Blood on the carpet,Terror in the curtains
When one star is partially responsible for destroying the sun, but wasn’t the black hole that sucked it out of existence, just the burning ball of fire that convinced the black hole to protect the sun, only to find out it was its biggest threat, does the blame fall on the black hole, the star, or the sun, for trusting in mediocre fallacies such as gravity, and trust, and friends?
Bollocks, what a stupid analogy. What it all meant was that James was dead, and what did it matter how he got there? The result was still the same.
Supernovas and blood moons and meteor showers wouldn't change the fact, no matter how poetic. Even though it felt like nothing mattered, or ever would again, he knew that more than just his safety was on the line, pending this trial.
Moony.
He would do anything to ensure his safety.
Anything.
The overwhelming guilt that filled his stomach and threatened to spill from his lips, dribble out of his ears, cascade down his cheeks, and flow from his eyes was too much. He had thought Remus was the spy. He should have known. The man had been in captivity with Greybacks pack for over a month, and then Dumbledore asked him to go back. The old wizard didn’t have to see him when he came home. Patch him up every full. Keep him company (which Sirius was only too happy to do) while he destroyed himself, wailing in agony. He didn’t have to watch bones shatter, skin tear, and eyes turn bloodshot.
…
Sitting on the couch in the dark. That was how he spent his Friday night. Lazing about the flat in varying degrees of panic. He was on edge. That was one way to put it. Another would be to suggest the term manic. Or lightly psychotic.
His last mission hadn’t gone so well. Dumbledore had composed a recon team to do some surveillance on a large death eater meeting he had somehow become privy to. Nowadays, he seemed to have someone tipping him off to all kinds of illicit Death Eater activities. Someone must have turned spy for Dumbledore the same way Re-someone turned spy for Voldemort. Instead of someone, anyone, getting the upper hand, it seemed that both groups were just losing more. More casualties, more violence, more agony. More, more, more, and the end of the war seemed no closer in sight.
That is what had found Sirius in actual Barbados on a sweltering summer's day, sweating his bollocks off in what Dumbledore called “protective wear”. “Protective Wear” consisted of black dress robes, steel-toed boots, and a mask so reminiscent of the ones that now surely decorated his family home, that it made Sirius want to toss his biscuits.
The recon team had been seeking refuge under the shade of an overhang in a small alleyway. The meeting was due to happen in approximately 2 hours, and it couldn’t come faster for Sirius. The sweat was pooling in the nape of his neck, the small of his back, and yes, down there. He was grumbling and groaning, shifting his hefty Death Eaters robes back and forth in an attempt to alleviate his discomfort. He wished he could just transform into Padfoot and pant, but no such luck. Not even the aurrors knew of the Marauder's secret, and for Moony’s sake, they had to keep it that way.
“Merlin and Morgana, Black. I thought you were raised with some decorum.” Frank grinned at Sirius. His own mask was pushed up over his forehead, where sweat-slicked strands clung to it. He too, had liquid heat dripping down his flushed face, all pink-cheeked. Sirius resisted the mounting urge to growl.
“Well, Walburga and Orion aren’t here right now, and you all better count yourselves fortunate.” He waved a gloved hand aimlessly at them. Frank chuckled under his breath and rested his head against the wall.
“We sure are fortunate to have you, Sirius. Thanks for tagging along.” He said with no discernible amount of sarcasm. Sirius accepted it.
“Yeah, well, better than tagging along with the cult members. Only tattoo I want at the moment, is ‘Moony’” -he demonstrated in air quotes- “right above my-”
“Stop-stop. Ew, Sirius. No. You’re gonna be 80 and still have that, on wrinkled, flabby, old man skin.” Lily jibbed from the opposing wall.
“Comment oses-tu! My skin will be fresh as a baby until the day I die! Peau de vieil homme.” Sirius grumbled affrontedly.
“You know, not everyone speaks French when they get emasculated, Padfoot.”
“Why is everyone making fun of me today? It's not exactly my fault I came out of an incest-y gene pool or converse in romance languages!” They all laughed a bit at that, but in the way laughter existed now.
