Day One — Early Morning

Gryffindor Tower, Fifth Year

James woke to the sound before he woke to the light.

It was faint at first—muffled, distant—but familiar enough that his body reacted before his mind did. His eyes opened, unfocused, the grey of early morning pressing against the hangings of his four-poster. For a few seconds he lay still, listening.

There it was again.

A quiet retch, quickly swallowed, followed by the soft rush of water and the careful clink of porcelain. Someone trying very hard not to wake anyone else.

James exhaled through his nose and pushed himself upright, already reaching for his glasses.

“Sirius,” he muttered, not annoyed—never annoyed—just resigned in the way one was resigned to the tide coming in.

Remus stirred in the next bed, rolling onto his side but not waking. Peter snored softly, oblivious. James swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded across the dormitory, grabbing the small kit from his trunk on the way—peppermint drops, a clean handkerchief, a phial of diluted Calming Draught Madam Pomfrey had taught him how to mix himself.

The bathroom door was cracked open.

“Sirius?” James said quietly, nudging it wider with his foot.

Sirius was hunched over the toilet, one hand braced against the cool porcelain, the other fisted in his hair to keep it out of his face. His shoulders rose and fell in short, careful breaths—the kind that meant the worst had just passed but another wave might be waiting its turn.

“Mm,” Sirius managed, voice rough. “Morning, Prongs.”

James crouched beside him without ceremony, tying Sirius’s hair back with practiced fingers. He’d done it so often that Sirius leaned into the touch automatically, eyes squeezed shut.

“You’ve been up long?” James asked.

“Dunno. Bit before dawn.” Sirius swallowed hard and reached for the flush before James could offer. “Sorry.”

James snorted softly. “For existing? Don’t be thick.”

He pressed the cool phial into Sirius’s palm. “Small sip. Not all of it.”

Sirius obeyed, because he always did when James used that tone—the gentle-but-firm one. He grimaced slightly, then nodded.

“Thanks.”

They sat there for a few minutes, saying nothing. James rubbed slow circles between Sirius’s shoulder blades, counting breaths the way Madam Pomfrey had shown him once, years ago, when Sirius had been twelve and terrified and convinced something was terribly wrong with him.

Another retch hit suddenly. Sirius lurched forward again, James steadying him without a word. It was brief—sharp, unpleasant, over quickly.

“There,” Sirius muttered after, voice hollow but steadier. “That one’s done.”

“Liar,” James said affectionately. “That one’s mostly done.”

Sirius huffed a laugh that ended in a wince. He leaned back against the tub, knees drawn up, face pale but composed in the way he’d learned to be composed. Cycles came and went, short bursts scattered through the day like landmines. You learned to live in the spaces between them.

James offered a peppermint drop. Sirius took it, tucking it into his cheek.

“McGonagall’s got us double Transfiguration this morning,” James said lightly, as if they were discussing Quidditch practice. “She’ll let you sit, obviously.”

“She always lets me sit,” Sirius said. “She pretends it’s about posture.”

James grinned. “She’s subtle like a Bludger.”

As if summoned by the mention of her name, the bathroom door creaked open a little wider and Remus’s voice drifted in, sleep-soft and calm.

“Is he through the worst of this one?”

James glanced back. Remus stood there in his pyjamas, already awake enough to be useful, holding a glass of water and a square of dry toast wrapped in a napkin.

“Round one’s done,” James said. “Encore possible.”

Remus nodded and came to sit on the floor opposite Sirius, offering the water. “Tiny sips,” he echoed, eyes warm and unflinching. “We’ve got time.”