Author notes: Usually I only work where the author's left huge amounts of room for worldbuilding, so HP isn't my usual fandom. But this is one incident where she's left us plenty of room for questions-- 'why' and 'huh???' and 'but is that really like Sirius?' leaping to the top of the list. I don't know about you folks, but my answer to that last one has always been a resounding NO. So this thought jumped up and bit me: keeping everyone in character (I'm afraid I had to use Rickman!Snape; the book's version isn't slick enough), how might it really have gone down? Not an unusual plotbunny, I know, but this is my answer.
Regarding houses, for the purpose of this fic I lean towards the ''Wasn't a witch or wizard that went bad as wasn't in Slytherin' means either Hagrid still believed in the man whose bike he rode or Sirius was no Griffendor' school of thought.
Encourage experimentation on the web! Feed me back! ...Please?
Which was as true as anything else, and not just a platitude to cling to in the cold and dead, when the jungle comfort of heavy sea-green velvet turned to heart's bile, when he would have blurred and blackened and possibly gnawed his own paw off to numb the tight, blistering chill of the thorns through his chest if he'd deserved the relief.
So it had better be his fault, then, because if he chewed his hand off no one was likely to help him and James would feel rotten when he died.
But then, James deserved to feel rotten. If it was Lily's fault it was definitely James's, too. They were absolutely co-non-conspirators in this.
Maybe not James as much. Heroics had to earn a person some consideration. Anyway, it had been Lily's fault from the beginning for learning that charm to clear up her complexion back in fourth year and turning into someone whose disapproval James's blossoming hormones couldn't shrug off.
Blossoming was not the right word in this case. Mushrooming, maybe. Something to do with spores, or maybe tentacles. Testosterone, like a cramped and twisting parasite, twining its way through the dim, musty corridors of James Potters' brain. Overtaking him like some B-movie alien, stealing the meaning from his life, turning him from his friends.
But it was Lily's fault for giving in. She knew better. How many times had she droned, "Potter, I would rather kiss a pickled toad/recently deceased squirrel/rabid bat/rat with syphilis/Julius Flint"?
Maybe he'd go up to her in the morning and say, "Sister of lemon-mouthed dried up prunes, I blame you and your estrogen!" It was probably as good a way of offing himself as any, and Lily might be merciful and see through him and do it painlessly.
Then again, maybe he should tell Remus it was Lily's fault. The least--very least, miserable mean and aching least--he could do was give Remus the satisfaction of the execution. Except Remus didn't want to kill anybody, right. But had that changed? It might be worth a shot.
Best-case scenario, Remus would fly into a fury at his cowardly shifting of responsibility and strangle him, Remus's human hands on his throat the last feeling in his life. He'd even be wildly happy to get an "If Snape isn't worth it you certainly aren't."
What was most likely to happen, though, was that Remus would coolly turn to Peter and ask very nicely if Pete would do him a favor and see if there was a book on exorcism in the library because there seemed to be a ghost whining in his ear, but not if Pete was busy; it didn't much matter; Remus could wait.
Remus didn't pull his punches.
It was Lily's fault, though. If she hadn't given in (O damnable puberty, rotting the minds of the innocent and the worthy as blue fuzz overtaking cheese!), James would have spent only the usual amount of time obsessing over her. That at least was a group activity. Instead he'd vanished for large portions of the day.
He hadn't even, as he bloody well ought to have been, been spending his energies and brain-power (the latter more valuable for its rarity) on humiliating slimy pureblood snobs instead of researching charms to make her freckles read IF FOUND RETURN TO J. POTTER or transfiguring dandelions into lotuses. Even girls weren't as girly as that.
With James gone all the time, and talking predominantly Lily and Quidditch on the rare occasions that he deigned to grace them with his full attention, Peter spent more time in Hufflepuff with his less tumultuous housemates, and then they were two.
Remus's housemates used their common room to study in, and even James had to admit that Sirius's refusal to spend one more breath in the dungeons than he absolutely had to was just a sensible safety precaution, so the two of them had ended up taking a lot of walks. Out by the fountain with a deck of noisy, ornery cards between classes, chess in the Hall in the evenings, down by the lake with sandwiches at noon, and just about anywhere at night. The Astronomy tower was favorite. Everyone was so busy snogging each other senseless that they could have planned the decimation of the Ministry on a big blackboard, complete with diagrams and shouting matches over who got to plant the firecrackers in Fudge's chair, and no one would have taken any notice.
