The first time Remus saw them, he’d been shy. He didn’t have any reason to be, he knew, because he looked perfectly normal, and that’s what mattered, right? But he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t pure wizard, wasn’t a pureblood, was a werewolf–but they didn’t know that. They being the roguish boy with hair that cascaded down to his shoulders, the hazel-eyed boy with hair that looked like it had been professionally tangled, and the short boy wearing gray, as though he could fade into the walls. Remus didn’t talk. He’d been scared to. But there was a certain daring in James’ tone that was attractive, a definitive nonchalance in Sirius’ posture that intrigued him, a quiet kindness in Peter’s face that felt like home. They seemed like a rebellion against who he was, a Remus who was too scared to revolt against the norm without anonymity at his side.
He wasn’t innocent. But he wasn’t normal either.
The first time Sirius saw them together, he’d been hoping. It hadn’t been in his nature to hope for much, but now was his chance to break free for the next seven years. To break free from dress robes and hatred and the cold and crippling feel of failure in his stomach. With Hogwarts came the promise of a new house and new friends. It came the chance to use a little magic to shake this cruel world up (and possibly shut his mother up in the process). Hogwarts was hope. Hogwarts was an escape.
He was desperate. And he was going to get what he wanted.
The first time James saw them together, he’d been jumping out of seat. It was Hogwarts. He could imagine all of the years to come in vivid detail–practices on the quidditch pitch with him as Gryffindor team captain, pulling pranks on the famously strict Minerva McGonagall, sneaking in Fizzing Whizzbees and books that bit you when you tried to open them, and laughing and joking with the three boys beside him. They’d be a team of teams, the much-needed sidekicks to his hero. James was going to blow them all away.
He was ready. He’d been waiting for this for as long as he could remember.
In their first year, Peter learned that if potions smelled like smoke and they weren’t supposed to that it was best to back away, and that Professor Binns’ room had the oddest sleep-inducing smell. He learned that he was awkward, and a little bashful, but that didn’t matter when you had friends like Sirius and Remus and James.
In their first year, Remus learned that some people were better friends than he should have expected, that maybe it was okay to let your guard down every once in a while to fill the hallway with Garroting Gas with a couple mischievous mates. He learned that a laugh might be the cost of a lie, but if a lie was protecting something beautiful and unfamiliar called friendship it was okay. He learned the pain of transforming alone, but when you weren’t alone the rest of the time, it felt worth it.
In their first year, James learned that redheads were fierce and beautiful and impossible not to admire, and that they had horrible taste in greasy-haired friends. He learned that Sirius had a passion for muggle photographs, that Peter could identify the kind of cheese he was eating by just a nibble, that Remus must have a suspiciously crazy personal life to disappear as often as he did and still find a way to wear every single one of his (many) knit sweaters in a month.
In their first year, Sirius learned what freedom felt like, what a life without his family screaming bigoted heritage into his ear felt like. It felt like a ride on James’ broom, like a shared laugh with Remus, like a hug from Peter. It felt like the Gryffindor common room in the winter, which smelled like cedar and wool and freshly baked bread.
But altogether? They learned what it was like to feel the start of something as grand and important as themselves. They promised they’d think of a name for themselves, that it would bond them forever.
Then they went home. One to a family he hated, one to a family he loved, and two to families that didn’t know them at all.
Second year was made of impossible dares and secrets and inventing new spells that would write papers for them. It was made of a thrashing tree that hid Remus every month as he transformed into something he thought would scare his friends, but only united the four of them more. It was made of hope and quidditch and James racing on a broom as Sirius commentated and Remus and Peter cheered. It was made of hot chocolate in the Gryffindor common room and Professor McGonagall having to look twice over her shoulder every so often. But most of all, second year was what made them who they were: The Marauders.
Third year was shaped by detention for doing impossible things, like climbing up the astronomy tower and confessing love for girls who had hair like sunset. It was shaped by the taste of chocolate frogs at one in the morning, by the snitch James carried around in his pocket. It was shaped by the time Remus spent writing everyone else’s papers and Sirius’ fascination with bikes and leather jackets and other Muggle things. It was shaped by the constant glow of three friends and the shadowing of another.
But they were the Marauders, and even if one felt like he was made of darkness, it didn’t matter, because they were forever.
Fourth year was haphazard, like a stack of Howlers that they had figured out a way to silence. It was as messy as James’ first kiss with a girl, and as sloppy as Sirius’ first kiss with a boy. It was as dangerous as the time Remus led the Giant Squid out of the lake and into the Great Hall, as thrilling as the hours Peter spent alone in a room that did his bidding. It was as bitter and hilarious as the mandrake leaves they tried to keep on their tongue for a month only to fail, as awful as the smell of burning ink when they tried to make an advanced map of Hogwarts.
They were the Marauders. They were a mess, but they were a mess together, and that was what counted.
