Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related content belong to J.K. Rowling.
Bitterness and Brandy
Cold. So cold. Frost hung thick and invisible in the musty air above worn floorboards and moth-eaten carpet. A damp draft seeped through cracks in the windowpanes and under the doors. Darkness creeped in the corners and in the shadows where the grey winter light from the high windows did not penetrate. And it was quiet. So quiet, his footsteps were like thunder and he could hear the blood pulsing rhythmically through the veins in his neck. Cold and dark and lonely. Like Azkaban.
He moved his arm like a dying man and poured another glass of brandy. The bottle was cold and smooth beneath his wasted hand and the sweet, strong liquid splashing from its mouth sounded like the elixer of life. He replaced the empty bottle on the small, round tabletop, the dull clunk muffled by the moldy embroidered tablecloth. He drank deeply, the alcohol burning his throat and his chest. He gathered his cloak more tightly around him. The grate next to him was empty. He had neglected to light a fire again, but he stared unseeingly at the charred hearth as if warm, inviting flames were flickering there.
How this house reminded him of everything he loathed. Everywhere were reminders of his unhappy childhood. The great Victorian monstrosity he could not escape conjured unwanted memories of his parents' obsession with the Dark Arts and the ill treatment he suffered upon his rejection of their beliefs. And the order from Dumbledore to remain locked away in such a place made him feel more than ever as if he were still languishing in Azkaban…
The glass was empty. A gust of wind rattled the windows and his body jerked as if he had suddenly awoken. Beyond the high, narrow glass, clouds of grey and white swirled low and heavy in the sky. He got unsteadily to his feet and hobbled to the window. Down in the square before Twelve Grimmauld Place, a few withered leaves skidded along the pavenment. He could feel the cold through the window. He leaned against it and gazed at the house across from Number Twelve .
He could remember standing at this window when his parents had first urged him to join Voldemort. He remembered how they had compared him to his brother, how proud they were that he was a Death Eater, and what a good son Regulus was compared to himself. He remembered the fights and the arguments that ensued until he had had enough, and had run away to the Potters' house…
He could no longer see the sky or the houses across the square. They looked blurred, like a distant memory he could not quite clearly recall, through a white mist. His breath had fogged the window. He didn't bother wiping it with his sleeve. Instead, he turned and went out into the hall.
He was furious with Dumbledore. For the first few weeks after he was ordered to stay in the house, he had gone on a rampage, destroying everything in every room that the Order did not use. He had become quickly exhausted by this, however, and had descended into the darkness in his mind where the only company were his painful memories and the bottles of whiskey in the kitchen pantry.
Like Azkaban. Except in Azkaban, there was nothing to numb the pain. He would huddle in the corner of his cot against the frigid stone wall of his cell and rock for hours, his mind plagued by visions of James and Lily's bodies, their sightless eyes wide and glassy with shock…
He found himself in the entrance hall. He had wandered aimlessly all around the first floor before descending the staircase lined with house-elf heads, only vaguely aware that he was on his way to the kitchen for another drink. The curtains behind which the portrait of his mother was snoring gently caught his eye, and he regarded it with disgust. Then he turned, and before him was the heavy front door.
The crisp autumn air felt like his first breath of life. He walked cautiosly around the square, his long black hair streaming out behind him in the brisk wind, a thick wool cap pulled low over his forehead and a scarf obscuring most of his face. Only his grey eyes were visible. He had left the house against his better judgement, and he knew there was a chance he would be spotted or arrested, but he had disguised himself rather well, considering his Animagus form was now useless against the Ministry. He smirked behind the black woolen scarf. Dumbledore won't be happy when he finds out, he thought savagely, let him swallow a dose of his own drug.
The rusted iron front gate of Number Five creaked in the wind. The door of his cell had sounded the same. The years that had been stolen from him, that he had wasted listening to those cell doors slamming behind new inmates who howled and shrieked, their cries echoing, magnified, through the damp stone corridors…
He faltered beneath the naked black branches of a tree outside Number Two. The wind cut through his scarf and the Muggle coat he wore. A shiver crawled up his spine and into his ribcage that had nothing to do with the November chill. His head drooped and he gazed catatonically at his leather boots. There were a few crumpled leaves beneath his feet but he hadn't heard their dry crackle. The stone walk was grey and cold, the individual bricks arranged in a maddeningly monotonous pattern, shriveled weeds growing here and there in the cracks.
He wondered vaguely what was so important about remaining hidden from the Ministry. Did it really matter anymore that he was innocent? His life had been wrenched away from him, and here he was, a frail shadow of a man, escaped but not free. He doubted whether he ever would be truly free. Part of him thought it no longer mattered. He could walk down to the Muggle police station right at this moment and turn himself in, could allow himself to be escorted back to Azkaban or the Dementor's Kiss to be administered, and he would feel no different than if he crossed the square back to Number Twelve and huddled in a chair by the kitchen hearth with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, listening to the fanatical mumblings of Kreacher. He had lost long ago the value he once believed his life had.
The face of his godson burst into his mind like a thousand golden suns, and the anger and bitterness that tormented him constantly these days softened for a half-moment. But it returned in full measure when he thought of how little he saw him. He did not even know Harry very well. He often found himself imagining they had a normal life, one where Lily and James were alive and he could visit them always, where he could take Harry to Quidditch matches and weekend outings to the country, just the two of them…
But lately it seemed as if Harry did not want to know him at all, and he gathered his coat around him as he felt the cold and the wind as never before. His godson never even wrote to him much anymore.
The stone walk blurred and slanted sideways and his eyes were suddenly hot and moist despite the cold surrounding him.
A clocktower nearby chimed six times and he was shaken from his painful reverie, remembering vaguely that Order members would be arriving very shortly for the meeting that night. Slowly, he returned to Number Twelve, wiping his eyes with the side of his skeletal wrist.
The entrance hall was empty, but dim and drafty as ever. As he removed his coat and scarf and hat and hung them on the stand by the door, he heard the low rumble of voices down in the kitchen, along with a faint pop every now and then when an Order member Apparated. He sighed heavily and, shoving his hands in his pockets, approached the door that led downstairs. At least he would have company for the evening.
He descended the stairs, the voices becoming clearer and more familiar, until he found himself in the large, dimly lit kitchen, which was half-filled with Order members. Kingsley and Mad-Eye had their heads together over a sheaf of parchment and Tonks was laughing with Mundungus, who was sitting at the table, smoking his pipe. At the far end of the room next to the hearth, Remus was dusting soot from his robes, having just arrived by Floo powder, and out of the emerald green flames, straightening his glasses, stepped-
"Harry!"
He was not aware of the hush that fell over the kitchen as he sprinted the length of the room. He had only just reached the end of the table when his godson flung himself into his arms.
"Harry - what are you doing here?" he gasped into Harry's messy hair, while simultaneously trying to hug him and brush ashes from his sweater.
"I've come to stay with you the weekend, Sirius!" Harry exclaimed, loosening his grip on his godfather.
Sirius glanced questioningly up at Remus, who was still standing beside the hearth. He wore a small, knowing smile and gave the tiniest of nods.
Sirius barked with joyful laughter and scooped his godson into his arms again. These moments, the precious moments with his godson, were what made his life valuable. It was his godson who made his life worthwhile.
-fin-