All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Sixth Year : The Library

Friday 4th March 1977

Sirius was beginning to think that he had a problem.

Well—alright, he knew he had a problem. But before it had at least been a manageable problem, a problem with an end in sight: Remus would get over his odd hang-up with girls, and find a girlfriend, and their…thing, whatever it was, would fade out, naturally.

But now things had changed. Now, apparently, Remus had overcome his infuriating martyr complex, and decided that he didn’t have to hold himself at arm’s length from the entire female population of Hogwarts simply because he had convinced himself that he was somehow dangerous. Now, he’d shagged Mary, and the two of them had begun to spend quite a bit of time alone, together, in the library…

They weren’t dating. Not officially. In fact, Remus continued to act as though he and Mary were still just friends. But Sirius knew, better than anyone, that friendship with Remus did not necessarily preclude…other activities. Every time he saw Remus smile at her, or noticed Mary reaching out to touch his arm, or spotted the two of them laughing together, Sirius’s heart gave an awful lurch in his chest.

He knew it wasn’t fair. Remus deserved someone like Mary, someone sunny and joyful and bright. He deserved someone kind, someone sweet, someone who had never hurt him. If Sirius was a better person, he might have accepted that; might have backed away quietly, letting things come to their natural end.

But he was not a better person. Sirius was selfish, and no matter how he told himself he should leave Remus alone, he couldn’t seem to stop.

The problem, as it were, was that Remus didn’t seem particularly inclined to stop, either. He never initiated anything, of course—that was Sirius’s job. But Remus didn’t push him away; he didn’t draw back, or tell him to stop. In fact, he seemed quite content to allow Sirius to continue—eager, even, smiling when Sirius pulled him onto the bed (or into the broom cupboard, or behind the tapestry, or to any one of their usual haunts). Sometimes, with Remus’s mouth at his neck, his hands at his waist, his breath in his ear, Sirius could close his eyes and pretend, secretly, that he was really something Remus wanted.

But afterwards, the guilt would always return—the sick feeling that he was using Remus, dragging him like quicksand into the dark pit of his own tainted desires. He never would have wanted this, Sirius told himself, if you hadn’t pushed him into it.

Sometimes—when he was very tired, or high; when he had let his guard down—a small, answering voice would whisper: But he’s been with Mary, and he still wants you…

Sirius strangled it. It was no good, having thoughts like that—insidious, hopeful little things, thoughts that dragged with them a whole host of tangled emotions that Sirius couldn’t bear to face. Remus isn’t queer, he would remind himself, forcefully, And I’m not…not—I’m definitely not—

On those sorts of days, he would always find himself returning to Emmeline, throwing an arm around her shoulders and flirting shamelessly and tugging her into the fourth-floor girls’ loos, where she would giggle when he pressed her up against the wall and kissed her. Make me feel something, he would beg, silently, as she slipped her fingers under his shirt, You’re supposed to make me feel something.

He hated her, a little, every time she didn’t.

He had just spent one such afternoon in Emmeline’s arms, trying to forget about the way Remus had groaned when he stood from the breakfast table that morning, stretching. It hadn’t worked, and Sirius was in a sour mood, slouched in front of the fireplace in the common room, when the portrait hole swung open and the source of all his current problems walked in.