to the door to meet Sirius'
new best friend. A lanky, knobbly-kneed boy with lopsided glasses
and a smile that Regulus felt warm him, all the way from his chest to
his face. Oh, how he blushed upon meeting James Potter. Enamored
instantly.

Two, and he remembers the day he tossed a snowball at the back of

James Potter's head. Look at me, look at me, please see me. He
wanted so badly for James to just notice him, and more than that, see
him with no desire to ever look away again. Pay attention, James, all
this juvenile love is real, and it's yours.

Three, and he remembers the day they sat in the courtyard, when
Sirius was fighting on the screen. Regulus felt as if he was falling,
and then James' hand was in his, and it felt, for a moment, as if he
was caught before he could hit the ground. Just for a moment. Sirius
killed someone that day, and the ground was cold when he landed.

"Regulus," James says from the end of the aisle, his voice soft and his
eyes softer, locked on him like no one else is here.

Four, and he remembers dramatically tossing every journal with

James Potter's name inside it into a fire, a burning hatred building in
his bones, resentment setting him ablaze. Sirius was home, and
Sirius wasn't home, and Sirius wouldn't see him. Sirius didn't want
him, and neither did James. Regulus was the scorned, the unwanted,
the lost and lonely watching paper turn to ash with first love's first
heartbreak scalding him from the inside out. He swore never again
to give James Potter the satisfaction of caring about him. He was a
liar, even then.

Five, and he remembers how it felt to stand at what should have

been their last reaping, hearing James' name called first. That lump
that formed in his throat was all the tears he had yet to let himself
shed over the bright boy the world was determined to dim. He
deserved better than that. Even then, from that moment, though

503
 The Wedding

Regulus didn't know it, he heard James' name and hoped he would
get to come home. For James, he always found it in himself to hope.

Six, and he remembers the crimson river, remembers the day he

realized his feelings were all twisted from hate to love and love to
hate, one-in-the-same and worth drowning for. He would die for
James. Even before he ever felt the intimacy of his touch, his lovely
loving hands, Regulus would have died for him. Still would. It'd be
easier, for him, if there was a crimson river at the end of the aisle to
toss himself into in the name of love. For him, it's easiest to show
love when it's a tragedy.

"Reg," James calls quietly, speaking to him and no one else, with a
deep breath in and deep breath out. You'll always be my Reg, he said
once. Even here, on pause at their wedding they were both so eager
to get to, that apparently remains true.

Seven, and he remembers each and every flower on his doorstep, left
behind by a man who hadn't dimmed a bit, despite all the shadows
he carried with him. A flower to get out of bed. A man through a
window to give a flower to. No one was climbing then, but maybe
they were both growing.

Eight, and he remembers a promise broken in the name of love. Liar,

liar, he was such a liar. He meant to be; it was cruel, and to this day,
he cannot regret it. But it was him, of anyone, who taught the man
who hated nothing what love could feel like when hate infected it.
Love and hate, hand- in-hand and at two ends of the spectrum. For
each other, they've done both.

Nine, and he remembers that he loves James in every way he knows

how, and would do anything for him, and hasn't done nearly enough
while simultaneously doing more than anyone else ever has. James
deserves the very best, and Regulus is the one he wants. To him,
Regulus knows, there's no one better.

James looks at him like he can't look away, and doesn't want to, ever.
He looks at him, like he sees him, and he does, and he says, softly,
"You're hesitating, love."

Ten, and Regulus' breath punches out of him. He swallows,

dry-mouthed and so in love that it's the most terrifying thing he's

504
ever experienced, but fear makes us human, and Regulus has never
been more human, or more alive, than he is in this moment. He is
shaking, and like from hate to love and how they were always the
same anyway, Regulus' desire to run away reveals itself as the desire
to run right to him.

In the end, Regulus is the one urging Sirius up the aisle.

"Slow down, we're going, we're going," Sirius mutters with a

chuckle, patting his arm placatingly.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up," Regulus chants, nearly tripping over his
own feet to get to James faster. He all but snatches away from Sirius
to try and get to him, but Sirius smacks the back of his hand and
grips his wrist, huffing and making a big production of passing
Regulus off to James, who is beaming and grinning and dangerously
close to laughing. Regulus forgets anyone else is here with James
right there; they all disappear out of view, even Sirius, and Regulus
clings to James' hands for dear life. "Sorry, baby. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," James murmurs. "Had a moment."

"I saw."

"You didn't look worried."

"Mm, I knew you'd make your way to me eventually."

Regulus wheezes out a high-pitched laugh, shaking from the top of

his head to the bottom of his feet, because he's never been happier
and didn't know happiness like this even existed in the first place.
"Are you sure you still want to do this? Marry me, I mean. It's not too
late to back out, you know. I'm almost positive no one would blame
you."

"And you call me stupid," James teases, eyes sparkling behind his
glasses. "Love, there's nowhere else in any world I'd rather be. This is
exactly what I want to do. What about you?"

"Yes," Regulus breathes out. "Yes, please."

505
 The Wedding

And so, on a warm day in May, with a war in their rear view and a
life of love on the horizon, they get married. You might wish to know
the details, and every single second from start to finish; you might
wish to know what they say in their vows and what Regulus' poem
to James reads; you might wish to know what they are thinking, and
how they feel when they say I do, and what that first kiss as
husbands mean to them.

You might wish to know a lot of things about their wedding, and
their love, but frankly, it's no one's business but theirs.

506
 12
EVERYTHING
______

Life's a hard thing to describe, isn't it? Everything is a concept of

which there are no words to properly explain. Where does it begin,
and where does it end? What about all that's in between? What parts
are the most important?

It's an arduous undertaking, but maybe it's a task that's best shown
like memories made along the way, a simple series of snapshots.

Here, have some:

~•~

"You have to fuck me here."

"Sirius."

"You're contractually obligated. It's written in the stars." "Sirius."

"I mean, really fuck me, too. Until I cry."

"Hi, Sirius," Lyall says, from the screen that Sirius has yet to notice,
his voice mild with laughter

carefully covered in it.

Sirius whips around, wide-eyed and horrified.

"I'm on the phone," Remus says, "with my dad."

"Nice to hear you two are settling in," Lyall offers, amused.

507
 Everything

"Oh no," Sirius whispers, then squeezes his eyes shut, covers his face
with both hands, and slides down the length of the wall like his life
is officially over, because he's the most dramatic person on the
planet.

"He's dying inside, isn't he?" Lyall asks.

"Slowly," Remus confirms, and Lyall snorts, pulling Styx back when
he attempts to lick the screen. Remus chuckles and shakes his head.
"Right, well, I have to go, Dad. Apparently the stars have demands
of me. Or just one, at least."

Sirius groans.

"Sure, sure. Bye, son," Lyall says, then raises his voice as his eyes
sparkle with mirth. "Bye, Sirius!"

"Bye, Lyall," Sirius replies weakly, blushing so intensely that Remus

could probably strike a match off him.

Remus puts his phone down when it blinks off, then dumps his chin
in his hand, gazing at Sirius fondly. "So, where am I to fuck you until
you cry?"

"Nowhere," Sirius declares mournfully, deflated on the floor like a

popped balloon. "You're not to touch me again, because I am a
disgrace. A naughty, filthy temptress corrupting your only chance at
purity. I'm a siren, Remus, singing to you and ensuring your ruin, as
is my nature."

"Sweetheart, get off the floor and come here." "No, I'm never
standing again."

"Okay, then crawl to me," Remus says.

Sirius opens his mouth, closes it, then stares at him. Remus stares
back. The clock on the wall ticks. Sirius keeps looking at him, and he
licks his lips unconsciously; his eyes do that thing where they get all
dewey and glazed, and if his blush was fading before, it sure as shit
isn't now.

508
Remus honestly doesn't expect Sirius to actually do it. Not really.
He's never—it's not like that's something he's sat around and
thought about, some secret desire where he's wanted to see Sirius
fucking crawl to him, hands and knees on the floor of their home
they're still making their own, the red in his cheeks spilling down his
throat and under his collar, gaze fixed right on him and lips parted.

Yeah, Remus never thought about it, but Sirius does it anyway, and
Remus will be damned if it's not one of the most attractive things
he's ever seen in his life; he's watched this man catch a spear out of
midair, so that's really saying something.

Sirius stops beside his chair to rest his chin on Remus' leg, gazing up
at him under his eyelashes. When he speaks, it's soft and impossibly
sweet. "Hi."

"Hi," Remus says, staring down at him, fixated. His brain has
sputtered to a halt. Run out of gas. Broke the fuck down.

"Didn't think I'd do it, huh?" Sirius teases, lips curling up. "Didn't
think I wanted you to, until you did," Remus admits.

"Oh?" Sirius' smile stretches, not so innocent anymore. He braces

both hands on Remus' thigh and lifts himself up, a gleam in his eye.
A hum of satisfaction escapes him when he sways in and Remus
does as well, automatic. "Well, whatever you want, my love. You
know that."

"I want," Remus states, "to take you to bed."

"Ah, except for that." Sirius deflates, grimacing a little bit as he falls
back on his haunches. "Shit, sorry, I'm being a tease."

"Mm, not in the mood?" Remus asks, not upset in the least. This is
how it is, sometimes, and Remus never wants anything Sirius
doesn't anyway, so it's not a problem. It should never, ever be a
problem for anyone.

509
 Everything

"At the moment, no, but I'm fully capable of making plans for when I
am, and some day, Remus, you absolutely have to fuck me on this
table," Sirius declares, reaching up to pat it.

Remus chuckles. "You and your obsession with sex on the furniture
and appliances." "It's not an obsession—"

"Last week, it was the washing machine."

Sirius huffs. "Stop fucking with me."

"Never," Remus replies, his voice warm.

Like a reflex, Sirius smiles, and he sort of tips himself forward to flop
down on the floor and lay his head over on Remus' leg again. It's the
least graceful Remus has ever seen him; he looks like someone
spilled him out of a can all over the floor. With a ruthless affection
clenching in his chest, Remus reaches down to start carding his
fingers through Sirius' hair. Sirius hums.

The house is quiet. Secluded. It would be, as it's an old house out
past the forge on the outskirts of the district, not too terribly far from
the Victor's Village, but not too close either. Sirius doesn't know who
lived here before, and neither does Effie, even. They said it's been
empty as long as both

of them can remember. Maybe Aberforth would know, but no one's

bold enough to reach out to him for trivial matters such as that. It
was easy enough to buy the land, and the house, and now it's theirs.

It's theirs. Remus loves it, despite the fact that the first time Regulus
entered, he described it as quaint, with no small amount of
judgement in his tone. To be fair, it is quaint, but that's precisely
what Remus and Sirius love about it.

See, their home is a bit shabby. A bit of a fixer-upper. It's a house

with old bones, a big backyard wrapped in a broken fence, and
rotted wood out on front steps. The house comes with projects, and
Sirius—likes that. He likes fixing things, likes to replace the wood
out front and rewire the fence out back, likes to patch the roof and
add new planes of glass to the shattered windows. It's a house, but

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it's a home they get to build. Well, mostly Sirius. Honestly, Remus
doesn't do much, but he's helped Mary and Lily repaint rooms and
such, which was fun. He also still likes to wash clothes and hang
them out on the line in the backyard, soothed by the repeated motion
of clipping on the clothespins, usually accompanied by Sirius and
Stella running about or rolling around in the grass.

It's a lot of open space, which Remus really likes, too. There are times
when he steps out on their back porch and just tips his face up to feel
the wind through his hair, breathing in the scent of the honeysuckle
that grows along the perimeter of the fence, opening his eyes to look
around and see —nature. They aren't too far from the forest, so
there's a lot of meadow between here and that treeline, so much
green and brown and splatterings of color from the meadow flowers
in bloom.

Remus likes that he can leave doors open and come and go as he
pleases. He likes that he can just randomly take a walk whenever he
wants, going anywhere and as far as he wants to, hearing the birds
sing and letting his new home leave a lasting imprint in his mind,
taking shape, something to settle in. He likes that he has the freedom
to do anything, and really, all he ever wants to do is just —exist. Just
be.

It was different back home in district twelve, for Remus, and he

didn't even realize it. There was this gap between Remus who was
home, and Remus who was made into a servant. Being back in
twelve almost felt like erasing the latter just to be the former, but
being here is something new. Remus who is free. That's all it is. A
new freedom to embrace.

Besides, it also feels...more mature, somehow. Or like the next phase

of his life. Just living with Sirius, having a home with Sirius, all on
their own. At the start, when they made it back to district six, they
stayed with Effie until Sirius made the house livable enough that
they could move in, making sure there were no hazards and such.
That took some time, and while Remus didn't mind living with
Effie—neither did Sirius, and she certainly didn't—he can't deny that
he loves having his own home, with Sirius, something that's
irrefutably theirs.

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 Everything

It's definitely different, that's for sure. Remus and Sirius don't fight
very much—or they didn't, back when they couldn't waste time on
anything such as that, seizing every second that they could get and
trying so fucking hard to make the most out of it, never taking it for
granted. But it's human to take things for granted; it's nice, even,
getting to have that leisurely sort of luxury of knowing they're not on
a time limit, no more than anyone else, anyway. So, sometimes, they
do fight.

Well, they don't fight like most couples, Remus doesn't think. He's
seen James and Regulus have a go at each other; those two are
fucking mental, and you'd think they'd want to kill each other if you
didn't know how much they love each other. Even Mary and Lily
fight, and that consists of sharp hisses under their breaths, cold
silences, and clipped agreements to talk about it later when they're
alone. That's mature in its own way, just the agreement to put a pin
in their issues and work them out in privacy, unlike Regulus and
James, who will go in circles right in front of anyone, which Remus
finds stupid and exhausting most of the time. Sirius finds it's
hilarious.

But, for Remus and Sirius, it's...different. Odd enough that Remus
has gotten the question more than once if he and Sirius ever fight at
all. They do, yes, because Sirius is dramatic and very petty
sometimes, while Remus sometimes gets the itch for a bit of chaos
and has a habit of being passive-aggressive.

