Chapter Text
Fun or pleasure, as if
They drag our unpronounceable names through the mud
No work and frustration
You are not painters just because you cover up the truth
Your barricades are air
Load signal colours, wait (wait, wait) - shoot
The street is sinking
We are the witnesses of Mandela, witnesses of Martin Luther King
Open the cages, let white doves fly
Evolution is spelt with an R
– Marteria , Bengalische Tiger
Sirius was going to kill James and Peter.
It all started, like it usually did when the three Marauders were involved, like a big load of fun. They were just done with their seventh year at Hogwarts, a perfect summer of endless opportunities was looming on the horizon. They were young, carefree, and full of nervous energy.
Going out for a drink was not even the end goal of the night. It was, if at all, a tame beginning to the first of many crazy, fun, exciting adventures they would go on. The plan was not ambitious – go out, get drunk, explore the muggle part of London, go dancing, maybe pick up some girls. Well, girls for Pete, boys for Sirius, and his right fist for James, who was, as of new, in a serious relationship now. That wanker.
What they didn’t account for was that muggle alcohol was very different to magical. Or, at least, the one they’ve managed to sneak into Hogwarts as contraband. Turns out, wizards were very behind when it came to drinks. Butterbeer had barely any weight to it, and Firewhiskey was not something you could drink much of. The muggle fruity cocktails though… They were something straight from hell. You didn’t even notice you were drunk until it was way too late.
After barely an hour of drinking, James and Peter were so out of it, that Sirius was, for the first time, doubting their ability to follow through with the plan. Unfortunately, it didn’t diminish their enthusiasm. And after a rushed visit to the nearest alley where Peter emptied the contents of his stomach, and James almost joined him out of comradery, they were less dizzy and more stupid than ever. Absolutely bonkers. Nothing else can explain their grandiose idea of playing hide-and-seek in the middle of muggle London, late in the evening, drunk out of their minds.
Sirius was proclaimed the seeker because he was the least drunk of them all, and he could hardly argue that point. He was not not drunk. But he was definitely capable of more or less clear thinking, which was an advantage. Another advantage was his wand, which both James and Peter deemed unfair, and promptly stole it from him before they apparated away.
Apparition was not an easy feat of magic, even while sober. It was absolutely suicidal to attempt in their drunken state.
So, now Sirius was not only drunk, pissed to be left alone, disarmed, lost, but also worried for the health of his only friends. If they survived, he would definitely kill them himself.
After about half an hour of searching streets, alleyways, bushes and even garbage bins, Sirius understood one simple thing. They ditched him. And, if successful, just apparated home without him.
If he was the one doing the prank, he would have found it incredibly hilarious. As it happens, he was, for once, on the other side of the stick and suddenly didn’t appreciate it one bit. He had no idea how to go about in the muggle world, especially without magic.
“You sick bastards,” Sirius murmurs to himself and slumps against a wall on the main street where they abandoned him some forty-five minutes ago.
He had no means to go home on his own now, and surely after some celebrations of a successful operation, James and Peter would come to the same conclusion and rescue him. They had to. If they didn’t splinch themselves. But he wouldn’t think about that now.
It was almost ten in the evening, but it was still bright outside – the long days in July playing in Sirius’ favour for once. But if he has to stay here for much longer, it will get dark, and who knows what is happening in the muggle world when it gets dark. Sirius would rather not find out on his own.
Suddenly, the impending darkness was not his primary concern anymore.
It got incredibly quiet. The street was deserted as is, but only now Sirius realizes how much background noise the city was making – distant chatter, cars and busses driving by, dogs barking, birds singing. It all just stops all of a sudden.
Sirius straightens from his slouch and looks around, but there is no one here. Not a single soul. He sticks a finger in his ear and hums to himself, checking if maybe it were just his ears. But no, he can hear his own voice and his quickened breath fine. What the hell is going on?
And then, as unexpected as the silence settled, it rips apart by so much noise that Sirius grimaces and clasps his hands over his ears. Screaming, crying, sounds of explosions, shattering glass. He takes a step forward and watches the end of the street where the noise is coming from, unable to decide what to do. Something was happening. Something bad was happening. Should he go look? Should he help?
