Chapter Text
You know the day destroys the night
Night divides the day
Tried to run, tried to hide
Break on through to the other side
Break on through to the other side
Break on through to the other side, yeah!
☆ Break on Through (To the Other Side), The Doors, 1967 ☆
The summer of 1971, Sirius Black was going to feel whole for the first time. He just didn’t know it yet—or maybe he never knew at all.
Like most of his grand revelations, it’d been discovered by accident; a fit of boredom, mostly. This summer, Sirius had taken to dramatically sulking in the back garden like some widowed Victorian novelist, partly because he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere else and it offered him just a pinch of freedom, which was enough for now.
He never cared much for the garden, and he wasn’t sure if his parents did either. To him, it was just another corner of their control, made to be orderly and presentable. And maybe that alone should have been enough to make Sirius hate it, but he couldn’t. Sirius and the garden shared something in common: they both rebelled against control. The plants and flowers had rooted themselves deep in the small square of land long before Sirius’ family had claimed it. They could own it, but it never truly belonged to them. It belonged to something bigger entirely.
Sirius was fairly certain the primroses had always been white, up until this summer, at least. White was fine by Walburga’s standards. It was neutral, unobtrusive. It didn’t clash with the dull stone walls, and it didn’t draw too much attention.
Because god forbid we let some colour into this place—no, that would be too much. Too loud, too alive, too distracting. Then we might actually be forced to feel something, Sirius thought bitterly.
But then, there it was: one shade of pale yellow amongst the white. Walburga made a big fuss, of course, which was at the very least, amusing for Sirius. She ordered Kreacher to dig up the entire bulb and to layer the rest with some kind of enchantment, but it was no use. The next day, another yellow bloom had appeared in a different spot as if to mock her—this time startlingly bright in colour. Each of her attempts to force them into obedience just led to more yellow blooms, as bold and brash as ever. Eventually, she gave up.
Sirius never understood why it mattered so much, they were just flowers, after all. He thought the yellow was quite pretty too. It paired well with the greenery. The bushes and bramble, knotted at their edges, tangled and stubborn—or the ivy, traveling unruly no matter how much or how often it was trimmed, curling into cracks in the stone. It was magic.
And Magic didn’t always come from wands or spells, you just had to know where to find it.
One afternoon, Sirius had been trailing his fingers along the cold stone and rough branches. He wasn’t looking for anything really. Just movement, a press beneath his fingertips. Something to remind him that he was in fact, alive.
And then, his hand slipped.
This time not against stone, but against wood.
He froze.
It was barely a shift, a subtle change in texture, the tiniest sliver hidden amongst the ivy. He could’ve missed it. He scrambled to uncover more of it, pushing past the ivy and branches. And then he saw it.
It was a door. Hidden and forgotten, but waiting. Waiting for him.
Sirius’ uncle Alphard had told him once that Grimmauld Place had belonged to muggles first. It was a handsome townhome close to the heart of the city, but there was nothing remarkable about it. Nothing, except for the fact that wizards decided it should belong to them instead. Sirius’ father had fortified it since, layering the home with every enchantment of security known to wizardkind. In a way, the fact that the servants entrance was forgotten—or perhaps ignored—was oddly fitting. Those types of blind spots only came with a certain kind of privilege.
Since that day, the passage between the muggle world and Sirius’ had become his refuge.
⋆⋆⋆
Tuesday, August 3rd, 1971
Sirius exhaled as the wood gave way with a quiet groan, his pulse still humming with reckless indulgence. He tumbled over the bush blocking the door, which was now permanently flattened because of him, and back into the garden, leaving the quiet alleyway behind. Ivy leaves stuck to his shirt and in his hair as he passed through. He picked them out, making a careful tred through the grass. Instinctively, he looked up to a specific window on the topmost floor. There, Regulus was waiting for him, always waiting, his figure silhouetted by the soft glow of the room behind him. Sirius smiled, waving up at him, and Regulus waved back. He always did. Neither of them ever discussed it; it was just their thing. It was comforting, knowing that Regulus would be there for him when he came back.
The second Regulus’ door clicked shut behind Sirius, a familiar voice cut through, sharp.
“You’re late.”
Sirius grinned wide and proud, the kind that feels contagious. “Miss me?”
A small smile pulled at the corners of Regulus’ lips, but he wrung his hands with worry.
