How Sirius Black Ran Away Without Meaning To On Boxing Day
Thing is, it's shit, having your friends abandon you and what have. Make you feel scummy, they do; what with their suddenly not being there anymore to laugh or mock or talk to. And they have, you know, utterly abandoned him. Not written a single lousy letter in the whole hol, not a word since they last saw each other two weeks ago.
He hates Christmas, he really does. Lousiest of hols, if you ask him, rather pointless and boring and his family gives shit presents anyhow. If it were up to him he'd skip the bit where he goes home and have the presents sent to him, so he can sell them for some cash for when he runs away. Cos he's running away, you know.
He's sixteen, and a bit crazy and, these days, a lot drunk, because his father told him where he kept the Firewhiskey last summer -- only worthy moment of bonding they've ever had, as far as he's concerned -- and between that and his friends making him feel scummy (but they only make him feel scummy, they're the ones that are the scummy ones indeed), so much that he's starting to wonder if they're no longer friends anymore, Christmas is the lousiest hol ever. And that wouldn't be on, because they forgave him for the Snape thing, Moony said "it's ok" after a while and Prongs was a'right too after a couple days and Peter was actually kindest of the lot, and most understanding, so it can't be that, he reckons, but as comforting as that knowledge is doesn't mean they're not utterly scummy bastards for leaving him here alone, incommunicated. And as he was saying, he's running away, soon as he can scourge up the cash.
In the meanwhile he drinks a bit more, already wasted and pissed, and to borrow an Americanism, also pissed off 'cos there's no one around to be drunk with him, and he knows how the night is going to end, with him passed out on his bed, two or three sips away from vomiting all the vintage Firewhiskey he thinks he's so fucking ace at nicking from dad's stash, when in truth discussing the young master's alcoholism is what makes evenings bearable for the cohort of house-elves toiling in the kitchen.
There's all of three lousy stars visible through his spotless windowpanes, and whenever he's like this it drives him bleedin' crazy, how he can only join them together in a lopsided triangle that offends his delicate drunken sensibilities as much as Snivellus on a bad day; he rages at them at an ever-decreasing pace until the daze turns his blasphemy into muttering and then his muttering into a contented sleepy sigh. Here he is, a sodding Black and the sodding stars won't rearrange themselves for him and yawn, he's too sleepy now to continue the tirade, so he rolls the bottle under the bed and promises himself that tomorrow he'll write his bastards of friends, who've not said a single kind word despite all his sufferings. Bastards. Scummy bastards, the lot of them.
He falls asleep with a contented sigh playing on his lips, covers haphazardly flung off, clothes still on, the window open on the 21st of December because he wants to see if he can't lure the morning fog into seeping into his room, and the house's heating charms don't give a damn whether the window's open or closed; it's cold enough to freeze his bollocks off all the same.
-
He wakes up late, bleary eyed, and misses the morning fog; he imagines that someone pulls him aside and worriedly asks "aren't you a bit too young to be drinking this much, anyhow," to which he cockily replies "hell no," and perhaps -- depending on how worthy the chap in question is, mostly -- he'll add "I'm the youngest ever Animagus, sure as hell I can drink dad's old Odgen, ay?" with a bit of a challenging drawl at the end. Yeah, it'd be glorious if someone would ask him that instead of venomously staring at him as Regulus recites his merits over breakfast. Which is mostly why he's taken to sleeping through it, these days he gets up at noon and makes it down the stairs barely in time for lunch, and spends most of that thinking about how many silver heirlooms he could reasonably lift and sell before his family catches on and demands he return all the money -- and with interest too, knowing his father -- bringing his glorious plans of emancipation and freedom to a brutally inclement and premature end.