His hesitation intensifies when he sees people running towards him, away from the origin of the commotion. Only a couple at first, and then more and more. Dozens of people, running at full speed.
They are all clad completely in black – trousers, hoodies, hats, jackets even. Some are wearing scarfs and cloths around their faces, only eyes peeking out. It is the middle of July, for Merlin’s sake, not December! Sirius is sweating in his simple white shirt and light trousers already, why are they clad head to toe in black, like a mismatched uniform?
He has to step back against the wall of the building again, afraid to be trampled over, and watches the scene unfolding with detached fascination. The explosions and shouting were getting louder, coming closer . Should he run as well? What are they running away from?
Sirius’ heart beats in his throat. If he leaves now, James and Peter will never find him. If he stays, who knows what will happen. He doesn’t have his wand; he cannot defend himself. He cannot help anyone.
Sirius sees him before the guy notices Sirius. He is tall, at least a head above the rest of the mass, all in black like everyone else. He is running along with the others, quite close to the pavement where Sirius is still rooted to the ground. It’s not like he has any features that stick out, except maybe for his height. Sirius can’t even see his face apart from his eyes above the black cloth covering the lower half of his face. There is no reason why Sirius is drawn to him instantly, but when the guy rushes past, their eyes meet briefly. They are an intense shade of orange, like two glowing coals.
The guy runs past and then stops abruptly, closely escaping someone crashing into him, and turns around, staring right at Sirius. It’s like Sirius is pinned to the wall with the intensity of that look. Like he’s scanned from head to toe. Like they can see right through him and into his soul. Sirius gulps when he slowly comes closer until he is standing right in front of Sirius.
“Are you insane?” he asks urgently, voice deep and strong. “Run!”
Sirius doesn’t move, can’t speak, is completely frozen. His heart is beating like a small bird in his ribcage, and blood rushes through his ears, almost drowning the screams and explosions coming closer every second.
The guy looks around, panicked, and then back at Sirius. “Fuck me,” he says. “I will regret this so much.”
He plucks off the cloth from his face hurriedly and drapes it around Sirius’ mouth, tying it at his nape. Then takes off his black hat and places it on Sirius’ head. With precise, fast motions, he peels the black jacket off his shoulders and drapes it over Sirius’ too.
Sirius feels like a child being dressed by an adult and can’t even do anything about it in his state of shock. He slides his arms in the sleeves of the jacket pliably and lets the guy zip it up all the way.
“Run!” he exclaims again and grabs Sirius’ hand, tugging him along. “Now!”
And Sirius follows, not even feeling his legs as they rush along with other people down the street at an impossible pace. The crowd is not so dense anymore, the majority already way ahead of them, and the sounds of cries and shattering glass get impossibly close. Sirius doesn’t allow himself to turn around, to look at what is behind them. What they are running away from. What is chasing them. All he knows is the overwhelming feeling of adrenaline pumping through his body and the firm grip on his hand.
Without warning, the guy lurches to the side, dragging Sirius along, and slams him against a wall. Sirius lets out a pained breath, feeling the impact go through his whole body, and turns his head just in time to see the guy positioning himself protectively in front of Sirius like a human shield.
He sees the red light of a Blasting curse in slow motion, how it illuminates the contours of the guy against the creeping darkness around them, how it collides with the stones on the pavement, where, just a second ago, Sirius was running.
Blinding pain shoots through his leg and his sight vanes from the bright light of the explosion. Sirius feels the heat in his face and smells smoke and fire. The guy, having shielded him from the worst of it, groans and Sirius suddenly realizes that they are pressed together – his back tightly against Sirius’ chest.
Only seconds must have passed, but it feels like hours until the guy steps forward again and grabs his hand once more. And then they are running again.
He steers them away from the main road, into some side streets, changing directions every turn, through narrow alleyways and even over some back yards before he stalls abruptly in front of a glass display of some off-license. Sirius almost runs into him, barely managing to stop last minute, and watches how he pulls something out of his pocket and slams it against the glass entrance door.
The glass shatters loudly, and Sirius instinctively steps away to avoid getting hit by it.
“Inside,” the guy orders and pushes Sirius through the opening of the door. “Careful, don’t fall on the glass.”
