There’s something so surreal about the end of senior year.
There’s stress— fuck, so much stress— yet, simultaneously, there’s an innate sense of freedom that comes along with it. The knowledge that in a short few days you’re free. You’ll never have to go back to the hellhole of secondary school again.
Well, I guess I can’t really say that. I wasn’t ever there in the first place, was I? The beauty of online school, I suppose. Hopefully I won’t have to see the inside of a Zoom waiting room for the foreseeable future.
With that sense of freedom, as it typically does, comes with a deep sense of terror. For the first time in a good long while, I, Sirius Black, am well and truly terrified for what’s to come.
You may not know me, but you should know that that’s not something I do. It’s just not in my nature, you see. I feel terror, obviously— there’s a part of me that pities those who don’t. Terror colors the good moments of your life, providing a contrast. A backdrop. Starry Night would be nothing without the sky to lay a peaceful blanket over the city below it.
You could call it lore.
It’s not that I don’t feel terror. It’s just that my terror is always in the moment. There's no forethought to it. Why worry for the future when you haven’t gotten through the present?
Graduating secondary school is a completely different story.
Three more days, I tell myself. Three days until I can pack my bags and set foot out of Grimmauld Place, out of London, and never turn back round.
In many ways, I’m beyond excited. I’ve dreamed of this for so long. What child hasn’t?
What I was shocked to realize was that there was a small part of me that was upset.
Upset with myself, mostly.
In each god damned video call, every dragging Humanities class, there was a drop of light.
No, not light. He’s far too majestic for that.
In every class, there’s an anchor, a silent, thoughtful grounding drip of night. The moon. If he’s anything, he’s the moon.
The quiet American boy— from upstate Vermont, my brain supplies helpfully, despite the fact that James relentlessly makes fun of me for knowing (I could name about five US states, that number rising to six upon my first class with him almost four years ago)— Remus Lupin.
James found it endlessly funny. The singular boy in this school I can’t seem to speak to is the one I fall head over heels for. The irony sits in the back of my mind almost constantly.
It’s the final Zoom meeting of the day. I have zero idea what the fuck the headmaster is talking about. He’s not even in my frame, at the moment. That spotlight is now reserved for Remus.
(It always has been, but that’s besides the point.)
Remus, who looks as though he’s actually managing to pay attention to the shitty, useless lecture. Remus, whose honey-gold eyes glint in the remnants of sunlight, and whose hair somehow manages to look downright angelic on the camera that makes me, of all people. look like shit on a stick.
(What? I never said I didn’t have a big ego.)
Remus, who, in three day’s time, I will never see again if I can’t just man up and say something.
I open up the chat box, scrolling through the senior class until I reach the R section, where his name stares back at me.
Hi, it’s Sirius, if you know who I am. We’ve never really spoken, but I wanted to say hello. Last few days, and all.
Hey, I love the Bowie poster in your background. Where’d you get it?
No, that one’s particularly stupid. He probably got it in America.
Hey, I like your hair, and your eyes are really nice—
…How does one write a text to their classmate whom they’ve never spoken to when they will never be required to interact again in a mere two days?
I don’t know about you, but I, personally, struggle to compose an appropriate message until the meeting boots me out as it ends.
God damn it, I think, letting my head fall onto Orion’s old desk. At the very least, I can’t wait to be rid of this house.
— — — — —
It’s the very last meeting. My bag, the largest backpack I own, is packed next to me, unbeknownst to Mother.
Honey-colored eyes and golden curls fill my screen for what must be the several-hundredth time since I first noticed Remus’ presence.
Hey, strange request, but could I get your number? I never got the chance to talk to you during school, and you seem like a cool person.
Hi, it’s Sirius, remember me? We had nearly every class together. What Uni are you going to?
No, that one just sounds creepy.
I begin to draft another text— maybe something that doesn’t start with hey or hi, but then the directors’ voice gets overly emotional. Her speech is ending. More importantly, the call is ending.
Remus flashes a very rare smile at the camera before signing off for the last time.
If there’s tears in my eyes, don’t say anything.
— — — — —
There’s very few things better than a summer with the Potters. I’ve spent a total of a few months with them over the years in their beautiful Bristol home. The few months I have as a free man before beginning my Cambridge studies are not wasted.
If James and I hit the pub a few too many times, Effie and Fleamont Potter are not to know.
(They definitely know, but they pretend not to for our sake. I pretend to ignore the surge of gratitude at that simple gesture on multiple occasions.)
The thing about being with the Potters is that you can say goodbye to the long, dragging days of Grimmauld Place. It’s fast paced. It flies by, but you’re living, and I reckon that’s what matters most in the end.
It felt like the blink of an eye— I stepped foot out of Grimmauld Place and straight into King’s College, Cambridge University.
King’s was always my dream campus. To this day, I’m completely shocked I actually made it here, out of the stuffy confines of Magdalin, Oxford that every Black before me stuck to. It’s all thanks to the Potters, really, since they’re the ones paying for it. Mother would never settle for less than Magdalin. The Potters wouldn’t settle for unhappiness.
Despite all odds, I’m here, my suitcase (I gained a decent amount of belongings over the summer, given that I was actually allowed to do ‘peasant’ things such as thrift shopping) resting outside the door to the room I’ll live in for the next nine months.
