Prompt: Guitar
Author's note: Well, I tried.
Title: Tuning the Guitar
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Era: First War, both suspect the other
Rated: PG for language
Feedback: is always appreciated
Disclaimer: I don't own JK Rowling's stuff

The C was off.
He cussed quietly to himself and set to tugging and strumming it into its proper place.
He tried it again with a glance at the clock.
Another secret mission.
Right.
There were a lot more of those these days.
They used to be able to tell eachother.
Not necessarily what they were doing or even the exact day they’d be back, but where and maybe an approximation.
They used to floo, used to owl in code, used to send word ahead.
They used to race home.
They used to wait up for eachother.
Like he was doing now.
Only he wasn’t waiting up for Remus.
Not really.
He had no idea when he’d be home.
He was just up at 4 AM, tuning his guitar after finishing some translations for Dumbledore.
Wouldn’t mother be proud.
Finally all those sessions with the tutors she’d picked with an eye more to bloodline than any talent at teaching was paying off.
She’d be thrilled.
Even his thoughts were sarcastic more often than not these days.
It used to be, that if either was late coming home, the other would start to imagine all kinds of horrific things.
They’d deny it of course, if asked.
But that was then.
That had been a different Remus. A different Sirius.
Back when they used to joke about setting off a bunch of dungbombs in Voldemort’s underwear drawer. Back when they used to eat together, and do eachothers’ chores. Back when he knew…or thought he knew…where their allegiances lay. They were in it together. Marauders for life. One for all, and all for one.
There the C was fixed.
But something had changed.
And now the D sounded wrong.
How the Hell had that happened?
Damn.
There was a spy among them.
One of them, one of their own, had turned.
And he could pretend he didn’t hear it, didn’t think it himself, but he did.
The whispers.
It was the werewolf.
The damn dark thing couldn’t help himself.
It snapped out sometimes.
And he wondered at the wisdom of having Remus spend so much time among them.
It was for the war, he’d been assured.
By Remus.
And maybe that was when it happened.
When he was far away from them.
When they weren’t there to notice.
Maybe the wolf had gained the upper hand.
Maybe they had done something, said something, turned some sort of key inside of him.
Opened a door.
Or locked one.
Maybe he was under the Imperius.
This last is what he liked to think, because then it wouldn’t be Remus’ fault. He wouldn’t be weak, wouldn’t be a traitor.
It could have been a wild spell, illegally cast by a stronger alpha wolf.
It doesn’t matter how it happened though. Not really.
There. Tuned.
The sound of footsteps, and the doorknob turns.
And Remus is standing, staring at him. Surprised and wary.
“Didn’t think you’d be up.”
He doesn’t answer, just loosens his hold on his wand and lowers it.
Part of him feels guilty for reaching for it at all. And then for holding it so tightly. Even after he realized who it was.
But he keeps it in reach.
And he doesn’t sleep.
Just reports to Dumbledore when the clock strikes a slightly more reasonable hour.