Black Roses

Chapter Four: The Obvious

I felt an immense appreciation when September was finally over, but literally (and absurdly) performed an entire ceremony, complete with a terribly sung mantra, African-like masquerade, and dancing flames around the lake in the wee hours of last night, praying insanely for the demented month of October to die out. My pleas could've possibly been fulfilled, too, if it weren't for that silly Giant Squid that hung around. And after a firewhisky or two (or twelve) I found a sincere amity with the squid, which I resolutely believed was a better shrink then my imbecilic friends.

Either it was, in fact, a better psychotherapist than the regulars, or I was incredibly drunk, and I prayed it be the latter. Though it probably wasn't and I was just going madly insane, in which case I'd really need a squid-psychiatrist. Perhaps Dr. Weeblebee isn't completely out of the question right now...

Anyhow, I awoke with a searing headache and a sudden distaste for calamari. It was blessedly a Sunday morning, and I'd actually planned on sleeping in until I was so beyond sore from sleep that I'd have to sleep off my exhaustion. Brilliant plan, really, but most of my brilliant plans tend to fail. Rather miserably, too.

Unfortunately, I felt much more than a mere alertness and couldn't possibly stay in bed because it felt as though I'd downed a quadruple-shot espresso and then showered in a tub of caffeine.

The only other people I knew would be up this preposterously early (nearly five in the morning) were Evans and Prongs, separate of course. Presently in my dorm were Susie Locke (and Robert Wheeler's snoring head popping out of the four-poster, if my eyes weren't fooling me), the twins (Ashley and Amanda) and myself, but no Evans. Psycho bitch was always off doing something "important" and "none of my business." James, on the other hand, was unhesitant and rather proud in informing me of his five o'clock duties, which were to plot against the system, said system being Snivellus. Though right now, he was probably off training for the first Quidditch match of the year--Gryffindor verses Hufflepuff, which was just later tonight.

I took a quick shower after reluctantly rising out of bed, and decided waking up Remus wasn't necessarily a bad idea. In an attempt to reach the boys' dorms inconspicuously, I managed to knock over Evans' 'HG' coffee mug, bump my arse on the door knob, and trip and fall face-first on Mrs. Norris, Filch's lousy cat. She shrieked terribly and bit my ankle after I kicked her. Stupid bitch--or not, considering she's not a dog.

It was when I found myself facing the entrance to the seventh year boys' dormitories that I realized I'd forgotten my wand. Swearing rather loudly, I wobbled the door knob with my hand in an attempt to open the cursed door (unsuccessfully). Then I got on my hands and knees and looked for a sign of movement through the minute crack between the door and floor, which was also unsuccessful.

So then I went to Plan C. "Remus," I whispered, "Remus, open the door. Remus," I continued, "Remus, please open the sodding door!"

And then the door was opened, not by Remus, but rather by Sirius--shirtless, groggy-eyed, unruly-haired, and yawning. "What are you doing here?" he said, not necessarily rudely, but rather more confusedly.

"Er--I need Remus," I replied. It wasn't as if I'd never seen him shirtless. Actually, I see him half naked more than clothed, but looking at him still amazed me. Every lean muscle and line looked incredible on his slightly tanned skin. He was just so masculine--so fresh--so Sirius. And even the little imperfections fitted nicely and rather extraordinarily on him. A lot of the time I thought his 'benefits' were better than Mark's, and that's really saying something.

"He's sleeping," said Sirius. "Why are you," he yawned while motioning for me to get in, "up so early?"

"Couldn't sleep much, I suppose," I said, opening my mouth wide in a yawn twin to his. I walked over to his bed and wrapped his warm, paw-print blanket around my body, "You?"

He joined me on the bed, and I could tell that he was only just on the threshold of consciousness (and sanity, I thought). His tanned skin erupted in gooseflesh the second my frigid fingers touched his wrist. I thought I saw him stiffen a bit, his shoulders shuddering slightly. "Some psychopathic wench was performing some ritual last night, chanting some ludicrous hymn, parading around in an African mask, and then she started talking to the squid," he said, about ninety-five percent asleep, "ridiculous, girls are today."

"Er--I totally agree," I said sheepishly. "Completely psycho."

It was then that he fell asleep, I was certain. His tightened body relaxed a bit, and, had I been fully awake, I would've most definitely found his desperate arms snake around me, his serene face muffled in the tangled, tousled raven-black mess that was my hair.

