The Secret
When Sirius was high, the ghosts gave him gifts. The night of the reaping, with the train rocking him gently in his bed, it was memories of days in District 12 spent with James, Regulus, and Lily.
“Sirius!” James ran outside the school building - a two story, wooden structure that leaned dangerously to one side, with more broken and poorly patched windows than whole ones, and rotten planks of wood that needed replacing every school year - and launched himself in Sirius’ waiting arms. Sirius spun him around and laughed.
“I’ve missed you!” James wailed once Sirius sat him down. “Where were you?”
Sirius put an arm around Reggie’s shoulders while Lily skipped out to join them in the sunshine.
“Reg didn’t feel good,” Sirius lied. He caught James’ quirked brow and titled his head to the side - having a whole conversation with just those little gestures. “He’s better now and Walburga is asleep. Let’s go do something.”
What they were going to do in District 12 was anyone’s guess, and Sirius’ peaceful dream ended before his memory had been properly jogged, but he was sure it had been brilliant.
Everything before the games had been.
Sirius forced himself out of bed the next morning, rising with the alarm that he set before he’d blacked out. He had no time to be worthless, he had to prepare Harry.
While he showered and shaved, Sirius wasn’t sure if he was preparing Harry for death or victory. But he knew he couldn’t do nothing; not like he had for the last fourteen years.
Having the kid win the games would take nothing short of a miracle, but James kept screaming at Sirius to stop picturing Harry in a wooden casket, so he had to try.
‘Tell him to make allies,’ James said when Sirius shakily made his way to the dining cart. ‘Maybe with Neville?’
How are they meant to be allies? There’s only one winner.
‘We were allies.’
And look how that turned out.
James fell silent when Sirius entered the dining cart. He was early, he’d told the boys to be there at eight, but Rita was already in attendance. Her hair was done up in elaborate curls to match her face caked with makeup. Probably preparing for their arrival at the Capitol soon. Sirius hadn’t bothered dressing up, a shower and clean face was the most that the Capitol got from him and he wouldn’t have done it if any other name had been drawn besides Harry’s.
Sirius made a point to avoid his tributes in the past. Sure, he’d tried at first, tried to keep them alive, but he failed. Over and over and over.
Being a mentor was a punishment for daring to win the games just as losing Regulus had been a punishment for trying to lose.
“Well this is a surprise,” Rita cooed when she saw Sirius’ minimal efforts. “You’re nearly sober, aren’t you?”
He was and it was painful. His body ached for the release he knew he could find in his pocket, the vial that softened James’ voice and erased the haunted eyes of everyone Sirius never saved and the ones he killed himself.
‘You’ll kill Harry yourself if you don’t try,’ James said plainly. ‘Don’t fail him again. I trusted you.’
“I know,” Sirius muttered, responding to James. Rita didn’t notice his words weren’t for her though, because she picked up her clipboard from the table and began talking to him.
Irritatingly.
“When we arrive, the tributes need to go straight to makeup,” she said, her eyes ticking over the same list she made every year. “Your godson has Madam Malkin, a new name this year, and the other boy has—,”
Sirius jolted once her words permeated the haze in his brain.
“Godson?” he asked sharply. His eyes narrowed at Rita’s tiny smirk, as if she knew precisely what she had said.
Rita fluttered her lashes, a piss poor attempt to look innocent.
“Yes,” she said glibly. “The boy you swore to protect? It was a touching moment, Sirius, one that they still replay at times.”
They did. The Capitol loved to taunt Sirius with replays of James dying, his last wish—
“Protect them.”
—and the reminder of the promise Sirius made in front of Panem.
It was why Sirius was a rather universally disliked person in his District. There was no pride in their victor, not when their victor was a sham.
Sirius didn’t win anything. He lost everything and threw away the one thing he had left in his miserable life.
Sirius couldn’t enter Knockturn Alley to meet with his morphling supplier or buy illegal meat without getting cold shoulders and looks of disgust. The shopkeepers there used to stage loud conversations about Harry—
“I saw James’ son yesterday. Poor dear was skin and bones. It’s a shame he’s stuck in that orphanage with no family.”
—and only quit once they realized Sirius simply got high before he went there.
