Sirius stared at the numbers, repeating them over and over, in a sing-song tune, hoping to do what with them he didnât know, maybe to remember them, maybe to drown out the throbbing pain on his cheekbone. The paper was wrinkled and torn at the edges, and Sirius ran his fingers over the edges of it. Remus had touched these edges, he had ripped them, he had scrawled these numbers, he had told Sirius to call if he ever needed a way out. He had held the paper in between the pads of his fingers and slipped it into Siriusâ robes before they got off the train. He had said See you soon. Â And itâs only for the holidays. And just a week. Thatâs all.
Sirius had nodded and slipped his hand into his robes, holding the paper dropped there moments ago in his fist. He had barely heard what Remus had said. By that time, he was already looking out at the platform, drunk on what he knew was coming.
It came. It started small, with fights and insults. It started with Sirius mocking the Christmas decorations, and Regulus shooting him warning looks. It started with his mother telling him that they were to have a Christmas banquet, threatening him as she always did in her endless motherly love. He had known that things wouldnât go over smoothly. He tried to lock himself in his room, to stare at the walls, to recall just how Remusâ voice had sounded on the train, comforting but also pleading, begging him not to make things hard for himself. The walls were too blank, though, and the house was too quiet, and he was torn between wanting his parents to leave him alone and a blind rage at being ignored. They struck the balance perfectly. He was just invisible enough to be irrelevant but just important enough to be watched all the fucking time.
Thatâs how it had started. Then came some more yelling, not the lazy kind, reminding him to sit up straight and walk with pride, but the kind that reminded him that this was his job, to sit here and listen. She had found the spot just outside the window on the third floor that was tucked into the corridor, nearly invisible unless you jimmied the window open, leaned your head out, and searched for corner behind the scaffolding where his owl would land. She had found it. She had found the letters, from James, and Peter, and Lily, and Marlene. She hadnât found the letters from Remus. Sirius had told him not to write.
She had called him down. She had shaken the letters in his face while his father stood in the corner, hunched over, looking almost bored. Each of their names were sorted. Mckinnon was okay, she was pureblood, and actually, it would do him good to be talking to some pureblood girls. Potter wasnât ideal. He could keep one. Pettigrew and Evans were burned. Her face twisted up when she saw their names, and she looked at him. How she looked at him, he didnât think heâd ever forget. She wasnât his mother, that much was clear. She was a woman made of only spite and bitterness, and he knew that, but the expression on her face, one of pity, and disgust, and crashing disappointment, cut him to the bone.
âYouâre just selfish! You canât stand the idea of not having control over me anymore!â
âThis has never been about control.â
âYou canât stand that Iâve finally found people who donât find me fucking useless.â
The expression fell from her face. She tossed the last envelope in the fire, and the edges curled up around the flames. He stood, looking her in the face, hoping that she would scream and yell, waiting for her to fulfill his expectations. She didnât. She smiled.
âSirius. I have never found you useless. But, take it from your mother, you are very difficult to love.â
She had looked at the fire, devoid of paper, before turning and walking out of the room. Anyone could tell what he shouldâve done next. He shouldâve gone to his room, he shouldâve shut his door, he shouldâve fucking shut up, and he shouldâve waited because it was just a week, just a week, just a week, but he didnât. He ran after her.
Thatâs how it had ended. His father in front of him, no longer apathetic, Regulus standing in the kitchen, yelling, Sirius running up the stairs, up to the attic, barricading the door, and slipping out the window, down the ivy, under the hedge, out of the house. Sirius stumbling over his feet, gasping for breath, running, his cheek throbbing. Someoneâs voice, calling behind, but too high up for it to matter. He ran through the streets, out of his sleepy neighborhood, into downtown London. He ran for what felt like hours, until the lights from the shops moved too much and spun the world too fast, and until he felt his legs were no longer his and they stumbled over each other from moving too much.
He knew where he was, now. It was the same place he had come at seven years old when he first learned he could escape the house without his parents noticing. At the time, he didnât know anything about London besides where his mother took him. It astounded him. He had stared at the neon lights until his vision spotted, and breathed in the smell of curry, and stale beer, and piss and marveled at it. Sirius put his hand on his cheek, feeling it swell, and stepped toward the pub in front of him. He had come in here, still dressed like a pureblood wizard, with no concept of muggle money, and asked for a beer. The muggles had laughed at him and asked him where his parents were. The owner had given him a lemonade, free of charge, and since then, Sirius would return again and again, with no money, to see the little muggle tavern and sit under the warm lights, just watching people walk by.
He pushed open the door to the pub, the bell above him jingling, and made his way to the counter.
âWell, look whoâs back!â The man behind it smiled, placing the grimy glass on the bar counter. His expression faltered. âWhat happened to you?â
The man, his name was Earl, Sirius thought, but could never really remember, looked at him disbelievingly. He stared at Sirius for a long moment, and Sirius could see the wheels spinning in his mind. It was doing the math, tallying up all the times Sirius had shown up, never with parents, always in a bad mood, counting the bruise on his cheek and the daughter that the man had upstairs. Earl shook his head and opened his mouth, but Sirius cut him off.
