Chapter Text
Sun turnin’ ‘round with graceful motion,
We’re setting of with a soft explosion;
Bound for a star with fiery oceans,
It’s so very lonely, you’re a hundred light years from home…
- “2000 Light Years From Home” The Rolling Stones, 1967
“You’re rushing.”
What was rushing? Better than dragging. Rushing was rubato. Rushing was fun.
“Again. And play it correctly this time.”
The ivories were almost hot to the touch. Unsurprising, they’d been there for hours. Still, Sirius played. At least it was Haydn. He could tolerate the sonatas as long as they were played in allegro. Anything slower and the general lack of wit made him want to tear his hair out. Starting again, he relayed the piece's movements in his head; First subject: tonic key, C major. Ends with an imperfect cadence. Repeat with triplet accompaniment. Commencing in C major, modulates to F major, G major, D—
“You’re rushing!”
She brought the conductor's baton down hard on the edge of the baby grand. It was a hollow sound, reed whip cracking off spruce surface like lightning.
“Allegro con brio,” his mother hissed. “With spirit, not delirium. You’re too eager.”
“Je suis fourbu, maman. S’il te plaît.”
“Absolument pas. Your audition is next week, and you’re still playing like you’ve clubs for fingers. Now again—correctement cette fois-ci.”
Sirius took a deep breath, and began again. While his fingers tread lightly up and down the keys, his mind went elsewhere. It was almost second-nature now.
First subject: tonic key, C major. Ends with an imperfect cadence.
Football with James. Sun burns and Ribena. Effie humming over the kitchen sink; the clink of her silver bracelets. James waving through the window, calling out to her—hey, Mum! Sirius does it too, because why not? Hey, Mum! Hey, Mum! She laughs. It’s not real, but it feels better than anything else.
“Sirius.”
Focus! Imperfect cadence, repeat with triplet accompaniment. Commencing in C major, modulates to F major, G major, D major, G major; end with imperfect cadence.
Chess with Peter. White moves first. He captures Peter’s knight and almost thinks he’s winning; it’s all for nought, he’s already blundered his King. Peter takes the board. Disappointing, but better than anything else.
Second subject: dominant key, G major. Frequent use of chromatic passing notes. More triplets. Allegro! Con brio! End with perfect cadence.
Miles—
WHAP!
The reed hit him across the knuckles and he ripped his hands away, choking out the sound.
“You’re still rushing!” Walburga seethed. “Is this honestly what you want to show the academy? How you’ve somehow managed to squander any innate talent you may have had in a matter of mere months?”
“You’re hitting me!”
She smacked him again, this time with her open palm.
“Don’t be such a baby. You think it’s easy to sit here and listen to such drivel? It’s one sonata. If you can’t manage this much then what hope is there for you?”
“I’m playing it as it was written,” he moaned. “If you think I’m rushing then why don’t you get out the bloody metronome?”
Her whipping arm came up again, then down in two solid strokes; a severe ‘x’ across his right side and shoulder.
“You watch your dirty mouth! You think Haydn had a metronome? At this rate you’d leave his ears bleeding. Now stop with this incessant whining and play it correctly.”
His fingers ached, someone should cut them off at the knuckle and let him be done with it. Free him. No… she’d just make him play on the bone.
C major. Imperfect cadence. Go somewhere else. Anywhere else.
“Again.”
Football with James—
“Again!”
Football with James. Sweating under the hot sun. Take off their shirts, try not to stare. James doesn’t notice anyway. Think I got a real shot with Evans this time around? She only called me an insufferable toe rag twice last week.
Repeat, all triples. C major, F major, G major, D major, G major; imperfect cadence!
Chess with Peter. Try not to yawn. Wow, Sirius, I think you’re actually getting worse at this. Capture a pawn. Lose a pawn. No, Sirius, never play F3!
Dominant key, G major. Chromatic passing.
Miles! Make a joke, listen to him laugh. Blimey, what a laugh… Kiss him behind the dining hall—regret it instantly. Consider throwing self into skip; don’t because it smells like month-old chicken carbonara. Sirius, come back here. OH! Kiss him again...
Triplets—allegro—ALLEGRO!
Kiss him again. Again. Again! Have you ever thought about trying the guitar, Sirius?
PERFECT CADENCE!
Hold his hand, only inside the dorm. Lay down next to me, Sirius. You’re amazing, Sirius. Ever heard of David Bowie, Sirius?
DOUBLE BAR, DOUBLE BAR, REPEAT!
Come back from detention. Shot spitballs on the back of Bilshin’s shiny bald head. Twelve before he caught on, new personal record. Grand mood, then; Where is Miles?
REPEAT!
Stare at James and Peter, see the looks on their faces. What do you mean he’s gone?
REPEAT!
But I never got to say goodbye!
ALLEGRO!
Miles!
ALLEGRO!
MILES!
DUH-DUH, DUH-DUH, DUH-DUH!
Suspended whole note… Forget to breathe… Adagio… Play on the bone… Crap…
“Softer.”
Play on the bone. Toujours Pur.
“Better.”
Play on the bone.
“Now again.”
* * *
Sirius had always hated the formal dining room. The walls were so dark they might as well have been black, and the table was carved from a pitch mahogany that was too heavy to do anything with aside from sit and be miserable. After hours—days—weeks spent slaving away at the foot of the grand piano he wished he could have returned to his room, but no one could watch him there without invading his personal sanctum, and so he stayed. At least the water felt good on his joints. It was routine now; he was to ice his hands for thirty minutes after every practise, not a minute more, not a minute less. A musician’s first instrument was his hands after all, and there were only so many things one could do to prevent carpal tunnel. Be it blind, deaf, or mute—he would overcome. But to lack the use of his hands would be a death sentence. Beethoven wrote six symphonies without his ears but who would lead them, if not those magical fingers? Amidst a world of arbitrary beauty and unjust shame, the hands were the only thing worth saving. It was exactly as his mother said;
Damn the soul. Save the hands.
“You’re lucky, you know.”
Sirius shifted in his seat and listened as the ice cubes bobbed around his knuckles. His eyes he kept closed, head tilted back on the chair as he feigned indifference. He couldn’t very well order Regulus out, and according to the grandfather clock standing on the far side of the room, he still had three minutes of the ice bath remaining. Not a minute more, not a minute less.
"At least she looks at you. You're lucky."
Sirius ignored him, and spurned by the cold shoulder he was receiving, Regulus approached the table with a purposeful look in his eye. At his heels came Kreacher, the family dog that'd been around for longer than either of them. He was a pureblood Pekingese, so old and scraggy-looking it was as though someone had shoved him into a blender and hit ‘chop’. The dog began sniffing Sirius’ trouser leg, and afraid that he might piss on him out of pure disdain, Sirius swung a leg out to ward him off. Kreacher simply growled venomously.
“If you’re just going to parrot everything our dear mother said, you can save it,” he told his brother. “I’ve a good memory.”
Regulus did not look satisfied.
“She wouldn’t be so hard on you if you actually tried. You put in the motions but you don’t really want it.”
“You’re right, I don’t want it.”
“Others would jump at the chance.”
“Others like you?”
Regulus frowned. “It’s the best music school in the country,” he said. “You wouldn’t have to live at home, and you’d be creating masterpieces every day. Doesn’t even a little bit of you want to go?”
“I’m happy where I am.”
“You’re just afraid you’ll miss them.”
Like the surge of a tidal wave, Sirius seethed. He withdrew his hands from the ice water and flapped them at the younger boy, making Regulus flinch as water spattered his eyes and cheeks.
“I do miss them. I miss them every day! Just because you don’t know how it feels...”
“I know how it feels!”
“Prove it, leave me alone then! Try writing to one of your own shitty friends—regale them with your incessant dogma for once and leave me in bloody peace!”
