It feels like it's been awhile since I wrote a Harry Potter fanfic, even though it's only really been two months or something like that. But anyways, after finishing 'Eternity Lasts Forever' and writing other stuff, this idea came and exploded everywhere in my head. (Great visual)
Oh yeah, and in this AU, Muggles and the Wizarding World live together and know about each other. So, Muggles know about dementers and wizards/witches know the purpose of a rubber ducky. Also, Remus is 18, and Sirius is 22. I also have no idea when Remus and Sirius were born, so I just made that up as well. Voldemort isn't in power, and the Marauders are all still very much alive; they just haven't found their wife/husband's yet, and they don't each other.
***WARNING*** This story will also contain language, violence, blood, self-harm, suicidal thoughts/actions, abuse, and gay romance. If you don't like, then please don't read and drop a review on how much you hate how I wrote in one of the above. The romance won't be heavy, and it starts off as a parental relationship and ends up going into a Wolfstar relationship. And it might be a bit dark.
Disclaimer- Nope, nope, and nope. Don't own, never will.
oXXXwsXXXo
December 27th, 1995
2:37 p.m.
The woman has light brown hair that's damp with sweat, skin pale and sheened with perspiration, breathing slowly returning to normal, heart racing. Her eyes have happiness and energy bursting in them, and the smile hasn't left her face yet.
The man has dark hair, and his hands shake with extra nerves and excitement and adrenaline from racing into the hospital. His eyes are a soft brown, and he stands next to the hospital bed containing his wife. He tries to hide the smile or at least stop it, because he's usually a very stoic and expressionless man, but the smile wins the battle easily and graces his face.
The floor is white tile, and the walls are also a pure white. Everything in the room is either white or silver, and you would think people would've been blinded by just how white everything was.
But, then again, the couple isn't really paying attention to the interior decorating of the hospital room.
"Have you thought of a name yet?"
The woman doesn't look away from that bundle in her arms, doesn't see the doctors ginger hair pulled back or her evergreen eyes. All the woman sees are the hazel eyes, creamy skin, and tufts of wispy brown hair.
"Remus. Remus John Lupin."
oXXXwsXXXo
February 9th, 2000
7:59 p.m.
Red runs from the deeply etched lines in the pale flesh. It hurt. Bot god did it make him feel alive. Fingertips pressed down, soon stained with the crimson blood expelled from the seven lines carved into his left forearm.
They weren't getting in anytime soon. Not with the heavy, oak dresser pressed against the door, followed by his bed. Tomorrow was Sunday, (when those people went to church wearing 'nice' clothes. Why did people even bother going to a church?) so he didn't have to go in the yellow bus full of buzzing, happy (sickenly happy) children who talked about SpongeBob and did you see my new card I got from a Chocolate Frog last week? And other stupid rubbish like that. (stupid, stupid rubbish)
The red still bubbled through the slashes in his forearm, and for a millisecond panic pierced his heart like an arrow. Had he cut too deep? This was his first time, after all, and it certainly wouldn't be his last. He'd need this…technique (?) in the future. Definitely. Yes, it bloody hurt like hellfire, but it made him alive. It was helpful. It worked.
Still, it wasn't like he was suicidal, (right?) so shouldn't he be covering the slices in his skin, try and stanch the bleeding or something like that? He wasn't suicidal…right? He'd done this because…because…well, he was sure he'd had a reason when he'd done it. Did he want to die? (yesyesyesyes) The world slightly spun, like a carousel, colours contrasting in and out.
The door started to shake, something banging on it heavily, and a loud, angry voice (always angry. Always so, so angry) was shouting about a useless fucker who was worthless and I why the fuck didn't I pull out of that dirty little cunt (that filthy whore) that I'd married for some goddamned stupid reason I'll never fucking know, (filthywhorefilthywhore) but I'm gonna fucking kill ya and fucking rip off your arms and you fucker and-
The nine year old boy closes his eyes, back against the slightly vibrating dresser pressed against the door, black hair a mess, left forearm and right hand painted with blood. Nothing made sense. He wished everything would stop, and that everyone would just shut the fuck up already and let him curl up I the darkest corner, in the bleakness, in the shadows, in his misery, and die.
Sirius Hawkes just didn't care anymore.
oXXXwsXXXo
March, 2013
There's blood everywhere, splattered on the walls and floors in messy splotches. It's thick too, not thin and slightly watery, but the type that slowly oozes out, lethargically gushes out of wounds. The windows are shattered, broken glass shards scattered on the splintered, wooden floor. Cobwebs have swathed themselves in the shadowy corners of the broken room and in the wire spring bedframe that's missing a mattress.
For a second, he thinks it's a horror movie. One with a terrible plot, horrific actors, a director who fucks things up, cheesy special effects. Add a cliché monster, and the fact that people never look up, and bam! there's a bloody horror movie, wrapped up with a perfect bow taped on it.
He turns, wrists suddenly clamped on by pale, ice cold hands. The fingers dig into his veins, threatening to stop the circulation, and the face's features are strangely blurred for some reason. But it's not Slenderman, because he can still make out the dark green eyes that glow with seething hatred and venomous anger. Ice seems to be crawling into his bloodstream from where the fingers are digging into his veins and skin like a fire that's gone out of control, and the shards of ice have pierced into his pounding heart like spears.
Then the bright red light headed towards in a jagged streak strikes, and he screams.
oXXXwsXXXo
He bolted up, breathing hard and sweat coating the back of his blue-grey V-neck. His throat felt strangely ragged, (had he been screaming again? Fuck…) and in the blackness of his room he was slightly disoriented. He looked over to his right and saw the lime green 6:30 a.m., annoying and constant beeping finally registering in his frazzled mind.
Sirius Black had never been more relieved to hear the sound of the damn alarm.
Just in case anyone is confused by this, Sirius Hawkes and Sirius Black are the same person. That will be explained later on in the story. Also, I'm American. My knowledge of how British people speak comes from Harry Potter, Dr. Who, and Sherlock.
Thank you for reading! Loved it? Wanted it to go shoot itself? Review anyway!