#ᵗʰᵉʸ ˢᵉᵉ ʳⁱᵍʰᵗ ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ ᵐᵉ . thread

[padfootfm]

he  is  unsteady,  and  so  cold.  he  does  think  that  it  has  always  been  this  way,  has  felt  his  skin  like  ice  and  feared  he  had  nothing  inside  of  him  worth  loving,  only  rotting,  freezing,  terrible  things.  so  walburga  would  have  him  believe,  anyway.  he  thinks  of  her  now,  as  he  always  does  –  a  distant  thing  inside  of  him  crying  out  for  his  mother  when  he's  afraid,  as  though  she  would  ever  ease  the  fear  for  him.  still,  the  quieter  parts  of  sirius  had  held  out  the  tiniest  smidgens  of  hope,  that  she  might  find  something  to  love  about  him.  looking  at  harry  brings  him  back  to  now,  those  eyes  wide  and  green,  lily  lost  in  the  depths  of  his  irises  makes  his  heart  ache  still  after  so  many  years.  he  will  mourn  them  forever,  he  will  miss  the  nights  in  azkaban  when  they  would  visit  him,  staring  and  silent  from  the  corner  of  the  room.

“harry…  my  boy…”  he  speaks  his  name  again,  croaks  it,  the  sound  like  a  rusting  gate  swinging  slowly  open.  sirius  watches  as  his  godson  stumbles  away  from  him,  those  lovely  eyes  full  of  a  panic  that  reminds  him  of  their  meeting  in  the  shrieking  shack,  how  scared  they  had  been  of  the  half  crazed  fugitive  screaming  in  the  face  of  a  rat.  he  shivers  again,  pulls  his  own  arms  around  himself  as  he  has  always  done  since  he  was  a  child  —  self  soothing.  “i'm  dead.”  he  agrees,  and  it  doesn't  make  any  sense  —  sirius  black,  despite  the  horror,  is  so  full  of  life.

he  reaches  one  pale  hand  to  touch  his  chest,  the  place  where  the  killing  curse  had  hit  him.  funny  how  it  hadn't  hurt,  how  the  other  two  have  affected  sirius  more  in  his  lifetime  (  his  childhood  )  than  the  one  which  sent  him  beyond  the  veil.  he  remembers  his  maddened  cousin's  hooded  eyes  alight  with  glee,  harry's  cries,  remus's  face…  remus…  he  looks  around  him  again,  as  though  he  might  be  here,  feels  his  heart  thunder  anew.  as  harry  cries,  sirius  wants  to  reach  for  him,  but  he  knows  better  when  a  wand  is  pointed  at  him  from  the  hands  of  a  young  hothead  —  he  is  so  much  like  his  father,  yes.  but  there  is  something  of  sirius  black  in  there,  too.  it  makes  him  smile,  the  feeling  unfamiliar  after  so  many  years  of  rest.

the  words,  momentarily,  mean  nothing  to  sirius.  transform?  it  feels  as  though  the  information  is  coming  slowly  to  him,  trudging  through  the  cotton  heavy  mess  of  his  skull  to  arrive  at  one  single  word  —  padfoot.  the  thing  he  became  out  of  sheer  love,  barrelled  through  spells  and  books,  stood  in  the  middle  of  a  storm  and  did  it  all  for  him.  he  nods,  and  swiftly  the  man  becomes  dog,  such  an  ironically  huge  dog  for  someone  so  small.  his  eyes,  still  silver,  blink  up  at  harry  before  lying  down  before  him  in  a  show  of  submission,  stomach  displayed  for  the  boy's  (  man's  )  comfort.  a  moment  passes,  and  harry  doesn't  use  that  wand,  so  he  transforms  back  to  himself,  somewhat  unsteady  on  his  feet.  “it's  me,  harry.  i  don't  know  how  —  please,  you're  so  upset.”  he  reaches,  wants  to  beg  him  to  allow  it,  to  pull  his  crying  godson  into  his  unsteady  arms  and  hold  him  to  his  chest,  a  gentle  kiss  pressed  to  the  top  of  his  messy  head.  “i'm  here.”

