solemnly swear [a marauder's fanfiction]

chapter ten: sheer heart attack

Brianna turns from the shop counter, something hidden behind her back. "Got your Christmas present!"

Sirius bolts upright on the sunken, well-worn sofa. "Do I get a go on your motorbike yet?"

"How thick I look, protégé? You're not to touch it till you're eighteen."

He deflates, slumping back to the leather. Was worth a shot.

Brianna weaves her way through the aisles of records and presents him with a large manila envelope. "Got the next best thing."

Beside Sirius on the couch, Malcolm furrows his brows. "Which is?"

"When I asked the brat what he wanted for Christmas-- besides a ride on the bleeding bike—"

"One of these days," Sirius says.

"--he said 'something to piss off my parents'."

"Of fucking course he did," Malcolm mumbles around his cigarette.

"Reckon this oughta cover both pretty good."

Sirius tears open the envelope and pulls out a thick stack of papers in different sizes and textures, some large as posters and others cut raggedly from magazines. He turns over the pile and finds, to his delight, that they're all of motorbikes: artistic-looking photographs in black and white, brightly coloured shots from advertisements, technical diagrams with labelled parts. Most of them, anyway; when he's flipped to the back of the stack he sees that there are also several posters of girls in bikinis.

"It's decor, innit?" she says. "Put em up in your bedroom, stick it to the Man and all that."

Sirius laughs out loud, and then he can't stop smiling. He's gotten good presents before, but this is different. He didn't know presents could make you feel understood, as if somebody knew what you really wanted before you did. "It's fantastic. Best present I've ever gotten." He gets to his feet and throws his arms around her. "Thanks."

When he pulls back it's to see Malcolm shaking his head in disbelief. "I can't believe you got the lad porn for Christmas. Adult of the year."

"It's not porn , you pervert."

"How d'you reckon that?"

"Not as though their tits are out or nothing. Jesus, Sister Hornby."

Malcolm rolls his eyes, gets to his feet, stubs his cigarette out on some surface or another. "My present's more family-friendly." From his bag he retrieves an EP. It's a double, with two records in, but there's no cover, just a nondescript white sleeve. He slides out the first record and situates it on the machine. "You can't sell this, mind, they aren't even pressing it in mass copies yet. Just a special Christmas surprise for the three of us."

Perched on a crate, Brianna levels him a suspicious look. "What contraband you brought into my business now?"

The machine clicks to life, setting the vinyl spinning. Malcolm drops the needle and, with great nonchalance, says, "New Zeppelin."

"And I'm Goldie Hawn. What's it really?"

But Malcolm just plops back down onto the couch and lights a new cigarette. A rough guitar lick rips out of the player, followed by a raspy voice.

Brianna's eyes go huge. She lifts an arm and points, dazed, at the record player. "That's....that's Led Zeppelin."

"I said, didn't I?"

"But that's not out until—"

"February, yeah." He exhales a long stream of smoke. "I know a bloke."