Chapter Text
I learn early that loving Remus Lupin is a quiet thing.
Not soft- quiet.
There’s a difference.
Quiet is the way you don’t say his name when it’s already in the room. Quiet is learning the sound of his footsteps without looking up. Quiet is memorizing the shape of his mouth when he’s about to argue and pretending you didn’t notice.
Quiet is survival.
I’m eleven when I realize my family is wrong. I’m twelve when I realize I’ll never be like them. I’m thirteen when I run away and realize James Potter is my brother in every way that matters. And I’m fourteen when I realize that Remus Lupin looks at the world like it might bite him if he isn’t careful.
That’s the one that sticks.
Fourth year. We’re sprawled across the common room floor, parchment everywhere, James loudly cheating off Peter, me pretending not to care. Remus is sitting against the couch, knees drawn up, book balanced precariously on one leg. He always looks like he’s bracing himself- like the floor might give out.
“Moony,” I say, because I say it always, because I like the way his shoulders twitch before he looks up. “You’re scowling again.”
“I am not.”
“You are. It’s that face. Like you’re arguing with the page.”
“I am arguing with the page.”
I grin. “Page winning?”
He snorts despite himself. “Unfortunately.”
That’s the thing about Remus; you have to earn his smiles. They don’t come free like James’s laughter or Peter’s eager grins. They’re measured. Careful. Like he’s learned not to waste them.
I want to waste mine on him.
I don’t know when it happens exactly, when admiration becomes something heavier, something sharper. There’s no lightning strike, no grand realization. It’s a slow accumulation. The way his hands shake when he thinks no one’s watching. The way he never complains, not really. The way he says my name like he’s weighing it.
“Sirius,” he’ll say, softly, when I’m being too much.
And I’ll stop.
For him, I’ll stop.
That should have been my first clue.
By fifth year, the secret is no longer just mine.
James figures it out first. He always does. He’s infuriating like that- emotionally perceptive in a way that makes me want to hex him and hug him in equal measure.
He corners me after a Quidditch match, hair still windblown, face flushed with victory.
“You’re in love with Moony.”
I laugh, loud and careless. “Don’t be stupid.”
He doesn’t laugh back.
“Sirius.”
“I said don’t be stupid.”
“You look at him like he’s…” James falters, searching. “Like he’s the only real thing in the room.”
Something cold settles in my gut.
“Keep your voice down,” I snap.
James studies me. “You know he won’t-”
“I know,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to. “I know.”
Because that’s the other thing about loving Remus Lupin: you don’t get to pretend it’s easy. He’s a thousand rules wrapped in a threadbare cardigan. He’s scars and silences and secrets I don’t have the right to ask for.
He’s off-limits in ways that have nothing to do with wanting.
And I’m Sirius Black. Heir to a legacy of cruelty. Reckless. Loud. Too much. Everything he is not.
So I do what I do best.
I bury it.
I flirt with everyone else. I laugh too loud. I let the whole school think I’m shallow and unbreakable and incapable of loving anything properly. I become exactly what’s expected of me- because expectations are easier to manage than hope.
At night, though, when the dorm is quiet and James is already snoring, I stare at the ceiling and think about Remus’s hands.
They’re scarred. Did you know that? Little white lines along his knuckles, like the ghost of old injuries. I noticed once when he handed me a book, our fingers brushing for half a second too long.
He’d flinched.
I’d never forgiven myself.
The night everything changes, it’s raining.
We’re sneaking back from the Shrieking Shack- the four of us soaked to the bone, laughing too hard, adrenaline still buzzing. Remus is pale, exhausted, leaning heavier than usual against James’s shoulder.
“You okay, Moony?” I ask, quieter than the others.
He nods. “Just tired.”
He always says that.
In the corridor, James and Peter peel off first. It’s just us by the stairs, the torches flickering low. For a moment, neither of us moves.
“Thank you,” Remus says.
“For what?”
“For… staying.”
My chest tightens.
“Always,” I say, before I can stop myself.
He looks at me then -really looks- and for one dangerous second, the quiet breaks. Something unspoken presses between us, thick and electric.
I want to reach for him.
I don’t.
Because loving Remus Lupin is a quiet thing.
And if I ever say it out loud, I might lose him entirely.
So I grin instead, crooked and familiar. “C’mon, Moony. You’ll be late to bed.”
He smiles: small, real, devastating.
“Goodnight, Sirius.”
I watch him go and feel something settle in my chest like fate.
I don’t know it yet, but this is the beginning.
And the beginning is always the kindest part of the story.