the days go by in a wash of tide above him and erode, bit by bit, his countenance. the bearing of his shoulders. the pride in his smirk and the metallic glint in his gray eyes. and even so, the smirk stays there, because if the blacks have one marketable trade it is pretense, and sirius is no excuse. he is a dog, a mongrel of the streets. he pulled against the golden chain and barked himself hoarse. sirius, named for the dog who followed his master. no. it will not be so. laughing loud, he is the bright, blazing pied piper of smoke and cigarettes, of jokes and jesters, of motorcycles roaring across the night sky. he signs his name on the wrinkled parchment with a flourish and an ink splatter because fuck you, i’m sirius black.