The short bursts where they enjoyed whatever was funny, then quickly realized they were finding something funny at all, and what precious little there was to think comedic, at times such as this? So, it dissipated rather quickly, and they resumed staring at the walls some more. Sirius pulled out his canteen of water and drank deeply. It was so refreshing but served to remind him how hot he felt everywhere else. The sooner this meeting happened, the better. And if there just so happened to be some sort of skirmish along the way, all the better for it. Kingsley seemed to follow his train of thought though, and snapped his fingers in front of Sirius’ face.
“Nope. I know that look.” “What look?” Sirius asked innocently.
“That one you’re wearing right now. You don’t fool me, Sirius Black.” Kingsley replied less innocently.
“Whatever do you think I’m wearing, Shacklebolt? Other than about 10 kilos of fabric and about half that in sweat?”
“The look that you get when you hope something will go wrong.”
“I don’t want anything to go wrong, King.”
“Maybe not consciously, no. But you hope that for whatever reason, someone will trip up, reveal themselves, or say the wrong thing, and you will get to swoop in like a white knight and defend them, or better put, attack a death eater. Like whoever is under that mask might be your traitor of a brother, or abusers of parents, or boyfriend that you seem to love so much but for some reason can’t wait to get away from. I feel for you, I really do. But your stress relief can’t come at the expense of good men and women who are fighting for the war to end. Not in place of going to see a mind healer. Being a member of the Order of the Phoenix should be about more than just a distraction from the things you’d rather not think about. Everyone has their shit, but it's not a reason to throw caution to the wind and jeopardize not only the people in your squadron but the cause as a whole. So, don’t do it, Sirius. Just follow instructions. If you really want to help, listen. That's all I ask. That’s all Dumbledore asks. But I guess to you it feels like pulling teeth, because you can’t seem to manage. I don’t mean to psychoanalyze you, but sometimes kid, I can read you like a damn book.”
Well Fuck. Capital F. Sirius really was more transparent than he thought. Kingsley seemed to understand him more than he did, sometimes. He wasn’t wrong, really, Sirius surmised. He just couldn’t bring himself to change his whole personality overnight. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about anyone else- quite the opposite, really. But it wasn’t in his nature to pull back from a fight.
But he would try.
…
He failed. He had failed bad. About half an hour after Kingsley's little outburst, the meeting had started early, and Sirius, in an attempt to hear better, had apparated into a tree directly over the group of death eaters. Unfortunately, the tree chose a bad time to break, and he had about fallen directly into the center of the group. Of course, Lily saved his ass, again, and he had what seemed like the talking to of his life from James when he got back for debrief, for “endangering his wife” again. But it certainly wasn’t the last. If he thought James was bad, Moody was worse. For some reason, though, Dumbledore took the cake. He didn’t yell, or hex, or threaten worse mission assignments, (Like Moody) he barely sounded disappointed in Sirius (James). He just looked down his nose at him, took a deep breath, and asked him why he had done it. Sirius thought the answer was obvious, but started down a rabbit hole so long he forgot how to get out. So eventually, he said nothing, and barely flinched when Dumbledore benched him for two months. When he did finally reclaim his use of vernacular, was when Dumbledore informed him that he had sent Remus on a mission.
“What? Why? Where? When did he leave? Is this my punishment? Please, Professor, I’ll do anything, just don’t send him somewhere bad. I’ll take his place, I promise, I’ll do a good job, I won’t-” Sirius’ mouth clacked shut as Dumbledore put up one slender finger.
He looked deep into Sirius’ eyes, exhaled quietly, and steepled his fingers on the desk.
“Mr. Black, please. One question at a time. Mr. Lupin is not being punished, certainly not for someone's behavior that does not affect the outcome of his safety. Nothing you could do would make me hurt someone you love. You must know that. Secondly, Remus went of his own accord. I did ask him for his assistance with this matter, but he accepted willingly. He had every choice in the matter. You cannot take his place, not only because you are, for the time being, removed from field task forces, but also because he has a very specific set of skills that pertain to the job required of him. He left two days ago, while you were on assignment in Barbados. I told him that I would inform you of his departure when you returned, as receiving the news while there would likely only result in premature stress on your part. I was right, I think.” The man smiled lightly at Sirius’ almost dumbfounded look playing across his features.
