Ghost (But Not the Sexy Kind)
Sirius’s art studio is a mess of color and clay, half-finished sculptures scattered around like forgotten thoughts. The air smells like earth, and the soft hum of a record player spins something old, something bluesy. Sirius is hunched over a potter’s wheel, sleeves rolled up, hands slick with clay as he carefully shapes a new piece.
"I've been into ceramics lately," he says, not looking up. His voice is casual, but there’s a focus in the way he works, like he’s in conversation with the clay itself. "I’m thinking of making a whole dinnerware set. You know, for the domestic life I clearly lead." He smirks, molding the wet clay between his fingers. "What do you think? Should I go rustic, or lean into that pretentious modern art bullshit?"
James doesn’t answer.
Sirius frowns, glancing up briefly before going back to his work. "Oi, are you listening to me? Or are you just here to haunt the place?"
James blinks, suddenly aware of the weight in his chest, the way his fingers are gripping his knees like he’s bracing himself for something. "Sorry," he says, shaking his head. "I was just thinking."
Sirius stops the wheel, wiping his hands on a rag. He looks at James, really looks at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "You wanna talk about it?"
James breathes out slowly, running a hand through his already messy hair. He does. There’s so much he wants to say, but it’s all tangled in his head, threads he can’t quite unravel. He doesn't know where to begin.
So he decides to start with the flashes.
"You remember a couple weeks ago when I told you I was having those... weird flashbacks?"
Sirius nods, tossing the rag onto the table. "Yeah."
James swallows. "I've been having more."
Sirius straightens a little, interest sharpening. "More how?"
James exhales, glancing down at his hands. "Small, fleeting moments. Just... these snippets of something I can’t quite grasp." He pauses, then rubs a hand over his face. "The other day, I passed this fancy restaurant, one of those real expensive places. And I don’t know why, but when I looked inside, I remembered something." He frowns, trying to piece it together. "I was there, sitting at a table with someone. We were looking at the menu, and suddenly, his stomach growled."
Sirius raises an eyebrow. "Sexy."
James huffs a small laugh. "Shut up. It was... I don’t know, cute. I couldn’t see his face, but I asked him what he wanted to eat, and he just sighed and said he didn’t know what half of it meant." James shakes his head, a small, involuntary smile tugging at his lips. "And I laughed, because I didn’t either. So I told him we should forget the whole Valentine’s Day thing and just go to the Dragonfly instead."
Sirius tilts his head. "The Dragonfly, huh? You used to love that place."
"I know," James mutters. His fingers twitch, like they’re reaching for something that isn’t there. "It felt... right. Familiar. Like a habit, like something we did."
Sirius watches him carefully. "Anything else?"
James hesitates. His ears feel hot, but he forces himself to keep going. "I, uh... I also had a dream."
Sirius smirks. "Scandalous."
James gives him a look, but there’s no real heat behind it. "It was... intense," he starts, his voice low. "We were—" He clears his throat, visibly awkward. "—well, we were having sex. It was... passionate. Wild, but intense, all at the same time. The sounds he made... Oh Padfoot, you wouldn’t believe how good it felt. And when I woke up, it was like I could still feel it. Like a phantom touch, lingering on my skin. It was... Amazing."
Sirius doesn’t say anything.
James exhales, running his fingers through his hair again. "I know it sounds weird, because I don’t even know who he is. I don’t have any solid memories of him, just these fleeting moments. But... I miss him, Sirius. Like crazy." His voice drops, soft and hesitant. "It’s like he’s my missing piece. And I don’t even know who he is, but it feels like I’m longing for him."
James watches Sirius closely, noticing the way his expression shifts. There’s a hint of pity in his eyes, a look that doesn’t sit right with James. His stomach tightens, unease creeping in.
“Why do you look like that?” James asks, voice tight.
Sirius hesitates, the pity deepening in his gaze. James knows what that look means.
James exhales sharply, rubbing his face in frustration. “I don’t know for sure, but I think things ended badly with him.” He glances at Sirius, searching his face for any kind of reaction. “I tried talking to my parents. I just wanted to know who he was, what happened. I figured they'd know. But every time I asked, they dodged my questions." His voice grows quieter, more uncertain. “I think I screwed up somehow, but I don’t even know how. And yet... I feel awful about it. Because I know I lost him.” His throat tightens. “And I can’t even remember why.”
