(fan)atic of (fan)dom

Remember when you were young…

The singer began to croon as Peter passed a boy in a black leather jacket, one shockingly familiar to something Sirius had owned. Peter struggled to remember if Prongs had given Padfoot that jacket, allowing himself to do a double-take to jog the buried memory.

You were caught on the crossfire of childhood and stardom…

Peter Pettigrew had been to four muggle rock concerts before this one in his life, all of them with and because of Sirius Black. Each event had been crowded and loud but undeniably electrifying, pulsing with life and rebellion perfectly in tune and attuned to the marauders but especially to Black. Padfoot had been the cool, reckless, powerful marauder who taught Wormtail about the magic of music.

It was magic, and Peter supposed it could even be a curse. The music and the master of the lesson had driven him to leave the rat behind for one night – for this night. Wormtail had been a boy when Padfoot had taught him about music, about the way a strumming guitar and beating drum felt inside his chest. He could feel it now, with the guitar bubbling in his ribcage.

A redhead girl danced with the lights of the stage up ahead. Peter couldn’t be sure if imagined the man in glasses that laced his fingers around her waist. Memories were floating about just beyond - violently flashing before Peter’s eyes.

Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr…

Peter found himself singing the words with the crowd. The Dark Lord who had promised Peter the world, the adoration of all, would have found this excursion ridiculous. He would have punished Peter for leaving his post, for remembering his traitorous mate, and for being among muggles and allowing them to live. But the Dark Lord had abandoned him, and nothing he was promised had come.

You cried for the moon…

Red lights flooded the crowd before sweeping up to the sky. Peter’s eyes followed the light, suddenly searching for Moony. Prongs was dead. Padfoot in prison. But Moony, he might have come – might have realized this was undeniably perfect. But Wormtail knew he wouldn’t find the familiar pale face and graying gold hair in 1500 people. Not even for Padfoot’s perfect present.

Wormtail would have won the gift competition this year, the one that everyone denied existed. This would have been better than James’ leather jacket that Sirius wore for years or Remus’ enchanted Farah Fawcett poster that hung in their dorm from second year on. Wormtail would have beat Prongs and Moony who had never understood Padfoot and the music quite like Peter.

Well you wore out your welcome…

Peter hadn’t thought about November 3rd since 1980. He suspected he wouldn’t have thought about it this year either, except for overhearing this news. Over the summer, Charlie had been discussing music with an American. A cousin, or a cousin’s cousin, or some ridiculous relation which Peter didn’t bother to understand. But he had been curled up in the open school trunk, feasting on the forgotten chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties when the conversation started about The Grateful Dead and Jimi Hendrix, and meandered to the Pink Floyd American tour. The American cousin had mentioned The Omni on November 3rd and Peter had known then that he would find a way here.

The band was coming to the end of Shine On You Crazy Diamond, a song Peter had heard countless times the summer in-between fifth and sixth year. He knew the swells and drops of the music, like he knew the words to summon the Dark Mark.

“Come on… you prisoner, and shine!”

Peter shouted the lyrics and lifted his beer. Happy Birthday, Padfoot.

Sirius would have been so surprised; he might have even enjoyed the celebration despite his usual reservations about birthdays. Padfoot had been alive for 28 years today because he was still alive – of that Peter was sure – even if he might wish he was not. Wormtail would have taken great care to point out that Sirius had outlived 27, the infamous age when so many famous musicians, artists, actors, and athletes had died. A muggle superstition that Sirius had taken great pride in telling ghost tales about at Hogwarts. Sirius Black was older than Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison had ever been. Sirius was older than James would ever be.

The song drifted into whistling and cheering. Pink Floyd wasn’t like the other bands Sirius had favored, the sound came in waves and buoyed the audience to the heavens above. It was the kind of music they listened to on rainy afternoons, or early mornings, or after the parties had ended. Pink Floyd was the kind of music that had always been playing when Sirius was intoxicated enough to settle into a deep conversation with Peter.

Music is magic. Sirius had explained, more than once. He insisted the marauders pay attention to how it made them feel, how it made them move.

Peter magicked another beer into his hand, swaying to the music and movement of the crowd around him. Someone nearby handed over a lit cigarette and Peter inhaled the smoke with his eyes closed, remembering how it felt to be alive as a human and not just a rat.

