Sirius Black

TM #312

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 13:53:35 GMT

#6: How did you lose your virginity?

As a sixteen year old with his own apartment and a motorcycle, what can I say? I was the wild child at school. Firewhiskey. Pranks verging on attempted murder. You name it, my friends and I did it. Sure we'd all take girls to some remote corner where we wouldn't get found - the old Divination tower was my favorite because no one ever looked up there. Even Peter did that - once - before McGonagall caught him and Irene Wimple in the janitor's cupboard. Going all the way, though, that never crossed my mind until it actually happened.

Her name was Maia, and there was a passing fancy there on my part but nothing serious. She was pretty enough and fairly bright, but demanding as hell. I learned that the hard way. We went up to the Astronomy tower because she insisted the Divination tower was too claustrophobic, and well, you don't need the details. All that tripe about it being magical? Not on your life. I felt like one of those bugs the female dismembers afterwards. It couldn't have been over soon enough. She thought it was great, though, and let’s not get into the great lengths I had to go to to squash those rumors.

TM #308

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 13:43:13 GMT

Fireworks.
---

Someone tried to escape once. They failed, of course. They always failed.

Sirius shuffled down the corridor, alone with his own miserable thoughts, when a thin, high-pitched siren began to wail. One moment he was in the center of the corridor, the guards giving him a bit of space; the next, those hideous, black-cloaked dementors swooped down on him and pinned him to the wall with terrifying speed and ferocity. Crouching on hands and knees, hands clasped over his head, he cowered in silent horror at the thought that he'd somehow provoked them into sucking out his soul.

Only then did he hear the siren. They were hunting someone else.

The dementors hovered protectively above him, their black robes blocking everything from sight as they pressed him closer to the wall. He didn't move. Ever sense suddenly sharp as he listened. Running feet echoed from a corridor somewhere nearby. A shout. The rustle of fabric and scuffling feet. A scream. Silence. It was over.

The momentary excitement was over. His guards slowly fanned out again, the closest gesturing for him to get to his feet with a rotten, skeletal hand. Warily, he obeyed. They hovered closer than they had before, the thrill of the hunt and disappointment at having missed out heightening their predatory desires. Head down, his heart still racing in terror, he continued his monotonous shuffle back to his cell.

TM #304

Sat, 17 Oct 2009 01:13:53 GMT

What are you hiding from?
---

“She’s going to kill me, Moony!” Sirius gasped as he burst through the dormitory door, slamming it open hard enough that the wood along the hinges cracked.

Remus looked up from the book he was quietly reading, resignation written on his face. “Who’s going to kill you?”

“McGonagall,” Sirius replied, trying to squeeze himself under his four poster bed, and having trouble fitting himself in amongst all the junk.

“I can hardly imagine her wanting to kill you, Padfoot” Remus said, laying on his friend’s bed and peering underneath it to gauge his progress. “What did you do this time?”

Sirius wedged uncomfortably near the headboard stared back with his patented Who? Me? look.

The mattress squeaked as Remus rolled upright again and fished a very long piece of parchment out of the cabinet that separated their beds. “Or would you like me to enumerate the times you’ve said you didn’t do it and what you later confessed to doing?”

“You’re keeping a list?” Sirius’ surprised voice came from under the bed.

His friend ignored him, reading from the parchment. “Like that time you put dungbombs in the prefects’ bathroom. Or the fireworks in Snape’s cauldron…”

“A niffler in McGonagall’s office?” he ventured.

“I believe you blamed Frank Longbottom for that,” returned Remus.

Sirius was quite for a moment before asking slowly, “What about three dozen nifflers in McGonagall’s office?”

That was impressive even by Marauders standards. He heard Remus inhaled softly before his face appeared at the other end of the bed. “Do I even want to know where you got three dozen nifflers?”

“I dunno,” he stated vehemently. “You’ll have to ask Prongs. He’s the one who put them in there.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. He blamed it on you?”

