Crossing Borders

Crossing Borders

Cold September rain lashes against the high glass windows of Hogwarts Castle. Avoiding the Great Hall, where students chatter obliviously, glad to see each other again, Remus slips up a little-used staircase to his room--he is back again, to teach where he once studied, in spite of the memories that cling like cobwebs to forgotten corners and wander ghost-like through these time-hallowed halls. He is the only one left to remember, now, for two have passed on, and one has chosen to forget. It is a heavy burden.

Gently Remus shuts the door behind him. Another September, another year; already the summer warmth of June has flared, and died, and been left so far behind. Remus wanders to the window, but he cannot see the stars tonight; vaguely, he misses them. Sirius; Sirius and James; there are stars in the sky to mark the both of them, their lives and their passing, and what they once shared. Some nights they burn brighter than others.

When you are so close to another person that "best friends" cheapens your relationship--that you fear to define yourselves lest you create an unworded, resented boundary--there is a curious constant awareness of each other's emotion, an inescapable concern. Remus knows this because Sirius has said it to him before. Yet this--more so than the others, tainted as they are with death and drowned hopes--is a bitter memory, one that belongs behind the glass walls that prevent his jealousy from snaking their dreaded tentacles around his heart. For Remus knows, also, that before him there was James--loved differently, it is true, but loved all the same.

Here, then, is their story: this is what Remus has pieced together from those fragmented memories and from snatches of conversations that are just now beginning to meld together in the distance as the chasm widens. Their story lies, too, in the stars across the spread of sky, but those who can read it there are dead and will not return.

*

Another September, many, many years before. Night had anchored the sun beneath the horizon, and for Sirius, pretending to be asleep in his dormitory, the incoming darkness brought respite from the painful maintenance of facades. It was easier this way, pretending that he could hope that sleep might bring with it lazy drifting forgetfulness; pretending, also, that he did not care whether or not the others would come up (though he didn't, to be perfectly honest, actually care for Peter). A part of him struggled to stifle the conviction that James, at least, would come--James, whom he had met on the Hogwarts Express five years ago, and who since then had never failed him, whether as partner-in-crime or brother-in-arms; the only one whom he truly saw as an equal.

But surely James had to come, had to--after the Howler that morning, after Sirius had fled the Great Hall, seeking open ground where sound would dissipate quickly; after he had spent the day pretending that everything was normal: throwing the usual taunts at Snape, teasing Remus gently, slyly poking fun at Peter, pushing McGonagall to see if the limits were still the same after the long holiday... James had caught on to his mood, laughing with him and suggesting that they put a Singing Spell on the whole class, including Binns, for their next History of Magic lesson. Generally unsubtle though he was, James always instinctively knew, when it came to Sirius.

Behind the deepening red of the curtains that enclosed his bed, Sirius heard the muffled sound of the dormitory door opening and then closing again. Then a slight rustle, and the curtains were pulled back slightly.

"Hey," said James, sounding a little bit breathless, as if he had hurried there from dinner, or Quidditch, or wherever he last had been.

"Hey." Sirius rolled over onto his back and looked up, his voice coming out warmer than he'd intended.

"Let's go out," said James, still slightly breathless. He held out his Invisibility Cloak, its shimmering folds falling like liquid silver over his hands--a promise of anonymity. Sirius slipped out of bed and under the Cloak; this was a familiar routine from their early-morning kitchen raids and various night-time explorations of the Hogwarts grounds. "Where to, do you think?" James whispered, letting Sirius take the lead.

Left after the portrait hole and up countless staircases; left, right, left again, zigzagging southwards on the highest floor. "South Tower," Sirius said, briefly, as they arrived finally in a low-ceilinged room.

The said room was dusty and not very pleasant, an observation succinctly voiced by James.

Sirius rolled his eyes and pointed at the trapdoor in the ceiling.

"You want to go up to the roof?" James hesitated, so briefly that it went almost unnoticed. He smothered the "but" that was playing around insistently on the tip of his tongue. There was so much that he wanted to say: it was not safe, he didn't trust Sirius in his present mood, they could talk elsewhere, the roof was nice, yes, but perhaps they could save it for another day? The thoughts ran quickly through his head; this was a mysterious sixth sense, perhaps, for James wasn't usually much concerned about safety (that was Remus' job), and the fear of falling was not something that bothered either of the boys. Reading the challenge in Sirius' dark eyes, however, his protests died unworded--a challenge was a challenge, and roof stunts on the South Tower were something they'd never tried before. The appeal was undeniable. "Right," he said, and, being slightly taller, set about opening the trapdoor.

Five minutes later they had clambered through the trapdoor and through another small doorway that led out onto the ledge that encircled the roof of the turret. Throwing all misgivings (as well as caution) to the winds, James edged around the Tower until he stood overlooking the vast lake lying to the south of Hogwarts Castle. Sirius followed him, and they both sat down.

The stars were surprisingly clear that night, for September. The clouds were clearing swiftly, driven before a high wind, and they could trace the constellations quite easily as they sat there on the ledge, leaning back against the slanted roof, their legs dangling off the side. Far away, down below, the wind rustled through the eaves of the Forbidden Forest. On its south-eastern border they could see the lights from the village of Hogsmeade, winking at them peacefully. They sat, quietly still, with only the sound of each other's breathing breaking the soft rhythm of the night. One by one, the golden lights in Hogsmeade slipped off into slumber and dream.

At last, James turned to Sirius. "You're quiet tonight."

Sirius laughed, dryly. "More than made up for that earlier today, I think. Didn't you just love the look on Evans' face when she saw us duelling with Snape? She--"

"Don't talk about Evans like that," cut in James, sharply.

"What, do you fancy her?" Sirius sat up straight and turned to the hazel-eyed boy beside him.

"No," he said, glaring. "No, I don't. Just--" he stopped, and shrugged.

"Sure," said Sirius, a teasing smile beginning to curve the corners of his mouth. "I'll believe that the day you admit to Remus that it was you who ate his homework, back in Third Year. Or the day--"

"You dared me to!", protested James. "Anyway, I made sure he didn't get into trouble for that."

"Yeah, by telling McGonagall that you'd seen a huge gerbil lurking around our Common Room." Sirius grinned happily. "You are such a bad liar, James. Which brings us back to the subject of Evans."

"Any more of that, Sirius, and I'll punch you tomorrow."

"'I'll punch you tomorrow'--what kind of threat is that?" Sirius demanded. "Oh, all right, all right," he subsided, catching the look James was giving him, "I'll drop it. She's a great girl, anyway; I can quite see why you--"

"Sirius," interrupted James, loudly and firmly, "We are not here to talk about my love life, or lack thereof. You are not supposed to interrogate me. I'm--" He caught himself, then, and paused, pushing his glasses up his nose in one of his endearing, subconscious gestures. "I'm sorry," he continued, more softly. "I'm not doing a very good job of talking to you, am I?"

There was a long pause. Then Sirius shrugged, seemingly indifferent. "Doesn't matter. Think I do enough talking to myself in my head, anyway."

James sighed in frustration and ran a hand through his hair. "What should I say, then?" He reached into his pocket and took out a handful of Calming Chocolates. "Here, have one."

"You know I hate those!" He sounded momentarily appalled.

James frowned at him. "It's chocolate, Sirius! When did you become so female?"-- he feigned shock, sounding wonderfully innocent. Nevertheless he was immediately forced to duck a light punch from the other boy. "Anyway, it's all I have on me. You can't dislike them that much."

So they sat on the roof of the South Tower, munching their way through a surprisingly large number of chocolate bars. The seconds ticked by, unheeded, on James' watch, and the moon sailed regally across the sky, casting her harsh white glare over the scudding clouds. Slowly the chocolate began to take effect--that, and perhaps genuine exhaustion.

"Almost full moon," Sirius observed, meditatively. "Poor Remus."

"S'not him I'm worried about, right now." James' voice, too, came drugged lightly with drowsiness. He touched Sirius on the shoulder. "You okay?"

