All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Sixth Year : Parties and Pustules

Rock me, give me that kick now

Rock me, show me that trick now

Roll me, you can do magic

Baby, and I can’t get enough of it

Rock me, give me that feeling

Roll me, rocking and reeling

Baby, so don’t stop doing it, don’t stop doing it now

 

Sunday 31st October 1976

 

Everything was fine.

Sirius sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, surrounded by his friends. The Halloween feast was just as spectacular as always, a mouth-watering golden hog roast with such a wide assortment of sides that it was impossible to try everything. James was laughing at Marlene’s impression of something one of their teammates had done at practice, Lily was listening politely as Peter tried to explain his new chess strategy, and Remus was drinking pumpkin juice—head tilted back, throat exposed, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed—

Which was fine. Sirius felt fine. It was all perfectly fine.

Everything would be alright, he reminded himself, as long as he followed The Plan. The Plan had been created in the shower, as Sirius debated whether it would be easier to drown himself or look Remus in the eye again. It was a close call, but at the end of the day he wasn’t sure that his traitorous lungs would accept it if he tried to fill them with water, and Sirius had to resign himself to the fact that he would be seeing Moony again quite soon.

Still, he could have punched himself in the face. As it was, he spent a solid thirty seconds banging his head quietly against the tile wall. What was wrong with him?? Remus had only just forgiven him, and now Sirius had to go and muck everything up again, all because of his...because he was...because he wanted...

Sirius crawled down shame’s familiar throat and sat, burning, in the acid of its stomach. He thought again of the way he’d thrown himself at Remus, like a dog with a bone, unyielding, giving him hardly any say in the matter.

But he didn’t push you away, said a small, hopeful voice in the back of his mind, He touched you.

Sirius strangled it. Of course Remus had been...up for it; Merlin’s sake, the boy had spent sixteen years with nothing but the company of his own hand! (Well—probably not all sixteen of those years—but still). And now Sirius was taking advantage of his—repression, his shyness when it came to being anything more than friends with girls, by dragging Remus into his own uncontrollable mess.

Because Sirius knew, deep down, that he was beginning to run out of excuses for his behaviour. It might have made sense if he were pent up, like Remus, eager for any sort of contact. But he’d already snogged himself silly with Mary for nearly a year, and it seemed to have done nothing to sate the desperate...need, the desire like something with teeth, something gnawing, bone-snapping, blood-spilling. Sirius felt a cresting wave of hopelessness as he wondered whether his mother had been right about him, all along.