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Peter and Sirius are alone, at Hogwarts, for fifth year Easter Holidays.
Sirius has always spent breaks at the castle, Peter knows, and he thinks he might have a slight idea as to why the older boy stays. Despite this, confrontation has never been his strong suit, no matter what it might be about, and the rest of the Marauders haven’t brought it up, so he’s left it alone for the time being.
Peter usually goes home for breaks, but his mother, his only parent, had fallen ill with a case of pneumonia— nothing life threatening, thankfully— that had caused her to ask him to stay at Hogwarts. His sister is home to care for her, so he’s not concerned.
Regardless of why, exactly, Peter and Sirius are at Hogwarts for Easter Holidays.
It’s a strange sort of dynamic, really. Of all the friendships that construct the Marauders, Sirius-and-Peter have always been the weakest link.
Sirius-and-James are an inseparable duo, brothers in all but blood with the kind of friendship that happens when two people just click. They laugh and they cry, so intertwined, operating on the same wavelength and holding the same strong opinions. Remus-and-Sirius are a whole new kind of close, a heated spark in the way they look at each other, madly in love in a way Peter has never seen before. Maybe he could’ve seen it, if his parents had stayed together longer, his father not left immediately after his birth, but he hasn’t. The closest he’s seen to them are James’ parents, maybe some of his aunts, uncles, his grandparents. James-and-Remus are also incredibly close, orbiting like the celestial bodies they’re so reminiscent of, the sun and moon. They bring each other up in a way Peter didn’t know could be done platonically— that might just be James, though, who has a tendency to do that with everybody.
James-and-Peter are close, too. Peter has always been a follower, and James is a leader in every sense of the word. He’s loud, and happy, and bright, with all of the bold opinions that Peter wishes he could hold onto so unabashedly. James is kind, always pulling Peter along with him, never letting him fall behind, making sure he knows he’s just as wonderful as the rest of them, even if he gets the least attention from others and the lowest grades. Peter has even taken to believing him, for whatever that’s worth.
Then, of course, Remus-and-Peter. Remus is quiet and thoughtful, much more like Peter, himself, but has a sharp wittiness that’s distinct from everyone else. The werewolf is nice, perfectly fine with sitting with Peter in the library and dorm, teaching him all of the things he didn’t quite understand in lessons. He’s supportive, not quite the boisterousness of James, but wonderful in his own right. He’s the only other painfully insecure Marauder, so he and Peter had some common ground in that regard, and the small smiles Remus sends him whenever he can tell he’s upset are surprisingly helpful.
Peter-and-Sirius, though, have never been a thing like that. They get along really well, of course, they simply never get the chance to hang out alone. Because of that, this whole experience has been a bit awkward. Not painfully so, but a little.
And now, a few days into the holiday, an about an hour after dinner, Peter can’t find Sirius.
It’s getting dark, the sun dragging reds and yellows and purples down to the horizon, with it. Stars are beginning to creep into the sky, clouds blotting them out in some places. It’s quite a clear night, from what Peter can see out the arching windows of Hogwarts. That’s refreshing, as, so far, April has been gloomy and full of rain. Peter, while not much of an outside person, has always loved warmer, sunnier weather. James does, too. Sirius, he thinks, agrees with them. Remus is the only one of them that prefers a slight drizzle, maybe some clouds, so he can stay inside, bundled up in front of the fire with some books and a mug of tea.
It all ends with nearly an hour of wandering the castle, checking of all the spots Peter knows Sirius frequents; the Room of Requirement, the kitchens, all the nooks and crannies of the school, McGonagall’s office (why he spends so much time there, no one is quite sure, but he does), the quidditch pitch. Peter even popped into some of the less common places he’s been found, like the library, the Hospital Wing, the Shrieking Shack, Honeyduke’s cellar, the girl’s side of the dormitory.
Eventually, when his feet hurt and his thighs were sore from all the staircases, Peter realized how stupid he had been. They have something for this. Maybe it wasn’t designed for situations explicitly like this one, but utilizing the Marauder’s Map is probably a solution he should’ve thought of far earlier than has.
Either way, upon opening it up, he quickly locates Sirius’ name. The Astronomy Tower. Peter nearly facepalms. He should’ve checked there. Sirius, as his name may infer, loves the stars, and goes to visit them whenever he has spare time. Finding him in the Tower is far from an uncommon occurrence, it should’ve been one of the first places Peter had looked upon finding that Sirius had vanished.