“How’m I supposed to know?” Sirius retorted. “But I solemnly swear I had nothing to do with it this time.” He would have continued, but the unmistakable click of bootheels began ascending the flagstone steps.

“You owe me,” his friend muttered. The mattress squeaked again as Remus darted for his own bed. He’d just settled himself down when there was a sharp knock on the door.

Sirius watched in horror as a pair of conservative, low-heeled boots strode brickly into the center of the room. Even from his point-of-view, it was obvious she wasn’t happy. “Mr. Lupin,” she said briskly. “I was hoping I might find Mr. Black in here.”

“Sorry, Professor,” Remus muttered, “I haven’t seen him since breakfast. He said something about Quidditch and girls.”

“I see.” She mused a moment before becoming business-like again. “Well, if you see him, please let him know that I would like a word.”

“Yes, Professor. I’ll do that.”

Sirius waited, holding his breath and listening to the heels retreat down the dormitory steps. Only after they’d faded into silence, did he start extricating himself from under his bed. “I owe you big time, Moony,” he gasped, getting to his feet and dusting off his robes.

“As usual,” Remus sighed, eyes fixed once again to the book. “Just don’t let McGonagall know I had anything to do with it. Or I’ll tell everyone you still sleep with a stuffed dog.”

TM #301

Fri, 02 Oct 2009 02:05:11 GMT

Wake Up
---

It was one of those dreams you hung onto as long as you could. A warm breeze gently ruffled Padfoot's fur as the early-morning sun slowly baked away the years of mildew, warming him to his skin and making his paws curl with pleasure. He was inifitely comfortable, curled in a soft bed of long, fresh grass. He sighed contentedly, hoping he could keep laying there, but feeling consciousness slowly returning.

Something danced lightly across his face. He jerked into wakefulness, skittering backward, limbs flailing with ingrained terror. For an instant, his eyes snapped open and the nightmare flooded back. He was back on the cold stone floor of his bare cell, back pressed to the clammy wall; the only light a thin shaft of lighter grey streaming in through the narrow slit of a window high in the wall.

He scowled. The nightmare was wrong. It didn't smell right for one thing. Padfoot wrinkled his nose and snorted. The air was too clean, containing none of the damp, death, and decay that permeated every crevass of the prison. For another, it felt wrong. His eyes told him there were cold, slimy bricks underfoot, but his paws sank at least an inch into something too soft to be stone. As he stared, the light from the window got brighter and more golden, the slimy vision fading away to be replaced by the dream. Barred window and walls became warm, early-morning sun filtering through the scruffy evergreen trees. Mildewed stones underfoot became a thick tangle of matted grass, and he remembered.

He remembered swimming, every immense wave of icy water threatening to drag him down. After what seemed like eternity, the waves slammed him into the rocky beach so hard that stars swam before his eyes. It hurt, but he wanted to stay there, feeling the waves and the rocky sand. But they'd be looking for him by sunrise. Heaving himself to his paws and shaking the water from his bedraggled coat, he ran. The soft ground felt strange under his paws after years of nothing but cobblestones. He ran until long after his paws ached and his lungs screamed; it wouldn't be worth a damn if they caught him.

Padfoot shook himself, shifting back into Sirius, who yawned hugely before collapsing back into the soft pile of grass that had been his bed. A rock jabbed him painfully in the spine but he ignored it. He was finally free and that's what mattered.

TM #298

Wed, 02 Sep 2009 20:15:37 GMT

What's that smell?
---

"Good God, Padfoot! What's that smell?" The three boys reeled away from the smell that wafted through the dormitory doorway. It smelled as if someone had smashed an entire bottle of cheep cologne, and the effect was dizzying. James coughed, waving his hand in front of his face, and felt his eyes start to water.

Sirius looked up from the mirror where he was yanking a comb through a particularly stubborn knot of hair. "Like it?"