“You have to be more careful, Sirius, Mum, she almost—"
“Relax, Reg,” Sirius interrupted, already digging through his pockets. “I had everything timed perfectly, alright?”
And he did, he always did. Still, Regulus let out an unimpressed grunt. But as Sirius pulled a thick wad of cash out of his pocket next and tossed it onto the bed beside Regulus, his eyes grew wide, and he stared down at it as if it might bite him. Sirius couldn’t tell if he was horrified or impressed, or both.
Regulus’ breath caught as he spoke, “Is that—"
“Muggle money,” Sirius said easily, while pulling a worn zippo out of his pocket next and absentmindedly flicking it on and off, the flame shimmering in the dim room.
“Oh my god,” Regulus recoiled slightly, glancing towards the door anxiously as if he expected their mother to storm in at any moment. Then he whispered it, like a dirty secret, “You stole muggle money?”
Sirius shuffled into the bed to sit next to him. “Mmm, wouldn’t call it stolen exactly.”
Sirius held his brother’s gaze then, no hint of amusement, just the truth laid bare, “The prick deserved it, Reg. Total creep, too.”
Regulus seemed satisfied with this answer. He hesitantly picked up the notes and flipped through them.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Dunno,” Sirius said, clicking the zippo to life again and studying the flame, rolling his thumb over the casing. “Cool though, right?”
In truth, he was pretty sure he knew exactly what he wanted to do with it.
“Yeah, cool.” Regulus handed the cash back to Sirius, who slipped it back into his pockets. Then, he looked up at Sirius with anticipation, desperate almost.
“Well,” he asked, “What else happened?”
Sirius smiled that big, stupid grin again, and Regulus couldn’t help but match it.
⋆⋆⋆
Earlier that day
Sirius had hopped on a double-decker bus in Muggle London that morning. There were a lot of things he still didn’t know or understand about the muggle world, and he definitely stuck out despite his efforts to blend in. When out, he always wore a plain shirt, a black pair of slacks, and an old pair of trainers, which were definitely too small for his feet now. It was the best he had for ‘muggle casual.’ He had spent the past few days prowling around the city like a stray dog, picking up a few things along the way—speech, mannerisms, posture. Lots of interesting swear words. He was itching for more.
For some reason, every time one of those bright red buses would roll past, he’d feel that restless pull. Sirius wanted to step into rhythm with it, to be carried along with the city’s tide instead of paddling at its edges as he had been.
Surprisingly, it hadn’t been hard at all to sneak through and avoid paying the fare, though Sirius wasn’t sure the driver would have noticed either way. He was already occupied, currently in an argument with an old and rather plump, red-faced bloke blocking the aisle.
The driver tapped his fingers impatiently against the wheel, throwing a flat glare at the older man.
“A bob for the bus? Yer ‘avin’ a laugh, son!” the man huffed, “Back inna day, a bob’d get ya a cuppa, the paper, an’ nuff’ left for the bus. New Pence? Load o’ cobblers, that is! No one knows what they're payin’ no more!”
The driver exhaled slowly and deliberately before shaking his head, “Look mate—5p or gerroff the damn bus. Ain’t got all day.”
Sirius didn’t hesitate. He took this as his cue and slipped past the bulk of the man and disappeared into the bus, unnoticed. Settling into his seat on the upper deck, he watched with quiet amusement as the man below deflated, muttering under his breath while digging in his pockets for the fare.
Cheers, ya old geezer, Sirius thought smugly.
The seat was stuffy, and the air was thick. A rough looking bloke in the rear was puffing away on his cigarette like it was his lifeline, filling the upper deck with gray coils of smoke. Sirius cracked the ventilation window, though it didn’t do much. Not that he cared, really. His attention was elsewhere. The bus rumbled to life, and Sirius watched through the small window as they passed through London. It was full of buildings, all loomed in tight clusters like crooked teeth. The city was alive and restless, filled with people caught up in their daily routines.
Sirius wondered if any of them were wizards, too. A small child tugged on the hem of her mother’s waistcoat, her stubby finger pointing to a sweets shop across the street. A trio of schoolboys tumbled past them on the pavement, caught in fits of laughter. A street vendor on the corner called out, “Times, fresh off the press! Get your paper here!” Overhead, a letterboard sign read—CINEMA, LAST SHOWINGS: SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY, FINAL SALE, 7PM.