Noise came all at once; encouraged by their shouting, Kreacher began yipping from his place next to Regulus’ ankles while the dining room’s grandfather clock struck nine and started its heavy chime. It drove into Sirius' skull like an icepick, but at least it meant he was finished. Resisting the urge to boot the ugly dog into next week, Sirius stood and let his damp hands splash ice water across the mahogany table. Before he could leave, Regulus called out to him again.
“I only meant to wish you luck for your audition.”
“Yeah well, don’t… I don’t need your luck. Or your wishes.”
Regulus’ frown deepened, and Sirius felt that vicious sliver of remorse dig into the left side of his chest. Then he remembered why he was angry with him in the first place and all sympathy went up in smoke. He strode out of the dining room, telling himself he deserved it. After all, Regulus had been the one to break faith first, not him.
It’d started as an accident on Sirius' part, all thanks to an inconspicuous Black Sabbath tape he’d forgotten to send home with James. He’d found it in his jacket pocket when he was running late for a music lesson and made the mistake of tossing it onto his bed for later. Only, when Sirius returned that evening the tape was gone. His first thought was that a maid had found it during her daily rounds and had it discarded, but when he returned downstairs for tea he realised his blunder. The tape was lying on the parlour table between his mother and father’s chairs as though it were a dagger they'd discovered beneath his pillow. Regulus sat beside them, cowering. He would not meet Sirius' eye.
“So you’re smuggling rubbish inside now, are you?” His mother had shrieked. “You dare leave such vile, putrid, filth sitting around where anyone could find it?”
“I didn’t leave it sitting around, it was in my room!” He looked at Regulus. “You did it, didn’t you? You went into my room and took it—”
Walburga shot up from her chair. “This is our house! I will not have you defiling it with filthy pornography!”
“It’s music!”
“Enough!” She snatched up the tape and dangled it before his nose. Sirius knew exactly what was inside; death, war, sex—Satan. Pure metal.
“You will tell me where you got this. Now."
He would not. And so she turned on Regulus.
He broke in seconds.
“A–Andromeda sends him things for his birthday. She—She posts them to his friends so McGonagall doesn’t know he gets them.”
You little…
Their mother was disgusted. “Andromeda! Such a disappointment—always bringing in filth! We told you already that you are not to speak with her, and yet you still dare go behind my back! What do you have to say for yourself, Sirius?”
He glanced at his father, who was smoking his rich cigar, eyes on the rim of his whiskey glass. Say something, he silently pleaded; She’s your niece!
“Sirius, you will look at me when I’m talking to you!”
He did.
“Andy’s family, Mum. Everyone knows you can’t pick family.”
It was a goading thing, but Sirius knew this even as the words left his mouth. He wasn’t surprised when she turned and threw the tape into the fire. Sirius didn’t even know why they had a fire going, it was July. The room was blistering enough.
For the cheek, he was sent to his room without supper, and for Black Sabbath, was ordered to listen to his practise tapes for the rest of the night—on repeat, so that such proper art might finally sink in.
It went on for forever—she'd ordered one of the maids to come in and flip the tape at the top of every hour—until the noise had become little more than carnal insanity. It made his eye twitch, his heart hammer in his chest. He laid on his side with the pillow over his head, and it was there, under the constant stress of Bach’s Prelude and Fugue No. 5, Sirius hatched his chef-d’œuvre. Getting up from bed, he barred the door, and when the maid next came knocking, he did not let her in.
It was decided.
If his mother wanted filthy pornography so badly, then filthy pornography she would get.
The stunt started innocently enough. On the very last day of term, Peter’s older brother Simeon had pulled Sirius aside and jokingly pawned off an issue of Mayfair from his own personal stash of raunchy magazines. When he looked at the cover, Sirius’ first thought had been that the model looked as though she hadn’t slept in days. Then he recalled the term ‘bedroom eyes’ and things started to make more sense. What else could be more attractive than a weary girl lying amongst furs with her tits out?
James thought it was brilliant when he’d shown him. Over the years he’d been gifted a few cheeky magazines from the odd older cousin or two, but those were all mid-shelf wannabes. Mayfair was a man’s magazine, modish and charming. These women were worth something, polished to perfection like the pearls that hung down between their perky nipples.
Imagine you’ll want to take this one home with you, James had said on their last day.
What? Why?
You know! James gave him a look. Easier than imagining it, right?
Sirius was mortified.
Right! Right!
He’d smuggled the magazine back with him, tucked between the hem of his trousers and his sock. It was easy—easier than he’d imagined it would be, anyway. As usual, his parents scoured his trunk for rubbish and paraphernalia upon their arrival, but they hadn't the foresight to check his shoes. When he zipped up to his bedroom, Sirius lifted up his trousers to find that he'd sweat right through the front cover, creating a disappointing smudge where lovely Francesca’s blushing cheeks used to be. He wasn't bothered; the real erotica was found further in.
On the first night he flipped through it by the light of his torch, gnawing on his bottom lip. Surely it couldn’t be this hard—it all had to work the same way, didn’t it? He told himself that if James could do it, then surely he could too. But no—it just wasn’t there. No tingling in his gut, no nervous twitch-and-itch in his fingers, no insatiable teenage urge to satisfy. He tried folding the corner of the page to cover their faces. He pictured them in a Bond film, parachuting to safety with Sean Connery. He imagined them dancing on stage with Mick Jagger. He stared at tits and minge and arse until he was red in the face and still—
Nothing.
He was weak. And in the end he’d crept back to the corner of his bedroom, pulled the loose floorboard away, and reached his dirty little fingers inside to find the tissue-thin magazine he’d once stolen from that young maid. He stared long and hard at the man on front cover. No tits, no minge.
The itch came quick enough after that.
For a while the Mayfair issue sat untouched beneath the floor of his room, a fact that was somehow even more shameful than the stolen copy he flipped through every night. When it occurred to him that he could use the vulgar magazine the same way Regulus had used his Black Sabbath tape, it was like fireworks going off behind the eyes. He could’ve just left it out on his bed, or in his father’s study if he wanted to frame him for it—but that wouldn’t do anything. The man already played at infidelity like it was a game of draughts, one girlie magazine wasn’t about to upset the continuous Cold War his parents so lived in. He would have to think of something else if he wanted to see any real fallout. And so Sirius turned to a more obvious ploy. One that would surely send his mother into a spiral.
Regulus had been the one to find him first, slinking into the garage after him like a shadow. Sirius had tried shooing him, but when he refused to tell Regulus what the glue and brushes were for, his brother grew cross with him and threatened to tell their mother that he was up to something—which was exactly what Sirius was counting on, of course.
The glue had just begun to set when Walburga Black stormed his bedroom. She took one look at the bare breasted women, cut from the magazine and papered to his walls like plaster, and raised her clawed hands in fury. The words came like water now.
“Filthy—nasty—how dare—!”
She sliced into the women as though her fingertips had grown razor blades—but the glue was industrial strength. It held, and all they were left with were shredded bits of lovely Francesca and deep burgundy wallpaper. Afterwards his mother made him hold out his hands, palm up. She withdrew her schlagstock and Sirius knew he was in for it.
Damn the hands too, then. Damn it all. He could take it.
“You will practise all day, every day.”
Slap!
“You will practise until you’re so tired you cannot stand up straight.”
Slap!
“Until you’ve forgotten what it is to do anything else.”
Slap!
“And if you refuse…”
Slap!
“You will never see those miserable friends of yours again.”
Slap!
"Do you understand me, Sirius?"
He nodded, stiffly. He would not cry.
Play on the bone.
He would not cry.
* * *
Well, people look and people stare,
Well, I don’t think that I even care;
You work your life away and what do they give?
