James and Sirius only ever fought - really, truly fought - twice. The first was in the aftermath of The Prank. The second... is below.
Mid-October, 1981
“What the fuck are you on about?” James shouted, the words echoing around the small living room, only hours after they’d asked Sirius to be secret keeper. The long haired Marauder had shown up outside their door, drenched head to toe from the pouring rain outside, and welcomed himself inside before either of the Potters could say a word.
James stood from his chair, pushing it back forcefully. If it hadn’t been for the silencing charm he’d placed on the room, he’d worry about waking the baby. “I would trust any one of the Marauders with my life.”
The dark sky outside the window flashed with lightning.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it Prongs? It is your life on the line! And Lily’s, and Harry’s!” Sirius slammed his hand down on the table, standing as well. His hair was still drying and it left water marks on the shoulders of his shirt. “I’m not letting you kill my godson with your recklessness.”
James could’ve slapped him. “He’s my son first, you know that right?” He was shaking, he was so angry. “You don’t get to fucking talk about my wife and child like that.”
“I’m trying to look out for you!” Sirius felt as if he were yelling at a brick wall.
“You’re being paranoid.” James insisted, looking out the window at the stars that glowed dully through the storm clouds. He couldn’t stand to look at Sirius, the urge to hex him growing ever stronger.
Sirius crossed his arms. “You’re telling me you haven’t doubted, even for a moment?”
James didn’t hesitate, “No. I trust my friends.”
“Then you’re a fool.” The words were sharp, cutting through the air between them with clean precision. Sirius uncrossed his arms and took a step forward, eyes pleading. “There is a spy in the Order.”
“And you’re saying it’s Remus?”
Sirius flinched, softening. “I’m not sure,” he sighed, “but it does make sense. I’m just trying to keep you safe.” He took in a shaky breath. “I don’t know what I would do with myself if anything happened to you, or Lily, or any of the Marauders.” He felt the tears coming and desperately held them back, dropping his head in his hands as he sat back at the table.
James walked around, placing a hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “Hey,” he whispered, smiling sadly. “You’re trying. Thank you.” The silence was soft, a few breaths in open air. “What are you suggesting?”
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Sirius’ Escape from Azkaban - Excerpt from Under the Stars
July, 1993
Sirius Black had gotten used to living as a dog. Padfoot, he vaguely remembered, that’s what they used to call me. Thoughts were fuzzier in his animagus form, soft echoes of memories. He hummed softly. Padfoot, the name brought back some semblance of the fire of life that had once burned brightly inside him.
The dementors didn’t like that.
The creatures hovered closer and the cold crept into Sirius’ bones. A shiver ran up the dog’s spine. What did they use to call me? The word had slipped out of his mind, replaced by a slowly building ache in his gut—no, his heart.
Who’s they?
Images flashed through his mind. A man with messy hair and a bright smile, toying with a miniature broom; a woman with fire colored locks and piercing eyes, holding a baby; a blond haired friend sitting at their table, laughing; a freckled lover in a soft sweater, taking a picture, holding his hand—
Remus.
The memory made his hair stand on its end.
And then he remembered what happened.
A commotion tore his thoughts from the tragedy, if only for a moment. The doors clanged open, down a long hallway. Padfoot’s ears raised, alert, listening for clues. Prisoners whispered, someone new? No, a visitor. Hm? The Minister…
Sirius became himself again. Or, his human form, that is. He’d spent so much time as a dog, he couldn’t always recall which he’d been first.
His hearing was worse in this body, he couldn’t make out the minister’s footsteps until he was only a few cells away. And the dementor’s influence hit harder. With the full capacity of his human memory, the scenes played out behind his eyelids; James and Lily choosing him as their Secret Keeper, his suggestion that they use Peter, the betrayal.
Finding their bodies strewn about the broken house; James, wandless, Lily, collapsed beneath the cradle. Harry, wailing.
He wanted to tear his heart out through his chest and rip it to pieces, watch as the life drained from his skin. But Cornelius Fudge was coming.
The Minister of Magic strode down the dark, freezing hallway with an air of superiority and disgust, clear as day presented on his face. He hardly glanced at the tortured figures, shrieking and moaning around him—all except one. He looked down to see Sirius Black, the notorious mass murderer, sitting cross legged, lazing leaning against the bars of his cell. If it weren’t for how hauntingly thin and gaunt he was, Cornelius would have sworn Sirius hadn’t spent a day in Azkaban.
Fudge was even more astonished when the pale, sickly figure turned it’s head carelessly, opened its mouth, and spoke. There was still a hint of life in his eyes, a wonder to see when surrounded by a mass of soulless shells, wasting away in their cages. “Are you finished with your paper?” His voice was strong, if a bit crackled from misuse. So full of life in a way none of the other people—if he could even call them that anymore—in Azkaban were.