Sirius stumbles through the door and tries to catch his breath, everything swimming before his eyes. His lungs are on fire, his heart feels like it will burst, and his leg is completely numb from pain. Sirius tugs down the cloth covering his face and gasps for air.
“Sit down,” he says urgently and drags a stool out from behind the till. “Sit down!”
Sirius slumps on it, still unable to comprehend what just happened, and feels his whole body shiver uncontrollably. When he can see clearly again, the guy is standing in front of him, clutching his shoulder with a pained expression on his face.
For the first time, Sirius has the mind to actually notice how he looks. He has dark hair of unidentifiable colour in the dim light from the streetlights outside, shorn incredibly short into a military cut. His face is set in stone, angular, harsh – straight nose, square jaw, sharp cheekbones. He would be beautiful if he wasn’t so incredibly, almost sickly thin.
Sirius watches, shocked, how he inspects his, apparently, hurt shoulder carefully. Then he grabs the elbow with his working hand and, without hesitation, lifts it and pushes up with a sickening crack. The only thing giving away that it wasn’t as easy as it looked is the grimace on his face.
He breathes in deeply and carefully rotates his shoulder and arm, checking it. Apparently satisfied, he looks over at Sirius and frowns.
“Fuck,” he says quietly and, to Sirius’ utter surprise, drops to his knees in front of him. “Shit, that’s bad.”
With rising trepidation, Sirius slowly looks down at his own thigh which the guy is already inspecting with a worried expression. There, right where the meatiest part of the thigh is, a large shard of glass sticks out. The light fabric of the trousers around it is completely drenched in blood which is running all the way down his leg.
Sirius is not really afraid of blood, not even his own, but he has never been stabbed like this before. Has never been without access to Healing charms or potions. Has never been stranded in muggle London, with a stranger, bleeding out like a pig on the floor of some dingy off-license. He gasps and automatically reaches for the shard with his hand, but the guy grabs his wrist instantly.
“Don’t touch!” he says, looking Sirius in the eyes, and tightening the hold on Sirius’ wrist. “Do you understand me? Do not touch that.”
Sirius nods, transfixed by his burning gaze and lets his arm fall to the side again. He is so fucked. He will kill James and Peter.
The guy grabs the back of his hoodie and strips it off hurriedly, revealing a black t-shirt and a relatively big bag strapped to his chest. Sirius watches how he takes the bag off as well, places it on the floor, and rummages through it.
He takes out a flashlight and turns it on to inspect Sirius’ wound better. Automatically, Sirius looks down again and feels like he is going to throw up. It looks really bad.
“Don’t look,” the guy says. “Trust me, don’t look.”
Sirius complies readily, ripping his eyes away from his leg, and latches onto the first thing that he sees – the guy’s face. Now, illuminated with the light from the flashlight, Sirius can see his features better. There are dark bags under his eyes, and his skin looks so pale, it might as well be translucent – Sirius can see the delicate web of blue veins on his temples. His whole face is littered with old scars, three big slashes going all the way across his nose bridge and down his left cheek as if an angry animal attacked him with claws. Amongst all the scars, Sirius notices that he has freckles. This guy has freckles. Sirius wants to cry, for some reason, because he shouldn’t find this as adorable as he does. Not with everything else going on.
The guy is completely oblivious to the strange path Sirius’ thoughts have taken and is now rummaging through his bag again. He takes out a blue cloth and spreads it on the floor before he deposits a plastic bottle, a white package, a small box, a scary-looking metal device that looks like a weird pair of scissors, a small glass bottle and something that Sirius figures must be one of these ‘syringes’ that is a common Boggart form amongst muggleborns for reasons Sirius doesn’t know and doesn’t want to find out.
With quick hands, the guy rips open Sirius’ trouser leg to have better access to the wound and Sirius flinches from the pain.
“It needs stitches.”
Sirius doesn’t know what stitches are. Sowing? Does he mean the ruined trousers?
“I can’t numb it completely,” the guy says, sticking the syringe in the cap of the small glass bottle. “But it’s something. It will still hurt like a bitch,” he warns.