"It's hideous!" James gasped, his eyes streaming as he ventured into the room. Remus and Peter followed, shirts held over their noses like gasmasks. "Smells like you were rolling in ogre dung."

"That's just because you don't know good taste," the dark-haired boy returned smugly. "I bought it in London. It's French." He gave the unruly knot a last tug and yanked out a clump of hair, which he casually removed from the comb before returning to his reflection in mirror.

Peter wrenched open the window and thrust his upper body so far out a good shove might have sent him completely through. "You spent money to smell like that? The kitchen garbage smells better."

"You're a guy. You wouldn't understand." He carefully picked a blue sweater from the pile of dirty laundry overflowing the steamer trunk at the end of his bed. He sniffed it, frowned, and pitched it back into the pile. Grabbing a grey sweater from the same pile, he sniffed it, shrugged, and pulled it over his head. "Girls love this stuff."

With his pillow pressed over his face as he lay on his bed, James looked as if he was trying to smother himself. "That explains it," he mumbled through the fabric. "They never make sense."

"This your big date with Mel?" asked Remus. He lay on his bed looking green and feeling nausious, but only partially because of the smell.

"Yep," Sirius replied with a devilish grin as he headed for the doorway. "Don't wait up."

TM #293

Tue, 18 Aug 2009 13:43:38 GMT

Talk about a news item.
---

Sirius stared down at the picture he'd carefully torn from the front page of The Daily Prophet. Nine people waved cheerfully back at him from in front of an Egyptian pyramid. The Weasley family had certainly grown since he'd last seen them. Although that was interesting in its own right, it wasn't what held his fascination. Sitting on the shoulder of the youngest Weasley boy was an ordinary gray rat like the dozens who shared his cell.

He stared fanatically at the little animal, watching as it sniffed the air, stuck its nose in the boy's ear, and tried to scrabble up his head, pulling his tousled hair as he went. Another image, one from his memory, superimposed itself onto the picture. Three boys sitting on a long couch, laughing hysterically as a fat gray rat shoved its cold, whiskered nose into one of their ears. The boy laughed harder and doubled-over.

The memory vanished just as quickly as it appeared, dissolving into the newspaper photo again. Sirius batted idly at his ear, still feeling the tickling whiskers, as he gazed with utter loathing at the rat he knew all too well.

Peter Pettigrew was at Hogwarts. The evil little rat who'd betrayed their best friends to a murderer and who'd killed a dozen Muggles to frame Sirius and condemn him to life in hell, he was alive. Sirius would stake his life that he wasn't at Hogwarts because he'd seen the error of his ways.

"Hogwarts," he muttered to the darkness. "He's at Hogwarts."

TM #289

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 01:30:23 GMT

Cheer someone up.
---

Sirius wasn't a nurturing person by nature. It wasn't that he didn't like kids; he simply felt they were best when observed from a distance. It was a wonder, then, that his cousin Andromeda had seen fit to leave him with her year-old daughter for the evening. He decided early on that it was revenge for something he wasn't sure he'd even done yet.

Overall, Dora wasn't a bad kid; his tiny flat just wasn't conducive to entertaining children, and everything the small girl seemed interested in was probably hazardous to her health. He sighed as he wrestled a bottled thunderstorm she'd pulled out of a cupboard away from her. She made one a final grab for the glass vial, accidentally putting a little magic behind the determined tug. The vial slipped from his grasp and shattered across the wooden floor.

The girl erupted into furious giggles, clapping her hands as the storm clouds darkened and spread across the ceiling, lightning flickering in their depths. Cursing under his breath, Sirius scooped her into his arms and escorted her from the room just as the first drops of rain began to fall. Setting her carefully in the living room, he returned to clear up the glass while the storm raged.

