Work Text:
and you’re mistaken; it’s you that’s faking
living and breathing and dying too
this message is for anyone who dares to hear a fool
you can’t bring me back
you can’t bring me back
an ode to no one—smashing pumpkins
Sirius wakes in the middle of the night.
He doesn’t open his eyes immediately. He keeps them closed, the darkness heavy on his eyelids. His mouth is slightly parted, and the air he inhales brushes against his lips coldly. The sheet under his naked back is also cool, and of a pure white colour that makes Sirius feel filthy. He lies still on his luxurious bed that is too big for him: a magnificent four-poster, its frame of the finest ebony, the mattress heavy and soft, the sheets white, the blanket and pillows a dark green satin. It’s nothing like his bed in Hogwarts.
It’s so quiet in his room that Sirius’ own breathing is very loud in his ears. He feels, acutely, as if he shouldn’t be breathing, as if it’s forbidden. As if he is forbidden to breathe, to make any sound at all. As if it’s forbidden to be here, as if he must keep his existence silent and unknown, hidden in some dark corner so no one can accuse him of breathing, moving, being.
Sirius lies in his bed in his room of the house he was born in, and he has never felt more estranged. For the moment he doesn’t know who he is, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to think, he can’t shape any clear thought at all. His brain feels as though it were about to implode; there are so many, many things he needs to think about, wants to think about, but he just can’t—his brain is imploding with the emptiness, he muses, detached and vague, tilting his face slightly to his right, letting his cheek rest against his shoulder. Even his shoulder feels cool, secluded, his whole body not his anymore, just something his consciousness is stuck in; as though someone broke his body apart, then put back together with clumsy, shaking hands, putting the wrong shards back together. When they touch (grind), there is a shrill shriek, and it makes his bones crack and his muscles moan. With every quiet, calm breath he draws in, Sirius feels himself dying just a little bit more.
When he opens his eyes slowly, there’s no difference. The darkness is, if possible, darker and more oppressing still. Only now Sirius feels the breeze of the summer wind lightly brush over his face, almost tentatively, like soft fingertips tracing his jaw, forehead, cheekbone and the shell of his ear, hesitantly inquiring if he’s still alive.
For a while, Sirius is moving his lips, trying to voice one of his non-existent thoughts, but he remains without sound. Then he stops and stares up at the narrow gap of the dark green curtains. His eyes flutter shut briefly, before he fully feels the effect of the bright light, the glare of it hurting his eyes. It’s merely the streetlamps outside, dim flickers of light barely reaching in, but the room is so dark that they feel like he’s staring with eyes wide open into the burning sun on a too bright summer day.
Sirius feels his pulse skip, his breath hitch, and he stares exactly six seconds into the light without blinking.
Then he closes his eyes again, lashes brushing his cheek, and inhales. He feels his chest rising. He feels his body come back together in place, bones and muscles and skin aligning, the blood rushing through his veins. He is aware of his long fingers and his large hands, of his slightly broadened shoulders, of his slim waist against the sheet under him, and of the cold, cold sweat on his neck and above his upper lip.
And then, before he even consciously realises it, he’s already moving, pushing himself off the bed with a hazy sense of disorientation. The darkness spins around him, and Sirius clutches the bedpost with his left hand and holds onto it, waiting the dizziness out. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he isn’t thinking, he doesn’t have a plan, and he’s lying to himself. He doesn’t want to think about what he’s doing. He is just doing it, while fear and panic claw at the cords of his throat. He can feel them working against an insistent tremble that’s seized them, and when he swallows it’s strangely painful. It doesn’t keep him from going on anyway.
He’s feeling that it’s both right and wrong, what he’s doing, as his body moves with a firm sense of calm that frightens him, as Lumos enlightens his room, as he opens his wardrobe and his trembling fingers reach for his favourite jumpers, his favourite trousers. A second later, his great black wooden trunk is open on the floor, and Sirius kneels in front of it, putting his things into it. As he folds his red woollen jumper neatly, he stares at the movements of his hands, before realising that he’s doing it like a Muggle. He realises, too, that he doesn’t care about it, that it feels right to do it this way, and that this is exactly another reason to do what he’s doing. He’s fucked up anyway, and would they see him like this, they’d only agree. And they’ll be happy, when they see he’s gone.