It already does, Sirius wants to say, but can’t seem to get his tongue to move. Instead, he just nods to show that he’s understanding.
“Hold this.” He places the flashlight in Sirius’ hand and positions it so that he can see what he’s doing.
The guy leans over the wound again and Sirius watches his face intently in the harsh light of the flashlight. He looks focused, but not scared. Like someone who sees things like that often. He does have a whole stash of medical supplies with him too. Is he a muggle doctor? Without warning, he sticks the needle in Sirius' thigh, but it doesn’t hurt. In fact, Sirius doesn’t even register it next to the pain radiating from the actual wound.
“Okay, okay, that should do it,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Sirius, and places the syringe back on the blue cloth.
Next, he picks up the plastic bottle and unscrews it, before dumping some of the liquid over his hands and rubbing it in. The stinging smell of alcohol bites Sirius’ nose and he thinks he will never, ever drink again.
“This will hurt,” the guy warns again and splashes the alcohol on the wound as well.
Sirius hisses at the burn and flinches violently. “Fuck!”
“Aha,” the guy says and, surprisingly, smiles at him. “He can talk!”
He has a nice smile – it’s like his whole face lights up, and he looks much younger that way, not so severe. Sirius shakes his head to dismiss these thoughts. “Yes,” he presses out.
“Okay, great,” the guy says with an air of professionality. “Now, what I’m going to do now, is I will remove the shard, clean the wound, and close it. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Sirius says and thinks that magic is so much better than muggle medicine. This whole thing could be dealt with in two seconds if he had his wand on him. But he doesn’t. Fuck James and Peter.
The guy nods and grabs the shard without hesitation. Sirius expects it to hurt more than it does, but maybe whatever he did to numb the thigh worked at least to some extent. Sirius watches him pick up the curious scissors and, like ordered, does not look down when he sets to clean the wound. But judging by the sound of clinking glass, he finds quite a bit more in there than just the big piece.
“That’s it,” he concludes confidently and splashes some more of the alcohol.
Sirius whimpers and shuts his eyes briefly, silently wishing for all of this to be just one big, scary dream.
“I know, I know,” the guy says sympathetically. “It hurts, I know. Breathe. Yes, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Like that.”
Sirius follows his voice, trying to calm his fluttering heart and block out the pain.
“Now, this will not be pleasant,” the guy says again and Sirius watches how he picks up a needle with a black thread and clasps it with the weird scissors-thing. “Don’t forget the breathing.”
Sirius tries, really hard, but he understands now what he meant earlier when he said ‘stitches’ and it fills him with utter horror. Do muggles really stitch their own skin closed? How barbaric is that? This is torture! He feels the world around him go fuzzy and dark at the edges.
“Hey, hey!” The guy pats his shoulder urgently and Sirius rips his eyes open. “Don’t faint on me. Okay? Stay with me.”
With a huge effort, Sirius opens his eyes again and fixes his gaze back on the guy’s face. He is still looking at the wound, bright orange irises almost swallowing the pupils in the bright light.
He sets to work and Sirius moans, vision already swimming from tears and pain.
“Talk to me,” the guy says calmly. “What is your name?”
“Sirius,” he presses out through clenched teeth.
“Hello, Sirius,” the guy says evenly. “I’m Remus. You have a nice name.”
“Likewise,” Sirius says absentmindedly, hanging onto his every word like the string that keeps him sane.
The guy, Remus, smiles again. “Thank you. I think names are important. They tell a story.”
Sirius knows this very well. The purebloods put a lot of thought into naming their children, and his family is no exception to that rule. Come to think of it, Remus is quite an unusual name for a muggle. It sounds more like something from a pureblood line, maybe one that is fond of roman mythology like the Blacks are of the celestial sky.
“Sirius,” Remus says when he doesn’t answer, “talk. What did you have for breakfast today?”
Despite the immense amount of pain he’s in, Sirius can’t help a small huff of amusement. “Why?”
Remus smiles again, eyes still focussed, hands working tirelessly. “I’m very hungry,” he admits. “Haven’t eaten real food for almost two days. Tell me.”
Sirius tries to focus enough to remember what he ate today. This morning seems so far away, like it was in another life, and not only some hours ago.
