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It was 08.13 a.m. on a dull Tuesday in February when Remus came to question his life choices.
Questioning his life choices was, historically speaking, nothing uncommon for him. Tuesday, though, was off schedule. Usually, he’d go for a small crisis on Mondays, circle back to indifference on Tuesdays, and land on weary resignation Wednesdays. Thursdays stayed roughly in that theme – to resign or not to resign, that was the question. But it wasn’t. Not really. And come Fridays, he’d remind himself that he was lucky to have a job at all.
But some days proved more difficult than others. Muggles claiming to have lost their keys when they had actually shrunken into nothingness. A cursed teacup with a venomous bite that had sent him to St Mungo’s. And of course the regurgitating toilets – that had been a particularly bad one.
Tuesday, February 2nd, though, toilets and teacups remained nowhere to be seen.
Instead, Remus found himself face to face with a man.
Black robes before a black entrance door, black hair reaching to his shoulders, he stood in the threshold of the two-storey brick house.
There was nothing special about his robes, but for some reason they fit him better than they did anyone else. They hugged his shoulders – broad, but not bulky – then fell to his waist, where he’d secured them with a belt and stored his wand. Loose enough to look casual. Tight enough to reveal that he was, for some reason, panting.
The man raised one eyebrow.
Remus cleared his throat and looked away at once.
‘Remus Lupin, Ministry of Magic, Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office,’ he said in the toneless voice he reserved for Ministry-related matters. ‘Are you — erm —’
He sifted through the information crammed in his head, momentarily distracted by the man’s gaze. His eyes matched the sky outside – only they didn’t, at all. When the clouds above swallowed the sunlight struggling to push through, this man’s gaze was intense.
What was his name again?
‘Sirius Black,’ Sirius Black offered.
‘That’s right,’ Remus confirmed with a curt nod. Stupid Ministry things were clouding his brain.
‘Glad we agree.’ Black’s lips curled into a smirk. ‘If only on my identity.’
Remus blinked. Tore himself away from Black’s smile and eyes, fixed on his eyebrows instead.
‘Well, Mr Black–’
‘Sirius, please.’
Remus paused at the sudden sincerity in his tone.
‘Mr Black, I am here to inspect your motorcycle. The MoMA has received an anonymous tip concerning possible violations of both national and international law, including, but not limited to, the Statute of Secrecy.’
‘Possible violations?’
‘Your motorcycle flies. Illegally.’
‘You mean impeccably.’
Remus suppressed a smile. He cleared his throat and reached for his Ministry voice. It was buried under a thick pile of indifference.
‘Well… it’s not supposed to fly.’
Black laughed. ‘That’s magic for you,’ he said, somehow managing to sound both incredibly arrogant and incredibly charming.
‘Which would be the problem. Enchanting Muggle objects poses a clear violation of Section Four, Subsection Three of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Act –’ Remus broke off as Black’s words registered. ‘You admit to it?’
Black shrugged. ‘No use denying it when faced with a relentless justice fighter such as yourself.’
Remus blinked. The jab barely brushed him. Something else had startled him.
This was new.
If asked to list the top three reactions of people accused of tinkering with Muggle objects, it would go like this:
First: denial.
Followed closely by second: denial.
Not to disregard third place, though: denial.
Nestled in a weak fourth came bad excuses. No, it’s not cursed, it’s just… opinionated.
Mere seconds before the opinionated teacup had bitten Remus.
It was as pointless as it was insulting. Just because Remus was stuck at the MoMA didn’t mean he was an idiot.
Though, come to think of it – perhaps it did.
Sirius Black, however, decided to shred the script Remus knew by heart.
Smirk still in place, his hand slowly moved towards his belt. Remus’ eyes followed the path of his long fingers as they grazed his waist.
‘Shall I surrender my wand now, or will I get a trial?’ he asked. ‘Please don’t Incarcerous me. I promise I’ll come quietly.’
‘Judging by this conversation, I severely doubt that,’ said Remus. The man seemed to fear the MoMA about as much as one might fear a plush unicorn. ‘Now, if you would kindly point me to the vehicle in question? I assume you keep it behind the house?’
‘Unless it’s learnt to fly off on its own…’ Black turned on his heel, robes swinging around him. ‘Follow me, Mr Lupin.’
No doubt about it – he was getting a kick out of the whole thing.
Black led him through a narrow hallway lined with dozens of photos, all showing different versions of the same four people. Himself, and a man in glasses with equally black hair, though a great deal messier. A woman with vibrant eyes, auburn hair, and a cheeky smile. A child, growing from toddler to teenager and beyond. Chasing a cat on a toy broomstick. Swishing through the frame on a real racing broom.
