His muscles ached. The pain ran deep within his body, rattling through his bones, through his joints; a thousand little needles prickling under his skin. His whole body had twisted, recoiled into a monster overnight: bones splintering, muscles stretching, organs shrinking — only to snap back together as the sun rose. At sixteen years of age, Remus Lupin had made a good acquaintance out of pain. Pain meant he was awake, pain meant that he was alive. Pain meant that he was human again.  He stirred in his bed, blindly reaching for the nightstand. As usual, his fingers found a small bottle with a thick, lime-green liquid inside — it smelled horrible but tasted like chocolate and coconut. Remus chugged it in a matter of seconds. He might be a werewolf but at least his painkillers were easy to swallow. There had to be some balance in the world.  “Oh, good,” said a voice by his side, “you’re alive.” 

The Common Room was empty that day, unusually serene. It was the type of anticipative quality that characterised Hogsmeade mornings: a suspenseful silence, intermittently broken by the crackling fire. The calm before the storm, one could say. “What are you doing today?” asked Lily, absentmindedly flicking through a Transfiguration textbook.  Mary and she had agreed to wake up early, hoping to tackle some of the following week’s homework. So far, they had been unsuccessful.  “Oh, the usual,” said Mary, glancing at her Herbology essay with little dedication. “I’m meeting my many, many lovers. They can’t get enough of me.”  “Can I join?” “Sure. Then your actual boyfriend can meet my imaginary ones — sounds like a blast.”  “Benjy isn’t my boyfriend.”  “Of course he is.”  Lily chewed on her lip. “Technically, he isn’t. We haven’t really talked about labels— we’re trying to, you know, be cool about it.”  “Cool?” “Yeah, it’s… chill.”  “Chill?” Mary snorted. “Is Benjy aware of that?”  “I think so.” 

It all began with a Howler.  Most things Sirius Black related began with a bang, and his birthday, naturally, was no exception. If anything, November 3rd was the pinnacle of his theatrics, a day where the celebration of his birth was not only encouraged but strictly enforced by The Marauders. Come to think of it, a Howler was the perfect way to begin the festivities of Sirius’ seventeenth birthday.  “Happy birthday, Sirius,” said Mary, as he sat down next to her.  The Great Hall was bustling with people, but his friends were nowhere in sight.  Alice, across from them, grinned. “All plans are in order for the celebration, I hope?”  “All in due time,” Sirius said with a wink. “Should I be scared?” asked Mary.  “Terrified.”

When he was young, Regulus dreamed of being just like his brother.  Sirius had always been electric: a forceful, titanic arrangement of bloody knuckles and dark smiles, equal parts playful and fatal. He had always been oddly sophisticated, mature, as though he was not interested in waiting to grow up. Sirius, after all, was not known for his patience. He didn’t wait. He made things happen, he changed the course of the tides, baring his teeth like a dog ready to attack. There was nothing sanguinary or fatal about Regulus. Where Sirius grew strong and defiant and audacious; he had grown pale and slender and acquiescing. There were no inherent remarkable differences between them: they carried the same grey eyes, the same raven-black hair, the same angular, aristocratic details — and, yet, Sirius carried himself like something caustic, while Regulus carried himself like something fragile.