Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
ANs: You know, the only reason I'm determined to get the POA movie myself is only because the script isn't available yet. Sadly. I also managed (after a hard day's [don't you mean, fangirl-ing days worth?] worth of searching for POA screencaps a bunch of people have been managing to get their hands on) to find the so called screencaps and I happily emerged in joy.
Even though I've been running low on a creativity block, seeing these screencaps just make me want to go "guh" after a long day's work. (That, and since I've been susceptible to fangirl-y screams and hyperventilating, go figure.) And not to mention, this movie is probably the slashiest I've seen since LOTR. Maybe even slashier as I keep on finding more conspicuous icons everywhere.
(Sorry for the rambling! )
Anyway, staring at these pictures make words pop out of my damn brain, and there you go.
If you think you see slashy overtones, if that's your thing, go for it. If not, you don't have to think of it that way. :) (Even though I see the slashiness, doesn't mean you have to at any rate.)
In Outstretched Hands is in the works (I got an idea, but it's still a little sketchy...But I think I can work it out somehow.) but it's not dead yet! Hopefully I'll start getting my brain to work it through. We'll see.
Enjoy. I loved writing this.
Dedicated to:
My Mommy Teabag aka Ashley G.
This Sirius/Harry is just for you.
I hope it satisfies your dreams and
expectations. I love you!
It only seemed like yesterday that Sirius was here.
Harry's hands trailed the page of the album; caressing it, feeling its texture underneath his fingertips only to reveal images not of his own past.
Images of a smiling James Potter and a beautiful Lily Evans, in her own white wedding gown, looking like a fairy tale princess. And James would smile and kiss her, sometimes to be pushed away by a handsome gray-eyed man who was dressed in a similar suit like James. And from time to time, he'd see a brown-haired man with amber eyes pop into the picture, perfecting friendship and love all in one shot.
And all the while, he'd turn the page to find pictures of himself as young babe, held in the arms of his mother, or if he flipped to another page, he'd see a picture of James and Sirius and Remus and Peter—his name came off his tongue in disgust—cheering as they won the House Cup; Remus and Peter would be in their normal wizarding robes, but their faces painted red and gold (just like that one Quidditch game in third year, Harry thought) yelling and screaming and jumping in mirth as James and Sirius were carried up shoulders as they were taken to the castle.
And Harry knew what it felt to be up there: exhilaration, freedom; everything would disappear and the world would be something all entirely different. Every time a hand would slip to touch both Quidditch players' arms or shoulders, sometimes a leg, Harry would stare, transfixed, wishing, hoping...
And every time someone would clasp a slap to Sirius' arm, or a punch to a leg, he could feel the warning heat searing through his belly, wishing, hoping, knowing his godfather would not be there to congratulate him on his own Quidditch triumphs.
Sighing to himself, he would turn to see another picture: a group shot of the Marauders with their arms over each other's shoulders, grinning like there was no tomorrow. They looked old enough to be in their third year.
Was theirs eventful like his own?
Sirius' sparkling smile unnerved him; his twinkling wine-gray eyes made Harry's water, while his immaculate ebony hair gave a sheen his didn't. And he knew he couldn't have Sirius, not anymore, he was gone; gone away to a place he couldn't retrieve him.
He was beyond the black veil.
Harry shut the album, feeling the leather binding of the outside, cool against his warm skin, giving painful reminders of the reality he was living. He sighed as he pressed his back against the bed, his album lying on the hard floor, the carpet beneath his feet.
And he shut his eyes, remembering the feel of hard, calloused hands on his own smooth skin, cupping his face, telling him he wished he knew him better, telling him that he would be in his heart, not knowing his future fate. And he had felt them pressing on his neck, in a reassuring way that made him feel safe, and loved. He did not go and hug him, like he wish he did, knowing as he remembered watching Sirius' form, still slightly graceful—as if Azkaban and Grimmauld Place didn't rob him totally of his former self—mounting buckbeak and saying his goodbyes as he flew in the sky.
Flashes Sirius drew to his mind, feeling his heart, and his soul to the very bottom: his very core. He could remember the scenes of talking with Sirius, laughing with Sirius, helping Sirius with some of the housework, knowing, feeling, a little better, a little safer. He knew he could identify with him then: his bitter anger, his entrapment in a home he escaped from years ago, the slight sadness of everything.
And there would be the little things he could remember, as he deeply breathed in. Slaps onto his shoulder, sometimes a punch in the arm, a reassuring squeeze to his hand.
