Work Text:
From: Azkaban
His arms aren’t where I felt them last—
wrapped tight in a hug,
doubled over, all jutting bones.
Rough claws, made for digging into skin and stone and earth.
Still searching for the soft, sweet warmth of him.
Always and always and forever and—
never again.
Never again.
I remind myself—I have to.
Can’t forget where I am. Or when.
Can’t forget what I’ve done.
Or what I didn’t.
Can’t get caught in the wonder, the freeze,
the ringing in my ears.
Can’t give in to the shakes or the tears or the wailing—
mine or his or theirs.
Some unlucky somebody come to become another nobody.
Loud and desperate, swallowed by deaf ears.
Screams that pitch into the uncanny,
curdling so sour they’re almost sweet.
Like a laugh.
Like a song.
Another time. Another place.
James curled on the bed, tucked against his lap.
Some old Muggle band playing on repeat.
Stolen kisses in a broom closet—
before any of us knew what it meant.
Before the war and the—
Ice making a home in my bones.
My head aches and swims,
spinning like that willow tree.
Bruised, like my ribs.
Like he used to come and patch—
every fortnight beneath the brightest sky.
Frolicking. Young and wild and mad in love.
Haunting me like the demons pacing the halls,
burrowing deep in my mind.
Day in, day out, every cursed night.
I search for him in the dark.
In my dreams.
In the sweet Dementor’s kiss.
More ice, until it burns—
like his mouth on mine.
Another place. Another time.
I feel him there—and not.
In those long fingers, wrapped around my throat,
whispering like a promise.
Like the sliver of light that creeps across the cell,
slow and salacious and so much like him
I can’t help the keening cry—
uncanny and sour-sweet.
A ballad of madness,
to my moon.
From: Somewhere Else
I don’t believe in ghosts—never have.
If they were real, surely they’d return to me as more than just dreams.
More than sweet things that fall away with sleep,
settling worse than grief into creaking, twisted limbs.
Even still, they pace the halls and haunt just out of sight.
Out of reach.
Making shadows where none should be.
Voices like wind, whining through the shutters.
That is only ever wind.
Mocking and teasing and leaving me
all alone.
But still—
every month, when the sky begins to swell,
when my bones stretch and crack and threaten to break,
I hear it again.
That cry.
Low and long and ragged at the edges.
Like it’s coming from somewhere I can’t reach.
Like it’s meant for me.
Sometimes I think it’s my name
rattling between the trees.
Sometimes it’s nothing but a howl—
wild and wounded,
like a prayer too old to remember.
I don’t answer.
Of course I don’t.
I don’t believe in ghosts.
Because if it’s him—
if it’s really him—
that’s all he’d ever be.
So I let him rot.
Let him howl.
Let him pay for the lives he stole.
And if it isn’t…
then I’m madder than I thought.
Staring, half myself,
up at the moon he used to say listened better than people did.
Because she kept all his secrets and never judged.
And if only you spoke softly enough,
she’d carry your words to someone who needed them.
I don’t try it now—can’t form the words.
Just sit beneath her light
and pretend it doesn’t burn.
And moon be damned.
I still hear his voice.
That deep rasp scratching an itch I can’t reach.
Like the way he’d whispered my name,
a secret in the dark.
Like his hands—rough from broom work,
so gentle with me.
Like warmth and firelight and stolen minutes.
Like kisses that meant nothing
until they meant everything.
It’s in the breeze that ruffles my fur.
That laughter, that light.
Dancing down from her to tease me—
like hints of that boy I lost
to something darker than death.
It aches worse than the breaking.
Enough to drag the howl that slips
up to her—to him—
just in case he’s right.
Just in case he’s real.
And listening.
Even though I don’t believe in ghosts,
I do believe in memory.
And he’s the cruelest haunting of them all.