You’re only killing yourself to live…
- “Killing Yourself to Live” Black Sabbath, 1973
The audition was set for the end of July. She’d organised everything herself, arranging the repertoire before he’d even returned home from school. It wasn't a matter of what he could play, but what he would. Bach’s Chromatic Fantasia and Fugue in D Minor, Mendelssohn’s Rondo Capriccioso, Op. 14, Debussy’s Feuz d’artifice; all of them, monsters in their own right, the sort that drove lesser musicians to suicide.
“You must stand out. Make sure they remember you.”
He didn’t know if he had a chance of being missed, at thirteen Sirius was playing Liszt and Rachmaninoff like he’d written it. If he lacked anything at all, it was discipline. Though, to anyone who’d ever spent more than five minutes around Sirius Black, that was no surprise.
“You will be asked to pick the first piece,” his mother droned as the car sped across the city; “The board will pick the second from our provided repertoire. You shall start with the Sarabande and Gigue from the second English Suite, that is the piece you are to pick, am I understood?”
Face to the window, Sirius nodded.
“I can’t hear you.”
“Yes, maman.”
She turned away, placated, and Sirius glared at his reflection in the car window. It didn’t matter to him what he played, it was all the same. He imagined himself opening the car door and running into that city she so hated, seeking refuge in the arms of his friends. But James and Peter would be at their holiday houses by now, and Miles, well… best not to think about it.
“Back straight, Sirius,” his mother whispered harshly, as they were led through the front doors of the school. It was quiet, even for a Saturday, and his mother’s heels rang out across the pine flooring with every quickened step. Beyond them the Duke’s Hall was exemplary, with gild and decadence dripping from every surface. He was scheduled for an audition in front of the academy's dean, a close personal friend of his father’s. One didn’t have to be an expert to realise that Sirius was much too young for the school’s age requirement, but the Blacks had been patrons of the Royal College for years. Their ongoing donations had apparently greased enough palms to get him a private audition, pro bono of course.
Or, it was supposed to be private.
When Sirius and his mother entered the hall, they found another boy already playing piano upon the stage. He was good, clearly well taught; the sound carried like smoke on the wind as several people sat watching him from the back rows. Students, if their uniformed black and white dress-wear was anything to go by. Even with the performance happening, they noticed their arrival straight away—they’d been anticipating it, Sirius released.
His stomach sank when the students began to eye him scrutinizingly, their mouths twisted into sneers as they leaned into one another and shared a whisper or two, or ten. Sirius knew what they would say. He’s just a kid. What’s admissions thinking letting him in here? Some of them hid smiles and smug expressions behind artists’ fingers. They probably thought they were in for a good laugh; How could a kid ever measure up to the rest of us?
Let them laugh, he thought. He’d always preferred making people laugh anyway.
A few moments later, the boy’s piece had ended and a man stood up from the first row. “Wonderful, Andrew! Simply wonderful!” He boomed. “Watch your thirds, mind you. I’m sure your grandmother will be very impressed.”
Andrew stood and gave a humble bow, before hesitating. He’d spotted Sirius and Walburga in the hall's doorway, and when he gestured, the man spun around. He was instantly smiling, practically tripping over himself to make it down the aisle.
“Mrs. Black! So glad you could join us. Roads didn’t give you any trouble, I hope.”
“None more than usual, Henry.”
Walburga stepped forward and let the man with the booming voice kiss the back of her hand. His name was Sir Henry Wait, the dean of the Royal College of Music. Sirius had met him before at one of his father’s summer galas and knew him instantly. This was who was going to be judging his skill—a boorish-looking dullard with a receding hairline and cheeks like muddled raspberries.
“You must be Sirius,” the dean said. “Come to try your hand at an audition, hey?”
He nudged Sirius by the shoulder like they were old friends and then offered his hand for a shake. It gave Sirius a prime view of his stocky, flattened fingertips—the raised veins and the telling swell around each joint. An organist then, or perhaps the trumpet. At least this meant he actually knew something about music.
He must’ve stared a moment too long though, as he felt a nasty jab between the shoulder blades from his mother.
“Oh—I mean, yes, sir…”
Mr. Wait shook his hand firmly, obviously dismissing the hesitation as nerves. He was probably quite used to young people quaking in his presence; but Sirius didn’t feel nervous. He only felt numb.
“We’re so happy you made it,” said Mr. Wait. “Please, let me introduce Madame Jocelyn Aubier, head of our school’s prestigious piano department. She’s come to oversee Sirius’ audition today as well. Purely for her own interest, you see.”
The look on Walburga’s face indicated that she didn’t seem particularly pleased by the dean’s final comment, but before either of them could work out what it was that he meant, a thin, reedy-looking woman had scuttled forward to meet them. Madame Aubier was smiling so broadly her face looked about ready to split at the corners, and Sirius knew instantly that common etiquette was the only thing keeping her from pinching his cheek like a child.
“My, aren’t you a handsome young thing!” She preened. “Must get your good looks from your mother—and talent, perhaps?”
Walburga only smiled tightly. It was the same condescending smile she gave to the flock of pretty wives that never failed to attend his father’s galas; but it worked nonetheless. Madame Aubier took the smile as permission to continue with her flattery.
“You know, I studied under John Woodhouse, a great personal admirer of your grandfather, Master Cygnus. He used to take me to his concerts at Wigmore Hall. I was so envious that he never took on students outside of his family. Tell me, was he as ruthless a teacher as they say?”
Sirius’ toes curled back inside his shoes. Stupid woman, could she not see—
“Cygnus was brilliant and implacable,” said Walburga. “As required for anyone attempting to be the best. And no one embodies that better than my Sirius.”
She pushed him forward, and Sirius tried not to shrink away. Mr. Wait was still staring at him as though he’d yet to determine his worth, stroking the tip of his chin thoughtfully. “I had no idea you played yourself, Mrs. Black,” he hummed. “Your husband never mentioned—”
“I’m quite dedicated to my family,” Walburga said sharply, never losing her menacing smile. “In fact, it’s why we are here. I trust you’ve received Sirius’ chosen repertoire?”
“Oh yes,” said Madame Aubier. “And I must say, I was quite surprised to see the pieces you’d selected. Not many have the confidence to audition with such a… strenuous repertoire.”
“Sirius can play anything. Place him on the piano bench and you’ll see.”
Sirius groaned internally. He could just hear the faint giggling coming from the other students. Did you hear that? She said he could play anything! Pfft—as if.
“Ha! I love it!” Mr. Wait crowed. “That’s exactly the attitude one must have, even in a mock-scenario. Why, by the time Sirius is eighteen, I’m sure he’ll—”
“Excuse me?”
For the first time, the dean seemed to falter. Gone was his mother’s calculated smile, replaced by a look of pure abhorrence. No longer appearing so familiar, Mr. Wait licked his lips and Sirius imagined his mother, in her own rage, searing them shut with a fireplace poker.
“I–I’m sorry, Mrs. Black, but I thought I’d made it clear over the telephone that this was a trial audition.”
“You did no such thing,” Walburga snapped. “You think we would’ve come all the way from Bath to simply try?"
"No, no! I don't mean to—”
"I think you’ll find we have better things to do than attend pointless meetings, Headmaster. My Sirius is the finest young pianist you’ll find from here to Berlin.”
“And I don’t doubt that,” Mr. Wait said, again rushing to cull whatever fire he’d ignited. “But you must understand, the academy has strict age requirements. Sirius is only fifteen, he hasn’t even finished his primary education, therefore he cannot be admitted as a regular student. However, we are more than willing to allow him to sit in on an audition. As practise, you understand.”
“If it’s his mind you’re worried about then you have nothing to fear. Sirius is leagues ahead of his peers and anything else can be made up for by private tutors.”
“I assure you, it isn’t his mind—”
“Then what?” Walburga raised her chin defiantly. “Do you think that if Mozart had waited until he was eighteen to write his first symphony that history would have benefitted any more?”
Sirius thought he might pitch himself from the school’s roof. A quick peek behind him showed one of the students playing the piano on invisible keys and making faces while his friends laughed. So now he’s Mozart?
