All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Fifth Year : Crossfire

No fun, my babe

No fun

No fun to hang around

Feelin’ that same old way

No fun to hang around

Freaked out

For another day

 

Saturday 13th June 1976

When Sirius was eight years old, he ate frog legs for the first time. It was at a Black family banquet, of course, and he had the misfortune to be seated next to his cousin. Bellatrix leaned over while they ate, whispering in his ear.

“Do you know how to kill a frog?” She’d asked, with a small, vicious smile, “You stick it in a pot of water. Then start a fire, and you slowly, slowly turn up the heat. Frogs are too stupid to notice the temperature changing; they’ll stay in the water until it boils them alive.”

In the future, when Sirius looked back on that day, he sometimes wondered if he’d let himself become like Bellatrix’s frog. Sitting in his own rage, allowing it to burn, slowly, hotter and hotter, until before even realising it, he was boiling. He would wonder if what had happened was inevitable, if he had already begun to blister with violence. Other times, he’d tell himself that it could have been prevented, replaying over and over again the series of events that had led to his actions. Telling himself that it was just bad luck.

It was bad luck that he was in a sour mood, that Remus still seemed rather fed up with him, that James was in the library. It was bad luck that he saw Reggie laughing with Barty Crouch, that he argued with Mary, that he decided to smoke alone in the Astronomy tower. It was bad luck that he was walking by himself back to the common room. It was bad luck that he bumped into Snape.

 “Snivellus,” he sneered, fingers on his wand, “What are you doing here? Come to skulk around after Evans, again?”

Severus flushed, dark eyes glittering with hate. Maybe Sirius should have stopped, then. But he didn’t.

“It’s completely pathetic, you know. Thinking she’d ever want a disgusting piece of shit like you. Honestly, it’s a miracle that she was able to put up with your stench for as long as she did—it would almost be funny watching you beg for her attention, if you weren’t so bloody creepy about it.”

He said it all with a slow, casual drawl, smirking cruelly. Snape’s pale face had gone bright red. He opened his mouth—then hesitated, glancing out the window over Sirius’s shoulder.

“Don’t you have a dog to take care of, Black?” he sneered, “Wouldn’t want anything to happen...it’s already getting quite late.”

“You shut your foul mouth, Snivellus,” Sirius spat, “You don’t know anything.”

“Don’t I? I suppose it wouldn’t matter, then, if I were to let slip some of the things I’ve noticed...Loony Lupin gets sick quite often, doesn’t he? Almost every month, in fact...”

Rage; Sirius was submerged in it. Anger, all around him, churning and bubbling and boiling. Cooking him from the inside out.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” he hissed, words burning like steam from the back of his throat, “Here’s something you don’t know, Snivellus: there’s a knot on the Whomping Willow. A small knot, right near the base of the tree. If you’re so certain of your stupid theories, then why don’t you run off and find out what it does?”