All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Third Year : Philomena Pettigrew

Friday 21st December 1973

Sirius spent the weeks leading up to Christmas on the edge of a knife. He felt distinctly unbalanced, waiting for some indication as to what his family expected of him—if they even expected anything from him, anymore. He held his breath every morning when the post arrived, waiting for a letter, a howler, a note—something from his parents to acknowledge the fact that he still existed. At the Slytherin table, Reg received owls almost every day.

Nothing came for Sirius.

He became convinced that this was some new form of torture that his mother had concocted—the waiting, that is. It wasn’t like he wanted a letter; he just needed to know whether he could safely go to the Potters’. The events of the previous Christmas were all too fresh in his mind, unearthed by the twinkling lights and the scent of pine. Knowing his family, Sirius half-expected them to demand he return home for Christmas after an entire term of ignoring him, just to make him miserable. He had already decided that they couldn’t make him go—he'd stay at Hogwarts, if he had to—but at least he would finally know, one way or the other, what to expect once classes ended.

(Another part of him, which he tried to stifle—the part that made his skin crawl every time he saw the way the Slytherins looked at him, the way they laughed and whispered—wanted a letter for other reasons, necrotic reasons—wanted something to shove in their faces, something he could wave in front of Reg and say, ‘See? See? I’m still—’)

Sirius didn’t let himself think it. He balanced on the knife edge, certain only that whatever his parents did would be done with the intent to draw blood.

It wasn’t until the day before break began, at breakfast, that an owl swooped over his head and dropped a single, tightly folded note in front of his plate. Sirius’s heart stuttered, as though someone were squeezing it.

His friends were watching, so he kept his expression blank as he unfolded the paper. It was short—only one line, scrawled in his father’s cramped handwriting.

To Master S. O. Black III,

 

You will not be required at the family home this winter break. Do as you please.

 

Signed,

     Orion Black

 

James, who was reading over his shoulder, immediately let out a cheer. “Yes!” He nearly knocked over his porridge, “Might even get you for the summer, at this rate!”

“What about Regulus?” Remus asked, quietly. His eyes were very dark; for a moment, it made Sirius feel transparent, as though Lupin were seeing right through him to the fist in his chest.

“Oh, little Prince Reg is going home for Christmas,” He snorted, shoving the note into his pocket. “It’s just me they’ve disinvited. Good. Perfect. Excellent. They don’t care; I don’t care.”

Sirius hadn’t actually spoken to his brother about his plans for the break, but he didn't need to—it was obvious that Reg was delighting in turning himself into the perfect little heir that their parents had always wanted. In fact, he was probably thrilled to know that Sirius wasn’t welcome home for the holidays—he would probably go back to his room that night and laugh about it with all his little friends, wearing that stupid, smug grin that made his face look all wrong.