A/N: so this is it. my first story here on this amazing site. from pre-planning to writing (and editing over and over again until my eyes cross), it's been a wild ride so far, and i'm sure it'll only get wilder from this point on. also, this story will be canon divergent and has officially taken on the rating M for overall content—violence, foul language, close encounters of the venereal kind, and everything in between ! honestly, it's better to be safe than sorry. (ɔ◔‿◔)ɔ
disclaimer: the fantastic harry potter series belongs to j.k. rowling. i own nothing except for the tears i can't help but shed over the fact that i own nothing. xD.
.
.
.
.
BOUND BY A TIMELESS CODE
by: rebelcongeriem
.
.
.
.
hands—put your empty hands in mine; scars—show me all the scars you hide — rachel platten
.
.
.
.
I. SIRIUS
Two years.
That was how long he'd been forced to endure the agonizingly cold, painfully lonely ambiance that was a permanent, but common, fixture at Azkaban—currently the only existing prison in wizarding Britain.
Two years since he'd last tasted freedom.
Two years since he'd last breathed in the fresh, crisp air of a beautiful, fall morning.
Two years since he'd last laughed with wild abandon, easily finding amusement in the strangest of places—usually at the most inopportune moments and at the expense of himself and others.
Two. Fucking. Years. All of which he'd spent wallowing in self-disgust and rage, too often lost in his own thoughts to care about the potential alleviation of his hunger pangs or the lack of cleanliness that assaulted his poor, inner-canine senses every morning upon waking to find that he was still locked away from society, deemed a certifiable threat to all and sundry.
Even if the only threat that truly existed was the one he'd stupidly and foolishly gone and aimed at himself.
What threat, you ask?
Shouldn't it be obvious?
The deep, purple bags under his eyes and his broken, dirt-encrusted nails with their torn cuticles should be clue enough, as both were indicative of an inner turmoil he was determined, maybe even a little desperate, to keep under lock and key.
No wonder he was so bloody...tired of it all.
Tired of fending off the hungry advances of his guards, the decay and despair their very presences so eagerly invoked keeping him awake most nights for fear of calling attention to the few, precious moments of happiness he still, somehow, managed to scrounge up in the aftermath of his imprisonment; tired of trying to reconcile the Peter Pettigrew of his past with the man who'd willingly thrown away nine years of friendship to play puppet to a master who would never see him as equal; so bloody tired of struggling against the inevitability of his death.
Why fight the inevitable?
Why fight death at all?
The stubborn git didn't know the first thing about letting go. And besides, if it wanted him badly enough, it'd stalk him from the shadows until it finally grew bored of the game and knocked him clean off the board. Checkmate.
He kind of hoped it would, to be perfectly—and maybe a little insanely—honest.
Because he was getting real sick and tired of staring at the stone walls of his cell all day, every day—for as long as they could hold his attention, which, ironically enough, never seemed to make it past the fifteen-minute mark. Blame the short attention span he'd been cursed with at birth. It wouldn't be very fair to blame him for something he so obviously couldn't help. But that didn't stop those arseholes from trying.
What was it they called him?
Oh, right.
Batty Black, with his penchant for growling, yowling, and whining at the eerie, hair-raising manifestations of creepy soullessness and their human counterparts, both of whom constantly circled the prison, often using his cell block as a gathering point of convergence.
Did they really have nothing better to do than to dance on the proverbial grave of his self-proclaimed lunacy?
What was that saying? Time heals all wounds? Puh-fucking-lease.
It hardly possessed enough oomph to heal one, let alone the dozens interspersed throughout every nook and cranny of his mind, coalescing to form one gigantic, festering ball of misery.
And that misery, once properly culminated, would find release the only way it knew how—through compartmentalization.
Half-functional.
But enough to clean house and make prison life a little more bearable.
Because, after all was said and done—and he'd said plenty; screamed it for so long that his voice had cracked—he was destined to die in this wretched place. Die a murderer and a betrayer, forever marked by the sin of envy or other such nonsense, a man seemingly capable of all sorts of atrocities, all while the real culprit escaped punishment for the role he'd wittingly played in the deaths of so many good, wonderful people.
And so, like with most nights, when it became too much—the knowledge that he would die in place of that rat bastard—he retreated into himself, burrowing so deeply underneath the stubborn wall of his subconscious that he no longer felt the cold of an unwanted existence, choosing instead to direct all the intensity of his focus on one simple yet delicate task.
