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Remus is not a thief, alright? He’s not. It’s not as if he spends his time plotting ways to swipe something out from under someone’s nose; he doesn’t much care for anything that isn’t his. Besides that, his mam would have his hide for such a thing— even when they were scint, she never stole. Begged and borrowed, sure, but never, ever, stole.
Remus borrows, too. Just for, you know, extended periods of time. The people he borrows from know it, though, so it’s fine, okay?
Currently, he’s rifling through Sirius’s trunk, on the hunt for a jumper to wear to today’s Quidditch match. He’d take one from Peter or James, but Sirius’s were the highest quality and therefore the warmest.
Really, James’s stuff fit the best since the growth spurt that Remus had hit the summer before fifth year, but Peter’s was always softest and Sirius’s always nicest; it just depended on what he wanted that day. Tomorrow, for instance, when he wakes up with less than forty-eight hours until the moon, he will rummage through Peter’s trunk for a too-big shirt that’s thin with age and soft as warm butter with wear.
Sirius had…a lot of jumpers. He’d shown up first year with emerald cashmere that he had taken to McGonagall to permanently charm scarlet. Since then, he’d been using his rather hefty allowance to buy Gryffindor attire down in Hogsmeade— only he got disowned this past summer, so none of the jumpers are new.
It’s just the same to Remus, honestly, he’d rather them be worn and soft than new and itchy. Also, and he recognizes that he sounds like a creep when he thinks it, he likes the smell of his friends’ clothes. Especially in times like now, when the moon is a waxing gibbous, the scents settle the wolf in his mind.
After finding a thick golden yellow jumper with two beater bats crossed in an X on the back, Remus tugs it on over his white school-issued button-down.
Padfootpackpackpackpa—
The door to their dormitory is thrown open, wood banging against stone with the force. Remus whips around to come face-to-face with Lily Evans.
Her red curls are down, bouncing like wildfire over her shoulders and down her back. Her jumper is red— it’s not the done thing, because the red clashes with my hair, but yellow washes me out so badly I look dead— and she’s paired it with a mustard yellow corduroy skirt and opaque crimson tights. Remus is cold just looking at her.
“The boys are antsy without you at breakfast and so help me, Lupin, if we lose because your codependent arsehole friends are too jittery without you there, I’ll kill you.”
“Good morning, Remus,” he mocks, “Why, good morning, Lily! So lovely to see you.”
“It’ll be a bad morning, afternoon, and night if we lose, Remus!”
“Alright, alright, I’m coming. A bloke can’t even lie in these days.”
“Not on match days. I don’t know how you even manage to sleep— those boys of yours are awfully rowdy and you just, what? Sleep through all of that?”
Remus has to bite back a laugh, thinking about those very first few weeks of school, when he was…let’s call it not nice if he was awoken before the very last second. The other boys had figured it out quickly; they don’t make a peep until they’re out the door with the customary silencing charms to protect them.
“I’m a deep sleeper,” he deadpans, and Lily snorts ungracefully. She’s been privy to his sleeping habits plenty of times over the years— in the library, in the common room, even in the dormitories on special occasions— and knows as well as he does that his sleep schedule is dismal at best.
When they get down to the Great Hall for breakfast, the tension is so thick that it gets caught in Remus’s throat. The Hall is a split sea, half scarlet and half cobalt. It’s not the last match of the season, but it is the most important; despite winning against Hufflepuff at the last match, Ravenclaw had beat Slytherin so severely that they were out of the running completely. So if Ravenclaw wins today— that’s it. If Gryffindor wins, they’ll play Slytherin and have a shot at the cup if they score enough points. Hufflepuff, since one of the Slytherins had landed their seeker in the hospital wing, is backing Gryffindor for today. Slytherin would rather hang themselves the muggle way than cheer for Gryffindor, which puts them begrudgingly on Ravenclaw’s side.
High stakes. Remus just wants to go back to sleep.
“Moony!” James cries, crushing Remus in a hug when he squishes himself between him and Sirius— the best way to avoid an argument involving ridiculous beliefs, such as Remus giving more luck to one of them than the other. Yes, they are on the same team. No, they don’t seem to care. They’ve argued plenty of times over who needs more luck: James needs it to score and Sirius needs it to stop the other team from scoring or catching the snitch. It’s ridiculous. Also, Remus doesn’t think he’s very lucky; how could a quidditch-hating werewolf bring any sort of luck to a quidditch match?
