Sirius smashed his third bottle of butterbeer into the fireplace, grinding his teeth as his nostrils filled with the smell of burning sugar. He pressed his hand into the dark stone of the mantle until lines dug into his palm, speaking to the fire instead of turning to look at Hermione. "I'm so sick of this shithole you optimists call life."
He could feel her frown without needing to see it. An itch beneath his skin begged her to fight with him instead of sitting calmly on the sofa at the other end of the room. Returning from the Veil was a great idea, in theory, but all it did was tear him away from his friends on the other side, returning to fulfill some thrice-damned prophecy he didn't want.
prompt from: cece2046