Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. I'm thankful for that, even if I'm broke. I'm even more thankful she's left such a vast sandbox to play in... a quicksand box. Have fun reading, even if it's a tad sniffly.


Dedications: To those dead but not gone, to all Sirius fans, to Brina, who wouldn't read this anyway, and Shayde, who SHOULDN'T be reading it but is.

Note: This is the second part of Bleed Black, but it's really a standalone fic. Enjoy!

Bleed Black Part Two – Aftermath

He was a fixer, unsatisfied unless he had a hand in setting whatever he thought was wrong to rights. But this, not even he could fix. This, he was allowing to happen to him, without fighting back. As if he deserved it.

Maybe in his mind, he did.

It was then that James realised how much Sirius really had needed him. Needed him still. He was unable to look after himself, not when it mattered. He did not care one jot about his own well-being, too busy concentrated on making life better for those around him.

Here, however, there was no good anywhere, nothing to fix. Or rather, everything to fix.

Everything was wrong. This was not how it was supposed to be.

Sirius had failed, that's how Sirius himself saw it. He was convinced he was to blame, it had been his idea after all. To the world, Sirius had betrayed them all, turned into a savage murderer, a manic killer who thrived on bloodshed. James knew better. Peter had failed them, not Sirius. But he could not get the message across anymore. He could not set this to rights, where Sirius could not: The world was deaf to whatever left his mouth, twisting his words to fit them to the image they had shaped of him in a blinking.

And Sirius was wasting away day after day before James' eyes, yet never far enough gone to die. He hung on, day by day.

Why, only Sirius could tell.

And he would not say anything about it either, would he? James knew him too well to expect anything of use there. Or he knew him too little. Did it even matter anymore?

He had been there, every step of the way.

Inseparable, they had called them. Like brothers, they said.

They didn't have a clue. They had no idea what those words truly meant.

The two of them had sworn an oath, years ago, in another life, when they were—yes, they too had been that once—innocent. They had sealed it with their blood. They knew, even then, what it meant, knew without knowing what it was they were sealing. A bond of fates, a bond of brotherhood that would outlast anything.

'Anything', back then, had amounted to what Sirius' family would do to him during the summer holidays. Yet both knew, the second their blood flowed together, that it meant so much more. And Sirius, no matter how rash and impulsive he might have been, how much of an affinity for trouble he might have had, never broke an oath, a promise. Neither did James.

This time though, the oath sworn was different. He had sworn it to the stormy night sky, sworn to the lightning forking overhead, reflecting on James' glasses, an image as broken as the cracked surface that reflected it.

It too, had been sealed with blood. James' own, caked and splattered over the broken spectacles, now a rusty, dirty brownish colour. James' blood, which still flowed through Sirius' veins, which was smeared all over his hands, his robes, the side of his face as he cradled James' body in his arms.

He vowed to bring an end to this, left Harry in Dumbledore's hands, not that he was given any choice in the matter, Hagrid made that clear. Should he have fought that decision? It was debatable, but he made his choices. He went after Peter first, thinking, maybe, that he'd be able to talk Dumbledore into giving him his godson back, once he had punished Peter for his betrayal. A rash decision perhaps, but one he did not back up from, one he never had a chance to correct. One that was taken out of his hands not thirty hours later.

James couldn't blame Sirius for it. He would never even dream of it. If their circumstances were reversed, he did not know what he would have done in Sirius' shoes. He would have died, probably.

Something died within Sirius too, that night.

James had been there, the unearthly, broken howl of rage, of grief, of betrayal, of utter anguish and despair the oath was worded in ringing in his ears every day thereafter. Who could forget such a sound? It wasn't human even.

Or perhaps it was too much so.

Sirius did not see him, he could not, nor could he hear him, James was certain of it. He had not left his side for one moment, those first few weeks. They had been the worst. The world thought Sirius had gone completely round the bend, blamed it on him being stricken by Voldemort's demise, but James knew better. He could feel his pain, crawling underneath his skin, so cutting, so unbearable he could not even cry.