He stops, taking a deep breath. It feels like the weight of everything is pressing on his chest. “Remus won’t tell me anything. And Peter... Peter’s a traitor. He says he doesn’t remember anything about me and a man, like that whole part of my life never happened.”
James swallows, trying to keep the tremble from his voice. “I’m going crazy, Sirius. I’m going fucking crazy.”
The room falls into silence. James watches as Sirius looks at him, and for a second, James wonders if he’s ever seen his best friend look so torn. He can see the internal struggle on Sirius’s face.
A cold chill runs down James’s spine. He doesn’t know if it’s instinct or just pure desperation, but something shifts inside him, a deep, unsettling certainty settling in his chest. His heart pounds, the weight of the moment pressing heavy on him. And then, it hits him. There’s only one reason Sirius would look at him like that.
“You know who he is, don’t you?” James asks, voice barely a whisper, like the words themselves are fragile. He stares at Sirius, waiting for the truth to spill out. He can’t lie, not to James. Not about this.
Sirius's gaze flickers, then he he nods his head slowly. The movement is almost imperceptible, but James catches it. And that’s all it takes.
James feels the ground beneath him shift, a mix of excitement and confusion washing over him. “You do know!” he breathes. His pulse is racing now. For a moment, James feared that the man had never existed. That all those memories were just fragments of his imagination. But Sirius’s reaction makes it clear that the man is indeed real.
But then, the confusion settles in. Why wouldn’t Sirius just tell him? They’re best friends, for god’s sake. “Why didn't you tell me?” James demands, his voice cracking a little as he stands up, his chair scraping across the floor. He’s pacing now, his thoughts whirling, his heart pounding in his chest. “You’ve known about this man this whole time, and you didn’t say anything? Who is he?” His breath comes in quick, jagged bursts, his mind struggling to catch up.
Sirius doesn’t meet his gaze, his eyes fixed on the floor, his posture stiff. He shakes his head again, and the movement feels like it cuts through James like a knife.
"I... I can't tell you," Sirius says, the words heavy and reluctant. "James, I’m sorry. I can’t. I... I just can’t."
James's heart stutters, his mind unable to process the rush of emotions that flood him. He thought... He thought this would be the moment. The moment everything would make sense. But it doesn’t.
He can’t believe it.
“Why?” James asks, his voice strained, like it’s breaking under the weight of his own need for answers. “Why not? We’ve been through everything together, Sirius. You’re my best friend. You know this is real, don’t you? You know I’m not imagining it. So why the hell wouldn’t you just tell me?”
Sirius still silent, eyes flickering with pain, but still no answers.
James stares at Sirius, his pulse hammering in his ears. His chest feels tight, a raw ache blooming under his ribs. He swallows hard and asks again, voice steady despite the storm building inside him. “Who is he?”
Sirius doesn’t answer.
James’s jaw clenches, frustration flaring white-hot. “Sirius,” he snaps, louder this time, demanding. “Who is he?”
Still, nothing. Sirius just looks at him, lips pressed into a thin line, hands curling into fists at his sides.
James exhales sharply through his nose, his anger draining into something heavier, something that makes his hands shake as he drops back into his chair. He tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes burning. His throat tightens painfully, and he swallows against the overwhelming urge to cry. His heart aches, physically aches, like something inside him is breaking open.
He forces himself to look at Sirius again. They sit in silence, the tension thick between them, suffocating.
James is the one to break it. His voice is hoarse when he asks, “Why can’t you tell me?”
Sirius exhales, slow and measured. He runs a hand over his face, through his hair, looking just as conflicted as James feels. And then, finally, he speaks. “If I could, I would.” His voice is quiet, rough around the edges. “But it’s not my decision to make. I made a promise.”
James sucks in a breath, the answer hitting him harder than he expected. He clenches his jaw, gripping his own knees, because, fuck, of course Sirius promised. If there’s one thing Sirius Black is, it’s loyal. And James fucking hates that about him right now.
He looks away, blinking hard. He wants to be angry. He is angry. But it’s Sirius. His best friend. His brother in all but blood. And he knows, he knows, that if their places were reversed, if James had sworn to keep Sirius’s secret, he would do the same damn thing.