“Where. You forgot where. Sir.” Sirius’ mouth felt dry.
“Mr. Lupin has gone to consort with his own kind.” His own kind. Surely not-
“The WEREWOLVES!? But Sir, they might hurt him! We don’t know what they want!”
“That was the intention of the assignment.”
“So you’re just throwing him to the- sending him out there by himself, with no backup?”
“He is best equipped to deal with this on his own. Sending others would only add to the unease of Greybacks pack, and they may not feel they can trust Remus as one of their own.”
“That's because they can’t! He's not just a werewolf, he's a person, who means more than a pawn on the chessboard- wait. Did you say- Greyback?” Sirius’ blood ran cold.
“I hope you are not insinuating that I care not for my members, Sirius. I care very deeply. Deeply enough to know when their talents are going unused, and where they can help win this war. Indeed, Greyback is where Lupin is stationed until he completes his mission.”
“Greyback is the monster who bit him. And you are sending him back.” His voice was flat. Devoid of emotion. Not anger. Not fear. Not sadness. Not even the cordial tone Dumbledore seemed to lace his words with. Just empty.
“I understand this must be hard for you, Sirius. I really do. But what you do every time you go on missions is dangerous too. Imagine that this is the kind of worry Mr. Lupin experiences every time you leave. Then think of the worry of the counterparts of your squadron. Every person on that team has people who love them, waiting at home. You may not resonate with the need for your own safety, but you can empathize with the struggle of those left behind. Perhaps you now understand how important it is that our task teams are flawless. We cannot have loose cannons. Perhaps this break will be good for you. That a break in productivity will bring about new perspective, and a proclivity for caution.” Dumbledore expelled a gush of air, and stood, hands behind his back. His mood seemed to change. No more emotion than before, but seemingly more direct and focused.
“While you are on break, you will not leave your abode for non-necessities. Groceries, and not much else I can think of. If you do need to leave for more than an hour or so, you will notify me, Kingsley Shacklebolt, or Alastor Moody via patronus message. This includes going out to muggle clubs, motorcycle repair shops, and most importantly, looking for Mr. Lupin. Do I make myself understood?” The firmness of his voice still hadn’t dipped very far, but for Dumbledore…
“Yes. Sir.”
“Good. Thank you for meeting with me today, Mr. Black. I hope that the next two months are informative and restful.”
But they were not.
Of course they weren’t. The first night, Sirius waited up. He waited like Moony was going to walk through the door, cigarette in hand, ready to make a cuppa and sit down to listen to the next Bowie record Andy had sent. He waited. And waited. He paced, and he did busy work. He even washed the dishes. And did the laundry. And fucking dusted. Dusted. But nothing seemed to quell the ocean turning in his stomach. He sat on the couch and stared at the wall until his eyes burned, and he had to keep them forced open with his fingers. Eventually, at round 3 in the morning, he finally drifted off to sleep. Only for a few hours, though. His mind wouldn’t let him any more than the barest of reprieves.
And on it went.
Day after day of this, until the flat smelled strongly of muggle cleaning products, and gleamed like unicorn hair. Until the last cigarette Moony had left was gone, and the bottles of Ogdens mysteriously opened and emptied. Until the records had been organized alphabetically by album name, then by artist, then by attractiveness, and finally by most to least liked. Until all of the food in the fridge was gone. Until a few days after that. By this point, three weeks had passed, and a full moon to boot. Sirius had turned into Padfoot in solidarity, and curled up on the rug where beams of moonlight filtered in through the windows. He thought of Moony. How they were both looking at the same moon, somewhere. He hoped he was running free, smelling the pine and feeling the earth under his paws, the wind through his fur. He tried not to let the horrible thoughts penetrate his consciousness. The what ifs- some too terrible to say out loud. He forced himself not to physically whine in distress.
He wanted his Moon back. The stars couldn’t stay away from its pull for too long, anyhow.