Follow the thin, gossamery thread in his mind.
Interwoven with thorns and shadows, twisting and turning at various intervals—sometimes a dead end, sometimes not.
Until, eventually, as it always did, it led him to a familiar door: large, black, a shade darker than the faded tincture of spilled ink, and heavy with intentions and the indomitable will of the Black heir.
The disowned heir.
Last in a very long line of arrogant wankers with serious superiority complexes—no pun intended.
However, it wasn't until he finally crossed the threshold—straight into the bosom of a mental sanctum heavily imbued with the sense of security and freedom his current living arrangements lacked—that he made a startling discovery.
He wasn't alone.
How...strange? Sounded about right.
"What're you doing here?" A curious Sirius Black asked, head cocked in contemplation as he studied the slender form leaning tiredly against the brick wall his subconscious must have conjured. "How did you get here?"
"I don't know," the man whispered, his tone raspy—a low, rough sound that grated on his animagus senses, sending curling tendrils of heat through his veins. But as surprising and as unexpected as he found his own reaction to be, it only served to intensify his curiosity of a stranger who'd not only circumvented his psychic wards but had all but made himself home, immersing himself in a mind that very few, least of all those who believed him to be evil incarnate, would label sane.
A true enigma.
And because he watched this enigmatic interloper closely, close enough to notice the trembling in his hand as he lifted it to his sandy brown hair—close enough to distinguish between the anxiety in his odd-colored but pretty eyes and the glint of confusion that had slowly begun to eclipse it—that brief moment of distraction cost him, allowing for the too tense, too thin man to pose a question of his own. "Where am I?"
"Isn't it obvious? You're in my head." Sirius tapped his right index finger against his temple, a playful smile twisting his lips. His long, dark—and perfectly unmatted—hair was currently tied back at the base of his neck with a black leather cord, the denouement of one who obsessed over the state of his hair on a regular basis.
Under normal circumstances.
And by normal, he meant normal.
As in, typical.
Paradigmatic.
Which, like it or not, excluded Azkaban, where personal hygiene and grooming fell far below the mark of crucial or necessary—as evidenced by the godawful, powerfully debilitating stench that would frequently emanate from several, varying cells on any given day. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if the poor sods had suffocated in their own horrendous body odor, given how often dementors were prone to allowing shower breaks.
A big, fat nil on that score.
"Kind of surprised it let you in, to be honest. Half the time, it can't be bothered with me," he added, a thoughtful look flickering across his face even as he stewed over the possibility that his jailers might have found another way to break him. What better way to destroy what little presence of mind and self-worth he desperately clung to than to instill a deadly virus in the visible cracks of his psyche by throwing elusory broken harmlessness into the equation? "You must be special."
"Me? No," came the immediate reply, bitter repudiation threading through that strangely appealing, hoarse voice. "Not special. Far from it. Never was..." The man fell silent, a grimace settling over his pallid features; the noticeably deep mark stretching across his right cheekbone provided a stark contrast to the wanness of his appearance, further emphasized by the huddled posture he'd fallen into—he'd sunk to the floor, drawing his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them as he hastily ducked his head, hiding his eyes and by default the shame that had wormed its way into his expression.
But he wasn't fast enough to escape the bold scrutiny of an impish gaze.
Or perhaps Sirius's own animus, fickle bastard that it was, had decided to relinquish overall control to him, allowing him free reign to do with his mind as he pleased. As it should have done in the beginning.
"Yes, you. Do you see anyone else here? Seriously. Do you? If so, management needs to know. They don't like surprises."
Neither did he most days.
But Pretty Eyes could probably maybe change his tune—maybe.
"Uh...no?" the brunet mumbled after a time, almost reluctantly, as he dropped his chin onto his folded arms, not quite looking at him.
Head tilted in perusal, Sirius followed his line of sight, taking a much-needed moment to pass a cursory (but rather leery) glance around the room. Barren but for the one random wall, its two newest inhabitants, and the navy blue bean bag chair that had only just now materialized out of thin air, a product of the late Lily Potter's muggle-born influence over the years.
"No," Sirius echoed, throwing himself down onto the bean bag chair and lazily crossing one long leg over the other as he adopted a fractious expression, faux in nature but executed well enough to fool a stranger. "Merlin, you're killing me here. Don't you know how to laugh? Or hell, I don't know...smile? C'mon, show me the smile...And leave the mopes by the wayside," he griped, pulling a face. "Nobody likes the mopes."