The absurd amount of stairs made Peter question his loyalty, but he ends up making it to the top, only to find… no one. Sirius isn’t there. The large space, covered in star-charts, and moon-calendars, and telescopes, is completely devoid of either an heir to the House of Black or a ginormous black-bear of a dog.
Peter goes to turn around, but remembers a practice he’s never seen, personally, but has been told about by both Remus and James. He takes a few hesitant steps into the open room, looking at the large, open windows around the room— windows that have no glass in their holes. They’re plenty large enough to be climbed through, and the massive, ornate framing would work as effective footholds, especially for someone as physically fit as the boy Peter is looking for. Hell, they’d probably be easy enough to climb for Peter, who despises exercise.
Still, though, Peter doesn’t want to do that unless he knows he has to. It’d be a long drop if he were to fall, and he’s nowhere near as quick with a wand as his friends are. Falling, as unlikely as it seems to be, would be a death sentence.
“Padfoot?” he calls. After a few beats of silence, Peter walks closer to the sill. “Sirius?” He tries again, leaning out the window as he does. He listens closely, not hearing anything, not even breathing. That doesn’t say much, though, because the wind is loud enough to drown out even Peter’s own breaths.
So, he pulls out the Map. Sure enough, Sirius’ name dances right atop of his own. He is here, Peter thinks, he’s just ignoring me, for some reason. That’s out of character; the animagus is incredibly social and never ignores anyone, let alone one of his closest friends. That’s… concerning. Especially because the most common reason Sirius ignores people is him being less than sober.
Sirius drinks far too much for as long as Peter has known he’s drank. From the very first party they’d gone to, to the last time Peter saw him holding a bottle, he’d gotten too intoxicated to be considered healthy. He also drinks too often— more often than anyone else Peter knows, and in ways people wouldn’t expect. Firewhiskey slipped into his drinks at dinner; a flask hiding in his pocket, under his robes; bottles in the bottom of his trunk. It’s a problem, that much is obvious, but Peter is hesitant to call him an addict. That feels like too heavy a label for something he doesn’t know much about.
“Padfoot, I’m coming up there!” Peter yells out the window. He pulls himself onto the sill, then turns to his animagus form. A rat will find it easier to clamber up the frame than a human, he’s sure.
Digging his little claws into the wood, he skitters up the carved details until he can get onto one of the many trusses along the brick exterior. He climbs the diagonal beam with ease, then squirms through one of the gaps in the drainage system between the thick ledge at the end of the roof and the shingles, themselves. The roof here isn’t steep, and the ledge offers plenty of space to balance his feet, so Peter isn’t particularly concerned about falling off, at this point.
He turns back and looks up for Sirius, then down.
Sirius is lying on his back, looking up at the sky as it darkens, presumably watching the stars come out, seeing as he enjoys them so much. Clutched in his right hand is a bottle— more firewhiskey, Peter recognizes, and that’s concerning. Really, how does he expect to get back down when he’s drunk? Sirius’ massive combat boots are firmly planted on the ledge, and his uniform is only halfway put together, but that’s pretty normal. Tie undone, cloak and vest gone with the wind, wearing those boots and a studded belt instead of the school-mandated ones most others wear. Thankfully, the teachers have stopped dress-coding him for that, they’ve probably gotten used to it.
“Sirius?” Peter tries again, quieter, this time. Sirius doesn’t move or visibly acknowledge that he was addressed, but his fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle in his hand.
After a beat of silence, he speaks. “Hi, Wormtail,” he says. His voice an octave is lower than usual, which is saying something, as he does have a very deep voice. “You gonna lay with me?” Sirius asks, finally rolling over to see him. Their eyes meet, and Peter has to wonder what he’s been thinking about, up here, all alone, because his eyes are just a little bit damp, and his long, curled eyelashes are clumped together at the base.
“Yeah, ‘course,” Peter says, sliding down until his sneakers meet the ledge, next to Sirius’ boots, and rests his head on the roof. Due to Sirius being exceptionally tall and Peter being exceptionally short, his head only comes to a little over the other boy’s broad shoulder. After looking up, at the stars, for just a moment, Peter asks. “What’re you thinking about, Pads?”
“D’you know how to read the stars, Wormy?” Sirius asks instead of answering him. Peter doesn’t bother trying to bring him back to the original question. Doing that makes about as much sense as herding cats. Sirius has always been independent, and, if he doesn’t want to answer something, he’s not going to. He’s slippery and surprisingly illusive, good at derailing conversations without making it obvious. Peter knows he can’t press it, that’ll only make Sirius less willing to share his problems.
