sirius
It was a known fact that rumours went around quickly in Ketterdam, and Sirius was no exception to the rule. From the Emerald Palace to the Crow Club, tales of Padfoot ’s achievements could be heard.
He’s cold hearted, he had heard being whispered in a dark corner of a tavern by jealous ex lovers, mad to have woken up to a cold bed after spending the night with him.
He's a ghost, and no one can ever track him down. That's why Sirius was known as Padfoot; he was like the ghostly black dogs from old folklore stories, a demonic entity that appears in the dead of night but can never be found. He only accepted odd jobs, never staying in the same place or with the same people for too long, and continually moving around. He could not afford to get too close to people knowing that one day, they would either leave him or end up dead. He could not do it again.
All the money he makes, he spends it gambling. Well, Sirius thought with a smirk, there was some truth to this one. Reggie's death had left him empty, the guilt of being the sole survivor eating him alive day and night. He'd turned to gambling to fill the void, the rush of winning pushing away the unpleasant memories.
Sirius followed a group of tourists walking towards the tavern next to the Crow Club, through the beginnings of the Barrel’s gambling district. The Barrel was bracketed by two major canals, East Stave and West Stave, each catering to a particular clientele, and separated by a tangle of narrow streets and minor waterways. The buildings of the Barrel were different from anywhere else in Ketterdam, bigger, wider, painted in every garish colour, clamouring for attention from passersby – the Treasure Chest, the Golden Bend, Weddell’s Riverboat. The best of the betting halls were located further north, in the prime real estate of the Lid, the section of the canal closest to the harbours, favourably situated to attract tourists and sailors coming into port.
Despite what he told people, Sirius wasn’t from Ketterdam. He’d been fourteen and Reggie thirteen when they’d first arrived in the city, with money from their parents’ vaults sewn safely into the inner pocket of Sirius’ old coat. Sirius could see himself as he was then, walking the Stave with dazzled eyes, hand tucked into Reg’s so he wouldn’t be swept away by the crowd. He hated the boys they’d been, two stupid pigeons waiting to be plucked. But those boys were long gone.
The crowds were still thick outside the club. Sirius watched the tide of people flowing past the portico’s black columns, beneath the watchful eye of the oxidised silver crow that spread its wings above the entrance. He could see barkers out front shouting to potential customers, offering free drinks, hot pots of coffee, and the fairest deal in all of Ketterdam. He acknowledged them with a nod and turned left.
Sirius watched the flow of customers in and out of the tavern’s doors and caught sight of James, inspecting one of his knives while waiting for Sirius at their regular table, two drinks on the table.
James and him had met at the Crows Club a year ago and had become inseparable ever since. Their friendship was rather unusual. Neither of them had regular work schedules that allowed for a lot of personal time; James was working for the Order and Sirius away from Ketterdam on missions most days. However, they still took the time to meet each other once —or twice, if they were lucky— a month over drinks.
As Sirius walked in, the sound of a bell above the door informing the tavern of the newcomer, James raised his head, carefully setting down his knife on the table to look at Sirius. “Took you long enough. Thought you’d forgotten about me again.” he said with a mocking smile.
Sitting down in front of James on the shaky wooden chair, Sirius grumbled and rolled his eyes, while his mouth curved up in a smile. “It happened only once. I will never hear the end of it, will I?”
“Not until I’m dead and buried.”
Sirius’ face fell. Hearing James joke so casually about death had always made him uneasy. He was not a fool; he knew that in James' and his line of work, death was not a possibility, but a promise.
Sirius had to deal with death on a daily basis, and by now he was unfazed by the pain, the violence, the grief in people's eyes as they knew they were about to pass on and would never see their loved ones again. He had been brought up around it; his mother had taught him to put up with it since, as she liked to tell him after particularly bloody punishments, she was only doing it out of love and concern for him and his brother. The crimes he had seen take place in his own home were far worse than the violence he witnessed and indulged in on the streets of Ketterdam. So while death itself did not frighten Sirius in the slightest, the idea that the people he loved, like James, might pass away and be robbed of their precious time on Earth did give Sirius nightmares.
