What: Christmas and angry angst?
When: That's a great question. Very soon after Sirius's disappearance from Lily's journal.
Where: The Potter's
Sirius sat up on the couch midsentence and crushed the quill in his hand, not caring about the ink or the sting of the nib when it broke the skin of his palm.
"None of you know what the fuck you're talking about," he snarled, grabbing the journal and slinging it across the room. He managed just to avoid the mantel carefully decorated with candles and branches of holly and fir, and stormed through the kitchen to the back door, rattling the old knob a few times before wrenching the thing open and stumbling outside.
Sirius hadn't noticed James, hunched over his own journal, or his mum, or the startled expression on her kind face, or even the pot of spicy-smelling wassail she'd been tending to for the last half-hour or so -- he needed space, for the cold air to burn into his lungs and shock his brain back into working. He tramped across the yard to the foot of an ancient oak tree at the far end, and sat on one of the protruding roots, not caring that a particularly uncomfortable knot was digging into his tailbone or that the light dusting of that evening's snow was fast melting into his jeans.
All this Pureblood shit was getting to him. It was everywhere, now, in papers and on walls and everyone's minds, and the world was beginning to feel too small again. That he hadn't heard from Andy for days now didn't help either; he'd been expecting an owl, or a paper airplane, or bloody something, ever since he got here; but, not a word. Sirius hoped she was all right, and felt sick knowing it wasn't true.