Interlude I
Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth.
They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair,
they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them.
She had made her "g's" the same way he did: he searched the letter for every one of them, and each felt like a friendly little wave glimpsed from behind a veil. The letter was an incredible treasure, proof that Lily Potter had lived, really lived, that her warm hand had once moved across this parchment, tracing into these letters, words about him, Harry, her son.
There was a flash of blinding green light and a rushing sound, as though
something vast and invisible was soaring through the air
There's no counter curse. There's no blocking it.
Somewhere out in the darkness, a phoenix was singing in a way Harry had never heard before: a stricken lament of terrible beauty. And Harry felt, as he had felt about phoenix song before, that the music was inside him, not without: It was his own grief turned magically to song…
It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more.
You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with
the pain of it.
You can exist without your soul, you know, as long as your brain and heart are still working. But you'll have no sense of self any more, no memory, no...anything. There's no chance at all of recovery. You just — exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever…lost.
“Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living.”
—
Sirius had always been the last to wake up—besides on the full moon’s morrow, of course. He needed his beauty sleep, he liked to joke. There was nothing better than being able to wake up at one’s own pace. No Walburga breathing down his neck, no Kreacher yelling in his ear and no grumble from his brother Reggie as he walked down for breakfast. In Hogwarts, he could close his eyes and go to sleep, then wake up when his body saw fit and choose whether to stay down, beneath his duvet, or shower and head for the Great Hall.
That morning, Sirius woke up in the dead of night, breathing frantic and sweat covering his brow as he peered around the room, trying to remember where he was.
The last time he had been so disoriented, it was mostly due to the copious amount of potions Euphemia had forced down his throat because of the dull aching in his body, just beneath his skin, a constant itch. Somehow, when he had woke up that night, there had been none of the usual suffocating wards surrounding him, pressing into his body and detecting his every move. Instead, it was something else, wrapped around his chest and back, which hindered his breathing.
The unfamiliarity of the room had his instincts roaring in panic, and not awake enough to make sense of his anxiety, it had overwhelmed him completely.
The sheets were too clean, and too soft, and too warm.
The air was too fresh, and the curtains too light.
He felt too at place, too familiar, too good. He wasn’t supposed to feel that way in Grimmauld, he couldn’t, wouldn’t. That place was a prison and a curse he needed to shed like a second skin, he couldn’t let it hold him back or try to ease his mind and his worries. He couldn’t start liking his family now, not when he had hurt them—when they had hurt him.
His thoughts were running rampant and Sirius still couldn’t tell where he was, but he knew he couldn’t afford moving around or he’d alert the wards. His panic was cut short, however, when a forearm flung unto his chest, cutting off his breathing completely from both the shock and the acute pain that had flared in his ribs.
It was only then that the disowned Black could make out the snoring filling the room. He attempted a small look to his side, and his eyes fell upon an unruly mop of dark hair. The sight made his heart swell and shoulders loosen. He breathed out shakily in relief.
His best friend. His brother.
And although any other time he would’ve pushed James off the mattress for taking up too much space, Sirius felt happy at the sight of the boy splayed unto the bed. His carefreeness was contagious and Sirius had swiftly fallen back asleep.
However nothing could explain how disoriented he was that morning. He wasn’t hurt, wasn’t in pain, and yet his breathing wouldn’t slow and his mind couldn’t make out where he was exactly.
The sheets on the single bed were tangled around his legs, hindering his movements, which only managed to aggravate his panic. He couldn’t see the walls, or the ceiling, or the windows, thick curtains closed around his bed.
The realization hit him all at once then. He was at Hogwarts. In his dorm. In his bed.
He wasn’t wrapped in bandages, but in bed sheets. His disorientation wasn’t caused by potions. It was only the lack of sleep—or nightmares—both of which were harmless, Sirius tried convincing himself.
He didn’t need James next to him to fall back asleep.
He didn’t.