Or the blahs.
And if they did, then something was seriously (disturbingly) wrong with them.
"You're...interesting, okay? Own it."
Before someone else decided to take it. Because, as he well knew, there was always that one arsehole who just couldn't seem to help himself.
It was in the code of arseholiness.
Just like playing twenty questions without a drop of firewhiskey...or introducing humor into a conversation weighed down with its arch-nemesis, the ever dreaded solemnity and its glaringly dull partner, sobriety.
And yet Sirius did just that.
But at least he sort of had an excuse this time.
He wanted—no, needed—information. Pertinent information. Information that would hopefully allay some of this…impetuosity he was feeling—an impetuosity to get to know a bloke who could very well be a figment of his overactive imagination.
"But, you know, if you'd rather forgo labels altogether, I'm game." He shrugged—a nonchalant gesture. Wouldn't do to come across as too excitable now, would it? "I'll need a name, though, for it to work—assuming you have one." A fair assumption, he'd say.
The poor, flustered man stared at him as if punch-drunk on the idea that anyone could possibly be interested enough to inquire after an introduction. "Ah—no…I mean, yes. Of course I have a name." His voice held a baffled note, and his eyes—sharp, amber hues with tiny flecks of green sprinkled throughout, framed by long, long lashes and sporting a look that, frankly, reminded Sirius of a stray dog, starved for affection but too damn mistrustful and afraid to accept it—blinked at him in apparent bemusement. "But no one bothers to use it anymore."
"That bad, huh?" Sirius gave a sympathetic shake of his head. "A parent's prerogative for social degradation is a terrifying sight to behold."
If anyone would know what he was on about, he would. His own parents had seen fit to name him after the brightest star in the night sky, which was fondly and colloquially referred to as the dog star. And naturally, as a child, dog had been the only word to stand out in the impressionable mind of a six-year-old. Funny how he could only see it as a running joke now—something to chuckle about when he had no one to keep him company, not even the sneering ministry dugbogs who'd sometimes pop in for a visit, unannounced but with a deliberately smug attitude that would rankle and fester for hours after their departure.
"Well, what would you like to be called then?" He pressed, drawing the one-syllable word out in a ridiculously exaggerated fashion. For some reason unbeknownst to him, Sirius really wanted to see him crack a smile, at least once, before this impromptu, little visit ended.
And if he had to act the berk to make it happen, then so be it.
His puzzled companion scratched behind his ear, a frown creasing his brow. And try as he might, Sirius couldn't tell whether the facial expression was due to concentration or disgruntlement. Maybe a little of both. "I don't know …" He said for the second time within minutes—fifteen minutes for those who wished upon the star of technicality—frown easing somewhat as the wariness in his eyes softened. "I've never really thought about it." There was a long pause as he mulled over the question, and then his expression suddenly cleared and he nodded to himself, decision finally met.
"Moony," he whispered. "I-I think I'd like to be called Moony."
Moony. Reminiscent of shimmering diamonds and thick, luminous mist, casting umbral shadows on a cruel world and bathing the darkness in a soft, silvery-white glow.
Surprisingly, it fit him.
"Moony it is," Sirius concurred unhesitatingly, relieved to finally have a name to put to the face. A face that would have been adorably boyish if not for the bilious cast to his features. "Original, cute, and easy to remember—can't believe I didn't think of it first. But I guess I can live with that failure."
And why not? He'd lived with worse.
But the thought didn't affect him as strongly as it normally would have; he was too busy admiring the way the tips of Moony's ears reddened at his glib praise, the blush soon spreading from his head all the way to his neck in a rather sweet display of bashfulness—or...was that disbelief, tinged with self-recrimination, in his gaze?
And then—a ghost of a smile touched the brunet's lips, and Sirius found himself blanking, so many thoughts bouncing around his mind that he found it nearly impossible to settle on one. The only thing that mattered was that smile and the way it softened the angular planes of Moony's face, briefly shooing the shadows away until all that remained was the barest hint of gratitude, genuine and without expectation.
He felt it then, the first stirrings of triumph in his heart.
A smile might be nothing more than a contraction of certain facial muscles, but when Moony did it, it filled him with a sense of warmth and pride. Even a wrongfully convicted wizard needed one memorable affair to get through the day—if the dementors didn't mulct him first, just like they had with every other pleasurable moment he'd surreptitiously tried to access during these last two years.