(If they will notice his absence at all.)
Nausea makes his hollow stomach lurch and clench painfully, and he remembers that he hasn’t eaten anything since dinner last night. The next thought contains Mrs Potter and her bright yellow kitchen and a steaming cup of hot chocolate in his favourite old, chipped brown mug, and Mrs Potter’s smile, and suddenly his hunger seems less important, and then not important at all.
He rises on wobbly knees. With a swish, a flick, and another swish of his wand, all his school books and robes and feathers and ink pots and scrolls of parchment are in the trunk. A tap against the trunk, and it snaps shut. Then Sirius stands in the middle of his room, naked for nothing but his briefs.
As he pulls on his trousers, the rustling sound of the denim against his skin is too loud in his ears, too harsh, and the paranoia makes him think he’ll wake them up when he zips up his flies. Then he’s ready in trousers and a black shirt, and he levitates his trunk quietly to trail after him.
When he closes the door behind him, he doesn’t look back.
---
Two hours later he’s standing in front of the Potters’ house, on the side of a deserted country road. He shoves his hands back into his pockets after ringing the bell. His trunk is beside him, and he’s staring at the wooden door, thinking of nothing in particular. The night around him is warm and pleasant, but Sirius can’t help but feel a prickle tingle on the back of his neck. It’s just out of defiance that he doesn’t turn around to see if there’s anyone behind him. The Potters’ front door is old and a bit battered, and before it there’s a red doormat with tawdry patterns on it that Sirius hasn’t seen before. He waits a few more moments before sitting down on the blank stone, and grabs behind himself to reach for the doormat. It’s just an ordinary doormat, and Sirius supposes it’s a Muggle one, enchanted to spell out the names of the visitors. Sirius’ own name is unfurling in bright green, curly writing, and he realises it’s Mr Potter’s handwriting. A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he absently gives another flick of his wand. The bell rings again, a merry sound, preternaturally loud in the night.
Just a moment later there are footsteps somewhere behind him, the sound muffled through the door. Sirius doesn’t raise his head. He just keeps staring at the doormat. As the door opens with a creak, his entire body stills. He doesn’t turn around to see who’s there but simply gets up and calmly brushes the soot off his jeans. When he turns around, he flashes Mrs Potter a smile. It feels as though his lips are stretched into a grimace.
“’Lo, Mrs Potter," he says, giving a half-hearted wave of the hand. “Sorry to disrupt your beauty sleep.”
Mrs Potter stares at him, her kind face set in a frown, accentuating the lines in her face. Her plump body is wrapped in a red dressing gown decked in tacky flower prints. Her blond, grey-streaked hair curls in the disarray of sleep messily over her shoulders, and her blue eyes are hidden behind thick glasses.
“Sirius?” She’s got her wand tightly clutched in her left hand, gripping the doorframe with the other hand.
“Yes, it’s me. But I guess I’ve to answer some question anyway so you can make sure it’s really me and not some Death Eater."
“Go on, then,” Mrs Potter says. Her eyes widening as she looks behind Sirius, and already her voice falters. She’s just seen his trunk.
