"I wish someone
had warned me
when I was younger,
now I stay up all night and weep:
the ghosts of everything
you have loved and lost
come back to haunt you in your sleep."
-via Nikita Gill, Haunted
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Manchester, May 1979
Sirius lay in his bed, eyes unable, or maybe just unwilling, to close long enough to let him sleep. His legs, intertwined with Remus' were asleep, the tingling sensation on the soles of his feet almost burning. It reminded him of memories he'd buried years ago when he'd escaped the confines of Grimmauld Place for good. Memories of switches and salt canisters, frigid marble tubs and ice against his skin. He shuddered briefly.
Sirius hadn't dared to tread into such mental territory. It never brought him anything but pain; Slade described how trauma worked quite a few times, but even her explanations and techniques could ease the ache in his bones as he remembered his childhood. He was unsure why, out of all hours of the bloody day, his mind chose to amble to such things at nearly four in the morning. Perhaps it was giving him the luxury of a pleasant day, or maybe he lost his sense of focus at the hour.
He hadn't spoken to either of his parents in weeks. Sirius was uninformed of his father's condition and his mother's heavy drinking. Regulus didn't bother to bring up the matter, and Sirius was appreciative. He'd hoped he was at a point in his adulthood where he could look back on everything that had once happened to him, the loss and pain inflicted by his parents, and smile. It had made him sharper, more resilient. It had prepared him for the brutality of war and its prisoners. It had made him nearly resistant to the starkness of reality. He should be grateful that his family treated him as such; he couldn't imagine being as sensitive as Regulus, so pliable and vulnerable.
Despite all of that, however, he felt his toes curl at the mere memory of ice baths. Remus had once asked him why his showers were near-boiling temperatures. How do you tell your lover that cold water rattles your bones? How do you tell him that your body goes rigid with panic despite knowing that your mother could hardly walk up the stairs of her own home let alone sneak into his own flat to disturb him? That was the thing; he couldn't tell Remus that. He settled, instead, with the gentle lie: The bathrooms are too bloody cold and hot water works wonders for your hair.
Sirius really did hate how these thoughts managed to spoil his magnificent night. They'd had such fun at the club, even with Benjy's appearance. Remus had made love to him after their outing, caressed every inch of his tanned skin, tugged on nearly every feathered curl on his head. For hours, so it felt like, they tangled themselves in limbs and sheets, gasps and moans filtering out the bone-crushing silence at one in the morning. And they'd beamed. Laughed. Remus had fumbled with his lubricant, nearly missed the bullseye altogether with his enthusiasm. But it had been alright; there were no expectations. No time limits. Nothing to hold them back from doing exactly what they'd been learning to do: loving their silliness, flaws and all.
Just over a year ago, Sirius had broken Remus' heart in a chilly hospital room. Remus declared his love just hours before, risking his life for Sirius like the fucking moron he was. He thought that Sirius' life held more value than his own, and it angered Sirius. So, he'd been livid upon entering the room. Angry with himself, for putting anyone in such a position. Angry at himself for crying in the restroom like a bitch. Angry at himself for ever making someone as gentle and virtuous as Remus John Lupin fall for a wreck such as himself.
He'd lied and told Remus he didn't love him back. Lied and told him that he never could. There'd always been a light in Remus' eyes much like a candle. It sputtered every now and then, threatened by the winds of time, but it remained resolute. And in a heartbeat, after the utterance of no more than six words, is extinguished. It was like the world went dark, motionless and cold.
But Sirius did love Remus. If there'd ever been any love in his heart, any room for another to heal within him, it had been for that dork. He looked up at him through the darkness of early morning, unable to hold back the smile fighting its way through his sullen nature. There weren't many people on this earth lucky enough to have found their soulmate so young. Many never found them at all. However, Sirius had managed to snag him before any other brute could get their hands on him, and he thanked God for that.
He kissed his chest, listening to the beat of his heart as he sighed, "I love you."
