Hit the slopes

Sirius loved to sleep. James loved it when Sirius slept too—if only so he could disturb him. But how does one explain to someone so biologically well-timed that night could occasionally serve as day for others? Sirius was one of those people. He found the nights too dark to lull him into slumber, too quiet to bring him peace. Only the hum of life around him allowed his eyes to close and carry him into Morpheus’s arms.

And so, at night, Sirius kept himself busy. He read books he once thought he’d never have the time to discover. Or he painted, built, created. He cherished the notion that something—anything—might outlast him after he was gone, no matter the place or time. Whether it was a memory of his passing or simply proof of his existence, he clung to this. Even if he loathed his existence, he did not want it to fade too easily from remembrance.

Last night, James and Peter had unloaded all their belongings to give the flat a semblance of humanity. Until then, it had resembled a storage facility with towers of boxes and the remains of takeout Chinese scattered across the living room floor. Barty had attempted to help, but after breaking a light fixture he’d decided to use as a makeshift football, he’d been promptly relegated to punishment—much like Sirius. Not that Sirius had done anything wrong; it was merely preventative. From their respective corners, the two whispered profanities and debated the placement of every object, contradicting each other as often as possible.

“You’re not seriously putting my favorite cushion there?”

“Who even has a favorite cushion?”

“I do, so what?” Sirius shot back, keeping a sharp eye on James as he placed the cushion—embroidered with a large star by Effie—onto the slightly shabby armchair, which was far more inviting than the dubious-looking sofa Peter was desperately trying to cover with a large Christmas-themed blanket gifted by his grandmother. A blanket only Peter seemed to like, though no one had dared to tell him.

“But you don’t even sleep.” Barty grumbled one last time, letting out a disapproving whistle as James abruptly yanked the PlayStation out of a box. Sometimes Sirius forgot that the guy with a thousand piercings and tattoos could be the most observant of the four, despite his tendency to act like he didn’t care about anything.

“Easy there, pretty boy. Don’t break my baby.”

“Shared custody,” James retorted smugly. And it was true. They had bought together the PlayStation 5 for their shared apartment. Back when Sirius wasn’t around much, Barty and James had grown closer while sharing a flat not far from their respective universities. And since then, the little troublemaker had been hanging out with them regularly. After a year, Sirius had gotten used to it. After all, the two of them shared a pain only they could truly understand: the loss of one particular person.

“Keep dreaming.”

Sirius wouldn’t say he hated Barty.

If anything, it was the opposite—he liked him. But Barty hated himself so much it became hard not to follow his lead. Self-sabotage and the whole package. And he could be so damn annoying, so much like Sirius himself.

But for a brief moment, when he had thought the end was near, the idea that James wouldn’t be alone, that he might have someone else to truly appreciate his light for what it was… that thought had brought Sirius a strange sense of comfort, tangled with a jealousy that had worn him down to his very bones.

“You’re seriously not putting the Bad Action Jar back, are you?” Sirius complained, his tone theatrical, as James retrieved a glass jar from one of the boxes with a smug smile that radiated his trademark energy.

“I’m already broke! What more could you possibly want from me!?” Barty joined the chorus, equally unenthusiastic about the jar and reciprocated its loathing.

“For you to stop doing bad things.” The rules were simple: for every wrong action, thoughtless or hurtful, between them or towards others, James demanded that a bill be placed in the jar.

“I was born to be a bad boy…” Barty’s suggestive tone, complete with an exaggerated licking of his lips, didn’t fool anyone.

A moment later, “Play with Fire” blasted from the newly installed sound system as Peter emerged from the kitchen, phone in hand. And the dark-haired one, who had just given a little performance, shifted his hips in his chair, thrusting into the air, his arms braced on either side of him, moving in rhythm. The entire scene had everyone laughing, putting an end to what was ultimately a pointless debate. Proudly, James set the jar—empty, but not for long—on the mantle of the grand fireplace.

A few hours later, the boxes had all been neatly folded in the hallway, and Peter had brewed chamomile tea for everyone, including those who hadn’t exactly been helpful. The round-faced boy swore it would help them sleep, but Sirius eyed his cup skeptically.

Barty had vanished to his room soon after, citing fatigue, though they all knew he hardly slept. Instead, he spent his nights hunched over study guides for medical school entrance exams. It was only when James unearthed stacks of textbooks on general and sports medicine and called Sirius over that they concluded Barty would only tell them about his plans if he succeeded. His fear of failure was that profound.

