Chapter Text
“Do you hear me, Sirius? Speak up.”
“Yes, Mother,” Sirius drawled, lazily draped over the chaise longue in his summer lounge, holding his glass aloft. His mother’s spiteful silhouette eclipsed the dim autumn haze, casting a severe gloom over the usually bright room. She grimaced down her nose at the withering foliage of the walled garden below and swirled a crystal glass of sherry under her nose, looking like she was swilling bile as she drank. Sirius knew that was simply her natural expression in his company.
“Sit up straight.”
“Yes, Mother.” Sirius shifted slightly, propping up on his elbow.
“That’s settled then. You will accompany Lady Cecilia to the Malfoys’ ruby anniversary.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“You will need a new suit.”
“What?” Sirius glanced up irritably, “What’s wrong with all my other suits, Mother?”
“They’re foul and unsightly,” the Black kettle said of Sirius’ pots. “We do not need people speculating that the House of Black has fallen so far that you must resort to parading around in threadbare castoffs. You are enough of a disgrace with that vulgar makeup and those garish rings you insist on wearing.”
“Mother, not a single one of my suits has so much as a hole.”
“They are inadequate and you must look your best,” Sirius, knowing what was coming next, mimed along, “You are the face of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and must present yourself as such at all times.”
Walburga caught him in her periphery, turning to narrow her eyes in a familiar threat. Sirius abruptly sat up and clamped his mouth shut, no more immune to Walburga’s intimidation than he had been as a child, even in his feigned nonchalance.
“This little party that the Malfoys are throwing is no different,” she continued, “even if it is beneath us. It will be your first public appearance since your father’s demise-”
“Grieving widows say ‘passing’, Mother.”
“Do not interrupt. It will be your first public appearance, and you must in every way uphold the name of Lord Black. Those vile upstarts may think us weak, may think it an opportunity to extend their influence, and you must disabuse them of any such notions. You will be nothing less than perfect, Sirius. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Mother.” Having accomplished her objective, never one to prolong her time with Sirius any longer than necessary, Walburga rested her empty glass on the windowsill and turned to leave.
As she disappeared down the corridor, Sirius simply watched the light break off the empty glass and scatter about the room in splinters, standing like a vestige of his mother’s presence left to taunt him. She was almost at the door, before Sirius followed to see her safely out of his house. Or rather, his current residence, the Black family estate in Staffordshire, occupied per tradition by the family heir. By rights, Sirius should have taken over his parent’s estate once his father died, but that would mean living with his mother again. Much to Sirius’ relief, they had shared a rare moment of agreement when it was decided that he would remain in Godric Hall for the time being. Despite its dreary corridors, and the crumbling façade that was still blackened from a fire that had almost entirely destroyed it over two centuries ago, Godric Hall was a haven for Sirius. A wide expanse of neatly cropped gardens that stretched into fields of land, which in turn, stretched out into the western hills of England. Behind its black doors and the towering gate at the end of the seemingly endless driveway, Sirius had made a sanctuary of the ancient furnishings and dusty tomes that he never touched, but whose musty smell soothed him. Nothing like the suffocating cold, grey rooms of Grimmauld House, Godric Hall was the place where Sirius had first learned to breathe. Though the oppressive weight of that Noble and Most Ancient birthright still clawed at his throat with every breath, the empty shadows of Godric Hall were a shelter of respite. Or at least they would be once Walburga finally left.
Sirius sighed, running a hand unconsciously through his hair, only to wince when it was slapped away. “Sirius, you are not a beggar, keep your hands away from your face.”
“It’s my hair,” he muttered.
“What was that? Don’t mumble-”
“I said have a safe journey, Mother.” He smiled forcefully as he draped her cloak over her shoulders, using its surface to herd her over the threshold. Just as she was nearly gone Sirius, against his better judgement, stopped her. “Wait, Mother?”
“What is it, Sirius.”
“How’s Regulus?”
