A/N IT ISN'T ANGST FEEL PROUD. I found this one in the back of my closet. Remember when England was REALLY REALLY REALLY HOT in the summer of 2006? Yeah, I wrote it then.
Disclaimer: When I am aware of myself owning Harry Potter I'll let you know.
Sirius' attention has wandered.
Or would it be wondered? He thinks about it for a while before deciding on the latter. Then he fidgets slightly to the left. Sirius sits still for two more seconds before falling full foreword on the desk to see if that is possibly any cooler. For a moment it is. For a moment the wood on the desk seems cooler than room temperature and it cools his face somewhat. Sirius lays his arms on the desk as well. The sleeves have been pushed up as far as physically possible and his open collar has been unbuttoned two more than it should be.
Eventually, though, the desk's temperature no longer feels cool. Sirius cannot gather the energy to sit back up again. It's too hot.
It has been unnaturally hot for days now. The boy in front of him has sweat congealed underneath his arms on his shirt and a small patch on the back of his shirt. Sirius turns his head slightly to get a better view of who it is and sees a mop of blondish hair. He moves his head again.
The desk is no longer cold. Well, it was never really cold in the first place. It is just less cold now than it has been before.
Remus is sitting next to him. He seems invincible to the heat. Sure, his jumper he's taken off, but that seems it. Sirius lies on his desk another few moments before the desk is too hot for him to lie on and he sits up again. Remus, agitated, glances at him.
"Will you stop fidgeting?" he mutters, quill still poised above the paper of messy scrawl that is his handwriting. Sirius looks at that for a moment, leaning back in his seat, which has cooled in his absence and feels welcoming against his hot back. Remus watches him for a moment before looking up at McGonagall again, who has started to talk once more after writing something on the board. Sirius nudges James next to him who jerks slightly but, on the whole doesn't move. He nudges him again. James groans and moves away a tad.
"Bugger off," he says sleepily, voice slick with tiredness. You can't sleep in nights when your sheets are sticking to your body like flypaper and you can't breathe. He doesn't move.
"You're boring," Sirius hisses.
"It's hot," James replies. Sirius sits for another minute. Then he prods James in the ribs. He doesn't move. He bolts. His arms move up and he sits up straight and thwacks Sirius hard across the face. Sirius recoils somewhat.
"Oi!"
"Stop poking me!"
The heat has got to them both. It swarms across the room slower than custard. So the sound itself takes rather a long time until McGonagall hears, with the whole passing of particles. It melts into everyone's brains and wraps around them, telling them sleep would be nice. It makes everyone five times stupider, five times slower, and five times not their self. Now Sirius thinks it would be nice to curse James. Not a heavy curse, just a nicely aimed Jelly Legs.
Eventually, though, McGonagall looks up slowly at James and Sirius, both of which are sitting with their arms slumped forewords on the desk. She puts down her glasses on her desk. James picks up his book and flaps it in front of his face.
"Mr Potter," she trills in a Scottish accent. James doesn't seem to take any notice of her. "We're all in the same situation here." James looks up briefly.
"Yes," he says fairly. "But my end of the room may just be hotter than yours, Minerva." McGonagall surveys him for a moment.
"Would you like a detention, Mr Potter?"
"Depends. Is it cool in the room the detention'll be held in?"
This, in itself, is a fair question. It is hot and James has got a right to know which room the detention would be served in. McGonagall does not seem to see the fairness of it.
"I think you and Mr Black can have a detention for your cheek," she says curtly and Sirius groans. He doesn't want a detention. He wants to lie in front of a portable fan Remus got him for a birthday present which says 'Greetings from Cornwall!' on it and poor cold water on himself. Or maybe sit in a bathtub with only freezing cold water in it. He fanaticises about that for a moment and then flops over.
"It's too hot, Professor," he moans loudly, not realising how loud it is, not realising China could probably hear him.
The heat does that to people.
"I'm perfectly aware about how hot it is, thank you, Mr Black," she says shortly and turns her back on them to the board again. Sirius slams his nose against the desk. He wants to break his nose and go to the Hospital Wing. Maybe it will be cooler there, Sirius thinks. Madame Pomfrey isn't allowed to give people severe sun stroke.
Sirius thinks he's dying. He thinks, so, this must be what it's like to burn slowly to death. He thinks he shouldn't like it very much in hell if he were ever to visit there. He thinks how nice a bath with thousands of ice cubes would feel. Didn't Muggles have something called air conditioning? How nice would that be? He wonders how Remus is surviving with his top button done up – it's done up loosely, he does admit, but it's still done up.
"That's all, class."
Sirius thinks Minerva McGonagall will go to Heaven and serve God in a brilliantly white revealing robe and sandals where it's never hot.
Except on days she gives out detentions.