However, it's never a conversation that closes before they've made it

to the resolution. Whatever it is they're upset about, they talk about
it, in the end. Sure, they go through bickering and snapping at each
other from time-to-time, but it never lasts long before they're
shutting that down just to talk.

Remus thinks it's because of something unique only they really

understand, at least as deep as they do. Remus went six years neither
seen, nor heard. Sirius went over a fucking decade putting on an act,
never known and never actually listened to. That manifests now,
where neither of them have the desire to silence each other, or shut
one another out.

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Strange, really, what the worst things in your life can teach you.

In any case, they have their home. Their everything, as they

imagined it. Well, alright, they don't have the spiral staircase, but
that's because there's no second floor. They do have a back porch
with a swing they use often enough. Neither of them anticipated the
dog, but Stella fits right in. She loves all the open space as well, and
the doggy-door Sirius installed that lets her come and go whenever.
Most of the time, she's never too far from Sirius, but sometimes she's
just resting on the porch, or chasing rabbits through the yard. She's
out there now, but Remus can't hear barking, so the rabbits haven't
come to terrorize her today. She's probably napping.

Sometimes, it strikes Remus that he's going to live here forever, until
he's old, and Sirius will be with him. They have a life here; they're
going to have a life here, and they're already making it. The life will
change to new freedoms to embrace, and he'll get to, over and over
and over.

Remus can see it, when he really looks. Laughter in the kitchen,
exchanged smiles around clothes out on a line, lazy nights under the
stars in the porch-swing Sirius built them. A dog that will run and
run for years, until her joints ache, until she's gone after living a life
so full of love that there's nothing to be sad about. Furniture to
stumble over and press against after their wedding, when they're
married, having to break in every surface as husbands. Rooms they
could put kids in.

"Hey," Remus whispers, hand sliding down to cup Sirius' face, under
his chin, tilting his head up. "Hi," Sirius replies, blinking at him,
bemused smile in place.

"Yeah, hi," Remus says with a breathless laugh of exhilaration, and

then he's urging Sirius up, guiding him with a hand under his chin.
Sirius comes willingly, hands unfurling on Remus' thigh as he braces
himself there and stretches up as far as Remus wants him to, until
their faces are hovering close together. Remus drinks the sight of him
in, something feeling swollen and hot under his ribcage, this strange
impulse to tilt his head back and howl in triumph. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Hi," Sirius whispers, scanning Remus' face. "You look happy."

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 Everything

"I am," Remus tells him, rocking in close to cover Sirius' mouth with
his own, kissing him. "I really am."

"Do I make you happy?" Sirius mumbles into his mouth, between
kisses. "Yes, you do," Remus confirms, then kisses him again.

"Is this the everything you wanted?" Sirius whispers, hand lifting to
the back of Remus' head, keeping him there to ask for another kiss,
and another.

"You're the everything I wanted," Remus admits breathlessly, hands

in Sirius' hair, holding him there to give him anything he wants.
Another, another, another. "It was you, it was always you, that's all it
ever was. You, sweetheart."

Sirius makes a noise, excited and delighted, a giddy laugh spilling

from his lips and through Remus' own, and then they're both
laughing, and then they're both still kissing, and then they're both
just sitting here in their home, with their everything, with their
freedom—and the only thing, in the end, that was ever tragically
inevitable and woefully pointless about them was how long they
spent thinking they'd never get here.

And yet, here they are.

~•~

On slow days, Sirius likes to go to the market with Remus in district

six, holding his hand and haggling with people he's known his
whole life, perhaps showing Remus off like the proudest man alive.
Remus almost always knows when he's gotten the urge to go out and
waste a few hours there, only occasionally buying things here or
there, because Sirius drags out his old leather jacket that still
miraculously fits, and that's a pretty clear signal he wants to get out
of the house.

Remus likes the jacket. Sirius knows this because the first time he put
it on—waiting for so long out of the habitual fear that it wouldn't fit,
especially after the war—Remus nearly snapped his neck doing a
double-take, and that was the day they finally had their way with
each other in a closet. Very cramped, but a lot of fun, Sirius can attest
to that.

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Anyway, they're out and about today, hands lazily linked between
them, the hustle and bustle of the market a lovely bit of background
noise as they stroll along. It's a slow day, a boring one, really, and not
one either of them are expecting to be significant in any way.

Doesn't take very long for that to change. It starts here:

"Molly's pregnant again," Sirius announces as they move together,

and Remus' eyes get wide. Sirius gets it. It's like Molly started
popping out babies and didn't stop. She already has three. "Yeah,
Pandora called me yesterday to tell me. Guess what? She's pregnant
with twins this time."

"Damn, Arthur," Remus mutters, eyebrows raised.

"Pandora said she and Arthur are happy. Tired, but happy," Sirius
says, rolling his shoulders in a shrug. "That's all that matters, at the
end of the day."

"Mhm."

"I just—I don't know. Kids, you know..." Remus' lips twitch. "You're
fishing."

"Pfft, no I'm not." Sirius pretends to be interested in a display of

homemade jewelry, stealing glances at Remus out of the corner of his
eye, but Remus has far more patience than he does. Sirius cracks in
approximately ten seconds, huffing as he swivels around to face
Remus. "Okay, fine, what about us?"

"What about us?"

"You know, what are we doing?"

"Perusing district six's market," Remus says lightly.

Sirius stops holding his hand, like a punishment. He crosses his

arms. "You know that's not what I meant. Kids, Remus. We've never
talked about it."

"We haven't talked about a lot of things," Remus replies.

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 Everything

"Other things aren't as...serious as this."

"Marriage isn't?"

"I don't think so," Sirius says slowly. "We'll get married, obviously."
Remus' eyebrows fly up. "Oh, will we?"

"Won't we?" Sirius asks, eyebrows furrowed. Remus stares at him,

keeps staring at him, and Sirius thinks about it, thinks about it,
thinks about— "Oh! Oh, I just—I went about that the wrong way,
didn't I? Wait, scratch that. Pretend I never said it. I didn't say that.
Who, me? No, never. Um."

"Sirius," Remus says, watching him look around with visible

amusement, gaze soft.

Sirius snatches up a half-bent spoon for sale off the table, old and
chipped, though the handle is intricately carved. He holds it up and
says, "Okay, will you marry me?"

"What?" Remus wheezes, cracking up laughing immediately.

"It's—it's the first thing I grabbed—"

"You can't propose to me with a spoon—"

"Watch me," Sirius argues stubbornly, then goes to one knee, which
makes Remus' eyes bulge, his laughter cutting out all at once.
"Remus Lupin—"

"Sirius!" Remus hisses, hands darting out frantically to tug at his

elbows, looking around furtively as people stare at them in blatant
curiosity, his cheeks stained red. "You lunatic, you can't just— fuck's
sake, are you mad?"

"You want to choose," Sirius insists, not budging. "You want the
freedom to choose, so you want to be asked, even though we both
know we'll get married someday, so I'm asking."

Remus groans and rubs his hands over his face, his ears delightfully
pink. "I—yes, okay, you're right. You are right, but sweetheart, you're
meant to ask closer to someday. Not this far away from it."

"But we already know you're going to say yes."

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"Yes, someday."

"Someday?" Sirius asks, meeting Remus' eyes when he drops his

hands to stare at him in clear exasperation. Sirius kneels before him
with a bent, chipped spoon and the sudden sensation of his heart
lodged in his throat, a squirmy feeling in his stomach. He does not
know how he got here. He does not know where else he'd rather be.
"How far away from someday are we, Remus? I'd marry you
tomorrow."

Remus' breath catches. Sirius hears it, and feels like he could fucking
expand to outgrow the mass of earth until he can wrap his fingers
around it and swallow it in one, like a giant, like a black hole out in
space taking everything in, because Remus is looking at him like he
is the whole universe already, and Sirius would be anything for him,
even the impossible.

"I can't believe you're proposing to me with a spoon," Remus

whispers.

"I, um, also can't believe I'm proposing to you with a spoon," Sirius
admits sheepishly. "I may have —gotten ahead of myself. Sorry. You
deserve way better, but like, I'm in this now. Sort of have to see it
through, at this point."

Remus laughs, one of his hands lifting toward his mouth, fingers
gently pressing against his own smile, like he wants to feel it. "You're
a mess, you know that?"

"Yeah, I know," Sirius murmurs. "It's not exactly what you'd want to
tie yourself to through marriage, honestly."

"And yet," Remus says, his voice soft.

Sirius' heart does something rather wild in his chest, like it's
ricocheting off his ribs. His hand is trembling around the spoon and
he has no idea when it began to. "And yet?"

"And yet, I'm going to," Remus tells him.

"You are?" Sirius blurts out, breathless. "You'll marry me?"

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 Everything

"Sirius, sweetheart," Remus says, eyes bright with a mixture of

humor and love. There's love there, in his eyes, and it's making Sirius
feel lightheaded. "Yes, I'll marry you. Obviously."

"Oh," Sirius chokes out, and he has no idea why it exhilarates him
this much, because when he went into it, he was only thinking about
the fact that he already knew Remus would say yes; it's not like
they've never casually dropped it in the middle of conversations
before, just little things like when we're married or we can never let
Regulus help plan our wedding. And yet, and yet, and yet —despite
knowing Remus would say yes, actually hearing him say yes
is—is—it's fucking glorious.

"Are you going to cry?" Remus asks, lips curled up.

"No," Sirius says, and then, "maybe," and then, "shut up," and then
he springs to his feet and

nearly tackles Remus straight to the ground as he flings his arms

around him and immediately sticks his tongue enthusiastically in his
mouth.

Around them, there is a lot of bemused clapping.

Remus can barely kiss him for the grin on his face, but Sirius is not
deterred. He kisses him harder, deeper, until that takes all of Remus'
focus, and then—yes, right there, that. Kiss, kiss, kiss. Sirius loves
kissing Remus. Loves how it's often a doorway to sex, and loves that
the door can remain closed. Loves that it's not about sex, for all that
they generally start there, because it's too busy being about love.
Sirius is always kissing Remus just to kiss him.

When they break apart, Remus is grinning again, and Sirius leans in
and bumps their noses together. He has never felt better than he does
at this moment.

"Excuse me. Hey, excuse me," says the person working the stall
they're next to. "You still have to pay for the spoon."

Sirius' expression falls flat, and Remus immediately erupts into

laughter that he has to bury in Sirius' shoulder. Sirius cups the back
of his head and turns a slow, deadly glare on the person daring to

518
interrupt their moment. One look is all it takes. That look is all it
takes.

They get the spoon for free.

"With a spoon?" Lily asks.

~•~

Remus huffs a laugh and nods. "With a damn spoon." "Was it at least
a nice spoon?"

"Worst spoon I've ever seen."

Lily purses her lips, then says, "I'll kill him."

"It was the most romantic thing that anyone's ever done for me,"
Remus tells her.

"Okay, resurrecting him," Lily amends. From inside the house, there's
another roar of laughter, sourced from James. He's been losing his
collective shit since Sirius announced that he and Remus were
engaged, first with the tears of joy, because he's a big man with big
emotions, and then with the laughter the second Sirius confessed
when, where, and how the proposal took place. The moment Sirius
said so, I picked up a spoon and got on one knee, Lily met Remus'
gaze and jerked her head towards the door, leaving them to slip
outside and light up smokes under the evening sky. "I'm going to
need you to clarify how that's romantic, though."

"Sirius is impulsive, and spontaneous, and—a mess," Remus

murmurs fondly, "so it was very him, if that makes sense. But it's
more than that, you know? In the Hallow, he was the very first
person who ever took into account what I wanted or my freedom,
and that...never stopped. It hasn't stopped. The second he realized
that I wanted the freedom to choose to say yes or no, even though
we both knew I'd say yes, he gave me what I wanted. Literally the
instant he realized, Lily."

"Okay, yeah, that is a bit sweet," Lily allows.

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 Everything

Remus chuckles, flicking ash and leaning back on his elbows next to
her. They're perched on the steps, pressed close to one another,
setting their lungs on fire. "I think the sweetest part is that he wasn't
entirely sure of himself. Like, he thought he was, at first, but he has
these insecurities, you know? Because it's the real him. No mask. No
performance. And that's a scary thing. But he still did it anyway, for
me."

"Well, as long as you're happy," Lily muses. "I, um. I have it all
planned out for Mary, you know."

"Do you?" Remus asks, curious.

Lily bites down on a smile. "Yeah. With all the wedding chatter
around James and Regulus, Bingley asked me when Mary and I were
going to get married. I may have sat down with him and planned
how I'd ask."

"So, he's cool with it?"

"Cool with it? He's ecstatic. I mean, we were both a bit giddy about
the whole idea. Stayed up until after midnight whispering about it
while Mary was lost in some art piece."

Remus hums. "What's the idea, then?"

"Well, I'm not the most artistic person, but Mary has two versions of
the alphabet hanging on the wall in her classroom, each individual
letter painted by her students, including Bingley, and ah, we do this
thing every morning for breakfast as a family where we work on the
crossword puzzle together. I reached out to Pandora, who's with the
person who runs the paper, and they agreed to have all the answers
spelled out telling her to go to her classroom, where Bingley and I
will have rearranged the alphabet to spell out will you marry me?"

"Lily."

"Yeah?" Lily asks.

"You're absolutely smitten," Remus informs her.

Lily coughs, because she's in the middle of inhaling when she starts
laughing. When she calms, she says, "Yeah, I know. She's the best

520
thing that ever happened to me. She left a scar on me when we first
met in more ways than one."

"You should put that in your vows." "I should, shouldn't I?"

Remus smiles and knocks their shoulders together. "You have

yourself a little family, Lily. That's lovely, you know."

"We're, um." Lily glances over at him, licking her lips, her eyes
bright. "There was a pregnancy scare. A minor one. I was late, and I
had forgotten to take my birth control, and—and I didn't think
anything of it, but then... Well, in any case, we thought it was a
possibility, so we talked to Bingley about it."

"Oh? How'd he take it?"

"He was alright, mostly. We thought he was uncomfortable, for a bit,

then he finally 'fessed up and said he wasn't entirely sure what the
dynamic would be. Would he feel like an older sibling, or an uncle,
or both? Just—nerves, I guess. But we were all nervous together, so
that was something. Of course, three days later, we found out I
wasn't."