Peter wondered if Sirius had forgotten how to be alive as well. Would Padfoot even know it was his birthday today? Would he know someone in the world was celebrating his birth? Would it matter?

Peter swayed and drank for song after song. Feeling the sweat run down his forehead and back. His feet ache from standing, and sometimes he shrieked with the crowd. The lights flashed and flared, and he didn’t hide from them, or the occasional glance or glare. Peter let the music bring him back to a life he had left behind long ago.

Music is Magic.

It was the only lesson that remained. A persistent memory that festered. The memory vindictively pulsed with every strum of the guitar or beat of the drum beyond.

Sirius Black had learned to celebrate his birthday for James. James was dead.

Peter jerked at the thoughts. It did not matter. He did not care. He had not thought of them for years. The crowd was cheering for an encore. A final song and as the singing began, Peter pushed his way out of the crowd.

Feel the bile rising from your guilty past… The band was singing to him. Music was a curse.

“James,” Remus sighed “breaking the bed won’t make him appear.”

“Why does he do this! It’s his birthday!” James whined, as he dropped the beater bat. Peter fidgeted with his ear wondering if James really didn’t know or just really didn’t want to believe that anyone could dislike their own birthday.

“Sirius doesn’t much like today, he’s told us that.” Remus was patiently explaining, as he pulled on a ratty old jumper.

“BUT he promised!” The young voice cracked, “Remus, he promised to celebrate.”

James threw himself into Sirius’ now messy bed and impatiently kicked his sock toe at one of the posters. There was nothing more sacred among the marauders than a promise, especially a promise to James.

“It is only sunrise, maybe he didn’t think you’d get up this early.” Peter suggested, following Remus’ lead and starting to scrounge through his trunk in search of his favorite trousers.

“Pete’s right, you are always the last one out of bed in the mornings.” Remus laughed effortlessly teasing James. Peter still couldn’t do that, tease James or Sirius. James perked up, shaking one of his hands through his hair in the way he did every time Lily Evans got within five steps of him. Peter suspected it was becoming much more habit than practiced gesture.

“He probably went to the astronomy tower, he likes it up there.” Peter nodded stepping into his trainers. He wasn’t the cleverest marauder, or the most handsome, or the most charming, but he was observant.

“Maybe I can still plan a party for tonight while he’s up there.” James yawned and stretched.

“He asked you not to. ” Remus reminded, forever the patient and level headed one.

“Well, I asked him not to take off. So maybe this is what he gets.” James pouted.

“Do you think he’ll like the LP I got him?” Peter nervously questioned, as he pulled out the wrapped record.

“The one of the muggle band he’s crazy for?” James grinned disbelievingly as he muttered a spell to dress himself magically.

“If we don’t have to listen to it three times today, it would be a birthday miracle.” Remus rolled his eyes. He was combing his fair hair, trying to swoop it off his forehead.

“He’ll love it, Pete. Too bad I might kill him before he gets to listen to it.” James rolled out of the bed and tumbled onto the floor. Remus stepped over the dramatic James to conjure a birthday banner.

“He’s likely already heard It. And it’s been on the muggle radio all summer.” Peter argued.

“And you think the most ancient and noble house of Black listens to a lot of muggle radio, do you then?” James was poking around under Sirius’ bed now.

The door creaked open and invisible footsteps quietly echoed. A resigned groan escaped the air, before a the perfect curls of Sirius Black popped into existence to glisten in the morning light. Peter was sure his hair was never going to look quite like that, on any morning.

“Good morning, men.” Sirius’ grin appeared, floating in the air, like the Cheshire Cat in the picture books Peter had once seen in a muggle nursery school.

“That’s my cloak!” James pointed his wand and hissed a spell through his teeth. The invisibility cloak fell off of Sirius’ shoulders and to the boy’s feet. As the oldest, Sirius was the tallest of the marauders but not yet tall enough that the indivisibility cloak didn’t drag.

“It’s my birthday.” Sirius shrugged unapologetically back at his best mate.

“You weren’t here.” James crossed his arms and stretched out his legs, still on the ground.

“It’s 6:15 in the morning”

“We have plans for our plans!” James interrupted.

