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Chapter Text

The Wind of a Thousand Hurricanes

James Potter’s fourth year begins with a set of intentions, spoken to himself in the mirror of his childhood bedroom with his morning hair mussed and his goofy smile overjoyed: he is going to brainstorm the most jaw-dropping pranks, invent the coolest Quidditch moves, and cement his name as a legend in the halls of Hogwarts.

His excitement carries him through breakfast with his parents – where Monty makes his favorite raspberry scones and Effie sneaks more and more snacks into his trunk – all the way to platform 9 ¾ buzzing with equally-enthusiastic and anxious students, and then the train compartment where Peter and Remus are already waiting. James frowns for one second, because it’s unlike the Blacks to be late, but then shrugs it off, figuring that Sirius must’ve kicked up a fuss and managed to get one over on his parents. He just hopes it wasn’t at his friend’s ultimate expense.

James chatters happily with Peter about his summer holiday in Greece, teases Remus about his nonstop growth spurt that practically makes his head touch the train compartment’s ceiling by now, and lets his overflowing energy bubble into his fidgeting knee. 

Everything is going right. This year is going to be epic.

And then the train compartment door slides open. And everything stops.

James’ knee pauses, his mouth freezes, his stomach drops.

Sirius is a skeleton standing in the doorway. He’s mostly covered by robes, but the same pair that fit him just two months ago now drips off his shoulders and pools around his waist, the extra fabric a glaring sign that something is wrong. His wrists are small and bony where they peek out from his sleeves. His fingers are attenuated points.

His eye sockets are sunken, his cheekbones are pushing through the skin of his face, his hair is thin and dry, hanging limply around his red-ringed eyes.

He looks so thin – too thin. He looks sickly. He looks gaunt.

“Hey,” Sirius greets, avoiding eye contact and slipping into the space next to Remus.

No one speaks for a moment. James wants to ask Sirius if he’s okay, but he can’t. It would only agitate the other boy. Besides, he’s obviously not okay.

“Hey,” Remus eventually says back, his eyes lingering on Sirius’ face, something unreadable in Moony’s pupils. 

They all lapse into silence. It’s an awkward ten minutes or so before Sirius finally speaks again.

“Does anyone have any food?” His voice is a watery whisper, desperation and shame tinging it in equal parts.

And there it is, the subtle confirmation of what James had feared. He’ll have to get the details later – once Sirius is fed and warm and safely back at Hogwarts James knows how to get him talking – but for now, the little hints and nonverbal cues will have to fill in the blanks.

He shares a quick look with Remus, a silent agreement to fix this, however they can.

“Well, Mum made me take about twenty sandwiches in my trunk this morning, so I think we’re good for at least a week,” James replies, attempting to make it a joke. It’ll let Sirius welcome the help easier. He knows accepting kindness always makes Sirius feel weak.

Remus digs some chocolate out of his own trunk as Peter produces a handful of sugar quills and James extends two sandwiches out to Sirius. Sirius reaches a bony hand out, snagging one of the sandwiches and inhales half of it in one bite. It’s gone in a flash, and his eyes lock on the other one, clearly fighting some internal battle.

“Go on,” James murmurs softly, extending it further to Sirius. Sirius’ eyes flick up to meet his, and James’ stomach clenches, a tendril of anger snaking out from it. Sirius isn’t like this – unsure, uneasy, frightened. Sirius isn’t meek, he’s larger than life and wild and rambunctious and always so sure and certain. Every step he takes is trod in confidence.

And now he’s looking at James as if James is going to yank his hand away the second Sirius touches it.

“There’s plenty,” James encourages, trying to keep his voice steady. “I promise.”

And then Sirius’ fingers are on his and the second sandwich disappears just as quickly as the first.

“Here,” Remus offers, holding out a canteen of water. “Drink.”

Sirius doesn’t hesitate.

When the trolley witch comes, James spends half of his money for the school year buying out the cart of snacks, placing armfuls of the pastries and sweets into Sirius’ lap. Halfway through Sirius’ fifth cauldron cake, Remus asks the dreaded question.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Peter’s mouth immediately grimaces nervously, and for good reason, James thinks. It’s the kind of question that could either trigger a punch or a sob from Sirius when he’s in this state, and it’s impossible to predict whether anger or sorrow will win out.

Neither does, it turns out, as Sirius just mumbles something unintelligible around a mouthful.

“What was that?” Remus prompts. James surmises it must be something about the wolf lying dormant inside him that gives the taller boy all that confidence.

“Yesterday,” Sirius murmurs, eyes once again downcast.