"Naturally," Remus agrees.

Lily clears her throat. "Bingley was a bit disappointed, actually. The
idea of a baby seems sort of exciting to him. Just...the idea of
something new to love. It's sweet, really. I just—I wasn't expecting
me to be disappointed. Or Mary, for that matter. Startled us both, I
think."

"Sometimes you don't realize you want something until you realize
you don't have it," Remus says softly.

"Yeah, exactly," Lily murmurs. "So...it's definitely happening. Us

having a baby, I mean. Not— not now, but sooner than we thought.
In a couple years, at the latest."

Remus stops and looks at her, hearing the gravity in her tone, his
heart seeming to skip a beat in his chest like she's just told him
they're having a baby. He whispers, "Really?"

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 Everything

"Really," Lily whispers back, so much love there in her eyes.

Remus sits right there beside her and laughs until he cries, just as she
does the same, giggling through their tears and the headrush of
living through all that they have to reach a world where children are
something to be excited about, instead of dreading it, instead of
guilty for bringing them into it.

There they sit, two bodies inhaling the curl of smoke, and one heart
beating with the steady pulse of hope.

~•~

When James opens his door, he does not expect Alice to be on his
doorstep. All he can do is blink out at them for a moment, because he
hasn't seen them since—fuck, Frank's memorial? Wait, no, they went
to the Casselberry's memorial, too, just as James did, and that one
came after Frank's, so maybe then?

James is so shit at keeping track of the timeline.

What he does know, though, is that he hasn't seen Alice in years.

He's had contact with Emmeline —and so has Regulus from
time-to-time, and Sirius has, more frequently, and Sirius keeps up
with Alice as well, but James doesn't get involved in any of that,
outside of the quick, casual updates about them. Usually nothing
more than a yeah, they're alright.

They—look like they're alright, from first glance. James can safely
say he has certainly seen them worse, but then again, he can say that
about basically everyone he knows.

"When someone shows up at your door, Potter, you usually invite

them in," Alice points out dryly. "Well, only if you want them inside,"
James replies, raising his eyebrows, because the truth is, he's

not entirely sure he does want Alice in his home. Not if they're just
going to be rude. "Relax, I don't want any trouble," Alice mutters,
lifting a hand like they're stopping his

presumptions right in their tracks. "I promise not to make a fuss. I

just want to ask you something."

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James considers them for a moment, hesitating. Regulus is down at
the forge with Sirius, and he won't be home for an hour or two, at the
very least. James has been making him dinner, and next up is
braving the oven in the name of a casserole, and he really doesn't
have time to deal with his day being ruined. It's a good day, one he's
been enjoying, and plans to keep enjoying. James narrows his eyes
suspiciously at Alice, but they merely arch an eyebrow at him and
wait.

"Fine," James mutters, stepping back and leading them into his
house, "but I'm in the middle of cooking, so you're just going to have
to tolerate me bustling around and such. Or, if you're feeling
generous, you're more than welcome to give me a hand."

"I'm not feeling generous."

"Thought as much. Sit at the bar. Thirsty?"

Alice hums. "Have any lemonade? Emmeline got me hooked on that

shit. Nothing like iced lemonade on a hot day, yeah?"

"We have strawberry lemonade. Close enough?" James asks, digging

it out of the fridge.

"That'll do," Alice says, their chin propped in their hands as they dart
their gaze around to take everything in. "You have a lovely home."

James smiles slightly as he pours them their drink. "Thanks." He

passes them the drink and pauses on the other side of the bar,
clearing his throat. "So, ah, how have you and Emmeline been?
Doing alright?"

"Oh, we're—" Alice grimaces a bit. "We're not really an Alice and
Emmeline anymore. I don't know if you heard, but I moved back to
district five a couple of months ago..."

"Er, no, I didn't hear," James mumbles. "So, you two...?"

"Yeah, we split," Alice replies, heaving a sigh. "I know it's a shock, or
it seems to be for most people, like they can't really believe that two
people who made it through war together couldn't make it through
peace."

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 Everything

"It's not really my place to judge."

"Mm, well, everyone else does. They all assumed love would be
enough, you know? Doesn't work that way all the time, as it turns
out. I, um. Well, I suppose it's my fault more than hers. I was still so
angry after the war, for a long time."

"That," James murmurs, "I do understand."

Alice peers at him curiously. "Yeah? Suppose you would. We were all
in it together, weren't we? That's—well, I think that's the real reason
Emmeline and I couldn't make it, because we made it through that,
through war and grief. We spent years after the war trying to keep
clinging when the only time we managed to was wartime. Doesn't
make much sense, does it?"

"I don't know," James says, "Regulus and I—ah, we got through our
first arena together, and then afterwards we could hardly look at
each other. It was fucking awful."

"We just weren't happy," Alice confesses quietly. "We clung to each
other through loss and war, and then afterwards, we weren't happy.
We tried, you know? We really did, because how could we go
through all that and not last? But...we just..."

"You weren't happy," James repeats. "Nothing to be ashamed of, you

know. No one's expectations should matter, not against what makes
you happy. Is she happy now? Are you?"

"She is, yeah." Alice takes a deep breath. "We're—okay, if not a bit
distant for now, until we adjust. I miss her a lot, but I... I am happier,
now. Didn't know I could be, really."

James huffs a weak laugh. "Yeah, I get that, too."

"But you are happy." Alice leans forward on their elbows, surveying
him. "You're married."

"Yes," James agrees, holding their gaze, refusing to be ashamed of it,

or apologize, or feel an ounce of guilt. In Alice's story, he may be the
villain, but in his? In his, there was no villain, just pain, and now
peace.

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"You invited me. Why?"

"Is that what you came here to ask me?"

Alice nods. "Because it doesn't make sense, James. You invited the
person who essentially said you didn't deserve a happy ending to
your happy ending. I—I can't understand why you'd do that. It's—I
mean, I know why you saved me during the war. When you risked
your life to save mine, I know that wasn't for me; that was for Frank
and your mistake, but I'm not Frank, and you can't just replace him
with me—"

"Wait. Alice, wait," James cuts in, blinking rapidly as he swivels to

stare at them, wide-eyed. "You think—is that what you think? That I
helped you because of what happened with Frank?" He shakes his
head, exhaling like he's been punched in the stomach. "No, I helped
you because you needed help. I wasn't even thinking of Frank."

"But I was so cruel to you," Alice whispers.

"You were grieving, Alice," James says softly. "Regardless of what

you said, you needed help, so I helped. You may have hurt me, but
you're not a bad person, and I wasn't going to just stand by and let
you die, if I could stop it. I wouldn't do that with anyone. You may
have thought so, but I didn't do that with Frank. This may sound
tactless, but it wasn't about Frank. It's just...who I am. There's, you
know, versatility to it; good when it saves lives, like yours; not much
good at all, when as good as I try to be, bad things still happen
anyway."

"So, you made your peace with it, then? With what happened."

"I did, yeah. I hope that's not offensive. I don't mean for it to be, but I
also don't need you to forgive me for what happened with Frank, or
for you to grant me permission to continue on living. What
happened—it was fucked up, and something I'll always wish I can
change, but he wouldn't blame me. Frank wouldn't blame me no
more than I would have blamed him, if roles were reversed. So, I
don't need your forgiveness. I forgave myself, and when I think of
you, it's always with the hope that you'll do the same for yourself."

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 Everything

"I don't know if that's offensive. I want to be angry about it, but I
just..." Alice sighs and sort of tosses their hands up, shrugs, then
slumps with something close to a pout. James can't help it, he snorts
and shakes his head before turning around to open the oven and slip
the casserole in. Only once he's shut it does he actually turn the oven
on. Then, when he turns again, Alice clears their throat. "I don't
know why I came here. I think I wanted to...just ask why, or explain
why I didn't come, because I thought I didn't want to. Because there
was a time when I didn't want to see anyone else in this world
actually be happy, not in a world Frank wasn't in."

James bites his lip and raises his eyebrows. "But...?"

"But," Alice continues, lips curling up a bit, "I guess I was wrong. I
wish I did see it. I want people to be happy."

"Even you?" James asks.

"Even you," Alice tells him, then nods. "And yes, even me. So, I
suppose the real reason I came was to...ask why I deserved to be
invited at all."

"Do you want the truth?" James says, leaning in on the other side of
the bar, a smile twitching at his mouth. Alice tilts their head a little,
clearly curious. "Yeah, so Regulus doesn't know you were...harsh
with me. I, um. I never told him. He's a bit..."

"Crazy?" Alice suggests.

James sighs fondly. "Yeah, just a tad. So, uh, I didn't mention it to
him, and he didn't know; he was

handling, like, everything to do with the wedding—"

"Was he?"

"Oh, absolutely. He's a complete control freak. It's adorable."

Alice makes a face of confusion. "Adorable? That's the word you go

with to describe him? Like, of all the words..."

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"He's never not adorable to me, really," James explains, chuckling at
the skepticism on Alice's face. He waves a hand lazily. "Anyway, he
handled the invitations, too."

"Ohhhh," Alice says, drawing the word out. "Right, okay, that makes
more sense now, and also I feel like a bit of an idiot."

"Well, don't do that. I could have told him not to invite you, but I
didn't." James offers them a smile. "Alice, you were more than
welcome to come. I would have been happy to have you, and even
though you didn't come, I'm more than happy to have you in my life
now."

"You can't mean that."

"I do. And it's not...replacing Frank with you, to me. I was happy to
know Frank while I could. I'd be just as happy to know you, if you'd
let me. Besides, this world needs to tip the scales in sharing joy. If I
could, I'd share mine with everyone."

Alice swallows. "Even me?"

"Even you," James murmurs, and they look conflicted, like there's
more to say, more for them to do. Remorse is such a heavy thing
sometimes, and James doesn't want Alice weighed down by it, not
for him, especially when he has no ill will for them. Perhaps he was
the villain in their story, but their story isn't over yet. That was act
one. In act two, he'd like nothing more than to just be their friend. So,
before they can be crushed under the pressure to apologize, he
straightens up and lightly asks, "Hey, want to stay for dinner?"

"Oh, James, you don't have to—"

"It's a casserole. Can't go wrong with a casserole, that's what my dad

always said. Only thing I'd ask is for you to take it out of the oven for
me. I have pyrophobia, so I don't like intense heat and such. Usually
Regulus would do it for me, but I don't look for him to be home
before it's done. Help me out, yeah?"

"Alright, James," Alice says quietly, their face softening, and that's
enough. This is enough. "I'll help."

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 Everything

Sometimes, there's no need for apologies. Sometimes, there's an

understanding, a blooming friendship, and a desire to bear witness
to joy all while accepting your own.

Easy as that, act two begins.

~•~

Remus sees Sirius slip away right in the middle of their wedding.
He's there one second, staring at Remus like he's a fucking miracle,
and then—just like that—he's gone.

"Wait," Remus interrupts, and the officiator falls awkwardly silent,

darting looks between them, wide-eyed. "Sirius."

A blink. Nothing else.

"Sweetheart."

Another blink. That's all.

"Right," Remus says, stroking the back of Sirius' hands as he holds

them. "Okay then. We'll wait."

They wait. It's likely very awkward and uncomfortable for everyone
else, because they don't really know what's going on, but Remus
doesn't care about them. He doesn't care if they all get up and walk
away; he'll stay here and wait as long as it takes. Everything is on
pause, because Sirius isn't missing this.

Sirius seems—fine. Not upset. Not rocking. Not fighting. All he's
doing, really, is looking at Remus. There's no indication of why he
slipped away, or if he needs anything right now, so there's just this.
Just them standing hand-in-hand until, at some point, Sirius blinks
and jolts a little. His eyes go wide.

"No," Sirius whispers. "No, tell me I didn't—"

"It's okay," Remus whispers back. "Sirius, it's okay. I made them wait.
I waited for you." "You did?" Sirius asks, eyes filling with tears.

"Of course," Remus tells him. "You haven't missed a thing."

528
Sirius surges forward to grasp the sides of his head, crashing into a
kiss that Remus melts into immediately, heart soaring in his chest as
he gets his arms around Sirius. Multiple people clear their throat,
someone laughs—Remus is pretty sure it's his dad—and none of
them matter. Nothing matters as much as this; having this, having
Sirius, having everything.

"You aren't, ah, technically supposed to be kissing just yet," the

officiator mutters rather bravely, Remus thinks, and Sirius breaks
away with a groan, immediately frustrated.

"Well, hurry up," Sirius hisses, glaring at the officiator. "I was told to
wait," is the weak reply.

Remus huffs a soft laugh. "You can continue. Carry on."

The officiator does indeed carry on, and when they're actually meant
to be kissing, finally, Sirius drags Remus in eagerly and doesn't let
him go for a very, very long time. It's the only place in the world
Remus doesn't care for freedom, right there in the circle of Sirius'
arms. That's where everything is, where it ends and where it begins
and exists in between.

Right here.

~•~

"I've got an idea," Pandora says, passing out cups of tea to Regulus,
Remus, and James. Sirius would be with them, except he's still
banned from the Hallow, so he's staying in district one with Narcissa
and Alecto today.

"For us?" James asks hopefully, and Pandora nods.

"Oh, here we go," Regulus mutters, which causes Rodolphus to snort

into his own tea, then fix his face into something rather innocent
when Pandora shoots him a sharp look.

"Well, personally I think any idea is better than no idea," Xenophilius

announces, kicked back in their chair with their feet in Rodolphus'
lap. "How else will you get anywhere?"

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 Everything

"Suckup," Rodolphus whispers, and Xenophilius grins.

"What if you each go with a surrogate, so there's two children, and

then you adopt the other two?" Pandora asks. "You can't decide
whether to have a surrogate, or adopt, right? Well, I say do both!
Why shouldn't you do both?"

A pause, and then Rodolphus says, "Okay, she's right about this one.
When in doubt, go with both options, if you can."

"I'm in favor," Xenophilus agrees, lifting their teacup with a tiny

smile, and this time, both Rodolphus and Pandora snort.

"I think that's a brilliant idea," Remus muses, cocking his head at
Regulus and James, who have been debating how exactly they want
to introduce children into their lives.