He lets out a slow, unsteady breath, forcing the anger down. “Fine,” he mutters. His voice is still raw, but it’s calmer now. “If you can’t tell me... can you at least give me a clue?”
Sirius exhales, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head with a small, wry smile. "Alright," he says, leaning back against the worktable. "Fine. I’ll give you a clue. There’s no harm in that, right?"
James sits up straighter, heart pounding. He nods quickly, his fingers gripping the edge of his chair.
Sirius watches him for a moment before speaking. "You were with this person for a long time, James. Years. You knew each other like the back of your hand, so well that sometimes, you didn’t even need words." His voice softens, and for a moment, there’s something almost wistful in his expression. "And one of the best things about your relationship? You changed each other. Made each other better."
James’s brows knit together. His mind is spinning, trying to grasp onto something, anything, that might bring back even a flicker of recognition.
Sirius continues, his tone more thoughtful now. "He had an eating disorder," he says carefully, watching James’s reaction. "And you... You were there for him. Every step of the way. You loved him, supported him, helped him through recovery."
Something inside James twists. He doesn’t remember, but God, does he feel it. That deep-rooted, aching sort of love, the kind that wraps around your ribs and never really leaves.
"And in return," Sirius says, smirking a little now, "he taught you how not to be such a colossal ass."
James lets out a startled laugh, the tension in his chest easing just a fraction. "Gee, thanks," he mutters, shaking his head. "That’s a great clue, really narrows it down."
Sirius grins. "No, but seriously. You were a dick in high school, James. You know that."
James groans, tilting his head back. "God, don’t remind me."
"But he, this guy, you softened for him. He made you think before you acted. He made you better." Sirius pauses, then adds, "And you picked up a lot from being with him too."
James lifts a brow. "Like what?"
Sirius hums, tilting his head as if considering. "Well, you started drinking tea."
James snorts. "Tea? That’s hardly a personality change, mate."
Sirius smirks. "Maybe not. But you also started liking jazz."
James blinks at that, an odd flicker of familiarity stirring in his chest. "Jazz?"
"Yeah," Sirius nods. "And he, well, he’d never admit it, but thanks to you, he’s probably the biggest Chappell Roan fan out there now."
James barks out a laugh, the image unexpectedly clear in his mind, a man grumbling about pop music before secretly adding it to a playlist. It doesn’t bring back a solid memory, but it feels real. It feels right.
Sirius smiles, watching him carefully. It’s a sincere smile, one that James recognizes as rare. "See?" Sirius says. "You weren’t just someone to him, James. You were everything to him."
James swallows hard, the weight of that sinking in. His hands tremble slightly where they rest on his thighs, and he exhales shakily. "Fuck," he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. "I need to know who he is."
...
All week, James couldn’t stop thinking about what Sirius had told him. The words echoed in his head, looping over and over, until they became something tangible, something he could hold onto.
So, he started making a list.
He stared at the notepad in front of him, pen tapping absently against the page as he wrote down everything he knew so far.
- It was a man.
- They had been together for years.
- They used to eat junk food, takeout, a lot of it.
- He liked jazz, didn’t care much for pop… not until James.
- He drank tea.
- He had trouble eating in the past.
- He was kind.
- He was good in bed. (Really good in bed.)
- James had screwed up. Badly.
His gaze lingered on the last point, stomach twisting uncomfortably. He had lost this man.
James ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the paper like it held the answers he needed. But it felt so empty. A few scattered details, a list of habits and quirks, but none of it was him. He had lived with this man, loved him, breathed him in for years, and yet… he barely knew him. Barely remembered.
What else had he lost?
James swallowed, his throat dry. His memories were like a puzzle with missing pieces, no matter how hard he tried to fit things together, the picture was still incomplete.
He thought about the accident. The gaping hole in his mind. He didn’t remember anything from that day, not even a flicker. Had he lost him before the accident? Had that been the reason he crashed in the first place? Had James been trying to outrun his own grief?
James let out a shaky breath, tossing the notepad onto his nightstand before sinking further into the mattress. He stared at the ceiling, eyes burning from exhaustion, but sleep never came.
All he could think about was him.
...
James woke up with a sharp inhale, his chest rising too fast, his pulse stuttering.
For a moment, he didn’t know what had jolted him awake. His body felt restless, like it had been pulled from sleep rather than drifting naturally out of it.
