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She cries when she screams. Dark hair falling in front of her face as she hurls obscenities at him. Fingers clutching her wand so tightly, her knuckles turn white. She is fierce – wild, coiled hair, taut, pale skin, and shining, furious eyes. Her mouth twists, lips curling, as she bites out curses.
Pain rips through him. He bites his hand to keep from screaming. He fights to breathe. To focus on anything other than the burning – the corrosive wave rising through his stomach, his chest, his head.
When it stops, his hand is covered in spit and blood. He falls forward onto the floor. His body is light, barely there. Then, the pain returns. It is a dull ache that sinks through him, slowly consuming him.
She has sunk to her knees in front of him, looking at what she has done. She is still crying, in small gasps. She looks so pitiful, so insignificant. He is caught between rage and pain and wanting to reach out and touch her, comfort her.
He gets up slowly, shaky. Turns away from her and begins to climb the stairs, clutching the railing with clammy palms. Locked in his room, he slowly undresses. He takes off his shirt, damp with sweat, and examines the red welts that are darkening against his skin. He touches his cheek to see if it is bleeding, and removes his hand to see it stained. He wipes it on his bedsheets.
She comes in later, makeup reapplied, chin held high, eyes still watery.
“Sirius.”
It is a whisper.
“Sirius, I’m sorry.”
He nods.
“You know I love you…”
“It’s just you make me so angry sometimes… with your blood politics and… and…”
He doesn’t say anything. He stares at the streak of red on his white sheets.
She lets out a breath.“I forget you’re a teenager… that sometimes you don’t realise what you’re saying.”
He swallows. She pauses, coming to sit on the end of his bed.
“Do you remember how it used to be?”
She tries to meet his gaze.
“When you were young? We were happy?”
She is pleading, looking up at him, teardrops clinging to her eyelashes. He does not move.
She sighs, stands up and moves towards the door. She looks back at him one more time, then leaves, closing the door gently behind her.
He does remember. He remembers her showing him how to hold a wand. He remembers her buying him his first robes, smiling, telling him how handsome he looked.
He also remembers her smacking his hand away as he reached for a second appetiser from the plate, the sharp look she gave him. He remembers her hitting him for the first time, a swift slap across the face. He remembers how hot his face felt afterward. He remembers the words she has screamed at him.
And suddenly he is deeply tired. He falls back onto his covers, staring at the ceiling. He lies there, eyes tracing the swirl patterns in the plaster, until night fades into day.
---
On the night he leaves, it is pouring. He arrives at the Potter’s mansion cold, sore, and empty-handed. He hesitates on the porch; raises his hand to the door three times before he finally lifts the heavy brass knocker.
Then he waits. No one comes. He is about to raise his hand to knock again when James opens the door, shirtless and bleary-eyed.
“Sirius?” he asks, groggy, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Then he snaps up, eyes widening. “Oh fuck,” he breathes, moving aside to let Sirius in.
They stand in the front hall for a moment, awkward and silent. Then James jumps to action.
“Tea,” he declares. “I’m going to make tea.”
He can only nod, following James silently as he winds frenetically through the kitchen.
“Kettle… kettle… I actually have no idea where mum keeps the kettle…” James mutters to himself, barely audible, as he opens and closes cabinets. Then he looks up again. “You need clothes.” It is not a question.
Sirius nods. “Yeah, that would be good.”
“Ok, um. You can go on up and get some of my clothes, and I’ll bring the tea?” he asks. He is nervous, on edge.
“Yeah, ok.” He walks up slowly, looking at the moving pictures that hang along the staircase wall. He has seen them before. Euphemia and Fleamont, newly-weds, mid-kiss on the front steps of their house; Fleamont accepting an award from the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic; Euphemia and another woman standing behind cauldrons, grinning up at the camera.
And there are photos of James. So many photos of James. James at four, covered in mud in the front garden. James at seven, at his first professional quidditch match. James at eleven, in his new Hogwarts robes. James at fifteen, at the Potter’s New Year’s party.
He stares at the photos, standing dripping and silent on the Potters’ polished wooden steps.
The kettle whistles and a crash follows as James drops a tin of tea leaves. Sirius turns from the photos, and walks up the stairs to James’ room. He changes into James’ t-shirt and sweatpants, and sits on the bed.
They sit on James’ bed together and drink tea. They talk about quidditch. They talk about the letters Marlene and James have been exchanging. They talk about Filch and Mrs. Norris and brainstorm outlandish pranks.
As the sun begins to peek over the horizon, James looks over and says, “It’s a good thing you’re here, mate. I was going to be bored stupid without you this summer.”
