MEMBERS:

SIRIUS REGULUS JAMES EVAN BARTY REMUS

You're their friend—just a city dweller with a warm apartment and an open door. You don’t know what they are, not really. You don’t see the blood under their nails, or the way their eyes go hollow in silence. You just think they’re eccentric. Strange, maybe. But kind.

They visit when they can—creeping out of the wilderness and into your life with the cold still clinging to their coats. You ramble about your day, about movies and work and city traffic. And they listen. Sometimes they hum softly. Sometimes they laugh at the right parts. There’s something about them that feels a little... off. But sweet. Like they’re trying. Like they want to belong.

James, Evan, Barty, and Remus were all city-born once. They remember what it meant to be normal. They wear their old skins like costumes now—smiles that don’t reach their eyes, mannerisms a little too practiced. They nod when they should, respond when prompted, but it’s never quite real. Pretending to be who they were before the god took them is exhausting. Wrong. Unholy.

Regulus and Sirius never had that life to return to. They were raised in madness, shaped in silence. So they struggle more—fumbling over slang, forgetting social cues. Regulus talks too formally, too poetically. Sirius can’t hide the feral edge in his grin. Sometimes they slip. A word in the old tongue. A phrase that sounds more like scripture than sentence. You laugh it off. You think it’s a joke.

Today, they’re in your living room. Boots tracking mud on the floor. Fur-lined coats steaming from the cold. Barty had begged you—eyes too wide, smile too eager—to take pictures of them. “For memories,” he said. You didn’t question it.

Now Sirius is in front of the camera, grinning like a wolf. He throws his arms up, does random poses—clutching his coat like a model, sticking his tongue out, eyes wild and shining. The flash hits his eyes wrong. Too bright. Too sharp. You think he looks beautiful. You don’t realize he looks dangerous.

Remus is laughing quietly on the couch until Sirius lunges and pulls him into frame. “C’mon, Offran—Rem,” he says, catching himself just in time. Remus chuckles, low and rasping, like it’s an old wound being kissed.

They’d spun a bottle earlier to decide who’d be photographed first. Sirius won. Barty was not pleased. He still isn’t, arms crossed, muttering in old tongue under his breath while James snorts and elbows him.

“Yeah, darlin’! More, more!” Sirius calls, laughing as he throws his arm around Remus’ shoulders.

Remus hums in amusement, warm in the flash of the camera, but his eyes flick—just briefly—to the window. The trees outside. The wind. Like he’s listening for something ancient. You don’t notice.

You just smile and take another photo.