A/n: Hi, everyone. Ah, another one shot. James POV, post Lily&James's wedding. NOT slash. Just... Sirius and James: best friends/brothers.
I am supposed to be packing. I'm moving out of my parent's house today and into my new home with my stunning bride, Lily. But even the thought of Lily in our new home- naked, even- can't keep me from pausing at the boxes marked: Black.
I have always hated black to be completely honest, and rightfully so, it's a bloody dreadful colour. I do suppose it gets a bad reputation, (being the colour of mourning does that) but I hate it for loads of other reasons.
Firstly, I got the worst detention of my life when Filch caught me and my mates trying to hex away all of the Grindylows from the Black Lake. I suppose I hold this more against Filthy Filch and Grindylows than the Black Lake, but I could never again tickle the Giant Squid without thinking about all of the Slytherin scum I cleansed off the dungeon toilets' floors. (Which were also black.)
Simply disgusting.
Secondly, it's hard to stand out when wearing black. It's nearly impossible to go out somewhere and not see at least a handful of people in the boring staple of plain black robes. One time, my dad and I counted twenty-one wizards and witches in the Leaky Cauldron who wore robes that were mostly black which is a considerable amount, seeing as there were only seven people left in non-black attire. That was the day my dad and I vowed to avoid black whenever possible.
My mum always told that wearing black hides one's imperfections. I always told her I have no imperfections. Therefore, I shouldn't have to wear a colour that makes me blend in with every other bloke in the world, which is also why I very much prefer donning the maroon Quidditch robes over the dreary Hogwarts uniforms. (Plus, it has been my experience that girls rather enjoy said Quidditch robes.)
Thirdly, when I was seven, my family took a short summer vacation to the Black Forest. Bloody awful time, it was. My mom arranged the whole deal, going off of what her friends remembered from their trips there. They had all raved about how lovely the area was and what fantastic people they had met. Well, the only people we met were a Muggle couple with a little blonde daughter who was too young to speak full sentences, and the area we visited consisted of too many trees to fly a broomstick, a small stream with dirty water, and a huge fire pit. These combined led to dad pouting, me lying around covered in mud, and mum nearly engulfing the entire wood in flames. Mum always claimed that was our best family-bonding trip ever.
Dad always claimed Mum was a tad batty.
I always believed him.
Fourthly, black was the colour of my favorite stuffed animal. I accidentally set it on fire at the age of ten. I never forgave myself. It was the most wicked stuffed hamster to ever be made.
Lastly, when I was a really young boy, my mum kept Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans in a miniature, black cauldron on the high shelf of our kitchen. Being the completely innocent lad that I was, I decided to nick some of these before dinner one night. I stacked a few of our dining room chairs on top of each other and climbed until my hand touched all those tantalizing (and sometimes disgusting) flavors. However, the cauldron didn't like my grabby little hand in there so early in the night, and it proceeded to chuck beans at me until I fell off of the chairs and broke my arm in three places. To this day, I frown whenever I see a black cauldron.
Unfortunately, that happens a lot.
To sum it up, black and I simply don't agree. I feel badly for this, actually. The poor colour does seem to be hated on a bit much. ( I mean, even Black Roses aren't really black which has to be a harsh slap in the face.)
I do, however, think I have made up sufficiently with black for I have bonded with the Black thing that I absolutely, completely adore. The one Black thing that left more crap here in this ruddy house than I did. The thing that I'm about to floo to throw this mountain of boxes at. Sirius Orion Black.
He's my best mate.
He made up for the loss of my faithful stuffed hamster. He taught me how to stick things (or people, as the case may require) to the ceiling. He spent every minute of four days cooped up with me in the Hospital Wing when one of Wormtail's spells went haywire. He helped me talk our way out of taking our Transfiguration finals second year. He told me that I could get Evans (now my wife) if I really wanted to (but he added that it might be easier to go for one of the more willing ones.) He watched The Map while I snuck into restricted areas of the castle on countless nights. He always saved me the treacle tart at feasts.
