A/N: I am so sorry about my lack of activity. But I promise you, I have been writing like mad. Jily Secret Santa, you see. Genuine anxiety over it. I just can't get it right, and I want it to be perfect. Here's something I wrote ages ago, and found only today while going through my various attempts at writing a good oneshot. I feel so bad for my partner.
Disclaimer: You know the song and dance. Blah blah blah, JKR owns, I don't, blah blah, something self-depreciating and highly complementetive of JKR. I just made up that word, by the way. Complementetive. Sounds like a real word, no?
The song is Paramore's In the Mourning. It's really quite beautiful.
You escape like a runaway train,
Off the tracks and down again.
He had seen the two a few hours ago.
They couldn't be dead.
They were wrong.
They were happy.
They couldn't be dead.
They were wrong.
Harry had spoken his first word.
They couldn't be dead.
They were wrong.
Why would they joke about something as horrible as that?
They couldn't be dead.
They were wrong.
My hearts beating like a steamboat tugging.
All your burden, on my shoulders.
His heart beat frantically. He didn't think he could Apparate without splinching himself, so he clambered on to his motorbike. He didn't even care about the Muggles seeing him. He took off, and flew through the air. Why wouldn't it go faster? What was wrong with this stupid piece of shit? He hit the handlebar. They weren't dead. James and Lily Potter were not dead. James Potter, his best friend, was not dead. Lily Potter, his only real friend that wasn't a Marauder, was not dead. So why was he so panicked? He tried to calm himself, and made up silly little scenarios in his head about what would happen when he got there. Lily would open up the door, as lovely as ever, and James would stick his head out of the kitchen archway, asking who it was, Harry in tow. He would explain his ten-minute terror, and the three would laugh about it, and his godson would give him a toothless smile.
And in the mourning, I'll rise,
In the mourning, I'll let you die,
In the mourning, all my worry.
He was so convinced of his little dream. But even if he had spent the journey there worrying about what had happened, nothing could have prepared him for this.
The Potter's wonderful home, which James complained about so much as a kid, was in ruin. The top right half of the cottage had been obliterated, debris from the explosion still smoking at his feet. He could feel the lump in his throat. Maybe they had gotten out? Maybe they were safe in some friendly neighbors house? Still, he rushed to the door, that was wide open, and stepped inside. There, lying on the foot of the stairs was his best friends body. A strangled scream, interlaced with a sob, escaped him. He heard a cry from upstairs, which was not his own. The tears he had not noticed streaming down his face, blurred his vision. All the same, he was sure he had heard it. Not wanting to leave his friend in that awful position, he grabbed his shoulders and lifted him, so it looked like he was sitting on the staircase, which he often did when Lily got annoyed with him, and told him to 'go make himself useful by getting out of her face.' A wet, reminiscing smile drew to his lips. He carefully walked up the stairs, the awful cry still ringing throughout the house.
And now there's nothing but time that's wasted,
And words that have no backbone.
Lily was lying on the floor; her green eyes wide open and glazed over. Another almost dying animal noise left his shaking frame. He was in Harry's room now. The ceiling had gone. This is where the explosion had happened. He didn't even want to turn to see the obviously dead boy, for he was sure it would be too much. Word had it that Lily and James were dead, not their son. His last hopes were pinned to the infant. If he couldn't have two of his best friends, then he could have their offspring, right? He was Harry's Godfather, and also, his legal guardian, if anyone at the goddamn Ministry cared enough to read their will. Again, the childish sob filled the silence. It was awful. He was imagining it all. Loosing the two had sent him over the edge. What was also, nearly equally, as bad, was the fact he knew it was his fault. He had told them to make Peter the Secret-Keeper. Why? Why couldn't he just trust himself? He knew he would never do anything to hurt either of them. Sure, he was talkative after he'd had a few Firewhiskeys, but he must have known he would never ever let it slip were his near-family were hiding. Screw it, family was hiding. It was true. The Potters were as close a thing to family he had ever had. When he was a kid, he was welcomed like a second son to their home. Even now, he was allowed to show up at their doorstep anytime he liked, just simply because he was family. And now they were gone. The cry again. Damn it, doesn't it stop once you realize you're imagining it? It came again, louder and demanding to be recognized. He turned to the place were he knew his godson's cot was, and braced himself for the horror he would see.
Now it seems like the whole worlds waiting
Can you hear the, echoes fading?
He wasn't imagining the cries. It was Harry, very much alive, and very much the one making the noise. The only thing different about the small boy was he now bore an extraordinary lighting-shaped scar on the left side of his forehead. His godfather rushed over to him, and picked him up out of his cot. Harry ceased his crying now he had got a familiar face's attention, but it was only to be filled with Sirius's. It was even more painful, he thought, to see so much of the two alive in Harry. James's stupid, untidy black mop, which he had inherited, was similar, but not as thick or as long. Lily's piercing, green eyes he had were filled with tears. He was too young to understand what had happened, but it seemed the child knew something terrible had occurred.
And in the mourning, I'll rise.
In the mourning, I'll let you die.
In the mourning, all my sorry.
The only thing he could think of was that it was his fault. He had pushed his stupid insecurities onto his friends, and they had paid the price. They had taken the blow for trusting him. It wasn't as though he didn't trust Peter, because he would never have suggested him to them if he didn't. He couldn't get his head around it. Wormtail had betrayed them. The most cowardly, ill-fitting Marauder had betrayed one of his best friends. What was happening? He had Harry now, and was descending the stairs when he heard someone enter the house. He drew his wand. If it were that little prick Pettigrew, he would not be responsible for his actions. However, it wasn't. It was a rather friendly face, one of Rubeus Hagrid's.
