#tle3

The door swung open and James sauntered in. “All right, very funny,” he said, dropping himself in the armchair and kicking his feet up on the trunk that served as Sirius’s coffee table. He gave them an amused, exasperated smirk that suggested they were all in on the same joke.

“What’s funny?” said Sirius.

“Come off it. I know it was you.”

Sirius and Lily exchanged a confused look.

“What are you talking about, mate?”

James rolled his eyes, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a crumpled letter. Then he cleared his throat and read imperiously: “Dear Mr. Potter. We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected as Head Boy of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Despite your rather colorful school records — nice touch, that — the Headmaster feels that you have exhibited exemplary courage, creativity, and leadership skills — pah! — We are certain you will…blah, blah, blah, responsibilities, blah, blah. Very clever. Very authentic. I’m impressed, really.”

Sirius gaped at him. Lily had covered her mouth in astonishment.

“So what does this do, then?” James went on, heedless to the shock on his friends’ faces. He held up a shiny red and gold badge. “Will it turn my hair green or piss at me if I try and pin it on?”

“You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?” said Sirius at last. “You’re not really Head Boy.”

“Of course not, because you sent me a counterfeit letter.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Come off it,” said James, whose amused expression had at last faded into something more closely resembling genuine alarm. “Joke’s up, I figured it out. We both know there’s no way Dumbledore made me Head Boy.”

Sirius walked over and grabbed the letter from James, examining it closely. “Did you try any anti-counterfeit spells?”

“N-no…”

Sirius began to poke the letter with his wand.

“Mate,” said James, “just tell me you sent this letter.”

“Would if I could, Prongs. It’s legitimate. This letter came from the desk of Minnie McGee herself.”

“No…no. There’s no way.” He turned beseechingly to Lily, who was still hiding her mouth behind her hand. “There’s no way. Leadership skills? I mean, I wasn’t even a prefect.”

“Well, you are Quidditch Captain,” offered Lily. “That’s a leadership position.”

“But that’s…that’s Quidditch. Head Boy should be a prefect. Remus—”

“—was a bloody awful prefect and he’d be the first to admit it,” said Sirius.

“Yeah, but—”

“They’re probably hoping a bit of you-know-what will sort you out,” said Lily.

“You-know-what? I don’t know what. What?”

“Responsibility,” she whispered in a conspiratorial hiss. Sirius let out a bark of laughter.

James, for his part, looked at them with dawning horror in his eyes. “Oh, sweet Merlin with his knickers out to dry. They’ve made me a figure of authority.”

At this, Lily dissolved into giggles, falling back into the sofa cushions. “It’s not funny. Evans, stop laughing!”

Lily sat up and gave a sharp salute. “Sir, yes, sir!”

“Nice,” said Sirius approvingly.

“Well, I learned from the worst,” said Lily.

James looked on with a sulky glare. “You know, I’m not sure I like you two being friends.”

“Cheer up,” said Sirius. “I’ll still be your mate even if you are Head Swot. I mean, not publicly, of course. And you probably shouldn’t eat meals with us anymore, but you can still sleep in the dormitory. For now.”

“Shut it.” James chucked his Head Boy badge at him. Sirius dodged and the badge hit the wall with a resounding ping. “This can’t be happening,” moaned James, sinking further into the depths of his chair. Then, he sat up abruptly. “Oh, Merlin. Who do you think the Head Girl is?”

“Probably someone really awful,” said Lily with a commiserative grimace. “Sorry.”

“Yeah,” agreed Sirius. “Probably some stuck-up, frigid goody-two-shoes who — ow! — hits disturbingly hard for a girl” he finished, glaring at Lily while he rubbed his shoulder. 

“You think it’s McKinnon?” said James, wide-eyed and appalled. “God, you’re stupid,” said Lily affectionately.

Sirius tapped her on the shoulder. “Should we tell him? I think we should tell him.”

“But he’s so cute when he’s terrified.”

“You’re mean.”

Lily stuck out her tongue. “And you used to be fun.”

“What are you two on about?”

Sirius smirked and gestured at Lily. “Head Boy, meet Head Girl.”

“What? You’re Head Girl?”

Lily shrugged. “That’s what the letter says.”

James’s entire demeanor was suddenly transformed. “Blimey, why didn’t you say something? Letting me prattle on and on like an idiot…”

“It was much more fun watching you angst.”

“Hey, if you two need a set of matching crowns, I know a goblin,” offered Sirius.

James and Lily both flipped him off in unison.

“Everyone thinks of me as either this…this posh, poncy, pure-blood prick—”

“Nice alliteration.”