Three and a half weeks, and Sirius got so hungry he decided it was worth the trip to the grocery store. Of course, per his agreement with the order, he had to contact Dumbledore, who contacted Moody, who came to babysit Sirius while he did his shopping. It was simple enough, although Sirius had never gone actual grocery shopping himself, save for picking up a carton of milk or tea bags on his way home, and even then Remus always supplied him with an exact shopping list. So he meandered perhaps longer than necessary through the aisles, trying in vain to remember what brands of things Moony bought. To be on the safe side, (he didn’t know when he’d be able to get an armed escort again) he bought everything he thought he may need. Eggs, milk, two loaves of bread, bananas, kippers, and a couple of vegetables he had no idea how to cook, as well as a few packs of muggle ciggies, a carton of muggle beer, and something called “Crown”. Supposedly, it was a kind of muggle spirit, but not the kind you talk to. He started to haul his choosings up to the cash register when something caught his eye. A little further down the frozen meals aisle, a faded tweed jacket whipped around the corner.
Without thinking much at all, Sirius abandoned his cart, and sprinted down the aisle. Turning the corner, he grabbed the man's shoulder and spun him around.
“Moo-” It wasn’t him. A startled-looking man was looking at him with wild eyes. His hands fidgeted at his wrists, and he physically leaned away from Sirius as though frightened.
“S-sorry mate, I-I don’t know who you’re looking for.” Sirius huffed in frustration, not even granting the man a response, before whipping back around and going back to his shopping. He cashed out, not even thinking before plopping down a handful of galleons in front of the confused muggle cashier.
“Sir, we don’t take… Dubloons? We are cash only.” Moody stumped forward, placed a 50 pound note down, and slipped his wand out of his trenchcoat pocket to obliviate the woman. They got back to the flat before Moody spoke again.
“Black, I know this must be hard for you, but Lupin is a grown man. Your life doesn’t hinge on his, and you have got to pull yourself together.” Sirius slammed the door in his face.
The fourth week wore on, and Sirius had slipped into more unhealthy methods for coping. The nails on his hands, previously immaculately manicured, were bitten to the quick. There were purple bags under his eyes, and he certainly hadn’t made the bed in days. Stacks of dishes piled in the sink, which was impressive considering he hadn’t even had much appetite. However, the ashtrays were full, and so was the trash. Full of empty liquor bottles, that was. He was quickly spiraling out of worry, and nothing could curb the edge he felt he was so precariously balanced on. Time stopped making any sense. When was the last time he had done the laundry? Was it Monday, or… When was the last Monday, anyway? He remembered making tea last on a Wednesday, because that was when the Weird Sisters were on stereo special, but what Wednesday was it? He felt like he was going crazy. How much longer could he-
creaaaak.
His head whipped around so fast he cricked his neck. His eyes swing towards the door, where…
He looked bad. Really bad. He was shaking, for one, but Sirius had no idea if it was from hunger, or cold, or pain, or fear. He was just shaking. Despite the frigid air that was swirling snowflakes around the sky in the February air, Lupin was dressed in nothing but dirty brown slacks and a worn through button up short sleeve. He had no shoes. His shirt clung to his ribs, ribs that stuck out and made Sirius feel weak. He was so much smaller than he remembered.
Oh Merlin.
He probably could have wrapped a pinky and thumb around Moonys wrist. He looked emaciated. His hair was similarly dirty to the rest of him, matted to his head and full of what appeared to be bits of stick, leaf, and pine needles. He seemed to carry no wand, but his hands were clutching his side above his bad hip. The skin Sirius could see was again, dirty, but more worryingly was slathered in bruises and cuts, fresh scars and yellowing patches. He limped through the doorway with a groan, stumbling a little before slumping to the ground with little grace. His head was bowed, chin tucked to his chest. Before Sirius could think properly, he had bounded straight over the couch and over to Moony’s side. He tucked his hands under Moony's chin, supporting his lolling head. Forcing his face up, Sirius gasped. He had a split lip, and one eye was swollen shut. The eye he could see was bloodshot and glazed over, not fully seeing. Sirius’ stomach roiled. He was going to be sick.