“I should sleep too. Early start tomorrow.”

“Pete, seriously, what are you going to do all day in that tiny ski cabin?”

“Stop people from smashing their junk on the tow lift and play chess on my phone, I guess.”

“You could’ve joined me at the ESI.” Sirius and Peter simultaneously turned toward James, their expressions deadpan as if daring him to be serious after spouting such nonsense.

“Sure, because Peter’s a natural on skis.”

“It’s not my fault I slip!”

“That’s kind of the whole point, though?”

Many words followed, leading both of them to each slip a bill into the designated jar. You see, empty for now, but clearly not for long. When James finally rose, collecting both his mug and the abandoned one left by Barty, Sirius followed. Peter had donned his utterly ridiculous rat-shaped sleep mask, complete with ears, before wishing them a good night. Before disappearing up the stairs—he was the only one with a room on the upper floor. The apartment, after all, had two stories.

Leaning against the fridge, Sirius simply watched his best friend do the dishes. There was something deeply comforting about James going about the mundane acts of living—breathing, existing, thriving. It brought Sirius peace, an anchor in the storm of his chaotic existence. For in this sinking ship he called his body, riddled with holes and waterlogged, James would always be his safe harbor.

It was only after being taken in by the Potters that Sirius truly understood the difference between merely co-existing and genuinely living together.

A yawn interrupted his musings, quickly mimicked by James, who tossed the sponge aside, dried his hands, and slung an arm around Sirius’s shoulder to lead him toward their rooms. As usual, James pressed a wet kiss to Sirius’s forehead—a childhood habit, really. His mother had always bid James goodnight that way, and in his earnestness, James had decided to do the same for Sirius back when they were roommates at school.

“Good luck tomorrow—you’re going to crush it. They’ll love you.”

“They’d better. I don’t take rejection well,” James quipped with a wry grin, his dimples vanishing as he added in a quieter voice, “They will like me, won’t they?”

“I like you.”

“You’re biased.”

“No, I’m serious.” Rolling his eyes at the overused pun, James turned to his room with a final, “Good night, Pads” leaving Sirius behind, alone with the silence. And just like that, with no sound or life left to ground him, sleep fled Sirius. Yawns no longer made him open his mouth wide. Ever the insomniac, he returned to his creative refuges, making the long night pass.

That is why, early in the morning—or closer to noon—when James barged into his room to throw open the curtains and drag Sirius out of bed by force, he found him lying amidst a sea of sketches of the moon. The bed was covered with frustrated scrawls and furious erasures in a relentless quest for a perfection Sirius could never quite achieve. His fingers were smudged with colors and pencil marks; he had spent hours measuring the full moon against the length of his pencil held up to the window, trying to capture the beauty of its craters and fractures—the raw vulnerability that made it all the more breathtaking.

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Effie, please, just five more minutes.”

“Wrong Potter, mate. Sorry.” James yanked the duvet away, robbing Sirius of its warmth. Sirius hated the cold—it dragged him back to a place he fought desperately to forget. Deprived of the comforting weight of the covers and left exposed to the room’s chilly air, he forced his eyes open with a groan that was almost animalistic. In front of him, James’s cheeks and nose were flushed red from the cold outside, and a bit of snow clung to his messy hair. Adorable. And yet, utterly infuriating.

“Downstairs, showered and ready in fifteen minutes, or I post that magnificent photo of you puking your guts out after Mardi Gras on Insta. You’ll go viral.”

Unfortunately, Sirius knew exactly which photo James was talking about—the one where he looked like he’d been run over by a truck, painted green like the Wicked Witch, with his head in a toilet as if he were searching for his dignity at the bottom. It was buried too deeply to recover. There was no way he’d allow such a public humiliation because the wanker had quite a large following—thanks to his sports vlogs, adrenaline-filled stunts, and ever-charming grin—so the post would undoubtedly gain traction.

Especially since the internet adored “Padz,” as he was himself called on YouTube, where he’d been documenting his adventures in extreme sports and daring challenges for almost a year now.