When Fudge didn’t move, Sirius gestured to the copy of The Daily Prophet he’d been carrying. He’d forgotten about it entirely in the mess of anguish and decay that was Azkaban.
Why would a convict, let alone this one—the raving lunatic, want to read the Prophet?
It appeared he didn’t have to ask, as Sirius supplied the answer willingly. “I like to do the crosswords.” And then he smiled. It was far from the same mischievous, charming smile of his youth, but it wasn’t a crooked sneer like the others prisoners.
Fudge didn’t know what to think. He tried to consider for a moment, but couldn’t come up with a single way handing over the paper was dangerous. So he did.
“Have a good day, sir.” The words echoed down the hall with him as he briskly walked away. A shudder ran down his back and he shook his head, trying to forget all about the encounter with one completely sane mass murderer.
Sirius Black, however, sat back, and unfolded the paper. Very few of the headlines interested him, though one picture did catch his attention. A bustling family smiled brightly and waved up at him, pyramids stretching out behind them. The parents looked vaguely familiar, in the same way his friend’s names floated in and out of his head, but he couldn’t put his finger on it until he read the article beside the image.
Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office at the Ministry of Magic has won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw.
Sirius smiled faintly, suddenly remembering the lanky, somewhat-awkward redhead and his kind wife. His eyes flickered back to the picture, their big, beautiful family (he counted nine of them) fussing with their belongings and waving again.
Then his eyes landed on the youngest boy. He couldn’t have been older than twelve, still shorter than most of his family, and there was an innocence in the wonder in his bright eyes. But Sirius was too focused on his outstretched hand and the creature that he held in front of him.
A rat. It was fat and grey and missing a toe.
Sirius’s heart dropped from his chest as he raced to finish the article.
The Weasley family will be spending a month in Egypt, returning for the start of the new school year at Hogwarts, which five of the Weasley children currently attend.
The boy must be one of the five.
Wormtail would be at Hogwarts.
Sirius wracked his brain as to why this information terrified him. Having discarded the paper, he transformed back into a dog and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate.
Hogwarts. The betrayal. James. Lily. Remus. Peter.
Harry.
Sirius' eyes snapped open.
He began to plan.
***
In the grand scheme of things, escaping Azkaban hadn’t been all that difficult.
He must’ve gotten away with significantly more difficult pranks in all his time at Hogwarts, Padfoot reckoned, as he paddled off the island. Even then, just off the rocky shores, as a dog in the freezing cold waters, his memories were coming back to him. Not fast, and not well, but he could remember his purpose.
He felt the dementors’ grip on him slowly fading, the terrible reminders of the past that had plagued his every waking moment finally relenting to the better, though not exactly happy, thoughts. He was out. He was free.
The Last Night: Frank and Alice Longbottom, excerpt from Under the Stars
The final blow, adding insult to injury—the last act of a war that had already ended so painfully—came to the Longbottoms on a misty night in November. Their son was staying with Frank’s mother, so they had a night off from responsibility. Between raising their son and fighting a war, the young couple hadn’t had much time to themselves. Their night of freedom had been spent drinking with a few of the other, older members of the Order. Some were raising toasts of thanks, praising Merlin over and over again for their survival, others were downing glass after glass to forget the horrors of war and the countless losses they’d faced. Either way, the group had gotten fairly drunk.
It had finally felt safe to walk home in the dark, with Voldemort assuredly gone.
Frank and Alice were on cloud nine. He whistled a simple jazz tune, the melody of which had been stuck in his head all night, as he twirled her around on the broken cobblestone street. Their wands were tucked away—his in his back pocket and hers looped in the belt of her dress which twisted and swayed around her. The alcohol made everything hazy and warm. The stars shimmered above them lovingly and the streetlamps overhead looked like spotlights, illuminating their dance, pooling light at their slightly-stumbling feet.
Directly under the false-yellow fluorescent light, Frank dipped his wife, causing her to giggle as he pressed a kiss to her lips tenderly. “I love you,” he whispered. Alice smiled wide and Frank could have sworn the entire world lit up right there.
Then she straightened, staring only into his eyes, her expression growing serious, though the love never drained from her gaze. “Frank,” she pressed a kiss to his slightly-stubbled cheek. “I think I’m ready… for another one.”
Realization dawned on him, gazing into the face of the woman he adored.
Another child.
It was something they’d been talking about for a while now, giving their only son Neville a younger sibling. He couldn’t stop himself from hollering into the night, kissing his wife again, and then once more, and once more after that…
In the ruckus, Frank’s exclamations of joy, the young couple hadn’t heard the group approaching until—“ Crucio! ”
Frank and Alice’s screams pierced into the still air of the night. As she fell to her knees with pain, Alice’s eyes drifted from her husband’s face to the stars behind him. They seemed so far away. Reaching out desperately for Franks’ hand, Alice’s last coherent thoughts were of her son. Her baby boy. Be brave, Neville. I will always love you.
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