A/N: This whole fic is actually based upon the poem "The Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot. The stanza I have used is only a tiny section of the whole thing, but you should definitely look it up. For serious. It's perfect.
we are the hollow men
The dog waits - alone. There is blood on his paws and a gleam in his eyes, and it's gleam that if one were to look especially close at, they might notice something more - something human, almost. If that were possible.
He looks to the sky and imagines a tower on a lake with bars that, over time, he has watched rust. He can see the harsh stone floor and the window slit and the wind howling over the waters. He can hear the groans of broken men, the screams of dying women. He can smell the fear on their backs, so present and so whole in this wind it is almost tangible.
But, most of all, the dog can see the winged men with no faces, he can see their cold breath against the moonlight, and he is a hollow man because his soul has vanished and the creature that was once there is nothing.
And as suddenly as he appeared, the dog has vanished; the change so seamless it is almost like liquid. In it's place stands a man. And it is the man with the gleaming eyes of the dog, and his inky frock of black mane sits in a crown upon his head; wild, terrifying, matted over time.
And oh, what a lot of time the dog has waited, watching as his insides are torn apart. He is hollow. He is a shell.
The man smiles. The castle in the distance is a mere blip on the horizon.
Sirius Black throws his head into the wind and laughs.
we are the stuffed men
And Remus; Remus is broken.
He is an old man, now. He is but the lifeless skin of a marionette doll, dancing solemnly to the tune of others around him; he is pale, scarred flesh and a mesh of the whitest bone - but he is not empty, not yet. Everything he once was is shrinking and everything he needs to be is growing. He is stuffed with this colossal pressure of good and of right and of Professor fucking Lupin.
Sitting in his office, alone spare for the creatures that dwell, unnoticed, in the dark, he picks up a quill and tattoos sketches of the blackest ink onto parchment, desks, his skin. He curls the spindly branches of a willow tree up into keyholes, jots runes that he could understand if it weren't for this darkness hiding in the nooks of a fingernail.
And, when he is done, he stands on shaking legs. The mirror on the wall is shrouded mostly in shadow, but the moon is a penny on the water and he can see his reflection as though it is not just an image, it is flesh.
The cracks, the nooks, the ravines - they mock him. He is a dirt ridden maze of tarnished gold; held captive and tortured until the dry earth caves and the cracks begin to show. And the dog, the rat, the stag - they have fallen, and the moon is a shining beacon that glitters in all the wrong places - because he's lost them, lost them all.
Outside, the wind howls. The door to his office strains on its hinges.
leaning together
The dark is suffocating for the rat.
He stays hidden, enveloped in shadows as the voices of the bearded man and those fucking children echo in and out of earshot. It is with the greatest strength that he relents from gravitating towards the bespectacled boy, but it is an age old habit he has become accustomed to, and he possesses too little will power for the restraint not to be painful.
He knows what is coming, because the voices grow tinny in his ears and the black swallows up the air.
The rat darts away as what is left of the light threatens to hit his matted fur. He is deluded, the insanity of 12 years building up into one filthy little man.
(For that, it seems, is truly what he is. Though this man will always be a rat.)
When he hears the howl - be it the dog or merely the weather - he shudders, and paws at the chalky base of the plant pot. It is simple to escape in this size. He closes the eyes of the rat and imagines himself; younger and painfully human, leaning against friends with trust clouding their fool's eyes.
When he is a man he has eyelids, tear ducts, a spectrum of colours to behold. The rat has nothing but darkness.
headpiece filled with straw. alas!
If he could see his friends, he might laugh.
These half-people are not the men he grew up with, yet, he would think - (if thinking were possible for a dead man) - neither is he. He is a body riddled with decay. The once lively puppet is cut away at the strings, a scarecrow stuffed with the scratch of straw-flesh.
He turns to Lily, lying beside him. She smells of damp earth and that terrifying nothingness of death, but he imagines he can remember the lavender soap and faint spearmint on her breath, and something left in his head relaxes. James thinks that he were to breathe - an un-sigh escaping blue lips.
They are motionless in their slumber.
our dried voices, when
Somehow, he ends up where he never went.
The time it took - hiding behind pillars, through the doors, the grounds, the frost; touching the knot - it's gone, for suddenly he is here and he can't remember how or why or when.
And Sirius. The entity is returned, black and matted and wild eyed, and within, Remus is screaming. But he makes himself shout, throw looks of what must be contempt - for Harry is relieved, the wolf sees - but then it all makes sense at last, and even though it's through mere seconds of jumbled sentences and a Look, he knows, he knows he knows, and now he is hugging the the man he once loved -
no, loves -
- and the children (for that is what they are) scream.
It is refreshing, for once, to not share their fear.
The order in his brain flops. Senses reeling - sight, sounds, smells, the reek of grime and sweat and blood, fleas on sun deprived skin, the harsh memories of the Shack, and he loses sight of which is which for they must all be one and they must all be Sirius, Sirius, Sirius, no -
Rat.
His throat aches.
we whisper together
It has been twelve years, and here they are again.
The Marauders. Reformed, yet now they are old and broken and hollowed out. The rat, the dog, the wolf. The boy who looks so much like James - but not - because James didn't have this pain settled into his eyes, did he, Peter? And why's that?
For a brief moment the rat feels a surge of anger spawn in his chest. This boy, who is nothing but a city of bones holding the weight of a world on his shoulders, this boy that is thirteen, for fuck's sake, this boy that is thirteen has been cast aside so brutally that he's left bruised and battered and so, so hollow.
His anger dissipates. He remembers what he has done - the choices he has made - the greater good - and edges further into Ron's scratchy jumper.
Sirius speaks, now, and Peter realises that if he closes his eyes and creeps just a little further into the shadows then the man he once knew is younger, and cleaner, and Azkaban hasn't hollowed out his face until it is that of a ghost's. Remus' scars fade; his voice becomes higher. The boy (notJamesnotJamesnotJames) is taller and more confident, and actually, now that he thinks about it - if he squints just so then there could almost be the hint of a fluttering golden wing in his pocket.
The image is so palpable in his mind that he is afraid to even open his eyes.
In that moment, he swears he was alive.
The moment is gone.
are quiet and meaningless
James watches.
The dirt scratches at his eyelids, yet he watches; Lily a comforting wait at his side.
He would sigh, if he could. It is difficult for a dead man.
as wind in dry grass
All that matters is this. He will commit the murder he was imprisoned for, and he would do it again, if he could. There is nothing else but this that could ever matter.
The rat in the corner darts, but Sirius is faster.
or rat's feet over broken glass
Peter grows.
The parts ache; they have been rendered almost broken with disuse. Even as a boy, Peter was the worst at transforming, and he reels beneath the inevitable nausea.
But, he reminds himself, all is now well.
He is with his friends.
They are angry, shouts echoing off the roof, but they are here; they are so perfectly present, and he could almost forget about it all if it weren't for
"THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!"
The rat whimpers.
He is still that, no matter what form he takes.
in our dry cellar
The Marauders, what are they now?
A/N: FOR SYLVIA, OH WIFEY. You seem to have vanished but this for our magical wife exchange/secret santa whatnot and I hope you like it.
Reviews are welcomed.