Sirius, who had been leaning forward slightly, glanced back at James. "Yes. No." He appeared to consider the question for a moment. "Eventually, I guess. I don't know." He exhaled, and returned his gaze to the sky. "My mother--", his lip twisted slightly, in a mock smile--"She's hated me ever since First Year, when I was sorted into Gryffindor. Guess I should be used to it by now."

"No," said James, suddenly defensive. But then his shoulders sagged slightly, and he dropped the matter. "Do you ever regret it? Being in Gryffindor, I mean."

Sirius gave James a piercing look. "I'm surprised you'd ask. You know I've been happy here."

The other boy nodded. "Yeah, well..." His words trailed off into the night-silence. There was so little they had to say to each other, really; meanwhile, sleep was creeping stealthily over the two of them. James, perhaps, would have a restful sleep with quiet breathing; what Sirius felt was something more akin to an unravelling weariness haunted unkindly by distant dreams. He heard James' voice, as if coming to him over a wide, wide water. "You want to go?"

"Nah... think I'll sleep here." Vaguely, he realised that he wasn't making any sense, but then James wasn't protesting (though some part of Sirius was sure that he'd hear no end of complaints the following day)--in fact, he observed, with muted surprise, James was spreading the Invisibility Cloak over the both of them, as they leaned there against the slanted roof, and it was surprisingly warm, and oh dear, he hoped that Remus wouldn't worry about the empty beds, but really he was too tired to think further than that...

"Tuck your feet in. You won't fall off?"

He complied, and nodded, the words not really registering. Faintly he heard James say, "I'll cast a Cushioning Charm, just in case," and nodded again, then James was curling up beside him, and it was comfortable and warm and lovely and familiar.

*

Dawn light was beginning to seep in through the long window at the far end of the Common Room when Sirius and James finally slipped back through the portrait hole, but there was not yet any sign of anyone else stirring. Yawning, Sirius collapsed onto the sofa in front of the cold fireplace. "My back hurts," he complained, through his yawn. "Next time let me do the Cushioning Charms."

James perched himself on the armrest. "I might remind you that you were asleep before I'd even finished casting it," he said, archly. He looked down at his hands. "I hope you slept well."

There was a slight pause. Then--"Yeah. Did you?"

James quirked an eyebrow. "With you muttering unintelligible things in your sleep all night long? No way."

"If you didn't want to then you shouldn't have--" Sirius began, defensively.

"I didn't mean--" James sighed, passing his hand over his eyes. "Come on, Sirius, you know what I mean. You think I go around sleeping on the roof with everyone?"

Sirius' face cracked into a brief grin. "Oh, so now I can go around telling the world that I've slept with James Potter on the roof of the South--" He ducked as James threw a cushion at him, falling off the sofa in the process. Not bothering to get up off the floor, he looked up at James through the dark hair that had fallen over his eyes. "Hey James?" -more softly--"Thanks." Impulsively he reached out his hand, and to his surprise the other boy grasped it, pulling him off the floor and into a quick hug. A moment later, however, he had pulled away awkwardly. Sirius raised an eyebrow, masking his own sudden bereft feeling. "Won't work, James. Your reputation's far gone."

A clatter from the staircase drew their attention off each other, and subconsciously they moved apart. "Let me do the lying," Sirius mouthed, quickly, just as Remus Lupin appeared at the head of the spiral stairs that led up to their dormitory.

"Where on earth were the both of you?" he asked, managing to sound exasperated and worried and sleepy all at once. "Don't tell me you spent the whole night out of Gryffindor Tower. You know you're not supposed to--"

"Relax, Remus," began James, placatingly. "We weren't doing anything--"

"You could have told--"

"But you wouldn't have let us," interrupted Sirius. "You're a prefect this year, remember?"

Remus froze, and then turned away, shrugging as he did so. "I was worried, that's all."

Slowly he climbed back up the remaining few stairs, out of sight. The sound of a door closing gently drifted down to the Common Room, and Sirius and James glanced quickly at each other, then averted their eyes.

"You should talk to him, I guess," Sirius muttered, after a while. "Tell him that--that you couldn't find me after dinner so you went looking for me. Something like that. He'll understand; he's nice. And he'll listen to you." He threw himself back down onto the sofa, sprawling across it in his typical haughty manner. "Poor distraught Sirius and all that kind of thing," he added, a bitter smile playing around his mouth.

*

The next day it was drizzly and grey. Late in the afternoon James was sprawled on his four-poster bed, poring over a Quidditch magazine. He looked up guiltily when the door opened, but grinned when he saw Sirius leaning casually against the door frame. "McGonagall didn't keep you long."

"Everyone finds me charming," said Sirius, tossing his hair back lightly. "You want to go to the library now, or is that"--he waved his hand at the magazine--"too engaging?"

"Library?" asked James, frowning slightly. "Oh yeah, Remus." He scrambled untidily to his feet. "Hey, did you manage to find out anything over the hols?"

Sirius' expression darkened slightly, but he shook his head. "With my mother around? Do you think I could've done it without her getting all suspicious and everything?"

James raised a dark eyebrow. "Since when have we been concerned about stuff like that?"

Already halfway down the winding staircase, Sirius froze abruptly. "You just don't get it, do you?" He looked back at the other boy, and his grey eyes flashed, always a warning sign. "Because this matters."

There was a tense pause. Then--"Remus doesn't want your pity." James' voice came evenly.

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the library, keeping their distance; keeping the peace.

It was early in the term for students to have started being properly concerned about work, so the Hogwarts library was fairly deserted, apart from the ageless Madam Pince, who glared at them as they entered. It did not, of course, help the chilly atmosphere; even on the warmest summer days in June, cold draughts blew in through unseen cracks and fissures, rubbing against ankles like invisible cats. James glanced quickly at Sirius--he knew that this was not a place that the other boy was fond of, it bearing perhaps too much of a resemblance to his home at Grimmauld Place. He hadn't actually visited Sirius there before, but his instincts were usually right.

These said instincts came into play the moment he reached the Transfiguration shelves. "Animagus, Animagus," he murmured to himself, running his fingertips lightly over the dusty volumes. A book that he had not seen before on these familiar shelves caught his eye; he slid it gently out of its place between two thicker tomes. He read its title, letting out a low whistle; Sirius glanced up at him, from where he was kneeling looking at the lower shelves. "What is it?"

"Fur is Beneficial," read James, keeping his voice low. "It's what we've been looking for--remember, it was mentioned in that old book we borrowed back in Third Year, Transfiguration and Transformations, or something like that? It must've been shelved here by accident; it's a Restricted Section book."

"Yeah," said Sirius, his face splitting into a sudden grin. "Didn't it say that it was 'a dangerous book, entirely too accessible to those who would use the Animagus Transformation for purposes of their private amusement'?"

"That obviously means you, Sirius."

"Hey, I'm not the one walking around trying to sneak peeks at a certain red-haired--"

"Well," continued James, raising his voice slightly, as if he hadn't quite heard Sirius' words, "If you're talking about sexual deprivation, we'd better not let Peter see it, then."

Sirius chortled, and they moved away from the dusty shelves to one of the tables by the windows. As soon as they had settled down James opened the book, smoothing out its wrinkled pages. Sirius leant over, and the two dark-haired boys began to read.

Not five minutes had passed, however, when Sirius began to speak again. "Good stuff," he said, approvingly. "What say we bring this little treasure back with us?"

"Mm," said James, not really listening. "Hey, look, this makes it sound a whole lot easier than the other books did."

Sirius leaned back over to scan the page. "Yeah, it does," he agreed. "Not that it's uncomplicated, mind. We'd better keep it away from Peter until we figure it out ourselves."

"Thought you'd enjoy that spectacle, actually."

"You!" scoffed Sirius. "You tolerate him because he admires you so much! The one-man James Potter Fan Club!"

James was about to reply indignantly when Madam Pince swooped over to them, hawk-like and glaring. He settled for throwing a dirty look at the other boy, but when she had gone away (having threatened them variously with expulsion, detention, and point deduction) he resumed, "You're just jealous that your charms don't work on him."

