In many ways, they were very much the same. Sirius was still as reckless, still as proud, and still as obnoxious as he was back at Hogwarts. Remus was still a werewolf, still liked to read well into the night, and still utterly in love with Sirius despite how obnoxious he could be. And yet in many ways they had changed. Flecks of grey polluted Sirius' raven hair and he was considerably thinner than the former Beater of the Gryffindor Quidditch team ought to be, gaunt but less and less so with the passing of time. Each full moon proved more tiresome for Remus than the last, but how far this could be credited to Remus' years and how far it could be credited to the war was a matter of debate. Meanwhile, every inch of the garish wallpaper of Sirius' bedroom was still covered with Gryffindor banners and muggle posters of motorbikes, amidst clusters of old photographs. But over the years they had faded, dulled, much like the memories they preserved.

After spending twelve years in Azkaban serving the punishment for a crime he did not commit, Sirius deserved to feel bitter. It was his right, his only freedom, and so Remus granted it to him without question. He kept his eyes on the book before him rather than interfering in Sirius' thoughts, pretending to read the words on the printed page as the other man sat staring into that ruddy mirror. It was the one that came in a pair, the brother of which he'd given to his godson. Fortunately, Harry had yet to get himself into enough trouble that he'd come in need of it, but that didn't stop Sirius carrying it around in his pocket regardless, digging it out whenever he had a minute to spare or a moment in which boredom was a legitimate threat. This was often considering he was still believed to be 'mass murderer Sirius Black' and was confined within the walls of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Sirius would look into the pristine surface of the glass and he'd see a man so fractured and impaired, if not with scars like Remus' than with the more burdensome type, deeper and infinitely more venomous. He saw a man bearing the signs of more wear than he was due. Azkaban did that to you, he'd once told Remus. It sucked the very life from you. But Remus knew it was only half the Dementors to blame. Grief. Grief did that to him. Dementors only harnessed that grief to their own ends, with little care for the soul they tortured in the meantime or the years they stole from the man in doing so.

Remus was used to it. He'd always borne certain imperfections and accepted that he was fated to acquire grey hairs in his early twenties. But he recognised that there was a part of Sirius that still believed he was seventeen. When Sirius looked into that mirror he was faced with the truth. Everything had changed. They had changed. They'd lost years off their lives because of one prophecy, one betrayal, and one man's lust for revenge; his to be precise.

"We're getting old," Sirius said in resignation, the hard edge of his voice cutting through the silence like a dagger. Finally setting the mirror aside, Sirius let his eyes drift towards Remus in invitation to prove him wrong. Remus was well accustomed to the feeling of those eyes burning into his back, a battle of need and resentment about their sorry existence raging in their stormy depths. Tearing his gaze from the book which - if truth be told - he only half allowed himself to be immersed in, Remus moved from the desk which he had occupied in Sirius' stead. His reasoning was that it was of a fine mahogany that was simply craving to be used, a fact which Sirius had forever neglected. It had nothing to do with it being in Sirius' bedroom, their bedroom even, and that after twelve years of agonising doubt and torturous, guilt-ridden waiting, he'd had enough of pouring over his books in solitude.

Sirius watched Remus' movements as he sat on the edge of the bed with the intention of giving him the attention he desired. Tracing the line of Sirius' jaw with light fingertips, Remus felt utterly powerless in the face of his doubt. The raven-haired man emitted a reluctant sigh, his forehead furrowing as if he knew exactly what was coming next. Sirius Black, always beautiful, always handsome, because the soul within was as pure as his family's line. That's what Remus thought of him. He'd told him as much. But Sirius was plagued with scepticism, his sense of self-worth lost somewhere between being kicked out of the very prison he was now confined in and the death of the brother who had freed him from it.

"We're not seventeen, you mean?" Remus said gently, but it was clear from the slightly strained nature of his voice that whereas he might sympathise with Sirius' lamentations, he didn't wholly agree. If it was Sirius' wish, to be seventeen again, it was Remus' fear. To return would be like reaching for the stars; naive. Remus believed one learnt from the past and from one's mistakes. He'd be damned if he was going to do it all over again, to put his faith in the wrong person all over again. Trust had been their mistake, a hard lesson but necessary.

"You're right," he continued. "We're getting old." Remus settled onto the bed next to Sirius, ignoring the look of indignation that had crossed his still-handsome features and the curse he uttered under his breath. "But you're not the one with almost a full head of grey hair, are you?"

"Be quiet, will you?" Sirius answered, repeating words he'd said countless times in their youth whenever Remus showed signs of slipping into self-deprecation. "That's my Moony you're talking about." And if that wasn't enough to cut Remus short, the warm touch of lips against his neck was ample distraction.

Sirius still bore that same doggish odour, one that instantly drew Remus' mind back to mornings after the full moon despite the lacing of Firewhiskey that now accompanied it. As Sirius continued to supply him with distraction, affection erupted inside Remus. At the age of seventeen, he'd been powerless against it. He was no better armed at thirty-five.

In many ways, Sirius was ruined. He was the end product of twelve years of grief and regret, wounds which were raked raw instead of healed. Remus was still the beast he'd always been, a werewolf and an aberration, abhorred by the majority of the wizarding world. But they were also butterflies. Youth suited them, but only with age could they become what they were now. They'd lost everything with the exception of each other. But the layers had been peeled away – fear of deception and fear of betrayal – layers which had driven a wedge between them all those years ago. No matter how many lines they had acquired over time, hindering their complexions, and no matter how many strands of grey robbed their hair of colour, Remus felt as alive as he did atop the Astronomy Tower during their seventh year, when he and Sirius had sought privacy in the shroud of darkness that night had to offer. James wasn't dead, Peter had never betrayed them; the other two Marauders were just out of sight, missing only because it was Sirius who mattered to him most when another day drew to a close. Sirius, his Sirius, who was more beautiful now than even his teenage self could comprehend.