Boo

“Steve’s already making dinner,” you tell him, "but thanks."

“Oh, yeah? What’re we having?” 

Your eyes burn, and you cover them with your arm again. “Soup, I think? I’m not sure.” 

“I’ll go find out.” 

You’re both surprised and not when Eddie’s lips press to yours a moment later, a small sound half forming in your throat as he pats your hip and begins to stand. 

“What’re you—don’t kiss her.” 

Eddie straightens up fast. “Jesus,” he says. “I thought somebody's dad was here for a second.” 

Steve makes an exasperated sort of huffing sound. You don’t have to open your eyes to know his hands have landed on his hips. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“What am I doing? I thought I was kissing my girlfriend. Why are you acting like you’re gonna call the cops?” 

“She’s sick, idiot. You wanna get sick?” 

“I am not,” you argue idly.

Eddie’s tone takes a dip into sympathy. “You’re sick?” 

“No. I just looked at my laptop for too long.” 

“You have a fever,” says Steve, the sternness of him softening the tiniest bit. “You’re totally getting sick."

“It’s just hot in here.” 

“It’s really not, actually.” 

There’s a pause while you both wait for Eddie to decide who he’ll back up. He betrays you kindly, at least, setting his hand consolingly across your forehead. “It’s not, sweetness. You should have called me earlier. I was just dicking around at work. We could have dicked around together.” 

Steve makes an amused noise. “I don’t think that’s really what she needs to—” 

“Hey, get your mind out of the gutter, Harrington.” 

Eddie’s hand leaves your forehead, and then you hear the familiar sounds of him kissing Steve wholeheartedly. You sneak a peek. Steve’s posture is relaxing (hands indeed on his hips, but lowering now), a dish towel thrown over his shoulder. 

He sighs when the kiss ends. Eddie looks satisfied with himself. 

“Well,” says Steve, meeting your eyes over Eddie’s shoulder, “I guess we’re all getting sick now.” 

“Or none of us are,” you try. 

Eddie laughs, turning and plopping back down next to you on the couch. “No, you’re for sure sick. But the good news is, you’re totally rocking it.” 

You groan. You have to admit it does come out sounding more nasally than you expect. “I don’t want to.” 

“Yeah,” Steve hums compassionately, “none of us did.” 

“Speak for yourselves,” says Eddie. “The only thing better than dicking around at work is not going. We should start figuring out what movies we’re going to rent before it really sets in.” 

You groan again, rolling over so your aching eyes are pressing into a throw pillow. 

An amused puff comes from Steve. He squats down beside you to kiss your cheek. “Sorry, honey.” 

Your voice is muffled into the pillow. “I thought you didn’t want to kiss me.” 

Your expression pinches. Like acknowledging it is another pain. “No,” you say quietly. 

He looks you over. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Have you had any painkillers yet?” 

“She has.” Sirius’ brows are sewn together. He moves on from your lymph nodes, checking your pulse for what Remus feels confident isn’t the first time. 

“Obviously,” James tacks on, trying to lighten the mood. He nudges Remus’ shoulder, grinning at the both of you. “You really think you’re the only one who might remember to try painkillers?” 

Remus goes along, humming teasingly. “Sometimes.” He glances at Sirius. “Fever?” 

“A little one. No swelling, though.” 

“I’m thinking it must have been a combination of stress and the storm last night,” says James. 

Remus hums again, more sympathetically now. He reaches across James to rub your leg. “How bad is your pain, lovely? Can you rate it?” 

Your face does it again. This—pinch. You’re plainly exhausted to begin with, but at Remus’ question you look strangely put out. 

“What?” he asks before you can answer.

“Sorry.” You look at your lap. “Nothing.” 

“No, hey.” Sirius ducks, budging his way into your eyeline. His brows bend. “What’s the matter, baby?”

You look close to tears. “Sorry,” you say again, hardly a whisper. “We’ve just already talked about all of this.” 

“I know,” says Sirius. “And I know you’re tired, lovely girl, but we just want to help.” 

“Can you please just—” You pause, taking a shallow, pained breath. “Can you hold me, please?” 

Remus’ heart cracks clean down its center at the weariness and shame with which you ask. Anguish breaks across Sirius’ face, and James looks much the same before he recovers first, reaching for you. 

“Of course. Of course, yeah,” he says. “Can I move you?” 

You nod. James gets his arms underneath you, maneuvering you carefully into his lap. He takes a few tries to find the best way to wrap you up, eventually settling with one arm around your hips to keep you in place and the other across your back, his lips stamping ardently to the top of your head. 

Remus brushes a wayward strand of hair from your face. A lone tear squishes out of your eye when you close them, trudging a listless path down your cheek as you rest your head on James’ shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” Sirius murmurs. “We weren’t really helping, were we?” 

You don’t open your eyes. “Maybe we can work on it more later,” you say. “Right now, I’m just…so tired.” 

“Think you might be able to nap?” asks Remus. 

You don’t even need time to consider it. “No.” 

“Okay,” he says. He settles in. Sirius moves from his coffee table perch to the couch, taking the spot you vacated on James' other side and kissing your shoulder consolingly. A sigh leaves you, the sound long, and exhausted, but not wholly discontented.

"The first rule," you continue with a pointed look at your co-counselor, "is no racing. It's not about who can get to the top the fastest."

"The way to win," says James, "is to fall the least."

You nod. "Exactly. James and I will keep score, and whoever makes it to the top without falling wins."

One of the campers raises his hand. "What if more than one of us doesn't fall?"

"Then there will have to be a tie-breaker," you allow. "Um, rock paper scissors?"

James dismisses this quickly. "Boring."

You turn to him in offense, and your campers titter—likely both at James' remark and your reaction.

"Not you," he amends, then grins teasingly. "Just your idea. If there's more than one winner, how about whoever does the best dance for us afterwards takes first place?"

You look at the kids for the verdict. It's a mixed bag—this group just old enough for a few of them to find the prospect of a choreographed dance embarassing while others find it fun—but there's enough enthusiasm for you to agree to James' plan.

You go over a few more rules, then let James help you into a harness to show the kids where it needs to be tight. You distract yourself with the demonstration, giving instructions to the campers to avoid making eye contact with James while he tightens straps around your torso and legs and tugs at them to make sure they're secure. You're grateful that the summer sun serves as an excuse for your suddenly hot skin.

"Any questions?" he asks after he's done.

The kids shake their heads.

"Okay." You make a show of thinking hard and looking over the group. "I think our best listener was…Thomas."

Thomas grins, and James high-fives him as he comes over to have his harness put on.

"I'll meet you all at the top," you tell them, "and I'll ring the bell for everyone who makes it up to me."

You turn towards the beginning of the course, but before you can get far you're halted by a tug on your middle. You turn, and James has a finger hooked in the strap around your waist.

"Hold on," he says, "what if I want to ring the bell?"

You nearly laugh. It's often unavoidable around James, you've found, not that you particularly want to avoid it. He makes your insides feel like a shaken coke bottle. "I'm already in a harness."

"So?"

"Do you want to play rock paper scissors for it?"

"No, but I'll dance-battle you."

A smile sneaks out of your mouth. You try to catch it, but not before James' eyes light with mirth.

"Okay," you say, crossing your arms and watching him expectantly, "you go first."

James blinks. "Well, obviously I'd have to go back to my cabin and get a radio first."

“There was a dog,” you say. 

“Right. Following.” 

“It walked right past us, and I—obviously—freaked out because it was so cute.”

“Obviously,” says Sirius, with an eye roll you swear is totally fond. 

“And he didn’t even look at it!” 

Remus scoffs. “What a prick.” 

You gesture to Remus emphatically. “Precisely.” 

“Or,” James argues, “he wasn’t looking at the dog because he was trying to pay attention to you.” 

“It was a labrador, James.” 

“You were on a date! He was supposed to be paying attention to you.” 

“I’m fairly sure that most people,” says Sirius, with the superior air of the only sober one, “would find it flattering if their date was staring at them so hard they didn’t notice anything else.” 

You hum, unconvinced. “I just don’t think I could be with someone who doesn’t care about cute dogs.” 

“Now.” James points a finger at you. “We don’t know that for a fact.” 

“No,” Remus says conclusively, “you shouldn’t be with anyone who doesn’t get excited about the things you do.” 

You send James a triumphant look. 

“Sirius.” Remus is doing something very strange with his face. It almost looks like pleading. “Let me have some more cherries.” 

Sirius sighs. “You’re so predictable. My boss is onto me. She’s said I can’t give away that many in one night again.”

Remus scowls. 

“So the story is,” Sirius goes on, putting a small bowl of maraschino cherries on the bartop with a significant look, “you held me at knifepoint.” 

Remus nods solemnly as he picks one up by the stem. “I did.” 

“So,” James pushes you, “you’re really not going to go out with this guy again just because he didn’t see the dog?” 

You shrug. “It’s like Remus said. I want him to be excited about the things I’m excited about.” 

Remus mumbles his approval, and you steal one of his cherries. James frowns at the both of you. 

“That seems harsh. Couldn’t you at least give him one more chance? What if you end up really liking him?” 

“I don’t feel like I will,” you admit.

“Why not?” 

You sigh heftily. “I guess I could give it one more try. He wants to go out again tomorrow.” 

“Well,” James laughs, “don’t let me twist your arm. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” 

“No, I should.” You fold your hands on the bar and set your chin down atop them, resigned. “I’m not being fair.” 

“You’re kinda not,” James agrees. Sirius crosses his arms, arching a brow at you. 

“Not fair that you can do that,” you tell him. “Jar.” 

