All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Seventh Year : Thunder

Peter shook him awake as the train pulled into Hogsmeade, and Sirius groaned, curling up tighter for a moment before unfurling his limbs and stretching. The carriage was unusually quiet; everyone seemed a bit subdued when he opened his eyes. But then, Sirius supposed they were all probably just tired from the long journey.

They didn’t see James until they’d stepped off onto the platform, where he was waiting to greet them. His eye was red and swollen, as if someone had hit him with a stinging jinx, and his robes were rumpled.

“What happened to you?” Sirius asked, around a yawn.

“Tell you later,” James muttered, looking away. Once he’d finished making sure that everyone was off the train, he jogged over to help Lily herd all the first years towards the lake, where Hagrid was waiting near the rowboats. Peter abandoned them as well, hurrying off to find Dorcas and ride with her group of friends, so it was just Sirius, Remus, Mary, and Marlene in their own horseless carriage. Sirius felt a wave of nostalgia, looking up at the familiar stone walls where he had spent the past six years. He wished James was there, beside him, for their final ride up to Hogwarts.

The nostalgia continued to grow as they filtered into the Great Hall, sitting with their stomachs growling as they watched the first years’ sorting ceremony. Sirius found himself smiling as he remembered his own Sorting, how terrified he had been, how ashamed—but in the end, that dusty old hat had been the best thing to ever happen to him. If not for its decision that day, he would never have become friends with James, would never have met Mary, would never have found himself sharing a room with the secretive, stubborn, impossible boy sitting next to him. He had the silly urge to reach out and take Remus’s hand as they watched the new batch of Gryffindors take their seats at the opposite end of the table.

With the ceremony finally finished, Dumbledore stood to announce that dinner was served. He had just finished speaking when the doors to the Great Hall suddenly burst open, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

Sirius turned, and the giddy nostalgia turned to ash on the back of his tongue.

Regulus walked in slowly, shoulders back and head held high, the way their mother had taught them. A Black always shows proper comportment! His face was cold, sharp, like something carved from ice. Any lingering baby fat had disappeared; he was all chin and cheekbones, shadows and angles. He looked as if he hadn’t seen the sun in months, paler than Sirius had ever seen him, which only made the bruise-like circles under his eyes more prominent. It made something twist in Sirius’s chest, that blanched skin—Reggie had always loved the sunshine. He was like a cat, curling up in the patches that shone through the windows. Summer had always been his favourite season.

At the Slytherin table, the other sixth-years fell all over themselves to clear a spot for him, as if he were an honoured guest instead of one of their peers. Snape even went so far as to stand, leaning across the table to shake Regulus’s hand. Sirius scowled.

When he turned back to his own table, he caught the wary looks that a few of his fellow Gryffindors were now shooting him. It seemed that house loyalty made less and less of a difference, as the war went on—he was still a Black. Reggie’s dramatic entrance had just reminded everyone of that.

“Mate,” James murmured, leaning in, “I need to tell you something, later. In private.” He gave Remus and Peter a pointed look as he said it, and Sirius had the distinct feeling that he’d missed something. After a moment, he nodded.