He felt the tears prickling his eyes as he remembered quite clearly.
He missed the little things about him.
Harry desperately wished to be held by Sirius; to be held in strong, fatherly-brotherly arms—who knew which they were anymore— inhaling the bitter spicy scent that was Sirius. For some reason, it would soothe him even more, especially after nightmares that plagued his days—even in Grimmauld—and Sirius would still be up in the kitchen, clutching a half-drunken butterbeer, staring out into space.
And those days, Harry would sit, and Sirius would ask what was wrong, knowing, feeling the anguish and aching emptiness that would bite out at him. Sometimes Harry was too tired and he would just let himself be in Sirius' arms, loving tender arms, rocking him to peace as he sobbed. Or he would reveal some of the truth, while his knuckles would be caressed by his godfather's own thumb, calming him as he told his tale.
It was those little things that Harry missed most.
He opened his eyes, to see the room blurred before him. He put his arms around himself, trying to encase himself in a false protection, a false hope, as the tears fell unceremoniously. And it would be those tears that Sirius would wipe off his cheek on those nights, when Harry, albeit against his pride, would cry, and he would make things better. Make all the pains all away.
There were times when Harry contemplated taking the shards of the mirror and stabbing himself to death, just to see what would happen.Would he lose control? Would he bleed to death, or would he truly die and see Sirius and his parents?
But his inner voice would always reply back, saying things that Sirius wouldn't have dried his tears and taken all the pain from his dreams if he didn't expect Harry to live and make it through it all. He wouldn't have had his hands to his cheeks telling him that he and his parents would always be there in his heart—the one thing that Dumbledore said saved him—as Harry pressed his own hand there, knowing that Sirius had once done the same thing.
As he shut his eyes and cried, he could feel his body convulse underneath his hands, sadness becoming him again. And while he cried, a weight fell against the top of his hand, like a firm squeeze. He swore he felt the same weight wiping his tears, pressing a lingering kiss on his forehead, with the whisper, "I'll always be in your heart..."
Sirius was around him, everywhere: in the feel of his skin, the scent that was on his clothes, as the warmth hugging him, making him safe, feeling loved.
When he opened his eyes, he smiled.
Home is where the heart is.
And he precisely found that.
Home.
ANs: You know, the only reason I'm determined to get the POA movie myself is only because the script isn't available yet. Sadly. I also managed (after a hard day's [don't you mean, fangirl-ing days worth?] worth of searching for POA screencaps a bunch of people have been managing to get their hands on) to find the so called screencaps and I happily emerged in joy.
Even though I've been running low on a creativity block, seeing these screencaps just make me want to go "guh" after a long day's work. (That, and since I've been susceptible to fangirl-y screams and hyperventilating, go figure.) And not to mention, this movie is probably the slashiest I've seen since LOTR. Maybe even slashier as I keep on finding more conspicuous icons everywhere.
(Sorry for the rambling! )
Anyway, staring at these pictures make words pop out of my damn brain, and there you go.
If you think you see slashy overtones, if that's your thing, go for it. If not, you don't have to think of it that way. :) (Even though I see the slashiness, doesn't mean you have to at any rate.)
In Outstretched Hands is in the works (I got an idea, but it's still a little sketchy...But I think I can work it out somehow.) but it's not dead yet! Hopefully I'll start getting my brain to work it through. We'll see.
Enjoy. I loved writing this.
My Mommy Teabag aka Ashley G.
This Sirius/Harry is just for you.
I hope it satisfies your dreams and
expectations. I love you!
It only seemed like yesterday that Sirius was here.
Harry's hands trailed the page of the album; caressing it, feeling its texture underneath his fingertips only to reveal images not of his own past.
Images of a smiling James Potter and a beautiful Lily Evans, in her own white wedding gown, looking like a fairy tale princess. And James would smile and kiss her, sometimes to be pushed away by a handsome gray-eyed man who was dressed in a similar suit like James. And from time to time, he'd see a brown-haired man with amber eyes pop into the picture, perfecting friendship and love all in one shot.
And all the while, he'd turn the page to find pictures of himself as young babe, held in the arms of his mother, or if he flipped to another page, he'd see a picture of James and Sirius and Remus and Peter—his name came off his tongue in disgust—cheering as they won the House Cup; Remus and Peter would be in their normal wizarding robes, but their faces painted red and gold (just like that one Quidditch game in third year, Harry thought) yelling and screaming and jumping in mirth as James and Sirius were carried up shoulders as they were taken to the castle.