He must've woken before me, because when I woke up, I found myself alone in his bed, my hair just a bit more tidy and his covers tightly enveloping me. The shower, I heard, was running, and as soon as I made my way to the door, Sirius appeared, dripping wet and with a crimson and gold towel wrapped on the lower half of his body.

"You're leaving?" he said, a bit crestfallen. "Moony's probably going to wake up in a few minutes or so..."

"Yeah," I said, feeling something that I couldn't really make out - either arousal or discomfort. "But I figured I'd go get dressed or--er--something," I continued, watching as a bead of water fell from his chest down into the towel.

If I was a bloke, I would be so beyond hard right now.

He eyed me strangely--desperately, really. Quite pathetically. Completely Sirius-like.

"What's wrong with you?" I asked him, moving my hands away from the door knob and placing them demandingly on my hips. "Why've you been so ugh and unSiriuslike?" I said.

"UnSiriuslike, eh?" he said, loosening up a bit and grinning madly. "That's probably the most creative word of your language, what ever said psychotic language may be."

"Don't avoid the question," I warned seriously, though a creepy little mad grin was taking over my mouth. "Why've you been so dick-headed?" I asked, "Barely bothering to read my sodding note?"

He groaned. "You're going to think my answer is completely ridiculous," he began, and before I could say anything else, he shushed me and said he wasn't going to explain anything if I interrupted him. "It's really quite tough for me, you know," he said, "just knowing you and having to deal with you as a friend. And we've matured, all of us," he continued, and then paused for a bit while glaring at me after I snorted, "and it's become just about impossible for me to avoid taking notice of The Obvious."

"What in blooming hell is The Obvious?" I asked.

"That you're a sodding girl!" he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, which it actually was, now that I think about it. "You're a girl! And you look like a girl! With girl parts! And you act like a girl! You're just--you're a girl," he finished, attempting to attain just a bit of aplomb (unsuccessfully).

I coughed oddly before bursting into a seizure of mad giggles. "Sirius sodding Black," I began, unable to suppress my laughter and chiding him as if he was my son, "it's taken you seven years to discover that I'm a girl? And you're just now fretting over it?" I laughed, "You are, and pardon my French, quite possibly the most fucked up bloke I know."

He stared at me blankly, though a bit mock venomously, stuck his tongue out at me, and said, "You're an idiot, Liz. An idiot who needs a real good shag. Though you probably have a penis, anyway."

"It'd be bigger than yours, mate."

***

Over the past six years, we Gryffindors made sincere and promising improvements on our schoolwork because we developed an unbeatable system, one that I was certain even the so-call brilliant Ravenclaws had yet to think of, and that was really saying something, considering. All the seventh year Gryffindors had an area of study in which they succeeded tremendously. Potions for Evans, Herbology for Peter, Defense Against the Dark Arts for James, Charms for Remus, Transfiguration for Sirius, Astronomy for myself, and the other more important subjects spread equally around for the other students.

It was indeed sheer brilliance if I do say so myself. Each person would do the assigned homework for their given subject, and everyone would copy it, using an odd charm that Remus created to rearrange the words and make each document unique. It was the reason that most of us were passing, actually.

I was certain that McGonagall was the only one onto us, yet she didn't mind much because it was helping us all do fairly well in lessons and I believe that she secretly enjoyed the success of her Gryffindor students.

The entirety of the day was spent working tediously and quite dispassionately on schoolwork that we'd all waited until the very last day to do, because, well, we're all Just Cool Like That. Or not.

Later in the day, perhaps six o'clock or so Peter--dressed idiotically in yellow slacks, a heavy crimson sweater with a lion embroidered in the heart of it, and matching striped mittens, a scarf, and a hat--marched down the stairs playing some oddly horrific tune with his flute, and then introduced, and I quote, "The Noble Prince of Gryffindor, Sirius Black," who then announced that he, Sirius, was the commentator for tonight's game against Hufflepuff, which received a tremendous amount of applause, considering his Sirius-ness.

"Without further ado," Sirius began, "I bring to you the Gryffindor Quidditch team! Let's start out with our two extraordinary Beaters, twins Ashley and Amanda Hill!" he said, pausing until the crowd stopped cheering for the said Beaters who walked down the stairs, thin bodies fitting easily between the handrails. They waved and grinned and split so that each could stand alongside one of the two golden banisters.