james. that name seems pierce him all over (you truly are your father's son ... words said nearly a decade ago now, but they remain engraved inside of you, something precious wrapped in tissue paper and hidden away in a small box). his legs don't budge, and there's a thudding in his head that will make him topple over if he doesn't focus on not letting his knees give out. don't, don't, don't. as if jinxed to the spot, harry stood very still, eyes as round as saucers, etched with a building distress in their striking green color. harry. his name, now. don't say it. don't say my name in his voice. don't ... he shook his head mutely, a faint hitch in his closing throat.

the hands on his shoulders are enough — their chill burns white-hot through his robes, burns like the outrage scalding him inside. wrenching away, harry staggered a few steps backwards, almost tripping as the tip of his wands jabs itself into the other's chest. " you're not! " harry bellowed, though it cracks as it leaves his twisting mouth. " you're n-not — sirius black is dead! he's been dead! " the wand jabs again. tears stream down his off-color cheeks, and he hates himself for falling apart, for the anger singing the threads of his seams and opening him (you are fifteen years old, and nothing matters anymore).

anguish is familiar. he has carried it with him ever since he could remember. for that, there is very little magic can do. things like the mirror of erised were dooming — and the consequences of believing in it were forever. he shouldn't be looking at this reflection. to peer into those silver eyes is to tread treacherously close to thinking, even for a moment, that sometimes magic could simply be magical; to believe what couldn't be real. i feel it, though! i can feel so much of it in here. around him. " if you're — " jaw clenched, " if you're — him, then — transform! prove it — " because i know you won't be able to, and then i'll — what he'll do, he doesn't finish thinking, but its promise blazed brightly on his countenance, wand aimed.

[padfootfm]

he  had  just  escaped  —  even  if  it  was  into  death  that  he  had  evaded  number  twelve  grimmauld  place,  so  no  wonder  it  took  him  so  long  to  leave  the  safety  of  these  walls,  the  ministry  of  magic  —  where  they  had  no  idea  what  to  do  with  a  half  mad  escaped  convict  before  remus  convinced  him  to  go  back  home.  holding  it  together  for  him,  harry  potter  all  grown  up  and  looking  at  him  with  such  concern  since  their  reunion  proved  that  he  was,  in  fact,  sirius  black.  he's  coming,  so  slowly,  to  terms  with  it;  the  years  which  they've  lost,  that  harry  has  arisen  in  him  a  pride  for  having  done  it  without  him  there.  but  there's  a  selfishness  within  sirius  that  wishes,  more  than  anything,  that  he  might  have  been  the  one  to  bring  an  end  to  wormtail. 

since  it  has  become  clear  what's  happening,  he  has  thought  near  constantly  of  him  –  his  baby  brother,  the  silly  little  thing  that  he  was.  the  little  king,  who  sirius  had  been  stupid  enough  to  envy  for  the  fact  that  they  barely  noticed  him,  as  though  he  hadn't  taken  it  all  on  his  back  for  him.  how  likely  of  him,  to  throw  himself  in  their  furious  line  of  sight  and  to  blame  himfor  the  bruises  and  the  scars.  he  knows  that  he's  a  fool,  that  he  has  always  been  a  fool  to  blame  his  brother  for  everything  that's  happened  to  him,  to  blame  him  for  dying  in  the  first  place. 