“No, I don’t,” Peter tells him, looking up at the specks in the sky, trying to make sense of any of it. He’s sure Sirius is seeing the pictures people far in the past saw in them, but Peter can’t figure it out. That one might be a cat, he thinks. Is there a cat constellation? That might be a good conversation starter. “Is there a constellation in the shape of a cat?”
“Yeah,” Sirius says. “There’s a cat; Felis, two lions; Leo Major and Minor, and a lynx; Lynx. Four of ‘em,” he points at the sky. “That one,” he says, as though Peter will he able to follow his finger and find the mystery constellation when Sirius didn’t even tell him which one he’d spotted. Peter can hear the alcohol influencing his tone.
“Oh, that’s pretty cool,” Peter speaks mostly so that they won’t fall into a void of awkward silence. “How many dog constellations are there?” he hopes this isn’t too lame a chat to be having. He doesn’t want to bore Sirius out of his mind.
“Three. Canis Major— mine— and Canis Minor, those are Orion’s dogs. There’s also Canes Venaciti, the hunting dogs,” Sirius explains. His voice sounds odd, hitching in a way Peter doesn’t expect of him when he refers to the Canis constellations as belonging to Orion. He sounds oddly distressed, for whatever reason. Sirius never sounds distressed, never, which just makes this weirder for Peter.
“That’s your middle name, isn’t it? Orion?” Peter chuckles at the irony of Sirius’ middle name, supposedly, being the name of the man that owns his constellation. He wonders if anyone in Sirius’ family was named after that certain star cluster. That would be funny, he thinks. The idea of anyone owning Sirius, in and of itself, is hilarious to him. Sirius can’t be owned, he’s sure. Sirius is a feisty thing; he bites when he’s cornered and fights when he’s pressed. He’s the spitfire, the one who stands up for the rest of them whenever they’re in trouble, especially when it comes to Remus and Peter, who struggle with confrontation.
“Yeah…” Sirius says quietly. “It’s… it’s my father’s name,” he admitted, like it was some heavy weight off his shoulders, some massive thing he put out there that would change everything. Peter doesn’t understand what about his middle name being his father’s name is so big to him, but, clearly, it’s very important to him. Maybe it’s the concept of his father owning him?
“Oh, I see,” Peter says. He doesn’t know what else to tell him, when he’s so obviously moved by something.
They lapse into silence for a while. Peter continues watching the stars, bright suns of different solar systems. He wonders if any of the planets circling them hold any life. It’s a musing he’s revisited a handful of times, when the night sky was the only thing around him, and he’s thought, in depth, about what life on other planets could be like. Maybe it’s escapism, maybe it’s a way to kill boredom. Whatever it is, he enjoys it.
The last dregs of the sun are starting to fall below the tree line, now. There’s just a light orange haze where it used to be, and a sliver of bright yellow shining right over the branches. The sounds of the night are becoming louder, now. Chirping of crickets, owls hooting, Peter even hears a few howls of whatever canines are in the brambles. It’s comfortable.
Peter can’t remember the last time he held a comfortable silence with Sirius. Usually, they’re not that kind of friends. Sirius is loud and talkative by nature, and Peter instinctively falls into whatever role meshes with the person he’s near the best. Around Sirius, that role tends to be one of a follower whom he can bounce ideas and jokes with. This new position, that of a quiet confidant, isn’t something he fully understands, but he’s willing to try, for the sake of Sirius.
“Hey, Peter?” Sirius speaks up after about two minutes of silence.
“Hm?” Peter hums in response.
Sirius, before continuing, sits up to take a long swig of his firewhiskey, glaring at the bottle for just a moment. He lays back down, then, sighing dejectedly. He sighs like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He sighs like no sixteen year old should be sighing. Peter is suddenly very, very worried about whatever topic is about to be broached.
“Y’know how I’m the least favourite in the House of Black?” he asks rhetorically, gesturing grandly at the vast darkness above them. Peter nods, realizing too late that Sirius can’t see him, but that doesn’t deter the older animagus. “Well, d’you know I’m also the Family’s favourite?” Sirius tells him, turning to look at Peter. He’s grinning, a twisted little smile that Peter is completely unfamiliar with. It’s scary, but not in a way that makes Peter afraid for his safety. He looks hurt, like he’s thinking about something awful and terrifying, but doesn’t want to properly express it, for some reason.