Sirius’ favourite thing to do was people watch. His bedroom was at the front of the house overlooking the city, while Regulus’ faced the back garden. Sirius always thought his view was better. He’d spend hours watching the muggles move throughout their mundane and ordinary lives. He used to look at them and think I’m better than you. I’m Sirius Black. I’m magic.
It used to feel like power, but now it just felt like loneliness. Especially because Sirius could see them, but they couldn’t see him—like he was a ghost. He started to resent it almost; the fact that they were utterly oblivious and undeniably free. That they could be whoever they wanted. Sirius often wondered who he would be if he could choose—if he wasn’t the heir to the most ancient and noble House of Black. He certainly wouldn’t be a ghost. No, he was born to shine.
What use was it to be named after the brightest star if not to shine? He was born to be someone that you couldn’t help but look at.
Well, that’s what he told himself anyway. He’d remind himself that everyday until it had no other choice but to become true.
Sirius wasn’t in a rush—not that he really had any idea where he was going. He wasn’t worried about it. He figured he’d just get off the bus when it felt right. It was Tuesday, which meant that he had more time than usual. Walburga would be off at some stuffy luncheon with her sister(cousin)-in-laws. Orion was never a concern, he’d likely be locked in his study for half the day and Sirius didn’t think Orion cared much about him anyway. As long as he was back for dinner, no one would bat an eye.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been on exactly, but the ride was comforting. Sirius let himself sink into it, head leaning against the window, eyelids heavy. He hadn’t even realised he had dozed off. Not until the bus lurched over a rough patch in the asphalt, jolting him awake and upright.
Sirius rubbed the sleep from his eyes, bringing the world back into focus again as the bus rolled to a sudden stop. His breath hitched as the world outside sharpened into focus—filled with movement, sound, scent, colour. Distantly, market stalls lined the streets, filled with tables of fresh produce, clothes, and hot food. The scent of sizzling oil and spices wafted up through his window, making Sirius’ stomach grumble. There was a vast variety of faces. Sirius had never seen such a diverse group of people in one crowd before. A group of teenagers with heavy boots streaked past on decks, one of them attempting a trick on the side of the pavement. Then Sirius heard music. It was strange, a kind of melody he’d never heard before.
He spotted them just on the corner, two older men sat on a couple of milk cartons. Both with deep brown skin to match their battered leather coats. One had a saxophone, producing steady waves of sound. Regulus would’ve loved it. The other had a hand drum between his knees, batting away at it while he made ‘tch-tch-tch’ sounds with his mouth. A few people crowded around them, swaying to the melody. The men sang out, voices low and rough around the edges:
Al Capone gun’s don’t argue
Don’t call me Scarface
My name is Capone
C-A-P-O-N-E, Capone
Sirius knew that this was it. This was where he needed to be. His pulse thrummed, he was already lifting himself from his seat. He turned to the woman in the seat closest to him.
“Excuse me—uh, where are we?” his voice came, rough and urgent.
The woman barely glanced up from the book she was currently reading.
“Brixton,” she said flatly.
“Great—Yeah, thanks,” Sirius managed before he was already lunging himself down to the lower deck.
He heard the engine roar to life and the doors of the bus slam shut as he pushed past the other passengers, knocking into their shoulders.
“Oi—watch it, kid!” one of them complained, but Sirius hardly heard them.
When he made it to the front of the bus, the driver shook his head and tsked under his breath.
“Go on, then.” he muttered as he reached to release the doors, “‘Fore I change my mind.”
Sirius didn’t have to be told twice. He hopped off the steps, his trainers hitting the hard pavement. The bus pulled away from behind him. And then he saw it, a worn metal sign marking the stop, small bold letters stamped beneath—BRIXTON VILLAGE.
Sirius made his way towards the market, practically skipping, but was stopped short when something in a nearby shop window caught his eye. He pressed his nose to the glass. It was a pair of black leather boots staged on a platform. They looked like the ones the teenagers were wearing. Sirius could picture himself in them now. A small paper sign perched below them read: Dr. Martens, New Arrivals— £10.
Sirius wasn’t sure how much £10 was, but he knew it had to be more than the bus fare, and he didn’t even have that. Bugger. His fingers traced the glass longingly. The shop sign above read Barry’s Boots & Workwear. He stored that name in the back of his mind, just in case he’d ever be able to come back.