when  harry  tells  him  that  he's  back,  sirius  barely  hears  anything  more  than  his  name.  shares  a  look  with  remus  which  is,  as  always,  loaded  with  everything.  a  slow  nod,  before  he  pulls  on  his  coat  and  goes  with  his  godson  back  to  the  ministry,  a  hand  pressed  to  his  shoulder  as  if  it's  he  who  needs  the  steadiness.  funny  how  with  every  step  closer,  it  feels  like  he's  the  one  who's  drowning,  his  lungs  crushed  under  the  pressure  of  knowing  he's  waiting  behind  one  of  these  doors.  he  thinks  perhaps  he  should  feel  joyful,  should  be  walking  with  desperate  anticipation  as  he  had  when  james  and  remus  had  returned  —  but  his  feet  feel  heavy  now,  like  he's  wading  through  mud  towards  something  terrible.  a  reminder  of  everything  he  left  behind,  of  who  he  left  behind.

he  finds  that  he  can't  follow  harry  into  the  room,  pausing  with  his  hand  pressed  to  the  wall  outside  as  a  migraine  makes  itself  known  in  the  centre  of  his  forehead.  his  chest  hurts,  and  he  feels  like  walking  through  that  door  will  awaken  all  of  the  ghosts  he's  run  from  since  he  was  just  a  child.  he  can  see  them  there,  their  cold  hands  pressed  to  either  one  of  regulus's  shoulders,  their  accusatory  eyes  looking  at  the  heir,  the  disappointment,  the  thing  they  had  shunned,  broken  to  pieces  in  every  way  a  person  can  be  broken.  they're  behind  that  door. 

he  wishes  that  james  and  remus  were  here,  he  wishes  that  he  wasn't  the  oldest  person  in  the  room,  stunted  in  his  growth  thanks  to  twelve  years  in  azkaban.  he'd  take  another  round  with  the  dementors  over  this,  he  really  would.  his  eyes  flutter  shut,  fingers  pressed  to  the  ache  in  his  skull  put  there  so  long  ago  by  the  people  he  had  wished,  begged  to  love  him  as  a  child.  he  hates  himself  for  it,  that  he  had  been  young  and  scared  enough  to  crave  the  love  a  mother  is  supposed  to  give. 

regulus's  voice  breaks  through  it,  the  quiet  statement  of  harry's  surname  shoves  aside  the  migraine  and  forces  sirius  to  collect  himself.  regulus  —  he  sighs,  and  it  feels  like  hours  have  passed  in  this  hallway  rather  than  mere  moments  when  sirius  lets  himself  into  the  room.  what  must  he  see?  a  broken  old  man,  hunched  and  skinny,  shadows  pooling  underneath  his  eyes  which  only  grow  deeper  by  the  day.  will  he  even  recognise  him?  sirius  sees  him  and  he  feels  so  much  of  all  he's  refused  to  think  about.  pride  is  there,  and  he  can't  ignore  it  —  a  boy  who  had  fooled  the  dark  lord  sits  before  him,  stiff  backed  in  a  way  that  only  he  would  recognise  for  what  it  is.  the  manners  had  been  forced  into  him  too,  but  sirius  had  been  the  one  to  shake  it  all  off  in  spite  of  them,  the  day  he  realised  they  were  incapable  of  being  parents  in  the  first  place. 

“regulus,”  his  voice  is  brittle,  silver  eyes  narrowed  in  his  brother's  direction.  he  feels  a  great  deal  of  anger,  irrational  as  it  is,  and  no  where  to  put  it.  the  pounding  in  his  head  worsens  the  longer  he  looks  at  him,  but  he  swallows  the  pain  and  steps  closer,  unsure  what  to  do  with  his  hands  as  they  clench  tightly  into  pale,  tattooed  fists.  despite  himself  —  the  fear,  the  anger,  the  terrible  things  he  feels;  there  is  concern  there,  too.  “look  at  you…  look  at  you.  you're  too  young  —"  he  cuts  himself  off,  head  shaking  as  he  turns  away.  he  can't  bear  to  look  at  him.