“You’re late,” Sirius grumps from next to him, pressing himself flush against Remus’s side.
“You could’ve woken me up, you know.”
Sirius, who’s about a head shorter than Remus, looks up and levels him with a flat look, though his cheeks are a little pink. Probably nerves for the game. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not going to bite your head off. Besides, I was already awake when you lot left; I just needed some quiet.”
Silver eyes go from deadpan to concerned in seconds. They flick across Remus’s face, as if checking for injuries that he knows won’t be there. Dark brows furrow in an unspoken question: are you okay?
Remus nods, just slightly, and smiles. Sirius purses his lips and sets about making a breakfast plate for Remus. James is yammering on about how his good luck charm has finally shown up for him, and how they’re sure to win the match because of it. Peter meets Remus’s eyes from across the table where he’s sat between Frank Longbottom and Lily. He rolls his eyes good naturedly, a grin making his eyes squint up. He’s got on a jumper that is a personal favorite of Remus’s, despite its borderline offensive appearance. It’s yellow and red checkered, and makes his head hurt just to look at it, but it’s impossibly soft and Remus basically drowns in it. He almost wishes that he would’ve borrowed his outfit last night so that he could be wearing it instead of Peter. Apparently, he should plan better next time.
The plate that Sirius has made him is pretty bland, the way Remus usually takes his breakfasts— especially this close to the moon. It’s just buttered toast and scrambled eggs for a little bit of protein. Remus ducks his head to eat, one of James’s arms still slung across his shoulders. Using the arm still squished between himself and Sirius, he reaches to squeeze his hand in thanks.
Sirius squeezes back and then doesn’t let go of his hand, opting to finish his own breakfast with his left hand. Not that it matters either way, since he’s ambidextrous, the prick.
An hour before the match is set to start, James starts to gather the team, letting them know that they need to leave soon. Like a shadow, a boy appears behind James’s shoulder with a scowl.
“I need to speak to Sirius,” he says, voice soft but firm.
James yelps, his voice cracking over it. The quidditch team snickers and James raises a hand to press it to his chest, like an old woman clutching at her pearls.
“Merlin, you scared me.”
“Just Regulus is fine.”
“Right, well, you, um, you can’t speak to Sirius, we’re about to go down to the pitch.”
“It won’t take but a moment. Come on, Sirius.” Regulus’s eyes— bluer than his brother’s and also rounder— meet Remus’s. “If you’d let go of his hand, then we could’ve already been done with our conversation.”
Remus grins at the way Regulus’s voice drips with faux disdain. “Good to see you, too, Baby,” he winks.
Sirius makes a protestant noise in the back of his throat, cheeks going blotchy in indignation, even though Remus has used the nickname for Regulus for years. It had started as Baby Black, back in second year, but the surname had fallen off sometime between third and fourth year. Remus and Regulus were united in very little besides their desire to push Sirius’s buttons, so Regulus accepted the moniker without complaint.
Regulus smiles a little and fans his face as if flustered.
Sirius scowls, and James cries, “What?!” but Remus and Regulus just grin at each other. Remus squeezes Sirius’s hand once more, both in apology and encouragement, and presses a playful muah! to his cheek.
“Don’t worry, darling, you know I could never replace you.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Sirius roughly shoves Remus off of him, his cheeks still ruddy with annoyance. Regulus nods to Remus and then to James and then walks out of the Hall, apparently just expecting Sirius to follow him. Sirius does.
James turns to Remus, hazel eyes wide behind his glasses, “What just happened?”
“Go down to the pitch, Prongs. Sirius’ll meet you down there.”
Baffled, James corrals the rest of the team and leads them out of the Hall to both cheers and jeers in equal measure. It only makes James puff out his chest and hold his chin higher.
When Remus turns back to his food, he finds Peter and Lily, Frank having gone with the rest of the team, watching him with twin expressions of consideration: heads tilted, brows drawn, eyes narrowed— the only difference is Lily’s concerned frown versus the knowing upturn of Peter’s lips.
“What?” Remus asks, flush crawling up his neck, uncomfortably warm.
“Nothing,” they chorus, sharing a look before Peter starts to talk about the odds for the match. Remus lets the topic change, grateful as always for Peter’s near-uncanny ability to read people so clearly. Half an hour later they head down to the pitch, huddled against the brisk wind. Lily grumbles about how magic is real and yet her hair still gets caught in her lip gloss. Remus thinks that being a girl sounds miserable.