Sirius looked genuinely appalled, but recovered his balance quickly. "So they work on you?" he asked slyly, tendrils of insinuation woven into his voice.

James shook his head and grinned. "Sorry to disappoint you." He reached out to pat Sirius on his shoulder, mock-consolingly, but to his surprise the grey-eyed boy shied away. James shot him a questioning look, but he was apparently engaged in reading the introduction and did not respond.

After a while, however, he lifted his head. "James, do you think we can manage this by Christmas?"

James looked away from the window, through which he'd been watching the Hufflepuff Quidditch team practise in the drizzle. Silently accepting the incongruousness of the question, he tilted his head to one side, contemplatively. "Tough, that. But I think we can pull it off." There was a slight pause. Then, keeping his tone deliberately light--"You're very concerned about him?"

It was more of an observation than a question; it required no answer. In the steady drizzle the Hufflepuff team dived and swooped, co-ordinated but lacking flair. James uncurled himself casually from the chair, one hand reaching for the book--"We'll finish this off in the dorm; what do you think?" -but in a split-second somewhere along the way it changed direction, reaching instead for the stray wisp of longish hair that had fallen out of place into Sirius' eyes, and almost invisibly--and very naturally--tucking it out of the way behind an ear. "Let's go."

Sirius' breath hitched, so slightly that it was almost unnoticeable, and James withdrew his hand instantly, as if pre-empting a scalding. But Sirius only closed the book and slipped it into the folds of his robes, pushed his chair back noisily (as usual, and Madam Pince notwithstanding), and stood up, giving the hazel-eyed boy a nonchalant grin. Really, it seemed as though he hadn't noticed anything.

Outside the window the Hufflepuffs were just about ending their practice session. James threw a last glance back at them as they circled down onto the pitch, his thoughts returning comfortably to the world of Quidditch rivalries and captainships: carefully, sticking surprisingly closely to things he could manage, things within his control.

*

It was on the way to dinner in the Great Hall that the next crack in the flawed ice appeared: the first sign of a new spring, or perhaps only a temporary thaw--it was anyone's guess, if only people had been observant enough to notice it in the first place. There is a kind of blindness when it comes to situations that creep up unacknowledged or unorthodoxly: they challenge the boundaries of belief and are therefore easy to skim over.

Remus and Peter walked in front, Remus still trying to explain to the smaller boy the delicate difference between a Substantiation Syrup and an Embodiment Potion. Following rather more languidly behind, James wondered briefly at Remus' patience. An outsider looking at the three of them would have clearly seen that they were a gang, yet clearly also separate; he would have wondered about James and his easy confidence, a clear indication that Remus and Peter were not walking in front, together, out of choice.

They were reaching the top of a short flight of stairs when Peter came to an abrupt halt.

"What is it now, Peter?" James' voice, laced with impatience, came from behind. "Get a move on."

Then he heard the voices--not raised, but tense and electric all the same; one could not avoid them. He shouldered his way between Remus and Peter to the head of the stairs. One glance at the scene that awaited him told him all he needed to know; discreetly he extracted his wand from his robes.

"You need reinforcements, Black?" Snape's eyes flickered poisonously over the three of them, but returned quickly to his dark-haired target.

"They're called friends, Snivellus," Sirius snarled, from where he stood against the opposite wall. "Not that I'd expect you to understand that."

"At least," Snape hissed, through clenched teeth, "I have a family that's proud of me."

James saw Sirius flinch ever so slightly, but his eyes hardened into cold steel; the sharp bite of worry he felt for Sirius crystallised into a panicked cruelty. He stepped forward, into the arena. "A family that never writes to you?" He raised his voice, tauntingly. "There's nothing about you that they can be proud of, Snivellus."

Quick as lightning Snape had drawn his wand and was pointing it at James. "Incarce--"

"Impedimenta!" shouted Sirius, at the same time; Snape's movement slowed drastically, and with perfect co-ordination, almost lazily, James said, "Expelliarmus." Out of the corner of his eye he had time to notice that Peter had backed away out of sight behind Remus, before Snape's wand came hurtling through the air to him, and he caught it.

"Dumbledore's coming!" shouted a warning voice from amongst the crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle. Sirius shot James a look that said, thanks, but let's go, and fluidly the hazel-eyed boy tossed Snape's wand to Remus, throwing him a contemptuous glance along with it. The glance said it all; expression quickly draining from his face, Remus looked away. The two dark-haired boys slipped through the crowd and down the corridor into an empty classroom on their left.

In the swiftly fading light that came in through a high window, their faces lay hidden in shadow; it seemed to matter less what they did, and the potential repercussions of what they might say to each other seemed to carry less weight. In the half-dark Sirius moved towards James. "Thanks," he said, softly.

They stood there for a while, slightly apart. Presently, James said, "I'm sorry about Remus and Peter. I wish they--"

"Drop it."

"I'm sorry."

Pretending to be absorbed in the floor, they cast furtive glances up at each other. Distant laughter and voices drifted past, beyond the doorway, and were ignored. Nightfall inched closer; as if shrinking away from the growing shadows, Sirius drew nearer James.

"James--" he began, half-hesitating, and carefully the other boy kept his eyes averted, "I'm glad for you."

Distant laughter faded into echoes down corridors; in the darkening sky outside the crescent moon waxed clearer, and peered incuriously through the window. Now the two shadows melted imperceptibly into one, and became still, as if they were part of this heavy night. In the heavens above, far removed from the dusty classroom, the stars continued their inexorable paths of flame.

*

The passage of autumn brought with it the slow transformation of the grounds--green leaves turned golden, then brown, and took leave of the branches that had borne them for three seasons, swirling to the ground in lazy spirals. Ever-colder winds rippled the surface of the lake, ghosting through bare trees and around corners in the castle itself. The Giant Squid rarely made its appearance any longer, preferring to lurk in the warmer, darker caves at the bottom of the lake; in any case the students hardly missed it, for the autumn winds carried on them the promise of a cold winter, and the warmth of the Common Rooms and Great Hall was appreciated more than ever. Regular activities, however, went on uninterrupted--students could be still seen trudging towards the greenhouses on dull October mornings, and James would come in from Quidditch practice with mud on his robes, and his hair even more windswept than usual.

For James and Sirius, autumn passed, too, in a mute dream of slight, light intimacy--a quick glance into hazel depths, perhaps, or grey frost shattering into a sudden springtime; slowly they drifted around each other, hands barely touching, imperceptible as wind or water. The other Gryffindors did not mark this, generally being concerned only with prank, adventure, and a liberal dose of schoolwork. Even the two boys themselves, perhaps, read little into this deepening friendship; unconsciously they teetered on the edge of a cliff and did not peer over to see if there was any ground below.

*

After Halloween had come and gone and Gryffindor had won its first Quidditch match of the season the first icy touch of winter made itself irrevocably felt. The morning after the victory celebrations--held with great enthusiasm despite the fact that no one had expected Gryffindor to lose, in the first place--James woke up to a slight hangover, and staggered over to the sink by the window only to find that the water in the pipes had frozen. It was several minutes before the hot water finally gurgled its way through; in the meantime he gazed blearily out of the window. The brittle frost that covered the ground was just beginning to disappear in the morning sun.

It was a Sunday morning, but the dormitory was already empty. Or perhaps not, thought James, noticing the drawn curtains around Sirius' bed. It was early yet. He'd let him sleep a while longer; Sunday breakfasts were usually an extended affair, anyway. He slipped on his shoes and made his way down to the Great Hall, hoping that he'd be in time to catch Remus.

He was, just. -"Morning, Remus. Going off already?"

The brown-haired boy smiled. "James. Good game yesterday, I didn't get to tell you earlier, what with the party and all."

"Thanks. Sit down and have more toast."

"No, really, I have to be at the library, I'm supposed to be helping Peter on Potions, remember? I'll see you at lunch, if you like."