as he sat in a small room tucked purposefully in the very back corners of the ministry, regulus found he was very aware of his breathing. a deep breath in. a deep breath out. to regulus, no time had passed at all since that awful moment. his most recent memories were of drowning - when breathing had meant everything. it felt like just an hour ago that he’d been pulled under. the funny thing about drowning is you can’t help but hold your breath. it’s involuntary - you’re acutely aware of the situation you’re in, and your body holds in the breath until it feels like your head is about to explode. in trying desperately to survive, you make dying a hundred times worse. the relief comes only when you give in. that final deep breath to ease the pain - to end it all.

a deep breath in. a deep breath out.

he felt small in this room. and maybe he’d feel small in every room now. it felt like only an hour ago, after all, that regulus ( for the first time in fifteen years ) had accepted he was just a boy. a kid, faced with improbably adult responsibilities. the adults who had met him on the dais and brought him to this room at looked at him with a mixture of pity and confusion in their eyes. what did they know? what did anyone know?

perhaps this was purgatory. he’d learnt about this in muggle studies in his fifth year - of the various muggle religions, there was one that spoke of an in between place, a place you went after death that would be the deciding factor in your ultimate fate. were they truly right? where, then, would he go? the name beezlebub came to him like booming thunder. was there even a question? he would burn for the sins he had committed, he was sure of it. so why the interrogation? was there choice? could he plead his case? and say what? i made a fake locket, i deserve to see the heavens. no. he knew there was no penance for him - perhaps for anyone with the surname black. his thoughts flicked to his brother, laughing without a care in the world in the sprawling potter manor. maybe him. but maybe not.

for all the thoughts that raced through his head, he sat impossibly still, spine straight against the back of the chair and hands folded neatly in his lap. he had nothing if not his dignity, his manners, his politicians smile. perhaps this was the only thing keeping him from spiralling.

after what felt like an eternity, the door cracked silently open, and in walked… potter. the same messy hair, round glasses and haughty height he’d unfortunately come to recognise all too well. if he’d paid any closer attention, he might have noticed there was something off about him ( the brother thief ), perhaps an energy not as arrogant as he was used to, or the softer eyes that sat behind the lenses. but he never wished to look at james potter very closely as it was. instead, his spine stiffened impossibly straighter as he tilted his chin towards the man. was this his first punishment? to meet the man he thought perhaps he loathed the most. “potter,” he spoke, voice thin and curt. “might i help you with something?”

@boylived @padfootfm

[padfootfm]

he  has  stilled,  even  his  hands  have  stopped  shaking.  when  is  the  last  time  that  sirius  has  felt  this  way?  it  is  false,  this  sense  of  peace  washing  over  him  like  a  warm  shower.  they  say  it  is  him,  that  he  has  proven  himself  to  be  the  sirius  black  —  and  he  had  looked  at  them  with  wide,  near  childish  eyes,  asking  them  to  repeat  themselves.  is  he  him?  is  he  alive?  he  had  looked  to  these  larger  men  and  asked  them  again  and  again  to  help  him  understand  it.  he  is  sirius  black.  he  doesn't  want  to  be  sirius  black.  his  ears  prick,  though,  when  he  hears  his  name  muttered  quietly  between  two  of  them,  sirius  looking  up  with  those  same  terrified  eyes  feels  himself  float,  feels  as  though  he  dreams  when  they  say  remus  lupin.  “is  he  here?”  his  voice  is  suddenly  sharp,  watching  as  the  discussions  quieten  and  they  look  at  him,  the  scared  little  thing  that  he  is  —  is  this  what  they  had  hunted  all  that  time?  this  skinny,  small  man? 

they  say  something  about  grimmauld  place,  and  sirius  shakes  his  head.  “no.”  it  is  the  only  word  he  will  say,  repeated  again  and  again  in  that  familiar,  rebellious  nature  of  his.  once  they  tell  him  that  his  name  has  long  been  cleared,  he  sees  the  way  they  look  at  him  now  is  with  concern,  not  fear  or  hatred.  he  uses  it,  he  tells  them  to  bring  him  to  remus  lupin  now,  that  grimmauld  place  will  sit  empty  unless  they  give  him  what  he  wants. 