In retrospect, the Snake couldn't really be blamed for drawing the conclusion he had. Which was why it was Lily's fault sometimes instead of his. It was Slytherin nature to draw the worst probable conclusion and, failing that, the most inconvenient. If it had been up to Jimmy Griffendork to notice things, Remus would still be spending his monthlies lying and lonely.
At least he'd still have horny-boy and the Tail, no matter what kind of ghost Sirius turned into for him. Remus was only good at cause and effect looking forward; he was bollocks in HoM and it always bewildered him when Sirius got a quavery 'spot on, Black' from Binns for connecting a new style of neckline with an emergent family feud. He was good for common sense and the occasional flashes of brilliance, but he'd never notice on his own that James had started everything by being a besotted nit.
On reflection, Sirius wasn't going to tell him. Pete couldn't be three friends at once. Anyway, when Pete and Re got together on their own they seldom did anything more exciting than a kitchen raid. Which was all right in the usual way, as a moment's breather from serious marauding and a pause to catch up on homework, but Pete wasn't going to be any good at the taking-out-of-himself Moony was hollow-eyed for.
This was pointless. The traitor wasn't living between James's teeth. It didn't even visit there when Evans forgot herself.
Maybe he could do some kind of expansion charm on his tongue, and when the Pomfrey cut the extra off he'd be left with the bit that wasn't forked. Only she'd shrink it, not cut it, so that was no good. Although, after the look she'd given him the Morning After, maybe she'd make an exception. No, though; she'd probably feel the same as Remus. He wasn't worth being uncivilized at.
Maybe they'd been going about this whole Slytherin-baiting thing all wrong. Maybe that was where everything had gone pear-shaped; when they'd let the Snake know he mattered.
He could still hear it. That dark, insinuating voice Snape had come back from the summer before third year with that was wasted on a swotty, gawky, oily toad, the one he imagined when Binns set them chapters on Grindelwold, swirling in his ears like poisoned molasses, blackened acid cauldron dregs.
Forgot your cloak, Black? And on such a clear night--careless. How very brave of you to come anyway, Perhaps you should get your Griffindor friend to lend you his house scarf. If he would. I know I wouldn't trust you with anything of mine.
Snivellus, astounding! You have a working neuron. Why don't you go shove off and admire it? You could show it to the giant squid. He could help you wash your hair to set it off better.
The only place I'm going is to Sinistra. I'm sure she'd be fascinated to learn what you and Lupin get up to in that shack. It's amazing you haven't been caught before now, when you never even think to put up a silencing charm. But I suppose you save your wands for... other things? Half of Hogsmeade can hear you howling, did you know? Disgusting.
That's a good one, Snape--you calling anything disgusting.
And bright panic, slicing through the fury. It was no good demanding how a Slytherin had found something out when there was certainty in his voice. Snape wasn't digging for information; Sirius would have heard that. Snape had all he needed.
If you object to the term, what about 'illegal?' Spitting in your family's face wasn't rebellious enough for you, oh, no. Nothing but all standards of decency will do for you, the great black sheep.
Oh, come off it, you greasy hypocrite. As though you and Malfoy don't get up to things three times as--
You leave Lucius Malfoy out of this, you frivolling mindless blood-traitor. You aren't fit to lick his--
Lucius? I meant his grandmother.
Is he waiting, Black? Waiting for you in the dark, in the moonlight? Will he wait for you to undress? Or will I find him now, if I stupefy you, if I immobilize the tree? What will I find, Black, if I go to him with this?
Light, glinting off the rim of a vial, tracing down the side, loving the curve at the bottom, and the sludge inside, midnight blue and almost invisible against the sky, the top of it chunky and muddy like only one potion he knew.
All the polyjuice in the world won't fool him.
This out of a dry throat. It wouldn't fool Moony, not for a second, and all the mornings in the world of meeting Sirius at breakfast wouldn't make up for the long nights full of the memory of ripping his throat out. There wouldn't be any morning meetings, either. The ministry had no mercy for even the most innocent of werewolves--what would they do to a killer?
But it only needs to fool him for a moment, Black. Just that. Just let me see him mouthing your name. My camera only needs a moment.
You--are you insane? Don't you know what he'll do to you?
I have my wand, Black--and enough polyjuice to last as long as I need it for. He won't be expecting anything, not from you. I know you don't have yours, you sorry excuse for a Slytherin, or you would have blasted me by now, Absolutely typical. It's time you learned you aren't invulnerable. Not even Dumbledore will forgive you for this. Popularity isn't everything.
For that? You'd do this--for that? You are insane--or Malfoy's got you brainwashed. ...Pity he missed your hair... It can't possibly be worth it.