“M-Moony? What the fuck?” In response, Lupin only moaned, head flopping backward as if the mere words hurt him.
“Ergghhhh…” Sirius grabbed messily at Remus, clutching him to his chest. Please, Merlin, no. Moony slumped impossibly, lower still. Somehow, he curled closer into Sirius, absorbing him.
“Moony, help me understand. What the hell did they do to you? Are you okay? Please, Moo-”
“Padfo-” Remus shifted his head up, seemingly with the effort of hefting the world on his shoulders. It broke Sirius’ heart. A cube of solid ice dropped into his stomach.
Oh Merlin and Morgana.
He needed to keep a level head. Treat this like a full moon. He could do that. He could. Moony had fallen completely unconscious at this point. Ignoring his mounting dread, Sirius picked him up, cradling Moony in his arms like a small child. He was so light, so filthy, so cold. It didn’t matter. He was still the most beautiful thing Sirius had seen in weeks. Walking into their bedroom, Sirius slowly, gently, with so, so much care, laid him down on their bed, throwing every blanket they had in the drafty flat on top of him. He closed every window, stoked the fire a probably dangerous amount, and cast multiple warming charms upon Remus’ shuddering frame. Realizing he probably needed to tend to his wounds, he peeled the blankets back again. It took him a few moments to move. Upon closer inspection, Moony looked like a fucking prisoner of war. Questions piling and swirling around his skull, Sirius begun to remove Moony's clothes. Pinching them off really, because they really were disgusting. Dirt and blood and mud covered him head to toe. Sirius pulled Moony's arms through the sleeves of his shirt, cringing as he saw the bruises and cuts encircling his skinny appendages. Once the shirt was fully off, he gasped when he saw the likely source of the problem.
A gaping, gurgling wound, a hole really, was gushing blood from his left side. Whatever blood had congealed and calcified had done so to his button-up, and as soon as Sirius had pulled it off, it opened up again, ruby rivers cascading down his body in rivulets.
“Fuck, fuck, fucking shite, Moony- Moony I need your help, fucking fix this!” Sirius rambled, panicked. He was no Madam Pomfrey, no Marlene even. He wasn’t an Order mediwizard, and had no clue how to fix this. He grit his teeth and pressed both of his hands to the wound in a botched attempt to staunch the flow. This pulled Lupin from his unconsciousness, whipping around and wailing bloody murder, tears streaming down his face. He flailed about, whacking Sirius in the face with his elbow, hard. Wrenching back a string of swears, Sirius cupped his nose, which had started to bleed. Bloody perfect.
Now his and Moony's blood mixed on his face, likely giving him the look of a crazed killer. He grabbed Remus’s hands, putting them in one of his own, and bodily shoved him back against the bed.
“Moony, Moons, BLOODY FUCKING- REMUS JOHN LUPIN!” He roared, because being held down had only seemed to exacerbate Remus’ panic. The other boy stopped, some recognition creeping back into his eyes, which were still leaking tears.
He blinked, and then realizing who was holding him, burst into sobs once more. Not of pain, this time, but of internal agony. His trembling fingers snaked behind Sirius’ neck, and vice-like, held on as Sirius’ own tears mixed with his own.
And so, there they were, on the bed, neither altogether sure what the other was crying about, holding each other and being held, sitting in blood and sweat and dirt, and not caring one bit, because they were together, and they were safe, if only for a little while.
And of course it was only a little while. Because there was always more to be asked of them. More missions to complete. More sacrifices to make. All in the name of ending the war. On his orders.
Dumbledore.
They all gave up so much, and where did that leave the wise old professor? Jumping in to save the day? Protect Moony from the vengeance of the werewolves? Reggie from his abusive family? Sirius from having to watch the outcome of both? No. He got to sit in the safety of Hogwarts, while his pawns did the dirty work. And Sirius complied with it all. Accepted every mission, no matter how miserable, pain-filled, or dangerous. He always said yes. And so did Remus. And so did Marlene, until she couldn’t. Until she died. Until she died.