pale  fingers  clench  and  unclench  as  he's  led  to  him,  his  neck  is  stiff,  head  pounding.  they  let  him  into  a  room  and  there  he  is,  and  he  looks  the  same.  a  breath  shudders  free  of  him,  petite  limbs  relaxing  the  moment  their  eyes  meet  and  he  crosses  the  room  in  short,  swift  bounds.  his  arms  wrap  around  him,  and  sirius  feels  the  world  right  itself  the  moment  his  nose  buries  itself  in  his  best  friend's  neck,  a  call  back  to  that  night  in  the  shack  (  you'd  know  all  about  the  madness  within  )  when  they  had  forgiven  one  another  in  a  wordless,  stunning  moment.  it's  silent  for  a  moment,  he  thinks  the  world  pauses  for  them,  gives  them  a  second  to  catch  their  breath  —  for  their  hearts  to  synchronise  once  more.  he  has  wondered  since  he  was  fifteen  years  old  and  he  had  taken  him  by  such  surprise,  when  he  had  whispered  remus  and  the  entire  train  carriage  had  looked  at  him,  confused  by  the  weight  of  his  name  in  sirius's  mouth.

he's  gentle  like  he  is  with  no  one  else,  cradling  his  head  in  his  hands  as  he  holds  him  close,  and  feels  everything  right  itself.  “what  the  fuck?”  he  whispers  into  his  neck,  shaking  against  the  taller  man's  frame,  clinging  to  him  like  he  is  all  that  keeps  him  aloft.  “i  never  thought  i'd  see  you  again.  never…  never.  you're  okay.”  tears  spring  in  the  eyes  of  a  man  who  refuses  to  allow  others  to  see  him  cry,  laughing  softly,  wetly  as  he  pulls  back  to  look  at  him.  “you're  okay.”

@padfootfm

it was a harrowing fate, to be the last of your friends to survive. and remus had gone into the battle with the intent that he would give his absolute all, no matter the cost, even if that cost had been his life. there were so many nights under the full moon where remus had found himself enduring so many excruciating and lonely transformations where he'd be BEGGING for it all to end. to just die. james and lily were dead. sirius was in azkaban. peter was supposedly dead. remus wasn't sure what exactly he'd been living for. or rather who. until he was reunited with harry. and suddenly it all became clear again. harry, the trio and the rest of the students he had the pleasure of teaching, had helped remus to find the hope inside of him he was had certain died that night james and lily were murdered. they had awoken his will to fight and for that, he was forever in their debt. especially because it was through the trio that he got his favorite person back. his best friend. his lover? the person he can't believe whose character he ever doubted. the person he loved the most who he just . . . gave up on. though in his defense, he didn't JUST give up on sirius. remus had given up on everything. grievance had a sneaky way of altering your perception. still, remus would never forgive himself for how quickly he'd thrown his best friend under the bus. even if sirius had forgiven him. a flash of light spewed from antonin dolohov's wand and that was it for the life of remus lupin. or so he THOUGHT. the archway. the place that haunted his every living nightmare. where he finally lost him once and for all. it was only fitting that this would be the location of his own personal hell. remus was never the religious sort but somehow finding out that he'd been damned just made sense. still the sight of the fucking archway had the unique ability to paralyze him, eyes so quickly to well up with tears, guilt just as quickly to sweep over him. he's being escorted away but remus doesn't fight it, unable to make out any of the voices and words spoken. only able to think about HIM. the man he should have fought harder to save. he still isn't aware that he's not dead, once again an isolated room just made sense for remus's eternal damnation.

