All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Fourth Year : January

Wednesday 8th January 1975

As Dumbledore had predicted, the Fraser family’s murder was plastered across the front page of the news on boxing day, accompanied by a slew of features and articles discussing the mounting war. The subject was impossible to avoid for the remainder of Christmas break.

It was the first time any of them had seen the dark mark, though it certainly wouldn’t be the last. None of the boys had any way of knowing how they would come to fear that great black skull, with its gaping mouth and sinister, writhing serpent. At the time, it only reminded Sirius of so many family heirlooms—the symbol was distinctly Slytherin-esque. The moment they returned to Hogwarts, he blasted all of the delicately carved snake motifs off his trunk.

“Careful, mate,” James warned, as smoke from the blasting spell permeated the room, “You might be ruining a family heirloom there." (He definitely was).

“I don’t give a shit,” Sirius muttered, firing his wand at the scorched wood again, turning the artful craftmanship into something ugly and deformed, “It’s mine, and I don’t want anything of mine to have that ruddy mark on it.”

Even though Dumbledore had said there was no evidence that the Blacks were involved in the attack, Sirius knew. He knew they were involved with Voldemort; he knew they were involved in dark magic; he knew the things they thought about muggles. The things they’d taught him about muggles.

The worst part was that everyone else knew it, too. He could feel them thinking it, eyes crawling like beetles over his skin when he walked through the halls. No matter how he tried to distance himself, there was no escaping his own last name—it clung like a fist, like a jaw, like a bruise. His dreams were full of snakes.

It had been so long since Sirius had seen his family—his parents didn’t write, and even if they happened across each other in the halls, Reg didn’t talk to him anymore—that he had managed to...not forget, exactly but—ignore, at least, the tangled mess of their relationship. The anger he so often felt towards them had dulled, the resentment soothed, somewhat, by distance.

But when Sirius stared down at the front page of that paper, he couldn’t stop himself from being swallowed by loathing.

I hate them, he thought, staring down at that black snake twisting in the sky.

I hate them, when he boarded the train back to Hogwarts, scanning the station for a glimpse of his parents, wondering if he’d be able to tell—if the violence would line their faces.

I hate them, as he spat toothpaste into the sink, and looked up at the mirror to see his mother’s hair, his father’s eyes. They were in him, stuck fast in his pure and noble blood. Sirius had never felt such a mindless urge to claw himself open.

Of course, there was nothing much he could do with this rekindled hate—his parents weren’t at Hogwarts, nor was Voldemort, nor were any of the dark wizards spreading violence and fear outside the insulated walls of the castle.

But there were Slytherins.

Even before the break, Sirius had enjoyed championing the younger students—the vulnerable ones that bullies like Mulciber picked on. He and James had cast their share of defensive hexes to chase off groups of Slytherins ganging up on lone muggleborn students. But after the holidays, Sirius resumed this crusade with a newfound passion. Without even realizing it, he found himself spending more and more time wandering the corridors, half-hoping to find some poor first-year getting picked on just so that he’d have a release for the anger that threatened to choke him.