"Now it's time to introduce our remarkable Keeper who's missed only two Quaffles against Hufflepuff all last year, give it up for Susie Locke!" he said, and waited yet again for the rowdy Gryffindor audience, myself included, to cheer and then hush down.

"Our Chasers are three quite lovely ladies who make it all happen: Michael Samson, Jimmy Bradshaw, and Ned Reeves!" he continued, laughing and seemingly unfazed as each of the three Chasers good-naturedly punched him.

"And now, ladies and more ladies," he said, receiving 'boo's and 'sod off, Black's from the male audience, "I'm pleased to introduce to you the brains behind the operation, the mother bear to the cubs, the Dumbledore to the professors, the loveliest lady of them all, Captain and Seeker, James Potter!" he finished, and the massive group of Gryffindors burst into applause and whistles, Evans included. Peter began to play his flute again, turning a shade red enough to match his sweater while jumping up and down for James.

***

"--Quaffle is passed effortlessly from Reeves to Samson, who sends the bloody red ball off to Bradshaw, who I hear has shagged quite a few--"

"Black! I'll hex you into next year if you won't use some manners!" McGonagall's voice boomed, and it was even worse for me than it was the rest of the enormous audience because I was seated in between Sirius and McGonagall.

"Sorry Professor," Sirius said, mock sheepishly grinning. "Back to the game, then. Samson's goal is blocked by Hufflepuff Keeper Arnold Clinton--Bradshaw catches the Quaffle and scores! Gryffindor, one hundred, forty points, Hufflepuff, zero! The Quaffle is passed from Judy Lennon to Johnny Macintosh and Ashley Hill of Gryffindor hits that Bludger so hard that it knocks the Quaffle out of Macintosh's hands! Go Ashley! Superb arse on that one, just as magnificent as her sister's--"

"SIRIUS BLACK!" roared McGonagall.

"My sincerest apologies, Professor," said Sirius earning him a deep scowl from McGonagall. "Reeves is hit by a Bludger from Maurice Ritchie! Ritchie, you sodding Canadian," said Sirius, standing up, "I'll hex you back to Calgary before you can bloomin' shag a British--"

"BLACK!"

"Sorry, sorry," said Sirius. "The Quaffle is in Eddie Chandler's possession, and the idiot is flying towards the goalposts like he can actually get past Susie Locke. Dream on, Chandler, and Robert Wheeler will eat your fat sodding arse for dinner if you touch her--sorry Professor--Amanda Hill, the other one with the fabulous arse--ow! That hurt, Professor!--hits a Bludger away from Samson, who catches the Quaf--is that the Snitch? Has James bloomin' Potter caught the Snitch?"

The crowd roared with whistles and applause, but began to hiss at Sirius after he said, "Just kidding. You lot are quite dense, aren't you? But wait--I'm sure of it--James Potter has spotted the Snitch! Tamara Ridgewood and James Potter are flying at top speed in hopes of catching it. Hufflepuff will win by only ten points if Ridgewood can do it, but Potter seems to be getting closer, and closer, and closer, and--THAT'S IT! JAMES POTTER HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR, TWO NINETY, HUFFLEPUFF, ZERO!" Sirius roared.

Everyone, Hufflepuffs and Slytherins excluded considering they were all just prigs anyway, began to jump and bellow and whistle in joy. 'Potter is our King' was choired loudly among the Gryffindors, who led the way back to the castle, holding James up like royalty. Sirius and I hugged madly and followed everyone else into the Gryffindor common room, where a huge celebration was taking place. Red and gold decorations were hung everywhere, and mini firecrackers were sounding off and lighting up.

The three Gryffindor Chasers passed out butterbeers to all the sixth years and below, and handed all the seventh years and Quidditch team members firewhiskys. The Gryffindors became a group of mad Irishmen after an hour or two, and after at least sixteen toasts, which ranged from a salute to James Potter, to Professor McGonagall, to the Nazis, to Mrs. Norris, to Muggles, to breasts (Sirius's toast, of course), to the Americans, and finally to Severus Snape, who Sirius announced was his long-lost brother, the common room appeared a morgue, unconscious bodies lying all around.

Which didn't seem like a problem at the time, but come the next morning, all hell would certainly break loose. And it bloody well did. I'd apparently kicked Sirius in the face while he tried to wake me up for lessons, after which he grabbed his eye, cursed me, and fell over James in an attempt to go up the stairs. James had rolled over and drooled on Evans, ("He's contaminated me, that beast!") who became so angry that she kicked James in the stones, and then kicked Sirius in said spot because he's "Associated with The Beast."

