Sadderdaze

He wakes up screaming. 

And once he has a firm grip on his consciousness, he waits, like an idiot, for someone to come rushing in, maybe it will be Euphemia with worry lines and a hug to offer, perhaps it will be Fleamont who will steal him away from his room, and take him flying in the Potter’s backyard, or maybe, it will be James, who’ll lull him back to sleep with a hug.

Then, Sirius remembers the muffliato charm he has placed on the room and the fact that no one in their right mind should love him. 

He swings his legs off the bed, the floor is a mess, clothes strewn about, cigarette butts and empty bottles hiding under the bed. Only the bookshelf remains in order, all books lined up pristinely with their names carved into leather, hiding spare boxes of cigs and a small bottle of rum behind them. He yanks out a copy of the muggle book Frankenstein that Remus John Lupin lent him, and snatches the cigarette box from behind it. He throws the book over his shoulder and stumbles through the clutter on his desk to grab his lighter.

A spark dances in front of his eyes, shedding some light on his surroundings, before it’s gone and all he can see is black, all he can feel is the rough texture of the cigarette between his lips and the burning sensation it leaves in his chest. The minty smell invades his senses as the pressure builds in his head, he falls onto the floor when the pressure finally explodes and he finally feels nothing.

No pesky guilt, no loneliness, no remorse, and no nightmares. 

He tips his head back, feeling the sharp corner of something (the edge of the table, a chair, or a knife) tickle his nape. He scratches his chest as the burning feeling spreads, maybe this death stick will purge him of his sins.

He falls asleep looking at the image of a singed lung on the cigarette box. 

“I think I’ll go ‘round to Moony’s on the weekend,” James says, buttering his toast as his father walks in with more bacon. His mother sits opposite him, the book she’s currently reading sitting beside her and her waffles absorbing the maple syrup. Mornings in the Potter Manor have always been pleasant, filled with sounds of Fleamont Potter’s favorite wizard band, the luminators, and the sweet smell of something that is engrained in the house. 

“How is Remus doing?” Euphemia asks, cutting into her waffle as Fleamont disappears back into the kitchen, apron swishing as he hums along to the song playing on the record player. 

“Brilliant,” James says, setting down the butter knife and biting into his toast. Crumbs cling to the corners of his lips and Euphemia shakes her head, chuckling as she reaches across the table to wipe away the pesky crumbs. James speaks, even with his mouth full, “His parents leave for his aunt’s house on Saturday, I thought he’d like some company.”

“Are you going to stay over, then?”

”Dunno,” James shrugs, snatching a bite of bacon between the words, “Depends on Wormtail and Moony, and the girls, too.”

”Are you keeping Remus company or are you throwing a party, love?” Euphemia asks, quirking an eyebrow at her son who continues to scarf down his food like a wild animal, hasting to get done and away.

”Both,” James answers, grinning and Euphemia clicks her tongue, pushing up his chin.

”Eat properly, James.”

He doesn’t listen, as per usual, and Euphemia watches, in mild amusement and horror, as he pushes two more pieces of bacon down his throat, and half his glass of orange juice before grabbing the napkin from his lips and wiping the corners of his lips, all prim and proper. 

“Breakfast was lovely, Mother,” He says, tone haughty and Euphemia stifles a sigh, “Give my compliments to the chef.”

”Oi, I’m not the bloody chef, ya runt!” Fleamont’s voice rings out from the kitchen and James repeats his father’s words under his breath, snickering. 

Euphemia shakes her head, both her husband and son are idiots. James gets up from the chair, noisily pushing it with the back of his knees, he crosses over to his mother in one long stride and places a kiss on her cheek, “Proper enough for you, Mum?”

She pats his cheek in an adoring and tired manner, “Yes, love.”

James flashes another grin at her, reminding her of his five-year-old self doing the same before getting himself into a load of trouble. James begins up the staircase as Fleamont dances back in, a plate fixed for himself, sitting down beside his wife after planting a kiss on her forehead. 