King’s doesn’t have dorm mates— quite a shame, if you ask me— but by the end of moving week, I could swear I’ve known Marlene Mckinnon my whole life.
Marlene is a rather short girl with a blond mullet and enough spite to move a mountain. We hit it off immediately, and she’s spent almost every night on the floor of my room since.
(I offered to sleep on her floor, but she insisted that my “posh boy arse” would complain about it all night. Don’t tell her that she’s right.)
The first class I take in my grueling journey towards an Education degree is English Literature, and I can’t even pretend to be miffed about it. English, to be frank, is the only subject in school that’s even remotely enjoyable (unless you count Music and Art electives, but I only ever got away with taking one of those in the Black household— “no use studying air and sunshine,”).
The lecture was truly fascinating. I don’t think I’ve ever taken in that much information at once.
Every single bit of that information leaves my head almost immediately after (thank God I actually took notes).
I could swear that walking out that door was a head of golden curls. If he turned around, I’m sure I’d find golden eyes to match.
I had half the mind not to chase after him like some sort of stalker. There was absolutely no way in hell it was Remus. He’s American, for fuck’s sake. If he’s anywhere, it’s probably Harvard.
Maybe I should’ve rethought the whole “applying to Cambridge” thing.
No, no, that’s stupid. Don’t make major life decisions due to a boy you’ve never spoken to before, my thoughts supply. They sound suspiciously like James. I’m not nearly as reasonable.
The next few days roll by, and I find myself in the English faculty building once more. I scoured my other classes for the same hint of tan skin and perfect curls, but I had no such luck.
I gravitate towards the back corner, giving myself a bird’s eye view of the entire lecture hall. It takes me an embarrassingly short amount of time to realize that he’s not there.
My eyes glue themselves to the door.
God, if James could see me now. I’m truly pathetic. Maybe he can see me. His stupid Comp-sci arse probably bugged my phone to keep tabs on me at all hours.
I’m this close to giving up, practically falling asleep before the lecture has begun.
It’s now that the doorway fills with a very, very tall boy’s frame (we’re talking easily 190 centimeters). The boy has golden curls, tan skin, and honey eyes. He’s wearing a cardigan that a less-pathetic version of myself would pretend I didn’t recognize.
Against all odds, it’s Remus. Remus, right in the middle of my English Lit classroom.
He walks straight to the front row, taking a seat. He doesn’t notice me.
Will you think I’m creepy if I tell you that this goes on for a month?
You know, at this point, if you do, I can’t really bring myself to care.
I’m at one of Marlene’s signature parties, a rum and coke in one hand that tastes like tomorrow’s headache, Marlene’s hand in the other. We move across the dance floor (read: her flat’s kitchen) in a manner far too graceful for two college kids drunk off their arses. Through the drunken haze, I see something catch her eye. Suddenly, we’re no longer dancing, but I’m being pulled harshly in one direction, and my feet scramble to comply before the rest of my brain knows to do so.
“Siri,” she slurs, wrapping her arm around someone’s waist— who is unbeknownst to me at the moment as I stare at my feet and try in vain not to trip over them. “I’ve got a friend for you to meet.”
“Sirius?” the friend’s voice questions, his voice soft and nearly disbelieving. Despite my drunken haze, I recognize it. I think I’d recognize it anywhere. Far too American for the UK, deep and gravely while still managing to sound soft. I may have only heard it a few times, but I’m certain it’s him.
“You know me?” is all I manage, at the same time as Marlene says, “You know him?” our voices equal in incredulity.
“Yes, I know you. Everyone from school does, I’m sure.” He laughs as he says it, and I think it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever had the privilege of hearing.
“I thought— you’re kidding me. I didn’t say a word to you for years because I thought you didn’t know who I was. I thought you’d think it was weird.” The overload of information spills out before I can consciously stop it.
Remus smirks slightly, and I’m ninety percent sure I’m going to faint.
“Years, eh?”
“Oh, shut it,” I grumble, and the rest of the night goes blurry.
— — — — —
It’s nearly a month later when the two of us are in the park on the far side of town, opposite Kings and near the ridiculous ferris wheel that had absolutely nothing on the Eye save for affordable prices. I try to pull my mind back to my English text and away from the fact that his shoulder is almost touching mine as we lie next to each other on the picnic blanket.
I hear Remus set his book on the ground beside him, and he props himself up on one elbow.
Fuck, his face is only a few centimeters away. You are absolutely not going to kiss him, Sirius—
“Do you believe in fate?” he asks, American accent rolling off the tongue in a way that’s somehow pleasantly jarring. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it.
I furrow my brows.
“No, I don’t think so,” I reply. I’m proud of my voice for not wavering.
He leans forward. The number of centimeters between us dwindles to approximately five.
“Can I kiss you?’ he asks, his voice quieter, now, something for my ears only.
A huff of air blows out of my chest, more than shocked.
“Yes. Fuck, yes, you can.”
That’s exactly what he does.
There’s something about it that feels intrinsically right. This is clearly what I was made for. This must be it, for I don’t think anything else will feel quite so perfect as this.
I lied. If that’s not fate, then I don’t know what it is.