He tore himself from the window and pushed deeper into the market, weaving between stalls. He stopped at every stand he could. One lady selling clothes let him try on a flat cap and a wildly patterned scarf. Sirius thought it looked ridiculous, but the lady was gushing about how ‘darling’ he was so he posed anyway, smirking to his reflection in a nearby window.
He slowed as he passed a table racked with food. Trays stacked high with jerk pork, rice and peas, bammy, patties, some sweets called coconut drops—stuff he had never heard of. The vendor, a burly man with a yellow-stained apron caught the way Sirius lingered. He reached for one of the patties and held it out to Sirius with a small smile.
“Step up, son,” he winked, voice gruff. “First one’s on the house.”
Sirius accepted gratefully. The outside crust was crisp and flaky, and the inside was a warm spiced beef. He thanked the man and moved on, the taste lingering and the unexpected kindness settling somewhere deep in his chest.
He continued to wander aimlessly, eventually turning around a few corners, leaving the distant hums of music and life behind him. The air felt heavier wherever he was, the buildings slightly more battered, some covered with graffiti. Sirius spotted a corner shop. In front of the shop, a man leaned against the passenger side of a teal 1961 Morris Minor pickup, facing the road and puffing on a cigarette. Probably mid-forties, dark hair that was slicked back, a stained white vest with some kind of uniform shirt slung over his shoulder, and sunbleached jeans. Something about him didn’t sit right with Sirius, the way he looked out at the street like it owed him something.
Two girls, hardly older than Sirius, strolled past, fingers tangled loosely together and laughter spilling between them. But it was cut short like a dead radio line when the man spotted them.
“‘Ave a look at you two,” his voice was thick, slurred. “Bet you’re sweet, eh?” He winked then, tongue rolling over his lips, “Dark meat’s me favourite.”
The girls ignored him, their heads down and eyes pinned to the pavement. They tugged on each other tighter and began to walk faster, but he was too quick. He reached out and grabbed one of their wrists.
“Easy now, luv,” he smiled, all teeth—crooked and yellow, “No need to be rude, we’re jus talkin’.”
“Get off me!” the girl snapped, her voice low and rough, but steady, like she’d been through this before. Her friend pulled tight on her arm, trying to wrench her free.
Sirius was already running towards them without thinking. Older brother instinct, maybe. His voice struck hard and fast,
“Oi, let her go!”
The man didn’t flinch, amusement curling his lips. He loosened his grip on the girl ever so slightly, turning his attention to Sirius now. His eyes trailed over Sirius, studying him.
“What do we ‘ave ‘ere?” he snorted, “Pretty boy finks ‘e’s a hero.”
Sirius' jaw clenched. Through gritted teeth, he demanded, “Let. Her. Go.”
And—by some miracle—the man did. His fingers slipped off her wrist and the girl broke free, stumbling back with her friend and making a run for it, disappearing behind the street corner.
But the man wasn’t watching them, his gaze was fixated on Sirius. Dark and cold.
“Ain’t wise stickin’ yer beat where it don’t belong, boy,” his voice slithered between them now, edging closer with every breath. “No fancy name’s gonna save yer toff ‘ere.”
Then he moved—quick and deliberate. The man grabbed a fistful of Sirius’ shirt collar, pushing him back into the side of the truck. Sirius gasped, his heart racing, his body bracing for something he hadn’t prepared for. He was outmatched and defenseless. He was just a stupid kid.
“What’s the matter, eh?” the man sneered, taking a drag on his cigarette, “Cat got yer tongue?”
Sirius grunted, arms coming up as he tried to shuffle away when the man tsked his tongue in disapproval. They were so close now that Sirius could smell the stale smoke and cheap beer from his breath. The man threw his cigarette to the ground, flattening it with the press of his boot. He lifted a jackknife fast—like routine. Sirius wasn’t sure where it came from, he only knew it had been close, easy.
Sirius’ throat tightened, he could feel a tingling pressure building in his ribs, threatening to burst. Magic. He blinked hard, grinding his teeth, trying to calm his nerves before his body reacted in a way he’d regret. His magic was untamed. He couldn’t afford that here. If anything happened, he’d never get to Hogwarts. He certainly didn’t fancy a chat with the minister either, though Sirius didn’t know if he’d be more afraid of the minister or his father in that situation.
The blade slowly teased Sirius’ cheek, a steel whisper against his skin. Not enough to make a cut, but just enough to make his whole body shiver and then turn rigid.