And so did Gideon.
Until he couldn’t.
Until he died.
And so did Fabian.
Until he couldn’t.
Until he died.
And so did Lily.
Until she couldn’t.
Until she died.
And so did Dorcas.
Until she couldn’t.
Until she died.
And so did Edgar.
Until he couldn’t.
Until he died.
And so did Benjy.
Until he couldn’t.
Until he died.
And so did James.
So.
Did.
James.
James.
James.
Until.
Until.
Untiluntiluntil
He
He
He
He
D
I
E
D
Died.
Dieddieddieddieddieddi-
Until he died.
His last breath was to save his son. His son. Oh. Harry. No. NO. Sirius almost gasped, tears springing to his eyes. He had spent so much time, all this time, thinking about his missing James, his loss, what he had to endure. At least James didn’t have to live without Lily, and vice versa, but Harry… That sweet, innocent, baby boy that Sirius loves so so so much, he was an orphan. The word reverberated around his skull, clanging around like cymbals crashing to the ground. It felt wrong. Without parents, especially ones like James and Lily would be- fuck, would have been- it made Sirius grieve them all the more. But this is what he signed up for, wasn’t it. He was named Godfather.
It was his job to raise this boy now, the tiny, sweet infant who looked like the miniature double of his father, with the depth of his mother's soul shining out of his emerald eyes. This was it. This was it. This was his chance. He would grieve James and Lily every day he had breath in his lungs, but this boy was a reason. A reason to fight through it. Something- no, everything, to make him push it all aside, swallow it down, dig it a grave and mark it, next to the others in his cemetery of grief that lived in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps a Mausoleum would do for James and Lily, a work of art to memorialize the pain that was alighting his veins. Not like the others. Not like the wooden stake that marked a double wide pit, weathered wood bearing the names “Walburga and Orion, may they flay in hell”. Not like the concrete half moon, simple but clean, smooth dirt packed over a smaller divet, a poetry book resting against it. “Regulus Arturus Black, brother and snake.” But Harry. Harry was not yet residing in Sirius’ graveyard of agony. No. He was alive, and breathing, and desperately in need of someone to love him. Not just anyone would do. Padfoot and Moony. Uncle Pads. Maybe someday he would have another name for Sirius. D- D-. Da-. No. He would never be able to fill the hole the Potters had left behind. But damn if he wouldn’t try. He had a reason now. To find Harry, to reassure Remus. To end the war. Stop the rat race. Or just go somewhere where none of it mattered. Whether that be a new home, somewhere on the road, or a cave in Bulgaria, he would do whatever it took. Nothing mattered more than this. More than PadfootandMoonyandHarry. Together. The idea terrified and invigorated him. He had no idea how to be a parent. He hadn’t exactly learned from the best.
…
*crash*
Glass flew everywhere, under the couch, into the hallway, skidding past the stereo and into the fireplace. Sirius and Regulus had been playing with the toy quaffle Reggie had got for Christmas that year in his on-the-ground quidditch set. Sirius was 7. Reggie was 5.
Sirius had dreams of one day being on the Slytherin quidditch team at Hogwarts. Mother had said that Slytherin was the only house their family was ever in. Sirius didn’t even know the names of all of them, only Slytherin and Gryffindor, because last year, Andy told him she had almost been sorted there. Like it was a dirty secret. But all he knew was the name. No matter, he was going to be on the Slytherin quidditch team, and so was Reggie, when he came. They were gonna be real good- no, really good. His mother had told him that poor grammar was the crux of society.
So, they were practicing, running back and forth instead of on brooms, because their father said he would get Sirius a broom when he was 10- a real man. But Reggie had thrown perhaps too long, and the toy quaffle crashed into an ugly old vase that Uncle Cygnus had given Mother a long time ago. Walburga had always chastised her brother's taste every time she walked by it, but had never gotten rid of the thing. So there it sat, collecting dust until Kreacher decided to clean it, lovingly as he did every Black family heirloom.