His mother continued to fume, while Mr. Wait and Madame Aubier shared an uncomfortable glance. Finally, the dean seemed to swallow whatever pride those muddled cheeks allowed.
“Well… I suppose there’s no harm in letting young Sirius have a go. See what it is that we’re truly working with… After you, ma’am.”
Walburga knew that she had won. She strutted forward in her sharpened heels and stopped only in the front row. A grand piano had been left in the centre of the raised orchestra platform, the only instrument at all aside from the school’s famously massive pipe organ. It was a Bosendorfer, the same as they had back at the manor.
“I hope you’ll bear with us,” said Mr. Wait, as he stood and beckoned to the other students. “We thought Sirius might enjoy a taste of what could await him here at the Royal Academy. Charlie, would you mind coming up here?”
There was a shuffling sound as one of the students stood up from his seat and strode to the front of the hall. He was the one who’d been playing the waltz on his invisible keys. When he reached the front of the hall, he traded places with Andrew and gave the dean a short bow before proceeding toward the piano’s bench without so much a glance in Sirius’ direction. Despite the mockery, Sirius almost felt bad for hating him when he spotted the look of scrutiny his mother was giving the boy. They couldn’t very well both hate him; Sirius always made a point of deeply enjoying anything his mother regarded as unpleasant.
“Charlie, here, is heading into his final year at the Academy,” Mr. Wait bragged. “Last spring he was playing in Vienna.”
“And several recitals in Prague,” Ms. Aubier added keenly. “We expect he’ll come top of his class by the time he graduates next June. He’s a fan favourite.”
“Yes, even the Russian National Orchestra has shown some interest.”
"How wonderful," Walburga said, gazing over Charlie’s head indifferently. No one said anything else, and after checking her watch, she glanced up to find the others staring at her expectantly. “Well? Is he going to play something or not?”
Mr. Wait cleared his throat awkwardly. “Er... No qualms with Schubert, I hope? Charlie, something from Drei Klavierstücke, I think.”
The piece was a classic, but not one featured often in formal performance—certainly an underdog amongst Schubert’s repertoire. Sirius himself had had only had brief encounters with it, which was of course exactly what Mr. Wait had anticipated.
“This is a new one for Charlie. A special treat just for you. Have you heard it, Sirius?”
He shrugged and felt his mother's eyes on him like daggers. He might’ve played along—let the old man think he was in over his head—but he was too busy watching the other boy play. Charlie’s fingers certainly pranced up and down the keys with an air of grace, but his face read as anything but relaxed. The deeper he got into the piece, the deeper the crease between his eyebrows seemed to get. His eyes never left the empty music shelf ahead of him, transfixed as though he was concentrating with all his might to recall the sheet music he’d so painstakingly committed to memory. How had it felt when the academy’s dean came to him and ordered that he learn such a complicated sonata simply to scare the pants off a cheeky fifteen year-old who might have a shred of talent? Long enough to do some damage, apparently.
The crease deepened; the piece’s continuous use of triplets was wearing on poor Charlie, turning its two-four tempo into what felt more like a merciless six-eighth. Soon the sonata would modulate into E-flat major, its chromatic mediant. If he couldn’t keep up then—
There! A mistake. He could see it in the nervous spasm that seemed to travel all the way from wrist to jaw. A single blunder of a pinky creating a full-body response. Others might be more forgiving; Schubert was about musical interpretation after all, not just technical difficulty. Mr. Wait didn’t know it, but he’d made a poor choice; a single sigh and Walburga Black was already bored.
Breathless and desperate, Charlie finished the piece and everyone in the hall stood to clap for him, apart from the two Blacks sitting in the front row. He looked smug, perhaps he thought no one had noticed his mistake. He was wrong.
Walburga turned to her son.
“Sirius, play grandfather’s sonata.”
If he hadn’t been sitting, Sirius might have fallen over.
No. No, please not that one. Anything else.
“But… the-the repertoire—”
“I said—Play. The. Sonata.”
He might’ve tried fighting her on it—no way she’d risk making a scene in front of others over one pesky piano piece—but then Mr. Wait reached over to give his shoulder an encouraging pat.
“Go on, son, don’t be shy! You have come all this way, after all. Play—it might give you something to look forward to when you’re a bit older.”
He couldn’t. He wouldn’t! He would’ve taken Haydn, or Ravel, or Liszt. He would’ve sat up there and played every fucking partita Bach had ever put to paper, if it only meant he didn’t have to play that song. He hated that song.
When he didn’t move, Walburga pinched him hard on the thigh. Sirius imagined that she would’ve gone straight for the crop had they been alone, but as it was, they had the entire room’s eyes on them.
“Sirius, stand up this instant.”
He could hear the threat in her voice—or I’ll make you regret it—and so, with no other choice, Sirius stood and made his way up the centre aisle toward the piano.
Charlie was waiting for him with that smug expression. “Break a leg,” he whispered as he dropped down from the stage. He probably meant it literally.
As Sirius sat down on the bench, Ms. Aubier spoke up in that shrill voice of hers. “Which piece from your repertoire will you be playing for us, Sirius?”
“I’m afraid it’s not on his repertoire,” his mother answered. “This is a personal composition, written by my grandfather in 1897. It was his masterpiece, and Sirius has perfected it.”
Mr. Wait looked sceptical.
“We do not normally allow original compositions in auditions—”
“Good thing this isn't a formal audition, Headmaster.”
"… Quite."
“Does it have a name?” Ms. Aubier asked.
“My grandfather titled it, ‘Toujours Pur’, after our family motto.”
“How beautiful.”
Walburga turned to Sirius. The order was there, in her eyes; play.
Perhaps he should’ve just listened. Give her one little performance, let her ego grow fat on his accomplishments while the music blew the smug faces off of each of every one of them. They would never have let him in anyway. But still... he could not bear it.
As his audience waited with bated breath, Sirius faced the piano and made his choice. He raised a single hand, poised with a single finger, and brought it down with a single, solitary thwack of the key. The ringing note echoed out into the vast hall, followed by another. Then another. No rubato, no rushing, certainly no ‘Toujours Pur’. So anticlimactic it was, that his great grandfather might as well have been rolling over in his grave. He didn’t dare look at his mother. Instead he just hummed his little song, matching each mournful word to each mournful note.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
“Sirius...?”
How I wonder what you are;
Up above the world so high,
She rose from her seat. “Sirius!”
Like a diamond in the sky...
"Stop this, this instant!"
No.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How… I wonder… what you… are…
By the time he’d finished he couldn’t feel his hands. A low buzzing had started in his ears, and he knew it was panic setting in. There would be no coming back from this one; she might actually take his fingers this time. The whole hand. Well... Might as well sell it, then.
Swinging his legs around the bench, Sirius stood and faced his audience. Mr. Wait and Madame Aubier appeared bewildered, Charlie and the other students looked as though they weren’t sure whether they wanted to laugh or walk out. And his mother…
Sirius took a bow.
“Thank you. This has been my only song.”
* * *
She’d managed to keep her rage in check for the majority of the ride back to the manor, and Sirius almost counted himself safe. Then the car passed between those screeching metal gates and it was like a hair-trigger being set off. She reached those clawed fingers toward him, and he leapt from the car with its wheels still moving. Even then her screams followed him all the way up the rocky drive, into the house.
“MISERABLE—WRETCHED—UNGRATEFUL!”
Upstairs, Sirius bolted his bedroom door. He might never come out again.
“YOU SHAMEFUL WASTE OF A SON!”
“A STAIN ON ALL YOUR FAMILY!”
“EVERYTHING— RUINED!”
It went on for hours. She was inconsolable. He’d wasted his best chance—squandered all of her hard work, and for what, a foolish joke? A foolish, embarrassing—
Finally, the house went quiet.
