Disclaimer: i don't own this.
A/N: thanks to Gimyóngsuk, DreamlndxFantasy, rekahneko, discombobulated.shoe, and angelofplottwists for reviewing my last chapter - you guys make this all worth it. :D
Chapter Ten
This is how it could have happened.
When you apparated back to Number Four, early in the afternoon, the lively Sirius from sometime before everything could have greeted you at the door, sober – naked, if you were especially lucky. Without regard for any past history, for wistful mistrust and stolen moments, he could have pushed you up against the wall, knocked the hulking umbrella stand out of the way. Or better, against his mother's portrait, while she would shriek, with the both of you past caring. It would be a Hogwarts broom cupboard all over again, without any risk of Filch reaching in for a broom, without even any need to lock the door, and it would have been perfect.
On some imperative Order business, Severus might have burst through the door, glanced around, and stumbled back out, tripping over a pile of your clothes on his way. Blushing as though he had never seen you naked before, scowling, and Sirius could have called after him: "Hey Snivellus, don't you wanna join in?"
The door would shut behind him, the two of you lost in childish laughter, still laughing as Kreacher in his infinite wisdom attempted to wrestle you from the room, pausing to reassure the desperate Harry who appeared in the fireplace and to set the world right again.
But this is not what happened, and the earth has always sat just a bit crooked on its axis. You left you meeting with Greyback with shaking steps, full of love and comprehension and memories of fourteen years ago.
"Can you believe it was Sirius?" someone had asked you, in November of the year that everything went to Hell and the people all cheered in the streets. It was a day or two after the fact.
If there is one thing you have never been accused of, it is disbelief. "No," you lied, in false incredulity, "No. I can't – " You had never had much faith in the information shoveled upon your head in a History of Magic class, the facts you memorized from each textbook with a faithful intensity, as though they could save your monster-tainted soul – but the conviction in human capability, emotional and mental aptitude had come naturally. Sirius could kill, just as you supposed you also could.
Without even the details – who, how, why – why… you could see it happening, you could feel his heart beating in your chest, the story built up inside you like the underwear of Slytherin house had on the roof, sometime long ago. You did not think the obvious, 'I could have done something,' but instead a more candid, 'I should have done something.'
The Muggles had already thrown their bright yellow caution tape everywhere, sagging in the rainstorm that had begun on That Night. A mound of candles and flowers had been inartistically arranged beneath an awning made of rubble, protection from the rain. Crumpled sympathy cards and tiny wooden crosses and all for something that never should have happened.
You had been the one who let it come to this, and you taunted yourself like none other. Should you have done something? Say you should have. Say you should have, and Sirius will return, he'll jump into your lap, Padfoot in all his glory. He'll paw at you and cuddle against you with his breath on your neck – you'll mutter something like, "Stop it, this feels so wrong when you're not human," but he won't change because he's never been one to listen to your petty requests.
So here is another theory, what could have been, what could have been, what could have been.
"Anything the matter?" he'd asked with almost mocking nonchalance.
You could have kept your urge to rebuke his accusing stance, could have answered with more than a simple, "No" – "Just worried, you know?" you could have said. Slowly, surely, hmmm? You could have wheedled it out of him, whatever led to – to This – you could have saved him, or so it's easier to believe. You could have sweet-talked your once-lover with thoughts of Quidditch and firewhisky and late nights under the stars.
Unlike love affairs and Muggle soap operas, living fantasies such as this never really ended. You dreamed he would come until the day he came, and by then you were almost too hardened to care.
And that is what you thought, as you hesitantly slipped inside to a stream of swears interspersed with the name "Kreacher" and something about a hippogriff and Dumbledore's mother, and it was just another day that was going to be – just another day – and he was slipping and you were too.
You tapped him on the shoulder like a shy schoolboy, and he glanced up with surprise, relief, mistrust. "You again," he said.
"Me again."