Apparently all this scheming's doing funny things to his eyes, making them glaze over a tad too much or some such; Something is giving him away despite the utter perfection with which he times his nods and noncommittal sounds, and his mum's finally caught on that when he leaves his room he does it not so much for the stellar company (glorious pun, that) as because he doesn't quite fancy drinking on an empty stomach, it makes the whole being ill thing a bit too tangible and likely for his liking. But yeah, he doesn't say much at home -- once Andromeda asked him in school if he went on about things endlessly there to make up for all his years of taciturn silence back in London -- just hopes the days go by fast enough and spends the time downstairs staring out the window for some sort of owl from his friends, not that he ever writes them himself, letters are for birds (and another glorious pun, that one; he's so amazingly brilliant he just can't get enough of himself sometimes).
-
Uncle Alphard's a bit dodgy, and just because he's not rabidly keen on beheading Muggles or house-elves doesn't mean he's not as mental as the rest of the family, just that he's a lot subtler in his madness is all. But it's all right 'cos he likes Sirius, and he's got so many Galleons in his Gringotts vault that the rumour is the goblins have trouble closing the door after he visits it, or so it goes amongst the youngest generation of cousins, who pettily squabble with one another as to where Alphard's fortune is going once he finally kicks the sodding bucket. Don't know that Sirius, who's fucking brilliant and a Gryffindor to boot, has been writing letters to his uncle ever since fourth year, when mum went into a strop and decided she wasn't going to finance his Hogsmeade visits any longer because giving money to someone other than a Slytherin was like doing charity, and charity is one thing she's surprisingly enough never been too keen on, his dear mum.
Oh, when Alphard dies Sirius is running away, yes he is, taking the money and a couple of those bottles from dad's cabinet (so Alphard had better die soon, because at the rate he's going all the bottles will be filled with water from the third floor bathroom, which is the one that best matches the colour of the drink, and he'd really rather the Firewhiskey) without so much as a backward glance; that'll show them all. They don't deserve him, all these hacks and harpies he's had the utterly tragic misfortune of being born to.
-
They're having dinner tonight and lunch tomorrow with the rest of the family, celebrating not so much that ridiculously overstated Muggle fest but the 1381 establishing of the Nigellus line and the 1453 marriage of clever clever Sadalachbia to that foolish Muggle duke of something, as well as the clever clever way in which she cleaned him of every single coin he ever owned, establishing the family's fortunes and holdings. Tonight is dinner with mother's side of the family, tomorrow lunch with father's side, and don't think you'll be drinking in between, young man, your father and I know exactly what you've been getting up to -- truly lamentable behaviour, although we have come to expect no better from you these days.
He doesn't understand the need to keep both sides of the family separate when, really, they're one and the same and half the guests will come to both meals, but there you have it, tradition and all that other utter rubbish they're all so awfully keen on, like there's nothing better in the world. When he knows for sure that there are better things to be doing than sitting around the table in a stuffy decrepit townhouse, any night of the year, and hey, didn't Prongs and Moony talk about getting sloshed on Sunday night? Maybe he ought to join them, 'cos that'd be ace indeed, drinking with the Marauders on Boxing Day and getting away from this hell of a place.
-
He wakes up, early Saturday morning, and squints to see if the fog's made it inside the room tonight; there's bound to be at least one advantage to being kept regretfully sober and conscious by his mother's sharp steely gaze and the fact that he's got to put up a somewhat reasonable appearance as heir of the family and all that.
But there's no fog, neither inside nor outside, nor snow, nor anything, it's a damned boring winter day and the thought of going downstairs and opening presents is frankly brain numbing mostly because then he'll have to make a mental list of who gave him what and go around making the rounds during lunch, nodding politely and saying "thank you very much" and in some truly horrible occasions, kissing the dry, powdery cheeks of some second-aunt who's bought him fucking cufflinks with the fucking family crest engraved on them to wear with his school uniform.