It was past midnight when his father came to his room. He glanced at the shredded remnants of the naked girls. The ruined wallpaper. His son.
“If I were you, I would not leave this room for the rest of the summer.”
The door shut with a sharp click, and that was that.
* * *
His father’s warning stuck, and Sirius kept to himself in the weeks that followed. Every night before bed he laid awake and counted the days left until September 1st.
August 4th, twenty-seven days.
August 9th, twenty-two days.
August 16th, fifteen days.
Life went on as it usually did; stilted and suffocating. He wrote to James and Peter to keep himself busy, but made no mention of the audition. Instead he chose to regale his friends with other feats, such as his ingenious use of lovely Francesca’s titillating Mayfair cover spread. Wicked—that was what James had called it when he’d written back. It made Sirius a bit giddy. He’d chosen correctly, then.
Aside from the occasional maid come to bring him fresh linens, Sirius was rarely bothered those days. Not once was he summoned for tea or formal supper. He wasn’t even expected to attend church anymore. His parents had taken to retiring to the parlour on their own, and it’d been ages since his father had ordered him into his office for a good scolding. Even Regulus had grown weary. He skirted around Sirius in the halls and said nothing to him in front of their mother, as though he feared incurring her wrath just for speaking to him. Sirius supposed this was fair. He’d made his bed, all he could hope for now was that his mother’s cold shoulder extended to Hawkings as well. Her words still hung in the air.
You will never see those miserable friends of yours again.
But she wouldn’t really, would she? Surely if she meant to send him away then he’d already be long gone. Of course there had been plenty of similar threats when he was younger—his cousin Bellatrix used to try and scare him with stories of a school in the middle of Siberia that made the worst kids stand out in the cold until all of their toes had frozen off. When it never came true Sirius told himself it was because his mother secretly cared. That she’d miss him, worry for him. Now he knew it was because she didn’t care enough.
Now he told himself he should be glad for their shunning—at least he wasn’t being forced to spend eight hours a day in front of a piano—but every now and then he’d hear footsteps pass outside his door and his heart would lurch. This is it, he would think; Here comes the executioner with her axe.
But she never did.
Sometimes it made him feel brave. Other days, pathetic. But on those whence he was feeling the most brave, Sirius wrote the name 'Miles' on the tops of his letters.
He knew there was a very small chance Miles would ever read them, and even less that he’d post him back. Even if Miles was still at home with his grandparents in Newcastle, there was no guarantee that he even wanted to hear from Sirius. After all, it was Sirius’ letter they’d found. Sirius who’d gotten him pulled from school. Sirius who’d… who’d kissed him and—and turned him into a…
Mostly Sirius tried not to think about it.
On the days when his parents were away, he’d sequester himself in the library, using the Black’s vast multitude of literature to pass the time. That was where Regulus found him one late-August afternoon. Like Sirius, he’d perfected the way of walking that left no sound, lest their parents catch them sneaking down to the kitchens in the middle of the night. He came in soundlessly, clutching his violin and spooking Sirius from his trance.
“What are you doing?” Regulus asked, clutching his violin.
“Bloodyfuck—nothing!" Sirius yelped, nearly knocking over the stack of books to his left. He’d meant to be reading, but had stopped long enough to write James a letter, and didn’t want Regulus to see. "It's uh… Sssuuhh… summer homework!”
“You don’t do homework. Least of all in the summers.”
“Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.”
“Yeah, right… That’ll be the day.” Regulus came forward and Sirius scrambled to hide the letter with his arms.
“Sod off! I don’t need your barmy nose in my business.”
“I don’t care about your business, I came to practise.”
Like he was ignoring him, Regulus turned and went to the far side of the room, where he pulled a folded-up music stand from the corner. Sirius watched him with muddled interest.
“Why don’t you just go to the music room?”
“Can’t. Mother’s kept it locked ever since your stunt in London. She doesn’t want you touching the piano.”
Oh.
“Don’t know why she’s worrying about that. I’m never touching that thing again.”
Regulus ignored him, more obviously this time, and while he set up his music stand, Sirius leaned forward in his chair.
“I’m being serious, you know. I’ve sworn it off. Never gonna play again. She’ll have to torture me first.”
“I'm sure she'd find that very agreeable."
Sirius almost smiled—almost—and Regulus went on arranging his sheet music on the stand. Just the sight made him antsy.
“Can’t you do that anywhere else?” Sirius complained. “Libraries are supposed to be quiet.”
“As if you’re ever quiet.”
“Piss off. Play it in your room!”
“The library has better acoustics. Why don't you go to your room?”
“I was here first!”
“Tough.”
“You cheeky…” Sirius huffed bitterly through his nose. He would not rise to the bait—he wouldn’t! But as Regulus flipped open the latches on his violin case and reached for his bow…
“Stop! Stop—stop—stop, please!” He begged. “Anything but that.”
“You’re such a jerk!” Regulus snapped, obviously taking offence. “Just because I’m not a virtuoso—”
“It’s not you, dammit! It’s… It’s the music!” Sirius faltered, pressing a hand to his forehead. “It’s every bloody note—just… Please, anything else. I’ll play chess if you want, just… no music.”
The fight seemed to leave Regulus the same as it did his older brother, and he reluctantly returned the bow to its case. Bringing the violin with him, he came over to the library windows and took a seat opposite to Sirius at the table.
“I play white.”
Now, Sirius has always held a middling dislike for the game of chess. It was too slow, and impossible to make a decent drinking game out of, but at least it had nothing to do with Beethoven. They said very little to each other while they played, letting the soft ivory tap across the board in place of their words. Even if Sirius had been feeling more chatty, what was there to talk about? He and Regulus hadn’t had anything in common since they were children.
“No, you can’t do that,” Regulus said. “A bishop can’t pass over other pieces.”
Sirius grumbled, moving the bishop back into place. He moved a rook instead, and Regulus arched a single brow in judgement.
“Oh, what now? You gonna tell me that’s illegal too?”
“No… Just a terrible move.”
“You act like you’re used to playing with anyone better. I can’t imagine Barty’s a real whizz at chess.”
“He’s better than you.”
“You take that back.”
Regulus shrugged haplessly, and moved his knight. “Check.”
Already on his way to being exasperated, Sirius scrambled to block the checkmate. “Bet Pete could beat you.”
“Doubt it. Pettigrew can barely tie his shoes without Potter there to help him. Check again.”
“Fuck…” Another piece, another block. It went on like that for a while, Regulus chasing him up and down the board by the heels. It occurred to Sirius, as he was losing his rook, that Regulus was about as close as he was going to get to understanding his parents’ plans. If he knew anything at all, then perhaps it was worth the risk...
“Nine days until the first. Almost time for school…”
Regulus smirked down at the board. “You’re about to lose your knight.”
Sirius flubbed the move, too busy trying to pick his words to worry about the piece he’d just sacrificed. “I expect they’ll have sorted out the train.”
“Guess so.” Regulus took his other knight. “Check.”
Crap. “Do you—”
“Not queen C5, Sirius! Are you trying to lose—”
“Have they said anything to you?!”
Regulus flinched back into his chair at the shout, and Sirius winced in regret.
“Sorry… Just… Have they? You know, about… school…”
Silence lapsed again, and Regulus let out a heavy sigh. “They’re not sending you away, if that’s what you mean. Though I wouldn’t put it past them. Mum’s really angry with you, you know… I don’t think she’ll ever forgive you.”
“That’s fine. I’ll never forgive her either.”
It earned him a sharp look, but finally Regulus relented, taking his next turn and successfully stealing Sirius’ final rook. Just like that, it was over.
“Checkmate,” Regulus said. “You know, you really do suck at this.”
“Go ahead then, gloat all you want,” Sirius huffed. “But I’d still kick your arse in poker.”
“You don’t even have anything to bet.”