“Toast,” he breathes. “Eggs. Bacon.”
Remus nods encouragingly. “I love bacon,” he says softly, and Sirius knows for sure he’s just humouring him. Like an upset child. But he can’t find the strength to mind it at the moment. “You are doing very good, Sirius. Very good.”
For some reason, that calms Sirius down a lot more than anything else he has said before. It grounds him, this small, inconsequential praise. Makes him want to do better.
“Why don’t you eat?” Sirius asks, partly because he wants to hear him say something again, partly out of genuine curiosity.
Remus hums, a warm, low sound that seems to come straight from his chest. It wraps around Sirius like a comforting blanket. “Don’t have much time and possibility,” he says, and it doesn’t answer the real question, but Sirius doesn’t have the strength to ask again.
He stopped feeling anything in particular in his leg, it’s just waves of pain, going straight to his brain and a steady, nauseating rhythm.
“Sirius,” Remus says again, and sweet Merlin does Sirius like how it sounds when he says his name, “I am almost done. Hold on. You can do it.”
He isn’t lying, because shortly after, he leans down and with a weird feeling in his gut Sirius understands that he snaps the thread with his teeth. Then he splashes some more alcohol on the wound, which doesn’t hurt as much anymore. Or maybe Sirius has gotten used to the pain.
“You’ve done well,” Remus praises him again and unrolls a long bandage, before leaning down to wrap it around Sirius’ thigh. “Amazing. See, all done.”
Sirius swallows dryly and dares to look down at his thigh. He doesn’t see anything under the white bandage, just the pitiful, bloodied mess that was his trouser leg once. A relieved sigh escapes him, and he slumps in the stool, feeling completely exhausted.
Remus rummages around, cleaning up the blood, his hands, his tools. Sirius has dropped the hand with the flashlight to his good leg and he takes it away from his weak fingers.
“Sirius, don’t sleep.”
There is a hand on his face then, damp and smelling like alcohol, and Sirius opens his heavy eyes again, struggling to focus his vision. There is a bright light as if Remus is directing the flashlight in his face, and Sirius blinks and squints. Gentle fingers wipe his cheeks, under his nose, his chin and Sirius gathers that he must look horrible – face stained with tears and blood, soaked with cold sweat – but can’t really find the strength to mind it.
When Remus is done cleaning him up, he examines his head, carding strong fingers through his hair briefly – probably looking for gashes. Sirius flinches when he presses on the back of his head where he collided with the wall earlier.
“Sirius, do you hurt anywhere else?” Remus asks calmly. “Chest? Does it hurt to breathe?”
Sirius shakes his head, too tired to talk.
“Don’t sleep,” Remus repeats again, patting his shoulder. “We need to get out of here. It reeks of your blood. They will find us very soon.”
Sirius sits straighter again and rubs his eyes, trying desperately to pull himself together. Panic starts spreading in his gut again. Who are they? What do they want? How can they smell his blood?
The explosion. It was not muggle, it was a curse. The attackers must be magical.
All the talk about a rising Dark Lord suddenly comes to the forefront of his mind. Was this his doing? Is he hunting muggles? And who were these people running earlier? They didn’t seem like normal people, all clad in identical black – they were a group, together. And Remus is one of them. Who the hell is he?
While Sirius’ mind is rapidly shuffling through an enormous amount of questions, Remus has put his hoodie back on and packed his bag again. Sirius watches him with rising curiosity. He doesn’t believe Remus is dangerous. Merlin, he just saved his life from Voldemort’s followers, and then patched him up. Sirius was just a random guy on the street, and he stopped for him, clothed him so that he wouldn’t stand out as much, shielded him from the explosion. He could have just left him there, like everyone else, and would have made it out without getting hurt himself.
Remus doesn’t seem to have any more injuries than his shoulder though, even after he basically put himself between Sirius and the curse. How is that possible?
“Latrans,” Remus says into a plastic contraption behind the counter. That must be one of these talking devices, like a muggle Floo. Sirius watches him carefully, eager to listen in on anything he might say. “Yes. A vehicle.” He walks up to the front of the store and looks out on the street, a long cord trailing behind him from the machine. “Point fourteen. Ten minutes.”
