A/N: This fic came about as a result of my asking for a song prompt, for which I received some lines from "Need You Now", the hit by Lady Antebellum. Unfortunately, that on its own simply wasn't enough. When I began writing the fic, I plucked the word "laudanum" out of thin air, and quoted a bit of "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables", and then took the song on my list of prompts, numbered the number of words I had at that point: "When You Were Young" by The Killers. The original quote was "It's a quarter after one/I'm all alone and I need you now/Said I wouldn't call/But I lost all control/And I need you now. And I don't know how I can do without/I just need you now" Other inspirational prompts: "When You Were Young", laudanum, rococo, "Human", and "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables"
Despite the title, this story really has nothing to do with laudanum. It isn't in the story, either. But, the vaguely Victorian aesthete, and all the pain that needs numbing in this story... it was sort of an inspiration. And, um, it's not set at one in the morning, either. The story text is prefaced by a sort of subtitle (that's something of an in-joke), and some random lyric quotes that inspired me, including my challenge quote.
Written for the "Lyrics that would make great fics" Competition in the HPFC forum.
BENEDICT, or, R REDEEMED
"There's a grief that can't be spoken/There's pain goes on and on/Empty chairs at empty tables/Where my friends are dead and gone/Here they talked of revolution/Here it was they lit the flame..."
"Pay my respects to grace and virtue/Send my condolences to good/ Give my regards to soul and romance/They always did the best they could/And so long to devotion/You taught me everything I know"
"You sit there in your heartache/Waiting on some beautiful boy/To save you from your old ways"
"It's a quarter after one/I'm all alone and I need you now/Said I wouldn't call/But I lost all control/And I need you now/And I don't know how I can do without/I just need you now"
Wizards, Sirius mused, were still stuck in the Victorian era. Or at least that was what he supposed the old relics and the despicably rococo furniture had come from. It was dark and far too ornate inside the dwelling.
Of course, it didn't help his verdict that he had grown up in this self same house, under the tyranny of his pureblooded parents, with a little brother who was always getting him in trouble.
He took a swig of the spirits and examined the rather gaudy phoenix pendant that hung on a crimson cord around his neck. Really, he said to himself, and for once he did not silence what he had come to think of as his much hated inner Slytherin voice, it's more than a bit hard to hide. Why not something more subtle?
Only, it had been him and James and Peter that had designed it. Remus, they had considered at the time, didn't have a great sense of aesthetics and they did. Well, not truly. Remus, at least, would have ensured their vital means of communication was more subtle.
Oh, yes, Remus probably would have been—would be a great friend right now, when Sirius was maudlin and less than sober, would have helped him figure out what to do now, would have had great strength, when Sirius, who, now that he thought about it, had always been apt to hide his fears behind an unsteady façade—oh, it had seemed sturdy—was at this low point.
But, for precisely the same reasons that he was in this mess, sitting in this haunted old house with a bottle for his only company, Remus was as lost to him as James was.
James was dead. Lily was dead. And those bitter words, those stinging sentences, beat a cadence in his head that he hoped the alcohol would drown out. Worse, everyone thought Sirius had betrayed them. He had not.
Pettigrew—the little rat!—whom Sirius would not dignify with either his first name or the old nickname, "Wormtail"—which, quite frankly, made him think of Prongs, and that was far too painful a subject to think of—had betrayed the Potters! Had turned tail and gave You-Know-Who their whereabouts!
But!—And this was far worse in Sirius's sight—was he truly so self-centered as this, that-? He brushed the stray thought aside, as he really could not…
He had been a bit of a fool, really, considering himself and James the finest of boys. But the scoldings that had never meant much from his parents and that never came from the Potters had been really driven home when the proudest two Marauders were subject to censure from a top Auror by the name of Alastor Moody.
There were also second thoughts about Regulus, and about his school days. There was no changing the past—Sirius knew that. But Reg, his baby brother, even a hardened Death Eater, despite dealing out torture as if it were candy, had been brought to his knees begging and pleading when the Aurors had threatened to publish humiliating photos in the Prophet that would have resulted in his being disowned by all associates.
Yeah, they had told Lily once, their reason for torturing Severus Snape, "the mere fact that he existed." Sirius had not one speck of affection for the greasy—no, best not to speak such an insulting name, and had you suggested otherwise, you would be grievously mistaken. Yet he'd, now, he'd thought about it a little, and he half-thought they should have left Snape alone. James seemed to have decided everything had been all in fun, and even continued to play pranks as the adult father of a small boy.
But Sirius, maybe it was a premonition, and a rather ironic one at that, since he almost never did live up to his name and act seriously, had had a thought about the brevity of life—the sort of profound thought no one expected from the Marauders, but it made sense in this war. James seemed to prefer to hide the fact that they were dealing with matters of life and death behind his levity.
Sirius had thought that he had to be quite grateful to James and Remus—and Lily, too—for showing him that there were indeed friends out there. And the thought had occurred to him, a very adult thought, he had to think it, that perhaps, despite having smarts instead of looks, which was what had made him the target of so much teasing—that and being friends with Lily Evans—maybe Severus Snape had had just as unhappy a childhood as Sirius himself had had.
