All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Fifth Year : Morning After

Thursday 11th March 1976

Sirius shifted, groaning, exhaustion a thick fog over his brain. His head was pounding. There was something heavy on top of him, body heat and soft skin, stale perfume—Mary. They’d fallen asleep on the sofa.

He began to open his eyes, then immediately squeezed them shut as the sunlight invaded, piercing through corneas like a spike driven into the back of his skull. The pounding in his head grew stronger, vengeful. His tongue was a wad of cotton in his mouth.

The hangover wasn’t surprising. Sirius wasn’t quite sure how much he’d had to drink the previous night—he just remembered refilling his cup, over and over, punch and firewhisky and witches' brew. He’d kept drinking until he couldn’t stand, until the room blurred around him, until all semblance of coherence fled from his mind, leaving only broken flashes—swaying to something by T. Rex, Mary’s mouth on his neck, the dizzy sparks as James tried to conjure up an impromptu fireworks show. He didn’t remember how he’d ended up on the couch.

“Fuck,” Mary groaned, shifting on top of him. Sirius smiled past the pounding in his head.

“Couldn’t’ve said it better myself, Macdonald.”

“Ugh, your breath stinks like a troll’s arse.”

“Does that mean you don’t want a good morning kiss?”

“Are you two lovebirds finally awake?” James bounded into the common room, looking as cheerful and refreshed as if he’d just woken up after downing one of Pomfrey’s sleeping draughts, and not at all like someone who had been slurring so badly he couldn’t even say Lily’s name properly the night before (not that that had stopped him from trying, repeatedly). Sirius and Mary both winced.

“Lower your voice, Potter,” Sirius moaned, scrubbing a hand across his face.

“C’mon, up you get—you’ll make us miss breakfast!”

“Please don’t talk about food,” Mary groaned, elbow digging into Sirius’s side as she levered herself up, “I feel like something’s crawled down my throat and died in my stomach.”

“Lovely.”

Sirius protested as James dragged him to his feet, eyes still closed against the harsh sunlight.

“Shut it, Black,” James laughed, tugging on his arms, “I know how long it takes you to wash your hair—if you want a shower before classes you’d better go now, I mean it about breakfast.”

Sirius sighed, squinting as he finally opened his eyes.

“Alright, alright,” he reached out to grab Mary’s hand, winding their fingers together. “See you at breakfast?”

She squeezed his hand, seeming to consider for a moment—then shook her head.

“Nah. Think I’m just gonna go back to bed, get Marls to tell our professors I’m sick.”

“Mmm, an intriguing idea...”

“Oh, no you don’t,” James said, catching sight of the expression on Sirius’s face, “We’ve got quidditch practice—you're toughing this one out.”