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“Yeah, James, I know that’s what you said, and I said it was a stupid idea!”
Remus’ voice rises steadily as he gets further frustrated.
“I think you’re not listening!”
James shouts back.
It’s 10 pm and the 6th year Gryffindor boy’s dorm should be all sound asleep. Should be. Except, they aren’t. The four had been trying to plan their next prank, which quickly devolved into an argument between James and Remus.
Now, Sirius is used to this. The group argues all the time; they’re friends, but they’re also teenage boys. Egos happen.
Except the argument feels different this time, it affects Sirius differently this time, because it is different this time. Remus never yells. It’s stupid, he knows, having a trauma response triggered because someone spoke slightly above their usual volume in the same vicinity as him. But he can’t help it. Remus is yelling, that never happens, and Sirius is panicking.
Sirius turns onto his stomach and buries his head under his pillow, muffling the heated words. He flinches every time the fabric isn’t enough, every time the words get louder still.
As the tension picks up, so does Sirius’ breathing. Is hyperventilating under a pillow a good idea? No. Is he going to suffocate? Probably. But that’s a rational thought, and Sirius isn’t always exactly known for that at the best of times, and especially not right now.
It all comes to a head when the sound of shattering porcelain breaks through the yelling.
Sirius is used to that sound. A lot of valuable family heirlooms are ceramic or porcelain in the Noble House of Black, and a lot of those very valuable, very breakable family heirlooms had met their end at the hands of Sirius Black. That sound never meant anything good. That sound meant Walburga’s angry footsteps, and curses too terrible to name inflicted on bodies too young to have deserved them.
He doesn’t notice when the whole room falls silent.
He doesn’t notice how loud his sobs are.
Sirius flinches when a hand lands gently on his shoulder, attempting to get him to roll over and get the pillow off of his head. He fights it, not wanting to face reality.
Unfortunately, reality wins, in the way of Remus carefully lifting the pillow out of Sirius’ death grip and tapping his shoulder until he looks at him.
“Siri. Sirius, look at me.”
Remus isn’t yelling anymore.
Sirius opens his eyes, sitting up and looking at Remus. He sees James trying to catch his eye, but pays him no mind yet. He’s not going to save him. No one ever does.
“Sirius, look,” Remus says softly, pointing to the pile of porcelain shards on the floor. Before Sirius has the time to even think that he may be in trouble, Remus speaks again.
“It was just one of James’ little Quidditch figurines, he knocked it over by accident when he set his quill down on the nightstand too hard. No one’s breaking things because they’re mad on purpose, and no one’s in trouble. It’s an easy fix.”
Sirius stares at the floor for a second longer before nodding slowly with a hard swallow.
James picks up his wand from his nightstand, the action getting Sirius’ attention and making him turn to the other boy. He watches him point his wand at the fragments and mutters “repairo”, making the pieces turn back into the figurine and cleaning the floor at the same time.
“There,” he whispers, the guilt in his voice very clear. He then sets the wand down and places the figurine back on the table.
It’s only then that Sirius is able to let go of the breath he was holding.
For the first time, Sirius watched an accident get resolved the way they always should’ve been. No violence, no yelling, no pain. Just a mistake, ownership, and a fix.