James had no idea what to do. Handling cutting insults thrown his way was easy. Deflecting dangerous, potentially injurious curses was a piece of cake. Physical fights and grueling brawls were a walk in the park. But talking? Hell. Sirius wanting to talk about his problem was inconceivable, unnatural, apocalyptical. Something was very, very wrong if Sirius wanted to talk about it.

In some ways, their lives were not much different from all the other 17-year-olds out there, with friendship and heartbreak, difficult lessons and moments of joy. Except for that bit about the Dark Lord coming to power, of course. And the fact that they were Marauders: And theirs was never going to be just another coming of age story. It would be too cliched.

When one sees inconsistencies and harbors doubts, one often ends up either uncovering very well-layered, hidden ploys, or falling into the category of paranoid. Tonks was willing to take her chances, for satiating her thirst for explanations far outweighed the prospect of being labeled paranoid. She was odd and clumsy, and "paranoid" didn't really sound all that out of place.

Of mischief, mayhem, maudlinism, and the little thing called friendship that bound them together. Of stories long forgotten and brotherhoods long formed. Of being a marauder, all the livelong days.

(Non-canon) It's not as if they had chosen this life. It was how it was. Peering from one side of the fence - no, brick wall, laced with barbed wires and shards of glass - to the other, the grass wasn't a whole lot greener. Because no matter where you were, it was all desolate, all withered, all so damaged, from inside out. And he wasn't really talking about the terrain anymore.

"I have advice for you, and I suggest you take it. Leave. Leave this institution because you don't belong here. You should never have come. This place it's not what you think it is...you don't know what happens here to people like you. Go back to where you came from, because if you stay, I promise you, you'll find yourself wishing for something as painless as hot iron on your skin.

Something seemed to have ignited the moment Lily met James, something that couldn't quite be placed as hatred, or dislike.

"He needs to hurt something. Himself. Drown the pain. Stupid bloody masochist," James closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. Sirius ran a hand over his tired face. A masochist was exactly what Remus was. Twisted. Maimed. And they couldn't fix it.