"Black?" asked the half-giant. Sirius could barely find his voice.
Still managing his usual sarcastic tone, "Looks like it, huh?" he croaked. Harry whined uneasily at his godfather's tone, and his chubby little hand smacked him lightly on the nose. The two stood there in silence for a while.
"Any reason you're here?" the man on the stairs asked after some time.
"Dumbledore's orders… he uh…" Hagrid trailed off. Sirius raised his brow.
"He sent you? What for?"
"Well, fer Harry, actually."
"Harry?" he asked, incredulously.
"Yeah, about were he's ter live 'n all." The boy in questions godfather tightened his grip on the infant.
"He can stay with me," he stated, somewhat protectively. "It's what they would have wanted."
"I know, but Dumbledore asked," he noticed Sirius's change of expression. "Hey! Dun worry, he'll probably end up sayin' he's best ter live with you anyway." Still gripping the boy, he nodded sharply, trying not to start crying again. He proceeded down the stairs and stiffly held out the child to him.
"Thanks…" he took the child, who, wanting to stay with Sirius, groaned and started to wail again. "Oh, no, no, dun cry! Yer'll see yer daddies friend soon…" he muttered hastily.
"Im his Godfather," he snapped.
"Yeah, yeah…" he muttered, not really listening, just trying to calm Harry.
"Where are you going?" he asked, after the infant had calmed.
"Hogwarts, I think… then off ter wherever Dumbledore agrees is best." Sirius's eyes flicked to his godson, then to where his motorbike was parked outside.
"How you traveling?"
"Knight bus, I 'reckon."
He knew he would regret it, but he had to. "Take my bike."
"Yer what?"
"My motorbike. The big thing outside, two wheels, muggle. Its bewitched, so it can fly and everything."
"Ah, I ca-"
"I insist."
"Thanks, Black. Awful decent of yer."
"Well, it's the least I can do for family." The groundskeeper sent him a quizzical look. He hadn't expected him to understand that James and Lily were more than his best friends, which the Potters were the closest things to family he was sure he'd ever get.
"I'll be off. Hopefully see yer soon, yeah?" The other nodded, and watched as the great man and the last of the Potters disappear.
And it takes all my strength,
Not to dig you up, from the ground in which you lay.
It was ridiculous.
He had lost his only chance of staying with his godson.
He had been framed for an act he admittedly wanted to carry out, but never did.
He wasn't ever allowed to go to the funeral.
It was awful.
Not only was ever happy feeling void from him, he also knew he was innocent in a strange way.
He knew he was entirely to blame for the loss of James and Lily, but, for what he had been sent to Azkaban for, was a different story.
And in this story, he was innocent.
It had been endless, the waiting. He knew Dumbledore had gone and sent Harry to live with someone else. Lily had a sister. James still had his cousins. Albeit, they were insane, pureblood fanatics, but they were still more closely related to him than he was.
He had Apparated back to his flat, hoping that would be where Hagrid would return to, but it was in vain. He wasn't coming.
He was about to open himself another Firewhiskey, and hopefully send himself into a drunken stupor, where he could feel nothing except the strange but wonderful feel of the burning liquid run down his spine, when he saw him.
Him.
He had just been responsible for giving up the secret of Lily and James, and he was parading around Diagon Alley like it was nothing?
The bottle of Firewhiskey smashed on the ground at his feet.
His wand was like red-hot metal in his palm.
Only one thought was running through his mind.
Vengeance is so sweet.
The next few details were a minor blur. He vaguely remembered chasing the small man down the street, screaming and crying. They had taken the secret passage down into Muggle London, that, back in fifth-year, they were sure they were the only ones who knew about it. Memories like that only spurred the almost drunken and grieving man on, aiming to kill.
He would take away the man who took away his family.
The biggest part of me,
You were the greatest thing,
And now you're just a memory to let go of.
He would never forget them. He wouldn't let it happen. The Lily and James legacy would live on, and he would find some way to get out of this damned prison. He would find his beloved godson, and he would find that traitorous little fuck and finish off the job he had wanted to do.
Why didn't he fucking disarm him?
He knew he was an animagus.
But honestly, he didn't expect Peter to think that fast.
Or, to even come up with the idea at all.
It seemed, he didn't know the fellow Marauder as well as he had thought he did.
In the mourning, I'll rise,
In the mourning, I'll let you die,
In the mourning, all my sorry.
The Dementors had nothing on him. There was not a single happy thought left in his body, nothing to ease the constant pain. They could surround him all they liked, but they would get nothing out of him. He was empty. He had lost his family, and he didn't even want to go onto the subject of Remus. One he did, he knew the empty, disbelieving, hallow feeling he was currently filled with would shatter, and leave nothing but mindless, relentless pain. He was innocent, he didn't kill Peter, as much as he would have liked to, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He was still an illegal Animagus, still the reason Lily and James were dead, still wanting to brutally kill the person he hadn't yet got the chance to.
So in the mourning, I'll rise.
In the mourning, I'll let you die.
In the mourning, all my sorry.
Not a day in those twelve, long years, when he didn't think of James ruffling his hair, Lily snorting and tossing her hair over her shoulder in the way she did when her husband said something particularly stupid, Harry gurgling and babbling out nonsensical words, Remus rolling over in their bed and ending up half atop him. They should have been happy memories, things to cling onto, but all he felt was blistering pain. The only thing that kept him alive and mentally stable was the thought that out there, somewhere, his godson was alive and healthy, and that someday, he would have his revenge.
A/N: Yes, it seems complete Sirius angst is the way to go about not being able to write something eligible to give as a gift.