"Oh, right." He took Remus' vacated seat. "Good old Peter."

"What was that?"

"What?" He shrugged it off lightly. "-oh, nothing. See you." He lifted a stack of toast onto his plate, and was about to reach for the marmalade, when a flash of red on the other side of the table caught his eye. He glanced up, and realised that he was sitting right opposite Lily Evans. He offered her a charming smile.

"Hey James. Save any toast for me?"

He turned round, then, annoyed, although it was Sirius' voice. "There's more on the table."

Sirius raised an eyebrow at him and flashed a knowing grin. "Sorry, did I interrupt something?" Unfussily he dropped himself into a chair beside James. "Morning, Evans."

"Morning, Black," she said, not quite warmly. "And no, you didn't interrupt anything. I was actually just about to leave." She stood, pushing her chair back.

When she was out of earshot James turned to Sirius. "Thanks," he glowered.

"Hey, I saved you from utter humiliation."

There was a short pause. Then--

"I'm not the one who needs saving."

Sirius turned away sharply, as if he had been slapped, or worse, betrayed. The knowledge of this--for James knew, as always, what Sirius must feel--at first gave the hazel-eyed boy the sinfully pleasurable aftertaste of malicious cruelty, but soon the sweetness faded, leaving only bitter shame. His retort had been disproportionate, and it had been inadvertent--that was the worst part. But barriers had sprung up; the first moments in which apologies would have been appropriate had vanished, and the move now belonged to Sirius. In stubbornly proud silence he addressed his pumpkin juice.

Wordlessly Sirius finished his breakfast, and got up to leave. James looked up at him, carefully neutral. "Remus is in the library with Peter. They'll probably be done around lunchtime."

"And do you actually propose that we do anything together in the meantime?" asked Sirius, icily. It was as if he felt a need to prove that he was capable of defending himself, of creating a distance even between himself and his closest friend.

"If you want to work on the Animagus thing, I'm--"

"You don't have to, you know, if you don't want to," said Sirius, in a mock-kindly manner. Then his tone sharpened. "I'm tired of you doing what you think I'd want, just because you think you should. You really don't have to feel obliged to save me, every time--" Abruptly he stopped, and swung around, stalking out of the Hall.

"I'm sorry," said James, much later, as he unwrapped the salmon sandwiches (courtesy of the house-elves, who were rather fond of him). The noontime sunlight sparkled over the tiny wavelets that rippled across the surface of the lake. From inside the castle it had looked deceptively warm. His movements stilled, and he glanced penitently at Sirius. "Really I am."

"That's all right. You got my favourite sandwiches."

"I wish you'd stop being so enigmatic."

"Where would the charm be, then?" answered the grey-eyed boy, laughing. It did, indeed, seem that he'd forgiven James, and forgotten the incident, though James was sure that he hadn't the latter. But Sirius was like that--difficult to read, and even more difficult to understand: whimsical, erratic, unpredictable; the words slipped through James' mind like leaves floating downriver to a vast ocean.

The precarious balance restored, the two of them settled back into their old familiar habits: skimming stones over the surface of the lake, devouring their way through piles of sandwiches, talking about Quidditch, and about the Animagus transformation, with reference especially to Fur Is Beneficial. It was cold, and there was no one else out, so they could talk freely.

"Soon," said Sirius, giving James a warm half-smile. He had dismissed the search for good skimming stones as impossible and was now sprawled on the grass at the foot of a bare tree. "With a bit more practice..." He yawned, and passed his hand over his eyes.

"Looks like we'll be ready by Christmas, easy," agreed James, from where he stood by the water's edge. "We should tell Peter soon."

"Yeah, knowing him he'll take forever to master the spell," said Sirius, frowning slightly. "Pity we can't keep it a surprise, between you and me."

"Know something, Sirius?" He swung round to look intently at the other boy. "I'm glad you want it that way." The words came rather more suddenly than he had intended, and with surprising honesty. "You're my best friend, you know that." It was hard to tell if it was a statement or a question.

"Sometimes I don't." Sirius replied, dryly. "What with all your admirers and the fascination you seem to have for a certain Miss Evans..."

James said, gently, "You're the one whom all the girls adore."

"Knowing you, you wouldn't say that if you were insecure about your position."

'To you I might."

Sirius got up and strolled over to join James by the lake. "You think anyone's watching us from the castle?"

The hazel-eyed boy threw him a curious glance. "No. Why? Or, on second thoughts, considering it's you and me, yes." His smile was brilliant and disarming.

"I dare you to kiss me, then." There was something reckless about the unapologetic grin that came with it, about the sudden light that flared challengingly in Sirius' eyes; he made it sound impersonal, as if it were more about defiance than anything else. "Make all those girls jealous."

A gust of wind blew; dizzily the few remaining leaves were swept off their branches. They spiralled around Sirius, around James and Sirius, standing by the water's edge, hardly aware of the implications of what had been asked. "Sure," said James, lightly, rising to the challenge. He felt slightly heady, half-intoxicated. With an easy confidence born of not being fully conscious of what he was doing, he moved closer to the other boy.

Leaves spiralled across the lake, past the castle, carried on the wind; they tapped on the windows and danced across the stone slabs of the open tower tops. In the library the dry, brown leaf flapping insistently against the glass windowpane distracted Remus from the Potions text he was poring over, and he got up to remove it. Out of habit he glanced down at the lake. But this time his glance stretched on into a meditative gaze, and he remained at the window long after the brief contact between the two boys far below him had ended, and they had moved apart.

"Remus," called Peter, softly, looking up from the list of ingredients he was supposed to be memorising, "Remus, what is it?"

The brown-haired boy turned away from the window. "Nothing." After an awkward expectant pause, he added, inadequately, "Let's get back to Potions."

*

"Oh, go off if you must, Peter," snapped Sirius, at last, in exasperation. "I'm not coming with you; that's all."

Remus threw him a reproachful look over Peter's head. "I'll come," he offered. "I need to get a quill from Scrivenshaft's, anyway, and Dervish and Banges is just across the road."

James and Sirius exchanged a glance, and James said, "Right, then. We'll see you at The Three Broomsticks in, say, an hour?"

Remus nodded, and set off at a brisk pace with Peter. Soon they were lost in the mass of Hogwarts students that flooded the narrow street--it was the first Hogsmeade weekend of the school year, and despite the weather a good part of the school had decided to come down. Their voices and laughter spilled out of doorways into the nippy autumn air; young faces smiled through windowpanes, distorted by the glass. Sirius said, "Why'd you give them so long?"

"Oh, come on, you know Remus. They'll pass the bookshop on their way back and without us there to do something suitably drastic Peter'll never be able to get him out until he actually decides to come out."

"Right, and what do we do in the meantime?"

James looked away, suddenly abashed. Last week's lakeside incident hadn't been talked about. As if by common consensus, neither boy had made reference to it; privately each of them might have mulled over its possible meaning, but all of that was kept back in the shadows, for late nights behind dark curtains, their rich red faded to black by nightfall. Lily Evans' hair was red; he caught sight of it as she disappeared into the post office with a crowd of her girl friends. She was an enticing possibility, he thought (though less articulately), but Sirius was an absolute, a certainty. At this point he became aware that he was expected to suggest an activity to fill in the hour-long gap.

"Shrieking Shack?" he suggested, without too much hope.

Sirius' eyes, however, had lit up. "Brilliant, James. Can't believe I didn't think of that myself." It emerged that he thought it would be an ideal opportunity to get to know the lie of the land where Remus usually transformed. Half-willingly, James abandoned his train of thought and allowed Sirius' enthusiasm to infect him. By the time they got to the fence that surrounded the Shrieking Shack, they were eagerly making plans for what they'd do once they'd mastered the Animagus transformation.

"--we could, you know, Dumbledore'd never find out."

"Yeah, and it'd be so much easier at night."

"Marauders, like. Imagine that."