Yesterday. The word ricochets around James’ mind. Maybe he means dinner. That would mean he only missed breakfast today. That’s not so bad. But the outline of bones in Sirius’ face makes that tendril of anger duplicate.

“Yesterday when?”

Remus gets a shrug in response.

“Sirius,” he insists, tone soft and kind but eyes filled with concern. James wants to crush something in his fists.

Sirius finally looks over at Remus, a new hardness in his gaze. There are glances exchanged, notions and meaning, but it’s all between the two of them and James can’t make sense of any of it. His eyes flick to Peter, who is politely looking away from the scene in favor of wrestling down an escaping chocolate frog to hand to Sirius.

Finally, Sirius looks away, a stubborn clench in his jaw that James would recognize anywhere. Remus reaches out a hand and touches it to Sirius’ knobby knee next to him. Sirius’ whole body flinches for a moment, his eyes snapping back to blink fearfully at Remus. Remus doesn’t relent, leaving his palm where it is, and after a moment, Sirius relaxes under it once again.

“When?” Remus repeats softly.

Sirius sighs, but answers. “Yesterday morning.”

“You haven’t eaten in a day?” James blurts out, unable to control the tendrils of anger as they spawn once more and bubble up inside of him with that knowledge. A moment later, Remus’ steady voice asks, “What did you have?”

Sirius ignores James’ outburst. “A roll.”

“And?” Remus nudges.

But Sirius just looks away.

The realization does nothing to quell James’ ever-growing fury.

“That’s it,” he says, stupidly. “That’s it?!”

“James –” Remus tries to calm him, but it’s too late. Peter’s mouth is grimacing again.

This was supposed to be the year of pranks and Quidditch trophies and legend status. Instead, the anger that James works so hard to keep chained and stifled at a safe distance is latching hooks onto his bones and pulling itself closer and closer to his mouth, where it’ll tumble out of him as staining, tinted venom that he can never take back.

“All they gave you is a fucking roll? How is it possible to starve in one of the richest families in all of Wizarding Britain?!” he demands in rage, the words too loud and too honest for their confined train compartment.

Sirius’ eyes blaze silver for a split second before his body curls into itself and his gaze glazes over.

Remus glares at James, opening his mouth to chastise him, but before Moony can say anything, the train compartment door slides open and Regulus Black stands awkwardly on the other side, face shadowed with memories.

Regulus’ eyes skip straight to Sirius, as if James and Remus and Peter are invisible. There’s something in the way Regulus’ shoulders fall just a bit upon seeing his brother. As if this is both what he expected and not what he expected simultaneously.

James’ anger sits poised to attack, waiting to see how this will play out.

Sirius unfurls himself enough just to meet his brother’s gaze. They watch each other, unblinking. 

“You made it,” Regulus finally says, gesturing an arm stiffly around the compartment.

“You didn’t wait.” Sirius’ voice is calm and even, his expression wiped painstakingly clean, offering no indication of his true feelings.

Regulus bites the side of his cheek, and James can’t help but think that it looks childish. Like a little boy trying to talk himself out of being in trouble.

“He didn’t let me. Insisted we go separately.”

They’re measuring words. James has seen Sirius do this before, when they’re discussing a prank in a public space and he doesn’t want the secret to spill. Avoid proper names, give minimal details, use generic phrases. James never realized where Sirius learned it. How he learned it. Why he had to.

Sirius nods at his brother’s words, but there’s no true acceptance behind it.

“I asked to see you,” Regulus continues. “They wouldn’t – I tried – they put up a –” Regulus stops again, sighing in frustration. “I couldn’t get anything through.”

Sirius stays motionless.

Through where? James wants to scream, but something about this moment feels important. Like this conversation between Regulus and Sirius is in a sphere all its own, impenetrable to the cares or worries of anyone else.

They’re speaking a language no one else is fluent in. They’ve been to a place no one else can visit.

“I didn’t know if you’d – I thought –” There’s that sigh of frustration again. Regulus’ shoulders drop further. “You don’t look good,” he settles on.

“I’ll be okay,” Sirius answers immediately, and James resists the urge to snap at the instant defense mechanism he’s seen used for the past three years.

“You don’t know that,” Regulus pushes back, an innocent desperation peeking through the words. Childlike, James thinks again. “These things, they have long term –”

“I’ll be fine,” Sirius repeats louder. James doesn’t need to be fluent in the language to understand that that means Sirius doesn’t want to talk about this further.

The two brothers stare at each other for a bit longer, mutual annoyance stemming from different reasons tangling between them. Eventually, Regulus wordlessly turns away, stepping back out of the compartment and disappearing down the corridor. 