And then... A flash.
It wasn’t like the dreams, fragmented and feverish, leaving him breathless with something he couldn’t name. This was clearer, sharper, like he was right there, living it.
He was sitting at the piano in his parents’ house.
The familiar ivory keys stretched before him, his fingers resting lightly against them. He could smell Christmas, the scent of pine and cinnamon filling the air, the soft glow of lights reflecting in the polished surface of the piano.
And beside him sat a man.
James couldn’t see his face, but he felt him there. He was wearing a black sweater, the fabric brushing against James’s arm with every movement. His hands were about the same size as James’s, with short nails and fingertips flushed red. They were strong, masculine hands, the veins subtly rising beneath the skin. The most beautiful hands James had ever seen.
James was teaching him how to play Für Elise.
He could hear the hesitant notes, the little mistakes, the way the man huffed in frustration every time he missed a key.
“I give up,” the man groaned. His voice was low, familiar in a way that made James’s chest ache.
James had laughed. He could feel the warmth of it, the easy, teasing affection in his voice as he nudged the man’s shoulder. “You almost got it,” he had said, grinning. “One more time.”
And just like that, the memory slipped away.
James blinked up at the ceiling, his breath shaky, his heart pounding.
He lay there for a moment, trying to hold onto the feeling, to chase the memory before it slipped away entirely. His fingers twitched against the sheets as if they were still resting on the piano keys, as if he could still feel the weight of the other man’s hands beside his own.
Did he ever learn?
The thought hit him like a punch to the ribs. Did the man ever get it right? Did they sit there long enough for him to finally master those few, tricky notes? Or had he always given up before he could?
James exhaled, pressing his hands over his face.
The memory was real.
And it wasn’t just the memory itself that made his chest ache. It was the longing. Because for those few, fleeting seconds, James had felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
He had felt whole.
...
James shoved open the door to the coffee shop, the bell above jingling far too cheerfully for how he felt. He was late, again, and as soon as he stepped behind the counter, Marlene shot him a pointed look over the espresso machine.
"You look like hell," she said, not even bothering with a greeting.
"Good morning to you too, Marls," James muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. He felt like hell. He hadn’t gotten more than a few hours of restless sleep, haunted by the flicker of a memory he couldn’t grasp. A black sweater. A piano. Long fingers on the keys. And just like that, it had slipped away, leaving him feeling even more lost than before.
Marlene narrowed her eyes at him as she handed off a cappuccino to a waiting customer. "You’re late. Again. If you weren’t so charming, I swear Rosmerta would’ve fired your ass by now."
James huffed, grabbing an apron from the hook and tying it around his waist. "You say that like she adores me."
Marlene scoffed. "I say that like you’re pushing your luck." She eyed him more closely now, her expression softening just a little. "You good?"
James hesitated. He wasn’t good. He hadn’t been good for a long time. Every day felt like stumbling through fog, reaching for something just out of sight. But he wasn’t about to dump all that on Marlene in the middle of the morning rush.
"Yeah," he lied. "Just tired."
Marlene didn’t look convinced, but she let it slide, turning back to the line of impatient customers.
James exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. He was done with this. Done with the half-memories, the constant uncertainty, the feeling that he was missing out on something great. Therapy hadn’t helped. He still panicked when he got behind the wheel, still had no recollection of the accident, still had no idea why his cupboard was stocked with Ovaltine when he never drank it.
And then there were the things that made even less sense. The copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea that had sat on his hospital bedside table, even though no one remembered bringing it. The complete lack of photos from the last five years of his life. The way his heart ached for a man he couldn’t even remember.
He was done waiting for answers to come to him.
The second his shift ended, he was going to walk the two blocks to the hospital. He’d talk to his neurologist, get real answers about his amnesia. And if he was lucky, if the universe had even a shred of mercy left for him, he’d see Doctor Black on the way.
...
James balanced the two large boxes in his arms, already regretting every decision that had led him to this moment. Delivering cookies to a bar wasn’t exactly in his job description, but after slacking off so much lately, he hadn’t been in a position to refuse Rosmerta when she asked.
He sighed, shifting the weight of the boxes as he weaved through the sidewalk traffic. The bar wasn’t too far, just a few blocks off Main Street, but with every step, his mind wandered further away from his task.