“—or this arse who just wants to pick a fight at every opportunity.” “Or both,” said Remus. “Or both,” agreed Sirius. “But that’s not what I want to be. That’s not what I want to do.” “What do you want to do?” Sirius sprawled back on the couch, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling as he contemplated this question. “I want…I want to make things. Things that matter, you know? Things that last. Like the map.” “Right…and your mirrors, and your motorbike.” “Yeah.” Sirius took a long, pensive drag on the cigarette and exhaled a plume of curling smoke. “And music.” Remus cast a curious glance at his friend. “Been making much of your own?” “A bit.” “Really? Will you play some for me?” “Fuck no.” “Oh, come on.” “It’s all shit. I don’t know what I’m doing.” “I don’t buy that for a second,” said Remus. “I doubt if anything you’ve ever done is shit. In fact, I bet when you actually shit, the toilet says thank you.” “Fuck off,” said Sirius, but he looked somewhat mollified. Emboldened, Remus carried on. “Come on, I want to hear. One song?”  Sirius considered him for an unbearably long moment. The ash from his cigarette tipped onto the carpet, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Fine,” he said at last, stubbing out the cigarette. “But if you laugh, I’ll fucking hex you.” “I won’t laugh.” Sirius glared.  “I won’t. Cross my heart.” “Hmph.” Sirius downed the last slug of whiskey from his glass, reached for his guitar and slung it onto his lap. “Bat bogies,” he threatened as he fiddled with the tuners. “Big ones.” Remus mimed drawing an x over his heart.  With a sigh, Sirius gave the guitar a few exploratory strums and adjusted the tuners once more. Then, eyes still firmly on the guitar, he said: “Right. I started this one last year, but I’m still working on it. It’s called, ‘Son of a Bitch.’” Remus snorted into his drink, then quickly composed himself. “That wasn’t a laugh.” But Sirius just gave him a rueful half-grin. “All right, well, the title’s a work in progress.” “Go on.” Sirius shot him one last glance then turned his attention to his fingers on the fretboard and started to strum. Remus couldn’t quite suppress a smile as he watched his friend slip into the song, eyes drifting off into the distance as his nimble fingers danced upon the strings, coaxing out a melody — soft at first, but quickly growing stronger, more sure of itself…He was so spellbound watching this negotiation with the instrument that it almost took him by surprise when Sirius began to sing:

I was born a pure-blood son of a bitch A first-born bait-and-switch, chokin’ on my silver spoon With a black eye

Remus jolted slightly, staring at his friend in astonishment. He’d heard Sirius sing before, of course — an endless litany of birthday ditties, vulgar Christmas carols, The Ballad of Carter-Myles — but this was different. This was…raw. Intimate. Intolerably seductive.

Found a new road racin' through the deep wood Swear I'm up to no good, dreamin’ of a new moon And sayin’ goodbye

His voice was not exactly what one would call smooth or melodious — he was no Stubby Boardman — but it was deeply captivating all the same. Remus found himself thinking of a dog’s low, husky growl. He let his eyes roam over Sirius’s features as he sang — the faint furrow in his brow, the soft line of his lips, the long, dark lashes that framed those distant eyes. He listened, entranced, as Sirius’s words snaked from verse to chorus:

Then they said I was a new man, they said I was a stranger A plot without a plan, a hopeless flirt with danger Takin’ the low road, wherever it goes I’ll tell you where that is, whenever I know

Just don’t— Don’t give up on me, I know I fucked it all up But I’ll go on tryin’… Just don’t give up on me, I said I’d be a better man I wasn’t lyin’ I wasn’t lyin’…

Remus froze. Was this…was this song for him?

A noose of golden thread They said blood finds a way, but which way's which? You son of a bitch, yeah, I'm a son of a bitch, but…

His mind drifted back to a sunlit day at King’s Cross, well over a year ago…and the words Sirius had offered him in parting after that awful term, the words that had haunted him for months to follow…

Just don’t give up on me, I said I’d be a better man I wasn’t lyin’ And I'm still tryin' I swear I'm tryin'…

“I haven’t written the final verse yet.” “What?” Remus blinked back to the present, suddenly startled to find that the music had stopped and Sirius’s gaze — once lost in his own faraway world — had returned and was now set firmly on him. “I don’t know how the song ends.” There was a long pause as both boys considered this. In the silence, Remus recognized that something miraculous had just happened: Sirius had let his guard down. He never did that, but somehow, without really meaning to, Remus had managed to crack through his hard outer shell and expose the softness he’d always suspected lurked underneath. So this is what Sirius had been doing all those summer days holed up on his own... “I told you it was shit,” Sirius muttered. “It’s not shit,” said Remus quickly. “I’m just…surprised. I never knew you were a poet.” Sirius gave a disgusted snort. “I’m not a fucking poet.” “That wasn't an insult, Padfoot.” “Forget it.” Sirius shoved the guitar away. “It’s not poetry, it’s just a stupid song.” Remus bit back a sigh. He could almost see Sirius’s outer shell hardening once more. “I liked it,” he said. “I hope you finish it.” “Probably won’t.” “That’d be a shame. I’d like to know how it ends.” Sirius’s stormy eyes flickered up to meet Remus’s own, and with the faintest intake of breath, Remus knew that it was hopeless: all his desperate pretending, his self-deluding restraint, the violent quelling of nearly seven years of butterflies…none of it mattered when Sirius looked him in the eye. He was lost.