“How’s that work?” Peter asks, eyebrows drawing together. In what ways he could be both the favourite and least favourite, Peter isn’t totally sure, but, whatever it is, it doesn’t seem pleasant. If it’s enough to have made Sirius cry, he’s quite sure it’s horribly distressing, but, if he needed any more proof, there it is.
Sirius looks back at the stars. “I’m the only real heir, in the Family’s opinion. Reggie’s trans, so he can’t be the heir, in their shitty-ass opinions. I’ve got eight— no, nine older cousins, and only three of ‘em are boys, but all of them have mums from the House of Black, dads from other families, so they can’t be heirs, ‘cause they’re not real Blacks, whatever that means,” he explains, voice shaky and hesitant, but he sounds determined. “Point being, it took a long time to get an heir, an’ not there’s only one. That’s why I’m not disowned, even though I’m a Gryffindor and all that shit. Anyways, since I’m the heir, I’m… I’m special. Very special. They want me to be something I’m not, you know? And, since I’m so special, there’s things they like doing. Lots’a things,” Sirius swallows, sitting up to take another couple of long swigs from the bottle.
Peter doesn’t like where this is going. Whatever things the Nobel and Most Ancient House of Black has been doing to Sirius, Peter can already tell, will make him physically ill. He wonders if he’ll be able to help him.
“They like to fuck me.”
Oh.
Oh, Peter isn’t prepared for that. He doesn’t know how to help with that issue. That’s well beyond his capabilities. Sirius being… well, by the sounds of it, sexually abused by his family isn’t something he knows how to respond to the information of, internally or externally.
Thankfully, Sirius doesn’t seem keen on pausing, content to simply rant.
“They like fucking me. It started with Orion and Walburga— my parents, my grandparents, aunts and uncles, right? Then my cousins got involved, the older ones. Hell, even some of my littler ones do it. Every time we have family gatherings, I’m the centre of attention,” Sirius laughs wetly, and Peter thinks he’s crying. Sirius takes another long sip, not bothering to lay back down. “Get passed around between all the family members, fucked by everyone, fuck everyone, on my knees, an’ back, an’ bent over the table, or couch, or counters, wherever they want me. Sit on the couch with my own fucking cousin, aunt, mother in my lap. Get dragged up to someone’s room— doesn’t matter whose, sometimes it’s mine, sometimes it’s someone else’s. Take it up the ass from my grandfather, or my uncle, or my father,” he stares up at the stars as he speaks. Peter thinks Sirius is more intoxicated than he originally assumed him to be.
Sirius had tears streaming down his face, that twisted smile from earlier still smattered on his face, but bigger, this time. His knuckles turn white from how tightly he’s gripping the bottle. He drinks again. Peter knows he should stop him, make him put the bottle down, but speaking has become impossible. He sits up next to his friend, watching him cautiously.
“Shit hurts, y’know that?” Sirius speaks without a care. “Wake up with my arse on fire and everything hurting so bad. Stumble around the house, barely able to walk, ‘cause it hurts too bad, ‘cause I was getting bent over every bit of furniture in the damn house all day the days before. Then I run into someone— probably Orion, he likes it the most outta everyone in that house— and get fucked again. They’re all mean, too, they like it rough and they like me bloody. Stupid,” he scoffs like he’s not crying his eyes out.
Peter doesn’t say anything. What could he say to that?
“I can count on one hand how many people in the Family have never fucked me,” Sirius laughs again, drinking again and then holding up his hand to hold up his fingers in turn. “Reggie, Andy, Narcissa, an’ Uncle Alphard. The four of ‘em. The rest… the rest do whatever they want to me. Those ones, they’ve never even beaten me, can you believe?” Sirius looks at Peter, then, like he’s just said something exceptional. Can he believe that only four people in Sirius’ family have never beaten him? No, he can’t, but he doesn’t think he’s in disbelief for the same reason Sirius is. “Yeah, me neither.”
That night, Peter herds Sirius into the dorm, worriedly supporting him and helping him walk, because of all his stumbling. He willingly gets the firewhiskey from the older boy’s trunk and duplicates it for him, so he won’t have to do magic while so drunk. He allows Sirius to drink what he knows is far too much, but he can’t find the words to deny him anything, tonight, not after everything he’s been told. He helps Sirius change into pyjamas and tucks him into bed when he’s well past blacked out.
Peter watches Sirius sleep, uncharacteristically softly snoring due to his intoxication. The Black’s favourite, he thinks to himself.