Sirius forced a laugh. “Well then,” he uttered, raising his glass, “Here’s to a few decades of hearing you repeat the story of me forgetting about our plans to go on a mission.”
-
Outside the gloomy tavern, night was setting in. The full moon, bright and shiny, could be observed from the smoke stained windows. He and James each had a few drinks—six, to be exact. Drunk James was loud and often without a filter between his thoughts and his spoken words, which Sirius found to be quite entertaining.
“And then Dirtyhands revealed how Wormtail had been betraying us all along. It was bloody genius, Pads." James finished explaining, a wide smile on his face.
When they first had started becoming friends, Sirius insisted on keeping his identity anonymous from James, going by Pads. It allowed him to distance his real self from James. I can’t hurt him if we never become close friends. It won’t hurt when he leaves me, he had thought. But as their relationship had developed over the previous few months, Sirius had felt comfortable telling James his real name. He wanted him to know him for who he truly was, and not the reputation he had made for himself as Ketterdam’s finest sharpshooter.
Even though James now knew Sirius' real identity, he insisted on calling him Pads. They also used nicknames like Wormtail, which Sirius knew alluded to Pettigrew although James would never admit it, which allowed James to discuss the Order’s affairs with Sirius in public without getting in trouble.
"He has a penchant for the dramatics, Dirtyhands." he remarked.
"He does," James gave him a curious look, eyebrows furrowed together as he observed Sirius’ face, “Have I ever told you how much you look like him?" he asked.
“You wouldn’t be the first one to tell me.”
“It’s kind of creepy. You two almost look like brothers.”
“You out of all people should know that the only brother I have is currently lying dead at the bottom of the waters of the Reaper's Barge.” he replied with fake enthusiasm, trying to pass it off as a funny story rather than a painful memory.
James cast him a sorry look, seemingly understanding the impact of his words on Sirius. He opened his mouth but Sirius cut him off immediately. “It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean to bring it up,” he reassured, “I’ll be right back, got to use the bathroom.” he said as he stood up, dashing towards the bar’s secret back door – the one he knew only the employees used. He needed fresh air, needed to go outside as quickly as possibly or he would lose his mind. Thinking about Reggie made him want to run away as far as possible.
Preoccupied by his thoughts, Sirius slammed head-first into a wall, consequence of not paying attention to where he was going.
Except it was not a wall, he quickly realized as he felt something cold splashing over his chest, and the sound of glass shattering on the wood floor.
The most stunning man Sirius had ever seen was standing before him, and he appeared to be plotting his murder. “Watch where you’re going, Black.”
Sirius froze, shocked to hear the man say his last name. James was the only person in Ketterdam who knew Sirius’ real name, and not the cute server standing in front of him, shooting him daggers. Unless James had transformed himself into a very, very fit twenty-something-year-old man with curly dirty blonde hair and scars across his face.
“How do you know my name, pretty boy?” Sirius asked, hoping that flirting with the server would help conceal the panic in his voice.
The man shrugged, a nonchalant look on his face. “I don’t. You’re just wearing a lot of black, plus your hair,” he gave Sirius a once-over as he explained himself, “Never heard of nicknames before?”
“Obviously, I have. But if you're going to call me by a nickname, I’d prefer sweetheart or love. I’m not picky.” He winked.
“Right,” the man said dryly. He did not appear in the least bit impressed. “Flirting with me is not going to pay for the broken glass or clear your tab. So if I were you, I’d head to the bar and get my wallet out, pretty boy.” he responded snarkily, walking away before Sirius could even ask for his name, leaving him in the back of the tavern gaping like an idiot, his wet shirt sticking to his chest.
-
It had been three months since Sirius’ incident with the server at the bar. Three months. It should have been enough time for Sirius to get over the grumpy server. Yet, every time he went out drinking with James at the tavern, he would try to find his mystery man, searching the room each time he walked in in the hopes of running into him once more.
He was never lucky.