“Seeing as it’s the middle of the night… no one else would probably dare to ring the bell two times, and no one else would actually be so shameless as to try it in the first place. But, well, Mrs Potter, you see, I’ve had this sort of row at home, and my mother thought maybe Crucio would work on me, and Regulus seemed to think it was OK for her to do that. I mean, she didn’t actually do it, mind you, but she almost did, I know that, I could see it, ‘cause her left eyebrow always starts to twitch, and she juts out her chin,” Sirius babbles, and is afraid to find that he can’t stop, “when she’s angry, and it’s scary ‘cause I know I’m doing the same thing, and I told her I hated her and that, that whole family of hers, that whole fucking family that’s mine too, and I hate them, and I hate it, and I don’t want to be like them, but, but I guess I am—” He laughs a little hysterically. “—I mean, look at me, we all got these fucking freaky grey eyes and the black hair and—”
“Sirius,” Mrs Potter says, interrupting him. She takes a step forward. He doesn’t look at her, can’t look at her. He can’t bear to see the pity in her eyes. “Sirius, are you…”
“—yes, the black hair, these fucking grey eyes, and if it weren’t for your son, Mrs Potter, I doubt I’d actually know how to hug someone without feeling abnormal, and, and if—”
“Sirius,” Mrs Potter says again, and then her hand is on his shoulder, and Sirius shrinks back. Suddenly he’s shaking his head against something invisible, and he looks up into her blue eyes, can’t not. Words fail him. Emotions fail him. Her hand is warm on his shoulder, and she’s coming closer, closer, and then her face is somewhere in his neck. A tiny part of him thinks it must look stupid, he’s two heads bigger than she is, but he is so cold, so cold, and she is warm, and somehow that makes it okay.
When she lets go of him, she pushes him inside the house without another word. She levitates his trunk to fly past them into the large hallway. The door closes somewhere behind him, but Sirius doesn’t feel a thing. The coldness is back now without her arms around him, without her cheek against his. He doesn’t know what’s happening, doesn’t really care either and just trusts her firm, secure hand on his shoulder to lead him into James’ room. She lays out pyjama bottoms for him on James’ bed, and says, “I know you don’t sleep with a shirt, but if you want one, there are several down here.”
She shows him, and then she excuses herself, saying she’ll be right back. She leaves Sirius behind but doesn’t shut the door, and the room isn’t dark, and James’ bed is a normal bed, so it’s all right. Sirius doesn’t bother changing his clothes, only sits down on James’ bed and stares at his palms, unaware of the time passing.
It feels like an eternity until Mrs Potter is back. She doesn’t say anything as she sees him lie on the bed still fully clothed. They sit together in silence, Mrs Potter sitting on the floor so they’re face to face. Eventually he turns his head around, stares with wide, blank eyes into hers.
“Mother would never sit on the floor to talk to me,” he whispers, the words coming forward unbidden. “She doesn’t know I like hot chocolate. She doesn’t know I can’t stand to sleep with a shirt on. She doesn’t know how I hate it when the door’s closed, or when the window’s shut, that I can’t sleep then because it all feels so restrictive. She… she—she doesn’t know.”
Mrs Potter doesn’t answer. She just looks into his eyes for a moment longer, and then she smiles, sadly. She inclines her head towards her right, to the bedside table.
“There are some chicken sandwiches for you, and some walnut cookies left from this afternoon. They’re honey-glazed, so you should like them. The hot chocolate will stay warm, I enchanted it, so it’s all right if you don’t drink it right away. And now,” she says, standing up, “I suggest you have a bite of these sandwiches, they’re really quite tasty. Don’t worry about making a mess, James is worse than you, if you can believe that. He’s with his aunt right now—but I guess you know that already, don’t you?” Sirius nods, mutely. “Of course, he’s told you. He’ll be back in two days, so you can stay in his room for this long. I’ll tidy up tomorrow. I guess you’ll manage one night in here with his socks all over the floor?”
“As long—as long as you leave the door—“
“—open?” she finishes for him, and the sad smile turns fond. Something about it makes Sirius’ eyes sting. “I will.”
Mrs Potter makes as if to leave, but she suddenly turns around. Sirius feels her soft, warm lips against his forehead, and a whispered, “I know. I know you don’t like sleeping with the door closed, darling.”
When she leaves him, it is with a tender brush of fingertips against his cheek, an open door and open windows, and she doesn’t force him into changing clothes, and the hot chocolate is still there; and as Sirius sees it’s the old brown, chipped mug, the tears begin to fall.
He’s never had a favourite mug at home.
He has one, now.