James reviews the conversation in his head, and comes to a few conclusions:

1. Regulus was surprised to see Sirius on the train.
2. Someone – Orion? – made them come to the station separately.
3. Regulus wasn’t able to see Sirius or give him anything. For how long? All day? All summer?
4. Whatever happened to Sirius has long term effects. Whatever happened to Sirius has long term effects.

James’ rage, dulled by the momentary review, flows back into him full-force, like the wind of a thousand hurricanes. 

They’ve been starving Sirius, they’ve been locking him away and isolating him and Merlin knows what else. James has seen the signs, has seen the blood on the tissues in the rubbish and the sweat-soaked sheets after a nightmare and the ghosts that whirl in Sirius’ pupils whenever his thoughts go too far away. 

There is so much fire-red wrath swimming in James’ veins, and he knows none of it will help Sirius, knows that it has only ever hurt him in the past. So he forces his anger to the tips of his fingers, ties it in the tightest knots, and does the one thing he’d promised not to do earlier. He asks if Sirius is okay.

Sirius looks at him for a long time, and James knows the other boy will wind up sobbing into his chest under the security of heavy covers and thick moonlight that night. James can do that for him. Can be the steady arms encircling him, the warm fabric collecting his tears, the best friend who comforts and cares and can’t actually do anything at all to fix any of it.

“I’m tired,” Sirius replies, sounding genuinely exhausted. He slides down a bit on the bench, resting his head against Remus’ shoulder. James swears he sees a spark of gold in Remus’ eyes at the action, but the boy stays completely still, chest barely even moving with his breaths.

Remus glances at James and they share another look. One that says that Remus is just as angry. One that says that this isn’t over. Not yet.

Beneath the nails of his fingers, James feels the knots loosen.

Chapter Text

Sirius won’t talk about it.

In fact, Sirius doesn’t talk much at all.

He’ll answer most direct questions, but only with one or two sentences. Just enough words to not raise suspicion when McGonagall calls on him in class or Marlene strikes up a conversation about the latest Quidditch rankings.

James had tried, once, to bring up the summer, but Sirius had just made a little whimpering sound in the back of his throat, his eyebrows squeezing together as if he couldn’t quite figure out how to form the words. That night, James had dreamt of strangling Orion’s throat beneath raging fingers.

Sirius cries, though. When the dormitory is dark and the night creeps in to supposedly soothe them all, Sirius’ hiccoughy sobs pierce the cooling air like needles stabbing through thread. Sirius never initiates it, but as soon as James walks over to comfort him, furious fists clenching and unclenching with the effort of putting his own anger aside, Sirius grabs onto him, arms tight and unyielding, as if the feeling of James next to him is the only thing keeping him from tumbling into a deeper despair.

They’re three weeks into the school year when James snaps. Remus catches up to him right before he turns the corridor in the dungeons that leads to the Slytherin dorms.

“James, don’t,” he says firmly, as if James ever listens to anyone besides his parents.

James whips around, feeling the flames that race up his skin. “Why not?” he barks, meaner than he intends.

Remus’ jaw clenches but he doesn’t back down. “We have to give him time. He’s not ready yet.”

“It’s been three weeks,” James argues, huffing and turning back around.

“Sometimes he tells me things!” Remus blurts out. “Things he doesn’t tell anyone else.”

It’s enough to make James turn once more. It’s also enough to make something ugly and green sizzle in his gut, momentarily diffusing the anger and replacing it with an irrational jealousy.

Remus keeps his voice calm. He must see the wildness in James’ eyes. 

“Things about his family. About himself. About…” Remus sighs. “Sometimes it takes years. He’ll tell me things from when he was nine years old as if they happened yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have years,” James replies curtly.  

Remus nods slowly, as if he was expecting this. James feels his eyes narrow. Remus is not the enemy. He knows this. But sometimes that boy is bloody annoying – too level-headed for James’ own chaotic brain.

“He can barely speak,” Remus protests gently.

“Exactly.”

Another sigh from the taller boy. James is losing patience.

“We can only push him so far,” Remus says.

“That’s why I’m going to his brother instead.” With that, James snaps back around and stalks off down the corridor.

“What are you going to do when you find out?” Remus calls after him.

James doesn’t answer, feeling the last resistance on his knotted anger give way.

***

James ambushes Regulus as he leaves the Slytherin dorms for Quidditch practice. He darts out a hand, swiping one of Regulus’ sleeves in his seething palms before steering them both down the hallway and ducking into a broom closet.

James isn’t trying to scare Regulus, but his anger seems to be leaching out onto everyone in the near vicinity without precision.