“Son,” James pauses on the third step, hair flopping to the right as he looks at his father over his shoulder, “Mind sending your brother down? Breakfast is gonna be cold by the time he’s awake and I wouldn’t want him to miss the sheer deliciousness of my food.”

And James nods, hair flopping up and down this time, “Sure.”

Fleamont grins, and James sees the resemblance before he’s back on his merry way up the staircase. He pads his way to his room, stopping momentarily in front of Sirius’ room. He messes with the strings of his reindeer shorts, Sirius bought them for him a year ago, looking at the closed door. He musses his hair and pushes his specs farther up, hands occupied with other tasks and unable to grab the door knob.

James runs and hides in his room.

Maybe that night, he could've killed Severus. And then, Sirius. And then, himself. 

He should've done it, he certainly could've, but ever the bleeding heart, James Potter had stepped in and knocked him out with his damned horns before Remus, in mindless wolf form, had even growled. 

He had woken up the morning after that with horn-inflicted bruises on his face and a sleeping Sirius at his feet. James and Peter had been sprawled out on the two beds beside him, in decidedly better shape than the boy at Remus' feet. He had watched Sirius silently, watched as his hair fell onto his face, tracing his high nose bridge delicately, watched the dark lines from Sirius' tears, watched the flicker of bruises on Sirius' collarbone, inflicted by his family or by Remus.

His stomach had turned. 

His hand had clamped over his mouth as he resisted the urge to spill his guts all over his bed. 

Sirius had woken up, and Remus had thrown him out. 

Remus' hands trail his scars as he sits, trying to get swallowed by his lumpy sofa on a Saturday, a persistent droning sound in his head and the broken telly buzzing along with it. A book sits forgotten in his lap, he's more than halfway through and still fully interested in the plot, but whenever he sits down he can't help but think of the one who gifted him this book, on his birthday, no less, with a charming grin and a chaste kiss on the cheek.

It's been 32 days since summer break started, and 38 days since he talked to one of the Marauders. 

James writes incessantly, with packets of expensive chocolate attached, Remus takes the chocolate graciously and saves the letters for another day, Peter sends handpicked chocolate with little notes along with them to somehow trick Remus into falling into some semblance of correspondence but Remus is smart and tucks away the notes along with James' letters. 

Sirius wrote two letters, and then Remus sent a note back. 

Stop.

Please.

With the please added as an afterthought. 

Sirius keeps the note on him at all times, for the most part, he uses it to remind himself just what a despicable person he is, and sometimes, he uses it to remember Remus. He sees Remus' honey eyes in the loop over his 'S', sees his short smile in the 'ea', and his tears in the full stop.

He stumbles down to the dining room 10 minutes after James slams his door loud enough that Sirius startles awake. His perfume clings to his skin and shirt, masking the stench of cigarettes that clings to his soul, he collapses into the seat beside Fleamont, opposite James’ empty one. Fleamont ruffles Sirius’ hair, making him cringe, and Euphemia presses a kiss to his forehead as she walks past, making Sirius’ heart clench.

If she knew what he had done, she wouldn’t even want to look at him. 

If she knew what he had done, she would’ve thrown him out.

Maybe that would’ve been for the best, Sirius thinks as Euphemia places bacon on his plate. Halfheartedly, he lifts a piece and chews on it like a cow would, Fleamont and Euphemia talk amongst themselves, mistaking his unnatural silence for his hatred for mornings. 

“Sirius, love, are you going to go with James to Remus’ house?”

He breaks from his stupor, looks at Euphemia, takes in her wrinkles, grey hairs, and eyes, and then shakes his head, “No, mum.”

”Well, why not?” Fleamont asks, frowning. Sirius looks at him too, seeing an older and (relatively) wiser version of James reflected back, “You are all mates, and I haven’t heard the lot of you creating a ruckus in a far too long time, to be honest, I’m getting worried!”