A voice, a distant memory, echoed in Sirius’s head as he watched the blade trail his cheek.
One clean shot, Sirius—the fate of an entire existence at your hands, it said.
Sirius pushed the voice away. That’s when he saw it, amidst the fabric resting on the man’s shoulder. A nametag that read ‘Gil.’
“Gil, is it?” Sirius’ voice came strained, broken, “Are we done here?”
He wasn’t sure where the sudden confidence came from, but it seemed to work.
Gil let out a haughty laugh. “Done, ya fink? We’s just gettin’ started.” He narrowed his eyes, then shook his head, “Take that as yer warnin’, kid. You come back ‘ere and I’ll ‘ave yeh skinned proper, eh?”
He released his grip then making sure to give Sirius one last shove for good measure. Sirius stumbled back, his chest rising and falling as he let out a strained breath. He fell to his knees pathetically beside the truck, his head hung in his arms. Gil turned on his heel and pushed through the smudged glass door of the corner shop, the bell overhead giving a hollow jingle as it slammed behind him.
Sirius’ pulse was still hammering as he tried to even out his breathing. He reached up using the handle of the truck as leverage to bring himself up. The handle was stiff, the truck was locked.
But the window was cracked, just enough to stick your arm through. Practically begging for someone to break in.
Idiot.
Sirius took a moment to look around, peering over the edge of the pickup. The shop door was still closed, no Gil in sight. No one around at all.
Sirius didn’t know anything about the Muggle invention, let alone how to drive it. He found the whole idea to be quite confusing, honestly. So, he had no intention of stealing the thing and driving off with it, though he did briefly fantasise about it. He just wanted to look. And anyway, a little snooping never hurt anyone. So, fuck it.
In one fluid motion, he slipped his arm through the opening until the window was digging into his armpit. He fumbled with the lock before it finally released with a soft click. The door creaked as it swung open, and Sirius grimaced, cursing under his breath at the noise. The inside reeked of stale tobacco, sweat, and faintly of piss. Sirius wrinkled his nose.
His father once told him that you could learn a lot about a man from how he keeps his space. Sirius wasn’t sure he was learning much now. Gil’s space was exactly what you would have expected: a few empty beer bottles littering the passenger side floor, the ashtray overflowing, an empty pack of cigs tossed up on the dash. Disappointing how predictable it was,really.
Sirius’ eyes flickered to something shiny on the center console, a zippo. It was worn and scuffed, but its swirled engravings caught the light perfectly. Sirius pocketed it.
He leaned forward, the rough fabric of the seat itching his arm. He tugged open the glove compartment and his breath caught in his throat.
Inside, sitting right atop a rather crude magazine was a thick wad of cash, bound together by one elastic band. Muggle money.
Maybe there was more to the miserable sod after all.
Sirius just stared at it. Even he knew it was a bit odd. All of that money. Muggles have banks for this sort of thing, don’t they? He swore the world went silent for the briefest of moments. He reached forward, his fingers hovering over the stack. He didn’t think, just grabbed it. His fingers enclosing around their crumpled edges. Satisfied, he clicked the compartment shut and slowly backed away, being mindful of the door as he closed it shut.
And then he ran, not back the way he came—but forward, without looking back even once, pure adrenaline carrying him the whole way through. He felt good, better than good. He wasn’t ready for it to be over just yet.
It wasn’t until the faintest sound drifted towards him that he stopped. It was music, some kind of cheerful melody playing on loop. He followed the music, and it led him towards a park. There he saw it. Just around the corner was an ice cream van parked near the edge of the curb, its decals faded from years under the sun. A few kids were huddled around it, some already with ice cream cones in their hands, rings of chocolate around their lips.
Sirius, now remembering he was practically drowning in Muggle riches, dug into his pocket for the bills, pulling out a £20 note. Then he strode up to the window. Behind the counter stood a teenager, no older than seventeen, with fiery red hair and freckles peppering his face.
“What ken I getcha, kid?” the boy asked flatly.
Sirius scanned the menu plastered to the glass, then tapped his finger against a rainbow lolly. “One of these, the uh—Zzapp lolly.”
The teenager gave Sirius a distasteful look, but shrugged, reaching down into a cooler and slapping it down onto the counter. “That’ll be 3p.”