Regulus, for his part, doesn’t seem too surprised to see James.

“How was your summer?” James demands, a tad bit too loud.

Regulus breathes in and out through his nose a few times, swallowing heavily once before answering softly, “I think Sirius and I had different summers, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What did they do to him?” James interrogates, feeling a split-second of petrifying fear lock his bones before it dissolves into mist and escapes on his exhale.

Whatever Regulus tells him, whatever horrors Sirius underwent, James can face them. If Sirius had to, then James will as well.

“I don’t know,” Regulus says quietly, and James wants to smash his face to bits, wants to mangle him beyond recognition. He counts to ten instead, internally searching for his mother’s calming voice and the feel of her palm around his as she instructs his breathing.

“You were in the house,” he grinds out from clenched teeth. “Your room is down the hall from his. How can you not know?”

Regulus seems unperturbed by James’ barely concealed fury. 

“I think that’s the point,” he says, just above a whisper. James realizes he still has a fist tangled in the fabric of Regulus’ Quidditch kit. He tightens it.

“You said it had long term effects,” James continues, harshly. 

Regulus stares at the hand on his sleeve. James counts in his head. 

Slowly, one by one, he releases each finger until they’re gone, hand hanging limp and useless by his side with only the rumpled fabric as a memory of its rage.

“I don't know much,” Regulus finally replies, “because they didn't want me to know.”

“That’s not –”

“ But ,” Regulus says sternly, stone cold eyes flicking up to meet James’ as he cuts off his words. “I know he wasn’t at meals. I know his door was closed – locked – and they took his wand. There was some sort of warding around his door. Only they could get through. She brought him trays, I think. Once or twice a day.”

A roll. A fucking roll.

“It seemed dark. There wasn’t ever light coming from beneath his door. Not even during the day.”

James bites down on his tongue until he tastes blood. He wishes it was Walburga’s. 

“I don’t think he spoke to anyone for two months. I don’t think he…”

“What?” James growls. “Don’t think he what?”

Regulus straightens up, his shoulders falling back and his neck lengthening into perfect pureblood posture. 

“She took his voice.” The words are suddenly emotionless, like Sirius’ on the train when Regulus had seemed so frightened. Funny how they can both channel that hollowness when needed. Not really funny at all. “The first night we got home. I don’t think he spoke after that.” Regulus shrugs nonchalantly. “I never heard screams.”

All at once, it is like a tidal wave inside James, like all of those hurricanes from before coming together to create one unfathomable storm whose limits of destruction cannot be measured by a human scale. It is blowing out his ears, puffing from his mouth, shooting from the tips of his fingers. He is thunder and lightning and reckless, irrevocable carnage. 

He should use his wand. He should tear into flesh and bone with a burning blue light. He should use every horrific spell he’s ever learned. 

But instead, his hand darts out, and before he even knows what he’s doing, his palm is connecting with Regulus’ cheek. 

Regulus flinches, but does not make a sound. He doesn’t look away. He doesn't narrow his eyes. He just keeps staring at James, expression guarded but calm. 

James feels a fleeting moment of confusion before the whole world seems to dim around him. Someone has hit Regulus before. Someone has taught him to be quiet.

And then there’s just guilt and panic and the red mark on Regulus’ cheek and James’ mother’s voice, trying to soothe him, to ease his unrelenting anger, the emotions that spring from him like a broken dam.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice sounds far away, stained with shock. Regulus just keeps looking at him. “I…I don’t…I’m sorry,” he repeats dumbly.

His mother’s voice is getting louder now, more urgent. He tries to resist it but he can’t. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, feeling all the rage deflate out of him like a cosmic balloon. Remus isn’t the enemy. And neither is Regulus.

The question finally makes the other boy narrow his eyes. 

“I’m late for Quidditch,” he says stonily, brushing past James to leave the closet.

The panic intensifies.

“You said you asked to see him!” James calls out before Regulus can go. “On the train, you said that.”

There is a chink in Regulus’ aloof armor, but only for a second. His shoulders slump just slightly, his eyes adopting a momentary haze.

The red mark is grotesque against his pale skin. James always takes things too far. Remus was right.

And then Regulus is snarling, all teeth and curled lips. “Do you really think, Potter ,” he spits, “that you’re the only person looking out for him?” His laugh is cruel and broken. “You barely even know him.”

He turns, and is gone in a flash.

James slumps against the wall of the closet, all at once winded. It hurts, physically, in his chest, like something is pushing it down. He can’t get a full breath in. His hand – the one that slapped Regulus – is warm and tingly. His body is disconnected, random points strewn on a non-intersecting grid. A constellation snapped apart star by star. 