Something inside Remus tightened at the warmth living in those photos. The boy’s glee. The genuine smile on Black’s face. The way they all looked at each other.
When was the last time someone had looked at Remus like that?
He shook off the thought. He was here for professional reasons.
A moment later, they stepped into the garden, where a huge motorcycle was embedded halfway into a brick wall.
The culprit, no doubt.
Remus stood before it, hands hanging uselessly at his sides.
Checking this monstrous thing for enchantments would take months – dismantling it, spellwork, paperwork. The mere thought gave him a headache.
‘Well,’ said Remus slowly, weighing his options. ‘That’s a motorcycle.’
A laugh came from his left. Was Black laughing at him, or because of him? Usually, Remus didn’t care – he’d be offended twenty-four seven, in his line of work.
This time, however, he couldn’t help but wonder.
‘Well spotted,’ said Black.
Only now did Remus realise how close they were standing. Black’s cheeks were slightly flushed, matching his still heaving chest.
‘Thank you,’ Remus replied stupidly before tearing away his gaze. The motorcycle remained unmoving — an enormous reminder of his boring life and the duty he was supposed to carry out.
This was pointless. Black had already admitted to enchanting it.
‘So… it flies?’ Remus asked.
‘Nasty piece of work, let me tell you,’ Black said fondly. ‘Stubborn thing. Took me ages to get the drifting under control. You’d think you could just copy the spells they use on broomsticks, but no.’
‘No, I don’t suppose so,’ Remus said slowly. ‘It’s a smidge bigger than a broomstick. Heavier, too. Different shape.’
He hummed, thoughtful. He couldn’t begin to fathom the work Black had put into this thing. And he couldn’t help being a little impressed. Assuming it did, as Black claimed, fly impeccably.
When he glanced sideways again, Black was already looking at him, wearing a peculiar expression. It made Remus feel strangely exposed. His skin prickled under it.
‘So,’ Remus asked, ‘how did you fix the drifting?’
Black blinked. Actually blinked.
‘Sorry?’
‘I figure the weight distribution is odd,’ Remus said. ‘Compared to a standard broomstick.’
For a moment, Black just stared at him. Then his grin shifted – less performative, more real.
‘It kept overcorrecting. And you don’t want this thing to sling when you’re up at two hundred feet. In the end, my best mate suggested I take it apart, charm the pieces individually.’ Black’s eyes lit up at the mention of his best friend. ‘I had to reroute the stabilising charm through the whole thing – enhance it in some places, dim it down in others. Took a while to get that right. Worth it, though.’
Remus had never heard someone speak with such passion about their tinkered Muggle objects. People’s motives usually ranged from malicious to thoughtless. This was neither. Remus doubted he’d ever met someone so committed to breaking the law.
Too late, he realised Black had stopped talking.
He looked away quickly. ‘Clever,’ he said, as though he had understood every word.
He tilted his head, assessing the motorcycle.
Did he really want to follow protocol, just for the sake of it?
No. No, he didn’t.
Black seemed sensible. Or – well – competent. Passionate. Remus doubted he’d sell his bike to an unsuspecting Muggle. And as for the Statute of Secrecy…
‘Don’t you want to run some spells?’ Black cut in. ‘Poke her a little? Do your magic?’
But Remus had arrived at a decision. Screw protocol. What was the worst that could happen? The whole Ministry thought his job a joke anyway.
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Borrowing her for a little ride, however…’
A slight pinch appeared between Black’s eyebrows, as though he were trying to decide whether Remus was serious. He wasn’t. He might be willing to let Black off, but he wouldn’t push his luck by riding this thing.
Though he was more than a little curious.
‘Alright… What then?’ Black asked after a long second.
‘Clearly, I have to impound it,’ Remus said.
‘No, you won’t.’
The reply was instant. Confident. But for the first time, Black’s face fell.
Remus suppressed a smile. He held Black’s gaze for a moment, then shrugged.
‘No, I won’t.’
‘I – come again?’
‘You can thank Willy Widdershins,’ Remus said. ‘Compared to his regurgitating toilets, this is nothing. And frankly, I’m not keen on the paperwork. Or the work, really.’
Though he wasn’t sure it was only about that. It seemed unfair to confiscate the motorcycle after all the work Black had put into it.
‘You’ll let it slide?’ Black was now gaping at him. ‘Just like that?’