He blinks, indignant. “On what grounds? James!” 

“Overruled,” James says.

“Right. Thank you,” Sirius huffs. Much to your annoyance, that expression of knowing returns. “Why do you not want to go so badly? It’s only a second date.” 

“I don’t know.” You let your head loll to the side, knuckles to your cheek. 

“Where does he want to take you?” asks Remus.

“Pub.” 

You turn to look at him, and so you don’t miss the look of disdain that comes over his expression. “You can’t let him take you to a pub,” he says.

“Oi,” Sirius interjects. “Why the fuck not?”

“We’re in a pub now,” you point out, amused. 

Remus frowns. “We’re different,” he says simply. “You don’t want to go out with anyone who’s idea of a date is a place like this.” 

“I’ve taken dates to pubs.” James sounds vaguely offended. 

“I don’t want to do this anyway,” you say. “A pub seems as good a place as any. It’s less pressure than dinner, at least” 

Remus’ voice goes gentle. “If you don’t want to go,” he says, “then don’t.” 

“James is right,” you admit quietly. “I’m not giving him a fair chance. He’s probably not a bad guy.” 

Remus’ frown worsens. “Just because someone isn’t bad doesn’t mean they’re good enough for you.” 

You blink at him. The alcohol has you feeling already warm and hazy, but there’s something inlaid in those words that seems to stupefy you under Remus’ gaze. 

“You don’t need another date to know he doesn’t deserve you,” he says. “You should be going out with someone you’re excited to see. And who treats you the way you ought to be treated.” 

“How’s that?” you murmur. 

Remus holds your stare for a heartbeat that feels too heavy in your chest. “Better than a second date at a pub.” 

You know he’s right. You have no interest in a second date with this guy. With anyone, really. You can hardly persuade yourself to have an interest in first dates. You only even began this whole dating stint because you realized you had a crush on your flatmate.

You’d been noticing things about Remus you didn’t mean to. The way his voice is raspier first thing in the morning and late at night, when he’s tired. The warmth of his body next to yours when you watch telly together on the sofa. Those smiles that seem to ignite in his eyes before they turn up the corners of his mouth. You couldn’t stop watching him, and then you couldn’t stop thinking about him, and soon you were dreaming about him with no clue how to stop that either. You like your living situation too much to ruin it. A distraction seemed like the best solution for you. Or several distractions. None of them have taken yet. 

You steal another of Remus’ cherries, feeling the sweetness crack between your teeth. “So you guys can take me to a pub,” you say, “but he can’t?” 

Remus reaches forward and takes the stem from your mouth. You’re too startled to stop him. “We’re different,” he repeats. 

You wet your lips. Remus’ look is unwavering, his eyes like warm honey in the dim light of the pub. The cloying sweetness of the cherry turns to something that sits heavier on your tongue. 

The moment stretches long and thin, or it feels like it does, until Sirius clears his throat and cleaves right through. 

“Glad you find these conditions acceptable,” he says drily. “You’re all cut off, by the way.” 

You tear your gaze from Remus’. “Why?” 

“James has passed out.” 

You sit up to see your most energetic flatmate slumped over the bar, his smushed cheek making his glasses sit askew. “No,” he mumbles halfheartedly, “m’awake.” 

Sirius levels Remus with a look. “Are you going to be able to help me get him home?” 

Remus looks offended. “Yes.” 

You’re dubious of this, but as it turns out Remus’ strangely expressive state has almost no bearing on his physical stability. He refuses to leave until you’re wearing his jacket and pinches your chin in a way he never has before (Sirius seems immensely entertained by this), but stands from his stool and slips James’ arm over his shoulders like it’s nothing. 

As you’re fighting the wind on the way to your flat, Remus’ jacket a welcome weight over your shoulders, James asks you, “You are going to go, then? On a second date?” 

“Why do you care so much?” you ask genuinely. 

James doesn’t even hesitate. He answers with the same genuineness, “I just want you to be happy.” 

You’re caught offguard by that, your guts doing a funny little twist. You blink fast. 

Sirius scoffs and bumps your shoulder lightly. “Sop.” 

“Yeah,” you answer James. “I think I’m going to go.” 

You chance a look at Remus, but his eyes are ahead. James turns to grin at you, nearly tipping over in the process, and Remus rights him with a curse. “Fuck’s sake, Jamie. Mind your feet.” 

"We will," he says. "Soon, okay? We have to make sure you're okay before we can move you."

The panic that had muffled at his arrival returns full force. You swallow a keen. "I just—can't you—"

"Hey." Sirius' finger rubs into your jaw to make up for cutting you off. "You're going to be fine. We're here. I'm passing you off to James now, stay still for us."

Your heart thuds against your ribcage as strong hands come from behind you to replace Sirius'.

"I've got c-spine," James confirms in a serious voice.

"James?"

"Good guess," he jokes. "Though I suppose you had fifty-fifty odds."

"Is Remus here too?"

"Yeah, just outside. Are you breathing okay?"

"How'd you get in here?"

"Most of the doors are jammed, but your trunk still opens. I crawled in. Hey, lovie—"

"Can you get me out?" Desperation claws at your voice.

"—breathe," James finishes. "Just breathe for a second."

You'd love to. It's not that it should be impossible—the window next to you is an open space now, after all, you have plenty of access to outside air—but the space around you is so small it feels like there's no room for oxygen. You can't move. Your legs are caught in a metal trap, the front of your car pressing in on you in a way it isn't meant to, and now you're sharing the already tight space with two more bodies. Your head spins.

"I need—" You choke on an unknown blockage. "I need to get—"

"Listen to me," says Sirius, perhaps not for the first time. You blink, and he's looking you in your eyes intently. "Are you with me? The sooner we clear you, the sooner we can get you out of here."

Your eyes burn. "Okay."

Sirius exhales, softening. He pries your hands from the seatbelt. "Wiggle your fingers for me?" You do. "Good. Can you feel this?"

You answer all of his questions and do what he tells you to, even when Sirius has to worm his arm awkwardly under the contorted mess of your dashboard to check if you can move your feet. The inside of the car gets so hot you're sweating. It doesn't make sense, when the weather outside isn't oppressively warm, but you can't think that through, much less hear Sirius' instructions, over the rushing in your ears. James has to repeat things for you more than once.

When Sirius comes up from checking on your feet, his expression creases at whatever your face must look like.

"We're almost done," he promises you.

It sounds less like a reassurance than a sentence. Your throat tightens around a sob.

Sirius' brows hook. "I know, baby," he says, sounding genuinely sorry. "We'll get you out of here soon. I can get this seatbelt off now, though, would that help?"

You try to nod before realizing you can't, James' hold on your head tigthening preventatively. Your distress ratchets up at the restriction, but Sirius seems to cotton on to your agreement anyway.

"Okay, don't move." He takes your seatbelt in hand, ducking out of the window to speak to someone outside—Remus, you realize. When Sirius returns, there's a box cutter in his other hand, and he wastes no time in getting you free.

It's like free falling and then catching onto a branch. Fear still squeezes tight in your chest, but you suck in a breath, tears blinking from both eyes.

"There you go," says James lightly. He sounds like he sighs, possibly nearly as relieved as you are. "That's better, yeah?"

Sirius pulls the collar of your shirt to the side, frowning at where the strap of the seatbeld left a red mark the disappears down your chest. "Yeah," he answers for you. "Okay, nearly done. Close your eyes for a moment."

You do. Sirius pinches your finger and asks you to tell him which one it was. When you wiggle your ring finger, he lets you open your eyes again.

James lets you go, kissing your head. "Good job. You're done, angel, let me just get the backboard and we'll—oh, you're ahead of me, are you?"

You're confused as to what he means for a moment, but James isn't talking to you. Sirius finds the lever to tilt your seat back, and when you look up to see Remus standing in the open back of your car with blue sky behind him, you begin to tremble.

Even once the focus is on freeing you, it takes longer than you can stand. James is all encouragement, and Sirius makes one joke—"You know, usually you rather like when my head is in your lap"—before getting that you're not up to it, but when Remus crawls in to help get the backboard underneath you, sparing a loving hold for your cheek, you rip at the seams.

"What did you do?" Sirius sounds half like he's ribbing and half genuinely upset, sitting up to see Remus where he's looking down at you in dismay. You can hardly breathe around sobs.

"Shh, you're alright," Remus tells you, his mouth bent with sympathy. "You're alright. It's only your legs that we're still working on, you're nearly out. This'll be done soon."

As he says it, Sirius manages to wriggle free the first of your legs. He bends it carefully at the knee, setting your socked foot up on the backboard with you and diving into the new space to begin working on the next.

"You got really lucky," says James, leaning over you in a way that can't be comfortable to feel about your leg and ankle. By this point, he's already moved your clothes all one way or another, checking over each part of you systematically. "You could have been hurt a lot worse."

"Fractured tibia and fibula," Sirius reports from below.

James winces. "Right. Well, still could have been worse."

Getting your second leg out of its confines proves a lot more painful than the first. Your just want it over quickly, though, so you screw your eyes shut and bite down on your bottom lip (at least, until Remus scolds you for it) and eventually James and Sirius manage to maneuver it out. They situate you properly on the backboard, James holding your injured leg steady. Then you're in open air.

It makes you cry harder, for some reason. You're breathing easier almost instantly. Your body shakes with tiny shivers.

"You're alright, we're here," Remus consoles you as they carry you over to a stretcher. The moment you're set down, he's bending over, his nose to your brow. "It's okay, sweetheart. Breathe."

"Are we going to be okay in the ambulance?" James looks between you and Remus, seeming unsure which of you he's asking.