Sirius handed him the £20 note, and the teenager froze. He goggled at Sirius, then around the park like he thought it was some sort of test. “Uh mate, this is—“ He never finished, just shook his head and began fumbling in the drawer for change. He handed Sirius a fistful of coins and bills, then slid the lolly across the counter, still giving Sirius a weird look.
Sirius was simply unfazed. He gave the boy a stupid grin and pocketed the leftovers. He peeled the wrapper with his teeth, throwing it in the nearest bin. The lolly was multicoloured, bright and swirly. He bit a chunk off, and the immediate taste was sweet and sugary. But then it transformed into something else. Something smooth and caramelised.
Toffee.
It definitely wasn’t what he expected—bubblegum or some fruity flavor—but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was actually quite good. A pleasant surprise. He rolled the flavor over his tongue and before he knew it, it was finished. Sirius wandered towards the swings, his adrenaline lingering, begging for movement.
The metal chains clinked as he gripped them and sat down, kicking off the ground. He began to pick up the pace, his hair flowing behind him as he tipped his head back. For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting himself feel weightless. It could feel like this all the time, the voice in his head said, imagine that?
Eventually, Sirius abandoned the swings and took up a spot on the curb. He pulled the notes out of his pocket, absentmindedly flipping them through, over and over. When he got bored of that, he would pick up pebbles and toss them into a puddle in the road, hearing the soft plunk each time. When he finally decided it was time to head back, he made a mental note to try and avoid the street the corner shop was on.
Sirius felt like he was walking for ages. His fingers found the zippo still in his pocket, and he slipped it out as he walked, rolling it between his hands. Flicking it open and shut. Something about the gesture, about the constant motion, was comforting. Every so often, he’d flick the flame to life.
Sirius kept walking, his attention on the flame when he heard sharp voices in the distance. He looked up and found himself just a few steps away from that door. The same smudged glass door from before but this time, it was propped open. The corner shop. Somehow, his feet had aimlessly lead him back here. Like fate. Like unfinished business.
He froze.
Shit.
But Sirius didn’t turn around. He didn’t run. He was intrigued, and always a little too reckless for his own good. He lingered, peering around the door so that he was just out of sight, but could still see them.
Inside, Gil was leaned lazily against a wall behind the counter, a smug expression on his face that made Sirius’ skin crawl. At the other end of the counter, there was a boy. Sirius could only see the back of the boy’s head, but he couldn’t have been any older than Sirius’ age.
He was tan like bronzed honey with curly hair that was so dark brown it almost looked black, resting just below his ears. His trainers were scuffed and dirty, his denim shorts were faded and torn. He wore a white vest like Gil’s but much cleaner, and he was much skinnier. He had a yellow bandanna tied around his neck like a cowboy. It looked like it had roses on it, but Sirius couldn’t tell for sure. Banded bracelets lined his wrists. He had a few items up on the counter. It looked like food, drinks, some kind of medicine bottle. The boy’s voice was hurried, desperate.
“I told you I’d have it next week, Gil. You know my mum, she—"
“I don’t give a toss bout your mum. Said the same fink last week, runt.” Gil interrupted.
“I just need a bit more time, swear. S’all I got right now,” the boy answered, pushing some coins and a crumpled bill forward.
Gil snorted, then came that wicked grin again, all yellow crooked teeth.
“Ain’t got the dosh, ain’t got the goods, thems the rules.” Then Gil leaned forward so that they were nose to nose, voice low and thick, “Now I s’pect you find sum magic to pull my dosh out yer arse or we’re gonna ‘ave to do it my way.”
“Christ, Gil. I can smell the beer on you from here. If I were you, I’d worry less about your dosh and more about whatever’s rotting in your gut.” The boy said, no hint of fear.
Gil laughed, clutching his belly. “Got a proper gob on us tonight, ‘ave we? S’pose I wasn’t clear nuff.”
Then, he reached over the counter and grabbed the boy’s vest by the collar, stretching it out and jerking him forward. Just like he had with Sirius.
“Now, I said get my fuckin dosh ‘fore I skin ya and that poncy bruva of yers, yeah?”
The boy didn’t even flinch. He tilted his head up and snarled, “Fuck. Off.” And before Gil could react, a fat wad of spit came out of the boy’s mouth and hit Gil right between the eyes.
The boy broke free as Gil wiped the spit off. Gil tumbled forward, shouting obscenities at the boy as his arms flew frantically over the counter. The boy stumbled backwards, shoving the goods on the counter into a bag and making a run for it—not towards the door, Sirius noticed—but down the aisles.