“Your brother is well.” She answered curtly, without an attempt at sincerity, turning her back as she left. Regulus had not spoken to him for several years before Orion’s death, and even since then, very little had passed between them. Matters had been mostly handled between Sirius, Walburga, and the litigators – quite the cosy gathering. They had seen each other at the funeral, of course, but on that day the brothers didn’t exchange a word, didn’t commiserate their shared lost, didn’t shed a tear between them. It was clear that Walburga was taking advantage of this rift to curb any negative influence Sirius might have. Watching the witch roll away behind tinted windows of importance, Sirius didn’t allow his thoughts to linger on his increasingly estranged brother any longer. Instead, he turned his thoughts to a different brother (speaking spiritually, if not legally), Lord James Potter.
~~~
James’ Royce appeared in Sirius’ driveway in under an hour, making his journey from the neighbouring county in record time. Wide grin and bottle of champagne in hand, James waltzed straight to the kitchen without waiting for proprieties. Sirius was supposed to let Minerva greet and introduce the guests, before receiving them in the drawing room or parlour, but he really didn’t see the fuss when it was only James. Of course when there was an event or an important visitor the whole retinue of household staff were employed as necessary, but Sirius preferred only a small number of servants to wait on him the rest of the time. He still depended on those few servants to a greater extent, having never learned to cook or clean for himself. Nevertheless, he liked to pretend at some semblance of solitude in his own home.
“I need a new suit.” He said without preamble, pouring them each a heavy-handed glass.
“So? What’s happened to your usual man?”
“Dead.”
“Ouch.” Sirius gave a bitter smile in response. “I’ll give you the details for my tailor. Does a cracking job and he’s not all that stuffy for someone who spends most of their time alone, in the dark, sewing.” James shuddered at the mere thought of such employment.
“You’re too kind, James.”
“Anything for my best chum, eh Black?” Sirius answered with a weak grimace, and James’ face broke into undisguised worry. “How have you been? Haven’t heard much of you since… well, you know.”
“I’m fine, James. Don’t worry about me.”
“Well, I was glad to hear from you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You can call anytime, you know. Doesn’t only have to be at fancy galas or once a year when your mother visits.”
“I said I’m fine, James.” Sirius pursed his lips, placing his glass a little too firmly against the table. “You can stop all that fretting. Honestly, I skipped straight to the acceptance stage of grieving. Orion’s dead and I am the new Lord Black. The bureaucracy was more of a bother than anything.”
James raised an unconvinced eyebrow, resting his free hand on his hip, while he sipped the glass in his other hand. The silence grated more than any of James’ pestering.
“I’m fine!”
“So you’ve said.”
“I’m fine,” Sirius faltered, “I just- I feel… or I don’t know, I want…”
“What do you want, Sirius?” James’ eyes filled with that open concern that Sirius trusted implicitly. Usually it took just one look into those dewy eyes and Sirius was unravelling his deepest secrets before him, but this time nothing came forth. Groaning heavily, he collapsed his head into his hands, taking only small pleasure in running his fingers all over his face against Walburga’s express wishes.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay, Padfoot. I’m here whenever you need.”
“Thanks, Prongs.” Sirius downed his glass in one, before pouring them both a top up, and with a restless sigh forced out the existential despair that had become a perpetual resident of late. “So, will I see you at Malfoys’?”
“But of course, a veritable funfair for two of England’s most eligible gentry.” James grinned widely, happy to take the conversation into easier territory, no doubt intending to ease Sirius’ mind. Sirius, however, gave another groan.
“I’m being made to escort Lady Cecilia.”
“Of Mutton Hill?” James’ nose wrinkled in disgust.
“The very same.”
“Ghastly.”
“Quite.” And he drained another glass.