It doesn’t give Sirius any answers he was hoping for. Latrans? Is that Latin? A code word? What is a vehicle? Point fourteen? Sirius feels his head spinning from loss of blood and confusion. But he isn’t given time to process anything, because Remus is already at his side, hauling him up to his feet.
Sirius groans when more pain shoots through his leg as he tries stepping on it and leans heavily on Remus. He drapes Sirius’ arm over his shoulder, almost carrying him.
“We have to go,” Remus says hurriedly and starts moving to the exit. “You can do it. Hold on.”
They make it out on the street and Remus walks with him, limping, down another alley. Sirius feels nauseated again and clenches his teeth, trying to keep up as best as he can. Remus stays in the shadows, avoids the bright patches of light from the streetlights. He seems very alert and shushes Sirius when he tries to say something.
It takes them an eternity until they emerge on a common-looking street. There are neat little houses on both sides, with tidy front yards and trees planted along the pavement in regular intervals. Fortunately, they don’t run into any people on the way, and Sirius exhales in relief when they stop, and he can pull the weight off his wounded leg.
But Sirius, again, doesn’t have enough time to relax, because not one minute later two cars round the corner and stop in front of them. Instantly, both drivers get out and, without giving them a single look, quickly walk over to another car parked at a house on the side of the street.
Sirius watches with fascination how they unscrew the plates from the parked car, then another next to it, and put them on the ones they came in. Only after that is done, do they walk up to Remus.
“Cleaning team to Maple street,” Remus says in a clipped tone.
The men look exactly like the people from the crowd earlier – clad in black, faces covered. One of them is larger, burlier, and the other small and thin like Remus.
The small one huffs disdainfully. “I can smell it from here.” The voice is not at all manly – high and melodic. A girl, then.
Smell what? Remus said that it smelled of his blood. How can they smell it from so far away?
“Yes,” Remus agrees calmly.
“Who is he?” the larger man asks, nodding at Sirius, still draped over Remus’ shoulders, his tone gruff and suspicious.
“One of us,” Remus answers. “Or have you lost your sense of smell?”
Sirius watches the exchange with confusion and feels like he is missing some important information to understand what is going in.
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” the girl says, miffed, and swats at the big guy’s arm. “You have to go; the trail is too strong.”
Remus nods then and hauls Sirius towards the second car, opening the passenger’s door for him and helping him to sit down. Sirius can’t hold back a whimper when he has to bend his leg to fit in the small seat.
“I know, I know,” Remus murmurs, arranging his feet.
The car in front of them lights up and drives off again and Sirius closes his eyes, exhausted and dizzy, barely noticing the closing door on his side and Remus getting in the driver’s seat a second later.
With a lurch that makes Sirius grab the door, they take off too. He has never been inside of a car, has only seen them from outside, but it feels a little like the carriages that take students from Hogsmeade station to Hogwarts, just a lot faster and with a better view.
“Sirius, don’t sleep,” Remus says again.
Sirius isn’t actually sleepy anymore, he feels alert again, the conversation between the girl and Remus making his blood pump faster. Someone is looking for them. Someone can smell them. They leave a trail .
“I’m not sleeping,” Sirius says and looks over to him.
Remus seems calm and composed, only the furrow between his brows indicating that something is wrong. He doesn’t look at Sirius, stares straight ahead, sometimes looking at the small mirror on the top of the front window to look back. He’s afraid of someone following them.
“Good. Talk to me,” he says. “How old are you? Fourteen? Fifteen?”
What? Sirius raises his eyebrows and huffs. He is young, but he’s not a child. In fact, he doesn’t even think he looks that much younger than he is.
“I’m eighteen.”
Remus smiles and then laughs loudly as if Sirius has told a great joke.
“Sure, sure,” he says mockingly. “You can tell me, no need to make yourself older than you are.”
“I’m not,” Sirius argues and frowns.
Remus shakes his head, still smiling. “You silly. I can smell you,” he says gently. “You smell like a cub.”
A cub. A wolf child.
Sirius closes his eyes and sighs. Because suddenly, the puzzle pieces fit together perfectly. Remus is a werewolf. And so are the others.