Title: What It Means

Pairing: Remus/Sirius

Rating: K

Set: in fifth and beginning of sixth years

Disclaimer: If Harry Potter belonged to me, Sirius and Remus would've spent the sixth and seventh books alive, snogging, and throwing darts at a picture of a certain pink-haired witch. Since Harry Potter has a sad lack of dart-throwing, it's obvious that Harry Potter & Co. belong to one JKR, and not me.

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A random chill sets in at the oddest times, when unsuspecting boys are strolling the grounds in less clothing than needed. They laugh and smile, pushing each other into piles of leaves and wrestling like the children they insist that they are more mature than. They regretfully start back towards the castle when the time comes, as the sun sets and the wind nips at bits of exposed skin.

They slip their hands into each other's pockets to protect themselves and tell themselves it means nothing, as it truly doesn't.

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Skating on the lake is difficult, especially when snowflakes are falling and clinging to their eyelashes, obstructing their visions. They do not have enough control over their gangly legs to prevent themselves from falling onto the ice with all of the grace of newborn colts. Their gloved hands link together so they can hold each other up as they attempt some semblance of skating.

Though they tell themselves that their laced fingers mean nothing, at the basest pits of their hearts, they think they may mean the tiniest of somethings.

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They find themselves in a field, picking flowers for a prank. They laugh and mention how girly collecting blossoms in a basket they pinched is, but the basket is soon filled. Smiling, they each tuck a flower behind the other's ear, and make their way back to the castle with lively, animated conversation.

When one flower is pressed between the pages of a book, and the other is placed in a secret box, they tell themselves it doesn't mean anything. Truthfully, though, they suspect that maybe, just maybe, it does.

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They miss each other constantly during their two months apart, sending too many letters about nonsense out of need for communication with the other. It's only because we aren't used to spending time apart, they assure themselves. This isn't strange at all, they say as they count down the days until their reunion at a mate's house, all whilst assuring themselves that they are completely normal.

As they embrace each other longer than mates should, breathing in each other's scents and thinking, this, this is why it was normal to miss him, then hasten to clap their other two friends on the back in a manly greeting, they finally admit to themselves that it may mean the smallest something, although they really know it means much more.

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A random chill sets in at the oddest times, when unsuspecting boys are strolling the grounds in less clothing than needed. There is a heady sting of betrayal hanging between them, chilling the two even more. The bitter taste of The Prank fills their mouths as they pass the Willow, and the cold sets even deeper into their bones. Without meeting eyes, they slip their hands into each other's pockets and continue walking. Although it does nothing to warm them, they cannot pull away.

They tell themselves, in small, cracked whispers in their minds, that it means absolutely nothing. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. It means nothing, because it can't mean more. It can't mean anything. They can't bear to feel the pain that comes along with what it means.

They tell themselves, over and over again, in the deepest denial, that it means nothing, but in their raw, breaking hearts, they know it means everything.