Gil had hurled himself over the counter—which was quite impressive given his size—and reached out to grab the boy again. He managed to grab ahold of the back of his shirt, tearing it at the edges now, the fabric peeling like an orange.
Sirius tumbled into the shop, his heart racing. Without thinking, he grabbed a tin from off the nearest rack and lunged it at Gil. The tin smacked Gil right in the upper corner of his head with a horrible thud. Gil released the boy, now clutching his head, blood streaking down his temples. Sirius couldn’t believe he actually did that. His breath caught at the sight of the blood, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Luckily, it wasn’t enough to do any real damage. Still, Gil fell to his knees, yelling out in pain. Then he saw Sirius.
“You!” Gil hollered venomously. “Can’t get anuff’ eh? Like dog shit on the bottom of my fuckin shoe!” He shouted, spitting at the ground.
“What can I say, I’m sentimental,” Sirius said smugly, while grabbing a bag of crisps from the floor that the other boy had dropped. Then he made a run for the door.
“I’ll kill ya!” Gil shouted, “I’ll kill ya both!”
The other boy ran back from down the racks, knocking things over as he passed, his arms full of various different goods as he shoved them into his shopping bag.
“Go!” he yelled at Sirius as they tumbled out the door.
The second their shoes hit the pavement, the city swallowed them whole. Sirius wasn’t sure where they were headed, and he didn’t know if the other boy knew either. Pedestrians shuffled by, some yelling insults at them as they ran by and knocked into them, but to Sirius, their faces were just blurs now. They rounded a corner, and Sirius had run straight through a puddle, sending a spray of murky water up his trousers. He stumbled a bit, cursing as he did so, but pushed forward. He could feel a sharp sting in his lungs.
When they reached a narrow alleyway, they finally stopped. Both boys stumbled into the brick wall, gasping for breath. With quiet huffs, they let their backs drag down the wall until they hit the ground. The other boy set his bag down beside him. There were bins overflowing at the end of the alley, and the ground was littered with cigarette butts and broken glass.
Sirius turned slightly to face the boy and slowly he lifted his head too, meeting Sirius’ eyes. That’s when Sirius remembered he was still clutching the bag of crisps from earlier. Sirius nudged the boy with it, offering it out, and they both burst out into breathless laughter, then as the boy took it back.
It was the first time Sirius got to look at his face properly.
His smile was wide, lips curling at the corners. Even though he wasn’t smiling with his teeth, Sirius still caught the way one sharp canine peeked out from below his top lip—a snaggletooth. It suited him somehow. His eyebrows curved in an angular arch, giving his expression a sort of permanent sharpness even at rest. His eyes held a quiet intensity. They were dark brown and crinkled at the edges now.
The boy dug into his pockets and pulled out a mangled pack of cigarettes, which surprised Sirius. He had never seen someone so young smoking, but then again, today had been a lot for firsts. The boy took one out with his teeth and then held the pack out to Sirius, a silent invitation. Sirius took one without hesitation despite not having ever smoked in his life. It felt awkward between his fingers, but he tried to be casual about it. The other boy started digging in his pockets again.
“Shit,” he said, “Got a light?”
Sirius smirked because he did have a light, Gil’s light. He grabbed it and flicked it open. The boy leaned in, inhaling slowly as the ember flared to life. Sirius followed suit, trying to match his movements. He inhaled too quickly and too deeply and it burnt his throat like hell. His eyes watered as he tried to hold it in and play it off but it was no use, he was already hacking up loud coughs with the smoke. Sirius doubled over, pounding on his chest with his fist and getting the last of it out.
The boy started laughing again, not in a way that was judgemental, but in a way that was warm, easy.
“Christ, what’d you do, fucking eat the thing?”
“Piss off,” Sirius croaked, smiling back.
He took another drag, the right way this time. It burned his lungs, but it felt good. His nerves were slowly settling.
The boy watched Sirius with mild curiosity, studying him like a book.
“Don’t see many posh boys round ‘ere, you get lost on the way to Harrods?”
Sirius scoffed, flicking ash off his cigarette, “Didn’t realise I needed a pass.”
The boy smirked, but didn’t push further. Instead, he offered his hand.
“Paco, by the way.”
Sirius shook it, giving him a questionable look, “Paco?”
“Yeah, short for Francisco. But that’s my dad’s name and well—he’s a piece of shit, so just Paco, yeah?”