When Remus finds him, he is practically doubled over, grasping his stomach and fighting for every breath. Remus says something soft, something kind, kinder than James deserves. Suddenly, the floor is beneath him and his knees are shielding his head. A gentle hand is rubbing his back. 

Slowly, the oxygen stops running away from him, finally letting itself be captured inside his lungs and then let go once more. 

“...like that,” he hears Remus say. “That’s it. That’s good.”

Remus is the kind of boy James wishes he could be. The kind of friend James pretends he is. The kind of son his mother deserves.

“They locked him in the dark the whole summer,” James chokes out. It comes out breathless and mangled. “They took his voice. They didn’t let him see anyone.” He gasps in more air. “I hit Regulus.”

Remus doesn’t reply for a bit. James wants to know what’s happening on the other boy’s face, but his head is still between his knees and he thinks it’s probably best if he leaves it there for a while longer.

“Solitary confinement,” Remus says eventually, the words bitter and slicing. “They do it in Azkaban.”

James fights off a wave of nausea at those words. Remus doesn’t comment on James hitting Regulus.

They stay there for a while, breathing in the musty air and the heaviness of what has just been revealed.

“This was supposed to be a really great year,” James says mournfully. “Legendary.”

Remus only hums in reply, something soft and sad.

“I’m sorry,” James whispers, finally raising his aching head to look at Remus.

Remus is looking at him gently, patiently.

“Anger isn’t necessarily bad, James. It’s just not what he needs right now.”

James nods lamely. The storm inside him has dissolved into nothing more than a cool breeze. Still, it makes him shiver.

“I’m glad he has you,” James tells Remus, and it’s genuine. “To talk to. To tell things to. Things he can’t tell anyone else.”

Remus and his kind eyes smile softly back at him.

***

That night, as darkness descends once more, cloaking them all in the haunting knowledge of just how oppressive a lack of light can be, James seeks out Sirius before the tears even start. Their arms intertwine. Sirius clings on for dear life. James understands.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m here.”

When the sobs come, they are broken and trembling. Sirius fights through them to speak.

“I could see a sliver of the moon at night.” His voice shakes. The words are wonky, as if his tongue doesn’t know how to move in his mouth. As if it hasn’t yet gotten used to making sounds again. James fights to keep his fingers relaxed. “And a sliver of the sun during the day. There was a gap in the shades.”

James squeezes Sirius’ arm just to remind him that he’s real.

“Remus was the moon. You were the sun.” A wavering breath. “It was like you were coming to say hi. Like you were writing me a letter.” His voice breaks again on the last word. “You stayed with me the whole time.”

And then the sobs return full force.

Remus is right – anger will not help Sirius now.

But one day.

One day James will burn the whole dynasty down. He will muster up all that unfathomable anger and unleash a typhoon of torture that sweeps away the whole cursed bloodline. He will be the destroyer of Wizarding Britain’s most powerful family. 

And he knows Remus will be standing at his side.

Chapter Text

It’s mid-October, and James is in the library making lists. There’s a quill gripped frighteningly tight in his right hand, a piece of parchment splayed under his left, and a stack of books cascading across the table in front of him.

List 1: Effects

• Stiff joints from lack of movement in the enclosed space

• Loss of memory and concentration

• Bouts of depression, oftentimes occurring during or after periods of isolation

• Severe panic attacks

List 2: Examples

• Sirius attends weekly Quidditch practices, but he is stiff and uncoordinated. It frustrates him. He never manages to hit the Bludger as accurately and forcefully as he could before. He doesn’t fly as fast on his broom.

• The other day, Remus was talking about a prank we played in first year and Sirius couldn’t recall the details. And sometimes McGonagall or Slughorn or one of the other professors calls on Sirius to answer a question and he can’t answer it. He read the chapter the night before class, I saw him do it, but it’s like he can’t remember what he read. And when he does read, he has to re-read pages all the time, getting distracted by the smallest noises. That also seems to frustrate him. 

• One time, it was the last Saturday in September I think, Sirius didn’t want to go to Hogsmeade. I volunteered to stay behind with him, but he insisted the rest of us go. But I think he just laid in bed all afternoon, not interacting with anyone else. When we got back, he was lying there, not moving, just staring off into the distance. He wouldn’t talk to us and he wouldn’t come down for dinner. Remus brought him back some pudding, but he wouldn’t even eat that. He was crying again that night.

• I found him curled up in a lavatory stall one time and he couldn’t breathe. I don’t know what triggered it. But it happened again, once in the Quidditch locker room, and then a couple times in the middle of the night. Remus took him down to the common room those few times, and neither of them came back until the morning. With one look, you can tell he’s not sleeping.