Sirius doesn’t know what to say, so he settles for a lazy shrug, “Dunno what to tell you, Dad, I guess we’re all just too busy growing up.”

To stave off his bitter tone, Sirius grins cheekily, and Fleamont takes it, shaking his head, grumbling under his breath, “Growing up, my arse.”

Euphemia, though, is harder to trick, she places a hand over his gently and Sirius does his best not to freeze up. He has forgotten the feel of real hands on him, all he feels are the fake ones from his nightmares. She looks at him, really looks at him, and her all-seeing gaze has Sirius sweating.

”Are you alright, love?”

”Yeah, mum,” He says, resisting the urge to nervously chuckle, “Why d’you ask?”

Euphemia purses her lips, shaking her head, “… Nothing, you just seemed down.”

”I’m sleepy,” He doesn’t want her to worry, he’s not worthy of it, “Nothing to worry about, mum.”

Euphemia sighs a beat later, Fleamont drops another piece of toast on Sirius’ plate. She pats his hand and lets go, “Well, alright, if you’re not going with James, would you like to come with me and Fleamont? We’re popping on over to Diagon Alley.”

Diagon Alley, i.e. a place that the wizarding community frequents, a place where he is a thousand times more likely to bump into the Blacks. He shakes his head, “Nah, I think I’ll stay at home, finish up my transfiguration essay, and do some studying.”

Fleamont’s mouth drops open, “You? Studying? Euphemia, is it just me or is the world ending?”

“Hardy, har, har, Dad. I do study, you know.” Sirius rolls his eyes.

"Dunno what you're crying about, son," Fleamont says and Sirius' eyes burn because all he sees is James stuffing his face in the Great Hall while Remus, finally donning his mother bird hat, screams at him to slow down, "You said you hate when people see you studying, some hogwash about hurting your reputation."

"Sirius, love, you needn't worry about things like that," Euphemia chides gently, placing her hand over Sirius', he does his best not to flinch.

"Yeah, you also need to stop being a try-hard, mate," Fleamont speaks through the piece of bacon he's chewing and Euphemia slaps his arm in disgust as a piece falls out.

"Oh for Merlin's sake! Shut your mouth, Monty!" Euphemia glares at her husband who pouts like a kicked puppy. 

Sirius hands the man a tissue paper, laughing despite himself as he does.

While walking out of the house, James wonders whether he should be angry or relieved at the sound of Sirius' laughter.

It's been hours since he heard the sound, it's been hours since his parents left and Sirius locked himself into his room instead of claiming the living room. James closes the main door behind him, making enough noise to wake those asleep across the country. He doesn't know why he does it (liar), but he does. 

(Deep inside, he wishes Sirius would hear the clamor and poke his large head out of his room and scream at James or ask to come with; but he doesn't)

Pushing his hands deep into his pockets, fingers curling around the wand, he walks, glancing around the neighborhood and finding familiar faces. Mr. and Mrs. Rosario one house down are having one of their weekly screaming matches which comes to a finish with something hilarious, last time it was Mrs. Rosario throwing pasta at her husband's face. Mr. McCoy and his husband are carrying a large bag of coal out of their car, for a barbecue he presumes, while their five-year-old daughter, Joanna, runs around with her favorite soft toy of the week, Bun-bun. The Winchester's house further down the street is empty, the family is off galivanting in South America. 

He's spent his entire childhood in this neighborhood, and if everything goes according to plan, he'll stay here for the rest of his life too. 

The neighborhood is comfortable and has been since he was old enough to run out of his house and into others.

But today, he feels slightly nervous as he waves at his neighbors, grinning when little Joanna flushes. 

Now, James Potter is hardly a saint, and isn't above lying when the situation calls for it; case in point, his birthday when Sirius made him that godawful sweater with his initials on the front, or when Peter got him that fancy-as-fuck candy from Paris that Remus ended up nicking. But, despite it all, he has never lied to his parents - his mother, really.

