Disclaimer: Well, just looking around at my room just now, I'd have to say that its certainly isn't the bedroom of a multi-millionaire who writes best selling children's novels. Darn it.
A/N: Wow, people, 45 hits on this story! I'm excited. And I'd really like to thank my lone reviewer, Sweet 16 Movie Buff. I'm so happy you've reviewed. As for the rest of you 44 slackers . . . well, let's just say that I am most displeased. Also, I am very, very thankful to Phinea and Zevazo for helping me with this chapter. I was stuck in a rut and she pulled be out of it (mostly by writing some of this). Check out their stories-all the cool people are doing it. So, yeah. Sirius POV. Enjoy!
When I was twelve, I read Gone with the Wind, and hated it. I read it mostly because my mother wrote it off as "American trash", so obviously it had to be a book I'd love.
It wasn't.
Admittedly, my mother was wrong; it wasn't trash, but it was incredible writing. However, it made me realize just how much I hated the ruling class of any given society, whether it be pre-Civil War America or 1970s wizarding world Britain. Their rules, their traditions are so pointless and ridiculous that, even when I was still vying for my mother's affection, I still realized how ridiculous they were. The subtleties and little nuances are so damn annoying to memorize and follow that by the time I was about sixteen I'd decided that I'd had enough and left. Of course, there was more to it than that. That's how it started, really, with my hatred of all their little rules. From then on, my life was little more than degeneration into abuse and depression. Blaming that on my family's rules does sound a little severe, I know, and it's only partially true. The tradition of the "rites of passage" of the firstborn son, combined with the punishments I managed to earn and the cruelty of my family all sort of melted together and produced a life not even fit for an animal. I do not like to go into details, but I'm afraid they make crop up here and there on occasion. But it doesn't matter, now, what happened. I don't like to dwell on it. Except sometimes the past just won't leave you alone . . .
On the upside, I am drinking some really excellent bourbon tonight. Mark, the night manager of the Hog's Head, is squeezing six Knuts extra per glass out of me for this stuff, says it's a very special vintage, and let me tell you, it is worth twelve. It has a fierce and yet gentle burn in my throat and all the way down, creating a numbing warmth in my stomach. And the taste is phenomenal.
I'm drunk now, just drunk enough. A woman in light grey, gown-like robes is looking at me. Her long, vividly blonde hair is swept up, pinned and graceful like her robes. She has on silver-grey heels. Maybe she came from a friend's wedding, or something. In any case, she's alone. She's looking at me. I catch her eye in return and hold her gaze. Lovely dark eyes, very large, but with an almost Asian look to them.
I need solitude to GET drunk, but I can BE drunk in company with perfect grace. And her company sounds like a lovely place to be, drunk or sober.
I can hear Remus's voice as though he's saying the words quietly into my ear. "Another old pedophile lady, Sirius?" He'll say something of the sort later. He always says "lady," like he's waiting for me to contradict him, and I almost want to hit him. Except that I never could hit Remus. No matter how I want to drown him on occasion, to actually strike him would be totally beyond me.
Those first two glasses had his name on them, for what he said earlier (as though he doesn't always say it, for my own good, always for my own good). "I'm going out," I said.
"To get drunk," he said resignedly.
I grinned. Devil-may-care grin, half-cultivated, much-practiced. I have a smile for every situation, from "I-love-you" to "I'm-putting-up-with-you" to "I'm-about-to-bite-your-testicles-off." They occur naturally the first time, but I try to remember them once they do, for later use. "Yeah, to get drunk, what are you, new?"
"Get drunk, get laid, the great Sirius Black rides again, all in a Friday night's work, m'lady," he said, sarcastic. Sarcasm is the weapon for Remus, and he uses it so very well. If sarcasm were a sword, my little fencing-champion brother would envy Remus's point-work.
"Yeah," I said. "Basically."
"How many years older this time?" Remus asked me.