They grinned at each other conspiratorially. It was almost lunchtime, and there was no one else about. The fence was run-down, and was easy to clamber over; beyond it lay the unkempt garden. It looked threatening, Sirius thought, and forgotten, even in daylight. Who knew what grew here now, above the anonymous graves of plants that once flowered? They pushed past old weeds and sparse, prickly shrubs, towards the house itself. But the door was locked and the windows boarded--not a crack to let a mouse in.

"Alohomora," said James, tapping the lock with his wand. Disobligingly, it refused to spring open. Other spells did not work, either--the door refused to be blasted open, the boards across the windows refused to crack, and Sirius refused to let him try setting them on fire. At last they were forced to conclude that the house had been warded.

"I suppose," said Sirius carefully, "that fire might work. But you never know how it spreads, with these old houses. I've tried before."

Letting it go at a raised eyebrow, James shoved his wand back up his sleeve and sat down glumly on the wide doorstep. "Remus must hate this."

"Well, it'll be better next month, won't it, when we can transform properly?" Sirius lounged against the doorframe, gazing into the distance. "A bit more practise on your stag should do it. Right now your antlers are coming out all wrong."

"You're one to complain! Whose sense of smell is missing, I'd like to know?"

"Ah, but antlers are a symbol of masculinity. You can't be an alpha male unless you've got decent prongs."

"I am--they are--" James sputtered, indignantly, finding there too many affronts to his dignity to be coherent.

"Evans might not agree," said Sirius, slyly.

"All the more reason to prove it to her, then, no?" answered James, sounding perfectly rational. Idly he took out his wand and began twirling it. He saw her, again, in his mind's eye, pushing open the door to the post office; then he replayed the scene, this time imagining himself walking by her side and holding the door open for her. It was a pretty fantasy, and all that he would allow himself in Sirius' presence--the other boy had an uncanny knack for guessing his thoughts. But now that thoughts of the grey-eyed boy had invaded his daydreams, they superimposed themselves on the image of the green-eyed girl, and forced it to recede. He looked up Sirius. "Are you straight?" he asked, awkwardly and without preamble.

Sirius didn't appear to find the question particularly strange. "I've never thought about it," he offered. "Not important." He lowered himself onto the doorstep, beside James, and looked at him expectantly.

Finding himself thus in an uncomfortable position, and for lack of anything else better to say, James said, "Oh." A pause ensued. He added, "I am, I think."

Sirius gave a short bark of laughter. "I'll say. It's obvious to the world that you like Evans--or to me, anyway. I gather Remus is beginning to notice something, too."

"Are you jealous?"

He put his arms behind his head and stretched out his long legs in front of him. "Mm? No. No reason to be." He looked at James through his dark fringe. "Why, thinking about last week?" It was the first direct reference either boy had made to the incident.

James ran a hand through his hair--he'd been doing it so often that it had become habit--and adopted Sirius' position. "Yeah, actually."

"Come off it, it was only a dare."

"Not just last week, you know."

Sirius sat up properly and turned to regard his companion. "I think I'm getting fond of you," he said, giving him a limpid-eyed look through his long fringe.

James gave him a small, private smile. "Thought we were over that."

"And what, into uncharted waters?"

"Hm." He appeared to give it some thought, despite its light-hearted tone. "The opposite, really. Some kind of stability."

"Oh, dry up, James," said Sirius, but kindly. "You're not really proving yourself an alpha male."

James attempted an affronted look, which collapsed into a sort of grin. "And you'd be the epitome of one, I suppose."

"Sure," said Sirius. "I've kissed more girls than you have."

"That doesn't say anything! Except that you get around, I suppose."

"Yeah, I'm sexier." Sirius sounded, for a moment, quite solemn. Then he added, "But you have the star appeal. Imagine, we could have a two-in-one package, no-one'd be able to resist that." He looked quite happy at the prospect.

James rolled his eyes and stood up. "When you start talking like this I know it's about time to get back to Remus."

"Come on, we've time yet. And if he's in a bookshop right now he's bound to be late."

"All right." He relented surprisingly willingly, and sat back down, closing his eyes.

"Oh James."

"Mm?" He turned his head slightly, but his eyes remained shut. For a little while silence blanketed them, and the wind could be heard rustling through the grass and through bare branches.

"Listen, you remember last week?" The other boy's eyes flickered open questioningly. "What's the furthest you've gone? -No, show me."

They were both sitting up straight, now, facing each other. Lightly, as if reading a disclaimer, James said, "I'm only doing this because I like you enough to answer the question, mind." He leaned forward slightly, discarding his glasses in a single swift movement, and then it was all grey eyes and hazel, and firm hands on shoulders and drawing closer, and the warm sweet taste of an excruciatingly familiar unknown. Breaking the kiss they moved apart, little enough so that resuming it later would be an easy affair. James looked at Sirius. "That was actually a bit of an exaggeration."

"Think I got carried away, too." He looked away; the easy confidence that characterised both of them seemed to have vanished, leaving them slightly shy and hesitant. Now every action seemed to carry too much weight. Forcing his tone light, in a close imitation of James', he said, "Feel like kissing me again?"

In answer the hazel-eyed boy pulled him close, and this time it was slower: hands running through hair, small kisses trailing from the corner of the mouth along the jaw line to the neck, pausing over the spot where the pulsing of the heart could be felt. Somewhere along the line their eyes had closed; half-drugged, Sirius still found himself coherent enough to murmur, "Gives the phrase 'you bring out the best in me' a whole new level of meaning, doesn't it?"

Later, after James had fallen off the doorstep owing to their mutual over-enthusiasm, he said, "You know it doesn't mean anything, right?" They stood, brushing bits of twigs and dead leaves off themselves. "You're still after Evans, and I'm still the Sex God who really ought to be in Slytherin."

James hesitated fractionally, and said, with unexpected perception, "If you're sure you want it that way." Accidentally catching Sirius' eye he turned away, pretending that he had not said anything at all--the other boy had already made a decision, and to challenge it would be like forcibly tearing down walls, or casting a small boat into mysterious, deep waters: no matter what came after, Sirius would resent it, would resent this little shred of authority being taken away from him.

*

"I know it must be a lot to expect from you, Peter," drawled Sirius, from where he sat sprawled on a classroom chair, "but if you stop gaping it'll come much faster." He turned to James, and said, impatiently, "Do something."

"Oh, how difficult can it be?" He sounded exasperated. "Look, Peter, we've gone over the theory with you about a million times, now you've got to try it on your own."

"B-but I--" He stuttered to a halt as Sirius glared at him.

James had taken out his wand and was toying with it, looking bored. In apprehensive awe Peter gazed at him; he was ignored. "Sirius--lend me yours, will you?"

With careless grace the dark-eyed boy withdrew the slim wooden rod from his robes and tossed it to James, who caught it easily. "Alder, right? I seem to remember you telling me that." He looked down once more at the wand between his fingers, and recited, "Good for Transfiguration and defence spells, having, according to the Ancient Celts, a curious affinity to both Fire and Water."

"Pretty good. Yours?"

"Mahogany."

"Protective wood, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

Peter made a small sound of amazement--he was impressed, perhaps, at the display of knowledge. Both the other boys had turned to look at him. "Right," said Sirius, finally, tilting his chair back on two legs and reaching out to pull away the Animagus instruction sheet they had made out specially for Peter. "We've gone over this with you often enough. Now you transform."

Stifling a whimper the small, podgy boy got to his feet. Looking at him, Sirius felt a very concrete disdain--there was a kind of cringing hesitance to his movements that was surprisingly easy to hate. Irritated, he got to his feet and strolled over to the west-facing dusty classroom windows, giving off an air of decided disinterest in whatever was going on behind him. Outside the castle the sun had already set, and there was little to see. Faintly James was reflected in the glass: dark hair that refused to lie flat, black-rimmed glasses, the defined cut of the face--this was how he had always seen him, yet tracing these familiar lines in the windowpane was like discovering something new. Sometime during the five years past, appearances had somehow become irrelevant, or on close examination they became unfamiliar. What he subconsciously perceived lay far beyond that--the spirit, perhaps, rather than the face.