Even when he was 6 years old and being interrogated for putting bleach in his father's shampoo and oil and feathers in his mother's, he had balked, rather convincingly, at his (platinum blonde) father's furious accusations, but when his mother, hair sticky and covered in white feathers, had asked, he had turned himself in. 

But today, he has committed the highest sin. 

He has lied to Euphemia Potter.

(He wishes desperately that Sirius wasn't such a dickhead; they could've been freaking out together!)

He isn't going to Remus' house (he doubts Moony would want him there in the first place), he is going to Jolly O'l London, well, the muggle part. 

He doesn't know why the sudden interest in all things muggle has sparked, but he guesses it might have something to do with the last rejection (possibly, the final one) he heard from Lily Evans. 

"No."

"Why?"

"Look at us."

"... We're both very attractive...?"

"You and I have nothing in common, Potter! Nothing, we're like oil and water, we don't mix, we only do so when you force your way in with your fucking flirting. Merlin! It's overwhelming, I haven't had a single relationship ever since you proclaimed your love for me for the very first time from the Gryffindor table! Did you ever think about how I felt? No, you didn't! You just staked your claim on me and then every poor bastard after you ran away with their tail between their legs!"

He had felt awful, Lily was right, he hadn't thought about her feelings, he had only thought of her. And how amazing it would feel to finally tell that goddess of a woman how much he loved her, and how he would wait for her, no matter how long. 

"I'm saying this for the last and final time, Potter! I am not interested in you, and I, likely, won't ever be! So, please, please! Leave me alone!"

He had stopped writing her letters, stopped sending her chocolates and flowers, and, even, stopped proclaiming his love for her to anyone willing to listen. 

He understands where she's coming from, and he feels downright horrid for not taking into account her feelings, he hadn't meant to do that, but alas, he had and he doesn't see a way to apologize to the brilliant flame-haired witch without, somehow, worsening it - such is the talent of Potter man, according to his mum.

So, instead, he keeps his distance, and a little bit of hope, that somewhere down the line, things will change, and maybe, maybe, then Lily will look at him the way he looks at her. 

(Like he's the sun, and she's willing to get burned the way Icarus did).

But, till then, he'll remain the 'arrogant toerag' (on a good day, 'James Potter') to Lily Evans.

"Why do you look so depressed, mate?"

It's been an hour and a half since his expedition into Jolly O'l London began, he had a burger and fries at a pub, browsed through a bookshop, stopped to smell the roses at a flower shop (and smile at the old woman running it), and now he's in a record store. 

(He hadn't meant to go in, but Sirius' birthday is coming up, and before he knew it, he was inside the store, listening to the dulcet tones of Black Sabbath's latest album.)

He hasn't talked to a muggle yet, those he passed on the street seemed busy, rushing to get somewhere, and didn't have the time to listen to his questions. ("What is the significance of a rubber duck in your bathtub?") But, now, there's a strange girl, standing at the end of his aisle, hands stuffed in her pockets as she stares at him for an answer.

In his defense, though he has made peace with the fact that Lily Evans isn't gonna be Lily Potter any time soon, he is allowed to be a little pouty, or in this strange girl's words: depressed. So, he stiffens and tries out his best (inherited) Euphemia Potter glare, "I'm not."

"Didn't say you were. I asked why you looked depressed," The girl stands with bad posture, dressed in faded acid wash jeans, layered with a barely legible band shirt, not one but two zip-up jackets with one hood curled into another, and a puffer jacket on top of it all, her hair is wind-swept and inky black, straight and messy, cut haphazardly to her shoulders. She sees his gaze land on her hair, and reaches up to curl a strand around a finger, chipped indigo nail polish shining, "You like it? I cut it last night."

(If Sirius were here, he'd take the girl into a dark corner of the record store and not be seen for three hours)

His eyes widened, "Last night? You?"