He's thinking of giving some of those to the house-elves when he goes, but then the elves would hate themselves so much that they'd not tell anyone and instead work twice as hard to make up for their freedom, so he wouldn't so much be hurting his family as he'd like to. And besides, larceny is a grander hobby, he tells himself, and for a few moments his mind drifts and produces tales of grandeur and jewel thievery and a bit of glamour too, and just as he's seeing his reflection a thousand times in the tiny facets of that diamond he's about to steal the fantasy is shattered by insistent hooting at his side, reeling him back to reality to leave him staring at James' owl, with a quick note tied to its talons, which is when he remembers that he never followed through with his promise (or maybe it was a threat) of writing his friends a few days ago.
But it's ok, because they've finally written him, and so he unravels the note trying not to appear overly eager, uncurls the parchment and smoothes it out before reading it.
Happy X-mas you tosser. I'm only sending you this cos my mum told me I ought to send something to that nice Black boy, when I know for fact that you're a right bastard. Will be thinking of you tomorrow night when out drinking with Wormtail and Moony; may even toast to you and your absence -- mostly the latter, I suspect.
See you at King's Cross, yeah?
-James
Which is when he decides that no, he'll see James tomorrow night instead, none of this waiting for King's Cross business, and besides drinking alone is too drab and he is starting to get tired of Firewhiskey, something he denies to himself late at night mostly because he can't get anything better, and there's that stupid maxim about not choosing if you're begging or some such, whatever.
-
Sunday night, therefore, finds him skulking around the shadows of the house, avoiding creaky floorboards and walking on the edges of the old dusty rugs, not as threadbare as the middle.
He doesn't really bother to hide his plans, though, mostly he's trying to keep silent because the jewel thief fantasy is still distressingly alluring (especially for someone his age; really, he ought to have stopped playing stupid games like this a long time ago, but this is what boredom will do to you); if he wants to leave the house no one's really going to stop him, they'll just glare disapprovingly and murmur behind his back and he's quite used to that by now; harsh words he can deal with very well.
When he deems the hour fashionably late, he stuffs his hands into his pockets, curls his fingers around the coins he's thrown in there and steps through the door and outside into the cold, empty street; looks both ways and starts wandering in the general direction of King's Cross, until the thought strikes him that he's really got no idea where to go, or where James and Moony and Wormtail could be.
And suddenly the night isn't looking as ace as he thought, although he's determined to keep it from ending in tragedy. So he squares his shoulders and reasons that if he were out to get sloshed in London on Boxing Day (Boxing Night? Boxing Day Night?), he'd probably start in Diagon Alley and make his way through the more shady establishment after a few good drinks.
Again he looks both ways and then sticks out his wand arm, all elegant lines and haughty, still sober pose, and when the Knightbus pulls up he says "The Leaky Cauldron" and slips a few extra coins into the conductor's hand, mostly cos it'd be rather useless, riding the bus the whole night to just get to the other side of the city.
The sickles do the trick, and in half an hour he's walking into the Cauldron alone, cutting a rather dashing figure in his black robes if he does say so himself; young enough that he looks rather out of place, but aristocratic enough that no one says anything.
Which is the problem, no? Given the time, he expected to be at least be hearing Peter loudly proclaim his surprise, and James giving a drunken, enthusiastic "well come on over then Padfoot!" and Remus just smiling fondly while shaking his head at the same time.
But no. The pub is silent.
Well fuck that then; obviously they're not here, so it's back outside to the cold street and a few doors down to another, less reputable pub, only to yield the same result. And so on and so forth through the rest of the establishment his noble upbringing has brought him into contact with, which admittedly aren't that many -- at least not of the sort where four young lads could expect to get wasted without much trouble or patronising stares, and isn't it wonderful how it's always his family's fault when things go wrong?
In the end, though, he just gives up, has to admit to himself that London's bigger than he can manage in a single night and that there are too many pubs and disreputable holes of the sort sheltered James would love to drag Remus and Peter down into and he's not going to find them tonight.
-
Again he sticks out his wand arm and says "The Potters, Godric's Hollow" and pays the fare with the last coins jingling in his pockets, so James had damn well better be home through some damned fluke, because he can't afford to go looking for him elsewhere.