Soaking wet and bleeding from a cut on his hand, Sirius returned to the living room to find Dora pulling herself up onto the fireplace hearth, reaching for the fire. He was about to shout at her when she wobbled unsteadily on her feet and toppled to the floor where she immediately burst into loud sobs. Sighing, he sat on the floor and pulled the crying girl into his lap, parting her hair to make sure she hadn't banged her head harder than he thought. The sobs gave was to giggles as she swatted at the loose strands of his hair that dangled over her.

A brilliant idea hit his just as she grabbed a large piece of hair and pulled ferociously. He yelped. An instant later, Sirius had vanished, replaced by a large black dog. The last of Dora's sobs brightened into more giggles as Padfoot flopped onto the rug next to her and disappeared completely when he drooled a slobbery kiss across her face. The enormous dog sighed contentedly, listening to the thunderstorm still raging in the kitchen and feeling his fur slowly drying even as Dora happily ran her chubby child's fingers through it.

TM #287

Sun, 14 Jun 2009 11:43:04 GMT

Prison
---

The conversations had always been the same: "What happens if we get caught?" Peter asks, twitching nervously. "Worst case?" Sirius retorts, "They chuck us into Azkaban." Peter flinches at the name of the most-infamous prison of the wizarding world. "So we just don't get caught," James adds sensibly before Peter can back out of the idea.

They'd always joked that Sirius would end up in Azkaban eventually. Of the four friends he was always the one living on the edge, the one who loved the high of teetering on the brink. It was only a matter of time before one of his daredevil stunts got him in trouble. "But you know what they say," James always said after making such an accusation, "A true friend will be in the cell with you saying That was great. Let's do it again."

If there could be a worst part to being locked in a small, damp cage guarded by faceless creatures capable of literally sucking out your soul, that was it. At first he'd tried counting the days, scratching a little mark into the stone at the base of the wall, but after a while they'd all started running together. After a month he stopped trying to remember. No one was having a laugh letting him stew in there. It wasn't a matter of time until they bailed him out. He was totally alone with nothing but the voices in his head and the bland memories of dead friends.

Writer's Muses: 89.4

Tue, 19 May 2009 00:00:51 GMT

We all have moments where we wish we were someone other than who we are. Write a fic where your muse takes this to the next level. Whether for fun or out of necessity, you've taken on a whole new look, identity, or personality, now, show us what happens.
---

Padfoot inhaled the strange scents around him and sneezed, loudly, three times in quick succession. The velvet hanging that tickled his nose smelled of house elf, mud, and ink with just a hint of mothballs. The faint smells coming from the other side of the hanging were much more interesting.

The bear-sized black dog heaved himself heavily to his feet, massive paws sinking several inches into the bed's soft mattress, and carefully nudged the hangings aside with his muzzle. The circular room was devoid of the humans whose smells permeated everything. A large wood-fired stove smelling of burned wood, ash, and smoke stood at the center. His thick coat trapped the heat, and he kept his distance.

The other objects in the room were more interesting anyway. Three other beds, four desks, and four large traveling trunks, each containing its own distinctive smell. The one next to the first smelled of rain, wood-polish, ozone, and what was supposed to be a fruity shampoo. Next came the sweet-smelling one, sugar in all forms - Padfoot found a half-open box of Every Flavor Beans under the pillow - nearly masking the smell of nervousness.

Padfoot stepped up to the last bed in the room and felt his hackles raise. This one was different. The smell of the human boy was still there, but it was nearly overwhelmed by the smell of wild dog, of wolf. He stuck his nose into the hangings and snuffled. Scents of wolf, blood, and mold pervaded the velvet.

Behind him, a door slammed and he heard three sets of feet pounding up the stairs, coming closer, could feel the vibrations in his feet. He snorted, trying to clear the smell, before retreating back behind the hangings of Sirius' bed. It wouldn't do to be seen exploring the human's friends.

A second later, the dormitory door banged open and three boys came in, chattering happily. Padfoot smelled them through the hangings, matched each with his own scent. It was strange to experience the world through smells when Sirius knew everything by sight. Laying his head on his paws, he let the different senses come to him. Smell was definitely better, if four teenage boys could be considered better. Sight, although the colors were washed out to nearly black and white, was about the same. And hearing appeared better too.