~~~
The next day found Sirius in a sparse village just across the Welsh border, a little further on from James’ estate in West Shropshire. It was quiet, even for rural Wales, and cloyingly picturesque with its ivy-smattered limewash stone cottages lined with hedgerows and cobbled streets. Walking into Lupin’s Sartorial, Sirius was immediately taken aback by the size of the modest atelier. He’d not been into a tailors in about a decade, since old Klaus had always made the journey to Godric Hall. But from the few memories he had of being dragged by the ear down to Savile Row as a boy, this was comparatively… quaint. It looked a little shabby if he was being honest. Granted, it seemed unlikely that there was much call for business this far from London – there was a strong chance that Lupin’s was surviving entirely off the generous patronage of the Potters – but Sirius had expected at least a semblance of luxury. The suits themselves, at least the ones on display, were of high quality, if a little bland, mostly in tweed, complete with leather elbow patches. Sirius had the distinct impression that, other than James, no one under the age of sixty had ever stepped foot in this shop. The grey carpet was well-worn, and the maroon-papered walls made the dark room feel smaller still, but there was slightly more to the shop than Sirius had allowed, as he noticed a small space at the back containing a workbench strewn with sewing machines and various other tailoring tools. The area was vastly overshadowed by towering shelves overflowing with myriad fabrics, all leading to a wood-panelled wall and the single ancient-looking door at the back. But it felt… Sirius struggled to find the word. All he could think was that, with scraps of cloth scattered over the tables, the mismatched light-fixtures, and stacks of untidily scrawled measurement charts and diagrams (some spilled onto the floor), it looked lived in. ‘Homely’, that was the word. ‘Empty’ was another word that occurred to Sirius, as the bell that had brushed against the door when Sirius entered had apparently gone ignored.
“Hello?” He called, before realising – of course – the tailor was probably some senile old crackpot. Maybe he had his hearing aid off or was indulging a quick forty winks in the back room. Striding to the back of the shop, and rapping loudly at the dark-wooded door, Sirius bellowed, “Hello? I’m here for my appointment.”
The door whipped open to a disgruntled, though not unattractive, face and Sirius found himself temporarily lost in a pair of brown eyes, as dark as the wood of the door through which they peered at him.
“There’s a bell, you know.” Said the man, who was markedly not a senile old crackpot, if his face was anything to go by. He had a few grey flecks of stubble, and his worn expression seemed to age him, but all things considered he could hardly have been older than Sirius. Exhaling a quiet sigh, the mild annoyance gave way to a warmer expression as the young tailor relaxed into what was obviously his customer-friendly façade. Without the lines of irritation, his face was open, his smile easy and bright. Sirius noted now that his mahogany eyes had a playful glint that might intrigue a more impressionable clientele. Not Sirius, of course. “I’ll be right with you. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
And to Sirius’ dismay the man winked, before shutting the door in his face, leaving Sirius to find his own way to the sheltered dressing area. Not that it was difficult to locate. A small platform swarmed by dress stands and stools was barely shielded from the front of the shop by an elaborately carved wooden partition, each of its segments inlaid with a musty full-length mirror. Flinging his jacket over the nearest stool, Sirius felt the urgent need to inspect himself, straightening up his shirt, fiddling with the top button, wondering whether he should leave it undone. He was feeling a little uncomfortable at arriving so underdressed. He had hardly expected to run into anybody at a tailor shop in this remote village and hadn’t much bothered to think about his usual finery and make up, donning his most worn and comfortable grey suit. As for the tailor, well he had been expecting someone not dissimilar to old Klaus, perhaps a decade or two younger, certainly not Sirius’ age. And certainly not with that face.
As a rule, Sirius didn’t pay attention to the people who dressed him. They were insignificant. Tools to measure, make and mend clothes. He paid them well, and treated them politely, of course. But they were pedestrians in the highway that was his life. That was why he was startled when he glanced the appreciative flicker of brown eyes in the mirror’s reflection. No, the way those brown eyes roamed over his body was more than appreciative. They looked hungry. It wasn’t that he minded, nor was he necessarily disinterested – even Sirius appreciated a warm body now and then – but it did seem a tad unprofessional, not to mention presumptuous. Arching an imperious eyebrow, Sirius gave a light cough, training his gaze on those brown eyes in the mirror. The eyes met his and the tailor blushed at having been caught. But rather than being mortified and blustering in profuse apologies (that Sirius would graciously dismiss), he returned a genial grin and clapped his hands together, approaching with his tape measure. Sirius only then noticed the delicate fit of the tailor’s neat blue waistcoat. Even with the striped shirt underneath, Sirius caught himself appreciating the man’s figure. It seemed not to go unnoticed, and a playful smirk danced over the man’s face as he began running the tape along Sirius’ body.
“Apologies, Mr Black-”
“Lord.”
“Sorry?”
