All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Fifth Year : Pain

James woke him early the next morning, dragging him out of bed for their first quidditch practice of the year. Sirius yawned, scabbed cuts tugging painfully as he crawled from the cocoon of his blankets.

They were still ugly, red and inflamed and hot to the touch. Some of the scabs were sticky with clear fluid, and Sirius dabbed at them carefully with a wet cloth, wincing. He’d fumbled his way through a healing spell as best he could the previous night, but the wounds were still painful, and he would have to take care not to reopen them. He changed into his quidditch kit in the bathroom, doing his best to walk steadily as he followed James down the stairs.

His friend didn’t seem to notice that anything was off, nattering on and on about his training plans as Sirius blinked sleep from his eyes. The rest of the team appeared just as disgruntled, stifling yawns and squinting balefully at the sun as they walked out onto the pitch. But James was in his element, captain’s badge glinting on his chest and eyes bright with excitement as he led them through a series of drills.

By the time Potter finally released them, Sirius’s legs were killing him—one would think that having them dangling in the air might give his calves a rest, but it took a surprising amount of balance and strength to keep steady while chasing after bludgers or bracing for a steep dive. Sirius gritted his teeth as he walked to the changing rooms, trying his best to mitigate the limp that was becoming more pronounced with every step.

“You alright, mate?” James asked, casually, as he pulled off his quidditch kit, “Didn’t slack off over the summer and let yourself get out of shape, did you? Don’t forget that we’ve got to demolish Slytherin this year—there's a Quidditch Cup with our names on it!”

Sirius snorted. “I’m fine, Potter,” he said, moving to stand behind a row of lockers, “Not my fault you want to run drills at six in the bloody morning—I honestly don’t know where you get the energy.”

“Morning’s the best time for training!” James insisted, following him, “Exercising first thing after waking up stimulates blood flow and builds stamina—I read it in Quidditch Weekly.”

“I swear, you spend more time studying those stupid magazines than any of our textbooks,” Sirius grinned, rolling his eyes. He moved again, putting a bench between them—again, James followed him.

“Well it’s paid off, hasn’t it?”

“S’pose. What are you following me for?”

James hesitated, eyes darting down to Sirius’s legs. Then he plastered on a grin.

“What, two mates can’t change together? We’ve been living in the same room for five years, Sirius, don’t tell me you’re suddenly shy.” The words were obviously meant to be light, teasing—but Sirius knew James too well to not notice the strain. His stomach twisted.

“Thought you only had eyes for Evans, Potter,” he replied, snapping a bit without meaning to, “Excuse me if I don’t want to see your hairy arse first thing in the morning.”

“Wh—my arse is not hairy—Black, wait!”

Sirius spun around, pausing his retreat to look back at James. His friend was frowning, brow creased, teasing charade abandoned as he studied Sirius with genuine concern.

“What?!”

“You’re bleeding, mate.”

Sirius looked down, startled, only to realize that he was, in fact, bleeding. There was an obvious, darkening stain on the back of his left trouser leg—one of the cuts must have reopened during practice without him realising.