âCan I just get a drink?â
âWhen youâre not 15.â
Earl smiled and reached down under the bar, spraying a glass full of water from the tap. He slid it across the counter, and Sirius caught it, bruised knuckles splayed across the glass in a disjointed pattern. Earl frowned.
âA beer would make me better.â
The man laughed and turned back to the bar.
Sirius sipped his water and watched the people come and go beside him, shooting him odd looks, occasionally asking his age. He shrugged each time. He ran his fingers around the rim off the glass, picking up dust. He fiddled with the small radio beside him. It was half broken, and the sound only came from one speaker, but it let you put in cassette tapes and sometimes if you held it just right, a sound would sputter out of it, low and crackling. Sirius didnât know much about radios, but he hadnât managed to discover in the last year, with the help of Lily and the incessant pushing of buttons, how to slide a cassette in one and press play. He slipped a cassette in, bent his head down and listened.
It went like that for awhile. Every time the song would end, he would take the box out, place it back in, and press the button again until the melody rewound itself and began again. Sirius sipped his water, his knuckles ached, and the music played. The bar emptied out, the cars disappeared from the streets, and Sirius listened. It was comforting, to hear the same words, again and again, the same chords and the same tune, to know exactly what was coming next and when it would end. Sirius played the song again. Earl refilled his glass. Sirius kept his eyes down, but Earl stayed there, standing before him.
âListen, kid. Itâs almost midnight, and itâs a Thursday. You got to go home. Weâre closing in ten minutes.â
Earl looked at him helplessly, the corners of his mouth turned down. The song played.
âCan I call someone?â
Earl nodded and unhooked the phone from the wall, handing him the phone. Sirius stared at it. It was covered in buttons, and there was a wire that snaked from the bottom of it. Earl raised an eyebrow.
âDo you know how to use a telephone?â
Sirius nodded quickly and pulled the slip of paper from his jacket. 803-528-4765. There were numbers on the phone and numbers on the paper, so he punched them in, looking back at Earl. The phone buzzed in Siriusâ ear and he started. The bar was silent now that the music had stopped, and Sirius drummed his fingers on the wood, hoping for something, but he didnât know what.
Sirius tried to speak, but his throat was blocked up, and so he let out a choked sound, gripping the phone to his ear as tightly as he could.
âPadfoot, where are you? Whatâs going on?â
âHow- How far is it from Leicestershire to London?â
âBy car? Like two hours.â
âNo, wait, whatâs going on, Pads? Do you need me to come get you?â
Sirius tried to stay silent, but Remusâ voice was soft and filling up his ears. It sounded like Remus had just woken up like he had stumbled to the telephone, but it was urgent, too, and Sirius could see his face, scrunched up with worry, on the other side of the cord. His chest was filling up and when Sirius couldnât hold back the words anymore, he choked out yes.
The bar closed, the streets were cold, and Sirius sat on the curb, shivering. Wind whipped around the corners and cold seeped its way everywhere, even under his skin, but Sirius didnât really mind. He minded how exposed he was. Waiting alone, bruised and underdressed, visible for the world to see.
One hour and fifty minutes later, a beat-up pickup truck wound its way down the street. It had been repainted bright yellow, maybe in an attempt to make it look less sad or less old, but Sirius didnât particularly care about the sadness or oldness of it or about how he could hear its rumble all the way down the street. He had his eyes fixed on the person in it and the worried expression on their face, just as he had imagined it, and when the truck pulled up, he felt as though he might collapse. He managed to get to his feet, and the moment he did, Remus was in front of him. Real, actual, Remus. He smelled as he always did, lemony and like sleep, and Sirius let him shove a hat on his head, and gloves on his hands, and take his coat off and wind it around Siriusâ shoulders. Sirius let him look at his cheek, and he let out a breath of relief when Remus said nothing. Â
He let Remus drive him, in complete silence, through the night. He let Remus place his hand on his. He let Remus walk him to the Potterâs door.
It was four a.m. when they stood on the Potterâs porch on Christmas Eve. The sun hadnât come up, and it wouldnât for awhile, but Sirius kept his eyes on the horizon anyway, looking out for a sign of light. Remus leaned forward and pressed his lips firmly against Siriusâ forehead.
He muttered into his hair, âAre you okay?â
âI just donât want to really talk about it right now.â
Remus nodded and gave him a long sad look, and before Sirius knew it, the yellow car was driving away, still so bright, into the edges of the landscape. Sirius waited, wrapped up in Remusâ coat, on the Potterâs doorstep until the sun came. It wasnât the first time, and it wouldnât be the last, but when James swung open the door, Sirius didnât much care.
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