Trust Pandora to encourage them to do it all ways.

"I—" James stops and swivels his head to look at Regulus, his
eyebrows raised. "You know, I... actually like that idea."

"I don't hate it," Regulus says softly.

James brightens and grins at the others. "That means he loves it.
Pandora, I think you just solved our dilemma."

"Yeah, she's good at that," Rodolphus offers, his voice warm with
affection, with love, just like Xenophilius looks as they gaze at her.
"Better than most, in any case."

"Phil and Phus are going to take turns trying to get me pregnant at
some point," Pandora announces, and by the way Rodolphus and
Xenophilius both immediately start choking and coughing on their
tea, this is news to them as well. She doesn't pay them any mind.
"But, you know, preferably after my talk show gets picked up. I
mean, I could be a stay-at-home mum, except I don't want to, and
really, Phus stays at home enough for all of us, so he can be a stay-at-
home dad. Phil has the paper, and I'll have the show, and Phus can
watch the kids. Or kid. I don't know how many we'll have, honestly.
Not as many as Molly—she's pregnant with her sixth now, can you

530
believe that? After Fred and George, I can't imagine how she hasn't
clipped Arthur's—"

"Maybe they're trying on purpose," Remus cuts in hastily, grimacing

a little bit at, presumably, the mental imagery.

"I think, for me, six is a bit much," Pandora says. "Honestly, James
and Regulus are both mental to me, too. Four is pushing it for me. I
like two. I think two is nice. But, again, I'll see how it goes once the
talk show is in full production."

"When do you think that'll happen?" Regulus asks curiously, while

James watches in interest as Rodolphus and Xenophilius seem to go
back-and-forth in a silent conversation.

"I think a year or two? Production is still..." Pandora makes a face

and wiggles her hand from side- to-side. "The war sort of threw a
wrench into a lot of things, as you know, but I do have a guaranteed
green light. It's just a matter of time."

"Yeah," James says, turning away from Rodolphus and Xenophilius,

both of which have seemed to just accept their fate. "Time is usually
all it takes."

This turns out to be true, because on the way back through to pick
up Sirius in district one, Regulus finds out that, finally, after all these
years, Narcissa is pregnant. Despite the fact that there's a very real
chance she could lose this one—as she has lost every other one,
usually early—she's the farthest along she's ever been and swears
she knows, somehow, that this is the one that she's going to get to
meet.

"It's Draco," Narcissa says, hand on her stomach, her eyes bright. "I
know it is."

"Yeah, you're excited now, but watch—it's going to be the biggest

brat in the world," Regulus

responds, which is essentially code for I hope this one works out for
you.

531
 Everything

"And I'll raise them to be the biggest brat to you," Narcissa retorts
sweetly, too sweetly, which is

code for if it does, you'll know about it.

Regulus laughs. "Oh, no, I'm going to make that kid love me. I'll
make sure I'm that kid's favorite person, just to spite you."

It's a threat. When has Regulus not followed through on a threat?

Give it a few years, and he will on this one, too.

~•~

Sirius knows Remus is nervous, because he's cleaning a lot. He's

cleaning things that are already clean, taking down dishes just to
wash them, mopping the floor so much that it practically sparkles.
The sight makes Sirius sigh.

"Moon of mine," Sirius croons, coming up behind Remus to wrap his

arms around him from behind, Stella's nails clicking against the tile
as she dutifully follows, "why are you fretting?"

"Dorcas will be here any minute," Remus whispers, his hands still in
the soapy water. "She will," Sirius confirms.

Remus blows out a deep breath and pulls his hands out of the water,
swiveling to face him. "You know I love my dad."

"I know that."

"Okay, well, there was a time in my life that I—I sort of hated him?
Or I felt like he let me down. I —I wanted to make him proud, you
know? And I felt like I couldn't."

Sirius hums. "Yes, I know of your daddy issues, Remus." "My—"

Remus sputters. "I do not have—"

"You absolutely do," Sirius cuts in, watching Remus deflate in defeat,
because he absolutely does. "Is that what you're afraid of? That you'll
make any kid we're fostering feel that way?"

"It's different when I'm not just teaching them, you know? I just don't
want to fuck up some kid's life," Remus says quietly, his gaze
downcast.

532
Sirius sits on that for a long second. He gets that fear, in a way, but
oddly not as starkly as Remus does. Perhaps it's because he had a
hand in raising Regulus, who—despite all the bumps along the
way—turned out quite well. Perhaps it's because he was taken in by
Effie and Monty, so he knows firsthand what a relief it is to simply be
accepted in a loving home.

The agreement to be foster parents was something Sirius was excited

about, and still is. They have space and the willingness to love a
child of any age stuck in limbo, needing a place to be before they end
up where they're trying to go. There's also the kids that are older,
almost old enough to go out on their own and build their life, often
overlooked by those trying to adopt, because most people think
parenthood can only begin in the roots of youth, but this isn't true. If
it's not those kids, it's the troubled ones that aren't happy in the
orphanages, or hopping between homes because people can't handle
them; those are the ones Sirius wants, and Remus, too. All of them.
They'll take all of them until it's time for them to go, giving them as
much love as they can for the duration of their stay.

"You know, um, I think I fucked up Regulus' life quite a bit, multiple
times," Sirius murmurs, and Remus frowns. "But do you know what
he remembers? Even through all of the shit we went through, some
of the things I help put him through, what he remembers is the love.
Take it from me, someone who has had parents fuck up their life,
and parents who loved them. The love matters so much more,
Remus. I'm not saying we'll get everything right; we won't, because
that's impossible, but we'll try. And that's what matters. Even you,
just now, what mattered to you the most about your dad? That you
love him, and that he loves you. We don't have to be perfect
temporary parents. We just have to love them."

"What if we don't?" Remus breathes out, like it's a sin.

"Then we'll care enough to help find people who do," Sirius says
simply, because it's not a sin. No one can force love for a child, nor
should they, Sirius thinks, especially not when there are people out
there who will love them effortlessly. Sirius doesn't think his parents
ever truly loved him, but he doesn't doubt that Effie and Monty
always have. His parents weren't bad people for not loving him; they
were bad people for how they treated him because of that lack of

533
 Everything

love, and Sirius knows he and Remus will never do that. "And, you
know, if being foster parents just isn't for us, then we won't do it.
We'll try, and if it doesn't work out, then that's okay. Simple as that."

"You want to do this," Remus protests. "I want to do this. I'm

just—I'm worried that I won't—that I'll be—"

A knock comes at the door, and Remus goes very still, holding his
breath, eyes wide. Sirius reaches

up to frame his face, kissing him so gently, until he sighs against his
mouth and relaxes. Sirius draws back, slowly, and smiles.

"We're going to try, and you're going to be just fine, and you'll have
me with you through it all," Sirius tells him. "That's something, isn't
it?"

"That's everything," Remus croaks.

"This could be, too. Come on, let's go find out," Sirius whispers,
taking his hand and leading him out the room.

When they open the door, Dorcas is beaming at them, all lit up with
excitement. She takes joy in her work, and her orphanage is one of
the most successful across all districts and the Hallow, possibly
because the children there are the most fashionably dressed. That
shouldn't be a factor for people looking to be parents, but for some, it
is. The world, for all that it's gotten better, will always have shitty
parts.

Next to Dorcas, half-hiding behind her legs, is a very short girl that
can't be older than ten. She looks nervous, uncertain, a slight tension
around her mouth and in her tiny frame. Sirius doubts she realizes
just how nervous they are to meet her, and she's so painfully young.
There's a shyness to her, a wariness, and Sirius can't stop himself
from thinking of Regulus when she meets his eyes, only for a second,
and quickly looks away.

"Sirius, Remus, this is Eleanor," Dorcas murmurs, rubbing Eleanor's

shoulder gently and dipping down a bit to smile at her. "Eleanor,

534
these are my friends I was telling you about, Sirius and Remus. I
promise they're nicer than they look."

"I'll have you know, I look just as nice as I am, which means I'm nicer
than most." Sirius clicks his tongue at Dorcas, then smiles at Eleanor.
He crouches down to get at her height and says, warmly, "Hi,
Eleanor. It's nice to meet you."

Eleanor stares at him, then looks desperately at Dorcas and whispers,

"I don't want to stay here." "Eleanor, we've talked about this,
darling," Dorcas says softly.

"Please don't leave me here," Eleanor begs, her voice small.

Remus makes a quiet noise, then clears his throat. "Eleanor," he says,
and she darts a wary glance towards him. "Why don't you and
Dorcas come in together? She doesn't have to leave yet, and if you
still want to go when she does, then you can. We won't force you to
be here, okay? Is that alright?"

"You'll come in with me?" Eleanor asks Dorcas.

"Was planning to, yeah," Dorcas replies, lips curling up. "I know new
things seem scary, but they're just opportunities. Besides, they have a
dog."

Eleanor snaps her head around. "You have a dog?"

"We do," Sirius confirms, amused. "Her name is Stella. Do you want
to come meet her?"

"Can I?" Eleanor breathes out, and Sirius springs up, stepping back
to open the door and welcome them all in.

By the time Dorcas is ready to go, Eleanor can barely tear herself
away from Stella to tell her goodbye.

~•~

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 Everything

Remus watches Lily pace from one end of the small bathroom to the
other, her hands linked behind her head. She's fully just gnawing on
her lip, darting glances at him before quickly looking away. It's like
she's about to crawl out of her skin.

"Do you want me to look?" Remus asks.

"No. Yes. No!" Lily whirls around, eyes bulging when he quickly
glances back up, his expression neutral. "You looked. Remus, you
looked. What was it?"

"It's not showing up yet," Remus admits sheepishly.

Lily groans. "Hasn't it been, like, forever?"

"I don't think it's even been two minutes," Remus tells her, amused
when she huffs and whips around to pace again. He shifts on the
closed toilet and glances down for a peek, just as impatient as she is.
Still nothing.

"Now?"

"Just checked. Nothing yet."

"Fuck." Lily blows out a deep breath and swivels to face him,
swallowing. "Okay, um, distract me."

"Dorcas called yesterday," Remus says softly. "Eleanor misses us, she
said, but she loves it in district four. She's doing good in school, has
loads of friends, and her parents got her a dog, so she's thriving." He
chuckles. "She named it Moony."

"Did she?" Lily's face softens, her bottom lip poking out like that's
the most adorable thing she's ever heard. To be fair, it is very
adorable. Moony is because of Remus, and they all know it, and
Eleanor is utterly shameless about it. "I know it was hard for her to
leave, and for you and Sirius..."

Remus nods, exhaling a deep breath. Yes, it was very hard. It was
one of the hardest things Remus has ever experienced, to accept a
child into his life, and love them, and then see them go. Being foster

536
parents is—very fucking difficult, but it's also the most rewarding
thing Remus thinks he's ever done. For all that it aches to give
goodbyes, there's no regret in getting to know and love someone
before they have to go.

"We're going to do it again," Remus murmurs. "Dorcas asked if we

were still open to being a foster family, because it's not... Well, it's not
something everyone can do, but we agreed. In a couple of weeks,
we'll be getting Malcolm and Marcel. It's apparently been difficult
for Dorcas to find a family that wants to adopt two children,
and...well, these two have been kicking up a fuss at the idea of being
separated."

"They're brothers?"

"Mhm."

"Yeah, that makes sense. No siblings really want to be separated,"

Lily says quietly.

Remus huffs a weak laugh. "Sirius said the same thing. In fact, he
was genuinely upset at the thought that they could be separated, but
Dorcas says the system is hard to navigate. She does her best, so
she's been exclusively looking for a family that will take them both,
but so far...nothing."

"Until she finds that, it's you and Sirius, huh?" Lily asks.

"Well, we're more than willing," Remus replies. "It's really beautiful,
you know. Hard, yes, but...so special, Lily."

"I'm proud of you," Lily whispers. "Both of you. The way you two
impact so many lives—that is special."

Remus looks down with a soft smile, then freezes. For a brief
moment, he stops breathing, and then his head snaps up. Lily blinks
at him, eyebrows wrinkling together.

"What?" Lily asks. "Why are you looking at me like that?" "Lily,"
Remus breathes out, "you're pregnant."

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 Everything

Lily goes very still. Her voice cracks when she says, "I am?"

"You are. You're pregnant. You're going to have a baby," Remus

blurts out, and there's a beat, and then he's launching off the toilet
for her just as she reaches for him, the both of them immediately
dissolving into tears and laughter, wrapping their arms around each
other and holding on.

Three bodies, one heart.

~•~

Regulus blinks when he opens the door to see Sirius standing on the
other side of it with four year old Malcolm holding onto three year
old Marcel's hand right next to him.

"I need a favor," Sirius mumbles sheepishly.

The favor, as it turns out, is babysitting. Why it falls on him, Regulus

doesn't know. Possibly because Effie is visiting Lyall in district
eleven—something about a card game event—and Remus is at the
school, along with James, Mary, and Lily. As for Sirius, he has to go
handle some emergency repair from someone in the market, of the
broken bicycle variety. It shouldn't take more than a few hours, Sirius
promises, but it's hot out and he's going to be fixing the bicycle
under the sun, so he doesn't want to leave Marcel and Malcolm out
in it to get irritable.

Regulus would do pretty much anything Sirius needed him to,

regardless, and it's not like this is that big of a deal. Malcolm and
Marcel have been with Sirius and Remus for less than a week, so
Regulus has only met them once, but it went well enough. They're
quiet kids. Shy, really. Sirius says they mostly stick to themselves,
and he's hoping they'll eventually come out of their shells, so to
speak. Either way, as brothers who don't want to go to separate
families, they tend to tug at Regulus' heartstrings, not that he'd ever
admit it.

Marcel and Malcolm are indeed quiet when Sirius drops them off,
just sitting in the living room and sticking close to each other,
watching Regulus with big eyes. Whenever Marcel wants something,

538
he cups his small hand around Malcolm's ear to whisper it to him
first, and then Malcolm says it.

Like so:

Marcel leans up and whispers in Malcolm's ear. Malcom nods, seems

to put on a brave face, then looks at Regulus and announces,
"Marcie's thirsty."