But now it lay in smithereens all over the living room floor, and some in the kitchen and entrance hallway, too. For a moment, they both stood there, looking at the ground. Sirius swallowed hard, and his gaze met Reggies. His bottom lip was quivering, and his grey eyes filled quickly with tears. Stress rising in his chest, Sirius crossed the room to grab Regulus by the shoulders and give him a shake.
“Reggie, I know you’re scared. I know, but you can’t cry. It’ll be worse if you cry.” His brother met his eyes, and a single tear slipped down his face. He wiped it away quickly, but more seemed to fill the space in his waterline.
“Reg, I’m scared too. Me too. But it will all be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you. Promise.” Sirius drew his tiny quivering ball of a brother into his arms, just as footsteps stomped down the stairs, and into the living room.
There stood Walburga Black, in all of her terrifying glory. Her pin-straight hair was drawn into a tight bun atop her head. She had on large oval pearlescent earrings and a string of the same around her neck. She wore hunter green everyday robes, that crept up her neck and encircled it with a snake pin. Her dragonskin boots clacked on the hardwood as she drew closer, closer, closer. She already had her wand in hand. Oh no.
As soon as she had her eyes on her sons, they sprang apart as if by electric shock. Sirius didn’t dare look at his brother, whom he knew was desperately trying to hold any kind of composure. He certainly didn’t meet his mothers eyes, because he knew it would be seen as nothing other than disrespect and blatant defiance. Walburga stopped a few feet from her sons, surveying the damage. She waited a few extra moments, to build suspense and encourage fear, and then began to speak.
“What exactly happened here?” Her voice was cold and crystal clear, ringing throughout the room as if she was addressing a royal courtroom, and not her young sons. Neither boy spoke. Sirius might have, if he possessed any kind of nerve.
“Well? It is not as if my treasured possession from my brother turned to dust on its own accord, now did it?” Sirius wanted to snort, if he had any air in his lungs.
“Boys? You will regret it if I deign to ask a second time.” This wasn’t a question. Simply a statement. Sirius had a feeling he was going to regret whatever happened, but didn’t want any more than was strictly necessary, so he forced out some words.
“M-Mother, we-” the slap echoed across the room. Sirius’ head snapped to the side, face stinging with the pain, his mother's rings thwacking painfully on his cheekbones. He did not look up, did not wipe the tears beginning to form, did not reach up to touch his cheek.
“Black boys do not stutter. They do not show fear. Try again.” For fear (yes, dammit, he was afraid) that his mother would hit him again, he swallowed before starting over.
“Mother. I was bored, and I wanted to do something fun. Reggie-Regulus was busy, playing one on one chess, and I asked him to play with me. He politely declined, but I wanted him to play with me, so I took the quaffle he got for christmas, and started throwing it around. It hit Uncle Cygnus’ vase. I’m sorry, mother.” Sirius lied bold-facedly.
“Is this the truth?” Walburga asked, turning to his younger brother, who stood with wide eyes at Sirius, baffled by his deceit. Sirius looked at him pointedly, and nodded his head once. Reg met their mother's eyes, and bobbed his head up and down.
“Yes, mother.” Walburga seemed satisfied. Which was bad for Sirius.
“In how many pieces do you think my vase is, Sirius?” Sirius looked around, fighting the urge to run. She could simply have used a reparo charm on it, he knew, but of course, was trying to make a point.
“Perhaps… 4 big pieces, and 1,2,3… 7 little ones?”
“Four big, and seven little? Yes, that seems rather appropriate. Come, boys. The drawing room will be fine today.” That was the first day she tried the lacero curse out. Blood on the carpet, and terror etched into the curtains.
Bandages and decorum.
And made Regulus watch. Watch his older brother take the fall, as he would many times before they escaped from their mother's clutches, although Reg never really escaped at all. Just-absorbed. Like a star into a black hole.