It was more tolerable to be berated by James than it was the people who never went in the arena.
“He doesn’t know,” Sirius told Rita. He sounded desperate, because he was. “I don’t want him to know.”
And why would he? Sirius had failed at everything he'd ever tried to do - save Reggie from Walburga and then the Capitol itself, sacrifice himself for James, take care of Lily and Harry like he'd promised - and the last thing Harry needed now, as he was preparing to enter into a death match, was the weight of knowing that his poor excuse for a godfather had been living in the same District as him for so many years and was now in charge of keeping him alive through an event he would be doomed to die in.
It would be easier on Sirius if Harry died without knowing of their connection.
"Well, that's not up to you, is it?" Rita asked with a coy smile as she batted her impossibly long eyelashes at Sirius.
"What did you tell him?" Sirius snarled, feeling his hands starting to shake from a combination of unsettlement and withdrawals.
The answer never came, though. The doors of the dining cart opened to admit Neville - dressed nicely, for District 12 that is, with his hair combed carefully but with bruised eyes from lack of sleep and a morose downturn to his lips - and Harry, who was dressed in the same clothes from the day before, sans shoes, and wore a blank expression that oozed indifference to all present.
"Good morning," Neville greeted politely, if quietly, before taking a seat at the breakfast table. Harry said nothing.
Nerves for the games or knowledge at whatever Rita had done?
Properly panicked now, Sirius blindly reached for a chair and sat down heavily as he made a show of picking food that he had no intention of eating and dumping it on his plate. He couldn't tell if Harry was being his usual asshole-ish self, if the stress of the Games had gotten to him over the course of the night spent on the train, or if something else was the source of his 'sunny' disposition. Something like fucking Rita telling him Sirius was his godfather.
He aimed a glare at the blonde when she took the salad bowl from his hands and gritted his teeth when she shot him a wink in response.
"How did you boys sleep?" Rita asked after the silence at the table stretched too long for her comfort. "I can imagine the beds were much nicer compared to what you're used to at home, weren't they?"
"They were fine," Neville replied with a polite smile. The dark circles under his eyes told everyone that he was lying through his teeth and hadn't done much sleeping, but Rita accepted the lie with a fake smile full of white teeth.
"Oh, I don't know," Harry said breezily, shoveling some eggs in his mouth and chewing obnoxiously. "I rather liked sleeping in a tent."
Sirius could see Rita's eye twitching at Harry's purposeful lack of manners, but he couldn't care less about Rita and her snobbish sensibilities right now. And he wished the same could be said about what Harry had just said too. Cold indifference would be better than the knife he could feel lodged in his chest, carving out whatever heart he had left. He couldn't even look at Harry, not when he knew he was the reason his godson even knew what sleeping in a tent was like.
He should've grown up in James' victor home, with both of his parents alive and well-off, there to raise him and take care of him properly. Not in orphanages or on the streets.
And certainly not with Sirius as his guardian.
"Well," Rita said after a beat, completely ignoring Harry's sarcastic remark with the ease of someone who'd had to deal with kids from the poorer Districts all her adult life, "as I was telling your mentor before you arrived, the first item on the agenda, as soon as we arrive, is makeup. You were each assigned an artist in charge of transforming you from this," she gestured vaguely with a sneer and her manicured nails to encompass the two boys' mediocre appearances, "into magnificent beings worthy of having your faces shown across the whole of Panem. You are to be polite and do as you are told."
Neither boy looked particularly happy about that, least of all Harry, but Neville at least nodded silently as they continued to eat. Deciding to make himself useful for once, Sirius chimed in.
"Looking good - being remarkable in some way, appearance wise, making the world remember you - is the first step in securing sponsorships. The more people like you and talk about you, the better your odds for survival."
"Thank you, Mr. Black," Neville replied, inclining his head respectfully.
“I’ve always imagined I’d be ugly in my casket, thank god I’ll be made pretty first,” Harry quipped with a sarcastic smile for Rita that went right over her head.
“Yes, well, we can’t have you looking as you do,” Rita said, sounding sweet while her words were a barb. “Imagine how embarrassing that would be for your District.”