He says this in a tone that clearly suggests it's a problem and

Regulus is expected to do something about it, or else. Or else what,
Regulus has no idea. The kid is only four.

"Okay," Regulus says, lips twitching, "what does he want?"

Again, Marcel leans up and whispers in Malcolm's ear. Malcom nods

again, tilts his chin up as he meets Regulus' eyes once more, then
declares, "Milk."

"Right. Well, come on, then," Regulus says, waving them into the
kitchen. Marcel wobbles when he climbs off his seat, but Malcolm
steadies him and holds his hand as they follow.

Through more whispering and more brave eye contact, Malcolm

informs Regulus under implied threat that Marcel wants cold, plain
milk. Regulus, who does not feel the least bit threatened, makes sure
Marcel gets his cold, plain milk. Marcel and Malcolm sit at the bar
and wait patiently.

At one point, in the middle of drinking his milk, Marcel whispers to

Malcolm again, who frowns and looks at the refrigerator. He blinks,
shrugs, then mumbles, "I don't know."

"If there's something you want to know, you can ask," Regulus offers.

Marcel whispers again, and Malcolm frowns harder as he looks at

Regulus suspiciously. After a beat, he lifts his hand to point at the
fridge, and asks, "What's that?"

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 Everything

Regulus follows his gaze, then hums. "Those are ultrasound photos
my husband hung up on our refrigerator."

More whispering. Again, Malcolm shrugs at his little brother, then

says, "What's an ubersound?"

"Ultrasound," Regulus corrects. "It's how someone looks at a baby

when they're still in the stomach."

Whispers. Pause for milk. More whispers. Malcolm purses his lips.
"Who has a baby in their stomach?"

"Well, a lot of people, at the moment," Regulus admits, seeing as it's

true. Molly, Narcissa, and Lily are all pregnant currently, but they're
not the only ones. "Those pictures belong to two surrogates who are
having mine and my husband's babies."

"What's a sir-gate?" Malcolm asks, before Marcel can even whisper in

his ear.

"Surrogate," Regulus says. "It's someone who has a baby for people
who can't get pregnant." "You can't have a baby?"

"Yes, I'm going to have two soon. I just can't get pregnant."

"Why?"

"I don't have a uterus."

"Why?"

"Because I was born without one."

"Why?"

"Well, you know, I don't think anyone knows why. Sometimes that's
just how it goes."

A pause. Marcel plops his drink down and shifts in his seat to
whisper in Malcolm's ear. Malcolm shakes his head. "No, it's okay,
I'm fine. Really, I'm fine."

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With that, a stubborn look flashes across Marcel's face, and he twists
to scowl at Regulus. "Give Malc milk, too."

Regulus is pretty sure he melts.

Once his silence is broken, Marcel talks without going through his
brother to do it, at least all the time. He has little lisp that makes his
words run together, and he's actually the more vocal of the two. It
seems Malcolm is much happier to be quiet unless he's asking
questions. He likes asking questions; they both do, really, and
Regulus is not prepared for how much he enjoys answering them.
Even silly questions that he doesn't have the answers to are
entertaining when posed by

them.

Two hours in, and Regulus feeds them bagels. Marcel doesn't like the
cream cheese and spits it right out on the table, which Malcolm
cleans up before Regulus can get to the napkin first. It takes trial and
error to find how Marcel likes his bagels; not toasted, plain, and with
cold butter. Very strange child, to say the least, but to each their own.

Three hours in, and Regulus takes them outside to let them run
around, since they get bored. Marcel throws rocks at the targets with
very bad aim, and Malcolm yells at him to stop, then pushes him
down to the ground, where he cries. So, for a bit, Marcel hates
Malcolm so much that he goes right to Regulus, crawling right into
his lap—much to his surprise—and very dramatically sobbing all
over him until Malcolm caves and comes over to apologize. Just like
that, with a snap, Marcel's tears dry up, he crawls off of Regulus, and
they run off to go throw rocks at the targets together.

Four hours in, and Regulus is reading in the sitting room with
Marcel on one side and Malcolm on the other. It's the only book in
the house they have for kids, one that was James' when he was a
child. Malcolm is very invested, his fingers twisting Regulus' sleeve
as he leans on his arm, inhaling in palpable excitement every time
Regulus turns a page. On the other side, meanwhile, Marcel is

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 Everything

passed the fuck out, drooling on Regulus' other arm, head resting in
the crook of his elbow.

When Sirius shows back up, it's with apologies for taking so long,
and gratitude for Regulus helping him out. He holds out his hands
in offering, ready to go, and Marcel twists up to whisper in
Malcolm's ear. Malcolm looks down at Marcel, then looks at Regulus,
then looks at Sirius with his brave face on.

Malcolm says, bluntly, "We want to stay here."

Sirius blinks and drops his hands, looking at Regulus, who coughs
and sheepishly mumbles, "I need a favor."

When James comes home later, it's to the update that they're going
from two kids to four a lot faster than they expected to.

~•~

Lily has Harry on the last day of July, and he comes kicking and
screaming into the world with so much heart to him that surely even
those anxiously waiting outside the room hear him the moment he
arrives. Though, maybe not, because Lily is screaming just as loud as
he is, and also nearly breaking Remus' hand while he does his level
best not to faint.

Dorcas and Mary are in the room with him, Mary there to cut the
umbilical cord and Dorcas leaning over the bed from Lily's back to
quite literally help her push. It's Dorcas that Lily falls back into,
sobbing from pain and wonder and emotional release, laughing
breathlessly through it and holding Remus' hand all the while.
Dorcas presses her forehead to Lily's temple, and they grip each
other, both of them caught up in crying through the miracle of this
moment, and they all stay that way until Mary comes closer with
Harry, still covered in blood and shrieking like he's angry at the
world without cause. Dorcas pulls back, and Lily gasps when Harry
is deposited on her chest, only calming when he feels her heartbeat.

There's not a dry eye in the room.

542
"Oh, look at him, Mary, we did so good," Lily chokes out, cradling
him and gazing up at Mary, red hair plastered sweaty to her head,
looking like she's been through hell. Mary gazes down at her like
she's the most gorgeous person alive, then dips in gingerly to cup
her face and kiss her.

"He's beautiful," Dorcas whispers, like she's having a revelation,

genuine wonder in her voice.

"Yes," Mary gasps through tears, and a grin, her entire face lit up
with joy. "He is. He's beautiful. You're both so beautiful."

"Alright, we're not quite finished just yet, we still have the afterbirth
to handle and then you'll need stitches," is the calm reminder from
the midwife.

And yeah, that's—that's about all Remus can handle, if he's honest.
He's not sure why that's what pushes him over the edge, but that
does the trick. He's been holding his breath for too long, and he
hears the word stitches, and that's it.

"Oh, I—I need to sit down," Remus wheezes, wobbling a little as he

takes a step back. The world tilts on his way to the chair, and the last
thing he hears is the midwife saying:

"Ah, there he goes. It's okay, this happens, don't be alar—"

Remus does wake up to find that he's been put in a chair, Sirius and
Regulus are fawning over Harry, who is being held by Mary, while
Dorcas and James are holding Marcel and Malcolm up to let them
peer curiously at the new baby. Lily is in bed, exhausted, and when
she notices that he's awake, she takes one look at him and laughs.

Remus gets up and finds his way right to her, because he always
does, just like he always has. ~•~

Florimel and Aster are not infants that appreciate sleep, so when
James successfully puts them down for a nap upstairs, it almost feels
like winning a war. He drops off the baby monitor in his pocket and
takes the stairs down, using his cane to brace himself on each step.

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 Everything

He could take the chair, but he's not risking the whirring noise
waking them up.

When he reaches the bottom, James follows the general direction of

noise, knowing it's either his husband, or the rest of his kids, or both.
It turns out to be just Regulus, bustling around in the kitchen, Marcel
and Malcolm suspiciously absent. Slowly, James eases into the room
to sit his cane down against the bar and catches Regulus by the hand
to reel him in, slipping one hand around his waist and sweeping
them in a circle. This earns him a smile that makes his chest warm.

"Florimel and Aster are down. Where are Malcolm and Marcel?"
James asks.

"Outside," Regulus replies. "They're making mud-pies, so prepare for

the mess."

"Mm, nothing we can't handle," James assures him. "We've certainly

had worse."

"Yes, that's true, but if either of those brats track mud into the
kitchen, I'm shipping them off to Sirius and Remus without looking
back," Regulus warns, eyes narrowing playfully.

James snorts. "You'd miss them and go get them back after three
hours, don't even try it."

"At least four," Regulus counters, sliding his arms around James'
shoulders, eyes sparkling with amusement. "I can entertain myself
for four hours, surely."

"Oh?" James raises his eyebrows. "Don't you mean I could entertain
you for four hours?"

Regulus' lips twitch. "No, because I'm shipping you off with them.
I've earned the break. I'm done with you Potters."

"You're a Potter," James reminds him, amused.

"Baby, I'll always be a Black," Regulus tells him, reaching up to card

his fingers through James' hair. He leans in and starts mouthing

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along James' jaw, which James is very pleased about, actually. "No
matter my name, that doesn't change."

"Dad! Dad, look, we found a frog!" comes the abrupt shriek from
outside, along with more delighted screams.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Regulus groans, letting his head thunk down
on James' shoulder. "Really, can't we just send them back from
whence they came?"

"And where is that?" "Hell."

James laughs, turning his head to smack a kiss to Regulus' cheek,

then down the side of his face, then the scar on the side of his neck.
"It's a bit pointless to do that. You'd go through hell just to get them
back, and you know it."

"Dad, it peed on me!"

"Shit, shit, shit," Regulus chants, jolting away from James to rush
towards the door. "Put it down, you little demons! Step away from
the frog right now!" He's still grumbling as he slips out the door.
"Just like your father. Literal spawns of Satan himself. What did I say
about staying out of tr..."

James sighs softly and leans back against the bar, grabbing his cane
again, eyes drifting shut as he listens to the sounds of his family, lips
curled up. Then, from his pocket, there's a sudden cry that

makes his eyes snap open.

Ah, yes, the joys of parenthood. Frogs and squalling infants. James
wouldn't change a damn thing.

~•~

Teddy is...hm.

Well, he's not the first child Remus and Sirius have fostered, not by a
long shot. The first was Eleanor, who—to this day, even after

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 Everything

years—reaches out to them from time-to-time. Then there was

Marcel and Malcolm, who now knows them as Uncle Remus and
Uncle Sirius. Then they had Fatima, then Zigmund, then Atlas, then
Petra. Some of them were just there for the transition from one home
to their final one, and others were there because they were trouble
everywhere else.

Remus and Sirius have found such pride in helping these kids, and
they're especially proud that they have the highest success rate with
helping the troubled ones. Dorcas adores them.

Enter Teddy, stage left.

Just to give an idea of what they're working with, this is how Teddy
arrives to them:

"Sirius, Remus, this is Teddy," Dorcas states warmly, putting a hand

on his shoulder that he immediately shrugs off, much to her
amusement. "Teddy, this is—"

"Sirius, Remus, got it," Teddy cuts in. "Yeah, I know the drill. I'll go
find my room." "What, no bye?" Dorcas asks with a huff.

"Oh, please, I'll see you in a week," Teddy retorts, then fully just
pushes in between Remus and Sirius to march right into the house
without looking back.

Sirius and Remus stare after him, then look at each other for a long
moment, then simultaneously turn to look at Dorcas.

Coughing, Dorcas smiles weakly and says, "Good luck."

Okay, well, they're used to troubled children, by now. Remus and

Sirius are sure it's going to be fine, and they tell Dorcas as much.
Teddy is here; they're happy to have him. Naturally, as with each
child they all get to meet, everyone is really excited about him—and
then they meet him. They meet him, and that excitement turns to
alarm, because Teddy? He's the most disrespectful, chaotic child
Remus has ever known in his life.

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He doesn't listen, and he doesn't care about anything, and he's rude.
He finds a boundary, then immediately crosses it, on purpose. Sirius
asks him once not to slam doors, and from that point on, he slams
every door he walks through. He steals from the market, gets into
fights at school, and never communicates with Remus or Sirius about
anything. His favorite things to do are roll his eyes, scoff, or flip
them off and walk away.

A week into staying with them, Teddy casually and derisively asks
over breakfast, "Ready to send me back yet?"

"Nope," Remus and Sirius answer at the same exact time, and that
morning—that moment—is the first time Teddy looks taken aback,
as well as resolved.

Teddy lasts a week, and then he turns it up to eleven. He sneaks out

one night and nearly makes it all the way to board the train before
Remus catches up with him and brings him right back. He throws a
rock through a window, and Sirius fixes it. He tosses all of his school
supplies into a fire, so Remus and Sirius get him some more.

Teddy lasts two weeks, and then he turns on them. He digs in his
heels to make them hate him like his life depends on it. He insults
them, ignores them, and does everything in his power to make their
lives a living hell.

Teddy lasts three weeks, and Stella starts sleeping in his room. It's a
curious shift, one Remus isn't expecting, because he never thought
Stella would leave Sirius' side. But, suddenly, she's up under Teddy
like his personal shadow. With Stella, Teddy is an entirely different
kid. He talks to her quietly, gently, and starts spending a lot of time
outside with her, running around and tossing sticks for her to go
fetch. It's the first time Remus ever hears Teddy laugh, really and
truly laugh, with no

anger or mockery in his tone.

Still, Teddy seems to hate them, and hate everything, and Remus
finally just...has enough.

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 Everything

"Fuck off," Teddy snaps one day, when Sirius apparently offends him
simply by asking how his day was at school, and then Teddy is
jumping away from the table to stomp into his room, slamming the
door as he goes.

Remus looks at Sirius, who looks close to tears from sheer stress, and
with that, Remus stands up. "Where are you going?" Sirius croaks.

"One second," Remus replies, pushing calmly away from the table
and heading right for Teddy's room. He doesn't knock; he just walks
in and slams the door behind him so hard that Teddy jolts on his bed
and scrambles up to stare at him with wide eyes. "Yeah, I can slam
doors, too."

"Are you going to hit me?" Teddy blurts out, and he doesn't
look—scared, exactly. More like this is what he was aiming for in the
first place. To be hit? What?

