Shattered Innocence
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter, but I DO own Cayden. Hear that? Hiss
A/N: This story has, at points vivid, male on male action, as well as drug usage, abuse, and bloodshed. If you don't like it, do I really need to hear about it? Hit 'back' right now and save me the headache. I don't have any more Advil.
Prologue: And so, it began.
A flash of bare skin, bronzed in the flickering candlelight. More boundless, naked flesh, this time in the shape of a long, lean back, a perfect row of a spine arching down the middle of the too-perfect body. A set of hands, short fingernails gripping onto broad shoulders, scraping and raising long, red welts in their wake. A low moan, a rustle of sheets, a muffled cry, the soft, almost undistinguishable murmur of a kiss. It was a precious moment, captured in a sleeping memory.
A figure writhed in a cold bed, alone beneath the crimson sheets. A pool of sable hair spilled out across his pillow, and his fingers caught at the bedding, clenching into white-knuckled fists.
A whispered plea, lips grazing a pleasantly peach-fuzzed earlobe, and the answer to a prayer. Overwhelming, so intense that it swallowed coherent thought or speech, leaving the choking sound of a moan torn from one's lips. Intertwined bodies rolling over satin, blood-red sheets, skin like living marble melding into a statuesque bronze, two forms that neither began nor ended, jut existed as one, at least for that moment… Oh, another cry, a small smirk, another breathless kiss.
His eyebrows drew together, creasing his forehead. He tossed his head, mane of dark hair whipping across his face to rest on the other side of the pillow. It was so hot under the blankets…
"Please…"
His thin, pouting lips parted and a low groan spewed out into the quiet night.
"Please!" He was begging now, needing to indulge himself in the taste, the feel, the ecstasy of that flawless being. He needed it.
"I'm yours," came the whispered response, arising a delicious shiver down his spine.
Sirius sat bolt-upright in bed, his entire body pulsing with every heartbeat, running through him like shockwaves. Slowly, he released the sheets, watching as the color returned to his fingers. The sheets, creased from his grip, were the same from his dream. Too familiar for comfort.
"Why the hell am I still dreaming about that?" He murmured to himself, smoothing back his hair. It unsettled him, when he even thought about it, and recently, the memories haunted him while he slept, a constant reminder.
"I'm yours."
That was a particular memory that had been stalking him recently. Just those two words, that had been said thoughtlessly in a moment where thought means nothing at all, and yet they were so true. Even now, five long, lonely years later, they remained true, and they always would. He would always be His, in one way or another.
Oh, that was such a cruel truth.
Sirius, who had slipped into that state of mind where you see nothing but your own thoughts, shook his head and stared down at his hands, fingertips absently stroking the silk sheets. Swallowing, he pulled his hands away as if the bed had burned him and got to his feet, smoothing back his hair and acting, to an invisible audience, as cool and collected as he possibly could. It was a failed act; the stern set of his jaw and the way his eyes fluttered from one thing to the next gave him away to no one in particular.
Going to his bathroom, he flipped on the light switch, finding it instinctively, and stood in front of his mirror, staring blankly back at himself.
He was no longer the 17-year-old boy that had first looked into that mirror, with another face grinning quietly over his shoulder. Sirius closed his eyes softly, a fan of black lashes brushing his prominent, pale cheekbones as he shivered. He remembered too much here, especially after one of those dreams, the touch of soft, subtle hands on his arms as he looked into the mirror all those years ago…
Oh, those hands.
He hardened at the thought of them, or maybe the thought of what they had done.
'Not good thoughts,' he told himself, opening his eyes and meeting his reflection again, guilty with scandalous memories. Sirius rubbed his face, letting out a loud sigh, and turned to the shower, pausing with a hand on the door.
They had made love there too.
'So no cold shower,' he decided, turning away and walking out of the bathroom, out of the bedroom, down the hallway, down the stairs. At the front door, he reached for his leather jacket and paused, fingers outstretched. Changing his mind, he grabbed a black, thigh-length coat instead, his gaze resting on his first choice as he slipped it on and shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers.
Throwing open the front door, he emerged into the street, blue-black sky shadowed with clouds. The moon was no where to be seen, and he was thankful for that. He didn't want the light, nor did he want it to get him thinking on Remus.
Great, now he was thinking about Remus.
One of the many people who had tried to warn him, who had threatened him to get the hell out of his situation. Trustworthy, intelligent, quiet Moony. He had been right, as had Lily and James and Dumbledore. Hell, even that little twit Peter had known better. Everyone had seen it, except Sirius, of course. He had given everything for one damned man, and everything had been taken. They had all seen it coming, they had all warned him, and they had all turned away in the end, when it came.