“My title. I have a title and it’s not ‘mister’.” Sirius corrected haughtily, doing his utmost to put this servant back in his place, and simultaneously remind himself of his superior station.
“Oh I do apologise, my most honourable liege.” The tailor bit back a smile and gave the slightest of bows with a flourish of his hand – the man was mocking him! “I hope you will forgive my impropriety, but I so rarely get to work with such fine models as yourself. As you see, my usual are rather lifeless in comparison.” He chuckled, the subtle hint of a lilting accent behind his words, as he indicated the headless mannequins, and another wink followed. For the first time in his life, Sirius Black was completely unsure what to expect.
“I’m Remus, by the way. Remus Lupin. No titles necessary.” Despite himself, Sirius snorted and Lupin chewed the corner of his smirk as his eyes remained focused on his work, running quick, skilful fingers over Sirius so that he could barely keep up with what was happening. Sirius decided he needn’t entertain any conversation and allowed Remus to continue his work in silence. Rather than being made uncomfortable by the lack of response, the man seemed happy to continue working around Sirius like he was the prop, nudging arms and legs whenever he needed Sirius to adjust his position, using light, gentle touches that put Sirius at ease. Sirius fell into watching the man, who despite his lack of professional manner, seemed unexpectedly competent. He wore a continuous smile as he worked, but his intense focus was betrayed by the furrow in his eyebrows, undeterred by the honey-brown swathe of hair that fell over his eyes. He kept dragging his bottom lip in with his teeth, the tip of his tongue occasionally popping out at the corner when he stepped back to survey his progress or scribble a new measurement on the clipboard he kept balanced precariously on the shoulder of a dress stand. Tucking his pencil behind his ear, he stepped back and beamed at Sirius, all focus replaced in an instant by that warm smile.
“So, what do you want?” Sirius blinked, blank at the expectant brown eyes in front of him. The question hovered between them. What he wanted… what he wanted… what did Sirius want?
“Pardon me?”
“I was told you needed a new suit?” Remus prompted, raising his eyebrows in amusement.
“Right, yes,” Sirius cleared his throat in a way that he hoped made him seem more commanding than he felt at that moment. Sirius took a moment to ignore Remus – let him wait – and stared himself down in the mirror. It felt unreal, the reflection staring back at him, like there was another Sirius caught in the frame, a Sirius living in the might-have-been of a life that never happened, trapped under glass. Sirius felt a strong urge to break it and when he stared into grey eyes, he didn’t recognise anything he saw swimming in those depths: Not his under-dressed body, free of its satin and lace. Not his face lacking the usual depth of light and shadows he applied heavily whenever he went out in public. Not his exposed fingers, lying useless at his side, only his signet dangling solitary on his little finger. He didn’t recognise this person without all the usual trappings that his socialite lifestyle demanded. He wanted to dress it all up, smother it all in silk and ermine and rubies until nothing was left exposed.
“Lord Black?” an uncertain voice interrupted his thoughts, and Sirius came back into focus catching only the flicker of wrought emotion in his reflection before his stately mask fell back into place.
“Yes, a suit.” Sirius remarked as if there had been no pause, still addressing himself in the mirror. “I expect your finest materials, of course. But I want something more.”
“A three-piece, then. Will you be requiring new shirts as well?”
“Yes, two shirts- no, make it four. But the suit – make it… something.”
“Would you like to be less specific?” Remus scoffed and Sirius’ gaze snapped over to him, satisfied when he seemed to shrink back a little. At last. After all, that was how they were supposed to react; you didn’t ask for respect, you commanded fear – as Mother always said. “Sorry, er, I mean, um, it just doesn’t give me a lot to go on. Do you, um, could you elaborate… please?”
“Were you educated on a farm?” Sirius spouted a flawless imitation of his mother, having spent many years mimicking her until James wheezed with laughter. It came in useful at other times, such as when he needed to invoke his mother’s bearing and assert his own authority. Remus gave a slow shake of his head, clearly bewildered by the question. “Then enough of that ‘um’-ing and ‘er’-ing. You are a human, possessed of human language, are you not?”