Remus draws up short, blinking at him, admittedly horrified by this.

"No, Teddy, I'm not going to hit you. I'm—we will never hit you, not
for any reason."

"Oh." Teddy deflates. "Well, get the fuck out, then."

"You—what?" Remus stares at him in confusion. "Do you want to be

hit? Are you actively trying to get us to, what, beat you?"

Teddy says nothing.

"Okay, look, let's just..." Remus blows out a deep breath and moves
over to sit on the edge of Teddy's bed, not looking at him, but feeling
Teddy study him. "Let's ignore the fact that you're a kid under my
care for a second, yeah? For right now, you're just a person, and so
am I, and we're talking. That's it."

Again, Teddy doesn't respond.

"When I was a kid, I used to be...fucking awful," Remus murmurs. "I

picked fights. I shouted at my dad. I punched walls and deliberately
got myself into trouble, some of which ended with me tied to a post
and whipped near to death. I was—very defiant, but I didn't start
out that way." He glances over at Teddy, then. "No one starts out that
way."

548
"Maybe this is just who I am," Teddy retorts, like a brat.

Remus snorts. "Actions aren't who we are. Actions are what we do.
We all do things for a reason. Even me, even you."

"And why did you?" Teddy asks, eyes narrowing.

"Because I—and my family—had to deal with harassment from

people in power, an imbalance we couldn't fix, and a trap we
couldn't get out of. We were...bullied, essentially," Remus explains.
"And then my mum died. And then my dad and I could never really
see eye-to-eye on...anything."

Teddy is silent again, lips tipped down.

"So," Remus continues, "what's going on with you? Bullies? Your

dead parents? You just don't like me and Sirius?"

"Did Dorcas tell you who my parents were?" Teddy mumbles. "No,"
Remus admits.

Teddy sits up, jaw clenched. "They were on the board. Riddle killed
them on live broadcast, pretending they were—"

"Me," Remus whispers, eyes sinking shut. "My friends, too."

"I saw it," Teddy tells him bluntly, and Remus' eyes snap open.
Teddy is glaring at him. "I watched it happen. I mean, I was just a
baby, really, but I remember it."

"Teddy—"

"And no one cares. No one cares, because they were the bad people,
right? It doesn't matter that they weren't bad to me, because they
were bad to everyone else, so now no one even cares that they're
dead. When people talk about the losses during the war, it's never
them."

Remus swallows. "That's—"

"And," Teddy interrupts in a rush, like it's spilling out of him, all at
once, "when people find out who my parents were, no one cares

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 Everything

about me either. I'm just a Hallow." He spits the word out like it's
poison. "The worst kind of Hallow, too, one born to people that
everyone else felt relieved to hear that it was them that died instead.
They find out, and then they blame me—they blame me for what
they did, and they blame me for loving them, and maybe they're
right, maybe I shouldn't miss my parents, maybe I'm wrong for
wishing there was never a war, or wishing that the people Riddle
shot was the people he meant to. I know I'm a bad person, okay?
Everyone thinks it. They say it. I know, but I—I—"

Teddy can't keep going, his voice thick with more emotion than
Remus has ever heard in it, tears in his eyes. It strikes Remus then
why Teddy seemed to want to be hit; a form of punishment from
trickle-down guilt and, presumably, relentless bullying from his
peers. He feels as if he deserves it.

There were times when Remus was strapped to the whipping post,
suffering lashes across his back, that he thought he deserved it.
When people tell you often enough that you're a bad person, some
part of you can't help but believe it.

It's here, right here, that Remus finds the care that he lacked before,
during, and after the war for those on the opposing side that died,
and even those he helped kill. He feels it now, an odd sense of
peaceful remorse for all that happened, and how it has affected
everyone.

"You're not a bad person," Remus rasps, and Teddy scoffs, curled up
in on himself. "No, Teddy, you're not a bad person."

"I wish they were alive," Teddy informs him defiantly. "I know the
world's better now, but I wish it'd go back to the way it was, just to
have them back. You don't know what that's like."

"Yes, I do. My mum died long before the war ever came along, and
some days, I still want to go back to when she was here," Remus tells
him gently. "Teddy, I'm not going to tell you that your parents were
good people, and I'm not going to argue when you say they were
good parents. I care, okay? Sirius and I care—we'll care, if you give
us the chance to. Because, the truth is, we haven't always been good
people either, but we could—we really could be good to you. We
want to be."

550
"Why?" Teddy asks, and his voice cracks. "Even though you know?
No one wants me when they know."

"We do," Remus whispers. "I do."

"I think it was my dad who was shot when Riddle said it was you,"
Teddy announces, then promptly bursts into tears, and Remus is
pretty sure his heart rips right in half.

"I'm sorry it wasn't," Remus croaks, because for this kid, he is

sorry—and he meant to come in here and put his foot down, but here
he is, listening to a horror story he lived from the other side of it,
wishing for no horror story to haunt any of them at all. Especially
not this kid. He's just a kid.

Teddy is still crying, very hard and all at once, which leaves Remus
feeling rather useless. He doesn't know what to do, and without
thinking, he reaches out to touch his arm. Only once he makes
contact does he think it's a terrible idea, but Teddy surprises him by
leaning into the touch, still weeping, and pressing in further until
he's practically crawling across the bed to fold into Remus' side, hide
there, and sob.

Remus holds him.

Teddy lasts four weeks, and he's quieter, spending most of his time
with Stella. He doesn't kick up a fuss in class, but he doesn't really
participate either. He doesn't insult anyone anymore, but he's not
very kind either. He doesn't slam doors these days, but he's not
leaving his room very much either.

Remus is the first person he latches onto, after their conversation,

which honestly shocks the hell out of Remus, considering what he
learned. But maybe it's because Remus lets him say what he thinks,
and feels, without judging him for it. Maybe it's because Teddy is
angry, and Remus tells him it's okay to be, and tries to help him feel
better past that anger.

Teddy is bullied at school, because he's loud and defiant about who
his parents were, and when Sirius finds out, he...goes to the school.
Remus has no idea what happens, no fucking clue, because he's
teaching his own class of kids younger than Teddy, but everyone that

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 Everything

so much as tossed Teddy a dirty look offers him the sincerest of

apologies and seem keen to be his friend. Teddy is gobsmacked by
this and gazes at Sirius like he's his fucking hero, just because he
made his life a bit easier.

Teddy lasts five weeks, and he goes on walks with Remus, bouncing
around excitedly as he tells him all about school. He runs around in
the yard with Sirius and Stella, shrieking with laughter when Sirius
will pick him up and take off running with him as Stella gives chase.
He whispers to Remus about his parents, and listens when Remus
whispers back about his own. He builds model ships with Sirius, and
gets excited when Sirius teaches him things in the forge. He sits
outside on the steps from the back porch, just relaxing under the
stars while Remus and Sirius swing from behind him, utterly calm.

Six weeks, and then Dorcas finds him a family that might want to
adopt him. Six weeks, and it's time to say goodbye.

Teddy, unpredictability, does not want to go. Well.

"Shit," Sirius says, staring after Teddy, who has run off after flatout
stating that they couldn't make him leave to go meet a family that
might want him, not when he has a family here. He intends to stay
forever, apparently.

It's not the first time a child they've taken in has been wary to leave,
but every kid they've taken in has known that they would go, so
despite trepidation and tears and swearing they'd miss them, they
did say goodbye. Teddy is the first who outright refuses to, because
he has everything he wants right here.

Dorcas clears her throat. "I...didn't see that coming, I won't lie."
"Believe me," Remus mutters, "we didn't either."

"It was touch-and-go there for a bit," Sirius murmurs, then heaves a
sigh. "Right, well, that's that, then."

"What's what?" Dorcas asks, blinking. Remus stares at her. "He's

staying."

"He...can't," Dorcas says slowly. "That's not how the process works,
Remus. You're only fostering him."

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"Yeah, uh, Dorcas, I love you—I do, I really do, but you're not taking
our kid," Sirius tells her. Remus feels his stomach flip over, his heart
swelling in his chest. He wants to kiss Sirius so badly right now, but
it has to wait. This first, kiss later.

"We have you recorded as a foster family," Dorcas explains carefully.

"That means you, ah, have to give the kid back."

"We won't be doing that," Remus informs her. "You can't just—not do
that," Dorcas says gently.

Sirius straightens up, holding her gaze. "I just want to reiterate that I
love you before I make it very clear that anyone who tries to take
Teddy away from us won't make it very far, and that includes you."

"Sirius, this is technically kidnapping." "Not if he's our kid."

Dorcas stares at them, and then her lips curl up. "Well, that's true. No
one else can adopt him if he's already adopted. Is that what you
want to do?"

Remus and Sirius exchange a look, eyes locked for a long moment,
and then Remus faces her and says, "Yeah, that's what we want to
do."

And so, that's exactly what they do.

~•~

Sirius plops down in a lawn chair with a gusty sigh, mindlessly

reaching out to stroke his hand over Stella's head. She's most
definitely enjoying the day, tongue hanging out of her mouth, canine
grin firmly in place. Her tail wags every time one of the kids dart
past her, and when it's Teddy, she gets up and does a little dance on
her paws where she's almost trembling, like all she wants to do is go
run around after him.

"You can go play, you know," Sirius tells her, amused. Stella tips her
head and nearly smacks herself in the eye with her tongue from the
angle, then just pants at him. "Honestly, I'm fine. You fret more than
Remus does, and he's my husband."

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 Everything

Stella does not budge.

"You're so fucking smart, you know that?" Sirius mutters, dipping in

to smack a kiss to the top of her head, pulling on her ear, gently and
affectionately. "I know that, historically, this is a shit day for me, and
it's one I usually need you on, but I'm really okay this time. Go on.
Go, Stella, where's Teddy? Go find Teddy! Go get Teddy!"

This, Stella knows well. They've made it into a game at the house,
one where Sirius and Remus can pitch their voices up and tell Stella
to go find Teddy, and she'll do just that. It's a good way to play a lazy
game of hide and seek; Teddy's a bit old for it, but he loves that shit.
Stella does, too.

Despite her earlier reluctance, Stella has the attention span of a gnat,
so she falls for it. Gets really excited and takes off the moment he
holds his hand out and snaps his fingers, telling her to go. Moments
later, Teddy is shrieking with laughter, along with the other children.
Sapphirina as well, which is uplifting to hear; she's been with them a
couple of months, and Dorcas has found her a family that's ready to
adopt her, but she's rather sad about going, after spending so much
time here with not only Sirius and Remus, but also Teddy.

It's hard for Teddy as well, in a way. He's old enough to get the
whole process, and the point, but kids usually want things to be
simple. He does, that's for sure. If he's treating the other kids who
live with them like his siblings, then he's upset to see them go,
simple as that. But, in the same breath, he knows it's a good thing for
these kids to be adopted, just like it was good for him. He plans to
stay in touch with Sapphirina, though, and likely most of his foster
siblings—but that's good, Sirius thinks. Nothing wrong with having
a lot of love in your life.

"Was Stella coddling you?" Remus asks, murmuring in his ear and
laughing when Sirius jolts, startled.

"Yeah, trying to. Where have you been?" Sirius asks, swiveling his
head to raise his eyebrows. Remus' eyes are drooping. He gives
Sirius a lazy, lopsided grin. "Nevermind, I know exactly where
you've been. Is Lily high, too?"

554
"As a kite," Remus confirms, grinning harder. "She's eating Harry's
snacks. Mary's gonna yell at her, and I told her that, but she said it's
okay because they'll kiss about it, probably."

"You two..." Sirius feels his lips twitch, and he shakes his head
fondly, so helplessly adoring of them both.

Remus shrugs. "It's tradition, sweetheart."

"Better this tradition than the other one," Sirius says, wrinkling his
nose and tipping his head back against the chair while Remus looks
down at him, frowning now.

Sirius doesn't have to elaborate on what he's talking about. It's hard
to miss, seeing as they do this every year, almost like a new tradition,
just in different districts. Last year, they did it in nine on Emmeline's
farm, and Teddy wanted to go push over the cows before Remus
firmly vetoed all cow-tipping related activities, which made Teddy
sulk for a bit, until he found out that Emmeline would teach him
how to 'milk a moo-moo', as she called it. He went into it morbidly
fascinated and returned mildly scarred. Ah, adolescence. How fun.

In any case, the point is, every year on what used to be reaping day,
there's something of a get- together in which everyone—or most of
everyone, at least—comes together for a day. Most of the time, it's so
cold that they keep it indoors, a potluck and funny stories around a
table, children laughing as they run through the house, and babies
being passed around until they've all been held by everyone.

Today is a rare day, during winter. Warm for some reason. No snow,
and only the faintest nip in the air that keeps everyone in at least one
jacket. So, naturally, they're all embracing it by spending the day
outside, easy finger-foods to pick over splayed on a fold-out table on
the porch and plenty of wide space for the kids to run around in.
Sirius and Remus' house is the best place for outside parties, no
contest.

This day is generally—and historically, as previously

established—not a great one for Sirius. Just the anniversary of it
would be enough, but it has to do with memories, too. Some he will
never be able to get rid of, and some he'll never be able to get back. It

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 Everything

has to do with the fact that some part of his brain that's still stuck in
mentor mode, and maybe always will be, sometimes looks at these
kids—his own kid—and wonders how he's going to help them
survive the arena. He can't always turn it off, even with the arena
long gone.

So, yeah, it's a rough day for him. It's a rough day for quite a few
people, in fact. A lot of them are here, of those that could make it.
Something about the day ensures that they make it in, everyone from
the Hallow to all the districts. People who have fought in a war
together, all meeting up on a day to remember at least part of what
they fought for. It's reaping day, and that means nothing anymore.
No dread. No names called. It's just a day that they use to celebrate,
instead.

"Well, some traditions we get rid of, and some we keep, and some we
create," Remus muses, giving a lazy shrug. "I mean, I know none of
us can forget what it was before, but... Sirius, look around. I mean it,
look around."