Sirius hadn't noticed that he'd stopped walking and sank to the ground in the middle of the sidewalk.
It started five years ago.
There was a time when the color crimson was blissfully insignificant to Sirius Black; another ordinary color. But that was before he had seen it reflected in the malevolent gaze of a sinister lover, spilling from a dead man's throat, draped across inviting beds as the most sensual sheets.
That was before he met Cayden.
Just then, Sirius was running his hands over his crimson Gryffindor cloak absently, feet propped up on a table at the Hog's Head. James was walking carefully over to them, biting his lip in concentration, bespectacled eyes focused firmly on the four cups of butterbeer balanced precariously in his hands. That was one of the moments when the color of blood was only a color.
James let out a long breath as he sat the drinks down before he flopped into his chair and took hold of his own mug, raising it in the air. "To a new year of mischief," he declared, beaming over the rim of his cup.
"To mischief!" Remus, Sirius, and Peter echoed, all wearing identical grins. The glass mugs met in a soft chink, golden butterbeer sloshing down the boys' hands.
"Ah," Sirius sighed, setting down his cup and wiping away a film of foam from his upper lip. "Nothing like butterbeer on New Year's," he commented, letting his feet slide back to the floor. "But what we really need is the most fantastic prank to kick off our last year at Hogwarts," he finished, and his friends echoed their approval. Sirius smiled, face glowing in the light streaming through the window. Outside, everything was cloaked in gossamer snow, shining brilliantly in the noon light.
"Yes, but what to do," James murmured, stroking some feeble chin hair he'd been trying to grow out.
"We could surprise everyone by NOT pulling a prank, for once," Peter piped in his small voice.
Silence.
"Or not," he added quietly to himself, eyes down as the others jumped into ideas, everyone talking at once.
As they bickered, picking out finer details of various plans and piecing them together, another table was musing as well. Across the room, two men shared a small corner table, thrown into shadow by the bar.
One of them, thinly built and on the smaller side, was nursing a mug of butterbeer, regarding his companion through narrowed eyes. "Quite the sophisticate today, aren't we, Cayden?" He asked, tone dry as he kept his spiteful gaze on the man seated across from him. Cayden turned his attention back to his acquaintance with a cocked eyebrow and swirled his dark wine in his goblet.
"I do try," he answered smugly, taking a small sip, dark eyes fixed on his. He knew this little man's game, always asking questions, always prodding, always trying to find something that would weaken his ties with their master.
"Anything new on your agenda? Anyone?" Marcus probed, gulping his drink and fixing a sly look on his much taller companion.
Cayden returned his inquiry with a sardonic glare. "Actually, I've been rather bored of late," he sighed, resting his wine down and shifting in his seat. The raucous chaos of the pub grated on his sensitive nerves, and he held his eyes shut lightly for a few moments before his sable eyes flickered open again. "Things have been… quiet," he said, choosing his words carefully.
"I have noticed," Marcus replied dryly, not bothering to hide his resentment as Cayden did. "I'm sure someone usually so busy has been just dying for something interesting with everything so mundane recently," he pressed, looking pathetically over-eager.
"Marcus," Cayden sighed, probing his wine gently with a long forefinger, "one would think that, in the years you have so avidly pressed for a confession of ill-faith towards our master from me and received none, you would put an end to your interrogations, and yet, you still try. Why is that?" He asked, his words ending in a silent sip of wine.
Marcus scowled deeply, his square face folding into the creases of a frown. "For all your fancy talk, Cayden, you're not much more than a glorified slut," he hissed, and a soft tremor rippled across the tall man's skin at the insult, the candlelight bowing and darkening considerably, almost giving off a black light.
"If I were you, Marcus," Cayden said quietly, words trembling with barely-leashed anger, "I would think more carefully before speaking." His black eyes glittered in the flickering light, the crowds fading into a soft mumble in the background. "I have held my patience with you for quite some time, and I don't believe you'd find me as sophisticated when I'm angry. Do I make myself clear, Marcus?" He asked, voice leveling out into a cold, none-too-subtle, threatening tone.
Marcus, who had paled the moment Cayden began twisting things with his passionate, temper-driven magic, swallowed and nodded, taking a long swig of his butterbeer.
Cayden nodded, and the thundering noise returned at full volume, the candle righting itself and once again letting off a warm glow. He settled back into his chair, cupping the hull of his wine glass and swirling it's dark contents lazily.