It was his own damn fault, really. The moment he’d volunteered to deliver an order to the hospital, he should have known his coworkers would start seeing him as the go-to delivery guy. But he hadn’t been thinking about that at the time, he’d just wanted an excuse to see him again.
Dr. Black.
Regulus.
James still remembered the way the name had rolled off his tongue when he’d learned it, the way it felt right in his mouth, like it had always belonged there. He hadn’t regretted that delivery one bit.
This one, however? He was regretting it very much.
His arms ached, and his mind was tangled in a mess of thoughts he couldn’t seem to sort out. He had too many prospects in his life, too many confusing, contradictory emotions pulling him in different directions.
On one side, there was Kacey, his boyfriend. Good-looking, patient, kind. James knew he had been neglecting him ever since the flashes of his past started creeping in. He felt guilty for it, for the distance he had let grow between them.
Then there was the man of his memories. The one he couldn’t see clearly but felt with every fiber of his being. The man he was searching for, obsessing over, the one whose absence was a constant ache in his chest. His ex. The one he had lost.
And then there was Regulus. Dr. Black. The most beautiful man James had ever seen. With his sharp tongue and calming presence. James barely knew him, and yet,bhe couldn’t stop thinking about him either.
It was a mess. A goddamn mess.
James felt like a complete jerk, lusting after three different men at once. But what could he do? His mind hadn’t been working properly since the accident, and his heart... His heart wasn’t playing fair.
James walked to the bar, lost in the tangled mess of his thoughts.
It was too much. Too many feelings, too many unanswered questions, too much that didn’t make sense.
But when he reached the bar, a strange sensation washed over him. He felt like he had been there before. The place didn’t exactly look familiar, but something felt familiar. The brick walls, the dim lighting, the scent of beer and something smoky in the air... It was all there, tucked away in some locked part of his memory, just out of reach.
James gaze landed on a pamphlet pinned to the wall. There was going to be a U2 cover band playing this weekend. The sight of it made his stomach twist, not in a bad way, but in the way something long buried was trying to resurface. Desperate to be remembered.
I've been here before. The thought struck him so suddenly it made him pause at the door.
Before he could dwell on it too much, a man behind the bar noticed him. He was older, with tired eyes and a dishrag slung over his shoulder. He gave James a once-over, brows drawing together slightly.
"Hey… Have we met before?"
James shifted the boxes in his arms. “I think so? I mean... Maybe. I feel like I’ve been here before, but I don’t really remember.”
The bartender nodded, eyes still scanning James like he was a puzzle he was trying to solve. "Yeah, it's possible. You look familiar.”
James didn't know what to say to that, so he cleared his throat and set the boxes down on the counter. “Uh, cookies. From Three Broomsticks.”
The man snapped out of his thoughts and nodded, grabbing the cash from the register. "Right, right. Appreciate it.” He handed James the payment.
James didn’t want to leave, not yet. Something was there, lingering at the edge of his mind, just out of reach. He could feel it, like a word on the tip of his tongue. He just needed more. A little more time, a little more context, and maybe, just maybe, it would all come rushing back.
"So…" James started, leaning on the counter. "Mind if I ask what the cookies are for?"
The bartender didn’t seem to mind the question. "Birthday party. One of our regulars is throwing something for a friend tonight."
James glanced around the bar again, still chasing the feeling curling in his gut. “So, you’re closing early?”
The bartender shook his head. "Not exactly. It’s a small party. Just fifteen people. They’ve got a section reserved, but the bar stays open as usual.”
James nodded absently, still feeling like something was just out of reach. His gaze drifted to the small stage at the far end of the bar, where a few instruments were already set up. It made something stir in his chest, something yearning.
"Is there gonna be live music?" he asked, his voice quieter, like he was afraid of the answer.
The bartender followed his gaze and nodded. “Yeah, U2 cover band. You into them?”
James exhaled a quiet laugh. Was he? The answer should have been simple, but instead, his heart clenched in his chest.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think I am.”
The bartender smiled. "They're pretty good. You should stop by later, check ‘em out. Show starts at eight."
James barely heard him. He was still staring at the stage, trying to place the feeling inside him, to find what it meant.
“Yeah,” he said, still distracted. “Maybe I will.”
And with that, he left, but the feeling didn’t leave him. If anything, it grew stronger.