The rain pounding on the roof was the only thing breaking the silence at number 12 Grimmauld Place. He sat alone in the dark holding a vial she had given him so many years before, the silvery liquid it contained looking almost like a gas. He hadn't given it much thought at the time – he hadn't really known what it was – but now he cherished this last piece of her. He takes the old, disused pensieve from what had once been his father's study, and poured the memory into the bowl. Taking a deep breath he pushed his face into the cold liquid, feeling himself fall into someone else's memories.
He looked around him at a very familiar scene; it was raining here too, but he remained dry. He can see two figures making their way towards him, and he recognises a younger version of himself walking hand in hand with her. They continue walking wrapped around each other, completely oblivious to his presence.
Her fingers wrap around his wrist, gently tracing his pulse, whilst she leans her head against his shoulder turning her face away from the rain. They're both laughing, oblivious to the rain drenching them. He runs his hand lightly up her back and whispers something in her ear that makes her blush.
Sirius wants to scream at her – how can she not see what he's doing? – but more than that, he wants to scream at his past self. She doesn't deserve this; he knows it now, and he knew it then. The difference being that then he was just out of Hogwarts, so sure of himself, and prepared to do whatever it took to get what he wanted.
He's yelling now, knowing that it will do no good; he isn't a part of this memory anymore, he's powerless to change anything, to make himself treat her differently. As they walk directly by him he reaches out as if to pull her away, but his hands pass straight through her as if she was made of air.
"I love you,"
"You can't expect her to believe that!"
She lifts her face from his shoulder and smiles innocently at him, soaking up those three little words.
"I love you too, Sirius."
He wants to cry at the sincerity on her face; at how she so willingly trusted his every word back then. He'd been so careless with that trust, and it had been slowly eating away at him for years.
There's a slight shifting of scenes, and suddenly he finds himself outside her house later that same night. It's finally stopped raining and millions of stars are visible in the clear night sky; it would be beautiful under any other circumstances.
"I am not overreacting!" she screams, her long hair a wild mess of tangled curls around her face, tears running tracks through her foundation and leaving thick black streaks of mascara in their wake.
He wants to cheer her on, to encourage her to take all of her anger out on his younger self – it's what he deserves.
She still had on her tight black jeans and barely-there tank-top, but she's taken off her ever-present dangerously high heels and has left them in the hallway behind her. She looks a lot shorter without them, vulnerable in a way that she very rarely lets herself be. She throws his leather jacket back in his face, still screaming obscenities at him.
He wants to find some way to talk to her, to tell her that she shouldn't be wasting her time on guys like wants to find a million ways to apologise to her, to beg for the forgiveness that he doesn't deserve. He wants her to scream and cry and hit, but he also wants her to forget and move on.
He leaves her there, crying in front of her open door, and just walks away. He ignores the whispered "please" that follows him, and doesn't give her a second glance as he makes his way back to the car park. He's already forgotten.
The memory changes again, and this time he's actually inside her house. It's at least the next morning, but it could be a few days later.
She's still wearing the same clothes that she was that night, but she's removed all traces of make-up and pulled her hair into a loose bun. She sits with her back against the wall, holding the telephone clutched to her chest.
He can feel a stabbing pain through his heart, watching her wait for a call that would never come. He'd never seen or spoken to her after that night; he hadn't really thought about her at all until he'd heard the news of her death. He hoped she hadn't died still waiting for that call, and a small part of him was glad that he would never know the answer to that.
He felt himself being pulled back into the present, dragged from the memories of his past with tears in his eyes. In that moment he hated himself more than he'd ever hated anyone or anything before. He couldn't change the past, and it was far too late to ask for her forgiveness – even if she had still been alive, he wouldn't dare show up at her doorstep after so many years.
He'd once heard that it was the things you didn't do in life that you regretted most, but now he wasn't so sure he could agree with that.