Remus nods, straightening. "She'll be fine. Let's just take a minute before we go."

You nod, too, pleased with this plan.

Sirius chuckles. He leans down for a kiss while James goes to get some of their eqipment from the cab of the ambulance. "You did really well," he tells you. "Thanks for staying so calm for us, lovely. I know it was hard."

"Calm?" you choke out, appalled.

Remus snorts.

"Calm considering how badly you must have been freaking out," Sirius amends.

You swallow. "Yeah. Thanks."

"It was an impulse buy," you say. "You should keep it, actually. I never wear it, and it looks nice on you."

Lily's smile takes on a different quality. One you've seen before, and are too afraid to investigate. "Thanks. Do you want any help there?"

You lower your hand, frowning at the overlarge bump of eyeliner in the middle of your lash line. "I'm useless without Marlene."

"Aren't we all," Lily agrees. She comes to join you in the bathroom. "But I think sometimes it's easier when you're not working on yourself. Can I?"

You turn, passing her the pencil. Lily wets a cloth and takes her face in her hand to hold you still while she cleans off the mess you've made.

"It always looks like I've hardly done anything," you say with your eyes closed, "so I add a bit more, and then I look insane."

"You don't," she chides softly, though there's a smile in her voice. "You look gorgeous, it's just that you can only see the problems. And like I said, it's easier when someone else does this for you."

"Because you have a steadier hand?"

"No." She hardly has to murmur for you to hear, and you're struck, rather abruptly, with the epiphany of how close Lily is to you. Marlene does your eyeliner for you nearly every time you go out, but it's never felt like this. "Perspective."

Lily sweeps the dry side of the cloth across your lid, creating a fresh palate, before setting it down. You open your eyes, catching only a glimpse of her before she cups your face again, liner in hand, and gestures for you to close them.

Your body has caught onto what's happening now, though. Your every nerve thrums with awareness. You feel the brush of faux fur against your leg as she steps closer. The graze of her knuckle as she draws the pencil gently across your lash line. The (perhaps imagined) warmth of her closeness. Your heart flutters in your throat.

"If you wanted," you say, using the opportunity of your closed eyes to muster a bit of courage, "we could just stay here. Then you could go home after two, and Mary would be happy with you."

A pause. "Actually, I wouldn't mind dancing for a while," says Lily. Her hold shifts as she moves to your other eye. "I liked your first idea, though. Maybe we stay for a little while, and then when we're sick of it, come back here for the night."

Her thumb brushes beside your eye, correcting something, and your breath catches. Lily's touch lifts.

"Would that be okay?" she asks.

You blink your eyes open. This close, you can see the flush risen beneath her freckles that you couldn't when she was in your bedroom. You think Lily has to know she's beautiful, but sometimes you wonder if she knows the extent of it. You feel confident that even if she did—if she understood her power to stop hearts, to derail trains of thought and upset swarms of stomach butterflies—she'd only use it for good. That's just who Lily is.

"Yeah," you reply. "That sounds perfect."

"Great." She smiles and brushes a thumb under the corner of your eye again. "Well, done. You look really pretty."

"Thanks to you."

"Ha." You slip your shirt over your head. When your lotion clicks as you open it, Sirius turns around.

A strand of hair has slipped free of the confines he's subjected the rest to at the back of his head, curving along his cheek. He regards you with a stare that used to appear cool and calculated to you, and it still does, but now you can see the tenderness that lies beneath. Sirius lets you see it.

"Do you need to have a cry?" he asks, whispery, like he wants to protect you from prying ears.

You swallow as, summoned, an urgent heat closes around your throat. "You usually hate it when I cry."

"I'd rather you didn't need to," Sirius admits, "but if it would make you feel better…I think someone more well-adjusted than me might say it's worth a try."

Your mouth tugs. "I think you're perfectly adjusted."

"Tell that to the tattoos."

You hesitate before mumuring, "I'd rather not cry, too."

He nods, and you pretend not to notice that his eyes soften. "Okay. Do you want to go get ice cream instead?"

Now you do smile, if weakly. "Like I'm five?"

"Hey." Sirius levels you with a mock stern look. "Ice cream brings joy to all ages."

"I've just put on my pajamas, though."

"There's no need to change out of them. You'll look stunning either way, so you might as well be comfortable."

Heat spreads to your face now, of a less urgent kind; this always happens when Sirius flirts with you. "You're in regular clothes," you point out.

"I'm in uniform, babe. As much as I'd love to show up in solidarity, I can't get between you and a bullet as quickly with pajama pants flapping around my ankles."

You frown. "Don't joke about that."

"I'm sorry." Sirius uses the apology as an excuse to get you close, winding an arm around your shoulders and stamping a kiss to your head. You focus hard on not melting into him. You really will cry, then. Sirius feels more like home than the home you're in.

"The truth is," he says lowly, "if I were to wear what I actually do to bed, I'd be freezing cold."

You scoff. He gives you a friendly squeeze.

"So?" he coaxes.

You nod, moving with him towards the door. "I'll drive."

He snorts. "You know, that's okay. I'll take this one."

"I'm very sad," you say, looking at him with big eyes. Sirius looks back with quirked lips.

"How was it?" you ask.

"Brilliant!" says James, at the same time as Sirius groans, "Awful."

"It was like being in Willy Wonka." James props his chin on a fist as both boys flop down on the bed by yours and Remus' feet.

Sirius shudders. "Creepy film. Why does chocolate require so many mascots? Between the show last night and walking around all of today, my legs are pulverized."

"Is that why you're back early?" asks Remus.

"Partly." James smiles, reaching up to ruffle Remus' hair. "We also missed you. Massage?" he offers Sirius.

Sirius looks momentarily like he could cry for gratitude, but he neatens his expression into one of cool imperiousness soon enough. "Seems like the least you could do."

James scoots closer gamely. He pushes his thumbs into Sirius' calves, and Sirius sighs, dropping his head to his folded arms.

You try not to stare, but even just the awareness of it, James' strong hands kneading confidently at the flesh, is enough to make heat rush from your face down to your chest. It only gets worse as James makes his way up the backs of Sirius' legs.

You search for something to distract yourself. You've been trying to find a hook that could function as a through-line for your feature; maybe this could be it. The Marauders as not only one of the most popular bands in Britain, but the most closely-knit group of boys you've ever witnessed. Supportive, as devoted to each other as they are to their music, and unafraid of showing it.

"So." Sirius turns his head to peer at you, cheek resting on his forearm. You tuck the idea away for later. "Do you think you'll ever walk again?"

You smile, praying it's not obvious how they've flustered you. "That's the hope. You?"

"Likely not." He heaves a great sigh. "My career is finished. Struck down in my prime."

"We'll be alright without you," James says lightly. Sirius kicks one of his feet, and James retaliates by pressing knuckles into his thigh. Sirius stills with a hiss.

"What about you?" he asks, poking Remus' foot. "How are you feeling? Think you'll ever be able to get up onstage again?"

Remus, already a few bites into his chocolate bar, gives Sirius a dry look. "Oh, because that's all I matter to you, is that it?"

"Obviously. If I'm out of the band, James will need you. Otherwise, the whole show will just be him throwing drumsticks off into the crowd. No one will come to see it."

"They'd still come," James defends himself.

A thought strikes you. You take your tape recorder from the nightstand, setting it to record and putting it where the boys can see it. Remus eyes it, but no one objects.

"Uh oh," James jokes. "She's gearing up."

"I was just wondering," you say, "what do you think you'd be doing if you weren't in the band?"

As always when your tape recorder comes out, Sirius takes the lead. He sits up on his elbows, his grin sharpening as if by instrinct or habit.

"Well, if my family had their way I'd have ended up in banking," he says, "but I think I could've been an actor. This face was just made for the public eye, don't you think?"

"So you think you'd have still ended up in entertainment?"

"Don't I entertain you, gorgeous?" Sirius winks.

"If there weren't films or microphones," teases James, "he'd have found a circus to ringlead."

It's funny, because even sitting here with Sirius now—in normal clothes, bare of the dark slashes of eyeliner he wears onstage, with the sun shining on him and warming the impenetrable black of his hair to dark brown—you can't picture him doing anything else. He's right; whether by nature or by practice, Sirius has mastered stardom. He doesn't have to wait for a spotlight to find him. He emits his own.

"Remus," James goes on, "wanted to be a teacher, though."

You turn to the bassist, feeling your brows lift. "Did you really?"

Remus appears almost shy. "I did, yeah."

"He was always very swotty." Sirius grins, fond around the eyes. "He used to finish his homework and then stick around to help us with ours. Lily, too."

Remus rolls his eyes. "You never needed much help."

"No," James agrees. "It was really more the three of them helping me. I'm useless at maths."

"What did you want to do?" you ask him.

James shrugs. "I don't know. When I was little I wanted to be a firefighter. I thought about being a veterinarian for a while, but then I heard there's some maths involved in that sometimes too…" Sirius reaches back to pat him consolingly. "Maybe a footballer? I guess it's a good thing I'm already doing this, or else I might not be able to decide."

You hum, nodding. "I could see that for you."

"That I would never have decided?"

"Yeah."

James pauses Sirius' massage, his eyes squinting behind his glasses. "That feels like it might be an insult."

You copy Sirius and reach over to give him a consoling pat. "You'll live."

"She means you could've done anything you wanted to," Remus translates helpfully. "You're good at lots of things, Jamie."

"You could've been a masseuse, too," adds Sirius, who appears to have nearly liquefied into the mattress.

"Oh." James puffs up. "Well, thanks. What would you have done?" he asks you.

