All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Sixth Year : Separation

Sirius woke the next morning with a splitting headache and a sour taste on the back of his tongue. He scrubbed a hand across his face as he sat up, blinking the morning sunlight out of his eyes.

It’s over.

Ah. There it was. That cold pit at the base of his stomach, stretching like a cat, sending ice water through his veins. He remembered, vaguely, returning to the party with Emmeline, where he had grabbed a bottle of firewhisky out of James’s hands and poured it down his throat like he was trying to drown himself. After that, everything went a bit blurry—he was pretty sure he had kept his promise to walk Emmeline back to the common room, recalled flashes of something that might have been starlight, and the touch of her small, soft hands. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting nausea.

Remus’s words echoed in his head. It’s over, it’s over, it’s over. Sirius groaned.

What had he done wrong? He tried to recall their conversation—he’d apologised, and then he’d kissed him, and then Remus had said something about Emmeline, and regret…

But he said it was better, Sirius thought, miserably, He said it was better when it was just me. He wouldn’t say that and not mean it—he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t…

Sirius thought, again, of the way he’d kissed Remus, greedy and fervent, doing nothing to hide the horrible want that rose like a tide whenever they were alone together. He thought of Remus’s hand on his chest, pushing him away.

Stupid, whispered a small, vicious voice in the back of his head, Did you really think he wanted you? Did you really think you could poison him, corrupt him, twist him until he felt the same way? He swallowed, remembering the way he’d thrown himself at Remus, thinking of the secret, guilty desire that he’d chanted silently when they were together, like wordless magic: Like me better, like me better, like me better…

This is all your fault, Sirius told himself, miserably, You stupid, bloody idiot. Because of course—of course Remus would pull away, once he knew the full scope of that hidden, insidious need. It had always been wrong, what he was doing—from the very start. Sirius had known that, and he had still, selfishly, clung to Remus, like a weed choking a vine. He couldn’t blame his friend for wanting to leave before it was too late.

But he said it was good, said a tiny, hopeful piece of his heart, He said that he wanted you, too.

Sirius squashed it. What he had said didn’t matter. Clearly, Remus didn’t want him anymore.

You knew that this was coming, he reminded himself, as he brushed his teeth, You knew that things would end, eventually. But he still wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and squeeze his eyes shut, pulling the covers over his head.

Both Remus and James were absent from the room that morning, so it was only Peter who accompanied him down to the Great Hall for breakfast. The smaller boy was not in a particularly chatty mood—he was yawning so much that he almost tripped on one of the trick steps and tumbled headlong down the staircase.

The other marauders weren’t at the breakfast table, either—which wasn’t particularly surprising. Sirius assumed that James was probably out on the quidditch pitch, and Remus had most likely scurried off to the library to avoid him after their conversation last night. Sirius mumbled a half-hearted greeting to Mary and the girls, who responded with bleary-eyed groans. He had just begun to force some fried eggs into his fragile stomach when the missing boys appeared, pink-cheeked and panting, sweat beaded at their temples.