Sirius Black hated it when James Potter turned over in his sleep.
As the teenager stretched on his makeshift bed on the floor of his best friend’s bedroom, he cast a scowl at the bed next to him, where a bulge of blankets rose and fell rhythmically. The Potter Manor was at least one hundred and fifty years old, and the antiquated bed springs squeaked loudly whenever James moved, just as the steps leading to the first floor creaked, just as the hinges on James’s bedroom door screeched.
He hated being the only person awake in a house that was older than his great-grandfather.
James snored, so suddenly that the sound pierced the eerie silence of the house, causing Sirius to jump. Sirius glared spitefully at him, and turned to face the dusty glass doors that opened into the balcony adjoining the bedroom. His gaze bounced back and forth between his pack of cigarettes and the doors, silently wondering if Mr. and Mrs. Potter would mind him taking a smoke at 1.54 in the morning. He looked at the clock, then at the doors, and finally at his cigarette pack.
Nah.
Decisively, he kicked his blankets off and, grabbing two cigarette sticks and a Muggle lighter, he silently slid the doors open and stepped outside into the crisp summer air. The sky was littered with shimmering lights, and the quarter moon shone brightly above the cluster of trees across the river. He lit his cigarette and leaned against the railing, observing the South England countryside at night. It was peaceful, very peaceful . . . a stark contrast to the life Sirius left only a few hours ago.
His memory was blurry. All he remembered was heat . . . incredible, scorching heat, his father’s alcohol-filled breath stinging his nose, and his mother’s high-pitched screeching in the background. Unconsciously, he rubbed the burn on his right shoulder, which was now covered by Mrs. Potter’s burn paste. In the moonlight, the purple and black bruises on his arms stood out noticeably against his ghastly pale skin. A thin wound congealed with blood ran from his left wrist to his elbow, where he sliced himself while trying to escape through a window full of broken shards of glass.
One would think that as a young wizard raised in a strictly magical, pureblood family, he would’ve thought of Disapparating. Yet, at that moment, he had denied everything related to magic, even his own powers. After he had wrestled his father to the ground, he dashed for his bedroom, packed everything he could into a small knapsack, broke his bedroom window, and climbed out. It was only when he reached the train station, five miles away, that he remembered to Apparate. He had Apparated into James’s house, beaten up and tired, and while Mr. Potter fixed him a quick dinner, Mrs. Potter took him upstairs to the bathroom to clean him up.
Sirius clenched his fingers tightly around the smooth plastic surface of the lighter. If only his family was more like the Potters. . . . He knew it was wishful thinking, but this particular thought invaded his mind more often than he fancied. Mr. Potter loved Muggle musicians, like Frank Sinatra and Guy Lombardo from the late thirties. Often, he would sing along to The Beatles, when James put their records on their gramophone. Mrs. Potter enjoyed knitting and crocheting, and always had a jumper or a pair of gloves”or both”for Sirius in his favourite colours come Christmastime. Dinner was always followed by a family affair of some sort: wizard’s chess, a game of Gobstones (which Mrs. Potter was exceptionally good at, for some unknown reason), a discussion of current wizarding events, or even a short flying session up on Westbury Hill where Muggles couldn't see them.
In the Black household, it was totally different. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were solemn affairs, punctured by the occasional argument between Sirius and his father, especially in Sirius’s later teens. Dress robes were always worn at the table, regardless of any occasion. The house-elves prepared tumultuous amounts of food, most of which always thrown away, as no member of the Black family ate to their heart’s content. Everything was formally set, from the silverware to the china. Sirius had always sat on his father’s right hand side, the place of the heir, the breadwinner, the Crown Prince of the family. Now that Sirius had run away, Regulus would take that spot. Orion and Walburga Black would soon forget that they once had two sons.
Sirius inhaled carefully, savouring the bittersweet taste of the smoke in his mouth. Regulus had scorned him for picking up this “unsanitary habit of Mudbloods.” It was Remus who had introduced it to Sirius, as a matter of fact, when Sirius visited him during the summer before their fifth year. The Lupins lived in a middle-class Muggle town, the kind of area that looked saccharine and clean at first glance, but had dirt and scum in every darkened corner. They two of them were walking downtown when Sirius noticed a group of Muggle teenagers sucking on white sticks and exhaling smoke either through their mouth of through their nostrils. Remus explained it to him then, how cigarettes were made, and the health risks they entailed. At that moment, Sirius cared not about any physical implications. All he wanted then was the experience. He bought a pack there and then, and that evening, he tried his first cigarette on the Lupins’ roof.
He often smoked while he drank; the combination of the two seemed to give him a bigger high, a more tangible rush of energy that allowed him to forget any cares or worries. Now that he thought about it, he considered going downstairs to the Potters’ liquor cabinet to have a shot or two of firewhiskey. Sirius was no novice to alcohol, thanks to his family’s elaborate and often harebrained monthly parties for the rich and famous. Each meal was served with wine; each gathering with copious amounts of every alcoholic drink imaginable. Sirius’s stowaway stash in his Hogwarts trunk often went unnoticed.
Sighing, Sirius crushed his first cigarette into the concrete railing and lit his second stick. He was so immersed in his thoughts, so deeply buried in memories, that he did not notice the soft patter of footsteps behind him. He jumped slightly when James stood beside him.
“Bit late for a fag, isn’t it?” his best friend remarked, his heavy eyelids disguising the alertness in his hazel eyes.
Sirius blew out a cloud of smoke through his nostrils. “It’s never too late for a fag.” His voice had gone scratchy from all the smoke. Coughing slightly, he tugged the stick out of his mouth and inhaled. Seizing the opportunity, James took the cigarette from him and examined it as carefully as he could without his glasses. After a few moments, he put it into his mouth and inhaled slightly. Sirius watched him.
“Well?” he inquired after a few moments.
James wrinkled his nose and passed the cigarette back. “Tastes like bloody crap.”
“Glad to know.” Sirius grinned wantonly and took another drag. Several minutes passed with no other words exchanged between them. When Sirius finally finished his second smoke, James tugged on his shirtsleeve.
“C’mon, Padfoot, let’s go back to sleep,” he mumbled. “We’re going to Diagon Alley tomorrow.”
“Later,” corrected Sirius, but he acquiesced and followed James back into the bed room. “You snore like a fucking pig, Prongs.”
“I know.”
“I can’t sleep with all that noise.”
“You know what to do.”
James closed the sliding doors behind them and waited until Sirius was lying in his bed before climbing into his own. Before lying down, James turned to Sirius and said, “Just don’t let my folks catch you, all right?” Without waiting for a response, he settled himself under his covers and rolled over.
Sirius smirked to himself, but he then felt a sudden rush of ease and relief as he deciphered the double entendre in his friend’s words. Sighing, he pulled the blankets up to his chin and filled his mind with cheerful thoughts of what was in store for him during his last summer at the Potter Manor.