He had embarked on a journey to seek as many thrills as possible, chasing experiences he once believed he would never have the chance to live through while lying in his hospital bed. The idea of sharing what felt like a personal healing process on social media had grown naturally within him. So, ever since leaving the hospital, when he was officially declared free from cancer—or at least in remission—he had lived life in its purest, most unfiltered form. Spontaneously.

From the roaring majesty of Niagara Falls to the dense and mysterious Amazon rainforest, his adventures took him everywhere. His most recent journey had been a three-week road trip through Norway in a camper van with Peter. He had witnessed the ethereal dance of the northern lights, and ever since, the rare dreams he did have were filled with vibrant, shifting colors.

And his hair, like his soul, grew again, long and untamed, flowing with the quiet grace of a deeper understanding and the boundless spirit of a world rediscovered.

Fifteen minutes later, propelled by sheer desperation, Sirius joined James at the entrance. James was already dressed in his ski pants, jacket, and helmet. Sirius never wore gloves—he found them unsightly and preferred the tactile connection of his bare hands to the world. Because if nothing grounds him physically to the world, he’s always afraid he won’t find his way out of his thoughts, out of the labyrinth of his own mind. His therapist speaks of an insatiable need for physical connection with reality;

Sirius prefers to say he likes replacing the sterile touch of hospital sheets beneath his fingers with anything that feels more profoundly human. If the snow was cold, he’d rather have it burn his knuckles white than feel nothing but the smothering comfort of padded gloves.

James had already fetched their gear from the closet by the entrance, carefully fastening the buckles on his striking red ski boots. Fleamont had gifted them each a pair of ski boots and a snowboard for their eighteenth birthdays, declaring, “One for each of my sons.” Sirius had wept uncontrollably and unashamedly at that.

He adored his boots: Mindbender 110 BOAs, jet black with golden buckles and tiny stars painted on the back and the strap. They were like his children, cherished because they represented who he was to his adoptive father. And they were perfect. His snowboard matched his boots—a K2 Outsider—which Monty confided had been secretly chosen by Euphemia to ensure its safety. She, who showed little interest in winter sports despite her famous husband, had wanted Sirius to have the best.

He took a photo of his boots and snowboard, sending it to the Potters’ WhatsApp group. Almost instantly, Fleamont responded with a thumbs-up emoji, and Euphemia sent a picture of what looked like a simmering pot of chicken tikka masala. Sirius’s stomach growled, and over his shoulder, James sighed longingly at the sight of his favorite indian dish.

“Unfair. Always when we’re not there.”

“Shut up. You got eleven more years of Effie’s cooking than I ever did.”

“Cry me a river,” James replied mercilessly, locking the door behind them.

The pair struggled with their heavy ski boots, moving awkwardly through the resort area. Sirius grimaced every time they walked on asphalt, apologizing loudly to his precious boots for the ordeal, much to James’s amusement. At the base of the slope near the hotel residences, they equipped themselves for the lift and agreed to head up to Chalvet’s cable cars, with plans to greet Peter, who was manning a lift nearby.

While Sirius was eager to hit the black diamond runs and try some off-piste snow, James wanted to traverse every trail at the station to familiarize himself with the layout. He was anxious about teaching ski lessons at a resort unfamiliar to him. He had an incredible spatial memory but couldn’t make sense of maps—he always had to learn by doing. So Sirius followed, which was how he found himself in a gondola with an elderly couple and their granddaughter on their way to the beginner trails.

The three were Italian, which gave James an opportunity to practice his English, while Sirius only half-listened to the conversation. Barty had once tried teaching them some basic Italian, but it was futile—Sirius was far too French to grasp the concept of a language without subject pronouns, and James’s accent was atrocious unless he was speaking Spanish.

Yet, despite his linguistic shortcomings, the scoundrel managed to win over the entire family, even convincing them of the virtues of his ski school, the ESI. The granddaughter, whose name was Hannah Abbott, beamed so wide she seemed to bite her cheeks, clearly enchanted by her soon-to-be instructor—if the wistful glances she cast at her grandparents were any indication. Pulling up his mask and adjusting his balaclava, Sirius bid the family a curt nod before stepping out, James in tow.

“Peter should be at the bottom of this run.”

“You’re already drumming up business?” Sirius teased, unlatching the strap of his snowboard.

“What can I say? Marketing runs in my blood.”

“I watched you sell lemonade at a loss when you were fourteen because you felt sorry for everyone and ended up giving it away for free.”

“Customer retention strategy.”