Harry’s entire expression darkened and he focused the full force of his ire on Rita.
A worthy target, in Sirius’ biased opinion.
“Imagine how god damned embarrassing it is to think I care about being pretty before I’m tossed in an arena to die for crimes I never committed,” Harry snarled. And damn if he didn’t sound like Sirius back when he’d had the thoughts and courage to criticize Panem.
It was dangerous.
“Pretty faces get sponsors,” Sirius said flatly, an end to the argument that was building.
He thought.
Harry turned Lily’s flashing eyes on Sirius and he—
“I’ll watch over Regulus here, you watch over our James there, okay, Sirius? Swear?”
“I swear, Lils.”
—curled his upper lip to finish the image of Lily at her most furious.
“You know what else gets sponsors?” Harry slapped his hand on the table. “Mentors. Unfortunately, all we have is you, so I imagine I’ll starve to death in the arena before anyone can kill me.”
He knew.
He knew.
There was no way that Harry could look at Sirius with that much hatred, that much broken disappointment, and not know.
“With that attitude you certainly will,” Rita chirped while Harry glared at Sirius and Sirius argued with James.
‘Apologize. Explain.’
I can’t.
‘What can you do?’
Nothing.
The same as always.
“Perhaps you’ll have the sense to play your part correctly,” Rita said to Neville. Harry only dragged his eyes away from Sirius’ when Rita went to pat Neville’s hand and the boy all but growled at her.
“Do not ever touch me,” Neville said. He yanked his hand out of her reach and had the others all staring at him with badly concealed surprise. Up until then, Neville Longbottom had been an obedient boy ready to face death with his chin up.
Maybe he’d have a chance to fight instead.
As the train neared the Capitol, Neville got up from his seat, a curious look on his face as he approached the window. Sirius knew what he was seeing - the same thing he and James saw when they first made this journey all those years ago.
The might of the Capitol.
A great city full of tall, white buildings, surrounded by water on one side and mountains on the other. Overwhelming crowds of rich and well-bred idiots in colorful wigs and tons of makeup, screaming their fucking heads off as they cheered for the arrival of their newest play things for the year, the next bodies to fill the Capitol's caskets and to be buried in unmarked graves back in their District.
Harry didn't seem to share Neville's wonder at the sight that lay outside the train. Sirius didn't either.
“Harry, c’mere,” Neville called to Harry. Neville smiled, a bland and emotionless thing that the Capitol citizens screamed for, and raised a hand to them. “It might help you,” he told Harry.
“I’d rather die,” Harry said flatly. He got up and moved to the window long enough to flip off the crowds with both hands then scowled at Sirius over his shoulder. “Have Neville come get me when we arrive.”
The message was clear - Harry knew and Harry was pissed.
An attitude that was going to make helping him in the arena that much harder.
Harry’s stylist, Madam Malkin was just as cheerful as everyone who had either been born in the Capitol or had just arrived there tended to be. She was a squat woman with greying hair - Sirius wasn't sure if that was her choice not to dye it as a fashion statement or if she'd purposely dyed it that color - and swirling lines of rainbow-colored eyeliner around her violet painted eyes, dressed in a mauve dress with frilly sleeves and lime green accents. She was all smiles when they met her and Sirius privately gave her points for her cheerfulness not dimming in the face of Harry's prickly demeanor and deplorable appearance.
All the points in the world didn’t make up for the fact that she was there to make his godson pretty for death though.
"Wonderful to meet you! Oh, it's just sublime to be here and work on such a fine young man," the woman gushed, tittering and fluttering around like an overexcited butterfly. It was honestly giving Sirius a headache. "First off - a shower. Grab a towel and go through there, please, and put on one of the bathrobes when you return, you won't be needing those clothes anymore."
Harry didn't seem too excited about that and Sirius was sure he was quietly grumbling something under his breath, but he went away anyway, to Sirius' surprise.
While they waited, Malkin started preparing her workstation. Sirius leaned against a wall, making himself scarce and as out of the way as possible, and watched as the woman laid out palettes of makeup, brushes, various bottles and colorful tubes, before moving on to fabrics. She seemed to be debating between two different materials when Harry emerged from his shower, looking like a drowned kitten with his wet curly hair flopping onto his forehead and getting in his eyes.