“Yes, Lord Black.” Remus mumbled sounding sheepish, if a little taken aback. Something of his earlier mischief had vanished from those brown eyes and Sirius felt an ember of disappointment followed by the creeping guilt that usually followed when he had made a mistake. But no, this was exactly how he should conduct himself in public. This was exactly the impression he should make upon someone whose job it was to serve him. And then, in an overly polite manner that Sirius suspected was a further attempt at mocking him, Remus asked, “May I ask what it’s for?”
“What?”
“The occasion, for your suit.”
“Oh, an anniversary party. Just another dreary public event.” he groaned before he could stop himself, and then steeled himself back into a haughty posture. “Look, this is your expertise; I don’t expect to have to instruct you in your own trade. Just make it special.” Leaning heavily on the last word, something trembled in Sirius’ chest when he saw Remus give the lightest shudder, brown eyes locked on his, before the tailor’s lips curved into a wicked grin entirely too much like he was plotting something.
“Yes, Lord Black.” Then Remus rolled his shirt up to his elbows as he brought over a variety of fabrics and Sirius couldn’t help swallowing as he watched those sinuous forearms move, nimble fingers flicking seamlessly through reams of material. Sirius felt his mouth go dry as Remus brought a thumb up to his lips and gave a soft lick, using the moistened digit to separate a clump of swatches. He thumbed through each one and occasionally held them up against Sirius to check the colours against his tone. Sirius was unsettled for the remainder of the consultation, almost seeing the mischievous cogs whirring behind Remus’ melting gaze. Luckily Remus didn’t seem to notice, each time glancing at Sirius for approval at his choice, each one met with a terse shake of his head. To his own amusement, Sirius noticed that Remus was becoming increasingly agitated at each refusal, despite his earlier smugness. Of course, Sirius kept his stoic expression the entire time, sucking his cheeks between his teeth to stop himself from smirking when he heard the loud huff, as Remus brought over yet another collection of samples. Thinking that he had better end his fun soon, Sirius caught a glimpse of a smooth, dark satin-like material. At first glance it looked black, but under the overhead spotlight, Sirius caught a glimmer of purple.
“Wait.” He ordered. Remus looked up in surprise, clearly not expecting Sirius actually intended to help. “Show me that one. No, the one before.”
Something soft flickered over Remus’ expression as he very briefly seemed to stroke the fabric that Sirius had selected, before holding it up against Sirius. They both stared at the fabric in the mirror, wordless admiration on parted lips.
“Yes, that will do.” Sirius nodded, gathering up his suit jacket in preparation to leave. He must have imagined the trace of disappointment in Remus’ eyes as he did so.
“An excellent choice, Lord Black.” Remus nodded, obsequious in a way that made Sirius’ skin crawl. He hated it, would rather a scoff, or anything else. And yet Remus’ face betrayed something different, as if attempting to goad Sirius into a challenge, as if to force his hand into admitting that he secretly despised all the pomp and circumstance, as if to trick him into giving this nobody the upper hand. Instead, Sirius just answered with his usual sneer, somewhat pleased by the flicker of disappointment in Remus’ reaction.
“If it please you, Lord Black,” the sugared tone of his overly-subservient words continued, and Sirius was now certain he was being teased. “I have an idea of some complimentary fabrics for the inlay and trim. I will need to order in especially though, so if you would like to return in a week or so when they are available to approve..?”
“No, do as you like.” Sirius replied snippily, unwilling to humour the charade any longer.
“Very well. Would you like me to run the costs now, then? It will only take a moment if you’ll-”
“That won’t be necessary. Just send the bill to my estate when it’s ready.”
“But-”
“Mr Lupin, I assure you,” Sirius arched, locking onto Remus with as much coldness as he could convey, “whatever the cost, I will pay it. Just make it a good suit. I trust you can do that much?” Sirius thrilled as he watched Remus’ throat bob with an audible swallow, and then caught Remus’ wide eyes with a smirk.
“I will do my best, Lord Black.” Remus raised a challenging eyebrow, though his cheeks were now a warmer hue.
“Good. I take it my staff gave you the number for any other arrangements?”
“Yes, Lord Black.”
“Then call me when it’s ready.”
“There will need to be fittings before the final suit is complete.”
