Chapter Text
Sirius has been intrigued, engrossed even, by Remus’ smile since first year. When he first smiles, truly smiles- not a soft, hesitant grin- it’s stunning. It paints his face delightfully, a beautiful curve of his soft lips, pink and plump, framing high cheekbones and thin eyebrows. It’s pert, and when it’s genuine and real, levelled up at Sirius with fondness, his eyes shine with mirth, an intoxicating sheen of green that Sirius drinks in desperately.
“I love when you smile like that,” Sirius says one day, his thoughts running his mouth, like always.
Remus laughs.
“Like what?”
They’re walking down to Hogsmeade, a slow meander through the snowy pathway, Remus’ rucksack tucked over Sirius’ shoulder.
“Like that,” Sirius replies, poking at his favourite dimple.
“It’s just a smile,” Remus says, in that way of his where he ought to be rolling his eyes, but his tone conveys the sentiment well enough.
“Yeah,” Sirius says, scoffing, “but it’s your smile.”
Remus blushes, like he always does when he’s faced with the horrifying concept of a compliment. The problem is, Sirius realises, when Remus continues cheerfully down the hill, that they all dote on him like that. Peter, who loves Remus for his kindness and willingness to sit down for hours to help him finish a difficult transfiguration essay. James, who tucks Remus under his arm and adores him. And himself.
Sirius Black, in love with the purest bloke to ever attend Hogwarts. Possibly an Angel sent from the Heavens, and he’s competing, unwillingly and unknowingly, with his two other best mates.
“Remus,” Peter says miserably at dinner, slumping further into one plump hand, “would you look over my DADA essay?”
Sirius holds back a sneer.
There’s really no need to put on an act.
Remus is lovely, through and through, and doesn’t need an excuse to help people.
“Sure,” Remus says, distractedly, buttering a piece of bread over a massive tome of runes.
The rest of his plate is empty, and Sirius, out the corner of his eye, spies James pursing his lips distastefully.
“Moony,” he sighs, but there’s a grin painting his lips when Remus merely hums, “you’re a growing boy, or at least, we hope you’re growing. Being taller than Peter isn’t much of an accomplishment.”
“Oi!” Peter huffs, through a mouthful of chicken.
“Mountainous gits,” Remus murmurs.
Sirius snorts, because that’s the first thing their darling Moony had said come the beginning of seventh year, observing James and Sirius' growth spurts from his own average stature with an amused:
‘Mountains, the both of you’.
James tuts, and begins loading Remus’ plate with roasted vegetables, a poached egg, and lentils.
“Eat up,” James says cheerfully, when Remus finally glances up.
He sounds incredibly like Mrs Potter for a brief moment, before he winks, “no wonder Caradac is eyeing you up, Remus.”
Sirius’ own taunting grin fades, and the bread roll clenched in his fist crumbles.
“You’re brilliant, Moony,” Peter sighs, three days later when Remus hands over a heavily edited DADA essay, smiling that smile.
Sirius grumbles under his breath, because it’s not for him. (This time, at least.)
“He’d be brilliant even if he wasn’t a sucker who did your essays for you,” James points out.
“He didn’t do it for me,” Peter sulks.
Remus, because he’s polite and lovely, doesn’t contradict this. Though, Sirius can easily guess that Peter’s essay was a disaster worth nothing short of a Troll.
“Did you hear?” Remus asks mildly, pulling out a chair and sliding in next to Sirius.
“My great aunt can’t hear anymore,” Peter says, scratching his chin, “her cauldron exploded in her face after a botched potion.”
Remus quirks a concerned eyebrow.
“Er, sorry to hear it. But I was talking about the Beauxbatons students coming to visit.”
James sat up in his seat.
“What?”
“James,” Remus says, fondly, “you were leading the prefect meeting that announced it.”
“Lily organised it,” he replies, guiltily, “I think she mentioned something about France, but I was thinking about the upcoming match against Slytherin.”
Sirius rolls his eyes.
“That’s months away.”
“There’s going to be twenty students,” Remus says quickly, before James can open his mouth and flatten them with a spew of Quidditch talk.
“What’s the point?” Sirius asks gruffly, leaning back in his chair, legs sprawling out lazily. His thigh is pressed against Remus’ like this, warm and comfortable. To his delight, Remus doesn’t shift an inch.
He wiggles his quill contemplatively, and quirks half a smile in Sirius’ direction.
“Foreign unity, I expect.”
“I don’t plan on going to France,” Sirius replies, flatly.
The accents irritate him.
“Well,” Remus says, flicking lightly at Sirius' wrist, “luckily, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”
Sirius mock gasps.
“It doesn’t? You mean you don’t get up every morning for me, Moony?”