Sirius laughed instead, at the death, the destruction, the despair of it all. At what he had lost, for trusting. At Peter's escape, what it meant for him. He was not so far gone as to not know what it meant. He laughed as he was taken to Azkaban, laughed so hard the wardens were growing nervous ticks.

"Let's see how long you carry on laughing in here, you murdering bastard."

They threw him into a cell made of bars, only just large enough to prevent whoever was in it to be 'accidentally' kissed by a Dementor. Wouldn't want them to run out of food, would they.

It was then that Sirius started laughing in earnest, tears streaming down his face as the Dementors started filing in, surrounding the newcomer in the sickest welcome ceremony James had ever laid eyes on.

It was the day of James' and Lily's funeral. Sirius' twenty-second birthday, one day after James' own. Lily had attended it. She said the service had been beautiful, with bagpipe players and stunning eulogies filled with praise. She never mentioned the furious whispering, the snarled comments about their betrayal, the muttered curses damning Sirius for all eternity.

James had been in Azkaban at the time, standing next to Sirius as he was thrown into that cage. He had witnessed every moment of it, watched his brother being rent asunder, torn apart with almost surgical precision, as the Dementors crowded around him, a mass of rattling breaths and slimy, decomposing limbs reaching for him, pulling him every which way, drawing a sheen of silver from him that never seemed to run out.

The cage was a punishment for prisoners, a place where they were not supposed to stay for no longer than a few hours at a time; Sirius was kept there for a week. Maybe more, time was irrelevant there.

James had seen the warden, Cullen Culbert, a Ravenclaw only a year their senior whom they had been friendly with, pass a report stating that Black had been taken to his cell, number 390, on the same day of his arrival. He merely 'forgot' to get him out of that cage, 'forgot', because Black deserved to suffer more than anyone. He had as good as killed James and Lily Potter, so beloved by the Wizarding World, he had murdered little heroic Peter Pettigrew, he had blasted twelve muggles apart. He was a monster, and monsters did not deserve any pity.

James had shouted at him. He had ranted, threatened, cried.

And he had hoped Sirius would die. He had hoped he would not be so damn strong, begged to the fates to let him go, to let him give up. In that hopeless, dark and cold place, death would have been a kindness Sirius had earned in spades.

It was not granted him. He did not die, although he came close. Close enough to make the Dementors leave, close enough to see James sitting on the cold stone floor, right next to him. Grey eyes filled with sorrow had fixed themselves on him, recognition trickling into them like so many tears flowed out.

The Dementors returned then, James had fancied he could hear a tone of excitement in their rattles. It was then that Sirius stopped laughing. That day, he started screaming. Three days later, he was thrown into his cell, breath ragged and throat bloody and raw. They never sent a mediwizard in, they laughed at him instead, wished he would choke on his blood, stationed every spare Dementor there was outside his door.

And James had wished Sirius would indeed choke on his blood. He did not. Why, James never found out.

He was probably just too stubborn for it.

Familiar faces started showing up at Azkaban, more specifically, cell 390. The Dementors were driven away from the door so these most distinguished visitors would not be affected by them. Whenever the cold receded, Sirius knew they were coming. He would simply brace himself, staring stonily ahead, eyes fixed -by mere coincidence, James was sure- on James' own.

There were no words of kindness spoken by one-time friends, not once. Their mistrust had been misplaced, and thus, their righteous anger was aimed at the one who least deserved it. Too blind to see what was before them, too deaf to listen to stammered words, those few times Sirius tried to explain, they executed their 'revenge', returned home in the evening, feeling accomplished, as if they had done the world a favour, their part in the war.

Their part.