I shrugged, stung by the inference: if my partners are child-molesters, then I'm a child. Usually they don't realize how young I am; I pass for eighteen or even twenty in dim light. "They're not exactly cradle-robbers, Remus.
"No, you're just a nursing-home-robber," Remus said sweetly.
I was smart enough to shut up. It's third quarter, Remus's temper is nasty beyond belief for about twelve hours at this phase of the moon, and it coincides with the point at which he's a hell of a lot stronger than me. If I start with him, we'll both regret it. Remus will regret it more, once he's back to his normal good-natured and pacifistic self.
This is the downside to being Remus's best friend; he relaxes around me, which is great, but it also lets me see his bad traits more than most.
As I pulled on my jacket (three hundred and fifty bucks worth of black leather, baby, and I lifted the thing without paying a penny), Remus said my name, softly. I looked up. "Yeah?"
"Take care of yourself, okay?" he said.
And that's the worst part; he's usually so even and calm and kind, but even when he's apparently looking to get himself beat up or killed, he'll lapse back into himself again for these odd moments. He looked terribly vulnerable at that moment. I was almost tempted to take him with me, just so he'd see I'm not doing anything dangerous and quit worrying. I reminded myself that I'd wanted to butcher him a moment ago, and walked out. "I'll see you later," I called just before the door shut.
I drain my glass, relishing the glow as the last drops slide into my throat, and rise to go talk to the nicely dressed blonde.
I pause outside my dormitory, really not wanting to go in. Even though it's nearly three in the morning, I know Remus will be up, waiting for me. He'll be sitting on his bed, or mine, reading some book (Alcoholic Teens, Their Issues, and How to Help Them, probably, or some other such nonsense), and occasionally eating some of the chocolate I'm sure he has stashed away somewhere but can never find. Or, actually, maybe he won't be. It is third quarter, after all, and he's generally restless during that stage of the moon. Well, restless and a lot of other things I'm not allowed to say around James's parents. What he'll probably be doing at this stage of the moon is pacing around the dormitory, glancing up often at the door and windows, the latter of which he has probably locked. (You sneak in the window one time, and they just can't let it go.)
Finally I sigh and walk in. Maybe walk isn't the right word. I'm a little too drunk to be walking. But not staggering, either. Somewhere in between.
Remus pauses, mid-pace, and glares at me. "Sirius-" he begins.
"Remus, can't this wait till morning?" I say, well-aware and unashamed that I am pleading. I hate being so relaxed and then coming back to this. He's like the nagging wife I swear I will never have. "You're just going to say the same stuff you've been saying for years."
He closes his mouth with a snap and continues to glare at me before saying, "Yes, I am, and I'm hoping that one of these times it's going to sink into that thick skull of yours."
"All right," I say, sitting down on my bed, and arranging the pillows so I'm comfortable. "I'm ready; let's get this over with."
He pauses a moment, then lets his breath out in a sigh. "Never mind," he says tiredly. He points at my bedside table. "Your brother brought you a letter. I think your mother sent it." He goes to his own bed and lies down.
I shrug. I'm not worried or relieved at being spared the lecture. He'll work himself up by tomorrow morning and I'll catch it then.
I reach over and pick up the letter, holding it with both hands, and really, really, really not wanting to open it. If it is from my mother (and I think that it is, that's her handwriting), then I know exactly what it's going to say.
I know this because it's the same thing she's written since about second year.
'You're a disgrace,' 'you've shamed the entire family,' 'I hope you suffer a debilitating brain aneurism, you crusty waste of pure-blooded vital organs,' et cetera, et cetera.
So I get up, go down into the common room, and toss her letter into the dying fire, where it screams bloody murder before finally giving way to ashes and smoke.
Feeling complacent and a little triumphant, I go back up to bed and sleep through most of breakfast.
A/N: R/R, if you please. And I already have part of Chap. 3 written, so hopefully (and also remembering the fact that school starts tomorrow sob) I'll have that up soon.