"Come here, dear. Take a seat." She waited until Harry made his way there, looking as if Malkin would be the one to deal the killing blow instead of one of the kids in the arena several days from now, before she went around the chair and settled behind Harry.
"We'll start with the hair and makeup, then move on to clothing. You have magnificent eyes and very good bone structure - must take after your father, I'm sure - and your complexion is just gorgeous. It will be my pleasure to work with this face."
Sirius looked on - seeing James instead of Harry, and another stylist in Malkin's place - with blank eyes as the cheerful woman expertly dried and styled Harry's hair, somehow managing to tame the riot of curls that James had never managed to beat into submission.
James had done the parade and the interviews with wild hair. He and Sirius had laughed about it being his trademark look—
“So they can recognize me in the arena,” James joked.
It was good that Harry wouldn’t have James’ look; Sirius didn’t want him to have James’ fate.
Once the battle with Harry’s hair was over, Malkin moved on to Harry's face, which she applied beauty base zero to. Sirius felt like throwing up when he saw his godson's reflection in the mirror and got to see what his face would've looked like without the scars and dark circles marring his visage.
"Stand up now, please," Malkin said once she was satisfied with everything above the neck. "I need to take your measurements and see what colors and fabrics go best. This will take some time, and I apologize, but I want you looking perfect out there."
If nothing else, Sirius could appreciate her enthusiasm and dedication to her craft and Harry both.
When Malkin ordered Harry to remove his robe, Sirius thought he would fight it. Sirius had - he hadn’t wanted to be nude in front of the Capitol robots. Harry hardly blinked though; his eyes went hazy and he slipped the robe off.
Sirius wondered what he was thinking.
He wished he had the ability to ask him.
The clothing decisions took the better part of two hours. It seemed like Malkin couldn't settle on one single color that would work best with Harry's coloring, nor was she satisfied with the materials and how they flowed and draped over Harry's body. Sirius could feel his patience thinning as time kept passing and had never wished for a dose of morphling as much as he did in that moment.
Harry didn't look to be enjoying the ordeal any more than Sirius did. And it was only Harry’s blank face coupled with his tiny flinches that kept Sirius from jogging to the bathroom to shoot up. He couldn’t go in the arena with Harry - or for Harry - but he could withstand the torture of being made over together.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Malkin stepped back and eyed Harry critically for a moment before nodding, a smile on her face, and clapping once.
"Stunning. I have it now - I can see it so clearly! Oh, this will be amazing indeed," she enthused. "You can take these off and put on the clothes I've laid out for you there, Harry. You're free from me now, I have to get started on this right away!"
As soon as Harry was on his feet, throwing on the clothes she laid out blindly, Sirius led him from the artist’s room to the elevators to go up to the top floor.
“Penthouse for the best District,” Sirius quipped, a jest that fell flat in the face of Harry’s silence and hazy eyes. “What are you thinking?”
Harry shook his head and turned to tilt it curiously at Sirius.
“What?”
Sirius stuffed his trembling hands in his pockets, mentally counting down the time until dinner would end and Sirius could chase oblivion with James.
“What are you thinking?”
“I was wondering how my dad would feel about you being my mentor, actually,” Harry said, as calm as Sirius had ever heard him. Harry’s calm wasn’t reassuring though, not when his tone was cool and distant, like James’ when he was his most angry.
Sirius swallowed - swallowed his emotions that stuck in his throat - and shrugged.
“Not great,” he admitted quietly. “James would have been a better mentor.”
The elevator dinged and Harry stared at Sirius as if he were a moth he found in his tent and was trying to figure out if he should kill it or send it on its way outside.
“James.” Harry nodded. “I’ve always wondered what his name was. I suppose you’re a bit useful after all.”
Sirius watched his godson walk away from him, somehow headed straight to the bedrooms, and felt his heart break once more. At that point, he was wondering just how many times he could feel his heart be ripped viciously out of his hollow chest and stomped on before he finally died for good.
The kid didn’t even know his dad’s name.
’And whose fault is that?’ James asked.
Mine. Always mine.