So it was safe to say that he hadn’t had it very easy. Neither had Remus. Sirius knew that. He had grown up in near-poverty, scraping and scrambling for every measly thing he had. He didn’t like to talk about it, he knew. But even from the little information he had weaseled out of Lupin was enough. He knew how rough boys could be. But more importantly, they both knew what it was like to want love. To need it like a dying man in the desert. Real, unadulterated, unconditional, familial love. The love then Euphemia and Fleamont had showered upon James. A veritable monsoon. Moony and Padfoot had lived in a drought. Their whole lives. So much so that when they were even around it, they got sick off it. Lapping it up like dogs. It wasn’t the same as being fed, but they would lick it off the ground. Desperation makes one do crazy things. Much like love.
That was one thing Dumbledore got right. Love is strong. Love is powerful. And love overcomes all things. So no matter how many times they got it wrong, love would be there, at the center of it all, to keep them in orbit. They could do this. He actually got up and started pacing his cell again, so eager to pay his dues, and fulfill his punishment, so he could go on and start his life with Moony and their new charge. His mind started spinning, whirling through all the different paths their lives may take. He would have to get a job, of course, and Moony probably would, too. If they had a child, especially one with no alternative guardians, risking their lives for a war seemed foolish now. Sirius had no idea how James managed to keep his head on straight, what with the love for his wife and son- it was too much. The desire to protect-protect-protect chanted its way through Sirius’ head. He would do it. All of it. Whatever it took.
Perhaps he could apply at Hogwarts, it had to be safer there, what with Dumbledore being there. He could teach transfig-no wait, over McGonagalls dead withered body-maybe he could shadow? Like a paid internship? It would have to be paid, if he was supporting three. Moony certainly didn’t have the funds, he would be homeless if the flat wasn’t paid for through basically forever. And knowing Lily, any money willed to Harry wouldn't be accessible until he turned of age, 16 years from now. Responsibly, of course, and Sirius wouldn't have touched it anyway. But his fortune would run out someday. So, paid. Perhaps Remus could be the DADA professor, or Care of Magical Creatures? Maybe even Runes, or Herbology? He was so talented and smart. Even Pomfrey would likely want to take him under her wing, she, although capable, could always use an extra hand-or he could circle back to quidditch commentating, he was a real wiz at that one… Sirius laughed to himself, and a genuine one at that.
He began to think of their little life together, a baby and two certainly underqualified pseudo-dads, half-dog papas, furry guardians, insert other names here. He thought of all of the milestones they would be there for. The ones Lily and James wouldn’t. Harry’s first lost tooth, potty training (ick) teaching him wizards chess and the rules of quidditch, how to tie his trainers, how to brush his teeth even. It sounded brilliant. All of it. His first day of school, his first date, first bad test grade, first friends, first drink, first partner, his graduation, his wedding, his children- oh Merlin, it was all so heartbreaking and glorious at the same time. His final testament to James, his greatest gift, Sirius’ legacy-would be to raise his son. The son that could be his stunt double save for his mother's kind eyes. James. Harry. Although months ago-weeks even, he would have never considered even coming close to wanting kids, now, he was going to throw himself into parenting with a fervor hitherto and unknown to wizardkind. He was going to be the best dadfoot a kid could ask for.
Yes. Yes. Meaning. A purpose. He could hardly wait. He was going to walk out of the ministry, head held high, find Moony, get Harry, and remember James. Remember Lily. Remember all of the love he received from them over the years, though he never deserved it, and bodily force it into this little kid. He would be so loved he would be sick of it. Yes. He and Remus were going to be better, do better, than was done to them. Yes. He just needed to get out of here.
He stood up again, walking to press his face against the bars and see down the long hallway. He heard it before he saw it, almost thought he was in a dream. Or more accurately, a nightmare.
clack.
clack.
clack.
Went his mother's shoes on the stone floor.
scrape-click.
scrape-click.
scrape-click.
Came his father's cane.
He backed up against the wall, too close still to the bars. Where his parents were standing. His parents. Walburga and Orion.
He hadn’t seen them since he was 16. Since he left his ancestral home in the dead of night. Clawing his way towards the floo. His little brother's final gift shoving him into the opening, and sprinkling some green powder over his half-concious body. Because of what they did. The people standing not five feet away from him. Somehow, impossibly, for what seemed like the first time since Sirius could remember, smiling.
“My son. We are so proud of you.”
WHAT?