You blink. "Other than journalism?"

"Yeah."

The answer, honestly, is nothing. You're not like James. You didn't have a myriad of other ideas and viable options. This is the whole plan for you. The only plan.

You're saved from answering when the room's phone rings.

You all startle. You hesitate a moment before remembering that this is your room, and you reach over to the nightstand to answer it.

"Hello?"

"L/n?" Your posture straightens unconsciously at the sound of your editor's voice.

"Yes, hi," you say quickly, then cringe at your lack of professionalism. Sometimes it feels like you get greener by the day. "How can I help you?"

He begins speaking in his usual brusque, clipped way. It still intimidates you, even if you're slowly getting used to it. The boys must catch onto the nature of the call; Sirius sits up, looking unsure, and James whispers to you that they can leave. You wave them off, frowning as you listen to the voice on the other line.

"Yes," you say. "Yeah, I can do that."

You hold the phone to your ear with your shoulder and reach for your pen and notepad.

"Where is it? Okay, thanks….and pre or post-show? Got it. No, that's perfect. I, um…" You hesitate, a bit embarassed to be having this conversation in front of others. "Thank you for the opportunity. I'll—"

You cut yourself off when your editor begins speaking again.

"I understand. It will be, thank you. Alright, goodb—"

You're cut off again by the click of the receiver.

Sirius' brow wrinkles. "That guy wasn't letting you get much out, was he?"

"What's going on?" James asks.

You take a breath. "They want me to interview another band."

His eyes widen. "You're done with us?"

"No. It's…Reckoning is having a show here tonight. They've scheduled me for a pre-show interview because I'm nearby."

"They're asking you to cheat on us?" Sirius gasps in mock outrage.

"You all cheated on me first," you remind him, "when you got interviewed by another reporter."

You don't recall what else came out of that day until the levity has already sapped from Sirius' expression, leaving a dark pinch in its place.

"We should go with you," he says.

"Don't be stupid." You shake your head, looking away. "I do this stuff all the time."

Sirius seems as if he might argue with you, but Remus speaks before he can. "It's good that they're asking you to do more work for them, isn't it?"

"Yeah," you hedge. "Just…my editor sort of implied it's because the feature is taking me too long. I think they're starting to get antsy."

Remus eyes you worriedly.

You try to sound assured. "But it'll be fine. Since I'm here, I can write this other article in the meantime to keep them happy."

Sirius sighs, rolling over and casting his head back dramatically. "So long as we're still your favorites."

"I don't think I'm supposed to pick favorites," you tell him, a smile creeping onto your face.

"What we're supposed to do and what we do are two different things, doll. Anyway, I think you already said we're your favorite band." He casts a look at Remus. "Didn't she?"

"I remember that," Remus agrees.

"Think you called us amazing once too," muses James. He bumps your good ankle with his elbow playfully. "Don't forget that when you're writing your feature, alright?"

"You're the feature," you remind them. "This is just an article."

"Cheers. Goodnight," James replies.

There's the swooshing sound of the bus door opening and closing. You start to sit up, but at the slightest bit of movement from you, James' hand covers your head, stroking lullingly.

"Shh," he whispers.

There's a pause, wherein no one but you seems to breathe. Your indolent mind makes the executive decision to drift in not-quite-sleep for a while longer.

"James," Remus sighs, "we're going to have to wake her."

James makes a soft, mournful sound you think you likely only hear because you're so close to him. How you came to be using his bicep as a pillow, you don't recall.

It's not him that argues, though, but Sirius. "She was so knackered earlier," he says in a low voice. "And that was hours ago."

"She'll sleep better in a bed," Remus says, his tone gentling.

James makes a sound of offense. "You said I was the best pillow you ever had."

Rousing more now, you can practically hear Remus' eyes roll. "A pillow, not a mattress."

"She just looks so…" There's something in Sirius' voice you can't place. It's too close to compassion for your liking, though, which wakes you up enough to make the decision for them.

You bring a hand to your eyes, rubbing.

"Ah." You feel James wince. "Sorry."

When you open your eyes, even Remus is looking at you guiltily.

"That's…okay." You don't quite know what to make of them, peering instead around the near vacant bus. "Are we back?"

"Yeah," Remus confirms. "Lily's checked in and got our room keys already. Do you think you can stand?"

You nod without thinking, but actually standing is a different matter. Still half-asleep, you put weight on your hurt ankle unthinkingly, saved from collapsing back onto the seat by Sirius' quick reflexes as a whimper tears from your throat.

"Careful," he hisses. His grip on your arm turns less bruising only when you steady yourself on your other foot.

"Sorry." You try to blink yourself into better awareness. "It hurts worse than it did before."

"That happens after you rest it," says Remus, watching you cautiously as you take another step. Once you manage it, he turns around, leading the way out of the bus. "I don't mean to sound bleak, but it'll likely be worse tomorrow, too."

"Yay," you monotone. You wince as you step off the bus.

"Do you want me to carry you?" James offers, entirely sincere.

"No, I've got it."

"Okay, well at least let me—" He lifts your arm and steps underneath it like he had earlier. "That's better, right?"

Despite the cool night air, warmth kisses your cheeks as Sirius wordlessly takes your bag from you, freeing you up to use James as your crutch.

"Yeah," you say quietly. "It does, thanks."

You don't want to think about how ill advised this is. You don't want to think about how this could be James' way of getting on your good side, making sure you write nice things about them in your feature. You let him support you until you get in the hotel elevator, and then you step away to lean against the wall.

James is perhaps too tired to take offense. Remus, though, gives you a scrutinizing look, and steps closer to you when the elevator doors open again.

"I can help get you sorted in your room," he offers. "You'll need ice."

You hesitate for a moment, but in that moment Remus has wound an arm around your waist, supporting you while also shepherding you towards your room. Sirius hands off your bag to him before following James in the other direction.

"You're in good hands, doll," he says, then covers his mouth to yawn after James yawns loudly. He sends the drummer a dark look. "Don't you start with that."

"Goodnight." James continues down the hall, yawning and triggering Sirius' yawns in turn, which are interspersed with threats and complaints.

You yawn as well. Remus, somehow immune to this, chuckles as he opens the door to your room.

"Do you want to change while I get a bag of ice?" he asks, setting both you and your bag on the bed.

"Sure, but—you really don't need to," you say. "I can manage."

"I'm sure you can," he replies, and leaves.

You stare at the door. That doesn't sound like he's not coming back. You change quickly in case, not truly surprised when a polite knock sounds a few minutes later.

"Thank you." You try not to shrink as Remus constructs a stack of pillows to elevate your ankle, settling a towel-wrapped bag of ice on top. You're aware of the tackiness of dried tears on your face, and of how pathetic and inept you must seem. Remus finds a spare blanket and fans it out atop you. "You really don't have to do all of this."

"Don't worry about it," he says.

You do worry, though. You worry about how kind they've all been to you, and what it might mean. What might be expected in return.

"Are you being so nice to me so that I'll write nice things about you all in the feature?" you force yourself to ask.

Remus pauses. His brows twitch, a flicker of something, gone in an instant. "Are you only being nice to us so that we'll give you quotes for your feature?"

You recoil. Such as you can in bed, anyway. Your chin tucks closer to your chest, something inside aching sharply. "No," you say, relieved to find that it rings true.

He hums. "Me neither."

Remus moves your bag to the nightstand for you, nudging the telephone closer so you can reach both without much trouble. "Feel free to give us a ring in the morning," he says. "Sirius is in five-thirty-one, and Lily and Mary are in five-forty. You should meet us for breakfast."

"Thanks," you say, "I will."

The Marauders go on, and you tell yourself you've spent enough time dissecting them. You let go. There are certain things you still can't help but notice—the fondness behind Remus' exasperation when Sirius bumps their hips together playfully, how James grins sheepishly at someone backstage when he's handed yet another drumstick—but for the most part, you just experience the music.

It goes by faster than usual. The songs are mostly the same ones you've heard at every show thus far, though the sparkle of those hasn't worn off for you either. All too soon, the boys are ending on Sweet and Easy, the crowd screaming for more even after they've repeated the riff at the end twice.

You're left buzzing, that raw feeling coursing through you, feeling the best you have in days. You figure you have some time before Lily rounds everyone up to go back to wherever you're staying tonight—you think it's still Birmingham one more day, if James' Cadbury World plans are any indication, but Lily said something about switching hotels—so you go outside to smoke with a gangle of fans.

In addition to a bummed cigarette, you get some half decent material from them. The feature isn't likely to include fan quotes, but if the band flakes on you and you need to fluff it up, these will be useable. You manage to sneak in a few questions about the direction The Marauders might go in without letting anything slip about new music, and the fans don't suspect you of knowing anything worth letting slip anyway. They just want to talk about a band they adore, and you're more than pleased to let them.

Even later, you won't know exactly how it began. The street in front of the venue has been crowded since you stepped outside, but suddenly it's crammed with bodies. You drop your cigarette on instinct when somebody pushes past you. Not two seconds later, someone going the other direction stamps it out. Voices rise, a familiar, foreboding thrum charing the air: anger.

You squash down your panic, looking for an exit route. These things happen. Riots are common at rock concerts. Back when you were going to these gigs in a more regular fashion, you would have remembered to find your way out quickly afterwards, before any could break out. You don't know who's fighting who at this one, or what side you might be presumed to be on. You should go before you find out.

The crowd is near impossible to move through. You find the venue doors locked, and your chest tightens. Any other time you'd just go, but you need to get inside to meet up with Mary, Lily, and the boys. You try to make your way around the building—weathering a few stepped-on toes, a wayward elbow, and a powerful shove.