"What do I call you?" The quietly uttered words jerked him back to reality, firmly blockading the gully his wayward thoughts had been relatively close to slogging through, and Sirius had to stifle the rather irresistible urge to chortle at the tentative way Moony watched him, as if afraid he might have offended him with his question.
"Padfoot," he divulged with a conspiratorial wink, unabashedly pleased to share with him a part of himself only James and that traitorous rat, Pettigrew, had known.
As an animagus, Sirius could change at will into a remarkably large dog with shaggy black fur and slate-gray eyes—a form that was often confused for the grim, an omen in their world associated with death. It was because of the alleged similarities between the two forms that James had jokingly dubbed him Padfoot, a name he was now stuck with but one he could look back on in fond remembrance whenever he inadvertently fell under the spell of anamnesis, forced to relive memories of a time before he'd known just what kind of sacrifice the callous, inhumane act of betrayal and the resulting heartache—so much fucking heartache—would demand from him in the end.
A blind date with a floating, moaning corpse.
It didn't help that the ghastly thing held a striking resemblance to Walburga on one of her bad hair days.
Or any day, really.
Hell, with skin like that—greyish, riddled with scabs, and practically falling off the bone—not to mention the large, gaping hole teeming with foul breath and oozing blackened trails of spittle, they could practically pass for twins.
"Pleased to meet you, Padfoot," Moony's deliciously low, gravelly tone slammed the door shut on that unpleasant bit of insightful inventiveness, and he would've gladly thanked him for it if the man hadn't chosen that particular moment to lean forward and extend his hand toward him, if only to capitalize on the idea of social propriety.
Amused, Sirius wasted no time in reaching across the space separating them to grasp his hand, accepting the firm handshake with an ambiguous grin—but then refusing to release his hand after the allotted time had passed, relishing the physical contact.
He brushed the pads of his fingers, calloused from years of playing Quidditch, along the arc of Moony's knuckles, stopping only after he'd heard the brunet's breath hitch and caught the glint of bafflement in his amber eyes. Had Moony been a woman, his pureblood upbringing would've made a nuisance of itself and insisted he press a chaste kiss to his proffered knuckles. He was tempted to do it anyway just to see how he would react.
"You only think it's nice because you don't know me." Yet. "But we'll have to remedy that soon. Let's say—The Three Broomsticks? Tomorrow?" Let the regrets and sorrows of yesterday lay to rest. "Yeah, tomorrow. Six on the dot. Don't be late."
But instead of rising to the bait like he'd expected—wanted—him to, his would-be date said nothing, his gaze going unfocused for several long heartbeats, as if he was peering through the window of some alternate reality only he could see.
And then, suddenly, a strange light filled those golden depths, and Moony jerked upright, his body stiffening as the offensive scent of panic permeated the space, leaving a pungent aftertaste in its wake.
Before Sirius could ask what was wrong, however, the man muttered a quick apology, the blank look in his eyes gone but his attention fixated elsewhere—on something just beyond Sirius's line of sight and smell, something lurking just on the outskirts of the imaginary world they'd created for themselves. "I—I have to go."
And just like that, he was gone—winked out of fictitious existence without so much as a goodbye.
Sirius stared at the wall where Moony had sat—hunched over and hugging his knees—the deep burgundy of the bricks fading the longer he stared at them, still not entirely convinced he hadn't made the man up on the spot to cure his loneliness.
But a temporary cure was better than no cure at all, he supposed.
And then—then it was Padfoot's turn.
With a terrible jolt, Sirius snapped back into consciousness, banging his head against the wall as he shot a frantic glance toward the small window overlooking the raging North Sea, its iron bars infused with old magic—powerful magic.
Magic meant to keep the residents perfectly ensconced in a world of abject terror and torturous isolation.
It didn't take him long to catch onto the lamentable fact that he was alone, his newfound friend nowhere in sight.
Alone but not for long, the rattling sound of its breath drawing closer and closer as the Walburga-proxy followed the faint scent of joie de vivre radiating off of him in waves, effectuated from his regrettably brief time spent in the delightful company of Moony.
His shoulders slumped as he dragged a hand through his snarled, matted hair, already resigning himself to a long, sleepless night of regrets and a blustering, relentless ache of loss.
But this was his life now—the poor hand he'd been dealt.
Forsaken.
Desolate.
An embittered shell of the proud, dashingly resilient man he used to be.
.
.
.
.
A/N: last edited 9/15/18.