“James, you’ve never been up this early in your life.” Sirius shrugged again. Remus laughed and nodded, twisting a Gryffindor scarf around his neck.

“You weren’t trying to hide out and not celebrate?” James squinted his eyes at Sirius.

“You lost your glasses again?” Sirius sighed exasperated. “Accio eyeglasses!”

The black rimmed, stylish eyeglasses of James Potter flew through the air and Sirius Black caught them easily. The boy swaggered across the room and threw his arm out to help James up. Peter watched as Sirius carefully placed the eyeglasses on James’ face, and counted exactly three seconds before James threw his arms around Sirius’ shoulders.

“Stupid git.” James muttered. “Happy Bloody Birthday.”

“I wouldn’t break my promise.” Sirius whispered, just loud enough for Peter and Remus to hear. After first year, James Potter had made the marauders swear they would all celebrate their birthdays because they were important to him. Peter had found it strange until he realized the promise had always been about James and Sirius.

Before Hogwarts, before the marauders, Sirius Black had never had a good birthday. Sometimes the marauders wondered if Sirius had many good days at all. But for all his devil-may-care attitude, Sirius would do anything for James and James demanded Sirius allow the celebrations.

James believed the way to show a person you loved them was to celebrate them on the day of their birth. At first, James had celebrated the marauders like a child, selfishly imposing his likes upon his mates. But after eight birthdays and some chats with his mum, James learned how to celebrate not for his friends but with them. Which is how the clever third year had arranged for his best mate’s 14th birthday to be their first ever Hogsmeade trip. Even Sirius Black was excited.

“Last year, you got detention.” Peter pointed out.

“Because you couldn’t put your wand away fast enough after those pumpkins exploded, prat.” Sirius laughed stretching out his arm to catch Peter around the scruff of the neck. James reached out to catch Remus around an elbow and before the boys really knew what was happening, they were piled on the ground.

“Remus did you tire of all your defense notes and tear them up?” Sirius laughed picking a piece of confetti from Remus’ shoulder.

“You wouldn’t be passing Defense if not for my notes, Black.” Remus shoved Sirius.

“Pete, you cast the confetti spell.” James whispered conspiratorially. Peter laughed as he whispered the spell. As the confetti popped, James and Remus started singing Happy Birthday, loudly and slightly off key.

“If there’s glitter in my hair Pete, I swear I’m going to hex yours to be a bright pink for at least a week.” Sirius laughed.

The four boys roughed around for a couple more minutes before there was a loud aggravated knock. The sixth year, Fabien Prewett poked his wild red hair into the room and blinked owlishly at the group on the ground.

It is dark and the stench of death hangs heavily in the air. But he couldn’t, or wouldn’t accept what his eyes refuse to settle on and with a reckless abandoned defined by marauders he runs into the cottage.

Swishing his wand the window shutters fly open, allowing light to pour into a cozy sitting room. A game of wizard’s chest is set up in one corner, the pieces fidgeting to finish the game. Useful Potions for New Mothers lies still open to its reader’s last page over the arm of a plush armchair. A familiar pair of quidditch boots lay forgotten near the fireplace with mud still drying on them. The picture of a home waiting for life to continue.

Crunching glass under his foot draws his attention.

James died first. That’s what the Daily Prophet had said.

Remus suddenly drops to his knees as the reality hits him. Tiny shards of glass push through his trousers and pierce his skin as he chokes back a sob.

“James. Your glasses.” Lupin cries helplessly. He scrambles to find the old rims, the ones he was sure he saw James in last. Bits of glass prick against his hands and he can feel the overwhelming grief bubbling in his chest. He is crying again, he can feel the familiar damp of his cheeks.

James Potter is dead. Remus howls, a wolfish and wild sound of sadness ripping through him as he gives up searching for what will not be found.

Lupin knows the stillness is a mistake that if he doesn’t start moving again, he might die in the same spot as his mate had from the grief of it all. It is only when he stops, when the habitual haze isn’t propelling him forward, that everything becomes unbearable.

It’s the meowing that saves him. Jerking up his head he searches for the source of the sound.

We’ve got a kitten. Lily had written. James pretends to hate it.

“I believe Prongs was allergic and afraid to tell you.” Remus whispers as the kitten wobbles out from one the quidditch boots.