“Do too. I have Alphard’s inheritance. And I’d bet the whole thing against you and your silly violin.”
Regulus glanced at the violin case. It was his most treasured possession, he hardly ever went anywhere without it. No way he’d rise to such an obvious—
“Fine. Cut the cards.”
Sirius was temporarily stupefied, but he broke free from his trance when Regulus grabbed the violin case and sat it down on the table next to them.
“Er, you can’t exactly play poker with two people.”
“What can you play then?”
“… Rummy?”
“Well? Hurry up then.”
Sirius fetched the cards.
It became clear quite quickly that Regulus was not as versed in common card games as his confident demeanour had led on. They played one round as practise, which he took as beginner’s luck, but after that it was all downhill. Sirius garnered his required one hundred points before Regulus had even made it to half, and by then the reality of his unfortunate situation was already plain on his face.
“You didn’t really think you could actually win, did you?”
Stubbornly, Regulus looked down at the violin, his lower lip quivering ever so slightly. Sirius shook his head.
“Keep it. You didn’t think I was actually going to take your violin, did you? Far from me to deprive you of your one and only friend.”
It was nasty, and Regulus stood up from the table with a miserable expression.
“Your stupid friends are lucky mother’s not sending you off!” He hissed. “At least now they won’t be having to look for two new roommates!”
He marched off, violin in hand, and let the library door slam behind him. Slumping back into his chair, Sirius glanced at the chess pieces off to his right, where his losing knight seemed to be staring at him, disappointed.
“Oh, piss off,” he grumbled, knocking the ivory piece to the floor.
* * *
You’re just too good to be true,
Can’t take my eyes off of you;
You’d be like Heaven to touch,
I wanna hold you so much;
At long last love has arrived,
And I thank God I’m alive;
You’re just too good to be true,
Can’t take my eyes off you…
That night Sirius did not count the days, instead he laid awake, recounting his brother’s words in his head. New roommate, new roommate… How had he never considered it? Miles was gone—of course it’d be someone new. But would it be someone they knew, or perhaps a transfer? Whoever it was, Sirius hated them on precedent. Hated what their arrival would mean. He hoped they’d be awful, so awful that James and Peter wouldn’t be tempted into becoming friends with them at all. Maybe the boy would have some vile habit that would make him easy to hate, like spitting whenever he talked or speaking with his mouth full. Perhaps he’d have terrible acne, the kind that spread across one’s entire body until it looked like chickenpox. Or maybe he’d be really freaky, like born with a tail or webbed toes or something. But then again, having webbed toes might be pretty cool…
Sirius squashed the idea. No way! No, no, no!
Whoever the new boy would be, there was no way he could ever come close to being cool. With Sirius’ luck he’d probably turn out to be some sort of swot, or worse—teacher’s pet. At least that would mean they wouldn’t have to worry about including him in their pranks, only getting ratted out. He better not be into sports, or one of those weird art kids, or part of the AV Club. Sirius didn’t think he could stand two of them in one room. Sirius supposed that as long as he didn’t touch his stuff and stayed on his own side of the room then things might be bearable. Sirius just hoped that weirdo didn’t stain…
On September 1st the Blacks arrived at the station promptly on time, and Sirius finally allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. As long as their train didn’t make a pitstop in Northern Siberia then he was safe. He waited for Regulus to say goodbye to their parents, trying not to look too eager as he bobbed back and forth on his toes. He wouldn’t be seeing James and Peter until they got into King’s Cross anyway, best to not make a scene.
“Sirius? Aren’t you going to kiss your mother goodbye?”
It was the first thing she’d said to him since the audition. He turned to find them waiting behind him on the station platform; Mother, Father, and Regulus with his trunk, all polished to perfection like the perfect, proper family. He knew what she was doing. This was reparations—payment for all of his mistakes. One little kiss on the cheek and he’d be free until Christmas. He could handle one kiss.
Before his lips met the skin of her cheek, she had him by the ear.
“Maman!”
“Toujours pur, Sirius,” she cooed. “Toujours pur.”
Then she released him, and there was nothing left to be said.
Things got better once they got into London and James and Peter were able to join him. They talked rapidly about their summers, and when that was over with, James insisted on yammering on about Lily Evans, the ginger-girl he’d had a crush on since year seven. Unsurprisingly, Sirius didn’t get the appeal. She’d made it plain that her distaste for James was personal, and most of the time, was an annoying, bossy, know-it-all who hated anything even moderately cool or funny. Sirius had thought for years that she must’ve been allergic to fun.
“This is it! Mark my words, gentlemen!” James declared. “This is the year that Lily Evans finally realises that she is madly in love with me!”
“You say that every year,” Peter pointed out. “Never happens.”
“But this time it’s different! I’ve just got this feeling—plus I’ve been greasing Lottie all summer and she’s promised to put in a good word for me! Things are gonna be different this time ‘round, lads—you’ll see!”
Sirius did not see, nor did he want to. He was too busy praying that their incoming roommate would not be a total dip. Here he was having the worst summer of his life, while Peter rattled on about his latest additions to his comic book collection and his best friend insisted on keeping ginger-on-the-brain. Typical.
Hoping that ignorance remained bliss, Sirius did not bother to entertain the dreaded ‘roommate’ subject until they were disembarking the train. Unluckily for him, Peter had brought it up while they were stacking their trunks up against the line of buses that would be taking them to school.
“I wonder what he’ll be like. Our age, obviously, but what if he’s awful?”
“He will be awful,” Sirius grumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “If you ask me, McGonagall should just leave us be. Seems cruel to bring in someone new when we’ve only got three years left of school.”
"Only three?"
Sirius scowled, but James glanced at him, smiling sympathetically. “I just hope he doesn’t snore,” he said. “Pete’s enough to deal with as is.”
“Oh yeah, and what about you, Potter? You sound like a bloody fire engine most nights!”
James grinned, absolutely ready to sling it back, when something else caught his eye. It wasn’t hard to guess what when Sirius spotted the head of orange bobbing through the crowd.
“Evans! Oi, Evans!”
James began flapping his arms wildly, jumping up and down on the spot like a lunatic, but it got her attention. Lily Evans turned around, only to have her eyes narrow down to a point when she realised who it was. Without giving James the chance to do anything more, she grabbed the arm of her best friend and roommate, Mary Macdonald, and began marching off.
“Bad luck. Looks like she still hates your guts, James,” said Peter.
“Bugger,” James sighed, before turning to Sirius. “Glad to see at least one of us is still popular though. Looks like Macdonald couldn't take her eyes off of you, Sirius.”
“Couldn't she? Mm, didn’t notice.”
James shoved him, and Sirius couldn’t help his smile. He and Mary had dated briefly last year, though it’d never progressed any further than eating lunch together and the occasional bit of hand holding. But she was cute—had gotten even cuter over the summer if that smile was anything to go by. And Mary was fun, so… maybe that was the answer?
“You don’t think he’s in there already, do you?” Peter asked, when they’d finally made it off the buses and back to Godric House with their trunks.
“Only one way to find out,” said James, as he fit his key into the lock and twisted home. As the door fell open, Sirius found himself pleading with fate once more.
Awful—horrible—terrible—
The room was empty.
“Huh.” James set down his trunk. “Well, we are a bit early. Maybe he’s just taken a different train.”
“Or stuck on the buses,” Peter said.
Or not coming at all, Sirius prayed.
He got his wish when nightfall came and no fourth roommate turned up in their doorway. James and Peter gave it up as dumb luck—What should we do with the other bed d’ya think?—but internally Sirius was celebrating. Who needed a fourth anyway; they could survive as a trio. History may not have been made for trios, but there was still the Three Musketeers, the Three Stooges, the Jimi Hendrix Experience…
They’d be just fine.
