All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Third Year : Noble and Most Ancient

I can fly, I will scream

I will break my arm

I will do me harm

Here I stand

Foot in hand

Talking to my wall

I’m not quite right at all

Am I?

 

Saturday 15th September 1973

Knock knock

“Sirius.”

James’s voice was firm, insistent.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“Sirius?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing that for once in his life, James Potter would just give up.

“Oh, for the love of...Sirius Orion Black the Third, I know you’re in there!” His friend continued pounding on the door, hammering strikes that made Sirius flinch and grit his teeth. Eventually, when James showed no signs of stopping, he called through the wood,

“Piss off, Potter.”

The knocking stopped.

Sirius released a shaky breath, scrubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He’d locked himself in the bathroom when the other marauders went down for dinner, almost two hours ago. Alone and surrounded by cold tile, Sirius had grappled with the snarling tangle of rage in his chest.

He wanted to kill Severus Snape. He wanted to hurt him, to humiliate him so badly that he’d never be able to show his face at Hogwarts again. Sirius wanted to make him feel small, and weak, and alone. He wanted to make him feel worthless.

Regulus, too. He was furious, replaying Snape’s words as he paced—Regulus was telling everyone you had quite an exciting summer. The image of his little brother swam before his eyes, mouth twisted into a nasty smile, surrounded by laughing Slytherins. His magic spiralled, uncorked by anger, fizzing with his wordless need to hurt, to push pain outward in a tangible way.

Above him, the lightbulbs shattered. He was alone in the dark.

Sirius didn’t know how long he’d spent, pacing the tile like a caged animal, waiting for the rage to consume him or transform him or burn him out. The anger only sharpened his awareness of his own impotence; he felt the unrelenting need to do something while simultaneously understanding that there was nothing, in the moment, that could be done.

Have they really kicked me out?

He wasn’t sure where the tears came from, only that they made him angry. It just didn’t make any sense—surely they would have said something if they were disinheriting him, surely they wouldn’t have forced him to go as a family to the train, hissing about keeping up appearances. Surely—surely Reg would have warned him. Right?