The soon to be criminal sneered at his unsuspecting victim's back. He had crafted an explosive demise, literally. He was a true mastermind. He was proud of his plan, a masterpiece of cunning strategy and well aimed shrewdness; he had plotted his revenge for months, carefully laying out the perfect crime – some useful principles of muggle explosives mixed up with few magical tricks –, something the terrorists would drool over. He couldn't drop an incendiary catalyst in his victim's cauldron, but he had spelled the table to act as a detonator that would set off once the prick touched it and he had magically linked the desk and the cauldron, whose content would be the C4 du jour. A tempus charm was embedded in the desk, so that the fireworks would start right on time. He had to cast the spells discreetly and quickly – he had needed to test them out before proceeding –, once his target had sat down at his usual place. The stunt wasn't supposed to kill the son of a bitch – not that his murder would be a displeasure – but the mastermind didn't wish to murder. The death of his victim would spoil his revenge. Black was meant to survive, because his death would signify the end of it all, however painful it might be. Black had to survive so as to fully experience all the aftershocks the upcoming tsunami would fload him with. He wanted to disfigure him; the humiliation of having his beautiful – or so the girls thought – face damaged was one of his many revenges, but that wasn't all. He would be severely disabled and probably kicked out of Hogwarts; he would be helpless and weak; he would lose his friends and be as alone as a human being on the Moon. He would be an underdog and made fun of; he would be an outcast that everyone would look upon, bully and shun – as he rightfully deserved! That bastard had never been punished properly and his taunts had escalated to the point of almost killing another student. Said student was forced to keep his mouth shut because otherwise he would cause the wherewolf to leave the school, as if what had happened to him wasn't worth the time of the day. But holy Dumbledore wouldn't allow for his belowed Gryffindor to be kicked out. No justice for the nasty slytherins in town. And so, the slytherin had decided to honour his house's traits, maybe one day his little revenge would impress someone important and would be an added value to his résumé. He was carrying out justice for himself, doing a favour to the entire school populace. They'll thank me later, he thought with an hint of bitterness, well aware that he couldn't take public ownership of his actions; but thank Merlin he wasn't a Gryffindor and he wasn't looking for glory. No, he worked in the background and he stayed behind the scenes. He was in charge of writing the script and of the mise en place of the show. He blended with the shadows. He was a shadow and he was plunging deeper and deeper in his own well of darkness, descending into a bottomless rabbit hole whose dept were inviting, tempting, taunting and addicting.
He quieted taht bitterness of his, no amount of mourning could dampen his satisfaction: he ravished in the knowledge the bastard would be out of his way forever and that he would be probably locked in a ward at st. Mungos or in his family home, unless they'd reject him. And how could you blame them? His state would be a disgrace to the family purity and noble name; he was already hated by his parents and his brother. The odds were all against him and the slytherin rejoiced with anticipation.
It was 10.10. a quarter of an hour to go. They weren't working in pairs, so that would avoid casualties. He couldn't arm the one whom he owed a life debt to, not until he had repaid it, he hoped it would be sooner than later.
10.15: ten minutes before the party. He needed to be done with his work quickly, to savour every bit of that succulent show. He stirred his potion, finding the repetitive motion soothing. Nothing would go wrong, he had been careful and meticulous, as a proper potion brewer should be.
10.20: just five minutes. His heartbeat was getting faster, the excitement and the fear – of something going awry – were upsetting his stomack, raging in his intestines like a corset that wanted to squeeze his self control out of his solar plexus.
He put the final touch to his befuddlement draught – a potion the Gryffindors didn't need he thought with an internal smirk – and took a moment to appreciate his perfect job: the texture was thick and dark green in colour, as it should be. He bottled it and got up to hand it to Slughorn. If his timing was in perfect sink with the explosion, he would enjoy a ful view of the accident from the front of the classroom.
10.23: time to move and taste the cold dish revenge was to be served on. Was his mouth watering?
10.20: Sirius Black's potion was perfect – not that he had any doubts about his abilities. The fact he had to do the work on his own didn't bother him at all, although he missed his playful exchanges with James. The two would joke and chat happily and lightheartedly while working: time went faster and they didn't need to talk about the task at hand. They were in perfect sink and could communicate just by exchanging glances whose meaning only them could comprehend. They were like a married couple who had been together for years. Creepy, some would say; but to Sirius the confort he experienced with his best friend was reassuring, he felt James weaved a protective cocoon around him, a warm craddle where he was safe and welcomed.
He felt something poking his right shoulder: Prongs and his wand. He turned toward his friend, wearing a cocky grin. "Yes, Prongs? Do you need help with your work?"
A jab on his head by a moagany wand was the only answer. They were at the same stage of the potion and sure as hell, James Potter didn't need assistance to brew.
"I am doing very well on my own, if I say so myself", he answered wearing a replica of Sirius grin. "I was just checking on you. How's your work going on?"
"Our potions are twins, as you can see".
"How romantic", James commented with a wink.
Romantic: that word stirred something in Sirius midsection, as if he had casted a mild incendio in his solar plexus. The warmth spread in his stomack and playfully tickled its way downward. What the? He thought. Why is my body blatantly ignoring my pleadings to cool down?
He was grateful his attention was caught by Snivellus getting up, a small bottle in hand.