Marlene McKinnon is Gryffindor’s other beater. Dorcas Meadows, her friend, is already there, dressed in a red so deep it’s nearly black. Gold charms dangle from her long braids, and her smile is bright when she notices them and waves.
They crowd around her, shivering. She taps each of them with her wand, warmth spreading from their chests to their toes. “Merlin, you’re a genius,” Peter sighs.
Dorcas laughs, “I don’t understand how you lot always forget that we can do magic.”
The four of them heckle and giggle as the stands get fuller. A handful of first year girls sit in front of them. Remus waves at one of them— Dory, maybe? Dora? Dorina?— when she accidentally makes eye contact. She turns away, her cold-pink cheeks going pinker.
“Seems a little young for you, Moony,” Peter says in his ear, brows raised. Remus shoves him away.
“Don’t be gross. She’s practically a baby!”
Peter snorts and leans closer so only Remus hears, “You’re right, she’s not really your type, anyway. Too…blonde.”
Remus, with the advantage of height, grabs Peter in a headlock with one arm and wiggles his fingers against his stomach with the other. Peter shrieks, drawing the eyes of those around them, including a few of the professors from their box.
“Lupin, Pettigrew! Don’t make me take points on a match day!” McGonagall’s voice, amplified with a charm that Remus doesn’t understand, stops their, as she would say, tomfoolery. The other students have gone quiet.
They look up at her and grin innocently, “Of course, professor. Sorry, professor. It won’t happen again, professor.” Their voices are in perfect sync, a long-time joke between them. Even McGonagall purses her lips against a smile when she hears them. The pre-match chatter rises up again, erupting into cheers when the announcer— a Hufflepuff boy called Curtis— announces the arrival of the teams.
For his first several years at school, Remus used to cover his ears for nearly the entire match, overwhelmed by the noise. Now, he’s smarter and, more importantly, better at charms. He casts a modified muffling charm so that the noise coming in is quieted.
Cheers erupt from both sides of the pitch as the teams stalk from their changing rooms to the pitch.
Remus pinches the wool of Sirius’s jumper between his fingers, rubbing back and forth in an attempt to soothe the agitated wolf that wakes with the roar of the crowd.
Pack, Remus reminds it, PadfootWormtailpackpackpack.
Remus joins the crowd, knowing that there’s not a chance in heaven or hell that Sirius or James can hear him over their shrieking fans. He hears Dorcas next to him call for Marlene who, against all odds, tilts her head up towards them and winks. She taps Sirius’s shoulder and points to them— Sirius’s smile stretches across his whole face and he blows a kiss towards them. Peter pretends to catch it along with probably twenty other people in their vicinity, swooning into Remus’s arms with a tittering laugh.
Sirius snags James’s attention just as Lily wolf-whistles, and James fans himself and pretends to stumble, a mirror image of Regulus just an hour ago. Lily only throws her head back in a giddy laugh, eyes bright.
Ravenclaw is far more stoic in their entrance. A single-file line, stony-faced with white-knuckled grips on their brooms. Remus almost scoffs at them; isn’t the point of quidditch to have fun? Sure, James might drown himself in the locker room showers if Gryffindor loses today, but he’s having fun while on the pitch— or at least he’s pretending to.
Remus has very little interest in the game in general. Really, he’s just watching to see Sirius and James make fools of themselves. And maybe, a little bit, to study the way Sirius’s thighs flex to hold himself on his broom when he needs both hands to swing his bat. Mostly the first thing, though.
The match really isn’t all that exciting. Gryffindor scores, yay. Ravenclaw scores, boo. Gryffindor hits a bludger that knocks into a Ravenclaw chaser, yay. Ravenclaw sends a bludger that sends the Gryffindor keeper spinning, boo. Back and forth. Remus really doesn’t get what all the fuss is about, but his friends love it— proved by Peter and Lily shrieking in his ears and the way James and Sirius do loop-the-loops every time Gryffindor performs a successful play or scores.
Gryffindor ends up getting the upper hand, thank Godric. They’re up just barely enough to make a grab for the snitch when Ravenclaw calls a timeout.
Remus, an expert in James Potter Pep Talks and who has gone over the strengths and weaknesses of the whole Gryffindor team on more than one occasion, murmurs an echo of him to Peter, Lily, and Dorcas.