What did they know about doing their part? They were still around, free to enjoy the respite from battle that was so dearly bought. And no, James was not thinking about his death as a high price. Not even Lily's or Sirius' death would have been too high a price. They had all been ready for it, after all. Sirius most of all, he had set himself up for it, so James and his family would not be touched, had he not?

Sirius' continued agony however, that was too much to pay for, just so those they had once counted amongst their closest friends could be free to live and curse his name.

They believed, with an almost astounding readiness, that Sirius was a Death Eater. It was not even questioned, by anyone. Dumbledore gave whatever rubbish evidence he had to back Fudge's statement, and everyone just lapped it up, exactly as they had bought the tale of Snape's innocence.

James could not believe it, and yet... there it was, plain as day, every time someone stepped into Sirius' cell to punish him for his crimes. It was ironic, really.

He who was probably truest to their cause, the one who would rather have died ten times over before seeing one finger placed on Harry, or Lily, or James himself, was going through hell every day, just because he had been true to them.

How could they be so blind?

Some days, Sirius defied them, and those days, to James it was as if he too, wished he could die. He didn't, but Merlin did he come close.

Those times, he would talk to James, or at least he'd try to. He would hear James' words, would even bite out a tiny smile here and there to indicate he was listening. But it never did last long. Always just enough to raffle himself up again and carry on.

He never did learn how to give up.

He had been very popular, at first. Visitors would fairly line up to see him. Everyone clamoured for his pain, everyone wanted to 'avenge' the Potters' deaths, wanted the murderous traitor to know exactly what his place was. Under their shoe, to be stepped on, beaten, spat at. His life, so he was told on several occasions, was at the tip of their wands. Sirius would bite out some barbed comment to that, earn himself another beating.

James saw it all. He would not forgive, nor would he allow himself to forget, which was easy in the place he now dwelt. It was not easy to endure. Before long, he found himself caving. He pleaded, where Sirius would not. Begged, where Sirius threw out sarcastic remarks. It went unheard, just as Sirius' screams were, in the pitch blackness of Azkaban.

When Sirius was left alone, the Dementors would come in, having been bereft from their favourite snack for so long. Sirius would merely retreat to his corner, grey eyes unblinking, shimmering in the dark, whispering a steady, unending chant of, "I'm innocent. I didn't kill them. Peter did. Peter betrayed us. Peter was the Secret Keeper. I picked him. I as good as killed them. I deserve this. I'm sorry James, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

James found this harder to bear than anything else.

He did not even look in on Harry, those first few weeks. Lily watched over him, not having the heart to visit Sirius, to see him broken like that. She said it was too much to bear, to see him who had always stood tall, making heads turn wherever he went, who had given up so much for them, ill-used and alone. She did, however, visit once or twice, and she never stayed long.

Finally, a month after their deaths, James went to see Harry, but this was too much for him, to see his beautiful baby son crying at night for his "Mama", his "Dada"... and his "Pafoo". With Sirius, it was different. To him he could talk, tell him he was being thick, that none of this was his fault, even if he could not hear him. He could get mad, shout himself hoarse, punch walls even if his fist went right through them...

Maybe it was useless, he did not care. James' time was over, the problems of the living were no longer his to fix. No matter how much he wished it were different. No matter how much he loathed this arrangement.

Visiting Privet Drive made his heart break all over. And there was nothing he could do or say to Harry to help. Harry could not hear him or understand -- not that Sirius would have, had he been able to hear him -- but still, James stopped visiting Harry. For a year and a day.

The next time he went back, Harry no longer cried or asked for anyone. Not even his Pafoo.

In Azkaban, Sirius fell into a routine, and so did they all. No longer did he scream or claw at the walls, the visits from righteous avengers became an exception of everyday life rather than part of it. He spoke little, slept less, and ate only when he could not help to bear the gnawing hunger eating away at him.