Then some idiot sixth year began vomiting.

It looks as if a visit to my psychotherapist isn't such a bad idea right now.

***

Bless The McGonagall, I thought, for being so bloody brilliant. She'd talked the other teachers into canceling classes for the day because the students might be, "A tad exhausted." She had the bunch of us [Gryffindors] sit in the common room while we were given the sternest of speeches, and coming from McGonagall, that was certainly saying something.

"Embarrassing, you lot are," she shouted, her voice suffused in a wicked venom, her lips pasty as parchment and thin as--er--something really very thin. "You put the Gryffindor House to shame, intoxicating first and second years, the ones who look up to you fools as mentors! How dare you treat your House name so dishonorably? How dare you make me appear a laughingstock among my coworkers?"

"Professor--"

"No! Ten points from Gryffindor!" she said, her Scottish accent sounding at a higher decibel.

A puzzled chatter spread across the crowd, all confused as to why only ten points were docked off. I know I certainly expected a few hundred or so.

"Ten points from each of you should do the trick," she said, "and if this should ever happen again, don't, not even for a second, begin to think that I'm ever going to let you lot off this easy again."

She marched out, her long, green cloak swishing swiftly behind her.

A terrible idiosyncrasy took over the group of students seated in the common room after McGonagall left--we actually managed to stay silent for a long bit rather than continuing with the same boisterousness that epitomized Gryffindor. I was shocked, really; completely surprised at how less callow we were becoming by the day. Brought a tear to my eye... or not.

"Well, we might as well go to lunch or something. I'm eventually going to starve my stones off," said Sirius, breaking the thunderous silence, and everyone followed because Sirius was, after all, the Noble Prince of Gryffindor. Whoever came up with that title must've been a real, big arse face. I daresay it was Sirius...

"Any of you seen Remus?" I asked, picking a carrot out of my steak and kidney pie. He'd been to neither the Quidditch game or off getting his Irish citizenship in the common room just hours earlier.

"He's been in bed, not feeling too good," answered James. "I daresay it's his 'post dude-rag syndrome.'"

"Is there such a thing?" asked Sirius, sounding quite curious.

"I'd imagine so. Women--" he eyed me with a smirk, "--and little girls--" he continued, landing him a perfectly well-aimed mushy mass of peas on the nose, which he wiped off accidentally onto pathetic Peter, who actually looked quite thrilled to be blessed with vegetables touched by James, "get 'post menstrual syndrome.' The do all kinds of funky feminine stuff. For example, they--"

"I'm eating!" said Sirius.

"You're demoralizing Peter's virgin ears!" I said.

James grinned and persisted to eat his meal, adding to it profuse amounts of salt and ruffling his hair unnecessarily, all the while taking subliminal glances at Evans.

The lads had been deep in discussion about Venture X, yet another 'brilliant hoax to bring Snivellus down.' Completely disinterested in their conversation, I tuned into my own world, one in which pink marshmallows feed themselves to me while I lay on a white sand beach with green water and with an idiot rubbing up my leg beneath the lunch table. Er--well, everything but the last bit.

I looked at the three dunderheads surrounding me - James would never do that. He's promised his everlasting love to Evans. Peter is Peter, 'nuff said, so that leaves--Sirius, who looks as nonchalant as always.

Two can play that game, I thought grinning, and my bare foot came out of my shoe, climbing slowly up his leg and temptingly inside his thigh and--whoa. His face turned scarlet--his eyes became saucers, and his Pride and Joy stiffened. Tremendously. And only about a centimeter from my foot. Then he excused himself, grabbed Peter, who was forced to walk in front of him, and marched out of the Great Hall, walking like a chicken on cocaine.

"Is he okay?" I asked, genuine concern in my voice.

"He's Sirius. I'm sure he'll recover," said a grinning James, and only moments later Peter reappeared. He informed us that Sirius was in the prefect bathroom taking a nice, frosty bath.

"Er..." was all that I managed to say, though James was now booming with laughter, and Peter's stupidity was as apparent as ever, for he kept shrugging his shoulders and asking James what was so funny.

"I sure hope that Sirius can make it to dinner," said James.

"Why?" I asked, "What's for dinner?"

"One of Sirius's favorites," he said, "calamari."

I shuddered and choked on a sweet potato. "I need to go."

"Where?" asked Peter, puzzled as ever.

"To the lake. I--er--have a friend to visit."