Remus took a deep breath, as though it might settle things. Shut his eyes. Looked the other way. Pretended his life was fun, and not filled with tedious arguments and endless stacks of parchment and memos.
‘I haven’t had any reports from Muggles so far,’ he said. ‘Just an anonymous tip. All I see is an ordinary motorcycle. How am I to know you actually enchanted it, and that no one was trying to set you up?’
‘Isn’t that what the spells would be for?’ Black asked. He still looked surprised, but amusement had begun to creep into his expression.
‘I’m fresh out of those. Must be your lucky day.’
‘And your inspection?’
‘I’ll let you in on a secret,’ Remus said. ‘No one cares. And even if they did – there’s not a long queue of people waiting to take my job. Most people don’t aspire to deal with tinkered Muggle objects professionally.’
Black laughed. Shook his head. Laughed again.
‘I can’t believe you’re letting me off like that,’ he said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it. But I thought –’ he paused, assessing Remus as though seeing him properly for the first time, then went on, ‘– I thought you were getting off on the whole—’ He waved a casual hand and adopted a flat voice. ‘— I’m Remus Lupin and you violated three international treaties thing.’
‘Nothing gives a man a sense of power like a job at the MoMA,’ Remus said, lips curling.
Black’s lips twitched, his eyes glinting. ‘Something like that.’
‘Do you want to get into trouble? Because it sounds like it.’
‘Initially? No,’ Black said, eyes still fixed on Remus. ‘Now? Depends on the kind of trouble.’
He grinned and something inside Remus tightened. When Remus had arrived, his presence had filled the whole doorframe. Now, it seemed to stretch across the whole garden. Remus fought the urge to fiddle with his sleeves.
‘You’re not very good at being scary,’ said Black lightly. ‘Bit of a pity… You could be devastating if you tried.’
You should see me on the full moon, Remus thought, but what he said, was: ‘I don’t really think the MoMA’s going for scary. We’re enough of a joke as is.’
‘How come you work there?’ Black tilted his head, as though he was genuinely interested.
‘Lack of opportunities,’ Remus shrugged. ‘It’s fine. I’m used to it.’
‘Why settle for fine,’ Black said slowly. ‘Everybody deserves a bit of fun.’
‘Should I get my own bike, then?’ Remus joked. It fell flat. Black simply kept watching him.
‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘But, you know, most people don’t ask about the spells, let alone have opinions.’
‘The more I know the less paperwork it’ll be in the long run.’
‘I only meant,’ said Black, ‘that I like that you’re paying attention.’ He turned to the motorcycle. ‘Ever ridden one?’
‘Not one that flies,’ Remus said before his his brain caught up with him. ‘Not that I’m–’
‘Suggesting something illegal?’
‘Yeah…’ The word scraped over Remus’ tongue, barely carrying sound. His mouth was dry and the sole reason was Sirius Black and the things he said. That, and his ridiculously charming smile. It pulled the wrinkles around his eyes into clear sight. Gorgeous.
The thought settled gently. A second later, horror followed. What was he doing? That was not in the job description.
‘I –er – should go,’ Remus said quickly, shifting his weight as if readying himself to sprint away. ‘Just make sure no one sees you when you…use the bike.’
‘Go?’ Black asked. ‘Already? I was about to make some tea when you arrived... Surely your schedule isn’t that busy.’
‘I already told you I won’t impound it,’ said Remus. ‘No need to be nice.’
‘Nice?’ Black asked, looking surprised. Then, a laugh broke free from his chest, and he shook his head. ‘Merlin. James was right, my game must be off…’ He gave Remus an emphatic look. ‘You realise I’ve been flirting with you for the past ten minutes?’
Remus’ stomach dropped.
‘Why?’ he asked before he could give it a thought. The question was pure instinct – and inevtiable. And embarrassing. Remus frowned at the gravel.
‘Because you’re cute when you’re flustered,’ said Black simply. ‘And because you’re not what I expected… You’ve surprised me twice already. Thought I’d see if there was more where that came from.’ He clicked his tongue once. ‘So… Cup of tea?’
Remus needed a second to gather himself.
This couldn’t be happening. Wouldn’t. Lycanthropy or not, Sirius Black was not in his league.
‘That might be inappropriate,’ Remus said at last.
But… Remus found he didn’t want to leave just yet. Not when talking to this stranger had been the highlight of his week. Not when Black was, once more, smiling at him.
‘That’s not a no.’
What was the harm in a cup of tea, really? It was just tea.
‘No, it’s not.’
Remus took a deep breath and made a decision.
‘I suppose we’ve established I’m not overly concerned with rules.’