And James, who thought he had known Sirius as an extension of himself in life, learned to know him for real in death. He saw however much or little of the real Sirius had been hidden from him during his life, learned to read the story behind Sirius' eyes as his expression grew grimmer, as he retreated deep within himself in an instinctive, stubborn effort of survival, as he slowly, patiently locked a few precious memories behind a wall of pain so they could not be touched or tainted by the Dementors.

Sirius' greatest strength, as James had known it, was his ability to love. It knew no bounds, spurred him to do things nobody would have believed possible, allowed him to laugh and hope and joke around, no matter how dark the times, no matter how hopeless. It was limitless, or so he had believed once.

Here, however, it was Sirius' greatest weakness. The Dementors could simply not get enough of it, pure and undiminished as it was by the time spent in their hold. James did not believe it was limitless anymore. Now, now he knew. Yet Sirius steadily pulled back a fraction at a time, somehow withheld his real essence from the Dementors, grew stronger even while he was steadily weakened, while he wasted away on the outside until James had trouble recognising him.

The fact that most of his memories were bittersweet helped, perhaps, something that James had always considered one of Sirius' weaker spots. No matter how sunny the day, no matter how happy the occasion, Sirius had always had a black cloud looming over him, be it in the form of his family, most of whom had gone Death Eaters, be it some recent loss or other, the likes of which seemed to follow him around, be it the prejudice of the world, who believed there was not such a thing as a 'good' Black. While during their childhood James could laugh and be glad without restraint, Sirius always had had a reason for his own happiness to be marred, always had a reason to fight for every inch of freedom, for every barking laugh. Maybe it was this what made him appreciate the good in things so much more.

Still, here, this came to be a previously unknown strength. Since his memories were both good and bad, happy and sad at the same time, the Dementors could not wholly strip him from them.

Sirius remembered.

Yes, he remembered the most terrible parts of his life, and yet, the better ones remained, coupled with the unhappy memories in a mesh so intricate not even the Dementors could take it apart.

Sometimes it would become too much; sometimes, Sirius would draw a memory from his innermost self, just to relish, for a few precious moments, the feel of it. The Dementors would flock to him, sensing the change as if he had lit a beacon. He would always end up screaming, clinging to the memory as if his life depended on it.

It probably did.

Was it worth it? James often wondered, but the answer was right there. To Sirius at least, it was.

Then one day-- or night, there was never any telling-- while Sirius was being visited by the Dementors, James saw something he had not believed possible. Azkaban was, after all, supposed to strip the most powerful warlock from his powers. And yet, the thin, filthy, worn-out Grim was sitting on the stone floor of that dinghy cell before him, eyes unblinking in the dark. Despite it all, Sirius had transformed.

He had always enjoyed doing the impossible. Once more, he had succeeded. James watched him, smiling a true smile at last. There was no more screaming coming from cell 390 thereafter.

Except on Halloween nights.

Sirius grew silent, and in response, James grew louder. He was always there, day in and out, watching, wishing Sirius would just die, die and come to them, as he should.

But Sirius was simply... waiting. For what, James didn't know.

He was pretty sure Sirius didn't have a clue either.

He would talk to Sirius, then. Every day, he reminded Sirius he was innocent, that he was not to be blamed for what Peter did, that he did not deserve what hand the fates had dealt him. He would tell him how Harry was coming along, of the living world, of the world of the dead, the place in between, where he now dwelt.

It was a good place. Never too hot or too cold, where pain did not exist, where they had everything they could wish for, while they waited for their loved ones to join them and move on together. His parents sent Sirius constant well-wishings, and Fabian and Gideon, the McKinnons, the McFustys, and Uncle Alfie too. And was he going to come join them all soon?

He would argue with Sirius to come with him, to leave this terrible place behind. But Sirius could not hear him, and thus remained in his cold cell, waiting for... something. What was there to await aside from death? Death, which would not come. It had long become wishful thinking.