The last one nearly sends you to the pavement. Another stranger grips you around the elbow to haul you back up, you gasping out a thanks while your ankle twinges and the man who shoved you doesn't so much as look back.

You find the side entrance you'd come in with the band, knocking on the door and trying to muster whatever professionalism you'd lost in the cigarette-smoggy mayhem a few feet behind you.

A security guard pokes his head out.

"Hi," you say. "Are The Marauders still inside?"

He huffs a laugh, already going to close the door again. "Nope."

You shove your foot in the way. Force down a wince—you must have tweaked your ankle when you almost fell. "I'm from Spellbound Magazine." You show him your press pass. "I'm with the band."

The security guard looks right past the piece of plastic, unimpressed. "The band's gone. You can catch them at another show, but not here."

A bolt of panic goes through you. You do your best to smother it. Security does this sort of thing all the time. He thinks you're someone who's not supposed to be here, so he's lying to get you to go away. You just have to prove yourself.

The guard looks down at your shoe, still wedged in the door, then at you, and you know you have a short window.

"If you find Mary—or anyone who works with the band, they'll tell you I'm with them. I came in this door a few hours ago, I just stepped outside."

"You can find see band somewhere else," the security guard says. He gives the toe of your shoe a kick—not even a hard one, but your ankle smarts and it does the trick. "Night."

The metal door shuts with a clang.

Deja-vu.

You don't have much time to think of another plan before commotion from the street catches your attention. The shouts are getting louder and angrier, and you know what that means even before the first shrill whistle pierces the air. The police have arrived.

You step closer to the alley wall, hoping to escape notice and hunker down here until someone you know eventually comes out, but it's not long before people are flooding the alley. There are so many of them you don't think they can all have been at the show. One of the fans you interviewed earlier grabs for you.

"Come on!"

"Oh, no, I—" You mean to let them pass, but the police are advancing behind, arresting those at the back of the crowd. You don't know if the same press pass the venue security disregarded a minute ago is going to make much difference to them. "Shit."

You let yourself be tugged down the alley, then propelled by the general mass of people when the one who tugged you loses their grip. You know for sure you messed up your ankle now. It throbs with every step, and it doesn't help matters that you often don't know where the next step will land, finding yourself moving left or right by the will of the crowd. Every time you try to break away, it seems like the police are right there, and so you keep moving.

Eventually, you aren't being chased anymore. Those around you disperse, going home or to whatever bars are still open. You go in the opposite direction of all of them.

It takes you longer than it should to retrace your steps back to the venue. When you knock on the metal side door, there's no answer. Not that you really thought there would be. There isn't a single light on inside or out.

It occurs to you far too late that you should have just found the bus. If you'd gone there earlier, rather than wasting your time arguing pointlessly with security…it's what a smarter journalist would have done. But the bus will be gone now. The Marauders have long since left you behind.

You're too hopeless to laugh, though you recognize the humor in it. After all your worrying about them sneaking off on you, you'd been the one to disappear. You practically gave them no choice.

You sit down on the foul-smelling concrete and try to steady yourself enough to think of what to do next. You can find them again. You might have some explaining to do, and possibly they'll be upset with you for leaving without saying anything, but if you show up at whatever venue The Marauders are playing tomorrow and catch the attention of someone you know you're sure they'll let you explain yourself. That doesn't give you anywhere to stay tonight, obviously. You'll be okay, though; sitting in this alley until morning doesn't sound particularly enjoyable to you, but you can do it. You're as safe here as anywhere, and it'll only be a few hours until the sun rises. You just have to stay awake.

The echo of a passing voice makes its way down to you, and you burrow closer to the wall to escape its notice.

"Hey? Hey!"

Your track record for successfully melting into the shadows of this alley is not a stellar one.

"Y/n!"

You look up in surprise. In the mouth of the alley, a familiar shape is jogging toward you, followed by others.

"Have you been here this whole time?" James sounds more out of breath than a short jog would do. "Where were you hiding?"

You stare up at him, sure you've fallen asleep and are dreaming. "I…"

James drops to a crouch beside you, concern written all over him even in the dark. Sirius and Mary are behind him a moment later, then Lily and Remus. They surround you, seeming perplexed when you don't stand.

"Are you alright?" asks Remus.

You burst into tears.

It's terribly embarassing, and very unprofessional, but you find that once you start crying you can't stop. You don't mean to shock them. James gets past his alarm the fastest, putting an arm around you, and Lily murmurs something that sounds like a placation.

"I'm sorry," you blubber. "I was—I tried to come back, but they wouldn't let me in, and then the cops were here—"

"We heard," says Sirius, his voice nearly as gentle as you've ever heard it. It reminds you of how he spoke to Remus after Remus got shocked by the mic stand, "about the riot. Figured you might've gotten caught up in it. Are you hurt?"

You manage to tell them about your ankle. Remus prods at it a minute—apparently, he's had enough minor injuries to be a de facto expert—and determines it likely sprained. Mary runs to get you a jacket from the bus, apparently still parked nearby after they stayed to look for you. Lily promises to make sure you always have the relevant addresses in case you get separated again, or maybe Mary can get you a press pass that looks more official somehow—but, she says, it'd probably be best if you stay nearby when you can help it in the future.

Through all of this, you're crying. You're waved off each time you try to apologize for the dramatics. James has resigned himself to sitting on the foul-smelling cement beside you so he can rub your shoulder, and Remus keeps a hand clasped loosely around your ankle while Sirius watches you with dark, serious eyes.

"You got it?" he asks when Mary comes back with your coat and you stand wobbily.

"Yeah." Your voice is a wreck. You put your coat on, and James lifts your arm, encouraging you to put it around his shoulders and let him take some weight off your ankle. You wipe your face. "Sorry for—"

"That's enough," says Remus, managing to sound more kind than stern.

You murmur anyway, "Thanks for waiting for me."

You turn with a look of mild surprise. Your smile takes a moment to return, hesitant, as though unsure if James had really been talking to you. “Yeah, I think they’re going to have us do name tags first thing,” you say. “Not many of us know each other.” 

“Have you worked here before?” 

You give a sort-of nod. “Last summer, for a bit. I only worked the first session.” 

“Oh.” James remembers vaguely having that option, but he hadn’t considered that people would actually choose it. He hopes it’s not common; he’d rather keep you for the full summer. “What about this year?” 

“This year I’m staying the whole time.” 

James grins. “Me too. It’s my first year. Maybe you could show me the ropes?” 

Your eyes flicker over him quickly, like you’ve done it before you could think. When you blink, they’ve stopped. “You don't seem like you'll need my help.” 

The camp manager comes in to greet you before James can ask what colors you’d like in your friendship bracelet. You don’t join in on the murmuring or commentary some other counselors do, listening patiently and raising your hand when he asks who’s been through the general training before. There are other, specialized ones counselors can take to get certified for various activities—swim instruction, archery, management of the ropes course. You raise your hand to volunteer for the last one, and so does James. 

As he watches you, he decides that he doesn’t think you’re completely reticent by nature. Just a tad shy, maybe. You seem like the sort that needs to get comfortable with people. 

Luckily, despite what Remus says, James can be patient.

He is also tenacious. 

James collects other friends throughout the day, but he doesn’t give up on you. He finally learns your name when you all paint them on wooden rectangles, and he asks you to show him how you’ve done the clouds around yours. He partners with you for your ropes course training, talking his way through the awkwardness of practicing taking harnesses on and off of each other. At dinnertime, another counselor’s story about a kid in a previous year who took a shit in her bag (not out of malice, she claims, but desperation) makes James shoot lemonade out his nose, and you laugh, bright and startled. James feels strangely proud for having caused it.

With eyes still watering, he nods at your plate. “Not a fan of grapes?”

You’ve stopped looking surprised when he talks to you; a victory in James’ book. You look only slightly chastised. “Just picky, I guess. These ones are sort of soft.” 

“I’ll trade you my fries for them.” 

You blink. “Are you sure? They don’t usually serve fries. You should enjoy them while you can.”

“Two fries per grape,” he negotiates. 

You seem to debate with yourself for a moment before deciding they're James’ luxury to give away if he likes. You push your plate towards him, empty but for the few grapes, and take a few fries in return. 

“Pleasure doing business with you.” James crunches a grape (you’re right, they are a bit soft) between his teeth and holds out his hand. 

You raise your eyebrows, but put your own in it, shaking. 

“I think we should be friends,” he says. “Do you want to?” 

Your eyebrows travel further upward. “I don’t know if anyone’s asked me that since we were little.” 

“I don’t know if I’m supposed to take that as a compliment or not.” 

You smile; it makes your lashes kiss at the corners. “It’s not an insult.” 

“So?” 

Not anymore, you tell yourself sternly on your way down to the bus. You’re here to do a job. You’re here for yourself. There’s a wall between you and the band by the very nature of your role here, and your role is to make that wall appear transparent, not evaporate it. You won’t let yourself get so close again. 

Closeness has only given you less to write about. 

You return Lily’s polite nod as you step onboard the bus. Sirius is giving you some kind of look, but you pretend not to notice it poking at your periphery. You ignore too James’ patting of the extra space on his bench, passing the boys by to sit instead in an empty seat a few rows behind them. Close enough to overhear; not close enough to engage. As you should have been this whole while.

“Have a lie in this morning?” Remus asks you anyway.

“Yeah,” you reply. 

James turns fully around to speak to you, folding his arms atop of his seat. “I hope you’ve rested up,” he says. “Tomorrow, we’re going to Cadbury World.” 