He wondered briefly if their roads would remain intertwined as they walked into the future, but it was little more than detached fantasy: his watercolour could not be complete without the other boy in it. Things would collapse; they would fall into a ruin of grey rubble and lifeless streets, of homes made sad by absent laughter, of walled cities besieged by a thousand hostile ships. When the city finally crumbled, razed to the ground by a fire that came over water, the ships would sail home, fat on the gruesome spoils of war and destruction. Mahogany would be the first to burn.

The scrape of a chair against the stone floor drew him out of his reverie. "All right," James was saying, in a tone that suggested condescending amusement, "I suppose that'll do. Why don't you go off to bed now?"

Dismissed, Peter scampered off, the door swinging creakily shut behind him. Sirius felt James get up and approach.

"How patient you are."

James shrugged beside him, taking the words more seriously than he had meant them. "You're the one who wants this. For Remus and all that, you know." As an afterthought, he added, "Not that I don't care about him."

"Admit it, it's convenient. Who would make a better rat?"

James laughed, comfortable with the cruelty. "I don't know how Remus constantly puts up with him." His glasses glinted slightly in the cold moonlight that came through the window, obscuring his eyes. "He's too kind."

"Fancy you saying that. Surely you have at least some fondness for your fan club?"

He appeared to deliberate for a few moments. "At a distance, yes."

"Well," said Sirius, suddenly businesslike. "We need him, so you'll have to start him off, even if we end up getting Remus to finish the job."

"Good old Remus, eh? What would we do without him?"

"Quite." The words echoed softly in his mind. What would they do without him? -Much, probably. He was their anchor; without him they would be cast wildly to sea, oblivious to the gathering storm clouds on the horizon, living only for the moment, children of the time. He was, too, their lighthouse, calling them back to the bitter reality of jagged cliffs and hidden rocks, sweeping a radius of light around himself, and around them, when they were under his protection.

"You elevate him so," said James, turning away from the window and regarding him steadily through intensely hazel eyes.

"You always know what I'm thinking."

A tense silence ensued, but it was quickly broken by James--perhaps deliberately, a fearful response to the gathering charges in the atmosphere, the towering clouds that presaged a storm. In one movement he swept the two wands off the table and handed the shorter one to Sirius. "Then let's go down to the kitchens. Grab a bite or two."

*

The fire blazed cheerfully in the Gryffindor Common Room as Christmas edged closer. Remus, sitting in his favourite corner and happy to be invisible, looked up from his half-finished essay to see two well-loved figures clambering in through the portrait hole. He gave them a little wave and returned reluctantly to his work--somehow, he felt ambiguously guilty for looking at them, as if he were an intruder into a private space. A lobbyist, he thought. A pressure group, that's what I feel like.

"While much of modern wizarding history argues that the Goblin Revolution was caused primarily by the warlike personality of the Goblin Chief--History, Remus? It's a Friday night; how could you!"

Remus looked up at the sound of Sirius' voice, and said, rather mildly, "I like History."

"Huh."

There was a rather awkward silence during which Remus pondered the possibility of returning to his essay.

Thankfully, he was saved from having to make the decision by the exuberant arrival of James, who enquired (rather exaggeratedly, Remus thought), "Homework, Remus? On a Friday night?" He craned his neck over Remus' other shoulder. "Ugh. History." Changing the topic without any apparent awareness of the discontinuity, he turned to Sirius. "Seen Peter?"

"He went upstairs much earlier," said Remus, resignedly. "I thought he was with you?"

Sirius and James exchanged glances. "Uh. Yeah," said James, after a while. "I mean, he was with us, then he came back, and we decided to drop by the kitchens for a bite, except we took a little longer than expected--"

"--only because James here was being a glutton and--"

"I was not; you were the one who asked for the bread pudding--"

"Yeah well and then we had the brilliant idea of putting Pimm's Pickling Powder into--"

Remus groaned and held up his hand. "Really, Sirius, I don't want to know."

"Don't worry, we didn't do anything. Prevented by the valiant efforts of the house-elves and all that."

"We'll come up with something, though. Right, Sirius?" James grinned at him and collapsed into one of the squashy armchairs near the table, sighing in pleasure. "Gosh, I'm knackered. This is entirely too comfortable for my own good. What's the time?"

Remus glanced over at the grandfather clock in the corner. "Past eleven. Aren't you going up to bed?"

"How can he possibly abandon you to the hungry monsters that reside late at night in unfinished essays?" demanded Sirius, melodramatically. "You know James, his sense of honour forbids him. I, however, having fewer scruples, am going to sleep." Nodding goodnight to them, he turned and vanished up the spiral stairway to the tower dorms.

Remus turned to James. "You're not going up with him?"

"No." He brushed his hand tiredly over his eyes. "Backlog. Quidditch. I suppose I really should get started." He made an effort to sit up straighter. "Can I borrow a bit of parchment? And a quill?"

Remus pushed the requested items over (taking care to choose the quill with the less-nibbled end). "McGonagall's Transfiguration question, is this? The one that was due today?"

James nodded wordlessly, picked up the quill and dipped it into Remus' inkwell, and began to scratch the date into the top right corner of the parchment. Remus, looking over at the numbers that were slowly appearing, reflected on how he never failed to be surprised by these little hints of organisation that seemed somehow so incongruous with the dark-haired boy beside him. And it was the same with Sirius, he observed to himself, his thoughts drifting. Well--all right, perhaps Sirius' dorm space was a complete and utter mess, and certainly Sirius wasn't as meticulous as James when it came to schoolwork, but somehow when he wanted it to it could all fall into place so neatly, as if it had all been already neatly sorted into compartments in his mind, and boxed up, and labelled.

At this point James glanced up. "Knut for your thoughts?"

"I was just wondering," Remus began, slowly, "if Sirius' mind is as organised as he is disorganised. I mean, apparently disorganised. Oh bother," he added, catching James' confused expression, "don't mind me. I'm not making much sense tonight."

"You always make sense, Remus," said James, affectionately. "Anyway, even if you don't, go ahead and talk to me. I'm bored." He glared mock-nastily at the piece of (mostly blank) parchment that lay on the table before him. "How long more till full moon?"

"Couple more weeks." He sighed, then perked up. "Never mind, at least it doesn't clash with Christmas." Abruptly he changed the subject. "What were you all doing earlier with Peter?"

James glanced at him cautiously, wondering if he felt excluded. But tact was overrated, anyway, he decided. "Why, did you think we were leaving you out?" Not waiting for Remus' inevitable shrug, he offered him a comradely grin. "We've a surprise coming for you, don't worry."

Remus' expression seemed to have cleared slightly, or maybe he'd just imagined that it had been cloudy in the first place. "Lovely. So that's what you and Sirius have been being all conspiratorial about, is it? I hope," he added with a wry smile, "that it's nothing dangerous."

"Fun is dangerous," announced James, grandly.

"What a touching sentiment," murmured Remus to his essay, which seemed to be stubbornly stuck at two-and-a-half inches of his tiny handwriting. He poked it disconsolately with his quill. Nothing happened. Giving up, he returned to conversation. "So when do I get this surprise?"

"Wouldn't be a surprise if I said, now, would it?" said James, archly. "Anyway, Sirius'd kill me."

Unbidden as a dream, a scene unfolded itself from the deadened embers of his memory--cold autumn winds whirling the leaves up in a chilly dance round a castle, a library window, a lake, two boys. Remus forced an ironic laugh. "Sirius'd never kill you."

"No? Doesn't he strike you as being a little--well--dangerous?"

"Fun is dangerous," said Remus, in an empty echo of James' words. "At the rate he goes we'll never make it out of Hogwarts. What was it he was in trouble for last week--riding a broomstick while drunk, and over the Forbidden Forest at that? And then there was the time he put a Vanishing Spell on the portrait of the Fat Lady. And then--" He cut himself short abruptly. "Don't look at me like that, James. Oh, I know you think I'm stuffy and boring. But I'm only worried--"

"Remus," said James slowly, "I do not think you are either stuffy or boring. Neither does Sirius. In fact, he is very concerned about you." Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair. "Look, Remus--"

But Remus was nibbling thoughtfully on the end of the quill. "James," he asked, his tone suddenly different; suddenly intent, "is there anything between you and Sirius?"

