SiM Fic: Untitled #3 [Dirty Dream Number Two]
Title: Untitled #3 (where the '3' is just numbering, nothing clever)
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Sirius.
Summary: Routine is maddening.
Author's Notes: Thirty two minutes and twenty seconds, handwritten while in bed. I tried to contain myself and did minimal editing while typing it up, hence it is terrible (No, really). :) Rock on!
“Christ,” Sirius says, peeling the sticky sheets back. “I hate summer,” he tells his dark bedroom. “So fucking hot.”
He turns and rolls over and turns again, like a dog before sleep (Har har, he thinks. Funny.). The sheets are sweat-sticky against him and he wasn’t even having a particularly enticing dream, like the one last week with the girl from the Weird Systers. In the stifling heat the walls seem to be closing in on his small bedroom and he throws the window open despite his father’s instructions to the contrary. He doesn’t want any Muggle filth inside the house, as if Muggles had some sort of monopoly over dust. Whatever. After last night he has absolutely no qualms about angering his parents.
The air outside is cooler and it drifts in slowly, almost accidentally.
“Hate you too,” he tells the bedroom again. “Hate this house, hate this family, hate everything here.”
As on cue, the floorboards creak sinisterly and the soft pit-pat of House-Elf footsteps creeps up to his door and then moves away.
“Hate the fucking House-Elves too. Fucking Kreacher.” he says viciously - still bitter after last night - and he turns over a few more times, uneasily. The sheets get tangled up around his legs so he kicks them away, lies on top of the bed breathing slowly and wishing the dawn would hurry up and stain his walls grey. There’s this one shade, he knows, when the wireless in Number 11 Grimmauld Place goes off, presumably waking someone up, and a few shades later the door to #13 slams closed and he can hear a Muggle motorcycle being revved up, can hear it slip away just like he wants to.
“Hate this place,” he says one final time, and he rolls over a few more times, falling asleep again before the walls have lightened, waking up just in time to slam his window shut before anyone catches sight of this latest transgression.
-
I need to get out of here he thinks in his stuffy bedroom, flipping through the same magazine for the sixth time. His mother won’t let him use the family owl for a thing as plebeian and undignified as Quidditch magazines, nor will she let him go to Diagon Alley by himself and buy them there.
He asks anyhow, just to spite her.
She hisses at him.
-
“Fuck this shit” he tells himself at night again. “I’m getting out of here. Going crazy.”
He tries writing letters in his head to inform all and sundry of his plight. Come and rescue me, it’s all very melodramatic. He’s always had a flair for these things.
In the morning he owls James the best of the texts he composed, sheets sticking to his skin in the night.
-
James writes back, telegraph style.
“Come visit,” he says. “You’re going crazy(er).”
It sounds like a good idea, as he looks through his window at the predawn grey.
-
“I’m going out,” Sirius says, and inside the house the heat is stifling again. He’s sweating.
“No you’re not,” his mother says.
“Yes I am,” he replies, tone untroubled. “Don’t think I’ll be back, either.”
“Come back here!” his mother hisses at him. “You’re going nowhere!”
“Yes I am,” he repeats disinterestedly, leaving his mother’s parlour and making as much noise as possible while going down the stairs.
He opens the door, wand in one pocket, handful of galleons in the other, and walks for a while feeling the afternoon before sticking out his wand hand and calling the Knight Bus.
Once on it, he thinks of how he’ll convince James’ parents to let him stay.
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Sirius.
Summary: Routine is maddening.
Author's Notes: Thirty two minutes and twenty seconds, handwritten while in bed. I tried to contain myself and did minimal editing while typing it up, hence it is terrible (No, really). :) Rock on!
“Christ,” Sirius says, peeling the sticky sheets back. “I hate summer,” he tells his dark bedroom. “So fucking hot.”
He turns and rolls over and turns again, like a dog before sleep (Har har, he thinks. Funny.). The sheets are sweat-sticky against him and he wasn’t even having a particularly enticing dream, like the one last week with the girl from the Weird Systers. In the stifling heat the walls seem to be closing in on his small bedroom and he throws the window open despite his father’s instructions to the contrary. He doesn’t want any Muggle filth inside the house, as if Muggles had some sort of monopoly over dust. Whatever. After last night he has absolutely no qualms about angering his parents.
The air outside is cooler and it drifts in slowly, almost accidentally.
“Hate you too,” he tells the bedroom again. “Hate this house, hate this family, hate everything here.”
As on cue, the floorboards creak sinisterly and the soft pit-pat of House-Elf footsteps creeps up to his door and then moves away.
“Hate the fucking House-Elves too. Fucking Kreacher.” he says viciously - still bitter after last night - and he turns over a few more times, uneasily. The sheets get tangled up around his legs so he kicks them away, lies on top of the bed breathing slowly and wishing the dawn would hurry up and stain his walls grey. There’s this one shade, he knows, when the wireless in Number 11 Grimmauld Place goes off, presumably waking someone up, and a few shades later the door to #13 slams closed and he can hear a Muggle motorcycle being revved up, can hear it slip away just like he wants to.
“Hate this place,” he says one final time, and he rolls over a few more times, falling asleep again before the walls have lightened, waking up just in time to slam his window shut before anyone catches sight of this latest transgression.
-
I need to get out of here he thinks in his stuffy bedroom, flipping through the same magazine for the sixth time. His mother won’t let him use the family owl for a thing as plebeian and undignified as Quidditch magazines, nor will she let him go to Diagon Alley by himself and buy them there.
He asks anyhow, just to spite her.
She hisses at him.
-
“Fuck this shit” he tells himself at night again. “I’m getting out of here. Going crazy.”
He tries writing letters in his head to inform all and sundry of his plight. Come and rescue me, it’s all very melodramatic. He’s always had a flair for these things.
In the morning he owls James the best of the texts he composed, sheets sticking to his skin in the night.
-
James writes back, telegraph style.
“Come visit,” he says. “You’re going crazy(er).”
It sounds like a good idea, as he looks through his window at the predawn grey.
-
“I’m going out,” Sirius says, and inside the house the heat is stifling again. He’s sweating.
“No you’re not,” his mother says.
“Yes I am,” he replies, tone untroubled. “Don’t think I’ll be back, either.”
“Come back here!” his mother hisses at him. “You’re going nowhere!”
“Yes I am,” he repeats disinterestedly, leaving his mother’s parlour and making as much noise as possible while going down the stairs.
He opens the door, wand in one pocket, handful of galleons in the other, and walks for a while feeling the afternoon before sticking out his wand hand and calling the Knight Bus.
Once on it, he thinks of how he’ll convince James’ parents to let him stay.