Did it really matter so much that the other boy had been in Slytherin house? Inauspicious circumstances therein, true, but Auror Moody was a Slytherin, and there were other respectable wizards who said house allegiance oughtn't to matter so much. Lily hadn't minded.
What had James been thinking! That life, like some play, must go on? Sirius Black, the charmer and flirt, had actually quit dating—the war was no world into which ought to be brought children! Into which ought to be dragged women! Sure, Harry was supposed to be the answer to some prophecy or another, but who said prophecies always came true?
He tried to take another swig from the bottle, but only the dregs of the alcohol dripped down.
It would do him no good anyway, to drink. It did not help, would not better the war…it was best to try to be logical now, despite the fact that he was and always would be a joker. And now, even, he really ought to be on the run, because he was not entirely sure that the authorities would believe Dumbledore yet again in his favor, and the Headmaster was the only one, besides the dead, who knew that Sirius had not been the secret-keeper, that Pettigrew had been, that Sirius had not murdered the dozen Muggles, but that Pettigrew had, and Sirius had been there only because he intended to confront Pettigrew.
That had been foolishness, indeed, and this time he actually acknowledged the Slytherin voice. It was far more reasonable at the moment than how he had always thought as a Marauder. To charge in had been foolhardy and attention-seeking, hardly bravery.
There was a sound at the door, of what sounded like booted feet coming up the front steps—must have been someone who was acquainted with the rest of the family then, considering that there was now no one who would have searched for Sirius at Grimmauld Place.
Despite the fact that he desperately needed a friend now. The spirits he had been consuming had by now overcome his inhibitions, and he dissolved into a maudlin rendition, very briefly, of "With a little help from my friends…".
His visitor knocked at the door, and he immediately shushed his warbling, and blinked rapidly, willing himself sober and alert enough to deal with a dark wizard who might be entering.
The door was opened to admit a familiar, if not exactly particularly welcome figure.
"Snivellus" he greeted, but the taunting moniker was pronounced almost entirely without malice.
"Black." The intruder acknowledged, his taut face displaying an unflattering, malevolent expression. His obsidian eyes, which seemed so expressionless, managed to poignantly convey a disturbed look, accentuated by the creases in the pallid brow, the sneering lips, the dark ovals beneath the orbs. Snape looked weary. Stressed.
"What are you doing here?" Sirius asked of the Slytherin, managing not to slur—he really wasn't that drunk.
Snape's face twisted into a sneer, and he gave Sirius a forbidding glare. "I don't suppose your brother has been here?" he spat.
"N-o, no he hasn't—" Oh, he was really maudlin when he was drunk, and he hadn't thought Snape was looking for Regulus… "—is something wrong? Why 'r you looking for him?"
"Black," muttered the unwelcome guest, "you're drunk."
"I know that!" exclaimed Sirius, swaying slightly, and taking a large, or at least trying to take a large drink of cold water from a glass upon the table. Unfortunately the liquid was no longer cold, and his nerves and the alcohol had deprived him of the coordination necessary to aim the drink into his mouth.
"Accio glass," summonsed the Slytherin, scowling, probably at the fact that he was somehow being unwittingly coerced into helping his enemy. "I suppose," he said, once he had retrieved the glass and set it safely far away from Sirius on the table, "that you're now ashamed that we murdered our friends, Black?"
"No! No! You've got to believe me, Sniv-Sevi-Snape! I wasn't the secret keeper!" In his fit of nerves and drink, Sirius rose from the table and tugged beseechingly at the shoulders of the other man's robes as if he were Remus or James instead of a Slytherin enemy.
Mneehhh. I never… is his hair this curly? He mused inanely as he lost his balance and fell forward, his face now in contact with Snape's hair.
"Here, Black," the Slytherin said curtly, and pressed a vial of bile green Sober-Up Potion into Sirius's hand as he pushed the man away. "And," he added, after surveying the nerve-ridden Black, "perhaps you'd better take this, too." He pushed a vial of lavender-blue Calming Draught into Sirius's hand.
Sirius drank down the potions, too drunk—or at least that is what he told himself—to care whether the potions prodigy was trying to poison him, and, still somewhat woozy, looked at Snape once more and laughed madly.
"What. Is. It. Black?" he queried.
"Your…hahahahaha…hair!" Sirius managed, and then leaned into the wall and managed to quash his laughter. "Why do you have Sober-Up with you? You never drink."
"One point to Gryffindor for observation, Watson. As to why I had it, you Blacks are all alike; you tend to drink when you panic." Snape muttered, rather bashfully trying to comb through his hair, which, as Sirius had drunkenly observed—though thankfully not aloud—was actually rather wavy—a better description than curly—and elegant in an old fashioned sort of way. Still, he could almost understand why a smallish and not particularly attractive boy would prefer to be mocked for having greasy hair over letting the locks curl into rather feminine waves.
The Gryffindor blushed at the fact that he had, for once unintentionally, made fun of Snape. And then his laughing fit was rapidly sobered as he recalled what his guest had said earlier. "What? You murdered the Potters?"