By the time James is done, the quill has snapped in two.

According to one of the tomes, there’s a small group of the Wizengamot that is vehemently opposed to solitary confinement for the same reasons that have James grinding his teeth together at this very moment. It’s cruel and it’s unusual and it’s unforgivable. Besides, Sirius isn’t a prisoner. He’s not a murderer or a thief or even a Death Eater. 

He should never know what that loneliness feels like.

But he does.

So James is documenting it. For one day. 

He hopes when they eventually lock up Walburga and Orion that they live out the rest of their days in darkness and isolation, slowly losing sanity until the very essence of who they are has depleted to nothing but a wisp of fleeting smoke.

He hopes they grow old in solitary confinement.

***

It’s a chilly November Saturday and James has built a pillow fort for all of them to curl up under. He’d originally thought that confined spaces might be triggering for Sirius, but it turns out the other boy finds comfort in the closeness as long as there are other people with him. 

James is going to make sure he’s never alone again for the rest of his life.

Remus keeps feeding Sirius chocolate, pushing piece after piece into his palm and letting his fingers linger there a bit too long. James feels his eyes narrow in curiosity at the gesture, but he chooses not to say anything. They have to focus on the task at hand.

He’d devised the plan with Remus and Peter last night while Sirius was in the shower. The guilt of it is chewing a hole in his stomach lining right now, but it has to be done.

So Remus keeps giving Sirius chocolate and Peter mindlessly braids the ends of his hair in a way that probably feels soothing to Sirius but is actually a nervous stim by the shorter boy and James takes a deep breath and repeats the question to himself about thirty times before he finally voices it.

“I read that it can help ease panic attacks if you talk about the cause of them,” he says boldly, gulping down his nervousness. Sirius might bite. He might tear the fort to shreds. He might cry. James isn’t sure which would be worse. “Do you think, maybe, that you could…tell us? A bit?”

James hasn’t lied to Sirius. He told him about the encounter with Regulus, even about the slap, and Sirius had just nodded wearily, not saying anything in response.

But now he’s looking right at James, eyes sharp and alert, face grave. He slips his bottom lip into his mouth and chews it for a bit. James instructs himself to inhale and exhale evenly. 

“I can’t remember everything,” Sirius finally answers, voice a bit hoarse and eyes still unblinking.

“That’s okay,” James reassures, despite the stab of anguish that pulses into his ribs at that confession. He focuses on his sadness, not the anger that’s lurking in the shadows, threatening to turn this tenuous truce into a full-blown cyclone.

Sirius breathes out, long and slowly. He waits for James to ask him another question. He can’t seem to speak these days without being prompted directly. The anguished pulses speed up.

“She took your voice,” James says softly. “Do you remember why?”

He doesn’t expect the harsh laugh that escapes Sirius’ mouth. 

“Does she need a reason?” he fires back without hesitation.

“Sirius,” Remus presses gently, resting a warm hand on the other boy’s back. Somehow, it does seem to make Sirius relax a bit.

Sirius shrugs, a bit petulantly. It almost makes James smile. He misses that Sirius so badly – the one that’s cocky and self-assured and a little bit pretentious and entitled. The one that whinges and gripes and pouts. The one that knows the world lives in the palm of his hand.

But now they’ve crushed it, crumbling land and water and possibilities right before his bloodshot eyes.

“I may have said something rude. But it’s only because she was being mean.”

Mean . There’s something so heartbreaking about that word. James loves his parents, he really does, but he knows they’re not perfect people. He argues and fights with them sometimes. He knows his mum can be unfair and annoying and demanding, but he’d never call her mean. She doesn’t say things to purposely hurt him. She doesn’t speak to him with malevolence.

But Walburga…

“What happened next?” Remus asks.

Another shrug. “She told me to go up to my room. Took my wand. Shuttered the windows. Locked the door. Put up wards.”

No one speaks for a moment. They knew this already from Regulus, but it’s different somehow, hearing Sirius’ detached tone as he recounts it, speaking as if it happened to someone else instead of himself. As if it’s gossip he overheard in the common room.

“What did you do with all the time?” Remus questions after a while.

Two months , James thinks. Two months unable to speak. Unable to leave.

Sirius curls his knees up to his chest, tucking his face into the resulting crook and making himself as small as possible. Remus’ hand smooths up and down his back.

“Thought about how I could escape. Realized it wouldn’t work.” He burrows his chin further into his knees. “Watched for the sun and the moon through the cracks. Picked at chips in the paint.” His fingers clench tighter around his legs. “Thought of all the things I wanted to say.”