“We’re there. All we gotta do is get up there and catch the snitch. Marls, I need you on the Ravenclaw chasers like a wart on a frog. Sirius, you’re on the seeker. Frank, so help me, do not let the quaffle within a meter of the hoops. Kyx, you’re on defense, too. Joslyn, you’re with me. Calliope, you got this. Alright? Good. Red and yellow—?”
“Kill a fellow!” The team erupts with it and the Gryffindor stands roar in response. Remus grins at the muggle adage; he’d taught it to James back in third year in the Forest, and James became obsessed with it.
Ravenclaw’s side cheers when they break, too. The game resumes.
It’s over less than a minute later: Curtis the announcer hollers into the microphone, “Calliope Standish has caught the snitch! 150 points to Gryffindor! Gryffindor wins!”
Remus has almost never been so glad for his modified muffling charm, the way the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff voices all rise together. Scarlet and gold flood the pitch, everyone racing to be the first to congratulate the team. Lily and Peter and Dorcas elbow their way into the fray. Remus doesn’t want to fight the crowd; it’s too loud and too many people and too many smells all at once. Instead, he does as he usually does and heads to the locker room and waits at the door.
Sirius is the first one there, as usual.
“Moony, did you see?”
Remus laughs, “Yes, Padfoot, I saw. You were brilliant.”
Silver eyes sparkle with joy and then Remus’s arms are suddenly full of boy. Stinky, sweaty boy who shoves his stinky, sweaty face into the column of Remus’s throat. He returns the hug anyway, trying to ignore the smell.
“You need a shower, you know. You smell like wet dog.”
“Mm.” And oh, no, Remus knows that tone. Sirius is crashing; his adrenaline is gone and he’ll fall asleep right here if Remus lets him. Pushing gently, he disentangles them and Sirius whines pitifully.
“Shower,” Remus says firmly, “then we can have a cwtch before tonight’s party, yes?”
“Fine,” Sirius grumps, pulling back, “Give me five?”
Remus snorts because Sirius has never taken a shower that’s lasted less than fifteen minutes, but mods. He’ll still be waiting for him either way.
The girl chasers, Kyx and Joslyn, are there next. Remus offers them a smile and a congratulations and a promise to get them a butterbeer at the party tonight. Then it’s Frank, Alice Fortescue in a bridal carry in his arms. She’s dropped at the door to wait with Remus, which he doesn’t mind. Marlene’s next, with Dorcas on her arm. James and Calliope are the last two, and Curtis the announcer is holding her hand.
James looks a little dazed, so Remus reaches out to catch his shoulder.
“She kissed me,” he says, hazel eyes wide and unseeing despite the sickle-thick lenses over them.
“Who?” Remus asks, but he knows the answer.
The pads of James’s fingers find his cheek, pressing down just slightly. Ah. She kissed his cheek. That makes more sense. So Remus just grins and claps James’s shoulder, “Congrats, mate,” and pushes him into the locker rooms to shower.
So then it’s the island of misfit toys: him and Alice and Dorcas and Curtis, waiting for their friends— in Alice’s case, something more— in post-win-giddy silence.
Marlene reappears and takes Dorcas, their leave followed by Frank and Alice then Kyx and Joslyn. James is next, citing the need to go tell Peter what happened, and then Calliope and Curtis the announcer.
“Funny how you can be the first one in there and the last one out, huh?”
“Beauty like this takes time, Moony, you know that.”
Remus snorts and shakes his head. Sirius, just this side of too-short to throw an arm around Remus’s shoulders, links their elbows instead, dragging Remus back towards the castle. A good thing, too, since Dorcas’s warming charm is starting to fade.
“Nice jumper, by the way,” Sirius says when he’s decided that the silence has dragged on too long.
“It’s cold, and yours are warmest!”
“Relax, Moonpie, I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
Remus huffs, not sure what Sirius wants him to say. The silence really does drag on this time, but it seems that Sirius is determined to break it.
“You can keep it, if you want. Yellow isn’t really my color, anyway, so—“
“No!” Remus interrupts, and then flushes, embarrassed by his insistence. “No,” he says again, more calmly, “It’s yours.”
“Yeah but you like it, you’ve stolen it a few times. I just thought that maybe you wanted it, you don’t have to take it. I mean, you’re welcome to wear it whenever you like, but I can take it back if that’s what you want.” Sirius is babbling in a nervous tell that Remus has known for years, but why? What reason could he possibly have for being nervous?