[padfootfm]

come  on,  you  can  do  better  than  that !  how  likely  that  sirius's  last  words  do  nothing  to  discourage  the  inevitable  —  has  it  not  always  been  coming  for  him?  and  how  much  better  that  she  did,  how  the  veil  had  enclosed  him  in  its  tender  embrace,  and  of  course  it  is  his  family  throwing  the  final  punch.  how  he  was  dragged,  laughing,  from  the  world.  for  the  second  time  in  his  thirty  six  years,  sirius  is  letting  down  his  best  friend  as  harry  is  held  back  from  him,  forced  to  stop  him  in  his  tracksfrom  following  him  into  death,  the  one  who  had  sworn  to  keep  him  safe  from  a  world  closing  in  on  his  skinny  little  shoulders.

the  world  was  never  easy  on  him,  and  here  he  steps  (  unwillingly?  )  back  into  it.  he  is,  for  the  first  time,  unsure  of  himself.  he  is  not  smiling,  for  what  use  is  the  facade  beyond  the  veil?  what  is  he  without  that  warm,  weightless  comfort?  does  his  heart  beat  again?  he  thinks  it  does,  he  thinks  it  is  thudding  unsteadily  in  his  chest  when  he  looks  to  the  boy  —  no,  the  man  looking  back  at  him.  “james?”  his  voice  is  soft,  heavy  as  though  his  mouth  is  filled  with  blood.  “i've  been  looking  for  you.”  he  closes  his  eyes,  tilts  his  head  as  a  familiar  sensation  pounds  at  his  temples,  the  migraines  he  has  regularly  suffered  since  his  mother  had  aimed  her  wand  and  screamed  that  word  —  crucio. 

but  no…  no,  that  isn't  james.  he  is  looking  at  the  boy  whose  face  was  the  last  he  had  seen.  “harry.”  there  is  urgency  now,  a  step  forward  from  the  thing  that  took  him.  he  is  unsteady  on  his  feet,  feels  as  though  his  ankles  shake  with  the  new  life  thrust  into  them.  reaching  up,  sirius  rubs  at  his  head,  squinting  around  the  pain  he  has  long  grown  used  to.  “who  am  —  harry,  it's  me.  sirius.”  he  shakes  his  head,  reaches  upward  and  pushes  his  long  tangle  of  dark  hair  behind  his  ears,  tattooed  knuckles  grazing  his  cold  cheek  as  he  does,  makes  him  shiver.  “i  don't  —  i  don't  know.  are  you  okay?”  he  asks,  and  the  question  alerts  something  in  sirius,  helps  him  to  take  those  steps  forward  and  reach  for  him,  stumbling  closer  to  his  godson,  taking  his  shoulders  and  feeling  silver  eyes  widen  in  their  concern.  “where  is  everyone?”

the bottoms of his well-worn shoes scuffed over the slightly curving stone platform as his legs, both of which felt more akin to jelly than legs, shifted backwards, away from the dim figure outlined in front of the archway's luminescent curtain. harry's heel stumbled over a notch in the stone. there was a feeling as if he was falling from a great height, and somewhere far above was where he had left his insides (you're reminded of a particularly grueling quidditch match from last year and the bludger that'd sent you spiraling down into a goalpost). something seemed to have a fist around his chest, constricting it with a gut-wrenching pressure. no. i'm seeing things. his wand, pointed at the figure, was white-knuckled in his hand, matching the white look on his face, teeth gritted.

all of the sudden, he was fifteen years old again, staring after his god-father as he disappeared through the archway (that guilt has remained ugly inside of you, the monster hiding with a fanged maw stretched open to devour no matter what dumbledore had said). green eyes stung behind his round-rimmed glasses. it couldn't be. it's not — " who are you? " he demanded, tone furiously breathless, emphasizing the aim of his wand with a jerk of his wrist. how dare it take the form of sirius in front of him. the magic in the air seemed so thick that harry thought that, if he reached out, he could grasp like a tangle of threads, shocking him like power-lines. " what — ! what are you doing in here? " @padfootfm