The storm is stirring again inside James, that dangerous temper once more baring its teeth. He can feel it swirling through his veins, pressing down on his lungs and the backs of his eyes until he can’t breathe or see. 

“I lost track of time,” Sirius continues, voice muffled. “I didn’t know…I thought maybe school had started again. I thought maybe they weren’t ever going to let me out or let me speak again. I thought I could see things, in the dark. Like…like figures and shapes and…and they were coming after me, were closing in and…and I couldn’t scream and I couldn’t move and…” He suddenly shakes his head, as if he’s trying to clear it. “I didn’t like it, okay? I just didn’t.”

Hallucinations. Paranoia. Delirium. They were all on the list of effects. James will have to add this to his evidence. The thought makes him sick, all that churning rage dissipating into an overwhelming nausea. 

“Okay,” he tells Sirius, suddenly desperate to soothe the other boy. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it.”

Remus leans in real close to Sirius, whispering something softly into his ear. Peter looks to James for guidance but James is all empty, wrung out like a ratty flannel. He feels as if someone has drained his blood from him from the inside out. 

Remus keeps whispering and Sirius starts crying quietly and James sits with his nausea and his sadness and his anger as darkness begins to fall outside.

***

It’s the end of December and they’re on the Hogwarts Express, headed home for winter hols. Things aren’t better. They all try, but it’s not enough. They simply can’t compete with the psychological effects of the sun being swallowed by the sea and the entire human population disappearing and Sirius’ vocal cords being shredded to splinters.

James keeps nagging Sirius to eat, and eat more, and then eat some more after that because who knows what fresh hell he’ll arrive to at Grimmauld and whether or not it will involve food being earned as some fucked-up privilege for obedience. As if survival is something to deserve, not just something that should be given.

But Sirius has had an odd glint in his eye since breakfast this morning, and he doesn’t seem too concerned about eating the food offered. James thinks he even caught a glimpse of a cocky smile behind a glass of pumpkin juice, but he’s sure his eyes were deceiving him.

James had shown Sirius the lists last night, not sure what to expect as a reaction, but it certainly wasn’t Sirius shrugging nonchalantly and telling him that the notes weren’t necessary. 

“We can send this to the Ministry and they can prosecute your parents and you can come to my house and live with me,” James had explained, a franticness trailing through the words. He was giddy with it – the thought that he could finally save Sirius. And it wouldn’t even be with his fists, but with his words. Effie would be proud.

“You won’t ever have to go back there,” he’d continued. And then quieter, “I don’t want you to go back there.”

But Sirius had just laughed, clapping James on the shoulder and replying with a smirk, “You worry too much, James. Everything will be okay.”

James had wanted to ask what that meant, but Sirius had seemed so relaxed, so carefree for the first time in months, and he just couldn’t bear to ruin that. Even if it was only a defense mechanism, didn’t Sirius deserve his defenses?

But now they’re on the train, inching closer and closer to Grimmauld and Walburga and Orion and the weight of what that means, and Sirius still seems relaxed – determined even – and it’s making James freak out a little bit. There’s a feeling in the pit of his stomach, as if a vine is growing up out of his gut, thin and winding, ready to strangle his organs in a split second. As if something terrible is about to happen.

Remus and Peter seem to sense it, too. Remus keeps a steadying hand on Sirius’ knee while Peter’s eyes nervously flick between James’ fidgeting leg and the unnerving spark in Sirius’ gaze.

The sun has just started to set in dazzling arrays of pink and orange when all hell breaks loose. 

“Bit hot in here, isn’t it?” Sirius asks casually, standing up and walking to the window of the train compartment. “Mind if I open it a crack?”

No one objects, and he unlocks the latch, sliding the pane up much further than just a crack. Wind begins whipping into the compartment, tousling Sirius’ hair. His smile grows with the sensation.

He turns back around, looking first to Pete, then to Remus, and finally to James, something triumphant lurking in his eyes. 

“I’ll see you,” he says, and something about his tone makes the vine in James’ stomach wrap around his lungs and begin to squeeze. Before any of them can react, Sirius is catapulting himself over the windowsill, shoving the top half of his body quickly through and scrambling forward to get his legs out as well.

Within a second, Remus is out of his seat, grabbing onto Sirius’ right leg and yanking him back.

“No!” Sirius shouts. “Let me go!”

“You’ll break your fucking neck!” Remus growls back. Sirius is strong, but Remus is stronger, and he seems to be winning, managing to get some of Sirius’ torso back into the compartment.

“James!” Remus orders. “Help me!”