His grip tightened imperceptibly on the base of the quill, but his voice was still light. "Why would there be?"

Remus was watching him closely. "Just that--various things--" But what does one say, really, he thought. That I saw you from the library window that day and you were beautiful together? And what business is it of mine, or perhaps it is if I'm jealous (he cautiously admitted to himself), and that hardly excuses me anyway.

"You saw, then, that day at the lake."

"Yes." He looked back down at his essay, which was appearing less inviting by each tick of the grandfather clock.

"Remus--there's nothing between us." A bitter twist to his smile suggested the opposite. "You know--I'm still after Evans, and he's still the--" Sharply he cut himself off.

"The?"

"The Sex God who really ought to be in Slytherin, I was going to--"

"Hang on, James--did you just make it official? You're after Lily?"

James groaned and threw up his hands. "I give up all pretence. I suppose yes, I am. I mean, how could I not be?"

Remus opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again, wordlessly. He had, after all, no right to pry. Words drifted meaninglessly into his mind and out again, stirred by changing currents. Across a wide sea two tall ships sped ahead before a high wind--drawing closer as they neared the golden line of the horizon, leaving the little boats that sailed behind to catch up as best as they could, struggling in the backwash. Day shone brightly over them, and the water was deep, and no land in sight. What need had they for a lighthouse here?

"You're doing it again." James prodded him gently with the tip of the quill. "Thinking and being thoughtfully exclusive and all that."

Remus tilted his head to look at the dark-haired boy beside him. "Thinking about the sea, actually. You know how my family moved around a lot before I came to Hogwarts. Well, for a time we lived down south, near Plymouth--we didn't stay very long, but I loved it there. The smell of the sea, mostly. When I was lonely I used to go down to the shore. It was quite lovely."

"It sounds so," said James, sensitively.

"Mm. My mother loved it too; there was this lullaby she used to sing me, small craft in the harbour all nestled in dreams, or something like that--" Softly he hummed a couple of lines, then broke off, embarrassed. "Anyway, I shan't bore you any longer. I'm giving up on this essay--" James raised an eyebrow--"and going to bed." He rolled up his piece of parchment, and stood. "Hang on to the quill, it's okay." A quick smile. "See you tomorrow."

*

Autumn melded into winter; kisses melded into each other, scattering themselves carelessly over the castle grounds. The first snow caught them on a cold evening at the bottom of the wide flight of stone steps leading up to the main castle entrance, discussing how best to enchant a fir forest around the lake--I'm tired of not seeing leaves on trees, James had said. For as winter deepened Christmas drew nearer, and his thoughts flew on swift wings towards the warmth of a childhood that could never be reclaimed, try as he might. A few years back he might still have been thrilled by the sight of the golden baubles hanging from the rich green of the fir trees in the hallways, or by the first set of footprints in clean snow. Now warmth could only be found in what he himself could create.

On clear nights stars hung low in the sky, seeming to pulse cooler and more removed now. The wizened old Astronomy teacher had warned them against this: be not deceived, he had said; still do they continue their arc across the heavens, still do they influence our distant earth. But to James and Sirius, lying on the roof of the South Tower and gazing up into the velvet sky, it seemed that little could be more eternal than the spots that these stars burned for themselves into the carbon-black of the night. In the quiet night they breathed, and their breath hung before them like crystals suspended in an hourglass.

*

"Has anybody seen my sock?" asked Peter plaintively, looking up at the three other boys from where he sat on the floor, attempting to pack his trunk. It was rather an unwelcome task, given the state the room was in (with the exception of the small margin of sanity surrounding Remus' bed), but there was no help for it--there were only three more days till the Christmas break, and missing items had to be found.

"Which sock?" asked Remus, trying his utmost to sound helpful.

"Any sock," said Peter, reaching for a pile of shirts.

James, who was sprawled on his front on top of his bedspread, glanced up from the copy of Quidditch! that he had been idly perusing. "You do realise that if you'd decided to stay on for Christmas you wouldn't be facing this problem," he remarked, and then, as if he had not said anything at all, rolled over onto his back and put the magazine over his face. Sirius, watching him through half-closed eyes, thought he was particularly restless today--it was true that he generally had problems sitting still, but today he had been shifting position so much that the bedclothes were already a mess. "Something bothering you?" he asked, softly.

"Yes," said James to the room in general, sitting up suddenly and closing his magazine. It was as if he had been waiting to be asked. "Do you think Lily Evans would go out with me?"

Remus, from across the room, raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Somehow, you know, I doubt it. Not that you should let that stop you from trying."

"But James is Quidditch Captain, after all," said Peter, appealingly, pausing in his search under the beds for missing items. "And I mean, he's very good at Quidditch. And at Transfiguration--"

"I would think," said Sirius rather cuttingly, "that if she remembered how well James here transfigured Snape's nose into a dripping teacup she would be very wary of going out with him."

"Girls go out with you all the time, and you're worse than James for pranks," pointed out Peter, tactlessly.

"Be serious," said James, tossing his magazine aside and getting up. "You really think she won't?" He ran a hand through his hair. "Not a chance?"

Remus shrugged. "As I said, you can try, and good luck. You might want to practise first, mind."

"Right," said James. "Right. Okay. How do I ask her? Lily, will you go out with me? Just like that?"

Sirius, reaching over the side of his bed for a random object, found one of Peter's lost socks. He flung it at James. "You're obsessed," he snapped. "And stop pacing, it's annoying."

"I am not, and it is not," retorted James, rather unconvincingly, although he did stop.

"Yes you are," said Sirius aggressively. "You've probably been thinking about her all morning. And last night too." He leaned back and regarded James insolently. "That's all you think about. You probably even dream about her."

The awkward pause that followed was interrupted by Peter enquiring as to the whereabouts of his sock. Impatiently James kicked it towards him. "I do not dream about her," he said hotly. "And I'm not obsessed by her either."

"Right, I forgot Quidditch," said Sirius, glancing very deliberately at the discarded magazine that lay on James' bed. "You're becoming terribly boring, James."

James glared at him with such unexpected venom that involuntarily Remus' muscles tensed and he shrank further back into the pillows at the far end of his bed. "Either you stop being jealous or we take this outside," James was saying. "Listen, you were the one who told me that--"

But he cut himself off, and the half-sentence hung unresolved in the air, casting a long a shadow over the four boys sitting in the Gryffindor tower. Even Peter, Remus noticed, was silent, looking from James to Sirius and back again, harbouring perhaps an unworded fear of the inevitable collapse of the fort that held their position secure, the inevitable choosing of sides. James stood with his arms folded, silhouetted darkly against the window, staring challengingly at Sirius, who was leaning against the headboard with a look of nonchalant defiance on his face. Remus looked away from the domestic drama (he thought, with a hint of bitterness), past the dark figure of James to the grey clouds outside the window. They promised snow, he thought.

At long last Sirius laughed, a short bark that sounded like the cracking of ice or glass. "Keep your hair on, James," he said, breaking their brittle eye contact. "I'm not jealous." He offered the hazel-eyed boy a private half-smile, which was returned, though to Remus it seemed that the response had to be wrung unwillingly out of James. "When are you going to ask her out, then?" he continued pleasantly. "I have to be around for that."

Caught off-balance, James glanced quickly at Remus. He looked, Remus thought, like he'd been poised on the verge of a movement, and then been immobilised by a sudden frost: there was an edge to his profile that seemed for a moment the product of repressed panic. Remus wondered how much of it was his imagination.

"Saturday, I was thinking," he said, warily. "You know--if she's finished packing and all that she mightn't mind going down to Hogsmeade in the morning, seeing as the train leaves only after dinner."

