Title: "An Exercise In The Second Person"
Rating: R
Pairings: James/Remus/Sirius, Remus/Sirius, unrequited Sirius/James
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. For a full disclaimer, visit my user info. Thankyou, drive through.
Word Count: 2198
A/N: Written for orlanstamos for the Drabble Remix Challenge. You can see the original drabble here.
Many thanks to darkasphodel and stick_around for putting up with me. I get crazy when I write.


1.

The light hurts your eyes as you emerge from the hollow at the base of the Whomping Willow. The sun is just edging over the horizon, rays tinting everything a white-gold, and the sheen on Remus’ hair in front of you makes you ache to touch it. You don’t, of course, because that would be Very Bad. Peter lags behind, feet dragging as he moans about the Potions exam you sat yesterday.

“Three more days,” James says gleefully. “Three days, and we’re out of here forever.” He cocks his head to the side thoughtfully, and you know, you can see his thoughts as though they were looping across the sky, clear as a gold ribbon in red hair.

Remus sighs, a sigh full of relief and regret and pain twisted together so you can’t tell where the sigh ends and where Remus begins.

“Was it too much to hope for that we could have been finished with this childish behaviour?” he asks, but his tone is light and you can almost feel the love behind his words.

The glint of James’ smile in the fresh day is answer enough.

2.

Moonlight outlines each of the bars in silver, pooling in squares on the chilly floor. You shift, manacles chiming softly as they strike against each other, and you wonder how it ever came to this.

Your hair straggles into your eyes, greasy and matted, and you snigger softly to yourself. Sirius Black. Grubby, clearly mad, and in chains.

The figure outlined by the moonlight makes your breath catch. James.

When it speaks, though, your heart sinks into an unbearable darkness. Harry.

3.

Train journeys make you ill, and you are not looking forward to this one. The platform is crowded, noisy. Your whirling gaze cannot find a steady place to settle on, and you spin, knowing already you will arrive at Hogwarts with the scent of vomit on your robes.

Your parents do not say goodbye, and you do not cry. Blacks do not show weakness. Dust might get into your eyes, irritating the sensitive membranes, but you do not cry. The window in the empty compartment is cold as you press your forehead against it. Through the smudgy glass, you can see other children, bright and eager, robes fresh and pressed crisp.

Shuffling of feet at the door makes you look up, brushing defiantly at your eyes. A lanky boy stands there, sandy brown hair rumpled, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Awkward silence permeates the air, intensifying as he steps into the compartment, sliding the door closed and shoving his luggage onto the rack.

Pointedly, you turn back to the window, surveying the tearful farewells on the platform.

The boy sits opposite you, retrieving a book from a pocket of his patched cloak. Shielding Magic: Everything you always wanted to know, but were afraid to ask, and you shrug, uninterested.

The door slides open again, a boy with glasses and black hair striding in. He ignores the tense atmosphere, sticking his hand under your nose. “James Potter,” he says. “First year. Soon to be Gryffindor.” At least someone is confident, you think bitterly. You’d be happy as long you weren’t sorted into Hufflepuff.

You ignore his hand.

Behind James, you realise, is a shorter, plumper boy. He seems to be trying to imitate James’ stride. Unfortunately, he doesn’t notice James has stopped walking, and slams into him, nose colliding with shoulderblade and resulting in an audible crunch sound.

The two new boys flop onto the seats next to the other boy, and you return to your study of the platform.

4.

Stars gleam in the deep night, reflect in Remus’ eyes. The air is cool, here on the roof, and you don’t want to move.

He prods you with a sharp elbow, and you realise he’s waiting for an answer. “What?”

“Come on, Sirius. Five common uses for ginger. I know that you know this,” he encourages, his voice husky, dark like grated chocolate and chopped ginger.

You sigh, stretching your feet down. “Well, I know we used it in that Pepper-Up potion. So that’s one.”

Remus nods encouragingly beside you. His hair flops into his eyes, and you want nothing more than to reach up and push it back, imagining how the strands will feel under your fingers. Wind them around your knuckles, pulling gently, fingers pale in Remus’ hair.

You swallow dryly, realising your voice has abruptly trailed off. “I, erm, sorry,” you stammer hastily. “Got lost in, uhm,” you want to say, your eyes, but part of you realises how absolutely corny that is, and chokes the words at the back of your throat.

5.

Wind ruffles the surface of the lake, tousling through James’ hair and flipping the pages of Remus’ book.

6.

The four of you barely fit behind the statue opposite the Slytherin common room. James pushes you in the ribs, as Remus rests a long-fingered hand on the nape of your neck. A tingle runs through you, and you close your eyes, uncaring of the Slytherins dashing madly out of their common room, swatting at the miscellaneous bats flying from underneath their clothing.

Peter stands to one side, arms folded. He is frowning, and you realise absent-mindedly that he hasn’t smiled in a long time. Not since his mother died, your brain supplies, unasked, and you bat the thought away, as Remus’ hand moves slightly downward and lingers, heat radiating through your spine.

As the last of the Slytherins pour, still shrieking, into the corridor, you grin at each other. Remus still looks slightly tired, and you catch your lower lip between your teeth, worrying. He notices your stare, shrugging irritably.

“Don’t go borrowing trouble, Sirius. I’m fine.”

7.

You can taste your heart caught between your teeth, a mixture of coppery warmth and yielding muscle.

James doesn’t seem to notice though, firing hexes in the direction of the Death Eaters as you wait with the portkey in the dim shadows.

8.

His eyelashes lie in dark sweeps across the pallor of his skin. The air is chilly, nipping at your nose and unprotected fingers. Stars spatter in icy swirls across the sky, and the smell of charred wood fills your nose.

The bilious green Dark Mark fills your vision, blurring in and out of focus as you fall to your knees.

