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“Sirius?” James said, still hovering at the foot of the bed, broke the silence.
Sirius, drowning in blankets and a uniform shirt too big for his bony shoulders, stared at James. His hair was about five inches shorter now, sticking up in inky, black stalks atop his head, mussed from the pillow.
He looks like Regulus. Remus thought softly.
“Are you alright, mate?”
Sirius’s eyes darted between the three of them, fingers clenching around the blankets in his lap. “Mère?” The word was nothing more than a faint whisper.
Or
Remus is rubbish at Potions but, as Peter said, Sirius had it coming.
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