Sirius knew Remus couldn't hear him. He never did. He never heard him say those three words. Sirius managed to sneak in a few declarations when Remus least anticipated it; whilst he slept, during his climaxes, as he danced drunkenly at the bar, or as he laughed away at something stupid Sirius had said. Sirius somehow told him every day, vocally and silently. A prolonged stare or a squeeze of the hand. Staying with him during transformations and tending to him in the outcome. Wiping away his hair whenever the wind had tossed it and trimming it for him just so he wouldn't butcher it in an attempt to cut it himself.
These things could translate Sirius' love for Remus, or so he wished.
He settled on the mattress, body draped over a sleeping Remus languidly. He hadn't stirred since he'd drifted to sleep nearly an hour ago; his snores cut through the morning hush. Sirius was thankful his nightmares had ended in recent months. Voldemort had been quiet since the attack on London – since his identity had been revealed in Remus' dreams. Since an unidentified girl and her family had been massacred in their home in Bath. Most of the Order considered this a good thing; it meant more time to prepare. Still, Moody and Lyall doubted this silence would last much longer.
In truth, Sirius urged Remus to stay at his flat just in case the villain decided to make yet another appearance. Sirius remained vigilant during the night, wand just under his pillow and one eye open. He'd adopted Moody's paranoia, ready to defend at the slightest jostle on the other side of the bed.
But Remus stayed still, stayed perfectly silent in terms of mumbling incoherent pleas. Nevertheless, Sirius wouldn't let his guard slip. Voldemort attacked when those least expected it; it was an uncanny decision the Order must've been prepared for. Even if he hadn't done a single thing in weeks. Even if Bellatrix had been absent in most of his own nightmares. Even if the absence of his family and the Malfoy's had struck a suspicious chord within him. He would remain prudent.
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After an hour or so of brooding and twirling his wand around his fingertips aimlessly, Sirius' eyes had just begun to close, sleep finally cascading over his exhausted body. He was on the brink of slumber and grateful for it as well.
A bright light filled the room, and he'd been convinced it was dawn breaking through the curtains. With a groan and flick of his wand, he charmed them closed. He buried his face in the pillow; he'd only just gotten asleep. His body was begging for rest; sex and dancing really wore out the body. If he hadn't drunk so much then his body probably would have a better time adjusting to the peace of his flat. But no. He had to get hammered.
Remus roused beside him, "Turn off the fucking light, Pads."
Sirius didn't move, waving his wand as he mumbled, "Nox."
Still, he could feel the light burning beside his face, a light gust blowing against his skin. He figured the window must've opened during the night; he didn't want to think of the safety concerns this brought about and forced himself out of bed, knowing damn well they wouldn't get another ounce of sleep otherwise.
Wand in hand as he rubbed his adjusting eyes, Sirius stumbled out of bed into a great ball of white light. The thing scared him half to death, and he only just stopped himself from screaming like a little girl. A hawk perched itself on their dresser, milky eyes watching with, what Sirius perceived, as amusement. It ruffled its feathers momentarily, eyeing the room cautiously.
"Good morning Sirius," it spoke. It sounded oddly familiar yet foreign, like the mist of the charm clouded its voice. "It's Fleamont."
"Makes sense," Sirius spat. He wasn't a morning person.
"This is a message for you and only you," it continued as if he'd never uttered a word. "St. Mungo's, room 473; ward twenty-eight. Not a word to Remus."
Without another word or saving glimpse at the sleeping figure just a few feet away, it disintegrated. The only traces of its visit had been the fragments of lingering illumination, miniature stars in their room evaporating gradually.
Sirius didn't like the vagueness of his father's message, didn't like the hint of concern in his voice. He wondered why he requested Sirius' presence only as he dressed. Had something happened to Regulus? Maybe his mother had finally drunk herself into a comatose? Then again, the fourth floor of St. Mungo's was for spell damage, not alcoholic mothers. Sirius' mind raced with possibilities, images of a mutilated James or Lily; even the thought of a wounded Peter exhausted his nerves.