The Slytherin ceased mussing with his hair and sighed exasperatedly at Black. "Yeah, Black," he said, rather sarcastically, "I gave him the damn prophecy that killed Lily!"
Sirius stumbled backward, which resulted in his coming up against the immovable wall and nearly falling down it. He looked up, half-expecting, though it was cruel of him, to see a gleeful expression on the Slytherin's face—if their own friend would betray them, what was to say that a staunch Slytherin wouldn't?
But Severus Snape wore a conflicted expression, one that, if Sirius could read it at all, said that he was mad at, disgusted with himself, and equally at Sirius, for being instruments in the death of his beloved Lily.
"Sn-Severus, did you know it was about Lily?"
"No!" screamed the Slytherin, his face contorted in shame. "I was trying to buy time! To convince him of my loyalty!"
Sirius blenched. "Why… aren't you loyal—I mean, didn't you take the mark?"
"He doesn't respond well to any perceived disloyalty!" And then Snape gripped the chair back, his knuckles white with the intense grip. "Listen, Black, I can't say I thoroughly believe you, but I do know that you're a wanted man now. I don't intend to tell you this twice, but I am spying for Dumbledore."
"Then…" Sirius's world had been shaken to its very foundations in the space of this day. "…did you join up to…" his mouth gaped, "…be a spy? My word, Snape!" Then the man was more Gryffindor than the best of them, in his own Slytherin way, so brave in the face of…
"No, Sirius, I did not." A pacific calm came over the other man's face as he looked at the table, at nothing at all upon it, and for once he looked as young as his years. "I joined him because I… was desperate for acceptance, but there is no such thing to be found there.
"Do you know, Black," his face contorted in rage once more, "do you know what it is to be unwanted by everyone around you and then to unintentionally push away the one person who actually seems to care about you because she's being friendly to your enemies?" He quieted then, and glared ashamedly at the hearth.
"Yeah," Sirius replied, his voice raw, "yeah, I do know what it's like to be unwanted by everyone around you. I can't say… well, yeah, now I do. Now I do. Except you had to endure her and James together, and I… just have to face Moony thinking I've gone over to the enemy and" he began to cry, "James and Lily…oh, and little Harry… dead!"
Severus looked profoundly unsettled, and then, to Sirius's shock, he brusquely and rather stiffly placed one arm about Sirius's shoulders and held out to him a green handkerchief which he extracted from his robe pocket.
"Black, even if I were convinced you were telling…" Snape stopped, paused, and began again in a different tone, "…Sirius, I cannot afford to utterly trust you, but even if I were ultimately convinced of your innocence, I can't assist you. My testimony would be disbelieved, even if I were witness to something more helpful than your maudlin protestations of innocence. As you know, I am Marked. But…if it is of any comfort to you, I believe Regulus may be dead, and—" Sirius looked at him wide-eyed; he hesitated briefly, "I believe he may have died trying to…plot against his master."
Sirius, much as he would have with James or Remus, spontaneously threw his arms around the other man in a friendly hug. Though Snape stiffened, the Gryffindor patted him on the back and, drawing back with a bittersweet sort of half-grin, said, "You know, Sn-Snape, I—Severus, you, you're just as brave as a Gryffindor sometimes."
He rather uncomfortably shrugged—though his expression was one of disconcerted thought than any of disdain. And then, to Sirius's shock, his arm suddenly jerked, he winced, and stepped determinedly away from him.
"I'm sorry, Black. Obscuro Memorias," he cast, pointing his wand at his own head and turning to the door. As a few midnight blue sparks lazily strayed from the wand, he opened the door of 12 Grimmauld Place, strode out, and apparated away, performing innocuous charms at random.
Sirius stared out after him for a few minutes and then, gathering himself, pitched the bottle into the rubbish bin. He walked upstairs, absently, and pulled on a brown woolen jumper that Mr. and Mrs. Potter had got him for Christmas seventh year. And then, recalling that in these times, no one could speak of Ministry employees' true loyalties, and even in the Order there was likely a traitor beyond Pettigrew, he reached a difficult conclusion. Despite the fact that it would have been a comforting memory, somehow, in Azkaban—as if he would be able to cast a Patronus there!—and that what he was about to do would raise concern at his trial, he sat ramrod straight at the table, pointed his wand at his head, and carefully pronounced a spell.
When the Aurors stormed Grimmauld Place, having been informed, somewhat reluctantly, by Andromeda Tonks of where the house was, they found Sirius Black sitting there, motionless and calm. As a part of standard investigational procedure, they cast Priori Incantatem on the accused's wand. Although the absence of the Avada Kedavra curse was noted as decidedly strange, the Obliviate used just prior to their arrival was a one-way ticket to Azkaban, considering what was common knowledge in the Potter case and the numerous eyewitness accounts of the multiple murder. Since these were times of war, the last living member of the Black family to bear the name was carted off to Azkaban without a trial.
Aw!
I invented the spell Snape uses, and I imagine that it does not wipe the memory from the mind as would a proper Obliviate, but as for why he doesn't recall it… he's been through a lot since that night.
Please review!