The Shoebox Project

Part Twenty: February 1977. Getting into a fight. With photographic evidence.

It is February; it is a Thursday; it is a crisp, cool day with a clear sky and the occasional brisk gust of wind.

Later there will be a ring around the near-full moon signaling tomorrow's snow. Now there is only the sunlight
unfiltered by clouds, though it is no less chill for the afternoon. It is February; it is a Thursday; and Sirius Black has every intention of breaking Severus Snape's nose.

There's little reason for it; or rather, there's as much reason as ever, depending on which side you're on.

What matters most is that Remus is feeling peevish, that Snape is stubborn and refuses to call for help, and that Siriushas good aim, powerful fists and little self-control. Some combination of the elements -- some synergy of mood, emotions, scenery -- some twist of fate's humor -- all arrive at this conclusion. Sirius launches himself at Snape to avenge, for revenge, just as Snape recoils and hurls a fresh insult and Remus rounds the corner with a brand new quill and freshly-filled inkwell and what happens next involves three brilliant curse inventions, some staple but no less effective swears, and a great deal of exploding ink.

"What were you doing?" Sirius explodes, flapping a wet sleeve at Remus, who is by turns going pink, green, and now a sort of gratifying purply-red. With black speckles. It looks to Sirius as if he might actually throw a punch, which might be the only bright spot in this utterly crap day in this utterly crap month of the utterly crap existence of Sirius Black.

"Running an egg-and-spoon race with an inkwell?" "What was I doing?!" Remus snaps, yanking the straps of his bag shut as if he can retroactively protect his
precious books from the rain of ink that has already slightly destroyed them. "I was rounding a corner, you ridiculous -- what were you doing?!" "Working out some tension," Snape puts in, blotting delicately at the bleeding corner of his mouth with a dirty sleeve. "Getting his feelies in where he can," he adds, at which point Sirius, who is in the mood to let his elbows do the talking, steps on his foot and knees him in the neck when he goes down, which effectively ends a
conversation that was most likely heading to a dead end anyway.

"Gurghk," Snape says, though he no doubt means to say something else.
Remus' fingers tremble. Swinging heavy book-bags (now ruined by an overabundance of ink anyway) into the
side of Sirius' head has never solved anything. But perhaps it has never solved anything because Remus has never actually tried it before. Torn between two instincts -- the pacifism to which he reverts whenever Sirius makes him livid and the little twitching in all his muscles that lets him know just how livid he is -- Remus grasps at a random third option and hopes for the best.

"Bugger -- bloody -- gerroff!" Sirius yelps. By the sheer power of Remus' forearms -- which have always pretended to be noodley by looking noodley but have never been anything less than unflinching man-steel -- he finds himself lifted three inches into the air and yoinked unceremoniously backwards.

And away, he notes with the utmost regret, from Snape's face which it is his supreme duty to kick at least ten times.
"Gurghk," Snape says again. Remus is quite sure he does not mean to say thank you kindly, Mr. Lupin.

"Sit," he bites out at Sirius, who, conditioned by four years of being a dog, does so automatically before leaping
upright again, crimson with rage and embarrassment. Snape recovers just enough to wheeze out a "good puppy," which requires Remus to launch himself at Sirius again and employ the Forearms of Iron. In fact he nearly has to employ the Tackle of Iron to stop Sirius' furious flailing, and Snape takes advantage of the temporary lull to Faff Off, though not before treading judiciously on Sirius' fingers. By the time the dust and ink settle, Sirius is slouched against the wall of the hallway, seething with wronged innocence and sucking fiercely at his knuckles, and Remus has even more ink up his nose and is feeling even more homicidal than the swell of the moon requires.