All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Fourth Year : A Gathering Storm

Sunday 1st September 1974

Sirius didn’t see his brother at the train station. Or his mother, or his father—he wondered if they’d arrived early, or if perhaps they were running late. It wasn’t that he was looking for them because he wanted to see them—quite the opposite. He kept glancing about Platform 9 and ¾ to make sure he wouldn’t run in to them, so that he could go on ignoring them and they could go on pretending he didn’t exist. Better for everyone, that way.

There was a flash of dark hair in the corner of his eye; he spun around. But it wasn’t Reg, just some witch with dark curls that flounced over her shoulders as she rushed to hug a friend. Sirius turned back to the Potters, who were trying to engage the Pettigrews in stilted, awkward conversation. According to Peter, even though his parents had allowed him over during the summer to visit James, they were still upset with Mr. and Mrs. Potter for “encouraging Philomena to act out.” She’d moved to America, and Mrs. Pettigrew was sure that the decision had been spurred by something one of the Potters had said or done.

James caught his eye as he turned back, raising a brow.

“You alright, mate? You seem a bit...tense.”

He murmured the words, voice low enough that only Sirius could hear. Beside them, Mrs. Potter was asking with forced cheer about Mrs. Pettigrew’s crop of summer squash.

Sirius shrugged and plastered on a smile. I’m fine. James studied him for a moment longer before turning back to his family.

They hugged the Potters goodbye shortly after, Euphemia squeezing Sirius so hard that he thought his ribs might crack. He loved it. Fleamont patted him on the back and slipped a chocolate frog into his pocket, winking. Mrs. Pettigrew fussed over Peter and sent a final resentful glance towards the Potters before sending her son off, and the three climbed on board the Hogwarts Express to head for their usual compartment.

“Petey,” Sirius cooed, in a sickly-sweet impression of Mrs. Pettigrew’s high, nervous voice, “Have you got enough snacks? Oh, Petey, did mummy remember to pack your wand? Petey, do you need—”

Peter groaned loudly, flopping down in his seat. “Don’t start,” he moaned, “She’s always like that, and it’s only gotten worse now that Phil’s run off.”

James patted his back comfortingly. “Don’t worry, mate. I get why your mum’s worried, but I’m sure Phil’s alright.”

“Yeah,” Peter said glumly, scuffing his shoe against the ground. “Just wish she’d at least given us some head’s up. Now mum keeps acting like I’m going to run off to live amongst the muggles if she doesn’t remind me every five seconds how much she’s counting on me to...I dunno, uphold the family legacy or something. She keeps talking about trying to get me an internship at the Ministry.”

Sirius scoffed. “The Ministry? Never figured you for much of a politician, Pete.”

“Doubt I’d have anything to do with politics—with my luck whatever she finds’ll be really boring, filing paperwork for the Department of Magical Transportation or something.”

“I dunno,” James said, growing sombre, “Seems like there’s politics everywhere in the Ministry, these days. Did you lot see the Prophet this morning?”