All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Fifth Year : Stale Mate

Hey kids, plug into the faithless

Maybe they’re blinded

But Bennie makes them ageless

We shall survive, let us take ourselves along

Where we fight our parents out in the streets

To find who’s right and who’s wrong

 

Tuesday 16th March 1976

Sirius Black was a coward. He was the biggest, stupidest, rottenest coward that had ever graced the halls of Gryffindor Tower, and he was almost entirely certain that if someone put the Sorting Hat on his head now it would determine, for the first time in its long history, that it had made a mistake in placing him here. He wasn’t courageous—and he certainly wasn’t brave.

He just wanted to hide.

Seeing Remus had become a new and unique form of torture. Sirius could tell the boy wanted to talk to him—he’d try to catch his eye, or hang back in the dorm or after class, with a subtle, imploring look on his face. But the thought of being alone with Remus, even for a moment, was enough to make his stomach clench, to make his palms sweat and his heart pound as heat crawled up the back of his neck, and he remembered the feeling of Remus’s lips—

No. Being alone would be a very, very bad idea.

Even if he managed to string two words together, Sirius hadn’t a clue what he would say. He was ridiculously grateful that Moony didn’t seem inclined to tell anyone about what had happened, but it was clear that he wanted an explanation, and Sirius had none to give. He wasn’t even entirely sure how to explain to himself what had happened; the only thing Sirius was certain of was that whatever it was, it had been his fault.

You are tainted...

 He felt an overwhelming swell of guilt whenever he thought about it—which happened quite often, no matter how hard he tried to push the memory to the back of his mind.

Even with Mary, Sirius found his mind wandering. She’d wrap her arms languidly around his neck and he’d remember how Remus had gripped there, urgently, with calloused fingers—or he’d catch a whiff of her fruity perfume as he kissed her and remember Remus’s scent, warm and burning sweet, firewhisky and birthday cake. He hated himself for it, hated himself for continuing to kiss her, for growing hot and eager. He hated himself for pinning her wrists down, for stopping her touching him, for using his hands and his mouth as penance, doing all the things he knew she liked until there was nothing but her skin, her sharp, panting breaths, the noises she made. He hated that it was never enough—that she could smile up at him, and not know that when he slept at night he was dreaming of someone else.

Mary deserved better. Sirius knew that. She was so vibrant, so bright—she was a sun, the centre of her own solar system. She deserved adoration, devotion, someone who could faithfully, gratefully orbit, who would fully appreciate her warmth and light.

But Sirius didn’t want the sun. At night, he dreamt of the moon.

If he was brave, he might have tried to explain that to her. If he had even an ounce of courage, he would confess, and give her the honesty she deserved. If he wasn’t so selfish, he would let her go, instead of dragging her into his own downward spiral.