Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from the Harry Potter universe, although I would like to lay claim to my situation as best I can! Also, I got some of my information for The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes.
Note: The title comes from the name of the first ship to arrive on Austrailia's shore when it became a penal colony. It was named Sirius.
I remember the first time I noticed the boy--for though he acts beyond his years, he is barely eighteen years old--across from me. With dark skin and even darker hair, he simply blended into the shadowy hull, but when he awoke and opened his shockingly green eyes, I stared, entranced, for the first time in my life.
His half-hearted groan alerted me to the first signs of his consciousness; the violent twitch of his manacled foot gave me further proof. However, it was not until he opened those verdant eyes--though in such complete darkness, all eyes look black--that I knew for certain. He immediately attacked the bowl of day-old porridge left at his side with such fervor that I recoiled at his barbarian qualities, but I was intrigued and enthralled regardless.
As we had only been at sea for what felt like two or three days, none of us accused had lost hope yet. We would receive another bowl of leftovers or porridge soon, and I wondered, then, briefly, whether his obviously malnourished form should eat so much so quickly.
Throughout the journey, his eyes only left mine when he was sleeping or swiftly eating his meager meal, and even those came less and less frequently. The crew understood that their cargo had to remain alive for maximum workers, but they nearly refused to go near the hatch after the first week, as it reeked with the smells of vomit, sweat and human excrement.
Some time during the voyage, we began conversing. In soft tones our voices mingled, telling of our lives and punishment and crimes. I watched as, every day, his face somehow became more animated, seeming to fill out slightly. How, I had no idea until I learned the terrible truth. His only living relatives had turned him in for stealing food.
Had it been that the boy in front of me thought only of himself, showed gluttonous behavior, or any other such mannerism, I may not have believed his nonchalant plea of innocence or even his story. However, I had seen his eager smile, and I had seen him giving portions of his small meal to the woman and her tiny son next to him. Rather, I pushed to find out the whole story. Why did he take food from his relatives? Had he given it to some poor wretch on the street and gotten caught? I winced at his cold and bitter laugh as I ask him these questions.
Of course, nothing so simple could happen to the remarkable boy. He had explained, quietly in that smooth and whispery voice of his, that he was lucky if his relatives allowed him to sit on the floor and wait for the servants' scraps after every person in the household had eaten their fill. He explained, somehow leaving no room for sympathy, that his cousin weighed as much, if not more, than the very boat we rode in--complete with crew and captives.
And, for the first time, I looked at him and noticed the scars on his face, neck, and arms. I took in his sunken eyes and protruding stomach, and I felt sick, though not enough to add to the filth on the floor.
Today, he--Harry Potter--looks much healthier, although he still stands much too short for his age. Some how, he has even gained weight. Long days of serving ourselves and our masters has hardened his body and darkened his skin. So much so, that he looks like any one of the natives with their long, dark hair and dark skin. I suppose I do, also, though previously my skin held an unhealthy paleness that told of my work in the dank dungeons of the apothecary in my hometown. I doubt I pull off the rugged, native look quite as well.
I, too, told him of my misadventures with the law. I also had accusations placed wrongly upon my person, though my charges were much more serious. Due to my position as resident alchemist, whenever a member of the surrounding area became ill, they immediately pinned it on me and my supposed 'poisons'. Since I could not gather as much evidence for myself as they had against me, I wound up on this dratted boat.
---
Our living arrangements leave much to be desired. The government has provided a bunker of sorts to house us. With the barest of comforts, we must make due with what they have given us--a thin sheet, thin pillow, and even thinner straw mattress. We are also stacked on top of each other, three to a row, very much like beggars for warmth. They have given us the choice to build our own homes in our spare time, and I can sense that this free time they speak of does not exist.
In the morning, they expect us up at the crack of dawn to slave away for our sins and misdeeds. We barely recieve any warning of conciousness before they have us choking down some foul sort of gruel and then they force us out the door.
In the early morning hours we get the most done as we are freshest from sleep and coolest in body. As the day passes and turns to afternoon, our bodies begin to buckle under the sun, straining and burning unpleasantly. More than once a fellow serf would pass out, and our watchers would drag him into the shade of a tree and forget him. In the event he woke, they punish him with their long whips before sending him back to the field. We work straight through until the sun sets and only then do we rest. They allow us a short time to drink and rest our weary bodies before ushering us to a line to get our evening meal. Afterwards, we may do with the night as we please. Most choose to sleep for the day, though some, like Harry and I, choose to build up homes so that we may leave the stifling confines of the bunk house.
During the early morning hours of one sleepless night, we began discussing our future home. We quickly decided as we watched the stars bloom and fade that if we worked together, a one-room hut would not be so long in the making.
---
I think I must have gone crazy from these hot days under the sun. Harry, my house mate and only friend, has caught my interest in a more-than-friends manner that, whenever I think of it, makes my stomach do interesting tricks. I am uncertain whether this is from hunger pangs or whether some other ailment arises whenever I look at the boy, though I do know it occurs.
Today when we drew the water from the lake as part of our monthly duties, Harry fell in. Rather than getting out and getting on with the day, the boy grinned and insisted on playing in the water, splashing about like some sort of imbecile. My only fault was allowing him his fun, as the sight of him grinning like a loon stole a smile from my usually stoic face. My mistake was going to the edge of the lake when he beckoned me, both index fingers making a 'come hither' motion and face holding an absolutely lecherous expression that caused that unusual feeling in my stomach to rear its ugly head. Somehow, in all of my knowledge of him and his mischievious ways, it did not occur to me that he might pull me in, so, of course, he did. He laughed at my flabergasted glare, and, again, my stomach did acrobatics, flopping this way and that at the sound of his laughter.