"Has anyone seen Sirius?" asked a voice Padfoot recognized as James.

Footsteps approached, and Padfoot smelled the wolf, fainter now but still distinctive. "Sirius?" asked Remus, "You okay, mate?" A pause and the footsteps retreated. "I don't know; he said he'd meet us here."

"Is he even in there?" asked the last voice, high-pitched and timid. "Sirius?" called Peter.

Padfoot couldn't resist the opportunity. With a deep bark, he lunged forward, bursting through the hangings and nearly landing on top of Peter. The boy screamed and fell backwards, landing on his fat backside and scuttling away. Padfoot let him go and settled onto his haunches, tail wagging, mouth open, and tongue lolling in a silent laugh.

James and Remus had frozen where they stood and drawn their wands. Both wore identical stares of horror and uncertainty.

Padfoot snorted in disdain - no one had gotten the joke - and retreated back to the soft bed.

"It worked!" Sirius' voice, sounding bored, announced a moment later from behind the curtains.

"Sirius?" Remus twitched the curtains open. His friend lay back, arms comfortably behind his head, as if nothing had happened. There was no sign of the dog. "What - " he stopped himself and shook his head. "I don't want to know. Do I?"

James rushed over and pulled back the other side of the hangings. "It really worked?" He raised an eyebrow skeptically as if wondering if Sirius was just hiding the dog under his bed as some elaborate joke.

Sirius grinned. "It worked."

Just Prompts: 5/15-5/29: Broken

Sun, 17 May 2009 17:49:31 GMT

He laughed.

A crater where the street had been. Dust and dirt hanging in the air like a thick fog. Body parts strewn haphazardly like dismembered rag dolls. Rubble fluttering gently down around him. Muggles screaming. Sirens wailing in the distance.

He was senseless to it all. For him, there was nothing except the small pile of blood-soaked robes heaped at his feet - all that was left of Peter Pettigrew. Little Peter, the idiot who played them all. Peter, the only one who could prove his innocence and who was now gone.

Even at school, Peter had been the stupid one. It had been a miracle they'd survived seven years of living in the same room with him, with all the little fires, minor explosions, and accidents he'd been prone to. He'd only passed because of them - because of himself, and Remus, and James.

Now James was dead and Sirius would be found guilty of their murder. Because Peter had fooled them all. Peter had been the spy. He'd been the one passing information to Voldemort. They'd underestimated him, taken him for granted, and treated him as the idiot he pretended to be.

He didn't notice the arrival of the Aurors and the Hit Wizards from Magical Law Enforcement or even Cornelius Fudge, Junior Minister for Magical Catastrophes. There was nothing to notice anymore. No case could be made for him and against Peter. There was nothing to do but laugh.

And he laughed.

Writer's Muses: 88.7: Dripping

Sat, 16 May 2009 01:50:28 GMT

He crawled through the secret door to Griffindor's Common Room and flopped unceremoniously onto one of the wingbacked chairs that stood in front of the fire roaring in the hearth.

"Sirius! You're soaking wet!" complained the red-headed girl seated in the other chair as the trailing end of his sleeve dripped a steady stream of icy water onto one one of the enormous leather-bound books she'd left lying open on the floor.

"Yep," he replied casually, staring into the fire and willing its heat into his bones. In truth, he was freezing. His robes and clothing were soaked through to his skin, and the water running off his hair trickled down his neck and gave him the chills. He hadn't bothered to look in a mirror, but he was sure he looked like he'd been for a swim in the lake - which just happened to be a lot colder than it looked.

The girl sighed and rolled her eyes, pulling the book out of harm's way. "You're dripping all over my book."

"Sorry, Evans, couldn't be helped," added a voice from the doorway. A moment later, three more boys - dry and warm, Sirius noted with disgust - appeared and crowded around the hearth. "Did you get it?" asked the bespectacled one who'd spoken earlier.

