The Shoebox Project

Part Eleven: May, 1976. One Birthday and Too Much Gillyweed

James is awakened at seven twenty-two A.M. precisely on the morning of May 12th by Sirius Black leaping onto his head like a monkey.

"Mnghh!" he shrieks, and throws himself upright, which slams his skull into the bedpost and entangles him thoroughly in the sheets. Something is on his head. Something is on his head and he cannot breathe and he has a dim memory that Rumplestiltzkin is trying to teach him how to make bread pudding, and oh God I'm drowning!

He flails wildly and then, suddenly, is released with a great whoosh of air into the early summer Friday light.

Sirius' face, upside-down, manic, and rather too close, pops into view.

"Help!" James squeaks in terror.

"Good morning, birthday boy," Sirius coos, and kisses him soundly and very sloppily on the mouth. "Who's my
all-grown-up little cabbage? Whosee den?"

"I am no one's cabbage before ten in the morning," James says, trying to decipher through the haze of sleep which way is up and which way is escape. "Get off my legs! Aghhh you weigh a ton."

"You are so ungrateful," Sirius pouts, sitting up and thereby putting all his weight on James's knees. "I got you a
present!"

"Is it a kiss?" James asks warily.

"Do you want it to be?" Sirius flutters his eyelashes.

"How about we up the ante to a blowjob," James suggests, giving up, "as is actually customary? Have you already eaten breakfast? There's jam on your nose."

"Oh sweetheart, you always notice the little things about me," Sirius says. He runs his fingers over James's chest
in a way that might be called seductive if it weren't so sticky. "That must be why this marriage has lasted so long.

Six bloody years; kill me. Anyway, no, it isn't sexual favors. I'm not in the mood, with the new baby and all. It's this." He shoves a very messily wrapped parcel at James, then sits back on his heels -- his extremely grubby boots still tangled in James's sheets -- and regards him with those expectant, eager puppy-eyes: open it open it open it.

And it must be admitted that Sirius does always give the best presents.

"So what do you say," Sirius beams. "Who's your Keeper? Eh? Eh?" James begins to grin, pushing his hair out of
his eyes and groping with his free hand for his glasses. "Are you speechless? You'd better be speechless. Give
daddy a good fish-mouth -- that's a good birthday boy."

"Gillyweed," James says. "Sirius. Where did you get this much Gillyweed?"
Sirius shrugs. "Grew it myself." He wiggles his fingers before him. "Green fingers, all of them. Not just the
thumbs. Don't look so horrified." He brings his forehead to James', eyes dark and cheerful and oddly ominous.

"You will never know my secrets, Mr. Potter. Simply rejoice in their results."
"No rejoicing until after classes," James insists, but his heart isn't in it. "This must've cost a fortune!"

"Sixteenth birthdays only happen once." Sirius flings himself back against the bed. Even his eyes are grinning ear
to ear which, James thinks, as he shoves his glasses onto his nose, is hard as hell to accomplish. "Celebrations are
an important time in a young man's life that he will never remember ever the morning after." James stares down at
the Gillyweed and the thin rolling paper on his lap and says nothing. "Oh, come on," Sirius groans. "Don't tell me all you wanted for Christmas was your two front teeth?"

"Lily," James sighs.

"Well I couldn't very well wrap her up and have you smoke her," Sirius mutters. "You're just going to have to
make do with Gillyweed and Gillyweed-induced mistakes whether you like it or not. You will have fun." Sirius pulls himself upright to jab one pointy, meaningful finger into James' chest. "Whether you like or not. But," he
adds, cheerful again, "you will like it. Trust me."