Fifth year was the year of discoveries. It was the year James learned that scaling the astronomy tower was a bad way to impress beautiful green-eyed Muggleborns, that Remus discovered the awesome power of covering up for his friends as a prefect. It was the year Sirius realized the way to enchant a motorbike and hoped to do it on his own, the year Peter
It was also the year that they finally got the chance to be there for their werewolf friend when he transformed. They became Animagi, each discovering the beauty of comforting Remus when he was more animal than human and the power of knowing who they really were inside.
Stag, for bravery. Dog, for loyalty. Rat…for cheese?
Or, as Peter was coming to suspect, for vermin. Something to be stepped on and over by those bigger and better than you.
But it didn’t matter what he felt. They were the Marauders, and their bond was stronger than any single person’s feelings.
Sixth year was the year the storm came into their dorm room and gloom pressed against their shoulders like the ever-utilized invisibility cloak. It was a year created from tears and kisses and pranks that went too far and rainy quidditch matches. It was a year of learning what it felt like to fall, what it felt like to crack and fall apart only to come back together again. They were torn, and arguing, and nearly hated each other with the burning feeling of snuck firewhiskey at two in the morning, but they were still the Marauders. They were the Marauders, and if there was one thing Marauders didn’t do, it was lose each other and the six years they had spent together. They immortalized themselves in a map of Hogwarts to commemorate their coming back together, and signed off with their new nicknames: Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.
Seventh year was it. It was the year James became Head Boy and was still Quidditch captain, the year Sirius was burned out of his family tree. It was the year Peter made some new Slytherin friends with interesting tattoos, the year Remus starting going to protests to protect Muggleborns with his new Muggleborn friend, Lily Evans.
Lily Evans, who had hair like sunset and a laugh like a cool, crisp September wind. Lily Evans, who was fierce and determined and had become Head Girl because she was clever and kind and could wield a wand better than most adults. Lily Evans, who could brew Amortentia in her sleep–not that she needed it. James Potter was already head over heels in love with her. It was in seventh year that she fell in love with him.
It was two years later that he asked her to marry him.
Sirius had cried. Remus had smiled. And Peter sat there, wondering when four heads had become five and they had inducted a new Marauder. Five heads might be better than four, especially when the fifth was brilliant and kindhearted and had been solemnly swearing she was up to no good longer than any of them.
Even if any of them had hesitations, they were quickly lost to those sparkling green eyes. Lily was good. She may have fallen in love with James, but she fell in love with each of them for their own traits. Remus, for his honest intelligence and ability to talk and discuss until dawn flooded through the windows; Sirius, for his daring and flat, sarcastic humor that made her laugh until her stomach hurt; and Peter, for his kind heart and the way he could keep a secret.
They were the Marauders, her Marauders, and they made her feel whole.
And so when James named only one of them his best man, it didn’t matter. They were all valued, because of what they were: Marauders. They were forever, and a title bestowed to only one of them wasn’t supposed to change them.
War wasn’t supposed to change them, either.
But it did.
Remus was a spy who slept even less at night than he had at Hogwarts. Sirius was addicted to the pain of tattoos and started drawing a design that had everyone who had been lost in the effort’s name blended in with swirls and vines and the words mischief managed. Peter learned to keep a blank expression, to become a liar and to wear long sleeves so no one would notice his tattoo. James would nervously wash his hands every time he touched something, and wished he could take his broom outside and fly for a while. Lily became obsessed with flowers, gardening constantly so that one thing might live even when this world that she had grown to love, this magic that inhabited her soul, was at risk.
But they were still the Marauders, just with a few secrets between them.
The last time Peter saw James, he hadn’t thought of his body lying on the floor. The last time he saw Sirius, he hadn’t thought of his friend sobbing. The last time he saw Remus, he hadn’t thought of Moony going through his transformation alone.
The last time he saw himself as a Marauder had been too long ago. He hadn’t been ready for his tears, his newfound power. But this was his shot, and he wasn’t going to throw it away.
The last time Remus saw all of them together he had waved a cheery goodbye, feeling grateful for the warm coffee Peter had brewed for everyone in their varying forms of likes and dislikes (Peter liked his with too much sugar and cream, James had a preference for a good dose of milk, Remus would put in one sugar cube, and Sirius, quite fittingly considering his last name, loved a good black coffee). For Remus, it was war, but that didn’t change that these were the three people who had stuck with him when he was odd and only wore knit sweaters and disappeared once each month. These were the people who had looked beyond “werewolf” and found “friend”. And so he didn’t expect that one was playing Judas this whole time, because they were the Marauders, and the Marauders were loyal until the end.
The last time Sirius saw James, he thought everything would be okay. But his best friend was a corpse, a terrible breadcrumb leading to his dead wife. Lilies weren’t meant to die. James’ weren’t either. They were all supposed to stick together forever, even in war, even in pain and death and