Sirius does, because he does whatever Remus tells him to. He lifts
his head and peers around. Finds the kids running with Stella. Finds
the various other groups littered all over, some sticking out to him as
they always do. Lily and Mary off to the side, kissing like Lily
suspected they would. Dorcas chatting with Emmeline with big
gestures, eyes lit up with excitement, grinning every time Emmeline
laughs at her. Cordelia and Riker not standing too far away, talking
with Minerva and Poppy. Effie and Lyall on the porch, both of them
playing cards, Styx dozing with his head in Lyall's lap. Narcissa
smoothing a hand down Draco's hair while Tonks waits for her to get
it neat and orderly before darting in to mess it up again, then they
roar with laughter when Narcissa yelps and dives forward to try and
fix it once more. Alecto standing in a group talking to Pandora,
Rodolphus, and Xenophilius. Andromeda sitting off to the side with
Asher, both of them reading a book and seeming to enjoy the
weather. Alice helping Stella chase the kids around. James and
Regulus loitering along the fence, plucking at honeysuckle and
leaning in to whisper in each other's ears, still carrying on like the
novelty of being in love hasn't faded in the least.

There's more, of course, some that Sirius isn't particularly close with.
There are some who didn't come, and never do, and likely never

556
will—Kingsley and Aberforth, as examples, but they have their own
lives to live and their own happiness to chase; they're not going to
find it here, and so they don't show up. No one begrudges them that.
No one here, now, wants anything other than peace. They're here to
find it, for today.

"We can't forget what came before, but look at what we've got now,"
Remus says softly. "This, right here, is something."

Sirius exhales gently, quietly, and raises his hands to cup Remus' face
from upside down, tugging on him to get him to bend over the back
of his chair and kiss him. They linger there like that for some time,
admittedly getting lost in it, as they can't help but do. Sirius can't
help it; he curls his fingers in Remus' hair and never, ever wants him
to leave.

Eventually, though, naturally, they break apart, and Sirius hums,

pleased. "Something can be everything. You taught me that, Remus,
and this can be, too."

Remus smiles against his cheek, forehead to his temple, staying right
here with him. He nods as laughter and warmth drifts all around
them, and he says, "Everything, then."

Anything can be everything, if only one lets it. They decide, and so it
is.

~•~

Life goes on, as it tends to do, and here are the snapshots. The
homes, and little families, and bright spots of laughter. The moments
that vary between the peak of joy and the hot-flash of pain, the
gentle ease of peace and the low ache of grief, all of it intertwined in
the cost and gain of having a life at all.

There are, of course, the things that aren't shown, all of which draws
the curious in and leaves the hopeful to believe it's even better than
anyone can ever accurately describe. In reality, it's that and so much
more. The hard days, the boring ones, and the best. Tears and fears,
embraces and embracing hope, a lost person to miss and a new
person to love. Friends, family, and lovers living their tangled little

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 Everything

web of lives in a world that will never be a utopia, but will be filled
with those always hoping and trying to make it one.

Death isn't out of reach, nor is fear. The lack of hunger games can't
erase the worst parts of the world; there is still violence, trauma, loss,
and those who would see the world untouched by the warmth of
humanity—and maybe there always will be. Maybe there is no right
answer to fix all the wrongs, and make everything right; maybe there
are only the opportunities taken to try, try, try making things better.

And so, life goes on, and here are the glimpses. So much not shown,
so much to fill in, but that's the thing, isn't it? Every single snapshot
of life becomes a memory, just as these will, too. What's easiest to
remember? What changes the most?

The people lost, or the people found? The agony, or the joy? The fear,
or the hope? The ending, or the beginning?

The question is, does it really matter?

No, not really, because throughout all of it, every bit known and
unknown alike, at the heart of it is love.

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 13
FORTUNE
______

There's a clatter, both of them crashing sideways into the stand, a

few picture frames rattling and falling to the floor, along with an
empty cup and a set of keys to the forge. It doesn't matter, can't
matter, because Sirius is sure he's on fire and five seconds away from
crawling right out of his skin. His hands eat up any stretch of skin
Remus' body grants him, wanting to touch him everywhere, wanting
everything.

"How—" Remus groans into the bend of his neck, fingers slipping
under his shirt and skimming up the side of Sirius’ waist. “Are
you—” He slots his knee in between Sirius’ legs. “So fucking pretty.”

"Remus—" Sirius gasps out.

There's another resounding clatter, more things falling to the floor,

and Remus kisses him like he wants to open him up and crawl
inside. They move—they have to, as fucking up against the wall isn't
quite as feasible the older you get, and also it's less enticing when
you know your child could be on the other side of the wall. Teddy is
a pretty traumatized boy as it is; no need to make it worse.

They do manage to finally, thankfully make it to bed where Sirius

gets to delight in sprawling out and watching Remus fight with the
seemingly ungodly amount of buttons on his shirt. He clearly wants
to rip it off, but Sirius will be pissed, and Remus knows it, so he
shows commendable restraint by refraining.

Remus hums, low and gravelly in his chest once he finally manages
to remove the garment, and then he folds down to kiss him, hands
tugging on the waistband of his trousers. Sirius makes a pleased
noise and settles in to get exactly what he wants. Remus is so good at

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 Fortune

making sure he gets it; oh, Sirius loves him so much. So, so fucking
much.

"Absolutely gorgeous" Remus whispers later—much later—when

he's lazily carding his fingers through Sirius' hair with one hand and
touching him distractedly with the other. A touch just to touch,
really. To hold him. To keep Sirius close.

Sirius rolls his eyes playfully and presses his face into Remus' bare
shoulder, grinning helplessly against his skin. It bares his neck, a
naked opening Remus doesn't need convincing to take. His mouth is
lazy and hot as it roams over the curve of Sirius' throat, not trying to
leave marks, but paying tribute to the ones already there. Sirius
hums, eyes drifting shut, feeling warm and floaty and taken care of
and loved and—

"That's yours," says Remus, head lifting as they both swivel to glance
at their phones.

It is indeed Sirius' that's going off, so he swipes it up and answers it

through a yawn, sort of just lethargic and cozy now. He and Remus
should have a nap. "Hello?"

"Sirius," James greets, his voice tight, and immediately Sirius is wide
awake, sitting up. "Listen, uh, I don't know it's quite made it over to
you yet, but there's this huge fucking storm rolling in right now.
Regulus hasn't made it back from the forge, and I'd go look for him,
but Aster isn't feeling well—"

"Hey, it's fine, I've got it," Sirius replies quickly, swinging his legs
over the side of the bed. James sounds stressed. "How's Aster doing?
Should I send Remus over with soup?"

"Lily was here earlier, and she said they just have a fever and it'll
break, eventually. Still, Aster hates being sick; they're so miserable
right now, Sirius, and I can't do anything to make them feel better,
and all the kids are asking if Regulus is going to be okay since he
didn't take an umbrella, but I can't go check, and he's not answering
his phone—"

"James. Breathe."

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James does. They do it at the same time, in fact, then James exhales
heavily. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. I'm pretty sure Regulus' phone is just dead;
he always forgets to charge it at the forge. He is fine, no doubt, but
I'll go find him."

"I don't mean to put you out if you're busy—"

"Nah, you have good timing, actually. You called after Remus and I
had sex," Sirius tells him, hopping to his feet. "Also, Regulus is my
brother, James. I'd like to go check on him." "Thank you, I love you,
what would I do without you?"

"Crash and burn?"

"No, that's what I'd do without Remus."

"Ha ha."

James snorts. "Text me when you find him, yeah?"

"Will do," Sirius says warmly.

"Want me to come?" Remus asks as he watches Sirius stroll around to

get changed.

"No, it's okay," Sirius murmurs, stooping down over the bed to drop
off a kiss. "I'll be back soon enough. Love you."

"Mm, love you, too, sweetheart," Remus replies, turning his head up
for one more kiss, just one more.

Sirius gives him three.

Teddy is sprawled out on the sofa in the sitting room, headphones in

his ears as he watches the screen of his phone, eyebrows furrowed.
Sirius lazily ruffles his hair as he goes by, and Teddy swats
distractedly at his hand before shifting up to pull an earbud out.

"Where are you going?"

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 Fortune

"Storm's rolling in. Regulus got caught in it, so I'm going to go check
on him."

Teddy frowns, slightly. "Is Uncle Regulus going to be alright? Do you

want me to come with you?"

"He'll be fine, and thank you, but no," Sirius says, and Teddy nods
before slumping back down and going right back to what he was
watching. Sirius grabs the umbrella by the front door and heads out
to go meet the storm halfway.

The rain is coming down hard, and Regulus is sure to be desperate to

be out of it, wherever he is. It's not the biggest district, but there's a
lot of space to cover. Realistically, it shouldn't be easy for Sirius to
find Regulus, especially not in the middle of a really bad storm. The
thing is, though, Sirius knows his brother, so he knows all the places
he'd be.

"Stopped by the phoenix tree, huh?" Sirius murmurs as he closes the

umbrella and leans it by the broken-open doorway.

"Yeah," Regulus mutters with a heavy sigh, sitting on the floor in the
empty house he took shelter in, likely from the very first raindrop he
felt, because he's mostly dry. Just alone, waiting out the rain. "Didn't
expect a storm to roll in."

"Comes out of nowhere, sometimes," Sirius agrees, leaving the door

hanging open as he moves across the room and backs up against the
wall next to Regulus, sliding down and plopping on the floor with
legs bent. He bumps Regulus' knee with his own, and Regulus
bumps him back. You okay? Yeah, I'm okay.

For a while, they just watch the rain together in silence. Sirius sends
off a text to James, then Remus, and then Teddy to let them all know
he and Regulus are fine. After that, Sirius puts his phone down and
glances around.

The house is eerily quiet, a bit decrepit and abandoned now, a

perpetual sort of loneliness seeping through the walls and floors like
a sad story that never got an ending.

Sirius is pretty sure that he's not really welcome here, seeing as he
killed the man who lived here once, and the brother of that man

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would not appreciate his presence if he was here to be aware of it.
But he's not here; he's a sad story without his ending, trying to
embrace his happy before he makes it there. Right now, the only
person here is Sirius' little brother, so welcome or not, this is where
Sirius will be.

"Sometimes it scares me how easily we could have been them,"

Regulus announces quietly, glancing around the dust-covered
mausoleum of tragedy like he's reading Sirius' mind. "We came so
close to being them so many times, you know."

"I know," Sirius says softly, because after years of examining all
they've ever been through, he really does.

"Thank you," Regulus murmurs.

Sirius blinks and looks over at him. "For what?"

"For volunteering for me," Regulus says, which is the last thing Sirius
would have ever expected to hear. It ensnares him instantly, a sharp
pang in his chest from aged sorrow that has long since passed, but
will always exist at the epicenter of himself. A lump forms in Sirius'
throat, and Regulus looks right at him. "Thank you for that, and for
making sure we weren't them, even though you did."

"Come on, we did that together," Sirius croaks. "Me and you." "So,
thank me back," Regulus tells him.

"Ha, yeah, okay. Thanks," Sirius says with a weak huff of laughter,
and Regulus' lips twitch before he looks away.

"You want to know something?" "What?"

Regulus watches the rain come down, his lips still curled up as he
murmurs, "I would have volunteered for you, too."

"You—" Sirius stares at him for a beat, then snakes his arm out
around Regulus' neck to snatch him over and begin rubbing his
knuckles forcefully over Regulus' head, ignoring him as he yelps and
swats at him, struggling to squirm away, but Sirius doesn't let go.
"You little shit!"

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 Fortune

"Sirius, fucking stop it, you idiot!"

"All that shit you gave me, and you would have done the same
thing!"

"Let me go!" Regulus snaps, smacking his hand up to Sirius' face to

shove at it harshly.

Sirius leans his head away and doesn't stop until he's satisfied,
finally letting go and immediately getting pinched ruthlessly on the
arm in retaliation. There's a brief scuffle, full of nails and slaps and
the occasional shove, and then they come to an unspoken and
simultaneous truce. There's a shared huff, a swapped glare, and then
two hidden smiles.

Grown men, now, and they always bring the little kid out in each
other. Brother and brother, something that goes beyond age, beyond
all the years that pass.

In silence, in peace, they go back to watching the rain. It doesn't let

up, just keeps coming down too hard to even bother with
considering the umbrella for use. They'll just have to wait out the
storm together. Sirius could leave, but he won't, and Regulus seems
to know it.

Sirius leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, his
shoulder pressing into Regulus' as the storm comes down all around
them, except for in here. Quietly, Sirius says, "Tell me a memory from
before. Something real, before all of it."

"Anything?" Regulus asks.

"Something about us," Sirius mumbles. "A happy memory."

The rain continues to pour down, a muffled onslaught that drowns

everything out, but Regulus'

voice breaks through, soft as a storm passing. Sirius sits right there
and listens to Regulus tell him of the day they went picking pecans.
It's not a memory he knows, but he knows who's telling it.

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His little brother. Always his little brother.

~•~

James is very careful when navigating through the woods blanketed

in snow, braced on his cane with each step. It's cold and crisp out
there, a wash of slate grey, brown, and white. The only thing green in
the forest during mid-winter is the glow from the jar tucked under
his arm.

Florimel scolded him today, about the Horcrux Hornet. It's not out of
concern for what it could do, because children born to those immune
to the venom carry that same immunity, and for those that weren't
immune—Hallows, primarily—it's free and accessible to get
immunity, as well as a requirement for all children. There's not one
person in this world that could ever come across a Horcrux Hornet
and be killed by fearing them. These days, most don't even know
they're something to be afraid of, anyway. But that's not what the
scolding was about.

No, Florimel seemed to find it cruel that the poor thing was stuck in
a jar and had been all these years. She looks nothing like Vanity, but
James was reminded of her so vividly in that moment that it was
almost like a message directly from her.

So, James plucked up the jar, and he finally found it in him to let it
go. It would have probably been better to do in the summer, but he's
not waiting for the snow to fade.

Besides, the walk is nice.

James doesn't go too far, not so far he can't find his way back, but the
forest envelops him at all sides. He finds a tree clean of snow up on
the bark above the roots, and he crouches down with a slight wince.
His leg is always worse when it's cold.