“I do,” Remus says, and Sirius’ heart flips, “because you stomp around like an elephant.”
Sirius scowls.
“James is worse. He sings in the shower.”
Remus laughs.
“So do you!”
“I have a lovely voice,” Sirius protests, only slightly arrogantly.
“You don’t,” Peter and James say, in unison.
“Piss off.”
It’s a dreary Tuesday when the students of Beauxbatons arrive. They march through a side door near the teachers table, huddling in a small group led by a lanky man wearing a hideous green hat.
Dumbledore approaches the podium with his usual benign smile, and the hall quietens at once. Only hushed whispers breach the silence.
“Good evening,” Dumbledore says pleasantly, “I will make this brief, because I have no doubt that you are all as hungry as I am. This term, I’m delighted to welcome Professor Gaia, and his students of Beauxbatons.”
There’s a scattered round of applause, and Professor Gaia beams, waving excitedly.
“He looks like a git,” Sirius grumbles.
“He looks nice,” Remus says, straining to peer over James’ head.
“Sit wherever you please,” Dumbledore says cheerfully, gesturing to the four tables with a bony hand, “and let the feast begin.”
The empty wooden table shimmers with an extravagance usually saved only for special occasions, so glamorous that Remus gapes for a second. It rivals even the famous Halloween Feast, with mountains of steaming food and bubbling drinks.
He’s gazing between the ratatouille and fried tofu when someone taps his shoulder.
“Hello,” Remus says, twisting in his seat.
A tall boy with striking blue eyes and artfully tousled blonde hair grins down at him. His navy blue robes stretch wonderfully across his broad shoulders, and for a second, Remus’ mouth goes dry.
“Hi,” the boy says, offering a large hand, “mind if I sit?”
“Not at all,” Remus says, and his own hand, slimmer and traced with scars, slips into a warm, calloused palm.
“I’m Jean-Luc,” he says, dropping into the empty seat next to Remus. Their shoulders brush, and Remus tries hard not to let an embarrassing flush of red creep up his neck.
“Remus,” Remus murmurs, smiling shyly, “and this is-“
Sirius bullies himself over James’ lap, and offers his hand.
“Sirius Black.”
“Yes, er,” Remus says, quite squashed between Jean-Luc and Sirius, “and that’s James, and Peter.”
Peter waves, in more awe of the amount of food in front of him than the foreign student, while James offers a grin.
“Nice to meet you, mate.”
“You too,” Jean-Luc says.
A couple of other Beauxbatons students pass by, clapping Jean-Luc on the back, winking as they settle amongst a group of sixth years further down the table.
“Is it true your wand chooses you when you first arrive at the school?” Remus asks politely, when Sirius’ mouth opens, his grey eyes flashing darkly, “It’s quite different from what we do over here.”
Jean-Luc grins down at Remus, and runs a hand through his hair, “After the sorting, yeah. It’s because of Rappaport’s Law.”
Remus straightens, brightening considerably.
“Well, you’re always welcome over here in Gryffindor. I’d love to hear more about the school’s history.”
Jean Luc smirks, “I look forward to getting to know you.”
“Do you play quidditch?” Sirius asks loudly, leaning on his elbow to peer at Jean-Luc with a haughty expression.
“I do,” Jean-Luc says, tearing his eyes away from Remus’ cheeks, which have finally succumbed to a tomato red.
James leans forward eagerly.
“Excellent. What position?”
“Beater,” Jean-Luc says, grinning.
Sirius scowls.
“I’m Captain of the Gryffindor team,” James continues proudly, “feel free to join us on the pitch.”
Jean-Luc turns to Remus.
“Will you watch?”
“How do you know he’s not on the team, too?” Sirius demands, and Remus can’t help but snort. James winks behind Sirius’ head, a mischievous allusion to Remus’ slight frame, and his overall disinterest for any sport that involves a ball.
Jean-Luc considers him intently beneath hooded eyes.
“I suppose you could be a seeker,” he says, grinning again, “you’ve got a good body for it.”
James, glancing hazardously at Sirius, who appears to be mulling over homicide, hastily interjects:
“Let’s dig in, lads. Before all the good stuff is gone.”
“Will you share with me?” Jean-Luc asks, pulling two pies towards himself and Remus, “I’ve been dying to try some British cuisine.”
Remus chuckles, but Sirius, glowering, gets there first, eyeing the steak and kidney with disdain.
“Remus is vegetarian, Jean.”
“ Jean-Luc.”
“Right,” Sirius says, dismissively, snatching the pie for himself.
Jean-Luc shrugs.
“Potato pie?” He offers, sliding it so it sits, steaming and perfect, between their elbows.
Remus, blushing, smiles that smile, and, unaware of the fuming fit Sirius has worked himself up to, nods.