And Harry knew what it felt to be up there: exhilaration, freedom; everything would disappear and the world would be something all entirely different. Every time a hand would slip to touch both Quidditch players' arms or shoulders, sometimes a leg, Harry would stare, transfixed, wishing, hoping...
And every time someone would clasp a slap to Sirius' arm, or a punch to a leg, he could feel the warning heat searing through his belly, wishing, hoping, knowing his godfather would not be there to congratulate him on his own Quidditch triumphs.
Sighing to himself, he would turn to see another picture: a group shot of the Marauders with their arms over each other's shoulders, grinning like there was no tomorrow. They looked old enough to be in their third year.
Was theirs eventful like his own?
Sirius' sparkling smile unnerved him; his twinkling wine-gray eyes made Harry's water, while his immaculate ebony hair gave a sheen his didn't. And he knew he couldn't have Sirius, not anymore, he was gone; gone away to a place he couldn't retrieve him.
He was beyond the black veil.
Harry shut the album, feeling the leather binding of the outside, cool against his warm skin, giving painful reminders of the reality he was living. He sighed as he pressed his back against the bed, his album lying on the hard floor, the carpet beneath his feet.
And he shut his eyes, remembering the feel of hard, calloused hands on his own smooth skin, cupping his face, telling him he wished he knew him better, telling him that he would be in his heart, not knowing his future fate. And he had felt them pressing on his neck, in a reassuring way that made him feel safe, and loved. He did not go and hug him, like he wish he did, knowing as he remembered watching Sirius' form, still slightly graceful—as if Azkaban and Grimmauld Place didn't rob him totally of his former self—mounting buckbeak and saying his goodbyes as he flew in the sky.
Flashes Sirius drew to his mind, feeling his heart, and his soul to the very bottom: his very core. He could remember the scenes of talking with Sirius, laughing with Sirius, helping Sirius with some of the housework, knowing, feeling, a little better, a little safer. He knew he could identify with him then: his bitter anger, his entrapment in a home he escaped from years ago, the slight sadness of everything.
And there would be the little things he could remember, as he deeply breathed in. Slaps onto his shoulder, sometimes a punch in the arm, a reassuring squeeze to his hand.
He felt the tears prickling his eyes as he remembered quite clearly.
He missed the little things about him.
Harry desperately wished to be held by Sirius; to be held in strong, fatherly-brotherly arms—who knew which they were anymore— inhaling the bitter spicy scent that was Sirius. For some reason, it would soothe him even more, especially after nightmares that plagued his days—even in Grimmauld—and Sirius would still be up in the kitchen, clutching a half-drunken butterbeer, staring out into space.
And those days, Harry would sit, and Sirius would ask what was wrong, knowing, feeling the anguish and aching emptiness that would bite out at him. Sometimes Harry was too tired and he would just let himself be in Sirius' arms, loving tender arms, rocking him to peace as he sobbed. Or he would reveal some of the truth, while his knuckles would be caressed by his godfather's own thumb, calming him as he told his tale.
It was those little things that Harry missed most.
He opened his eyes, to see the room blurred before him. He put his arms around himself, trying to encase himself in a false protection, a false hope, as the tears fell unceremoniously. And it would be those tears that Sirius would wipe off his cheek on those nights, when Harry, albeit against his pride, would cry, and he would make things better. Make all the pains all away.
There were times when Harry contemplated taking the shards of the mirror and stabbing himself to death, just to see what would happen.Would he lose control? Would he bleed to death, or would he truly die and see Sirius and his parents?
But his inner voice would always reply back, saying things that Sirius wouldn't have dried his tears and taken all the pain from his dreams if he didn't expect Harry to live and make it through it all. He wouldn't have had his hands to his cheeks telling him that he and his parents would always be there in his heart—the one thing that Dumbledore said saved him—as Harry pressed his own hand there, knowing that Sirius had once done the same thing.
As he shut his eyes and cried, he could feel his body convulse underneath his hands, sadness becoming him again. And while he cried, a weight fell against the top of his hand, like a firm squeeze. He swore he felt the same weight wiping his tears, pressing a lingering kiss on his forehead, with the whisper, "I'll always be in your heart..."
Sirius was around him, everywhere: in the feel of his skin, the scent that was on his clothes, as the warmth hugging him, making him safe, feeling loved.
When he opened his eyes, he smiled.
Home is where the heart is.
And he precisely found that.
Home.