Hiya! Next one-shot of the season!

This one's set just after Sirius escapes from Flitwick's office, and for some reason he's just round at Remus's house during his hideout.


The cry alerted Remus. "Sirius? Are you okay?" When there was no reply, he hurtled into the bathroom where the cry had come from.

He felt relaxed when he saw Sirius upright, no blood on the floor. "What's the matter?"

"Jesus Christ, Moony," Sirius whispered, looking into the mirror with trepidation. "I'm old!"

Remus swallowed a laugh. Of course. Sirius hadn't seen himself since he was twenty-one years old, practically still a child. It made every bit of sense that now, age thirty-three, he should find it strange to look at himself.

"Ugh!" Sirius said, prodding the mirror. "When did that happen? I'm ancient!"

"You're the same age as me," Remus pointed out. "How do you think that makes me feel?"

"Yeah, but you've always looked old," snapped Sirius, not taking his eyes off of his reflection. "I on the other hand..." He examined his cheeks. "Jeez, where did my face go?"

"So twelve years in Azkaban didn't cull your narcissism, I see," smiled Remus. Sirius turned to look at him.

"No, it stole my face," he snapped. "Fucking hell. I look like I'm a hundred and fifty."

"No, you look like your thirty-something, Sirius, don't exaggerate," snapped Remus.

Sirius glowered at him. "You haven't seen me for twelve years. Surely you're having the same reaction."

"Unfortunately, Sirius, I didn't examine your face quite as closely as you did. For one, yours was always pressed against a mirror."

"Does this mean I have to be all old and moral now?" Sirius questioned, ignoring Remus's previous comment. "I could be like that Muggle guy. Morgan Freeman or whatever."

"Nelson Mandela," corrected Remus with a smile. "Morgan Freeman's an actor."

"Yeah, whatever." Sirius turned back to the mirror with a groan. "And my hair. Look at it. It has no life. It's lost its mojo."

"I'm sure it'll get better," Remus assured him. "Do you think you should go to bed, Sirius? You look very tired."

"Stop mollycoddling me," snapped Sirius with a glare. "I'm a big boy now. I've done twelve years and now I'm... not twenty-one anymore."

"Well," Remus said, not unkindly, "next time it's your birthday, we'll have to make up for every one you've missed so far. We'll get completely and utterly smashed and talk about old times until we're both crying."

"I'll hold you to it."

Remus smiled. "Personally, I don't know what you're complaining about."

"What are you on about?"
"Twelve years in Azkaban and you still don't have a single grey hair," Remus said. "I'm really rather envious."

"And so you should be," Sirius grinned. "My hair is my most attributing feature. The strength is in the hair, and all that jazz."

Remus raised his eyebrows and folded his arms. "Vanity isn't an attractive quality."

"But Prongs and I pulled it off so well," Sirius said, clapping Remus on the back. "You're right," he said. "It may have been twelve years, but I am still damn fine." And he left an amused looking Remus in the bathroom to examine his greying hair.

Weak ending, I know.