The bitterer the day, the louder James became. Why he did it, he did not know, Sirius could not hear him, could not remember what it was, to enjoy the sunlight while lying on the grass, to laugh, to crack a joke. If he had, then the Dementors would have flocked to him like so many flies on a drop of spilt honey. They still revelled in feeding off him, but they too, had fallen into a twisted routine. Theirs was the night, the daytime belonged to James.

Months passed, without Sirius uttering a word other than his mantra of, "I'm innocent. I didn't kill them. Peter did it, he betrayed us..."

Sirius' hair grew into a matted tangle; his robes, which once had been of the fine make of the Hit Wizard squadron, were filthy and torn, his feet bare and his face sunken, haunted. He would spend the nights as a dog, padding restlessly from one end to the other of his cold, damp cell, jumping to the high window to get a whiff of fresh air, always moving incessantly. By day, he would sit or doze on his cot, absently digging a hole into the wall with his thumb, while James' unheard voice told him of the goings on in a world that had torn him to pieces and left him for dead.

Only he wasn't. Dear Merlin, he wasn't.

Sirius was very much alive underneath it all. His eyes shone brightly at times, and James sometimes fancied he could hear him, although that was –by now even proven –impossible.

One day, Fudge arrived to perform his yearly inspection of the Azkaban inmates. It was marked as a day where the Dementors were driven away, a day which the inmates used mostly to sleep undisturbed. Sirius asked for the newspaper then, politely addressing the man who had single-handedly obliterated all evidence of Sirius' innocence—and there had been a lot of evidence there—and used Sirius' capture to climb to the seat of Minister for Magic. James usually shouted strings of curses at him, and today was no different. Sirius merely bowed his head, thanking him for the paper.

That day, everything changed.

That day, Sirius started speaking again.

"See here," he said, opening the paper after Fudge left, tapping a picture on the front page. "He is alive. He's at Hogwarts. Bugger--He's at Hogwarts. Harry's at Hogwarts, isn't he? Yes... 1993, he is there, he's going on what, thirteen, isn't he? And that damned rat is just sitting there!"

James looked at the paper over Sirius' shoulder. Peter was there, on one of Arthurs' boys' shoulders. It was clear it was him. He looked at Sirius, who was licking his dry, chapped lips, an expression on his face that James had not seen in years.

"You are plotting, you sorry bastard," he had laughed. "At last, you're snapping out of it."

"Why, yes, I am."

James gaped. That last had been, quite clearly, directed at him. Sirius hadn't spoken to him in weeks, and then he had believed it was just out of boredom. Something about an arithmancy calculation on the lunar phases he could not get right. This however, was impossible to dismiss as anything but a direct answer.

"You can hear me?"

"With your incessant jabbering, how can I not?" Sirius countered, eyes wandering over the paper.

"But—but I thought... I thought you couldn't."

"Why do you come by every day then? Deadland a bit too boring for your taste?" Sirius had croaked, looking straight at him. James still could not believe it.

"You can see me?"

"Always."

"Why hadn't you said anything before?" James sat down next to Sirius. "I thought you couldn't see me at all."

"You wouldn't leave," Sirius whispered. "You never left. Kept coming back."

"You wanted me to leave?!" This was preposterous!

"Yep." A one-shouldered shrug.

"You've been ignoring me all this time?"

"Yes," came the immediate reply, followed at once by an amendment. "Well... No. Not really. Eh." A sigh, the likes of which James had grown used to hearing. "Sort of. Sorry."

"Why?" James was utterly incredulous. Sirius hadn't wanted him there all along? The bowed head and rueful expression told him nothing.

"They work... backwards. I had to... I had to ignore you. If I hadn't... They...they would have taken you away too."

James bowed his head now. He finally understood. Sirius had been able to see him all along. He had turned James into something unhappy, unwelcome, so he would not be taken by the Dementors.

Sirius smiled, a true –if a tad manic –smile, the likes of which James had long given up hope on seeing, particularly here. His eyes were back on the paper.

"I'll get him this time around, James. I will."

Fin.

Happy Halloween!