All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Fifth Year : Aftermath

As it turned out, Sirius didn’t have to pretend to be asleep; when Mrs. Potter woke up, she agreed with his friends’ decision not to summon Dumbledore immediately. Mr. Potter concurred as well, and they elected to try and salvage the morning as best they could by opening presents. At first, Mr. Potter suggested that they apparate all of the gifts to Sirius’s bedroom, but he refused.

“My legs work fine!” He said, standing up to prove his point, “I want to come down and see the tree!”

Mrs. Potter still looked a bit wary about the idea of having him out of bed, but at Sirius’s insistence she relented, and they all dispersed to go wash up and dress. Sirius smiled cheerfully until the last person was out the door, only sagging back onto the bed once he was safely alone.

It wasn’t that he was hurt—aside from a bump on the back of his head where it had hit the floor when he’d fallen, and a few scattered bruises that were signs of some sort of writhing or flailing that Sirius didn’t remember, there were no physical signs of what had happened. Even the bruises were already fading, thanks to Mrs. Potter’s healing magic.

But he felt...drained. A bone-deep exhaustion had burrowed into his limbs, and his body protested as he dragged it into the bathroom, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into the warm bed and curl up under the blankets for a long, long time. In the mirror, his eyes were necrotic.

Don’t think about it, he told himself, firmly.

The Potters’ living room was unfailingly joyful, with its brightly wrapped presents and festive holly wreaths and twinkling Christmas lights. Sirius began to feel a bit better as he sat, cocooned in a blanket and sipping tea, on the sofa. Strips of torn wrapping paper fell like confetti across the floor, paired with excited exclamations. There was a stack of presents for Sirius, even though no one had planned on him attending, and James’s parents promised even more –

“We’ll get you some nice pictures, to brighten up your room,” Mrs. Potter said, using her wand to sweep all the discarded boxes into a pile, “Which quidditch team do you support, sweetheart? Or perhaps one of those rock stars you kids like?”

Your room. The words took a moment to sink in, and when they did Sirius was hit with such an overwhelming wave of joy and gratitude that he could have drowned in it. How many times had he wished, over the years, that the Potters were his family? How often had he fantasized, pretending that James was his brother, Euphemia his mother, Fleamont his father? That he could wake up here, in this house, every day?

“Most of my stuff’s at Hogwarts,” he said, feeling slightly dazed, “It’s just clothes at home...” He thought suddenly of the rude posters on his walls, and flushed, embarrassed. He certainly had no desire to retrieve those.

“Well, you can borrow some of James’s things for a little while. Perhaps we’ll go shopping in the new year.”

Lunch was a quiet affair, just the five of them and Gully. The little house elf scuttled about, humming cheerfully and carrying what seemed to be an endless procession of food to the table. He was just about to set light to the Christmas pudding when a loud CRACK came from outside the front gate, the tell-tale sign of apparition. Sirius jumped, startled, heart crawling into his throat—his body screamed run, run, run, but he stayed put. He was safe here. This was his home.

Mr. Potter gave them all a reassuring smile and hurried to the door, leaving the rest of them to listen intently from the table.