What, I wonder, is wrong with me?
---
He stands frozen even as he continues to pick cotton, as we listen to the conversation of the captains behind us. I do not understand his sudden silence, though the word that causes his shoulders to tense the most is 'Sirius', and, even as I notice this, my mind journies back to a time on the ship when we first began talking. His whispered tones overtook even the loudest of groaning as he spoke of his past and the godfather he had only heard of and never seen. Perhaps these men knew of him.
As I continued to listen, however, I realized that they spoke not of a man but of a ship. It seems that this ship designated to haul prisoners such as Harry and I across the sea has crashed and most of its crew and captives have been retrieved, though not all alive. Harry relaxes slightly when he notices that the men speak only of a boat, though he becomes uncharacteristically quiet as he works, leaving me to the inane chatter of my own mind rather than his.
---
In the cool of the evening, we marvel at our acomplishment. He looks at it, his face an open book, and he steals glances at me with an unbelieving smile on his face. His opposite, I barely allow the small smile to grace my face, though I can feel a great welling of pride inside my chest. Somehow, we have managed to build a one-room hut complete with a fire circle in the middle and a single straw mattress in one corner.
Neither of us minds sharing the space; we had decided early in the process to only bother the authorities for the one mattress as favors only go so far. The boy refuses to tell me how he managed the double-sized mattress as it is, and I do not feel the need to have him relive the moment should it prove unpleasant.
Without the use of very many tools, our hut consists of logs for the walls and dirt for the floor. It has a hole in the roof made of leaves and a door made of the same, but it lacks windows. I have no doubt it shall remain cool, however, as the uneven parts of the wood leave gaps of several centimeters that, when winter comes, we can stuff the cracks with mud to keep in the heat and keep out the bitter cold. We have the first hut, and some of the other inmates sneer at us and our choice of accomidations, though they would do well to choose the same.
---
We found Peter Pettigrew dead on the shore of the lake today. Harry had been on the team to gather water when they stumbled over the man's rat-like body contorted in pain. They rose the alarm, and we soon found ourselves looking at the horrid picture before us. His face held a shocked look, and my Harry was the only one brave enough to close the wretch's eyes.
With my extensive knowledge of poisons, the men made me study his body, and I discovered the reason quickly after beginning my prodding. Pettigrew's hand was warped. It had a sickly grey pallor and felt much like metal when touched. I announced to the gathered men that I believed he had upset one of the many beasts of the continent, though I doubted it was a snake, as even this kind of idiot knew not to pick up snakes.
I watched, then, almost proudly as Harry fights to have a proper--or, as proper as possible--burial for a man no one really likes. Harry uses the mens' superstitions against them and plays up tales of ghosts in his city to a rapt and gullible audience; I can hardly believe my ears. He of course pitches in almost reverently, digging the hole along with several other men. However, when it comes time to put the rat in the grave site, I notice that rather than having the men lower him, Harry allows them to drop the body into the shallow hole.
Later, as we lay together on our straw mattress, I ask him about Peter, and he turns his face away bashfully. "Well?" I ask him.
He does not look at me as he answers, the words seemingly stuck in his throat, "He knew my parents." He makes me wait in silence for several moments before elaborating.
"I felt that, I don't know, I just owed the bastard something. I don't know why, he betrayed my parents after all, you know? He just..." He makes a frustrated, almost groaning sound at the back of his throat and rolls over, his back facing me.
"Mercy and forgiveness are not undesirable traits, though I'm afraid most people do not show them," I tell him, allowing one hand to rest on his shoulder. He curls into the touch, and my stomach once again flops in that peculiar way that has become more and more frequent.
He turns suddenly, his eyes pleading with mine, though all I can notice is the way his thighs press against mine, and the way his breath dances with mine, and the way my arm has shifted to his waist rather than to the floor between us, and the way my stomach does those acrobatic turns, but I cannot imagine a single moment more perfect than this. I realize that somehow he has begun talking without my knowledge, in a rambling, nervous sort of way that tries my patience even before I notice the content.
"...and if there were any way, I suppose, to make sure that his body got the respect it deserves, then, I suppose I should try. But he did give my parents to the authorities, and I could never forgive him that, though I'm sure I should and I never thought..." Before tonight, I do not think I realized how breathless that whispery rasp of his sounds, nor have I realized that his long, stuttering insecurities spoken out loud drive me up the wall, and I doubt that I can take much more of this, so I stop his babbling the only way I can think to. I kiss him.
Or, rather, I lean forward and lay my lips on his lightly, and it takes me moving my hand from his waist to his face and pressing closer for him to stop his tirade. In less time than that, though, he responds and returns the kiss more eagerly than I could hope, reaching up to tangle his fingers in my hair and opening his mouth for my inquisitive tongue.
It seems too soon before we must break away from each other in order to breath. His fingers, once grasping, now ran through my hair in an unconcious pattern of mussing and flattening my hair. Our noses touching, we stare at each other, before he once more begins to speak, "I...I don't know." My heart stops at the words, spoken in a voice that sounds more breathless than ever, and I admit to feeling terrified that he will run until he begins again, "Am I a bad person, Severus? Did I do the wrong thing?"
I know without a doubt that this young man could do no wrong and express it with an almost inaudible, "Absolutely not," before crushing my lips to his once more.