“I don’t steal it. I always give it back. I give all of your things back, every time.”
“Yeah but you don’t have to. There are things in my trunk that are just, you know, yours. Like this jumper, or that Beatles shirt that Peter bought me. I dunno, sorry.”
Sirius’s voice goes quiet and stilted and his arm goes stiff where they’re linked together. Remus wants to settle Sirius, knowing that his crash is impending and also that it won’t do anyone any good for him to be in a mood before he hits it.
“I like the smell,” Remus says, and then immediately wants to take it back when hot flush prickles his neck and Sirius turns his head to the side and up, surprise etched into his features.
“What?” Sirius pulls his arm away so that he can face Remus fully. They’re just shy of the doors; they could be inside right now if Remus hadn’t opened his big mouth.
Too late now. Fuck.
“The smell,” he repeats, “It…helps. The wolf likes it, I guess, because it tricks my brain into thinking you’re nearby even if you aren’t. Yours and James’s and Pete’s work best, though Lily’s scarves and blankets have done the same.”
Sirius just stares at him.
“I’m sorry,” Remus rushes out, folding his arms over his chest and curving his spine downward, as non-threatening as possible. “It’s creepy, I know, I’m sorry.”
“It’s not creepy, Moony. I’m just trying to figure out why you’ve never said anything!”
“As established, Sirius, it’s weird!”
Sirius’s silver eyes narrow. Remus’s own amber eyes go wide when a pale hand grabs his most accessible wrist and starts to drag him into the castle.
“Wh—Padfoot?”
Sirius just shakes his head, dragging him all the way up to the Fat Lady. “Sparkling Pixies.” Sirius doesn’t let go of him until he’s been deposited on his own bed closest to the door. Sirius huffs as he putters around the dorm, grabbing blankets from all of their beds to pile onto his own.
When he’s done, he lays on his bed and pats the empty space next to him. Remus, in some sort of trance, follows his invitation. Instantly, his muscles relax. The scents of his friends all muddled together like this— packpackpack— puts him completely at ease for the first time in weeks.
“It was that easy?” Sirius whispers, wide-eyed and watching Remus carefully, “All this time, all we had to do was— was give you our blankets?”
“Mmph. Or jumpers.”
“Moony. I love you, but I hate you so badly right now I could cry.” Remus’s face creases in a frown, eyes still shut. Sirius huffs, then, softer, “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I dunno. Didn’t want to feel— I didn’t want you to think of me like an animal.”
“So when I put my head in your lap so that you scratch my head, do you think of me like an animal?”
“No, but—”
“Or when you light a lumos near James and his eyes go all big and he freezes, do you think of him like an animal?”
“Freezing is a natural response to fear—!”
“Or what about when Peter gets a hankering for cheese and that’s all he eats for three meals straight, do you think of him like an animal?”
“Humans are allowed to have cravings.”
“Yes. And you crave a cuddle with our blankets, so what?”
Remus purses his lips, unsure of how to respond without sending the conversation in a circle. He doesn’t know how to explain the difference to Sirius; all of his examples could be explained away using human references, but Remus’s was undeniably animalistic. It’s like when you adopt a puppy and it comes with a blanket that smells like its littermates and mother. Dog. Animal. Wolf.
Peter and James come in. Loudly, disturbing the (if not peaceful) quiet.
“A cuddle?” James cries, “Without me?” He wedges himself onto the bed, shoving Sirius over and onto the ground uncaringly and dragging Remus into his chest. “Mm, g’night.”
“Fuck you, Prongs,” Sirius huffs, but he crawls into the space between James’s straight-out legs and Remus’s bent up ones, curling into a ball in a distinctly dog-like manner. Remus gets the message loud and clear. Peter transforms and skitters until Wormtail is perched on James’s curls.
PadfootWormtailProngspackpackpack.
James, who has run himself into the ground the last few days, passes out almost as soon as he’s comfortable. Wormtail’s sniffling breaths deepen not long after. It’s erring on the side of too-warm, but Remus doesn’t even care. Surrounded as he is by his friends, he relaxes so much that his muscles may as well be gelatin. Content, he sighs and closes his eyes, pressing his back more firmly against James’s chest and curling his legs closer to Sirius.
Sirius pinches Remus’s foot. Remus opens his eyes just enough to see dark brows raised in an unspoken question: is this better?
Remus nods, just slightly, and smiles.