The son of a bitch had already finished.
10.23: James was eyeing his best friend's potion. It looked perfect, nothing seemed to be out of place. Sirius appeared calm and sure of himself as usual. He wasn't the easiest person to read, but James knew him well enough to understand when he was lying or hiding something. His best mate was confident about his potion and tehre were no reasons he shouldn't be. But there was a reason for James to be on his guard. He had spotted Snivellus sending malignant glances at Sirius' back. They were expecting some retaliation since the incident in the shrieking shack but the greasy tosser had done nothing. That was suspicious. He was one for taking a revenge; something was simmering in his head. And it would probably be nasty. James had noticed Snape's eyes on Sirius at multiple occasions that morning. He was being discreet but James was being attentive. Contrary to popular opinion, he wasn't oblivious. He was capable of showing subtlety and he knew how to pay close attention to the minute details. He knew how to be logical, but he was a gryffindor and his instinct was important as well. Said instinct was telling him to be alert and look out for his best friend. He didn't know what could happen, but potions was the class where it was easiest to put a student in danger by sabotaging their work.
James saw Snivellus getting up, a smirking expression painted on his face, a mean gleam sparkling in his eyes. The jerk walked toward the front to hand his potion to Slughorn who was monitoring the class while they all brewed an OWL level potion.
10.24.50: James saw Sirius cauldron starting to shake. Something was definitely wrong.
"What the fuck is happening?" His friend muttered in front of him. "I have done nothing wrong". Snyvellus turned in his way to Slughorn's desk and licked his lips. The potion was steaming dangerously and started to sparckle excitedly, as if it was anticipating the unavoidable fload.
"Sirius, back off!" James said urgently.
His friend started getting up but it was too late. The cauldron erupted, like an Icelandic volcano that was finally allowed to regurgitate centuries of bottled up magma. A geyser of scorching lava spouted up, huffing and puffing, panting and creating flaming steamy clouds that rose to the ceiling.
The explosion covered the sound of James spell. A shield was in front of Sirius, preventing the mixture from hitting him – The rest of the mixture, that is. In that blink of an eye that took James to cast the spell, some of the boiling foam had hit Sirius on his face. James noticed his friend's skin burning, the stenk of grilled flesh making its way up his nostrils and down his throat, like a vomit inducing nasogastric tube.
Padfoot needed to go to the hospital wing immediately. There was no time to spare, James feared for his best friend's life. It was the first time he saw him in mortal danger and the only thing he could do was to be quick and efficient and put to good use that bravery of his. The rest of the class was frozen in place, some were shocked, others horrified, some disgusted, somebody else was just plain indifferent. James' subconscious took a picture of the scene and stored it in one of his mind's drawers. He'd look at it later. Nobody made a move to help: they were all petrified by a basilisk stare, it seemed. Thank Merlin, They were also still deafened by the explosion and it was Sirius saving grace. His ' mouth was wide open in a scream. A muggle born who knew art would say he looked like the man in the Scream by Edward Munch.
His skin was turning coal black and would soon be reduced to ashes; the endless fire would start eating at the bones, but the worst were his eyes. His grey eyes were being burned alive, their life fading quickly. Two black holes would soon replace the grey that used to take the world in.
Sirius hands were burnt as well, his reflex of protecting his face had endangered them, having taken most of the hit. James had been quick – so as to save Sirius majority of the face – but not quick enough so that his friend would be unscated.
The journey to the hospital wing was more of an ashent from a circle of hell to the salvation of a sterile heaven. James was levitating his best friend and trying not to drop him while he was running. The shield in the classroom had wanished as soon as he ad focused his attention fully on Sirius. Once the dyke had dropped, the raging foam had branched out in anteater like tongues drenching any surface they lingered on with their corrosive spittle, like the gastric juices of an esofagus that hadn't been corroding foods for quite a while and were anxious to show they still knew how to do their demolishing job.
Time and space seemed to stretch on endlessly; James felt that for each step he put forward, space would extend by one inch just to test him and have a laugh at his frustration, his fear and his determination.
He would not fail Sirius. He would never let his friend down, neither literally nor figuratively. A thought flashed in his brain, suggesting he could summon his broom and fly to the hospital wing. It would've been quicker, but how could he have settled his friend safely? Impossible, Sirius had lost control of his body. James had casted a silencio on him, to hopefully preserve some of his dignity and avoid his desperate howling to be heard by the whole school.
He was being devoured alive, the foam was hungry for flesh, blood, bones and tissues, like a tramp who hadn't seen food for a week. James didn't stomack the view his friend's face offered, but he steadily kept an eye on him so taht he would be safe from hitting any obstacles, although he was far from being safe. He was so vulnerable, fragile as a foetus without the protection of the maternal womb; a man of crystal who could shatter at any moment, even a gust of wind in one of the most exposed corridors could be his downfall. He had the sudden realization that the Sirius Black as he knew him had died today, along with his eyes, most probably; but there would come a time for mourning what had been, a time to be sad and regretful. Now, it was the time to do damage control and when the hospital wing door came into view, James cried for madame Pomfrey. He cried with urgency, anger, desperation, fear and determination, channeling through his throat all the silenced screams of his agonizing friend, voicing a pain that physically tormented another body but emotionally was stabbing all of James' chakras.