Lupin scrambles across the floor, letting his palms still drag along the broken glass, as if it might be the last way he will ever feel James Potter again. His hands are aching and bleeding when he reaches out for the kitten.

“What’s your name? Something ridiculous?” Remus croons.

He picks up the kitten as he stands. Tucking the creature into the crook of his elbow, the purring begins almost instantly and it brings the young man a strength, a steadiness, a calmness in knowing he is not alone any longer.

“Daffodil, was it?” Remus forces a jovial tone. An angry meow replies.

“No, then. You’re rather gray, Stormy?” He tries. The angry meowing continues, even as the purring intensifies.

“Are you hungry?” Remus moves to the kitchen. He doesn’t dwell on the baby bottles, or the half-finished wine bottle sitting on the counter that looks suspiciously like Sirius’ favorite vintage. Instead the man throws open the cabinets, with a false joy and hope, at seeking to find something other than a haunting emptiness.

But then a darting mouse.

Would you eat me when you’re a werewolf, do you think Moony?

The memory roars to life without permission. Months underground, with only the recollections of his friends to keep him company make it impossible to ignore them now. Peter Pettigrew, round face with cheeks puffed out in agitation.

An index finger is all that was found, among twelve dead muggles. That’s how the Daily Prophet had described him in the end.

Lupin jolts at the vision dancing in the unwelcomed tears and slams the cabinet shut.

The kitten jumps from his arms and saunters out the open window.

“Decided you’d best find your own food?” He muses. But he doesn’t stop his own search, throwing open the pale mint fridge.

Pumpkin juice. Two eggs.

His eyes move over the regular items quickly, registering favorite foods or regular habits. A jar of blackberry jam that James had to have every morning for his scones, or the chunk of cheddar cheese that was Lily’s preferred midnight snack. And then, right there, sits a cake.

Lupin greedily reached out for it, pulling out the treat. Covered in fluffy pink buttercream frost, the kind that would have made Sirius loudly protest but that he would have secretly loved. The cake smells freshly baked, enchanted to keep perfectly, in what was likely one of the last spells Lily ever cast.

They had planned this, James and Lily, a celebration of their shared habit. The war and the danger be damned.

Padfoot can say he doesn’t want to celebrate until he’s blue in the face, but he doesn’t get a say in the matter.

Every year James Potter had said those words. For a decade, this day had been a marauder high holy day.

“Accio candles!” Lupin summons the sparklers, the kind they had used on Sirius’ seventeenth birthday.

He flicks and flips his wand, casting every summoning non-verbal spell he can form in his mind. Streamers and banners, fire whiskey, gifts, a record player jumping to life, everything set for a party.

Mere minutes later, Remus Lupin stands huffing amidst the festivities. Red and gold streamers hanging above him, a glittering banner floating around him, a small stack of gifts laying at his feet. The record player crackling for a moment before that blasted ABBA record that was playing in every club in London starts – Super Trouper.

A wand flick and the record scratches, in a way that Lily might never forgive.

She died defending her infant…. the boy who lived. The Daily Prophet had heralded.

The piano melody begins of the track that Sirius and James belted out drunk to a bouncing and giggling Harry on his first birthday months before. When Remus had seen them, all of them, last.

“I don’t want to talk about….”

One of the blondes from ABBA, Remus never could remember their names, sings and the lyrics bring on a rage.

“You baked HIM a cake, before he BETRAYED YOU!

Remus roars as he smashes the cake into the mint fridge door.

“ALL HE LEFT OF WORMTAIL WAS HIS FINGER!”

In a fury he rips and tears at each of the gifts, allowing the tears and anger to blind him. He destroys them.

“HOW COULD YOU BETRAY US?”

He lights sparklers, and sets the remains of each gift on fire.

“YOU ALL LEFT ME HERE! To read in the BLOODY DAILY PROPHET how all my mates… how all of YOU had died!” Remus heaves a sob.

Prongs was dead. Wormtail was dead. Padfoot was…

He was alone.

The last marauder.

Taking a shaky breathe, Lupin mutters a clearing spell.

Never look back, that’s when you give up how you are going to miss them.

A teasing confident Padfoot echoes in his mind and Moony knows he will never quiet the memories. Leaving the cottage, he doesn’t look back.