The next morning, Sirius woke up with a renewed spring in his step. Lessons wouldn’t start until tomorrow, which meant he and his friends had an entire day of nothing to look forward to. No more shitty parents, no more shitty piano, and no more worrying about shitty roommates ruining it all. It was all perfect.
“What shall we do today, gentlemen?” He inquired on their way back from breakfast that morning. “Maybe we should pay old Filch a visit? Or we could booby-trap the teachers’ lounge. I heard they’re serving fish tonight. If we stuff a few in the radiator then the place is bound to start stinking like high-heaven in no time.”
“Gross,” James sniggered.
“I gotta stop by Rowena first,” Peter sighed. “Think Mum mixed up some of mine and Lottie’s things again when she was packing our trunks. Pretty sure she's got all my pants. Or… I hope she has all my pants…”
“Don’t you think you’re old enough to pack your own trunk?” Sirius chided.
“Says you. I know your family just gets the help to do it.”
Sirius looked away, miffed over being called on his own hypocrisy, and James swept in with all of his usual friendliness.
“I’ll come with ya, Pete. See if Evans fancies a date.”
“If she smacks you again you’ll have no one but yourself to blame.”
“You guys go ahead,” said Sirius, already backing up the pavement. “I don't have a ginger fetish and I’ve got a little errand of my own to run.”
“Why does that sound so suspicious?” James called.
“Don’t worry, you’ll like it. Oh, and tell Macdonald I said hello!”
As James and Peter went on ahead to the Rowena, Sirius turned on his own and started back the way they’d come. His aim was Piaget House, the dorm that sat at the very start of House Lane. Known for its all white walls and calm, studious nature, Piaget House had never been of much interest to Sirius. Its only neighbour was Byron House, and the entire building had always felt a bit too clean; like a hospital. Almost a miracle, really, considering it was a boys dorm.
A few of the dull-looking lads glanced Sirius’ way as he strode inside, though none stopped him when he started skipping up the stairs to the second floor. There he found himself second guessing—Was it room 2B or 2C?—but he got his answer when he knocked on dorm room 2B. The door was opened by a very cheery-looking eighth year named Bobby Johnson. Thanks to an incident that took place in one of the science labs last year that had nearly lost him his eyebrows, Sirius had coincidentally discovered that Bobby had a knack for all things incendiary. Now he was determined to put that skill to good use.
“You came just in time, Mr. Sirius, sir!” The younger boy said enthusiastically. Sirius had never demanded Bobby call him 'sir', but he couldn't admit to hating it. Inside, most of the room’s inhabitants had yet to put their things away, and open trunks sat scattered around the room. Bobby simply stepped over the clutter, bouncing on his heels like a shaken fizzy drink. “Pretty sure someone tipped off our dorm monitor,” he went on; “He’s been hounding us all morning. Almost found the stash!”
“You still got them then?”
“Oh yeah! One at least. I worked on the recipe all summer.”
Bobby led him across the room, past another roommate who stared at Sirius with big eyes, as though he couldn’t believe that Sirius Black was standing in his bedroom. Bobby stopped next to his bedside, throwing open a trunk and ripping back a hidden lining to reveal an inconspicuous-looking toilet paper roll wrapped in cling film.
“Here, it is. Sorry, but I only have the one… Mum caught me just before school and confiscated the lot. Managed to smuggle this one out of the rubbish before bin day.”
Pausing to let Bobby unwrap the plastic, Sirius finally took the paper bog roll and held it up for inspection. “You’re sure it’ll work?” He asked, toying with the wick that hung from one end.
“Oh, absolutely! It’s no Castle Bravo but it’ll make a decent boom alright. Almost gave the old lady who lives next to us a heart attack when I tested it. She thought the Germans were back.”
“Can you make more of them?”
“Totally! Should just take some time to gather all the proper ingredients. B–But that one’s on the house!”
Sirius smirked. “Well done, Bob, you’re too good for the likes of Piaget. Suppose you’ll make a fine prankster yet, blow the rest of us outta the water—no pun intended."
Beaming at what could only be a compliment, Bobby shut the trunk and stood up. “I can’t take all the credit. You and Miles were the ones who gave me the idea in the first place. It’s too bad he ain't coming back this year.”
“Hm.”
“Bobby,” urged the other boy, “Sterling’s gonna be back any second.”
Clearly not all of Bobby’s roommates were as excited to have a live explosive in their dorm room, and so Sirius clapped the eighth year on his shoulder and bid him adieu.
“Let me know how it detonates!” Bobby called, just as Sirius opened the door and ran headlong into the Piaget dorm monitor.
“How what detonates?” The older boy scowled. Sirius knew him as Sterling Hughes; he was in the same year as Peter’s older brother Simeon, though Simeon never regarded him as more than a stuffy know-it-all with a steel pole up his back end.
“Sirius Black,” the stuffy-Sterling grumbled, “what are you doing in here?”
“Just checking in on the kiddos,” Sirius said, chuckling unconvincingly. “Looks like everyone’s settling in nicely. All thanks to you, Hughes, I’m sure.”
“Yeah right, I know you. And you.” He narrowed his eyes at Bobby. “Now turn out your pockets, Black.”
“Uh…”
“You’ve got three seconds. One… Two…”
“Oh, look—naked grandma!”
Sterling turned, and the split-second distraction was enough to allow Sirius to slip past him into the hall. Despite the head start, Sterling chased him down the staircase and out onto the dorm’s main step, where a school trolley was about to pull away from the curb.
“Jesus Christ—hold the trolley!” Sirius wailed, and miraculously, it did; allowing him just enough time to cut across the pavement and throw himself up the metal stairs.
“Causing trouble on your first full day back, eh, Black?” Stan said from his driver’s seat. “If I knew any better I’d be putting money on how long it takes for McGonagall to ship ya off.”
“Nah,” Sirius panted; “she’d miss me too much.”
It almost brought a smile to Stan’s lips. As he drove, he fit a cigarette into the corner of his mouth to hide it, and Sirius was left to watch.
“Can I have one of those?”
Stan raised a raggedy eyebrow. “Since when do you smoke?”
“Since now.”
“Nice try, but as far as I can see, you’re still wet behind the ears. Now you know the rules—no yammering in mine or I kick you off. Back ‘a the bus with ya.”
Giving the pimply driver a light scoff, Sirius stood and began meandering up the aisle. He only got about three steps before he realised with further disappointment that the trolley was headed the wrong direction, away from the rest of the dorms. With nothing better to do, Sirius sat down at the back of the bus and resigned himself to ride the entire loop. It took about twenty minutes, and during that time he grew bored enough to slip the tiny zippo lighter from his back pocket and begin fiddling with its lid. Things only started to get really cheeky when he remembered Bobby’s homemade firecracker.
Holding up the bog roll, Sirius played at bringing the flame toward the fuse—just close enough that he could see it warm and begin to smoke. If someone had asked Sirius he might have said he were being quite careful, but then again, fifteen year-old boys were rarely careful with anything.
As the trolley gave a sharp jostle, the flame wavered a bit too close and the wick actually caught fire. Alarmed, Sirius clamped his hand over the end, snuffing it out and singeing his palm in the process. With a nasty grumble, he pressed his tongue to the wound. That was when he first heard her.
“—And of course there’s the Priori Block. It’s one of the newest buildings on campus, all of the science classrooms are there. Are you much interested in science, Remus?”
“Not really.”
Sirius was mentally kicking himself. He hadn’t even noticed them get on! Lily Evans, the snobby prefect girl who also happened to be the apple of his best friend’s eye. She had a boy next to her too, with a curious-looking white trunk peeking out into the aisle. Sirius wished he could’ve gotten a look at his face, maybe then he would’ve recognised him. Was it an older student perhaps? Nah, couldn’t be. Evans didn’t exactly make a habit of chatting up older boys. Had someone in their year miraculously grown a foot over the summer then? He sure was tall... Was he fit too?