Sirius nodded. He didn’t see how ‘Francisco’ shortened to ‘Paco’ but decided it wasn’t worth pushing. He still had some dignity.
“Alright, Paco. I’m Sirius.”
Paco huffed a laugh, “You’re... serious? About what?”
Sirius sighed, “Me—I’m Sirius. Sirius Black,” Then he dragged it out, “S-I-R-I-U-S.”
Paco shook his head, grin widening. “And you thought Paco was weird?”
“Yeah, well, weird’s a relative term,” Sirius said, putting out the cigarette.
“Relative term,” Paco mocked, taking one last drag from his cigarette before putting it out too. Then he spoke again,
“Can’t believe you threw that tin at Gil. That was brilliant.”
“Don’t think Gil would agree, bloke seemed pretty serious about killing me back there.”
Paco waved him off, “Nah, don’t worry about him. Pisshead won’t remember a thing by tomorrow, trust me.”
Sirius shook his head, “Yeah, well, that’s the second time I’ve run into him today. Gotta be bad luck, or maybe it’s good luck I guess, considering I’m not dead yet.”
Paco smirked, “Yeah? Feelin' like a rebel now, posh boy?”
Sirius scuffed his trainers on the ground, then he held Paco’s gaze.
“Honestly,” Sirius said, pulling his knees closer to his chest, “Probably the most alive I’ve ever felt.”
And he meant it. He really did.
Paco visibly softened then, his grin replaced by a quiet understanding. A silent beat passed between them before Paco asked,
“You play footie?”
Then, he casually took off what was left of his ripped up vest—which wasn’t much—and bundled it into a ball beside him, now bare-chested. In the middle of the alley. Sirius couldn’t help but stare. He didn’t know why he felt shy all of the sudden, it’s not like he was the one with his shirt off.
“What?” Sirius asked, forgetting the question.
“Yknow, football?”
When Sirius didn’t respond, just kept looking confused Paco gasped.
“No me jodas—don’t tell me you’ve never heard of football, mate?”
Sirius shrugged. “Let me guess…it involves a ball. And your feet.”
He almost let the —wow, muggles aren’t very creative with their names, are they?—slip. Thankfully it didn’t.
Paco teased, “Congratulations. I think you’re ready for the big leagues.”
Sirius flipped him off.
“Anyway, me and my mates will be playing at the schoolyard tomorrow. Just round’ the block from here. No pressure—just a bit of fun. You should come.”
Sirius’ breath caught. Something warm filled his chest. His words stumbled out,
“Uh—yeah, alright. Cool.”
‘Cool.’ Idiot.
But before Paco could reply, a sharp whistle sliced through the air. Sirius jerked his head to the the end of the alley where a blue Raleigh Rodeo bike had rolled up, it’s back wheel rattling lazily, an array of playing cards taped to its spokes. Perched atop the bike, a boy with a massive afro and a wildly patterned shirt leaned forward, one foot on the pavement.
A slow smirk crept up Paco’s face—equal parts guilt and amusement, like he’d been caught doing something sneaky. He nodded up at the boy.
“Figures I’d find yuh arse dossing about in the cut,” his friend scoffed, “Where yuh been, P?”
“Been busy hiding from your gobshite arse,” Paco called back, “figured I’d get some peace.”
“Cheeky bastard.” The other boy grinned wide, all crooked teeth. Then he said, “Danny’s looking for yuh.”
Paco shook his head, “Alright, just hold on.” Then, he began to gather his things as he brought himself up.
As he straightened, he brought up his hand in a gesture to Sirius, two fingers crossed, “Buena suerte, amigo.”
And then, without waiting for a reply, he was already making his way to his friend. Paco swung himself onto the back of his friend’s bike, not on the seat—which was occupied— but on the frame. He steadied himself on the other boy’s shoulders. As the bike rattled off, Paco glanced back at Sirius one last time, winking. Then he shouted,
“Stockwell Road! Tomorrow! Twelve! Better see you there, posh boy!”
And just like that, he was gone. Sirius wanted to reach out and pull him back, to hold onto the day for just a moment longer. But, the bike continued to rattle away, the sound slipping like water through his fingers. Sirius couldn’t wait to tell Regulus everything. Well, maybe save the part where the corner shop bloke threatened his life—but that hardly mattered anymore. Sirius Black was untouchable.