FLASH FIRE [SIRIUS + REGULUS]
Most people knew what pushed them over the edge at any given moment. Most even knew what facilitated the thundering in one’s veins, the persistent urge to wend headlong into danger, no matter what face it wore… The woman at the bar, with her bottle-blonde hair and spiced rum smile. Or the man on the street corner, long legs clad in muggle jeans but cigarette smoke shaped like dragons. And Sirius, with the worst mask of all, stumbling down the middle of a blackened London street, too drunk to feel his face.
It was the fourth shot that did it, he thought hazily as he wove along. Or maybe when that goblin fella bought him a round. Either way, the Boozy Baron was a raucous place to be on a Friday night, particularly when one was bored, and maudlin, and so desperately lonely for Moony, Prongs – anyone, anyone at all – but none of them came, none of them cared, so here he was. Black almighty. Collapsing sideways into a muggle car to vomit into the gutter.
Passersby, depending on their own degree of inebriation, alternately cheered him on or quickened their pace. The world span around him. Sirius’ head lolled sideways against the car window. His stomach roiled; his mouth was bitter with Bulgarian gin. He groaned lowly, crushing hands into his eye sockets.
Masked figures arrived at the muggle park late in the evening, eye witnesses alleged, where upon finding a muggle family, drew their wands and fired…
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Sirius gasped at the tide of bile that rose in his throat. He choked once, bringing up acid. With numb fingers he retrieved his own wand, of sound mind enough not to drop it into the frankly disgusting puddle of puke nearly touching his Docs. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated, James’ voice floating through his mind, warm with a smile, Come on, Padfoot, you big baby – and immediately the minty feeling of a sobering charm washed over him. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, but the happy fuzziness of booze gave way to cold reality. And here he was, in muggle London on a Friday night, bloody freezing his balls off and sober-ish to stoke the flame in his belly.
‘Masked figures’. Fuck The Prophet. Say their names, make them real. Sirius grit his teeth and straightened, bones creaking like an old man. His head thumped in a distant way, like a hangover a couple of hours old, and his mouth was cotton wool. Swallowing dryly, Sirius surreptitiously vanished the vomit and hauled himself upright and away from the car. After a few moments, he slipped back onto the footpath and joined the stream of muggles as they headed into town proper.
Sirius ran a clammy hand over his face, wishing he were as good as Remus when it came to sobering charms. The bitter autumnal air whistled straight through his black jeans and leather jacket, making him swear under his breath and shove his hands into pockets. To the casual observer, he was another half-drunk, maybe headed home or to another gig, the scent of booze and smoke lingering in his wake.
Masked figures. Muggle family. A string of attacks…
The temptation to about-face to the Boozy Baron was great, as was the idea of apparating straight to Remus’ little flat and collapsing on his threadbare couch. Maybe even to Peter’s, which really only highlighted how desperate he felt. But each passing muggle stoked the tightness in his chest, the heat building beneath his skin. Look at them, he thought dazedly, so vulnerable.
“You’ve not got a clue,” Sirius said aloud. A couple going in the opposite direction looked at him in alarm. He tipped his head back and laughed.
Tightening the grip on his wand in his pocket, Sirius veered right and jogged across the road and down an alley. This close to the city center the music poured out of pubs and clubs and accompanied the steady swell of happy, drunken muggles, all yelling and laughing and stumbling along. King’s Cross was teeming with life – very public life. Sirius didn’t want to really articulate what he was thinking: that if he were one of them, this is where he’d be. Why strike the extremities when you could plunge into the heart?
The adrenaline drip increased; he welcomed it like an old lover, a gust of cool air after a sweaty, tangled sleepless night. Danger had an intimate taste to someone like him. Sirius was burning up.
Casting a notice me not charm, Sirius disappeared further into the crowd. The vestiges of gin threaded through his system, muted by the minty sobering spell. The effect was not unlike waking up after passing out, half-drunk and disorientated but strangely sharp-eyed, like he had to prove to himself this wasn’t about to be a colossal mistake, like he wasn’t too tipsy to take one of them on head-first. The cold air bit his lungs, made them ache. His hands trembled, as they did when he was coming down, and he couldn’t stop swallowing the taste of gin and sweat and mint.
The crowd thrummed about him, muggles diverting as if he were a stone in a river. Come on, Sirius urged, eyes peeling over the muggle nebula, to the places they would hide: shadowy corners, quiet alleyways, dark doorsteps.