Sirius squashed the thought, feeling dirty. Not worth it, he told himself. And besides, if the kid was already friends with Evans then there was no hope for him; mousey brown curls or not.
They rode the rest of the way back toward the dorms, same as him, and Sirius continued to eavesdrop as Evans prattled on about the school. Her friend didn’t seem all that interested, but he never told her to shut it either, so he must’ve been enjoying himself well enough.
Maybe I should say hello, Sirius thought to himself, snidely. He toyed the firecracker in his lap. Welcome Evans back with a boom.
Like the seasoned prankster he was, Sirius waited until Stan had pulled the trolley in alongside the first few dorms. When he noticed the pair begin to rise from their seats he went to shove his zippo back into his pocket, only he’d got a bit too eager trying to catch a decent glimpse of the other boy’s face and fumbled his lighter. As it was sent skidding beneath the seat ahead with a metallic rattle, Sirius cursed and dropped to his knees.
“Damn it… Where are you, little fucker…”
“You talking to yourself now, Black?”
Sirius slapped his palm over the lighter, pinning it to the bus floor. Christ… He would’ve known that weaselly voice anywhere.
“Hello, Crouch.”
Rising up from behind the seat, he found Barty Crouch and his favourite conspirator, Corban Yaxley, staring him down from the middle of the aisle. Both boys had been Regulus’ roommates since Sirius’ eighth year and almost never went anywhere without the other, though it was just as much for criminal reasons as it was for friendship. For as long as he'd known him, Barty had made it his personal mission to bust Sirius’ balls whenever possible. Most days it was merely a casual irritation, but every now and then the attention began to border on obsession. Good thing Sirius was a vain bastard.
“I didn’t see you get on,” he finished, snapping the lid of his lighter closed. Barty only shrugged, looking a bit too eager to be blocking his path off the bus.
“A little birdy told me you’ve been busy this summer,” he grinned. “Not that that’s anything to brag about. Heard you bottled a pretty big opportunity. Reg said—”
“OI!” Stan barked from the front of the bus. “Arses on the seat!”
“You heard him, Black.”
A sharp shove caught Sirius in the centre of the chest, and suddenly he was dropping back down on the trolley bench, with Crouch and Yaxley peering over the backs of their own seats like vultures at a slaughter. “Ooh, sorry,” Barty winced, when the trolley had started up again; “That was your stop, wasn’t it?”
“Giving new meaning to the words ‘captive audience’, I see,” Sirius scoffed. “Now where is that precious little brother of mine? Out petitioning for new roommates? I imagine it’s tiresome living with three people below the average IQ.”
“Would’a figured that’d be you, Black,” Yaxley sneered. “Or is Plonker really not coming back this year?”
Sirius turned stoney.
“No, no,” Barty scoffed; “Not ‘Plonker’, mate—Parker. Miles Parker.”
“Right, right! Popular tosser, wasn’t he?”
“Bit too popular, if you ask me. You know, I heard he caught some disease that made his brain melt out his ears. That’s why McGonagall kicked him out—couldn’t bother keeping a guy who’s too thick to spell his own name.”
“Ha! Stupid Plonker...”
They laughed, then laughed some more, and any resolve Sirius might’ve still had regarding Miles begin to splinter. The stupid sods didn’t know what they were playing at. Unfortunately for him, Barty read the reaction straight off his face.
“Oh, hit a nerve, did we? I would’ve thought you’d be ecstatic. More room for you now, ain’t there? Before it was just Potter, Parker, and Pettigrew—‘three P’s in a pod’. Not much room for a ‘Black’. It's almost sad, really. I mean, blimey, you must’a been cheering from the rafters when he left. Did you throw a party? Celebrate finally getting a captive audience of your own? … Well…?!”
You could just do it, Sirius told himself; Make the little cunt shit his own trousers. God knows he deserves it.
No, the rational part of him chimed; Something goes wrong and you’ll be out on your rear. Then she’ll really kill you.
Yeah, but at least Barty’ll be missing a nose. Might look better without it.
“Oi, fucking ponce—I’m talking to you!”
It wasn’t often that rationality won out for Sirius Black. Even now, as the alarm bells flashed in his brain—Abort! Abort!—he was sliding his hand into his pocket, withdrawing the paper bog roll stuffed with black powder. He should’ve known better, but that was the funny thing about anger. When all you could see was red, flashing sirens and ringing bells felt a lot like a party.
“What’s that you have there?” Barty demanded when he saw the cardboard tube. “Run out of tissues?”
Sirius shook his head. “You know, Barty, I’d really watch myself if I were you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. ‘Cause really, you never know.”
“Know what?”
… He shouldn’t.
The lighter cap came open with a sharp clink.
… He wouldn’t!
A single flick, and the flame came to life.
… Oh, he so fucking would.
Sirius raised the fire cracker.
“You never know when your whole world’s gonna implode.”
The wick caught fire like grease on water, and Barty’s eyes became saucers.
“Are you mental?!” He screeched, practically falling over himself to get away. For a moment Sirius considered that he was right—that he had gone mental. As Barty and Yaxley scrambled to move forward in their bus seats, Sirius sat there, watching as the wick burned down, and imagined how it might feel to let the firecracker go off in his hand. To let it burst and shatter every waking memory.
Have you ever thought about trying the guitar, Sirius?
He threw it.
* * *
Pardon the way that I stare,
There's nothing else to compare;
The sight of you leaves me weak,
There are no words left to speak;
But if you feel like I feel,
Please let me know that it's real;
You're just too good to be true,
Can't take my eyes off you...
The euphoria was palpable—a total rush. He could hardly remember escaping through the trolley’s emergency door. The explosion that sounded behind him and made Stan drive up onto the pavement was a moderate four out of ten, but Sirius still couldn’t wait to tell his friends. He didn’t even care if Stan was mad enough to drag him behind the trolley by his ankles for a week. He was too happy.
This was it!
This proved everything!
They could survive with just the three, they could! Things didn’t have to change just because Miles was gone; Peter was still the same Peter, James the same James! And Sirius was…
Oh, it was perfect.
He flew through the front doors of his dorm—JAMES! JAMES! JAMES!—took the stairs two at a time. Just wait! Just WAIT until James hears! He’s gonna—
“JAMES!”
“Bloody—what?!”
“Those gits!” Sirius howled. “Those stupid bloody tossers! You should’a seen them, the way they—”
Sirius froze. There was a stranger in their room. Worried it was the dorm monitor, he clamped his mouth shut and waited for his scolding. But it wasn't Benjy at all, it was the boy who’d been walking with Evans, no doubt about it. Sirius recognised the ragged clothes and the little white trunk and assumed the rest of him would be plain, but boy was he wrong. Nothing could have prepared him for the horror of seeing his face straight on.
Oooooh! It wasn’t fair—it wasn't fair! Brown eyes, bloody cupid’s curls, and—oh god—were those freckles?!
No! Sirius thought. No, it wasn’t supposed to be this way! He was supposed to be horrid. What about the acne? What about the tail and the webbed toes?!
Sirius looked to the boy’s feet. There was a hole in his left trainer, with a bit of sock poking through. While this meant that he couldn’t count out the webbed toes just yet, he doubted anything else he’d prayed for had come true. Already his plan seemed to be falling apart—total school domination, dashed in an instant. The boy was busy staring at him, almost glaring. Sirius could see it now; he’d be calling him a ponce by midday tomorrow. And he’d look like that while doing it.
For the first time in many, many months, Sirius Black felt his throat run dry.
Fuck me.
“Sirius,” James grinned, slapping a hand on his shoulder, “meet, Remus.”
I love you, baby, and if it's quite alright,
I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night;
I love you, baby, trust in me when I say:
Oh, pretty baby, don't bring me down, I pray,
Oh, pretty baby, now that I found you, stay;
And let me love you, baby, let me love you!