They look at each other for a moment, and finally, he releases the breath he has been holding. He is going to be ok.
He is going to be ok.
---
He flies up and up and up, faster and faster. James is yelling up at him to come down. But the bite of the wind against his face and the roar of the air in his ear compel him to continue. Up and up and up.
He is out of control, he can barely feel his hands on his broom. James has disappeared from his peripheral vision. He is alone and wild and dangerous. He is a force unleashed, a power unbridled, an energy uncontained.
He is reckless, and it feels good.
He knocks back a seventh shot of Firewhiskey.
He balances on the edge of the astronomy tower.
He launches himself through the air to intercept a Quaffle.
His friends become a Greek chorus, forever demanding what the fuck he is doing. What he was thinking. What is wrong with him.
He takes gleeful delight in brushing off their questions. And he relishes in the whispers that follow him as he walks down the hall – awed speculation about his latest daredevil feat.
He is Sirius. Motherfucking. Black.
And he is untouchable.
---
“Sirius.”
The affection in his voice makes his breath hitch. He swallows.
Remus takes a step closer, dark green eyes trained on him. He reaches out and places a hand on his cheek, so gentle it is almost hovering.
“What would happen if I kissed you right now?” he asks, his thumb moving to his lower lip.
“The world might end,” he tips his head up to meet Remus’ eyes.
Remus looks at him for a moment.
“Well, I reckon I’m alright with that.”
And then he is lowering his head, his eyes are closing, his lips are parting. They are so ridiculously close he can feel Remus’ breath on his nose. They are frozen.
And then Remus’ lips meet his, and they are kissing.
For a moment, they are incandescent. They are transcendent. They are the sliver of moon reflected on the black lake. They are the first rays of sunlight that glorify the sky. They are the depths of an ocean and the flames of an inferno. They are poetry and sex and magic.
They part, and Remus is still holding his face in his hands, and he is looking at him as though he is the most miraculous thing he has ever seen.
Remus drops his hands, and Sirius rests his forehead on his chest. “I reckon I’m alright with it too.”
---
The night he fucks up is loud.
Peter screeches, high-pitched and shaky, as James runs through the branches of the Whomping Willow. Snape and James scream at each other, panting and sweaty and terrified, until Dumbledore’s booming voice cuts them off. James yells at him, anguished and near tears, until he is hoarse.
The weeks that follow are silent.
When he enters the dormitory, the conversation halts abruptly. A hush follows him through the halls. He begins to spend hours alone, only vaguely aware of how much time has passed.
One night after dinner, he is sitting on the floor of the astronomy tower, leaning his head back against the cool stone. He watches as the sun sinks lower, leaving the sky bruised, then black. And then watches as the stars come out, little pinpricks littering the blackness above him.
Footsteps squeak against the staircase behind him, then stop short. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t realise…” she trails off. “I -- I just wanted some air. I’ll go. You stay.” Her words rush out.
He looks at her for a moment. “You can stay.” His voice is scratchy from lack of use. He clears his throat. “If you want.”
She pauses for a moment. Then she shrugs and says, “ok.”
She comes to sit down on the floor next to him. They sit in tense silence, a half-metre of space between them. He can feel her turning to glance at him periodically. He feels like he should say something, but can’t bring himself to form words.
She clears her throat softly, then reaches into her robes. She pulls out a joint, and lights it with the tip of her wand, muttering the spell under her breath. She takes a drag, and slowly breathes out. Whispers of smoke curl into the night air.
She passes the joint over to him. He accepts wordlessly, putting it to his lips and breathing. He closes his eyes as the warmth enters his chest. They sit silently, passing the joint back and forth. The rhythm of breathing in, handing over, breathing out is soothing. He doesn’t know how much time has passed when she flicks off the tip and stands up, brushing her backside.
She pauses at the threshold.
“Goodnight, Sirius,” she says softly. Then she turns on her heel and goes around the bend in the staircase.
She comes back the next evening, and the one after, and the one after that. They fall into a routine of gentle silence. They sit next to each other, sometimes smoking, sometimes reading, sometimes just sitting. Sometimes he wonders if James sees them on the map, their dots side by side night after night.
“Why are you here?” he asks her one night.
She doesn’t answer, and he begins to think she must not have heard him. “Because your friends aren’t talking to you,” she says finally.
He blinks.
“Merlin, you're a bitch, you know that?”
She shrugs. “Sometimes,” she agrees.
That night as she gets up to leave, he clears his throat. “Hey, Evans?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. Really.”
She smiles.
“Anytime.”
---
Gryffindor wins the last match of the season.
The party in the common room is still in full swing as Sirius trips up towards the dormitory, warm and drunk.