“Thank God you went into sports science and not business.”

“At least I went to university.”

“Harsh, mate.”

It had been nearly three months since Sirius last skied on his northern trip, and over a year for James. That made James the more impatient of the two—barely a moment after buckling his snowboard straps, he adjusted his goggles. He gave a vague wave to his companion before taking off, the smile on his face only growing wider. On the snow, he glowed. One day, Fleamont had confessed to Sirius that he feared he might have forced his son to love the sport of skiing by taking him to the mountains so often, but all it took was seeing him glide so naturally to understand that it was a part of James.

James stood bareheaded before him, the snow slowly gathering upon him, a quiet shroud forming in the stillness. Refusing to wear a helmet or a beanie, as always, he claimed his skull was too thick to need protection. To the great dismay of his mother, who couldn't stand either of them anymore. She hated heights, and even more so the idea that her son might suffer a concussion simply because he couldn’t bear feeling confined. With one sharp push, the brown guy sped off, leaving Sirius behind as he fiddled with the strap.

He may not have had the years of experience James had accumulated, nor the innate talent for gliding sports that seemed to come naturally with the Potter name, but Sirius had quickly caught up. Somewhere deep down, he had to admit that his determination to master skiing and snowboarding wasn’t just born of love for the sport—it was also because his mother loathed heights. She had an intense fear of them. Toying with something that terrified her so deeply gave Sirius a heady taste of superiority.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he sped down the slope, carving only slightly as he glided, letting the wind slip under his helmet and whip across his covered face. Unlike James, he was fully geared—not for safety, but simply because he hated the cold. His helmet always sported a GoPro, its lens capturing every wild twist and turn.

At the end of the run, he found James waiting in the short line for the button lift. Peter, his stocky yet broad-shouldered frame cloaked in an oversized parka, was busy untangling the long poles with their circular tips, ensuring a smooth passage for the skiers. As James turned to Peter with his trademark dazzling grin, arms wide open as if demanding a hug from his long-lost son, the worker rolled his eyes and shrugged off his chapka, revealing a silver-grey mullet beneath.

Sirius remembered all too well the incident that had led to Peter’s current haircut—a mullet which, despite its undeniably trashy reputation, suited him far too well. It all stemmed from a lost bet. Peter had confidently claimed to be better than Sirius at flying the drone, only for the gadget to collide spectacularly with an eagle mid-flight.

The ensuing panic had seen them racing through the vast white desert of Norway at 200 kilometers per hour, desperately seeking the nearest veterinarian. Since that day, Peter had been sentenced to bear the mullet as his badge of shame.

He helped a young girl in front of them position the lift pole between her legs, giving her a small nudge to send her up the slope. Peter wasn’t much for physical contact, despite his imposing build. For all his compact height, the former weightlifter boasted massive biceps, thick thighs, and a broad chest. Mary often perched on him as if it were the most natural thing in the world and had even roped him into trying that viral TikTok trend where the man lifts a woman onto his shoulder by her hips.

It wasn’t surprising that Lily had felt the need to prove she could do it too—an attempt that ended with her face firmly planted in Mary’s posterior. The sheer, uproarious laughter from five-year-old Harry after witnessing the mishap remained one of the loudest Sirius had ever heard from such a young child.

Was it normal for Sirius to feel such an overwhelming mix of love and jealousy in that moment? He couldn’t deny it—he had often dreamed of having a childhood like Harry’s. That was why he poured every ounce of himself into making it better, into giving Harry all the things Sirius himself had been so cruelly denied.

“We came to admire our man at work,” Sirius drawled theatrically, pulling up his mask just enough to flutter his lashes dramatically in Peter’s direction.

“Being your friend is exhausting enough. Sorry, but it’s a no.”

“Pete! You’re breaking my heart!” James exclaimed, clutching his chest as if in mortal agony, before Sirius caught him in an exaggerated embrace, complete with mock sobs.

“No, James, don’t leave me! I’ll love you enough for the both of us, my Romeo. You want mouth-to-mouth?”

“Please, go away,” Peter groaned, tugging his parka higher as if to hide.

“Crash on the slopes, vanish into the mountain, I don’t care. Just disappear.”

“Anything you want,” Sirius replied smoothly.

“Yes, anything, our dear Pete,” James added with a wink.