"Had the scissors, had the time, it was either lobbing off 7 inches of hair or cutting bangs and crying about it for all eternity," She drawls, walking deeper into the aisle and consequently closer to James, her eyes wander, as she walks, through the boxes of records and cassette tapes. She stops two steps away from James, hunching over a box and flipping through the records leisurely, "But, how's it look?"

"Brilliant." 

She glances up from the box, raises an eyebrow, and then shakes her head, looking away while a smile pushes the ends of her lips upward. James feels a little proud. 

"What's a boy like you doing in a place like this?" She asks conversationally.

"Dunno, got bored." He shrugs, it's funny, normally, he's a butterfly (a golden retriever puppy, if you ask the right people), but with this strange girl, he has no idea what to say or how to stand. 

"Do you play?" She asks, straightening up, a record in her hands.

He shakes his head, "Nah, I wish though, my dad offered to buy me an electric guitar but I asked for a broom."

Her eyebrows rise in surprise, and then she snickers, "A broom? What, was your childhood dream being a maid?"

He's about to be offended, on the cusp of beginning his tirade about how amazing his first ever broom was, how fast it went and how he used it his second year at Hogwarts and won all his matches except for the one that mattered, but then he remembers where he is — muggle London, and this girl is a muggle.

He shrugs as convincingly as possible, “I liked cleaning.”

She watches him for a moment and then she smiles, and he doesn’t know why but the image burns itself into his brain. Her cheeks are chubby with baby fat, her jawline is sharp, nonetheless, her lips are imbalanced and spreading into the most adorable smile, her eyes are brown and disappearing into slits, “You’re weird.”

”Says the strange girl,” He tells her, unable to keep his lips from quirking up into a patented James Potter smirk.

”Charlotte,” She says, and he tilts his head. (She absolutely doesn’t think of a puppy when he does that), “My name… it’s Charlotte, so you don’t have to call me ‘strange girl’ in your head.”

”Charlotte,” He tries out the name, nodding, satisfied, “It’s a good name.”

”And yours is probably as weird as you.” She muses and this time he grins, shining like the sun, and no, Charlotte is not enamoured, she just knows how to appreciate beautiful things.

”Nah, it’s James,” He says, reaching out for a handshake because it comes naturally. She takes his hand. His hand engulfs hers, the pads of his fingers rough against her hands. He sees marks of ink (not the tattoo kind that Sirius seems obsessed with) on her hands, and paper cuts on the ends of her fingers, “There, now you don’t have to call me ridiculously handsome in your head.”

”Wow!” She whistles lowly, not letting go of his hand, and he finds he doesn’t mind, “How do you handle having such a big head?”

He grins, “My muscles help.”

And she purses her lips to keep her amusement caged in. He feels another flutter of pride.

Begrudgingly, their hands fall apart from one another, neither one began pulling away, but neither hold on for dear life. They maintain eye contact though, hazel against chocolate brown, and she’s about to say something or maybe he is, when — “OI, LOTTIE! D’YA FIND THAT QUEEN RECORD?”

And she curses, pushing a hand through her hair, finding it strange when the hair rushes out of her hands quicker than usual, she resists the urge to sigh, right, that’s what happens when you chop your hair off at 2 A.M. in your bathroom with your friend’s kitchen scissors. She winces apologetically at him, “That’s my friend, Bobby.”

”Oh.” And, boy, does James feel smart.

”LOTTIE?” The voice sounds closer than before.

”I should get going,” She says, and makes no move to follow through.

”Yeah.” James feels even smarter.

He’s wondering if he should punch himself and chance further embarassment in front of her when she smiles, bashfully, stuffing her hands in her pockets and taking a step away from him, “I’ll see you around, weird boy.”

And it’s only when she’s three steps away from him that his mind finally begins working, “I thought we agreed on ridiculously handsome!”

The only response to his shout is her laughter, straight from the belly and alive. (James might just have that sound memorised).