Only that he isn't; after an uneventful ride he's standing outside the Potter's door at some ungodly time of night and there's no lights on at all, nor is Peter's very loud drunken laughter audible in the least.
Which, in a slightly less sober state would prompt a thirty minute rant about the evils of not letting wizards Apparate until the very old and boring age of seventeen, because what he hell is he supposed to do now, knock and transform into Padfoot and see if Mrs Potter won't take pity on such a lovely stray, take him inside and toss him a bone, and with luck some whiskey in a saucer too (although if he's being honest with himself, he can't really think of why Mrs Potter would give a dog whiskey, nor of any ways he could persuade her into doing this short of giving himself away or writing a note and tying it around his neck, something like "I'm housetrained -- give me alcohol and see!" which he'll admit is bloody ridiculous)?
He's shuffling back and forth, pacing on uneven gravel, and James' parents must be very light sleepers because a light flickers on in the upper storey and a figure is outlined in shadows in the windowpane, until the window opens and a tired voice tells him to wait a minute, they're coming down.
"Sirius," James' mum yawns when she opens the door, leaning against it for support. "What are you doing here?"
"Er," he says, wrecking his brains for a reasonable excuse, "I, uh, ran away," he says with a questioning lilt at the end, like it's clear he doesn't know what he's saying and he's making up on the go, but apparently James' mum is too sleepy to realise that, because her eyes are widening with disbelief, slowly, as she processes what he's just told her and completely misses the part where he was obviously lying.
Which is fine, somehow, he's got to practice the whole "I ran away" bit, for when he really needs it -- cause he reckons he'll need to look pitiful the first few days, appeal to everyone's charity and all that 'til he can get himself sorted out, and also cause it's better to tell that to James' mum than to confess his incompetence at locating his friends, who're out there drinking without him and having fun, while he stands on the Potter's doorstep cold, broke and sober, and yeah, it doesn't get much worse than that, he reckons. But still, it'd probably be a lot less awkward right now if James' mum stopped looking worried and realised he's just taking the piss and invited him inside without a preoccupied tender look creeping into her somnolent eyes as she tries to work out what to do with him.
She's murmuring sleepily to herself, mumbling about where to put him and what they're going to do with him and he's really getting cold now, he's been standing outside for a while so he rubs his hands up and down his arms in an effort to maintain some warmth, which snaps James' mum out of her trance so she's stepping aside and letting him come in, and after a few moments of awkward hesitation, she's hugging him and telling him not to worry, they'll figure something out for him.
Which completely throws off Sirius, because really, he's just rehearsing, and he's going to have a lot of explaining to do in the morning, isn't he? But for now he doesn't say anything, just lets himself be hugged hoping that maybe James' mum is too asleep to even remember this tomorrow; he'll just say he was out with James and the boys and didn't feel like going back home alone or something.
-
As he lies awake in the guest bedroom he replays the night in his head, and yeah, it did come out to be utter shit, didn't it -- all that money gone, and none of it on alcohol, and now he's going to have to ask James to spot him some so he can make his way back home, whipped dog with a listless tail between its legs.
He's falling asleep with the covers haphazardly flung about and his clothes still on again, and it's only half an hour before James sneaks in the back door, having just left most of the contents of his stomach on the neighbour's gardenias. The last thought crossing his mind before his eyelids become too heavy to keep them open is that he likes how it sounds, yeah -- I ran away, I finally did something with myself and fuck the bleedin' lot of them, those old fashioned buggers and their old fashioned traditions -- so determined like he's finally taken charge of his life. It really does sound ace, he tells himself with a sleepy grin.
And so, when he's finally located James, bumped into him early the following afternoon as Prongs staggers downstairs, eyes slit-shaped and head probably pounding loudly on the inside, and James asks "the hell you here for?" Sirius can't help but grin roguishly and reply "I ran away, didn't I?" and start to believe it, too.
Sao Paulo, December 12th, 2004 -- Chicago, January 12th, 2005.