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Excerpt from The Last Enemy: Marauders’ End

“So, what do you think?”

Sirius turned expectantly to his best mate, who stood beside him as the boys peered through the doorway of Sirius’s second bedroom. The room had been unoccupied at the time of Sirius moving into this flat a few weeks ago. Now…it decidedly was not.

“Er…” said James, who did not quite seem to know how to answer the question.

“Her name is Lola,” Sirius added in a reverent tone.

“She has a name, does she?”

“Of course she has a name, you pig.”

“Right,” said James. “Well, then frankly, I’m a bit hurt you moved out and left me for Lola.”

Sirius knocked his shoulder against James’s. “Come on. I didn’t leave you. We’ve been over this. I’m of age, I was going to have to get my own place eventually.”

“Yeah, okay, sure, but you barely made it a month before you shacked up with your new flatmate, Lola.”

Sirius grinned. “She’s sexy, isn’t she?”

“She’s…very shiny.”

“She’s the goddamn love of my life.”

“Okay, ‘she’ is a motorbike, mate. You’ve gone completely batty.”

Sirius laughed and strode further into the room where indeed the Muggle motorbike had been set up, dominating the space. It was a thing of beauty, all sleek lines and silver glint. The floor around the motorbike was haloed with the detritus of Sirius’s last few delicious days: all sorts of mechanical bits and bobs, empty beer bottles, an ashtray, a crumpled up bag of crisps, a few oily rags, and a confusion of Muggle tools, the names of which Sirius kept mixing up — a socket wrench, he thought that one was called. The spare bed that had once been the primary feature of this room — a springy mattress James had transfigured for the nights he was too pissed to apparate home (“Mum won’t mind, she put the security spells on your flat herself.”) — had been shoved into the corner to make room for this new sacred altar.

James did not seem as impressed with Sirius’s new acquisition as he felt his friend ought to be. “You’re just jealous,” Sirius told him, “that you’ve never known a love so true.”

“Ha. Touché.”

Sirius pulled a rag from his back pocket and began to lovingly polish a spot on the seat of the motorbike.

“You know,” said James, still observing from his post at the doorway, “I’m not sure it’s healthy, you spending so much time by yourself.”

“What time by myself?” laughed Sirius. “You’re here almost every day.”

This was true. Hardly a day had passed so far this summer that James hadn’t found a reason to come by. Not that Sirius minded. Though he’d never admit it, he liked living on his own rather less than he’d expected.

“Yeah, well…” James strode closer to inspect the motorbike. “Someone has to make sure you don’t go completely bonkers, all on your own here. Lola, I ask you. You know, if you start talking to the bike, mate, I’m hauling you off to St. Mungo’s too.”

Sirius leaned down and whispered to the handlebars: “Don’t listen to the mean man, Lola. I’d never leave you.”

James sat down on the spare bed with a mournful creak. “Besides,” he said, “Potter House is too quiet now, with you gone and dad all…entombed. Some days I think if I don’t get out, I’m the one who will go bonkers.”

Sirius turned back to his friend, suddenly somber. “Hey, you know I’m just joking, right? You’re always welcome over here. I love having you here.”

“Yeah,” said James, though the faintest tint of melancholy compromised his credulity. Sirius watched as James plucked an oil-stained rag from the bed, sniffed it, then tossed it aside with a wrinkled nose.

“How are things…?” Sirius ventured. “With your dad?” Fleamont Potter’s health had been in steady decline for years, but last Christmas things had taken a turn for the worse. The diagnosis seemed to be simply that he was old…though Sirius had a hard time wrapping his head around that. “Have things gotten any better?”

“No,” said James shortly. “And they’re not going to. It is what it is.” He glared at the wall for a brief moment, then sighed — a deep, intentional sigh, as though exhaling all his miseries in order to transform himself back to Sirius’s good-natured friend. “So…does she work?”

“The fuck d’you mean, ‘does she work?’”

“Well,” said James, “it hasn’t escaped my notice that the bike is in your spare bedroom, rather than, say, on the street. So either you and Lola have a far kinkier relationship than I care to know about…or she doesn’t work.”

A pause.

“She’s a work in progress, okay?”

“Knew it,” grinned James.

“Hey, have some respect,” said Sirius. “I’m fixing her up myself. It’s far cooler than just buying some shiny toy from a shop. This is my bike. Mine. I’ll make her fly, just you wait.” He stroked the bike handle. “Isn’t that right, Lola?”