Sirius fished in a pocket of his robe and pulled out what looked like a handful of muddy stones. "You honestly doubted me, Prongs," he replied, feigning hurt.

His eyes flashed behind his glasses. "Wicked... Come on; let's go." Just as quick as they'd entered, two of the boys headed for the spiral staircase which led to the boys' dormitories. Prongs waited a beat before prodding his friend in the back. "You coming, mate?"

Part of Sirius - the part that was freezing cold after his unplanned swim in the lake - wanted to sit by the fire until he was at least dry, but the other part wanted to get on with their plan. He glanced longingly from the warm flames to the doorway and back to the hearth. Finally, he gave in and grinned wickedly.

"Catch you later, Evans," he said as he heaved himself to his feet, splattering water over the book the girl had just finished wiping dry.

As he headed after his friends, he was acutely aware of the large, watery footprints left in his wake and the dark, wet spot where he'd sat on the chair. He almost pitied the sucker who sat there next.

TM #282

Wed, 13 May 2009 22:11:03 GMT

Cremation or burial? Talk about funeral arrangements.
---

The cell was six paces by eight, lit only by the sun or moon streaming through a barred window high up in the eastern wall. A small cot was bolted underneath it, and if he stood on tiptoe he could almost see the stars. There was an ocean out there somewhere, but the screams of the other prisoners drowned out the waves, and the salty air didn't permeate the oppressive stench that seemed to ooze from every stone and crack. A heavy guard walked him around the cell block once a week to stretch his legs, but it never worked the kinks completely out.

He never got letters and no one ever came to visit him. Sirius Black - the psychopathic murderer who had killed a dozen Muggles to murder one pathetic little wizard and who had turned his best friends over to their deaths at the hands of the most evil dark wizard who had ever lived. His parents had disowned him years ago, and his friends who weren't dead condemned him as a traitor. Even the Minister of Magic on his yearly tour didn't visit the high security cells. There was no one left to care about him.

He was dead - buried alive - and his body just hadn't caught up yet.

Just Prompts: 4/30-5/14: Songs

Wed, 13 May 2009 12:27:16 GMT

Enter Sandman - Metallica

Dreams of war, dreams of liars
Dreams of dragon's fire
And of things that will bite, yeah

Sleep with one eye open
Gripping your pillow tight
---

Curled on the cold, damp bricks in the darkest corner of his cell, Sirius tried to keep his eyes open. His ravaged mind and body demanded rest from the screams and muttered ramblings of the prisoners being slowly driven into madness. He knew he'd have to sleep sometime. Sooner or later his body would shut down and he would sleep. But if he closed his eyes, the nightmares came back.

They came in flashes, like the homemade movies the Muggles were so fond of. Mostly black and white images with no sound. People smiling and laughing, enjoying life. Red hair. People screaming. A flash of green light. Bodies without a mark on them, staring eyes cloudy in death. A crying man, cringing in a crowd of Muggles. The street exploding under them. More bodies. More screaming. Everything fading into insane laughter.

He was innocent, he reminded himself, repeating those three words over and over. He hadn't committed the atrocities they'd accused him of.

You're still the reason they're dead, said another voice, this the darker one full of doubt the Dementors forced upon him. You might not have spoken to Voldemort yourself or blown apart that street, but you gave them to the man who did. You're the one who signed their death warrant. You killed them.

Throwing his arms over his head as if warding off a blow, Sirius cowered deeper into the corner as the visions swam before his eyes. James, Lily, and baby Harry. More flashes of green light. A house destroyed. Fire. Screaming.

"No," he cried softly as he faded into a fitful sleep. Sometimes he wished he could become one of the silent ones; one of the forgotten prisoners that time had stripped bare until they were nothing but an empty shell. Then he wouldn't feel, see, or be anything. Maybe then he wouldn't remember them...