Tears run off your nose, dripping onto his unmarked clothes. You wipe them away. Blacks don’t cry.

As you howl out your frustration to the frozen night, holding him close, the lingering warmth elusive, part of you dies with him.

9.

Faint strains of laughter drift through the halls from the Gryffindor common room. It’s a Saturday night, and the Quidditch team has beaten Hufflepuff. The celebrations are becoming raucous as the night stretches on.

The Fat Lady is entertaining a guest, a weather-beaten old witch with piercing blue eyes and straggly hair as Remus tugs you out of the portrait hole.

“Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin,” she says, peering narrowly at you both. “What are you two doing, going out so late? Not off to play any pranks on those poor Hufflepuffs, I hope. They’ve got enough to cope with.” She prods the elderly witch with one well-fleshed elbow. “We beat them today, you know.”

The other witch nods in agreement. “I heard that Hufflepuff Seeker broke his jaw,” she replies in a gossipy tone. Remus closes his fingers around your forearm and pulls you slowly backwards as the Fat Lady and her friend return to their conversation, unaware that you are slipping down the corridor.

You open your mouth, but Remus clamps a hand over it. “Shhh,” he hisses. “Not yet.”

The moonlight lies in silver stripes across the cold floor, eddying around the base of the statues.

“Moony, what are we doing?” you mutter, from between clenched teeth.

Remus doesn’t reply, glancing quickly at you, before continuing down the hallway, passing into shadows. You hiss a breath out in exasperation, and pad after him. The floor is cold, the smoothness beneath your feet making you wonder how many other people have walked this way, and if all of them were following someone as pigheaded as Remus Lupin.

10.

Peter pokes you in the ribs, and you look up. “What?” you say, not bothering to hide your exasperation.

He looks awkward, cocking his head to one side. “Uhm, Remus asked me to come get you. The –“ he breaks off, glancing around furtively. You sigh, pushing the books aside.

“It’s okay, Peter, I’m coming.”

As you follow him out of the common room, you roll your eyes resignedly.

You haven’t even made it ten feet past the portrait hole when Peter pins you against the wall, pouncing for your mouth, his tongue, unpleasantly furred and slick sliding into your mouth.

You shudder, pushing him off, registering the hurt in his eyes. The disgust must be evident on your face, and you don’t say anything.

“I hear you all the time, at night,” he says sullenly, following you as you stalk towards the library. “Thought you liked it.”

11.

The slight bundle is warm in your arms, and you think James is going to burst from pride. Lily smiles tiredly from the sofa, and as a tiny fist waves, and green eyes wander vaguely, you cannot hold onto your vague wish that things had not turned out like this.

12.

Shelves dig into your back uncomfortably, but Remus is on his knees in front of you, lips and teeth and tongue in one hot slide down your cock. The sounds spilling from your mouth are unintelligible, and Remus catches your eyes with his own.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

13.

You see the whole of the moon.

Yelping excitedly, you dash around the feet of the stag. There are so many exciting smells and stories, and you want to follow them all.

The wolf nudges you, and abashed, you roll onto your back, showing him your belly.

The night stretches before you, filled with promise.

Loping beside you, the wolf turns his head in a savage grin, and you race each other into the dark.

14.

In the parlour, your mother is screaming again. The fury in her voice is evident as you turn and leave, snatching your wand from the hall rack and apparating.

You don’t care where you go, and when you end up on a rock overlooking a sheltered bay, you wrap your arms around your knees. The air is light; the sunwarmed rock beneath you is not warming your chilled body from the outside in. The chill radiates from the inside out, echoing “disowned… dishonourable… disgrace…” in your ears, and your eyes squint shut to ward them away.

You tilt your face to the sun. The air smells salty, tinged with freedom.

Light dances off the waves, and you feel weightless.

Free.

15.

“Five points from Gryffindor for indecent acts in the halls.” James’ voice echoes in the corridor, sardonic.

Tucked into the alcove behind the statue of Mafalda the Magnificent, Remus lifts his mouth from yours. Flushed red, his lips are swollen and kiss-bruised and there is nothing you want more at this moment than to have those rosy lips on your cock.

His deft fingers move to your belt, unbuckling it, and behind him, you see James, one eyebrow lifted, arms folded. Swallowing dryly, you force the words past the lump in your throat.

“James is no fun anymore. You’d think he’d be a brilliant Head Boy, he’s had loads of practice.” You try to quirk an eyebrow lightheartedly, but fail miserably as Remus’ hands still at your fly and the dull clink of your belt buckle hitting the stone flagstones echoes through your head.

James growls, the sound coming from deep in his throat, and he pushes you both deep into the alcove, mouth hotsuckingdeep on your neck, sparks bursting behind your eyes as your head collides with the wall.

16.

Regulus spits on you, your final day of school. You watch the saliva slide over the polished surface of your shoe towards the ground, looking up to see the smirk spread across his features.

Calmly, you leave the line of final year students waiting to enter the Great Hall.

Slowly, you draw your arm back.

Detached, you watch from somewhere else as your fist collides with Regulus’ jaw, the three teeth and spray of blood spilling across the floor in slow motion.

17.

Above you, the yellow balloon bobs cheerfully, like your own private sun, and you bask in its warmth. The ribbon is tied around your wrist, grubby where you dropped some ice cream on it.

Regulus’ hand is warm in yours. He has a green balloon, and ice cream smeared around his mouth.

Carefully, you wipe it off. Mama doesn’t like her boys to be dirty.

18.

The last thing that passes through your mind as the filmy threads drift around you, billowing outwards is not, “Shit,” or “James, I’m coming,” or “Harry!” or any one of a million things that may have passed through your mind, but a simple exclamation.

Oh.