Tedious, Black. I would and will. Without hesitation. I expect the satisfaction to last beyond the grave. Now, will you lead the way, or shall I drink?
I'm not taking you anywhere.
Oh, I don't need you, Black. I can get a better shot without your shaggy head in the way.
Then drink your sodding potion! And don't even bother with an immobilus, you limp-wristed wand-joggler, I'd hate for you to hurt your hand too badly to click the shutter. Just poke the knob above the root, if you can find it past the pimples on your beak! Go ahead and stun me! What are you waiting for?
Maybe, he remembered thinking, looking for it would give him time for the stun to wear off, maybe dodging tentacles would give him time to run for help.
I don't need to stupefy you, Black. It's done naturally. Go ahead and run for help, why don't you? I'll hardly mind another witness.
And run he had. On his own two feet, with his lungs stitching and his throat closed until Padfoot, unlicensed Paddy who knew he should have been out and playing with his mates by now but what if the Snake turned around to gloat again, huffed 'pathetic' at him.
Ran over the grounds and scrabbled over walls, swarmed up the banners draped out Griffindor windows and into the dorm, but James wasn't there. Ran through the halls and barreled into Pete's detention to grab the map from his bag, Pete having planned to bring the kitchen to Moony on a platter as an apology for his lousy timing, and was out the door before the Trelawney hen could rise from her opium daze to open her mouth. Outside again and up the tower, tripping over couples every few steps, it seemed like, ripped James off Lily's face and dragged him out with curses at their heels all the way down the stairs.
Damn you, Black, you'd better have a damn good--
Moony, Prongs!
Oh, hell, is it that late? What time is it? Paddy, it's only nine. He'll still be pacing, you know he never starts trying to chew himself till eleven. You don't have to break our necks.
Snape, Jim! He knows. He's gone in with a camera--
Siri, you idiot, I need that arm. Will you slow down? He can't get in.
Got a wand, doesn't he? He doesn't have to leave it in bed while his fingers fuse, does he?
Won't do him any good, will it, or why does Pete sprout whiskers? Spells bounce off that tree, Pads, you know that. It's not like he knows about the knob.
Pads? Pads, you're white. He doesn't know, does he? Oh, hell, does he? How?
Just move!
Pads--Black! Did you get your wand?
No--no, it's still--
Then you get Dumbledore and Pomfrey. I'll handle this end.
On the eighth night it was Lily's fault, but blame never mattered by midnight. It was Sirius who had told Snape what he needed to know to ruin Remus, and that was what it came down to. It came down to a Slytherin who allowed himself to be goaded into volunteering information, a plotter who lost his head without a script, an unbelievable fool who had let panic rob him of his best friend.
Midnight's claws stretched long into the morning, and at the hour of the wolf the wolf was at the door. "I'll only ask once to come in," Remus said in his cool, clipped voice.
Sirius nearly broke his skull diving for the doorknob.
No one came in, so Sirius watched the bed. Nothing happened there, either, so he shifted his gaze to the armchair. Its cushion was depressed, so he closed the door. Was Remus going to just sit there, silent and invisible?
The bed was too far, and the air thin up here--stupid growth spurts, turning him to a spindly mountain his knees wouldn't hold. He slid down the wall carefully, coming to rest sitting on his ankles. It didn't help. He didn't have the right to speak first, even if he could have guessed what Remus wanted to hear.
"It's been over a week," Remus said out of nothingness, just commenting. "And you haven't apologized."
"What good would that have done?" he asked miserably. "It wouldn't change what I did to you."
There was a moment of thoughtful silence. "It would have given me the opportunity to belt you one."
"Go ahead."
Sounding distantly curious, Remus asked, "Are you sorry?"
"Sick with it," he choked, his knuckles going white on his knees.
Another silence. "You're certainly not the picture of Slytherin treachery triumphant," Remus said finally, dryly. "Everyone thinks your parents have died or something."
Sirius looked up, then, at where he thought Remus' eyes were. "I like that idea," he said, not smiling. "Can we do that instead?"
Finally Remus sighed, a 'what are we going to do with you' kind of sigh, and cast the cloak off. His amber hair turned the poison-green of the armchair into something natural, but he looked as red-eyed and gutted as Sirius felt. Remus at least had probably been eating, but he'd ripped himself up worse than ever that night, and the healing had kept him gaunt. They made a sorry pair, sitting there in the dungeons.
"They have a silver ax for werewolves," Remus informed him, and he flinched. He knew it. "If this is in some way not your fault, start talking."
"It is my fault," he said dully.
Remus considered this carefully for a moment, and then told him, "Start talking anyway."
[abort/RETRY/ignore]