As soon as Sirius entered the common room, Remus sensed that he'd gotten another letter from home. Judging by the ferocity of his expression, it was even worse than the last one.

For several seconds after his arrival, all activity ceased. Eyes shifted away from books, parchments, and chessboards to play over the heir to the Black fortune. Remus had often noticed this phenomenon—Sirius was a magnet for the attentions of others, even when he wasn't trying to be.

Remus had also concluded long ago that an angry Sirius was like a storm. Lightning flashed in his eyes, and Remus could almost see roiling black clouds hovering just above his head. Now and then, he even imagined a rather ominous rumble accompanying them. Also, just like a summer storm, you never quite knew when or where Sirius was going to strike.

For the first years of their acquaintance, Remus carefully shrank from the onslaught, unsure of how to deal with the astonishing fits of temper. Now, he marched out to meet the downpour, and though it was rarely pleasant, neither could he truthfully say that a tiny part of him didn't enjoy enduring the fury and coming out alive.

One of these days, Remus thought as he snapped shut the textbook he'd been reading, you're not going to get away unscathed. Still, he didn't hesitate. He rose from his seat in the corner and skirted two third years playing exploding snap to approach the fireplace.

Sirius had thrown himself with casual elegance across one of the overstuffed chairs. He stared into the flames, not bothering to acknowledge Remus, who eased himself into the nearest seat.

"Sirius?"

Nothing.

"Sirius," he ventured again, slightly louder this time.

A hint of dark irritation stained Padfoot's voice. "Yes, Remus?"

Remus paused for a moment, groping for words. He remembered the first time he'd ever approached Sirius when his friend was in One of Those Moods. He'd made the dire mistake of saying "Do you want to talk about it?", and Sirius had nearly scalded his ear off with a volley of insults and curses. He knew much better than to be so direct now.

"Care for a quick race 'round the pitch? James is off snogging Lily—he'll never notice if you borrow his broom."

Sirius finally turned to look at him. "You don't like flying."

That wasn't precisely true—he just didn't like flying the way Sirius did it, when every moment not spent attempting some life-threatening stunt was a moment wasted. But he'd rather sign his own execution order than correct Sirius just now. He'd made that mistake before, too, and he actually had a scar to prove it. (Apparently, Sirius was not above biting his opponent even when he wasn't a dog.)

Remus settled for a shrug. As he expected, Sirius did not reply. He sat patiently, awaiting the inevitable.

At last, heavily, "Well, get up, then."

Sirius was suddenly halfway up the stairs. Remus followed sedately, pleased that things seemed to be going well so far. He'd only just collected his broom—a rather ancient and somewhat embarrassing Cleansweep, when Sirius swept out of the dormitory without so much as a "Meet you on the pitch."

He was in the air by the time Remus made it to the Quidditch grounds, so Remus wasted no time in following him skyward. They didn't even race—they merely flew, Sirius executing dazzling loop-de-loops, dives, and feints while Remus cruised evenly below.

After perhaps half an hour, Sirius had evidently worked out his frustrations, for he brought his broom level with Remus's. Now came the Sirius-talking-Remus-listening bit.

"Got a letter today," he began, and his grey eyes darkened.

"Mmm."

"They've disinherited me."

That was rather surprising, but Remus elected not to comment just yet.

"Mother said the family 'cannot safely associate with a blood-traitor' such as myself. Went on talking about increasing pressures on Purebloods in the face of changing dynamics, etc, etc. Basically a fancy way of saying she won't have dear Regulus endangered when Voldemort decides to come kill me."

Remus felt that it was time to speak up, but he wasn't quite sure what to say. Though he'd never met Walburga Black, he had developed an intense dislike for her over the past five years. Now, that dislike threatened to boil into a steam of hatred, and he was surprised. He rarely felt such strong antipathy for anyone, let alone an adult!

"Well, she's a bloody nutter, then. Regulus is so stupid he'll probably aim his wand in the wrong direction and get himself killed anyhow." Remus's expression was severe.

Sirius snorted derisively, and his eyebrows raised. Remus hardly ever swore. "Yeah, I bet. But Moony?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think Voldemort really will kill us? I hear he's collecting an awful lot of followers, y'know?"

"Bollocks! Only someone as mental as your mother would fall for that sort of propaganda!"

"And Bellatrix, and Regulus, and the Malfoys."

"Yeah, well, they're all inbred anyhow." Remus checked suddenly, realizing what he'd said. "Oh, hell, Sirius, I'm sorry! I didn't mean—"

To his immense surprise, Sirius merely laughed. At the sound—which Remus quite enjoyed, by the way; it was rich and musical, not like the harsh bark he'd begun to hear lately—a slow, hesitant smile stretched across the werewolf's face. The storm had passed, and all that was left was a Sirius.

"Well," Sirius said merrily after the amusement died, "if my doom is drawing quickly near, I'd like to enjoy a nice game of one-on-one Quidditch before I end up on the wrong end of some psycho's wand. Whaddya say, Moony?"

"I say your doom is nearer than you think—victory will never be yours!" And, with a most un-Remus-like rush of glee, he urged his broom into a downward plummet, speeding away from Sirius toward the goalpost opposite them.