“Oh.” It takes a second, but you find the right smile. Pleasant and distantly apologetic. “You all have fun, but I think I’m going to stay back. I have to edit this article for Tuesday.” 

James looks put out. You pull out your notepad before you can linger on it. 

“What’s the article about?” asks Remus. It may only be your own new wariness, but you think you detect a hint of vigilance in his tone.

You glance at Sirius on instinct to see if he’s eyeing you with the same distrust. His dark-rimmed stare is heavy, but it’s not…it’s not what you expect. There’s no accusation there. Sirius seems watchful, but not like he’s anticipating something in particular. Like he’s waiting to see what you do next.

You wonder if he thinks you’re angry with him. You’re not. You don’t blame him for thinking you’d sell James out for a story; Sirius is used to dealing with real journalists. He’s learnt to be calculating, to put himself as a shield between people like you and anything—or anyone—he wants to protect. To anticipate the worst you could do so he knows when to be ready. If you were half the journalist Spellbound thinks you are, you would have done it.

You just aren’t sure if you are that journalist. You aren’t sure if you want to be. 

“It’s something I was working on before I got here,” you say to mollify Remus. 

“Are you feeling alright?” asks Sirius. 

You feel your brows draw in tight, forgetting for a moment to control your expression. “I feel fine, why?” 

He shrugs. “You seem rather tired all of a sudden.” 

You put your pleasant smile back on. Sirius frowns. “I guess all this staying up from dusk to dawn is finally getting to me.” 

“Ah, yeah.” James sets his chin on his forearms, his eyes big with sympathy. “I crashed earlier in the tour, too. I think it’s a sort of hurdle you have to get over. Sorry.” 

“We can tuck you in with Remus tonight,” says Sirius lightly. A pink blush blooms over Remus’ cheeks. “He’s got all sorts of methods for getting a good sleep. We’ll have you fully nocturnal in no time, babe.” 

You direct your stare toward your notepad, trying to focus enough to make sense of the first sentence of the article you’re meant to be editing. “I’m not sure that will work out very well for when I eventually have to be awake during the day again.” 

“Why would you ever do that?” Sirius jokes. 

You’re tempted to look up and raise an eyebrow at him; you don’t. “Once I have what I need for the feature, I’m guessing Spellbound will want me working normal business hours.” 

There’s a pause. 

“Well,” says Sirius, “I don’t know why you’d ever work for them, in that case. They sound unhinged.” 

You try not to feel anything about the obviousness of James’ upset when he asks, “Are you nearly done with the feature already?” 

It’s almost laughable. As if they’ve given you near enough information to write the feature; you hardly have enough for a few paragraphs. But, it is like James to be optimistic. “Not quite.” 

Sirius tsks. “Guess we’re not going to be rid of you very soon, then.” 

You keep your expression neutral as you look up at him. “I’ll do my best to work efficiently.” 

Dark brows descend over stormcloud eyes. “Sure you’re not feeling ill?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You should come to Cadbury World with us,” says James, looking worried now, too. “You seem like you could maybe use a break.” 

The useless mush of your heart softens instinctively at the earnestness in his voice. “Thanks,” you say, “but I think I ought to stay on task. We all want me to finish up and get out of your hair, right?” 

Remus makes a soft sound. “No one’s said that.” 

“Maybe we can do an interview after the show?” you go on. “If you’re ready, I can ask some more questions about the album. I know it’s not completely done yet, but the point of me being here is to get accounts of the process.” 

“I thought we agreed you’d be taking us to dinner first,” Sirius hums, in that teasing way of his. 

You don’t rise to the bait. “If you’d like to have the interview at a restaurant, that can be arranged.” You have no clue how you’ll finance it, but that can be a problem for later (and possibly for Spellbound). 

It’s not just Sirius who frowns at you now; all three of the boys look at you like you’ve boarded the bus with serpents for hair. 

“O…kay,” says Sirius. “We’ll see.” 

You feel your eyebrows come back down. “What?” 

Sirius shakes his head and steps into your room, shutting the door behind him. You’ll think later about how you let him, unhesitatingly, because even after the morning you’ve had, you trust these boys. Always the fool. 

“I could see you thinking about it on the bus,” he says. “Don’t you fucking dare. This is not part of your feature story.” 

Inexplicably, the realization of what you’ve missed only makes exhaustion pull at your limbs more heavily. You’ve forgotten what you’re really here for yet again. Whatever Sirius saw on your face as you listened to James was likely surprise, but it wasn’t you doing your job; it wasn’t the ambition your new (if they keep you) bosses are expecting of you. 

“This is celebrity news,” you say, nearly forgetting, now, that Sirius is in the room with you. 

It is, though. It’s huge. Caius Avery’s wife, taking advantage of a young musician too green to do anything about it. It’s the exact kind of sickening readers will clamor for. 

“I thought you wouldn’t write anything personal,” Sirius snipes. 

The implied accusation nettles; it’s essentially what you promised when Remus was ill. You meet Sirius’ eyes, guilt like a vine creeping around your ribs and up your throat. “Sirius, this isn’t the same. This is—it’s Lorena Avery.” 

“Exactly.” 

“What if I left James out of it? He could be anonymous.” 

Sirius actually scoffs. A crude, mean thing, like he could spit if he put just a bit more effort in. “Right, who would ever figure that out? No one would be curious enough to want to know more, or to match up the timeline, or call you a liar unless you give over a source.” His gaze is as unforgiving as if you’ve already done it. “Caius Avery would sink us.”  

An unexpected swell of indignance prickles under your skin. “Is that what this is about?” 

Sirius blinks, his ferocity wavering a moment. 

“Do you even care about James?” 

It returns just as quickly. “Fuck you.” 

“You’re just worried about the tour. You never stop to wonder if he might want to hold Lorena accountable, or to talk about it—” 

“Oh, because that’s your aim, is it? To make James feel better?” 

“This is my job!”  

“He’s my friend!” 

It stills you. For a long moment, you look at each other, you in your pajamas and Sirius still in the stage makeup he put on for the interview, all dark, impenetrable black. Sometimes, you think you see right through him, but now you have no clue what he’s thinking. Sirius isn’t what’s important now, though. 

It’s James. James is your friend, too. 

“Leave him out of it,” Sirius says again, firmly. 

“Okay,” you reply. Your earlier exhaustion returns full force. “I will.” 

“I mean it.” 

“Okay.” Irritation needles at your tone as you brush past him towards your bed. “Can we nap before we have to get back on the bus, or do you want to stay and argue some more?” 

Sirius raises an eyebrow—and you don’t know how he does this, make it seem like you’re the one impinging upon him. “I think that’ll do for now,” he says, and lets himself out. 

You push out a breath, fighting down a scream. What good are you to Spellbound, if you keep unearthing stories and then not writing them? If the magazine found out you knew about this and helped to suppress it, they’d do worse than fire you. They’d blacklist you. You’d never work again. 

Just like James if the story gets out. 

You collapse into bed, and don’t sleep a wink. 

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

You’re packed and ready when the next knock on your door comes. You expect it to be Lily telling you it’s time to go, or maybe Sirius itching to guilt you some more, but you’re surprised to find Mary on the other side. 

“Hi.” She offers a smile. It’s tinged an unhappy hue. “Can I come in for a sec?” 

“Sure,” you say, stepping aside. 

“Thanks.” Mary doesn’t go far, closing the door behind herself and leaning against the wall of the entryway. “How are you doing?” 

You smile. “I’m all good. Sorry for the drama earlier.” 

Her brows bend inwards. “Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t drama, and even if it was, it would have been justified. That guy was pushing it and he knew it.” 

You don’t know how to respond—to thank her or to apologize again feel equally good options, though you get the sense Mary won’t approve of either—but Mary, blessedly, moves on. 

“I know you’ve already had a shit day,” she says, “but I heard about what happened on the bus earlier.” Her eyes search yours, deep brown and perceptive. “What James told you.” 

A hint of the nausea from earlier squeezes the base of your throat. “What about it?” 

“I need to know if you have any recording of it.” 

You blink. “I—no, I don’t. I didn’t even have my things with me earlier.” 

It’s a relief—and a mercy, you think—that Mary takes you at your word. “Great,” she says, “thanks. So, just so we’re clear, that was all completely off the record.” 

“I mean, literally.” You shrug. “I didn’t record it.” 

“Right, and you won’t publish it in paraphrase either. Right?” 

Mary’s tone is friendly, but there’s something beneath it that tells you she’d stop being your friend for the moment if you opposed her on this. Like Sirius, then. It had to have been him who warned her, who asked her to come in her role as the band’s publicist to negotiate with you. 

It stings. Even after how you’d spoken to each other earlier, you didn’t think Sirius would have so little confidence in you.

“Right,” you repeat, feeling bound. Not conniving enough to work, not honest enough to have true friends. You’re a mess of unkeepable promises and competing desires. 

“Great.” Now Mary looks relieved, too. She offers you another rueful smile. “I just have to be sure. It’s part of my job, you know?” 

You know how outnumbered you are in your own industry, but you’re not sure you’ve ever felt it so acutely as you are now. It’s all around you, undeniable. You wish you were someone who rose better to the challenge; you’d like to puff up and feel proud of what you’ve accomplished, and you do, some of the time, but here, with the male producers and many male reporters and male anchor asking the boys questions just this side of provocative with a conspiratorial “we all know how it is to bed women” smile, you only feel small. 

“Is this how they are with you, too?” a man asks. 

You look up from the monitor you’ve been watching the interview on. Lily’s stepped outside to take a call, but you and Mary are dallying in the control room (well, you’re dallying; Mary is talking shop with one of the station’s producers) while the boys are on live television in the next room. 