"Alright, you," James mumbles, leaning on his cane with it tucked in

between his side and shoulder, both hands busy with holding the jar
out in front of him. He used to take the Horcrux Hornet out of the jar
a lot, back when they all got home after war, just as a reminder that it
couldn't hurt him anymore. Anything to feel safe from pain. He
hasn't done that in years, so the Horcrux Hornet has remained in

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 Fortune

there. "I suppose letting you go is long overdue, isn't it? Sorry. I think
I was holding onto you because of Vanity, and so I would feel less
afraid, somehow. But I think you'll like it here better."

The Horcrux Hornet doesn't so much as flutter its wings, and James
is struck with the realization that he's talking to a bug. After a beat,
he snorts and shakes his head. From somewhere, wherever she is,
Vanity is laughing with him.

James screws the lid off and dips his hand in gently, nudging his
fingers under the Horcrux Hornet until it crawls into his palm. He
lifts it out, watching as the sheer wings seem to shiver a little, like it's
stretching. It doesn't fly towards him, or away, and it continues to
glow.

Rocking forward, James deposits the Horcrux Hornet on the tree

with care, and it settles there, easy. After a few moments, it crawls
along the bark, wings shivering as it goes. James' gaze trails after it,
and for a moment, he goes in and out of time to the first encounter
he had with one of these.

"James, look!" "What's that?"

"Horcrux Hornet. Hallow-made. They're so cool, James. They're

basically indestructible, and their venom replenishes at an
unnaturally rapid rate. I have to get it."

"I feel like you do not have to do that. An immortal bug sounds like
bad news, Vanity."

"Oh, yeah, it's lethal. One sting causes excruciating pain, but death
comes quickly. Less than a minute."

"Right. We're going."

"No, no, it's okay. I promise it's okay, James. Horcrux Hornets only
respond to fear. They won't attack unless you're scared. So, you
know, don't be scared, alright? They're harmless as long as you're not
afraid, really."

James looks over, fully expecting Vanity to be right there, beaming at

a bug, even after all these years. Right. All these years. James closes

566
his eyes, exhales, then opens them and turns his head to look at the
Horcrux Hornet again.

"You got a bad rep, didn't you?" James whispers, his face softening as
it crawls around the curve of the tree.

That's the thing. Even James couldn't see past the symbol of fear they
were made into to ever expect them to become a symbol of hope, but
Vanity would have. Vanity did. All it took to survive them was not
being afraid, but it's human to be, so it poses this fun little thought
experiment. Does something that's entirely harmless without the
presence of fear not represent hope? All humans are afraid, but
what's more human than that, if not the hope to have nothing to
fear?

Maybe a symbol is only what someone makes it. Some will never see
a Horcrux Hornet and think of anything other than fear. Left up to
James, he's going to go with hope.

The Horcrux Hornet scuttles around the other side of the tree,
disappearing from view, and James exhales as he pushes to his feet.
Slowly, James takes the arduous journey home.

It's a long trek, and James is admittedly lost in his own little world,
so he's not really paying attention when heading to his porch. That's
why a yelp tumbles out of his mouth as he reaches for the door and,
instead, feels a cold clump of snow collide directly into the back of
his head.

Immediately, from behind him, there's a roar of laughter James

would know in his sleep, all belonging to his children. He swivels on
the spot, swiping the snow out of his hair, and Regulus stands there
with a smug little smile as he wipes his snow-dusted gloves together,
surrounded by their kids that, apparently, find this to be absolutely
hilarious.

"You walked by like we weren't even here," Regulus calls out,

eyebrows raised. "Don't ignore us."

James just stares at him for a long moment, his breath caught in his
chest, knowing the same thing he's known since the day Regulus
turned fifteen—that he's absolutely, unequivocally beautiful.

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Helplessly, James breaks out into a grin, and he makes his way back
to them, because apparently it's the perfect day to build a snowman.

Well, James can't argue that one.

Florimel and Malcolm take excitement in getting to build the body.

Marcel wants to do the head by himself, because for some reason, he
wants it to be more triangular. Aster is the one that gathers the sticks
for the arms and a tiny twig for the nose, and they want to give it a
necklace made out of rocks, which James can't fault them for, as it
turns out to be quite pretty. Regulus keeps them on their toes by
throwing snowballs at everyone, flushed and happy when they run
and shriek with laughter, begging James to stop him.

James does, by kissing him, and ignores all the groans and
complaints of their children to keep doing it like he didn't get to the
day he discovered he wanted to. Two days later, life fell apart. Two
days from now, life will carry on.

"You know what it's missing, right?" James whispers in Regulus' ear
when the admittedly eclectic snowman is planted and grown right in
their front yard.

"James, I haven't taken that out in years," Regulus mutters.

"Don't make me go get it." James pokes his bottom lip out in an
exaggerated pout. "My leg hurts."

"You big baby," Regulus says, laughing into his mouth, kissing him
before he peels away to go into the house.

"Thank you, I love you!" James calls after him, gleeful, and before he
slips inside, James catches Regulus' muffled response:

"Yes, I know, I love you, too."

When he comes back a few minutes later, the snowman gets a

knitted hat with a frayed ball slumped on the top, flopped over to
the side. The bell inside it still doesn't ring, but James listens to
Regulus and their children laugh at the sight of it, and really, that's
the same thing.

~•~

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In the middle of a cold night in winter, Regulus curls up with James
close behind him, hand tucked up under the hem of his shirt to rub
gentle circles on his hip, nosing at his hair and dropping soft,
mindless kisses on his throat. Touch for the sake of touch. Warm,
warm, warm. Home. Regulus closes his eyes and basks in it.

Seconds pass. A heartbeat. The world falls away and lifts him up on
a tidal wave, submerging him until he's crashing into a river that
runs crimson, yanked in all directions. A scream clogs his throat,
trying to claw its way out as he falls, falls, falls deeper—and then
he's snatched up and granted air. He gasps on it, feeling the breeze
stir his hair and dry his skin, brushing across his cheeks like fingers
wiping away tears.

The first thing Regulus sees are leaves. The scent of them fills his
nose, along with bark, sweet like sap and green like life. He blinks
and looks down first to see his feet dangling into empty air, nothing
visible below, and then he looks up. He looks up because he always
thinks to look up, and he's there.

Evan's there.

"Not tonight, lover boy," Evan says softly. "No nightmares tonight,
okay? Too good of a day to have nightmares now."

"I—didn't mean to," Regulus murmurs, staring, studying Evan hard

for some reason. He can't really work out why it feels so imperative
to look at him, to take him in, to memorize him like he's something
that could ever be forgotten.

"Feeling out of sorts with life?" Evan asks, propped up on the tree
branch casually, one leg hanging down and the other bent in front of
him. "No shame in it, if you are. You can tell me."

"It just feels like a surprise sometimes, how good my life is," Regulus
whispers. "It's stupid."

"Knowing you? Probably," Evan agrees, then grins when Regulus

glares at him. "Well, whatever it is, you'll figure it out. You always
do."

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 Fortune

"That's it?" Regulus asks. "No grand advice? No talk of the view? No
stupid climbing metaphors to throw my way?"

Evan clicks his tongue. "Hey, fuck you, those climbing metaphors
saved your life on multiple occasions."

"You are a climbing metaphor," Regulus grumbles. "That works,

actually. You'd be dead without me." "Shut up."

"It's true, and you know it," Evan teases.

Regulus sighs and flaps a hand. "So, what, you've been watching,
then? Is this your little afterlife?"

"I know everything you know, Regulus," Evan murmurs.

"Right." Regulus swallows thickly and squeezes his eyes shut,

releasing a shuddering breath. "Because you're not some sort of
guardian looking after me, are you? You're just a dream."

"Could I be both?" Evan asks.

"I suppose if I knew the answer to that," Regulus whispers as his

eyes flutter open, "you wouldn't be asking."

Evan hums. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's how it works."

"So, through sheer force of will, I decided I didn't want to have

nightmares tonight and conjured you to come save me," Regulus
surmises, his heart panging in his chest.

"Well, I'm a good choice. I've saved you plenty, dead and alive," Evan
points out.

"I'm just talking to myself, aren't I?" Regulus croaks, his eyes starting
to prickle as he stares at the blots of green in the form of leaves
obscuring the view in front of him. They're high up in the tree,
higher than they've ever been, yet still right there in the thicket of
branches, not quite at the top.

"I suppose if I knew the answer to that," Evan tells him gently, "you
wouldn't be asking."

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Regulus chokes out a harsh laugh, a brittle breath, and nods sharply.
"Yeah." He sniffs. "Yeah, okay."

"Is it that bad, if that is what this is?" Evan asks. "If all I am is you,
and no part of me is here, think about how long you've had hope for
yourself. Think about how long you've believed in yourself. Think
about how long you've been urging yourself to climb. Think about
how far you've gotten, just as you."

"Maybe," Regulus rasps, "but I really wish it was you."

Evan sighs. "I'm dead, Regulus."

"I know, Evan," Regulus says, and his voice cracks. "I know."

"Everyone else, and you let them go," Evan whispers. "You learned to
let them go, and learned to keep them even though you had. But not
me."

"You—you're—" Regulus shakes his head, feeling his face twitch and
twist, trying so hard not to cry. You're the first person I learned to
trust again, he doesn't say. You're the first person I really, truly lost;
the first person I could never get back, he doesn't say. What he says,
instead, makes his voice crack. "You're my best friend."

And it's true. Even now, it's true, and Regulus knows it, so Evan
does, too. "You were mine, too," Evan says, and then he tilts his head
a bit. "After the arena, you dreamed of me because you couldn't let
me go."

"I know."

"Why did you stop?"

"Because I knew I needed to," Regulus chokes out.

"And you knew you would, if you ever got to tell me you were
sorry," Evan finishes quietly. "You couldn't let me go, not even to
learn how to keep me."

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 Fortune

Regulus fights against the surge of emotion in his chest, sniffling

hard and reaching away from the branch to scrub roughly at his face.
"Yeah, I know that, too."

"Regulus, you couldn't let go before," Evan whispers, "so why are
you dreaming of me now?"

"Because—" Regulus gets stuck, interrupted by the harsh sound that

rips out of his mouth, his face crumbling as the heat in his eyes
finally erupts. He feels his chest expand, stuttering, and bites back a
whine that burns in his throat. Evan waits, and Regulus nods, keeps
nodding. Choking. Breathing. He tries again. "Because now I have
to."

"It's about time, you know," Evan says, and Regulus releases a
choked up laugh. "As much as I love climbing, I'm so fucking tired of
being stuck in this tree. Let me go climb a new one."

"Okay." Regulus exhales shakily, swiping at his face again, taking a

deep breath in, and slowly letting it out. "Okay, yeah, but—you were
right. Or I was. We were right, it is worth it."

"Climbing?"

"No, I still hate that. I can do it, but I'd rather not. I can do both, but
if it was left up to me, I'd prefer to grow."

"Well, they both work. Either way, you're going somewhere."

"The view," Regulus says. "That's what's worth it. The view is worth
all of it." Evan smiles at him, eyes sparkling. "I know."

Regulus looks at him some more, just to do it, and he's hazy around
the edges, not quite the clearest picture. With every blink, his
features are slightly different, because Regulus can't remember them
well enough to get them right. It's like he's fading, or like he's the
smudge between life and death, the collapse of night and the break
of dawn. He's a view all on his own, and every second with him was
worth it.

This moment, this dream, teaches Regulus a lot of things. The tender
sort of things about why life is so important, and how special it is to
know people before they're gone, and how growing isn't something

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that stops. It makes him realize how long something in him has been
fighting and clawing to simply live, to have hope, to embrace a
happiness he dared to think was out of reach. All those dreams—it
was just him finding a way to make himself keep going, using the
shape of his best friend to do it; he's been believing in himself for a
long, long time.

There's something miraculous about that.

"It's not sorry, is it? What I need to say." Regulus waits, and Evan
shakes his head, still smiling. Regulus blows out a deep breath, then
says what he needs to. "Thank you."

Thank you for being you. Thank you for being me. Thank you for
teaching me to trust again.

Thank you for believing in me.

Thank you for the view.

The view is something to reach, but it's not singular. It's just one
view among many. So many trees to climb, so many views to see. A
best friend to meet, a best friend to never really have, a best friend to
lose, and a best friend to keep. A brother, a husband, children,
friends, and home.

"There are a lot more views waiting for you, so go see them. You
don't need me to climb," Evan murmurs. "You never did."

"I know," Regulus whispers.

"Yeah, lover boy," Evan whispers back, "I know you do."

Evan's lips curl up, and he swings his other leg down over the side
of the branch. It dips under them, shaking, and neither of them are
afraid. It won't break. It already did, long ago, and this is just a
dream. Evan tilts his head back with a grin, breathing in deep, then
laughs. He doesn't flinch when the spear drives through him, and
Regulus doesn't either.

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 Fortune

Easy as that, Evan tips himself back and lets himself fall, and
Regulus doesn't try to catch him. Regulus watches and never, ever
sees him hit the ground.

When there's nothing else to see, Regulus shifts to get his feet under
him on the branch, and then he begins to climb.

It takes forever to reach the top. It takes only seconds to reach the
top. The highest branch bursts through the leaves, and Regulus
balances on it, arms held out as he puts one foot in front of the other.
He sways from side-to-side in the wind, feeling the familiar swoop
in his stomach that comes from the fear of falling, but he doesn't
stop. He follows that branch as high as it'll go, climbing to the peak,
and then he's there.

What a fucking view. What a beautiful, harrowing view. He sees it

and cannot fathom what he's seeing, only how it makes him feel, and
it makes him feel everything. He would move mountains to see this.
He would climb the tallest trees to see this. James' smile stretches
along the horizon, Sirius winks from the stars, and beyond that,
there's more. So much more. Somewhere in there, in the rain,
Regulus is laughing.

Regulus takes in the view until he's full of it, until it's all in him, until
he has seen all there is to see of it and seeks to see more elsewhere.
Then, with that, he closes his eyes, lets himself tip, and sinks into the
freefall.

Before he ever hits the ground, Regulus opens his eyes to a new day
and the feeling of the sun on his face. It's a good life to wake up to,
and the first thought Regulus has when it greets him is how
fortunate it is that he gets to live it.

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