“Very well. I will see you then.” And without waiting for a response, Sirius stalked out, feeling Remus’ eyes follow him even through the shop window. Sirius, for his part, only now realised that his heart had been racing as it begun to slow to normal pace. He felt his cheeks flush as he chastised himself for allowing himself to be so affected by a simple country tailor.
~~~
“How was it then?” James' dulcet croon floated from the speakers after their previous conversation had died back down to companionable silence.
“How was what?” Sirius replied flatly, flicking through the muted channels on his television from where he lay sidelong on the bed, the phone perched between his chin and chest, its cord running up to the wall behind his headboard.
“The tailors. Lupin.” Sirius froze, the remains of three-day-old guilt crawling back into his throat. After a beat of silence, James prompted, “Well, how was it?”
“Oh yeah, fine. He’s… fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yep.”
“Is that all? His family have been doing suits for my family for centuries. He’s a brilliant tailor, I reckon.”
“Well I haven’t actually seen the suit yet, so maybe I’ll have a more glowing review once it’s done.” Sirius snapped with a bit too much bite.
“Oh, ok then.” James fell silent, apparently unbothered by the harshness of Sirius’ reply.
“Centuries, huh? Guess the current one’s been doing it since he was a kid or something?” Sirius asked – for the sake of making conversation, of course.
“Oh. No, not exactly.” Sirius stayed quiet, waiting for James to elaborate. “He was actually some sort of prodigy, got sent on scholarship to this fancy school – actually think we played against them at rugby a few times – even got into Oxford. But something happened with his dad and he had to come back home. I think my dad knew, but he never really mentioned it and I’ve not wanted to ask Remus. Friendly chap, but it’s only been a bit of small talk the few times I’ve been in person. Something to do with all those scars, though.”
“Scars?”
“Um, yeah? Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.” Sirius frowned and thought back, but all his mind would conjure was the enticing shadow of deep mahogany eyes, and a bitten back smirk.
“No I didn’t bloody notice, James.” Sirius replied with a huff of frustration, “Don’t spend a lot of time gawking at the help, actually.”
“‘The help’? Really, Padfoot?” Once again, Sirius didn’t dignify that with an answer, though it gnawed at him like James knew it would. There was a sigh, and then, “Alright, Lord Black. Nevermind then. Anyway, so yeah he took up tailoring when he was eighteen and I guess he got pretty good.”
“Do you know what he was planning on studying at university?”
“Oh, suddenly taking an interest in ‘the help’, are we?”
“Not at all, just… you know what, nevermind. Oh look, news is on, must dash.”
“Sirius-”
“Night, Prongs.” Sirius clipped the phone back into its receiver before James could respond. He turned the volume up a notch, but it was little more than a background hum as Sirius’ mind raced. Oxford. Fine, so perhaps he was being a little prejudiced, but Sirius hadn’t expected that. Sirius had attended Cambridge, of course, as every Black had for centuries whether it was merited or not. And James had mentioned playing against Remus’ school. Sirius had not been on the team, and he got the impression that Remus wasn’t the type either. It wasn’t exactly like their paths had ever crossed, but then again James seems to have known Remus, or at least Remus’ father, most of his life. Sirius was starting to feel a bit indignant actually; why hadn’t he heard about this Remus before? Not that he cared of course, but the Potters and Lupins were obviously familiar enough.
Sirius took a swig from the whiskey that had been left warming on the bedside during his call with James and grimaced. Carelessly letting the glass fall from his grip in the general proximity of where he thought the table was, the glass instead caught the edge, and spilled back onto his bed. Sirius rolled onto his front and watched with disinterest as the liquid pooled before absorbing into the covers. Remus Lupin. Lupin. Lupin, Remus.
An odd fellow with an odd name and an odd life. Nothing for Sirius to concern himself with. Not when he had… well, everything. That’s right, Sirius had everything going for him, and everything to look forward to. As he nuzzled into his mauve, thousand-thread count sheets, luxuriating in the satin briefs and merino socks he’d worn to bed, Sirius found it easy to ignore the hollow pang in his chest and drifted off in a swirling mahogany haze of whiskey fumes and silk.