But James is frozen to his seat. All that righteous fury, all that scalding anger, all for nothing. When it comes down to it, James hesitates.

And then his senses kick in, sharp and unyielding, nearly overwhelming him with their force, and now he’s the one scrambling out of his seat to grab onto Sirius’ left leg and pull in tandem with Remus. Peter jumps up too, reaching his arms out of the window to get a hold of Sirius’ shoulder.

Sirius is in danger , James’ mind keeps screaming at him. Sirius is going to die.

“He can’t go back there,” he tells Remus, desperately. 

“He can’t jump out the window either,” Remus huffs. Sirius’ foot hits him in the nose and Remus lets out a string of curses, a trickle of blood beginning to flow from his nostrils. Sirius is wriggling uncontrollably, screaming and whining and begging them to let go.

“I don’t care!” he yells into the wind. “I don’t care if it hurts!”

The words make something snap inside Remus, and he seems to gain the strength he needs, finally yanking Sirius fully back inside and tackling him down onto the ground. He lies fully on top of Sirius, attempting to avoid the other boy’s swinging fists and barking at him to calm down.

“You’ll come home with me,” James declares, words tumbling out too quickly. It’s still hard to breathe. Part of him wants to push Remus off of Sirius, wants to shove the taller boy into the side of the wall because how dare he restrain Sirius like that when he’s clearly so distraught, but another part of him knows that if given the chance, Sirius will jump right back out that window and plummet down, down, down.

“They won’t let me!” Sirius protests, and James can hear the tears begin to clog his voice. “They’ll just come find me and drag me back.” His voice breaks halfway through the sentence. “I’ll never get out.”

He’s still struggling in Remus’ grip, but Remus holds fast, specks of blood from his nose dripping down onto Sirius’ shirt.

“I have to leave now , before we get to the station and they can take me away.” Sirius is fully crying, and James kneels down beside him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “Just let me go!” he sobs.

“I still have the lists,” James whispers, because he doesn’t know what else to do. Because there is nothing else he can do.

“If you jump out that window,” Remus tells Sirius, voice like steel, “you won’t survive.”

He won’t survive at Grimmauld either , James thinks, but he doesn’t say that. 

“I hate you!” Sirius shouts at Remus, flecks of spit landing on the other boy’s chin. Remus holds his gaze, jaw set and eyes hard, but James can see the tremor in his shoulders. “I hate you!”

Then Sirius’ pleading eyes turn towards James. “Do something,” he begs.

So much fury, so much wrath. All useless. James just grimaces, something sad and aching.

“Come home with me,” he whispers again. Sirius blinks at him once, twice, and then turns his head away, muffling his sobs into his shoulder.

Peter closes the window.

When the train pulls into the station, Sirius is sitting in his seat once again, back straight and expression detached. He refuses to look at any of them.

Regulus appears in the doorway, wordlessly waiting as Sirius rises from his seat, collects his trunk, and turns to exit the compartment.

The vine inside James squeezes once more and a surge of bile climbs up the back of his throat.

“Sirius,” he breathes. “Please.” 

They could protect him. They could put up wards and barriers and shielding spells. They could send the lists to the Ministry. They could take pictures of all the scars that litter Sirius’ body like nauseating souvenirs from his numerous stays at Grimmauld.

They could protect him.

Sirius looks back at him, something broken and jagged already twisting in his gaze. He swallows once, audibly.

“I’ll see you,” he says, like it’s a promise.

In the sun and the moon , James thinks. In the slivers of light. In the wind that rattles into the train compartment, that slaps against the walls of the house. That righteous, destructive wind that will one day blow the whole thing down, leaving nothing but open air and sunlight in its wake. 

“See you,” James repeats, softly.

Sirius follows Regulus outside, onto the platform and into the fading sun.

Remus rests a gentle hand on James’ shoulder, and all at once he is undone.

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” he implores as his throat tightens and his lungs burn. 

Remus’ face is stripped bare. James hadn’t even considered it earlier, the distress the other boy must’ve felt when his body was the only thing shielding Sirius from the tragedy of an ill-planned, fatal fall, when his best friend was screaming his hatred directly into his anguished face.

“Not yet,” Remus murmurs. 

They stand in the compartment for a while, watching as the sky turns a brilliant navy and the stars blink awake. 

“He’ll be okay,” James asserts, because he refuses to believe differently. “It’s only two weeks.”

Remus doesn’t reply. They wait a bit longer, and a light snowfall outside turns the whole train into a snow globe, wondrous and magical. James’ anger swirls in his gut. The bile climbs higher.

“Come on,” Remus calls lightly. “Let’s go home.”