Laughing like mischievous schoolboys, they finally stepped properly into the line, having delayed a queue of skiers who eyed them with either amused grins or irritated impatience. James defused the situation with his apologetic “boy-next-door” smile before slipping the first pole between his legs. A yelp of surprise later, he was off, the lift pulling him steadily upward.

“Take good care of me, Petey,” Sirius teased, blowing a dramatic kiss as he positioned the lift pole between his legs. Because of his snowboard, he had to keep close to the bar, angle himself slightly, and unstrap one foot to make it work.

“Count on me,” Peter grumbled from beneath a snow-speckled hood as he signaled the lift operator and retreated into his cabin.

The launch was sudden, and Sirius glided smoothly, pulled by mechanical strength. However, the pressure where the lift pole sat was far from comfortable. Truly, one of the worst aspects of a mountain excursion for any man. Ahead of him, the snow-capped peaks stretched like great white mounds of sugar, and he allowed himself to get lost in their majestic expanse.

A familiar peace settled over his spirit as he breathed in the crisp air, letting it refresh his lungs while his muscles relaxed.

Moments later, the slope beneath him dipped unexpectedly. The lift jolted into high speed before stopping abruptly, leaving him perched precariously on the mini descent. Pain lanced through him, and a squeak of discomfort escaped his lips—surely, his nether regions had turned blue under the assault.

From the nearby cabin, a resounding laugh echoed, and there was no doubt in his mind. Peter had done his job all too well. Ahead, James flailed comically, twisting in ways that made him look like a floundering earthworm. The sight eased Sirius’s discomfort slightly; the laughter it inspired was hard to resist.

By the time Sirius reached the end of the ride, he had decided he’d get Peter back—but for now, he grinned at the majestic mountains once more, savoring the mischievous camaraderie that made these trips utterly unforgettable.

“Mate, I need to take a piss.”

“What? Now? Seriou—really?” James exclaimed, his mouth agape as he gestured to their surroundings.

They were perched at the very top of the “Bec de l’aigle”, a well-known hotspot for local tourists, with its breathtaking black and red runs stretching below. 

Peter had been left behind, James and Sirius had been skiing ever since. But earlier, the assault on his family jewels had stirred his bladder into rebellion. There was no holding it anymore.

Nodding furiously, he ducked behind a metal pole supporting a trail map, freeing himself from the layers of insulation and proceeding to relieve himself. James, unable to suppress his laughter, tried half-heartedly to shield him from prying eyes. Thankfully, at this hour, most skiers had already retreated for lunch.

“Still as tiny as ever?” James quipped, deliberately looking away.

“It’s the cold. Shut up.”

Despite having changed in front of each other countless times, James cast a skeptical glance over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. The bastard succeeded in making Sirius laugh—a mistake. Still tethered awkwardly to his snowboard, Sirius lost his balance and crashed against the pole. Naturally, James burst into hysterics at the spectacle, with no intention of holding back.

After shooting a rude gesture his way—a move that would undoubtedly cost him a fine in the Bad Behavior Jar—Sirius tried to stand. But as he shifted, an unpleasant sensation registered between his legs. There was a strange, tugging pressure. As if…

“Oh, putain de merde" he swore, automatically switching to French, as he always did in moments of sheer panic.

“What?” James immediately replied, his tone snapping to alert. The panic in Sirius’s voice was unmistakable, and while his best friend could be the King of Drama, actual alarm was rare.

“James… I think— I think my dick is stuck.”

A long silence followed his declaration, the kind where even crickets might have chirped. Nature—or more accurately, science—had betrayed him at the worst possible time. Like a tongue stuck to frozen metal, the tip of his most prized possession had fused to the icy surface of his makeshift hiding spot.

Confusion flickered in James’s amber eyes before the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curling into a grin. Despite his attempts to appear concerned, his resolve crumbled. He burst out laughing, the sound echoing loudly across the snowy peaks, loud enough to almost trigger an avalanche and certainly enough to draw the attention of nearby skiers.

“Stop laughing, James Fleamont Potter. This isn’t bloody funny! I might lose my dick!” Sirius practically wailed, tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes. James only laughed harder, barely able to breathe.

“You have to piss on me,” Sirius declared desperately.

“What?” James choked on the word, finally managing to stop laughing as he turned to Sirius with a horrified expression. “I’m not pissing on your dick.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do in these situations!”

