GOOD DOG || Sirius Black

(Eighteen: Alexithymia)

Alexithymia: the inability to express your emotions.

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Normal days didn't exist for Sirius Black.

There were days where things seemed to go well, against all the odds, and days where everything just sort of fell apart, and it was probably his fault, and days where he just had to keep going, on and on, forever. Those were the three categories.

The day after a full moon fitted only very rarely into the first column. All of the Marauders were exhausted, and they were one member down. It was generally a period where Sirius paid very little attention in lessons and amused himself by setting dungbombs on First Years.

He was certainly expecting that particular evening-after to be no different. That was probably the only one of his expectations that was fully lived up to, in truth. The two most prolific things that he was not expecting were a conversation with his brother that didn't end with him banging his head against the wall, and a confrontation with Alex Fawley. He got both of them.

In the years before the beginning of Sirius Black's education at Hogwarts, he could only imagine what better things might be out there in a world that failed to accommodate for fairy book endings. He had always been a fairly cynical child, refusing to believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, not that either came to visit him except in the form of lumps of coal shoved inside of stockings as a reminder not to talk to the muggle boy down the street. 

As all similarly cynical children will know, although never admit, there is a part of you that will forever be jealous of your more faithful friends. For a second, or a minute, or however long it takes to plaster that familiar grin across their face, you want to believe in magic. Not the kind of magic Sirius saw every day, the kind that cleaned chimneys and dusted silverware. The sort of magic that sent you flying away to Neverland, off on adventures to fight monsters and save people and make the whole world a little brighter. 

Regulas Black had always been nearly identical in most respects, and Sirius could only assume that the boy's internal monologue mirrored his own. That being, with the obvious differing of the youngest sibling still clinging to that belief that their parents were always right, and the eldest clutching tightly the hope that they were always wrong. 

But Sirius had one very clear memory of a young Regulas, having found Sirius slumped against the staircase after another shouting match with their parents, very carefully and with the upmost concentration, taking his big brother's hand and leading him to a window. The stars were mostly obscured by the London smog, but the Black family had always been the kind that could afford nice things. And there was nothing nicer than a window that cleared the sky of any cloud, so that the observer might see the stars that dotted the inky-black space above.

"I let myself have one minute," Regulas, nine years old but already used to adorning his social camouflage, confided in a hush tone, "Every night."

For once, Sirius had been too tired to think of anything to reply with, so he humoured his little brother, "One minute for what?"

"Just wait." Regulas squeezed his eyes shut, resting his hands on the windowsill that Sirius could remember lifting him to reach when they were younger, "A talking dragon's gonna come pick us up in a minute."

"Oh yeah?" Sirius had grinned.

"Or a phoenix." Regulas informed him solemnly, "Anything really, anyone."

"Where are they going to take us?" Sirius asked, trying to maintain his elder cynicism while also fighting his curiosity, "On an adventure?"