“Sorry?” you say. 

The man who’s come to stand next to you nods at the screen. You don’t know precisely what his role is, but you gather he’s some sort of coordinator, based on how he met you when you arrived and he and Mary spoke like they were already acquainted. “You’re their groupie, right?” 

“Ah.” That feels rather a demotion, but you don’t see the point in explaining why a reporter is traveling with The Marauders on their tour. No need to give other reporters any ideas. “I guess so.” 

“And are they always this charming?” 

You huff a laugh. “Yeah, they are.” 

He raises his eyebrows. “Really? There’s not an off switch?” 

“Not one that I’ve found,” you say, watching as James animatedly tells a story that makes Remus flush bashfully. “I think it’s innate.” 

Sirius being the obvious exception to this. Though, really, you think the charm he lays on for press is just an amplification of what he already has naturally. Even when he was grouchy and whingeing this morning, you were still a bit charmed; it’s a talent of his. 

The man chuckles, watching the screen with you. “Is that how they won you over?” 

You shake your head. “I’m in it for the music.” 

“Right.” The shift in his tone is so subtle you can’t be sure it’s there. You might be imagining things. “So no private shows, eh?” 

“No,” you laugh. You think of Remus’ fingers wrapped around his bass. Of James tapping out the rhythm to a song no one else has heard yet on his thighs. But you don’t think either of those are the sort of shows this man is referring to. 

“Are you a virgin or something?” 

Your head actually whips up, you’re so caught by surprise. “Sorry?” 

The man’s gaze is still turned insouciantly towards the monitor. Your stomach sinks down to your knees. “It’s just the only thing that makes sense,” he says, shrugging. “I mean, how long have you been touring with them? And, nothing? Not even one of them?” 

You take a breath and try to make your voice firm. “Like I said, I’m in it for the music.” 

This gets you a sideways glance. You don’t like how amused it is; like this man knows something already, like he’s got you all figured out. “Do you mean to tell me none of them have even tried?” 

“That’s right,” you say, forcing your own stare back to the monitor. 

“Maybe you’re just not tuned into the right signals.” 

You keep your mouth shut. You can argue with this guy all day, or you can let the boys finish their interview and get out of here. Even if no one in this studio knows it, you’re still a professional; you can’t afford to make a scene.

You stop breathing when the press of a fingertip begins running along the seam of your slacks. 

“You’re a pretty girl,” the man says, quietly. 

While the rest of your body is still, your heart has a will of its own. It riots, climbing up your throat and beating against your skin. 

You’re smacked by the powerful urge to cry when you hear yourself reply, even more quietly, “Thanks.” 

The control room doesn’t feel like a room full of people anymore. It feels dark and private, and the constant low murmuring feels too quiet. Something inside your head begins to thrum as the man’s knuckles stroke lazily up and down the seam of your slacks, leaving ghostlike impressions in your thigh. 

You look around to see if anyone is watching, and it’s just as you do that Mary pauses in her conversation and glances over. You catch her stare. You see her dark gaze flit down to the movement of a hand, then back up to your face, and then she’s crossing the room to you. 

It breaks you from some sort of petrified trance. You take a step sideways, breaking the light contact. Your heart pounds.

“Hey,” says Mary, her tone easy as she links her arm through yours. Subtly positioning herself between you and the man, whose name you still haven’t learned. “I think the boys are ready to go. Let’s fetch them.” 

You look at the monitor in front of you, realizing with a shock that the interview has finished. “Yeah,” you say. 

She ignores the man standing beside you as she says, “Pleasure chatting with you,” to the producer, and then the door is shutting behind you. 

“You okay, babe?” Mary asks you, her voice soft but not small. A sort of whispered urgency.

You nod. 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Thank you. Sorry, I sort of—froze up.” 

She squeezes your arm. “Don’t apologize. Hey!” She puts on a smile for the boys, jumping up on the platform of the anchor’s desk to hug Remus. “That was brilliant. They loved you in there.” 

“You must trust us,” Sirius teases. “You weren’t even out here giving us hand signals for what not to say this time.” 

“I trusted you enough for fifteen minutes of freedom,” Mary shoots back. She glances around. “Right, so I’m going to find Lily, but do you all want to head out to the bus?” 

“Sure,” says James. 

“Perfect. Um—hey.” She grabs your wrist before you can go, looking at you seriously. Her voice lowers. “Do you want me to say anything to someone from the studio?” 

You blink. “Oh. No, it’s fine.” 

Mary’s lips press together, but she nods. “Okay. No detours, boys,” she says at her normal volume. “We’re leaving in five.” 

“Do you think Lily gives her a script for what to say when she’s not around?” James wonders aloud as Mary strides back the way you came. 

Sirius is watching you with raised brows. “What was that about?” 

“Nothing,” you say. “Where are we headed tonight? Further south?” 

Your diversion isn’t subtle, but no one pushes you. A kindness, considering how often you’ve pushed these boys for answers when they’ve clammed up. 

“You’d think with all the research you do, you’d have gotten at least a general sense of the tour schedule,” sighs Sirius. 

“Is that your way of saying you don’t know either?” 

“You’ll never prove it.” 

“South, yeah,” Remus confirms. “We’re in Birmingham the next three nights.”

“Ooh.” James’ face lights up. “Think Lily will let us go to Cadbury World?” 

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

Things calm on the bus. Remus immediately claims a bench and shuts his eyes. Whatever adrenaline perked Sirius up for the interview wears off, and he starts grumbling about getting coffee; James bounces between consoling him and trying to get you both on board with a team excursion to Cadbury World. By the time you’ve all gotten settled, Mary’s coming on with Lily. 

The redhead peers over the benches, doing her usual headcount. You offer a smile when her gaze lands on you. The one she offers back is thin. 

“We’re good to go,” she tells the driver, making her way back to you. Lily kneels on the bench in front of yours, laying her arms across the top. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” you say. 

“Do you want to go—” She points with her chin to the back of the bus, where a few empty seats remain. “—talk?” 

You really, really don’t. “It’s okay,” you say. Smiling, not wanting it to seem like you’re rejecting her out of rudeness. “Everything’s good, really.” 

Lily’s brows twitch into a frown. “Okay. Yeah, that’s fine.” Her voice drops to a murmur. “Just, you’re alright?” 

You nod, still smiling. It’s beginning to ache a little in your cheeks. 

“Mary said you didn’t want her to say anything, but if you change her mind, she could call the station. It’s not—I’m glad you’re okay, but it’s not okay. There should be consequences for someone like that.” 

You don’t know how to reply. You can only look at Lily, an unwelcome pressure behind your eyes. 

Her voice becomes, impossibly, softer. “She can still call, if you want. Or I can.” 

“It’s fine,” you force out. 

“Is everything okay?” asks James. 

You turn to find him watching you with a confused little furrow between his brows. Beside him, Remus’ eyes have opened to slits. Though you can’t see Sirius without turning around, you’ve no doubt he will have been eavesdropping from his seat, too. Lily winces, her eyes sorry. You suppose this is partly your fault for not going somewhere more private when she asked. 

“Yeah,” you reply to James.

“Did something happen?” 

“It’s fine.” 

“You’re using those same words so much you’re going to wear them out, babe,” Sirius says lightly. Now you do turn to look at him. He’s wearing the contrived sort of smirk you’ve come to recognize. “Are you sure you mean them?” 

You press your lips together tightly as, to your horror, your eyes begin to well. 

Sirius’ smirk drops in an instant. “Hey, I’m sorry. It was a joke.” 

You shake your head, blinking. “No, I know. Sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Lily reaches down to rub your shoulder. “You don’t have to apologize, love. You haven’t done anything.” 

You give a wet laugh. “Thanks. It’s really fine, it—” You glance again at James’ worried gaze, and relent. “It was just a weird interaction with one of the guys working at the studio.” 

Sirius’ expression sharpens. “Weird how?” 

You shrug. “Like, flirty. He just asked some weird questions.” 

“Mary made it sound like more than that,” says Lily, confused. 

It is getting harder and harder to keep from bursting into tears. Luckily, Mary must overhear, because she summons your well-meaning friend back to the front of the bus under the guise of needing help with something vague. She can’t save you from the scrutiny of the others, though. 

“Was it more than that?” asks James. 

Remus clears his throat. “Might not be any of our business,” he says, to no one in particular. 

“It was…” You wave your hand. The gesture comes off less flippant than you hope with you blinking so furiously. “...hardly anything. He just touched my leg.” 

You don’t particularly want to look at anyone. You can feel their stares boring into you, but you don’t meet them, looking instead at the empty seat across the aisle from you. Somehow, being frozen stiff in a dark room feels almost less vulnerable than talking about it in daylight. 

“I’m sorry.” James sounds genuinely heartbroken for you. 

“It’s fine.” 

“And he’s still there?” Sirius peers across the bus, looking like he might shout for the driver until Remus not-so-subtly glares him into submission. 

James crosses over to your seat. “Can I hug you?” 

You shrug. “Sure. But it’s—James, it’s okay.” You’re startled by the strength of his arms around you, how tightly James squeezes. “I was mostly just worried I was going to ruin your interview.” 

“No, I get it.” His voice sounds rough, and you realize with a painful twinge that he might be crying, too. “I’m just really sorry.” 

“You wouldn’t have ruined anything,” says Remus. “Even if the interview had to stop, it wouldn’t have been your fault.” 

You hadn’t even considered that possibility. Your worst-case scenario was more along the lines of making a scene in the control room, upsetting your hosts, and causing trouble for Mary, Lily, and the boys as a consequence. The idea of them halting the interview for you seems so outrageous it’s almost laughable. 