He's the closest to a brother that I've ever had.
Sometimes, I think that if I wasn't so head-over-arse in love with Lily Evans ( Potter!) that I'd probably go for Sirius. I mean, he doesn't nag; he always smells decent enough, and he knows how to whip up a mean shepherd's pie. Which, I do think, is a brilliant combination.
I'd give him a kidney.
Honestly, we practically were called to each other, and with times like they are, I reckon it's hard to find people so perfectly fit for each other. Even harder, I know, to keep them together.
I tossed out some old, crinkled photos of Sirius and me a few minutes ago. They were from the Christmas holidays in third year. Sirius had wrestled the camera away from me and shoved me into a hug. I punched him in the face when he took the picture.
I kept the one that showed his bloody nose. Don't tell Lily.
The fireplace behind me whirls and casts a green light through the room. I turn to see Black in the farthest-from-black colour I have ever seen, a mix between pink and is it, purple? He grins at seeing the Black boxes.
"Ah, Mate. Just toss 'em all out. No worries." Typical Sirius.
"Right."
Well, that's the stupidest answer I've ever given him. He notices, too, flashing me a smirk and a quick wink. He waves his wand, shrinks the boxes, and puts them, not in the rubbish, but in his purple-pink pocket.
"You going on a mission tonight, Prongs?" He says this with something in his voice that I reckon I should be able to distinguish but can't.
"Nah, haven't been sent on one since the wedding. Lucky too, Lily's waiting for me to finish here." I hinted, and though I know Sirius didn't need the extra innocent smile to catch on, I sent one to him anyway. He chuckled and helped me pile the pictures on the mantle into yet another brown packing box. I'm starting to hate brown as much as black. "Oh, tomorrow, dinner, our house, you gonna be there?"
"Can't, Jamesy-poo." He sighs dramatically. "I'm leaving on a mission tonight. 'S why I asked ya. I'll be gone."
I stopped fumbling with boxes and stare at him. He's a little set off by the look I'm giving him, but while I know his mission's probably vitally important to the Order, I can't help but look at my best friend with a bit of worry. Not that I'd ever tell my mates this, but I spend a lot more time than any bloke should worrying about them and Lily (my wife!).
This stuff isn't pranks and after-hours prowls anymore.
"How long?" I choke out.
"Few days. I'm going with Caradoc." He tries to say like it's no big deal. He's not always as tough as he looks. Actually, who am I kidding, the guy looks harmless. He's handsome and smiley. I suppose it's more his reputation proceeding him that scares people off.
Black things usually have a bad reputation.
My eyebrows raise in astonishment like Peter's did the time we told him there was a boggart in his trunk. "Dearborn? That git? " I shout this very loudly. Sirius winces and tries to calm me with a clap on the arm.
"It'll be alright. It's just trying to interrogate some Veela. More distracting than dangerous, really." He says with a crooked smile.
"Where at?" Veela might sound breezy on the surface, but Dumbledore could be sending them right to the Death Eaters. Or worse.
He doesn't answer. I should've known he wouldn't. I think he suspects about my aforementioned worrying. The unspoken truth hangs in the room. It's uglier decor than the curtains my mum loved, and yet, it's better if I don't know fully. He knows that.
He my best mate.
"I love you, Padfoot." I remind him. My voice croaks.
He's my brother.
"Ah, love you, too, Prongs!" He beams. Sirius likes smiling. He likes anything that doesn't remind him of his Black past.
I beam back: happy yet fearful, like most of our days in the war are. He hugs me, promises to come visit as soon as he's home ("and I'll remember to knock, Mate. I love you and Lils, but I'm not about to walk in on ya.") and steps back into the fire with a fistful of floo powder. He's gone before I can mention all the reasons he's my best friend, just in case something happens.
I pull the saved picture out of my pocket. It's black-and-white and Potter and Black. It's blood traitors and pranksters. It's best friends and brothers.
It's the reason I love Black.