Marauder crack

A flavourless reward

In the early afternoon, the cauldrons bubble in Potions class. Professor Filius Flitwick, head of the Ravenclaw house walks among the tables and frowns when he hears even the slightest voice.

- It's an exam, gentlemen. If you were authorised to do comments between you, it would be a round table. Have I explained myself with clarity, Mr. Malfoy?

- Yes, professor.

Ingredients require precise cooking times. Sirius counts the minutes and takes note of the color of the elements. Three chairs ahead, Remus's cauldron boils placidly, and the little light that hit the dungeons from the latticed windows in the walls hits him directly. As if the sun courted him, to make the moon mad. Six years of school and this is the first time Remus has put up three seats distance between his cauldron and Sirius's.

Fuck.

Add the last ingredient to the mixture and the liquid rebels, explodes in soapy bubbles, he rides on the cauldron, flirting with the edges, slip points. Half a minute later and suddenly, the cooking ends and only a silver-coloured residue remains in the pot, which reminds him of the moon when it rises the first night of August.

- Excellent, Mr. Black. - The professor observes the sample of his potion with satisfaction. - Ten points for the house of Gryffindor.

Sirius ignores the foul hatred Malfoy directs him in the form of a murderess glare. He also ignores Severus Snape in the back of the class, muttering between teeth against him. Remus keeps turning his back and would give ten times ten points and the House Cup to find the ingredient that will make him turn around and give him one of his soothing smiles.

He imagines that it is time to ask for forgiveness. It's going to make history because no one wearing his blood has apologised in all the long and aristocratic history of the Blacks. Sirius has not been taught how to do what.