There's a sort of high that comes from not giving a shit. At least if you do it right. It's almost like a switch in Sirius's brain that he can just...flick. And then it's as if nothing matters—what people think, what they want from him. It's better than sex, honestly.
The come down's a bitch though.
He used to think he could control it—the switch. It wasn't until last year, until he told Snape about Remus, until he watched the horror wash over James's face, that he realized how stupid that was.
To this day he can't really remember that moment—the moment he decided to blow-up his whole life. It certainly hadn't occurred to him that that was what he was doing. It had all just seemed so pointless for a moment—the secrets, the fear—and then it had seemed funny. The idea of Snape face to face with a werewolf.
Not a werewolf.
His brain corrects itself.
Moony.
Remus.
The boy with the beautiful eyes and the shaggy hair and the smile that's afraid of itself.
That boy.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
He hadn't had any of those thoughts that night though. Hadn't felt any of that ache. He'd been alone for hours by that point, slowly growing more and more numb. Until he didn't mind so much that his uncle was dead. That it was probably his fault. It was so like his mother honestly, to kill someone just to get back at him. Just to punish him. He'd stayed alone until he could make himself not feel it anymore.
And then Snape had been there, making some crack about Remus being sick. About how frail he was. How pathetic. Sirius could remember laughing at that. Because it was funny, honestly, to have Severus Snape calling Remus Lupin weak. When at that very moment he was mere minutes away from turning into a full-fledged monster.
Not a monster.
Moony.
Remus.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
In that moment the only thing that had felt funnier than Snape not knowing what an ass he was making out of himself. Was him knowing exactly how much of an ass he was making out of himself. So he'd told him where to go, if he wanted to know why Remus was always so sick. And as he'd watched Snape walk away he'd felt that familiar high. Of doing the thing he wasn't supposed to do. Of not giving a shit.
The comedown really is a bitch.
It's early, too earlier, honestly. No one in their right mind would be up this early, but then, James has always been a little more nuts than people give him credit for. At least in Sirius's opinion.
He's sitting in the stands, watching the Gryffindor team finish their first practice since tryouts. They look alright, the holes left behind by Frank and Alice are big, but not insurmountable, and James has been able to find some good new talent. The Keeper in particular—a third year, Jeremy or Renly or something—is going to be an absolute star. Sirius can already see it.
He watches them land, watches them huddle around James on the ground. Mary's the easiest to pick out even from this distance—dark hair braided down her back, hip cocked, arms crossed. He can't help but wonder how that's going for James—getting her under control. Mary's a brilliant player, and honestly the funniest person Sirius knows, but she'll cause problems just for the hell of it. And she's certainly not afraid to push James around.
Sirius tears his eyes away from the ground, grabbing hold of his own broom and heading down to the pitch. Him and James are...honestly, he doesn't really know. They're friendly, he guesses. But even thinking the word makes him scrunch up his face like he's smelt something bad. Him and James have never been "friendly" before. They were strangers and then friends and then brothers. There was no intermediate stage of awkward polite small talk.
