It’s been twelve years, but Sirius would still recognize that voice anywhere, even coming out of a tinny phone speaker while the absolute infant in the queue ahead of him - okay so she’s probably sixteen, but still - says “he’s like, so old, but he’s hot.”
The voice would be enough but the lyrics are something no one else could possibly know, a song scratched on the back of a show flier a hundred years ago, never performed let alone published, and now shot through with the anger and road-weariness they had only thought they understood back then, when he and Remus and the others were little more than infants themselves.
“Give me that,” Sirius snarls, then “sorry, please, I used to know him,” a terrible attempt at an apology as he scrawls down the name of the video account, an impossible thing, a disappearing clue in a dream, Remus alive.
so a hundred years ago I wrote in this Marauder Rhombus rock band AU? And now they like me are old.
The voice would be enough but the lyrics are something no one else could possibly know, a song scratched on the back of a show flier a hundred years ago, never performed let alone published, and now shot through with the anger and road-weariness they had only thought they understood back then, when he and Remus and the others were little more than infants themselves.
“Give me that,” Sirius snarls, then “sorry, please, I used to know him,” a terrible attempt at an apology as he scrawls down the name of the video account, an impossible thing, a disappearing clue in a dream, Remus alive.