“Absolutely not.”

“But you’re my best friend! I trust you!”

“I resign.”

“You can’t—” But even as James appeared to hesitate, he remained resolute in his refusal. Seeing no other choice, Sirius turned to the passersby watching curiously from a distance. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, “Someone come piss on me! I’m begging you!”

Shocked murmurs rippled through the onlookers. Some hastily skied away down the slope, while others started pulling out their phones. Sirius groaned in despair. He was ready to uproot the pole and ski with it attached, all the way to the nearest hospital—or hotel, where he could beg for hot water. Or a saw. Anything. Afterward, he would simply die. There was no surviving this level of humiliation.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” A deep, almost baritone voice cut through the chaos, resonating in a way that seemed to vibrate through every fiber of Sirius’s being. He froze, heat blooming in his cheeks even as he turned to face the unexpected savior.

A ski patroller clad in his red uniform jacket, a yellow helmet, and a balaclava that concealed all but his eyes, hidden behind reflective sunglasses, had appeared. His snowmobile, parked a short distance away near the end of the chairlift they had taken to reach this spot, seemed to have been idling for some time. A stroke of luck—or misfortune, depending on how one looked at it—because honestly, couldn’t he have arrived earlier? Before Sirius had been reduced to shouting, in his most desperate moment, for someone to come and piss on him?

“Please, I don’t want to lose my dick”, Sirius blurted out, unable to stop himself, as he faced the patroller’s stoic expression. Even with most of his face obscured, his posture and tone made it abundantly clear he wasn’t amused.

“My colleague is bringing hot water”, the man replied curtly.

Sure enough, minutes later, a young woman with glowing ebony skin shining under the sun appeared. Her rescue jacket hung open, and her sunglasses were perched on her head as she hurried toward them carrying a small thermos.

“This might burn a bit”, she warned Sirius.

He nodded vigorously. Burn or not, it didn’t matter—he just wanted to be free.

It did burn.

A sharp yelp escaped him, something akin to the whine of a dog whose paw had been stepped on. But the moment he was liberated, Sirius hastily stowed away his throbbing, injured appendage back into his pants. James had taken the thermos from the woman—Dorcas, if he’d caught the name right—and helped her carry it back to the patroller’s base, leaving Sirius alone with the far less chatty, far less friendly ski patroller.

“Thank you…” Sirius said with a sheepish grin, finding himself craning his neck to look up at the man. The size difference was ludicrous; the patroller stood several heads taller, even broader than James. Sirius was used to being shorter, but this felt borderline humiliating.

“Don’t ever piss in the wild again. You’re not an animal.”

The sharp, almost biting tone made Sirius’s smile falter. The guy wasn’t wrong, but still.

“It was either that or piss on myself”, Sirius shot back, his frustration edging into his voice.

“Then learn to wet your underwear.”

With that, the patroller removed his sunglasses and helmet, revealing a cascade of wide, sandy-blond curls that gleamed like spun gold under the glaring mountain sun. Against his will, Sirius wondered what it would feel like to run his fingers through them. Were they soft, or as coarse as their owner’s attitude?

But even those remarkable curls paled in comparison to his eyes—two frigid almonds, cold as the snow around them and yet carrying a warmth that felt as if it could burn. Sirius had always sought eye contact; it was the one place you couldn’t hide your truths, a habit he’d picked up from years of reading the empty reassurances of medics who ended their lies with phrases like, “You’ll be fine.”

But this man—this man’s eyes held no lies. They were only truth. Absolute, raw reality.

Before Sirius could utter another word, the patroller tilted his head, giving him a once-over that dripped with disdain, like he was sizing up a particularly pathetic stray.

“You look unwell. Go home and stay in bed. The mountains aren’t for everyone.”

The words hit Sirius square in the chest, carving out a pit in his heart that quickly filled with seething rage. Unwell ? Un-well ? Oh no, he was feeling perfectly fine today. Yes, he bore the lingering marks of a time when he hadn’t been well—skin pale to the point of translucency, veins standing out starkly beneath its surface, a network of scars across his body, and the fragile texture of hair he refused to cut under any circumstances.

But to tell someone who had fought through every stage of illness, who had clawed their way to survival only to continue being treated as fragile—it was too much. The last straw. If this man didn’t want to be polite, Sirius wouldn’t be either.

It was decided: Sirius hated him.