"Yes," said Sirius with exaggerated patience, "but you have to ask her before that, you know."

James sat back down on his bed, heavily. "Tomorrow, then, I guess."

Remus gave him an encouraging smile, and returned to his book. Peter, looking up towards him for reassurance, saw only a mop of wavy brown hair above a huge and ancient-looking tome, and breathed again. "Socks," he muttered, returning to his packing. "I really need to find my socks."

*

"I suppose I don't have to ask you how that went," said Sirius, as James entered the dorm room, looking rather downcast. "Still, it wasn't unexpected, was it?"

The other boy shrugged mechanically. "Where are Remus and Peter?"

Sirius' head snapped up. He looked annoyed. "What, something wrong with being alone with me now?"

"Oh, do stop taking everything so personally," said James, tiredly. "Can't you even answer a bloody question straight?"

Saying nothing in reply, Sirius got up from his bed to stalk over to the window, keeping his back firmly towards James. Rather incongruously, it was a beautiful evening, with the red sunset washing itself gently over the snow on the castle grounds and the distant hills. The shadows of the bare trees around the lake were flung starkly before them, growing longer as the sun sank down and the flaming red of the sky retreated before the intense blue of nightfall. His breath condensed on the glass windowpane before him, and in a subconscious remnant of childhood wonder he lifted his hand to the patch of condensation and made marks in it with his finger, tracing out clear patterns that vanished as the droplets evaporated and the cold returned. Somehow the brilliant sunset had ceased to hold his attention, and it was now focussed on his hand that was tracing these patterns on the glass--it noted, with detachment, the tiny grooves and furrows in the skin, the bits of dirt caught stubbornly in his short nails, the ink marks. How different from James' hands, with their slender, callused fingers that seemed to be made for curling gracefully around quills or Quaffles, and the bitten nails and sun-browned skin. They could have built castles or sailed ships, those hands; Sirius could imagine them sweeping the sand up into a wall against the incoming tide, or hauling up the anchor by its strong, rough rope and casting off from shore. He closed his eyes for a moment and rested his forehead against the glass. "You still there?" he asked, softly.

"Never left." Behind him James' voice cracked with the hint of a smile. An apology hovered in the air.

Sirius turned around, allowing himself to return the smile. "Wouldn't say yes if I asked to kiss you, would you?"

"I didn't think you usually asked," said James, amusement dancing in his clear hazel eyes.

"Is that a yes, then?"

Hazel clouded over; his glasses flashed briefly as he turned his head away. "I don't know, Sirius." He sat back on the bed, defeated. "Kiss me if you want. If it'll make you feel better." Straight as the words left his mouth he wanted to recall them. From the corner of his eye he saw Sirius recoil as if he had been struck, defences snapping up suddenly in his grey eyes, the line of his mouth becoming tauter. But it was too late to say anything--a command had been given and the gates shut. The first rooftop fires danced invisibly in the daylight.

"Right," said Sirius savagely. "That's always the way it is, isn't it? What am I to you, James; can you tell me? You--"he flung the word out like an accusation--"you act as if I'm nothing, as if nothing I do means anything to you--as if everything you do for me you do as favour--" Sharply he cut himself off and it was as if his words had been frozen on the edge of a knife. The silence gathered but shouldering it aside with a dreadful grace he turned to leave, the door clicking shut behind him with repressed violence.

Only when the silence had re-formed--impregnable as ever--behind the closed door did James stir slightly. He knew where Sirius had gone, of course--he almost always knew, and this was something of a liability. It would be back to the South Tower: back to the memories of the start of the school year, back to the beginning of everything when the sun had shone down gloriously on their youth and sails had billowed fully before a fresh wind. It was all Sirius had, in a sense; there was little else he could return to that was comforting or beautiful. Thinking these thoughts remorse shot through him--and at the same time he refused to pity Sirius. It carried such condescension, and he did not think that Sirius, proud and golden, deserved that.

He should have stopped it earlier, he supposed; shouldn't have let it carry on, gathering speed as it avalanched downhill--but then where was the line to be drawn? Partner-in-crime, brother-in-arms; two boys as close as the closed wings of the butterfly: when is the thin veil of air between lifted, and how is the turning away to be achieved? Now he reached into the trunk at the foot of his bed for his Invisibility Cloak. It slid, liquid silver, smoothly over his hands. Standing, he cast it about himself and left the room.

The Common Room was crowded, the cold of the corridors driving students towards the huge fire that blazed in its fireplace. Slipping like an arrow past the cheer and chatter, for once not drawn by its convivial warmth, he turned left after the portrait hole and followed the familiar zigzaggy route to Hogwarts' southernmost tower. Coming round the final corner he paused, suddenly undecided--Sirius stood by the long window that overlooked the lake, his back to the corridor, looking very unguarded and very alone. Seized by a sudden and uncharacteristic hesitance, and as if he were seeking to delay something, James shrugged off the Cloak and let it slither gently to the ground, pooling round his feet. "Hello, Sirius," he said, his voice a tentative, hopeless tendril, ready to draw back inwards at the first sign of a rebuttal.

Sirius turned around. In the cold draughts the light from the torches high up in their wall brackets flickered uncertainly, throwing shadows sharply across his face. A sudden flare brought it into stark relief against the dark winter evening beyond the windowpane; the look of renunciation was unmistakeable, etched as it was into every muscle that held his smile up, into even the sadness that struggled to hide behind the greyness of his eyes. "Hello, James," he replied.

*

On Christmas night the waxing moon wove its pale, curdled light over the grounds of Hogwarts, rising up in a fine silvery mesh against the walls, around the towers. But tonight, unlike other nights, it was excluded from partaking of anything inside the castle--the most it could be was a pale spectator pressing its face with ghostly eagerness against the windowpanes. For it was Christmas, and warm golden firelight gleamed off polished stone and sturdy mahogany, and students glancing quickly at a window saw only their own faces reflected back at them in the glass, their features as clear as day. So the moonlight settled for curling itself into every nook and crevasse in the castle walls, and there, resting round about Gryffindor Tower, it might have caught the slightest hint of laughter, a gasp of wonder, the muffled bark of a dog. This was a night of transformation. Pushing with an insistent invisibility against the glass it might just have been able to discern the swift silent melting itself--quick as a blink yet far more fluid as lines blurred and re-formed like ripples on a lake: a dog, a stag, two boys (but what else is there to call them) riding on the crest of their youth; and keeping silent in that magical moment just after they had resumed their human form, the night might have heard one boy tell the other--in that half-conscious, transitive state between animal and man--that he was beautiful: a robust admiration for the animal, and meaning, perhaps, nothing more.

*

Through the dark tunnel of the years, then, and out into the watery sunlight. These past years have been years made harsh by deaths and absences, and Remus thinks it surprising that he is not more hardened than he is--but then again perhaps it is not in his nature to be so, and perhaps he never could have been jealous even if he'd tried. The light, long weary of the day, has shuttered its rays off behind windows that will no longer open; this is the time when ships return to harbour from distant wars in foreign lands, and the great beam of the lighthouse begins its slow, saving arc across the black and treacherous waters.

But what if the lighthouse fails--what, then, happens to the ships? He is confused, now, Remus knows; he is melding past and present and even the future is tumbling into this funnel to which he sees no happy ending. One might look to the stars for guidance, he supposes--but he is looking out of the window and tonight they are invisible, and it is because of that that the desperate ache of loss has returned to haunt him. He remembers Sirius, always looking out of windows, as if he sought something he had lost beyond the distant rim of the horizon; and James, whom one inevitably watched out of windows, distant and idealised and heart-achingly beautiful. Funny, their confused and overlapping impressions of each other.

But the tide of memory rushes on, pulled by the waxing moon. Remus remembers a time before Hogwarts, those happy childhood years in Plymouth that were irrevocably destroyed when the war came and cities burned. Suddenly, at last, the words of the lullaby come back to him--but now they are anchored to sleep, and slumber a-lee.

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