They find themselves lying on their backs on top of the covers of Remus’ bed, almost almost touching. He can feel Remus breathing next to him. Can feel the hair of his arm against his own. Can feel his warmth next to him.
And then Remus is jerking awake. They had somehow turned to face each other, legs entwined, the back of his hand resting against Remus’ chest.
He feels warm and light-headed. But Remus is breathing hard, pushing himself up. “We can’t do this. We can’t do this,” he keeps repeating.
He breathes out hard, collecting himself, then turns to Sirius. “You have to go.”
Then a beat later, “Fuck.” Bitter. Angry.
Sirius just nods, lifting himself off the bed, then walking to the dormitory door. He pauses at the threshold, looking back at Remus sitting on his bed, struggling to control his breathing.
Then he turns and runs.
---
Their last year at Hogwarts slips away.
Binns puts himself to sleep in History of Magic. McGonnogal nods approvingly over his work in Transfiguration. Slughorn wears increasingly flamboyant robes to Potions each day.
Whispers of war begin to reach the castle. Late at night, in their darkened dormitory, James talks of joining the fight.
He and Peter play chess. He and Marlene discover a love for playing darts. He and Remus sneak down to the kitchens for spiked hot chocolate.
Regulus gets a dark mark. People go home for the winter hols and do not return.
Gryffindor loses the House Cup to Ravenclaw. Slytherin loses the Quidditch Cup to Hufflepuff. Hufflepuff throws the biggest bash in recent Hogwarts history.
And suddenly, inexplicably, Hogwarts is over.
---
He spends the two weeks leading up the wedding threatening to make the most embarrassing speech in the history of best man speeches.
“Evans, what do you think? Should I tell the story of the time Minnie walked in on the pair of you?”
“Or the time you -”. He is cut off by the pillow James throws at him.
As it turns out, his speech is not horrifically embarrassing. It is perfect.
When you’re young, and you’re a bloke, you spend approximately zero seconds of your time thinking about the sort of person your best mate will marry. And even if I had, I would never have imagined that person to be as perfect for James as Lily.
Lils, I know you hated me. And I know I spent the better part of fifth year trying to convince James you were part troll. But I want you to know that you are my sister. And there is no one else in the world that I would want James to marry.
Lily lifts a trembling hand to her face, squeezing James’ fingers with the other. She mouths I love you. He holds her gaze, grinning. Swallows.
And James. James has been my best friend since my first day at Hogwarts. That first day, he saved me from detention with McGonagall, and I thought I’d gotten lucky.
I had no idea.
He has been saving me ever since. He is solid, and good, and decent. And he deserves this happiness more than anyone I can imagine.
Prongs, mate. I love you.
His voice cracks, and his hands shake.
And then James is hugging him fiercely. And they are standing there clutching each other in the Potters’ sprawling backyard.
They pull apart, and the music starts, and Remus is handing him a drink. And for a fleeting moment, all is right in the world.
---
He hears Harry crying.
He stares through the smoke and the dust and his knees give out below him.
In that moment he knows. Nothing will ever be right again.
---
To truly hate is an art that one learns with time. Sirius Black masters it. He learns to hate the way only a man who has been left to rot for over a decade can. He sits in the back corner of his cell, strangling his grief with hatred so intense it burns blue.
His waking hours are spent thinking about Peter. He fantasizes about tracking him down, torturing him. Killing him slowly, over hours. He imagines Peter cowering, begging for mercy. Pictures using a knife instead of a wand, to extend the process.
His dreams are of James and Lily.
Playing quidditch with James.
James’ crumpled form on the floor.
Smoking up in the astronomy tower with Lily.
Lily’s eyes. Open, lifeless, vacant.
The morning at St. Mungo’s when they proudly introduced their son, Harry.
Harry, alone in his crib in a half-destroyed room.
The night they celebrated moving into their new home.
The cottage in Godric’s Hollow with the front door blown off.
The night they got married.
The night he suggested the switch. When he convinced James. Kissed Lily on the forehead, reassuring her that this was the safer option. Promised Harry that he’d be back soon.
There are days he finds himself wishing that James and Lily had never existed, if only to spare himself this pain. The guilt crushes the remnants of his soul, and all that is left is the husk of his body and an impossible anger.
He realises one day he is no longer made of substance, he is made of shadow. A lifeless face the world will soon forget.
Then, a torn copy of the Prophet is tossed into his cell, landing next to a pool of moisture. It sits there, ink bleeding for half a day before he picks it up.
The picture that matters is dry and clear.
That day he decides. He will not dwell. He will not rail.
He will plan.
fin.