Letting out a relieved sigh, Marcus fumbled with some papers and pushed them across the table, shifting in his seat. As they settled down to the quiet discussion of work, the Marauders ushered Sirius away from the table.
"I'm not paying for these!" He protested as his seat was pulled out from underneath him and three pairs of hands shooed him away as if he were an unwanted dog. 'Nice figure of speech,' he thought to himself with a twinkling grin, weaving between tables and customers milling about to the bar, tapping the counter to get the bartender's attention.
"Yes, young man?" The small, wrinkled man asked, pushing his over-large spectacles up the bridge of his nose. Sirius briefly thought that he looked nothing like the stereotypical bartender; hairy, tall, boisterous.
"Four butterbeers," he said, giving him a small smile as he leaned an elbow on the bar counter, glancing around noncommittally, a few strands of long, raven hair falling into his face that he didn't care to push away.
Cayden looked up from the documents for a moment.
That one moment.
If he had decided to glance up just a minute later, he would have found some other patron placing an order, been immediately uninterested, and return to his careful scouring of the endless words.
But fate had taken a cruel turn in that tick of a clock, and Cayden Hillander, one of the most dangerous, intriguing, and darkly intelligent men alive, flicked his gaze upwards for a single heartbeat, and laid those shimmering, obsidian eyes, flecked with crimson like tear drops of blood, upon the most stunning creature he'd ever seen.
That one moment, and Sirius Black's unfortunate fate was sealed. His innocence shattered in that once glance, and in the years to come, he would wonder why he had not noticed it, his morals and his heart slowly cracking like glass. It had happened in that first moment, the first strike of Cayden's will against Sirius's.
Oh, yes, fate was cruel indeed.
Marcus looked up as well, stopping mid-sentence as he noticed his audience was gone. He turned in his seat, following Cayden's dark gaze to the source of his small, almost undetectable grin. But you could see it in those fathomless, blood stained eyes, shining with the candlelight, his interest. Something had caught his attention, and by the looks of it, something very decadent indeed.
The second Marcus saw the young man, tall, muscular, undeniably handsome, with black gossamer hair that caught the honey light and sent it gleaming, he made a snort of disgust.
"I think it's absolutely repulsive," he commented crisply, folding his arms. "How can two men do that?" He asked incredulously, shuddering at the thought.
"It's quite fun," Cayden answered with a bright-eyed smirk, and Marcus choked on his own breath, coughing loudly. Cayden laughed in response, getting to his feet, his gaze never leaving Sirius. He was intrigued, he had finally found something to brighten up the damper that had been set upon his life. He slid up beside Sirius, resting his elbows on the counter and leaning over casually, nodding to the bartend.
"Another wine, sir?" He asked, putting down four foaming mugs of butterbeer before the dark-haired object of his attention. Now, having him simply walk away certainly wouldn't do. With a flicker of a grin, Cayden brushed his mind over the mugs, causing a deep, unnoticeable fissure running through the handle of one of them.
'That should do nicely,' he thought to himself, accepting a fresh goblet and turning away at the same moment as the nameless beauty of a man, smiling broadly as he heard the loud shattering of glass, the wave of butterbeer splashing on the floor, all of it covered by a loud curse in a deep, husky voice.
Cayden turned, setting down his goblet on the nearest table, and bent down beside him gracefully, wiping away the mess with a wave of his hand.
He turned his eyes up, finding a cold gray gaze, nearly white, and swirled like a blizzard, dashed with dark, smoke-colored motes, meeting his. The corners of his mouth turned up in a broad smile as he rocked back onto his heels, never breaking their linked gazes. A thousand thoughts, a thousand wicked ideas, flew across his mind as those wintry eyes trembled, meeting his unblinkingly. Oh, this was to be very, very interesting.
Sirius, on the other hand, was doubtlessly captivated by such a smoldering, dark set of eyes. They were set into a chiseled, breathtakingly handsome face, bronzed like a Greek statue, framed by long, looping curls a few shades lighter than his own; the darkest of chocolates. Sirius had only ever had eyes for women, but when he looked at that man, he decided that he could see now why all the gay men had the right to be so. They truly did have some unbelievably handsome figures to gape over.
"Cayden Hillander," he said, offering him a tanned, long-fingered hand.
Sirius hesitated a moment, blinking away his stunned hypnotism.
"Sirius Black," he answered softly, finding all his breath stolen away.
And so, it began.
Alright, first chapter (or Prologue, I guess) of my first slash story, ever, done! Please, I really want to know if I'm doing alright at this, since it's unexplored territory and all. -Sable.