“I know how it feels,” says James, “when something like that happens, and you don’t feel like you’re in a position to say anything. It’s so—it’s scary. It makes you feel so helpless.” 

You pat his back. “Yeah…” 

“Alright, James,” says Remus gently. 

You pull back slightly. James’ eyes are wet behind his glasses. “You know how it feels?” 

James smiles ruefully. You decide instantly that you never want to see anything like it from him again. “When you make a show of yourself the way we do, people think they have a right to you, you know?” 

Your guts twist in a tight, uncomfortable knot. “I’m sorry,” you say. “That’s awful.”

He shrugs. “It didn’t really bother me. I’ve always been pretty touchy—I mean, you know. But we had our first big event a few months ago, and Lorena Avery sort of grabbed me, and that…” 

Recognition runs cold through your bloodstream. Lorena Avery. Singer, wife of Caius Avery. Avery Entertainment is one of the biggest record labels in Europe. 

Your mind goes to an image of James at his first ever industry event, wide-eyed and shining with new stardom, being introduced to big names he’d probably never dreamed of meeting and shown all the opportunity that lay in front of him and his friends. How was he meant to tell anyone if he was made uncomfortable, when The Marauders’ position in this society was so fragile? The possibility of being on the wrong side of someone like Caius Avery was a terrifying thing for anyone, let alone a band only about to embark on its first tour. 

“...that was more than I could handle,” James finishes. Volumes left unsaid. 

Your throat constricts, and you hug him tightly. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” he says, choked. “It was months ago. I’m past it.” 

You don’t think that’s true. You think of the rumors that began a few months back of James’ new, clandestine relationship, sprouting from the sudden shift in how he presented himself at shows. How he seemed less inclined to flirt with fans or flex his muscles for their entertainment. You think of yourself, prodding at him, teasing him about his “secret girlfriend,” and you feel sick. 

“I’m only telling you so that…” James clears his throat. “…you know, or…you get that it’s alright.” 

They break away from their trees to find you already heading towards them, all four beginning to sprint towards the bright yellow bandana tied to the post behind you. 

“Go!” James shouts. Mostly for dramatic effect, but it does work to get a couple of his boys moving faster. “Go, go! Get it!” 

Their shorter legs have a considerable disadvantage over James’ longer ones, but he’s not headed for the flag. (Not that he’s not tempted. He’s working very, very hard not to go for it, actually, but these games are meant to be fun “for the kids” and all that.) Anyway, your team has you, with your longer legs. Coming straight for him. 

James can’t help the grin that takes him (okay, he was definitely contributing to the giggling) as he crosses paths with one of his campers being chased by one of yours. 

“Go on without me, Callum!” 

No protests from Callum. Ouch. James will nurse that wound later. 

As he suspected, the girl chasing Callum can’t resist the challenge of catching a counselor instead. James draws her away, with you on his heels too. He dances around a tree just as you’re catching up to him. 

“I got you!” 

“No, that was my shirt.” 

“That counts, James.” 

“It does not!” he laughs, walking backwards while you advance. 

James thinks you might have both been going easy on each other during the various cabin-against-cabin games last summer. Back then, James recalls being rather occupied with flirting with you, and his mother taught him that beating a girl mercilessly in every competition is no way to win her over. Maybe you were thinking along similar lines back then. 

This year, the competitive glint in your eye is almost frightening. 

It is also hot. 

(James is a simple man.)

The thing is, as much as James would love for you to tackle him to the ground right now, he’s competitive, too. And, at least for the moment, he doesn’t have to worry about winning you over anymore. 

“It’s really cute that you think you can catch me,” he taunts, panting a bit. Your other camper that was chasing him has given up and gone back to the action; it’s only you two now. 

You make an aggravated sort of exhale, your breaths coming also fast as you both run around the forest. “I did catch you!” 

“Clothes don’t count.” James feints left, then goes right. He feels a twinge of guilt when you nearly trip in your attempt to correct, fighting down an urge to reach out and right you. 

The next time he tries a similar maneuver, you react more quickly. Your hand snares in his shirt again, and this time you hold fast; when you go down, you make sure James comes with you. 

He manages to get his elbows underneath him to avoid falling flat atop you. Your expression is alight with triumph, your fingers still curled stubbornly in James’ shirt. 

“Does this count?” you taunt. 

“Well, you did only grab my clothes…” 

You laugh breathlessly and give his chest a push. “Don’t even try it.” 

James grins. You flatten your hand on his chest, your own eyes dancing with mirth. Despite the clear day, the air between you feels crackly and ripe like the sky before a storm. 

“You got me,” James confesses. 

You hum smugly. “I know.” 

“Guess you’ll have to escort me to jail.” 

You roll your eyes, but James secretly suspects that if he kissed your cheek it’d be warm. “I’m pretty sure that is how it works,” you say, giving him another push so that he stands up. 

“What’s this about?” he asks when you close a hand around his elbow. “You think I’m going to run off?” 

You send him a deadpan look. 

“Hey, lovely, I know how to play by the rules.” 

The look deadens further. 

James gasps in a manner he hopes is convincingly indignant. “I am insulted!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you hum. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.” 

For a moment, you look confused. Then your gaze falls to your plate. “Oh,” you murmur. “I don’t. They were out of what I wanted and I panicked.” 

Sirius can’t help a small smile at that. It’s so like you, he wants to tease you and also kiss you on the tip of your nose. “Why don’t we get you something else, lovely?” 

“That’s okay.” You shake your head, not quite looking at him. “I’m not actually that hungry.” 

“A drink, then.” 

“Sirius.” You sigh his name out, and it hurts like a pressed bruise in Sirius’ chest. “You don’t have to get me anything.” 

He quiets his voice. “I just want to do something for you.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you seem like you’d like something to drink. And because I’ve been a dick.” 

You don’t argue that. Which Sirius deserves—he would have only argued back if you had, but it stings that you don’t. 

Fuck. He is so, so bad at this. He can’t even figure out how to apologize properly. 

Sirius is…he thinks he’s wholer now than he used to be, but there are still parts of him that are shattered, with jagged edges that cut when you get too close. He doesn’t want for you to have to weather his damage. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, thinking that the basics might be a decent place to start. 

You nod. Then, quietly, “Me, too.” 

It shocks like a jolt. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” 

“I had a hand in things.” 

“No.” Sirius’ tone firms up defensively, and he has to consciously soften it again. “You didn’t do anything. I’m sorry I snapped at you.” 

It should never have been a fight. Sirius isn’t even sure that’s what it was, only that it was more tense than it had any right to be. Neither of you got much sleep last night. Your downstairs neighbor was on the phone, loud, and you wouldn’t let Sirius go say anything. He could have probably slept through it, but he was awake being irritated that you couldn’t fall asleep and you wouldn’t let him fix it for you. So neither of you were predisposed to good humor when you locked Sirius out of your flat this morning, not realizing he’d gone to take your rubbish out when you left for your appointment. He had to ring you to come back and let him in. You were irritated that you’d be late and he was irritated that he had to wait in his boxers on your stoop, but you both carried on like normal until nearly lunchtime, when you said that it felt like Sirius was annoyed with you, and he said that he was, obviously. It felt obvious to him—you were both peeved with the other, it only made sense—but your eyes welled up, and Sirius’ lungs dried out at the possibility that this was how he would lose you. He didn’t trust himself enough to try and talk to you about it until now. Here. 

Where he is still fucking it up. 

“I should have checked if you were inside before I locked the door,” you say, your voice tight with self-censure.

Sirius shakes his head. “I’m not angry about that.” 

Your brow scrunches. You don’t look like you believe him. 

“I’m not,” he insists. “I didn’t—I wasn’t even really angry at you in the first place. I was just pissed off about everything, but not at you.” 

“What’s everything?” you ask, your voice small. 

“The—your neighbor,” he can’t help but roll his eyes, it seems so petty now, “and being stuck outside. It was a shitty morning for both of us.” 

You swallow. Sirius watches in mute horror as your poor eyes begin to well again. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be. Don’t be sorry,” he says desperately. “You were fine. You were—great, and I was sharp because I was tired, which is no excuse. James’ toddler acts better.” 

You make a wet snort. It’s one of the most charming sounds Sirius has ever heard, and it makes the bruise in his chest ache again. 

He stoops to catch your eye. “Please don’t cry, lovely girl.” 

You shake your head. “I’m fine,” you say, crying. 

“What can I do? Is it too late to buy you something?” 

You laugh again and wipe beneath your eyes. “I’d have a tea if you’re having one.” 

Sirius is going to be having tea, then. 

“Yeah,” he says, standing up. He grabs your plate with the unwanted scone, wondering how strange it’d be to offer it to someone sitting nearby. It feels a shame to waste it. “Hey.” 

You look up. Sirius runs his finger underneath your jaw impulsively, catching a tear off your chin. Your eyes go shy in that way that makes his heart threaten to spill out of his ribcage. 

“Are we okay?” he asks at a murmur. 

You blink. “Yeah. We’re good.” 

“Okay. I know it’s selfish, but can I ask you to do me a favor?” 

“Sure…” 

“The next time I fuck up, just give me a few minutes to get my shit together and apologize, okay? I don’t want to ruin this.” 

Your brows furrow. “Did you think we were breaking up?” 

Sirius shrugs. His cheeks and heart burning. 

You take a moment, bottom lip disappearing into your mouth. Then you reach your hand up for Sirius’ that’s not holding your plate and squeeze gently. “You’re not ruining anything.”