Surely Fleamont would've allowed Remus' presence if it had something to do with their best friends, wouldn't he? The man would never keep a secret like that from Remus. Never. It wouldn't be fair.
Sirius scribbled a message on a spare sticky note, sticking it to Remus' forehead in hopes he wouldn't brush it off in the meantime. He detested leaving him in the dark like this; there would be consequences, obviously. However, Fleamont knew what was best, didn't he? He always did… Sirius only wished that this was in Remus' best interest, not the other way around. As he apparated, Sirius swore he'd make his lover breakfast upon his return; hopefully, by then, the news and Sirius' patience would've settled.
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St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, May 1978
Sirius entered the hospital, met with the recollections of his last visit. It was as if a brick had been shoved down his throat, his insides twining around the thought of James or Lily. Regulus. Even his father. Truly, he hated the feelings hospitals gave him; the imminent sense of catastrophe and trepidation was not good for his nervous system. Such a rush made him feel light in the head, swaying on his feet.
His mind had never slowed on the journey. The brain is a complicated and fickle thing, yet so strong in other senses. It had the power to undermine your every ward, reduce it to nothing but a rickety fence of weeds. The paralyzing thought of death could cripple your senses, adrenaline taking over every fiber of your being as your thoughts planned out your steps accordingly. However, there were no steps. Not really. The only thing his body could do was move closer to the truth, a truth buried in some fucking Patronus message with confusing meaning.
The receptionist, a young woman named Wanda with sea-green eyes and smooth hair to die for, had her eyes glued to the book in front of her, her teeth gnawing, rather insistently, the end of a quill. It was painfully obvious she was a Veela; to the average heterosexual male, she was completely perfect in every way. Her nose was flawlessly upturned, a sort of Roman look to it, and her eyes were large and clear. Her lips formed an impeccable pucker, and the amount of cleavage she decked had to be against procedure. Sirius could guess the rest of her body was just as desirable but didn't find the need to investigate such theories.
However, Sirius was not the average heterosexual male; hell, he wasn't the average homosexual. In any case, he found her magic hollow. Not an ounce of him felt captivated by her scandalous appearance or her Veela powers. She was merely a receptionist who'd been too busy reading that fucking book to realize a hysterical looking Sirius Black had been standing in front of her – the last of his patience slipping away. Besides, anyone who chewed their quills was a scoundrel at heart, and Sirius had no interest in such people.
Thinking that aggression would be met with equal hostility, he simply cleared his throat. Wanda looked up, eyes taking in the man before him. For a moment, she just blinked. Sirius deduced that the evident confusion written plainly across her exotic face was called for by his stance. He didn't give a shit what she looked like; she could've been Medusa for all he fucking cared. Apparently, that message didn't seem to get through that bushel of hair atop of her head. Cocking her head to the side, she smirked.
"How can I help you," she asked, a carnal tone lacing each and every syllable shamelessly.
He rolled his eyes, "I need to visit a friend in ward twenty-eight."
Sirius knew he could've been a tad friendlier to her; his frustration hadn't been meant for her. At least not all of it. On occasion, women had approached him, flirted with him, curled their split ends in hopes of seducing him, but it was all in vain. He'd tried for years to find the appeal in voluptuous breasts and vaginas but failed miserably. At this stage in his life, as he explored his sexuality, any woman he came into contact with who had such a sexual attitude pulled on his already thinned nerves. It wasn't her fault, however. She couldn't have known how pathetic her chances were. Not even pathetic. Impossible.
"Which room," she asked, turning through her catalog. Names were scrawled across each page in looping, astounding print that put Lily to shame. Manicured nails tugged on each page, different ward numbers and intake information reading on each line.
Sirius, with as much grace as a lame cat, snuck a glance at the list, praying that all patients were strangers.
"473," he croaked.
Wanda fiddled with the pages, wide eyes scanning each name. Sirius tapped his foot with frustration, fingers tapping the countertop as he chewed his lip. He needed to stop doing that; they would get chapped and bloody, and no one wants to kiss dry, bloody lips. His pockets were empty; the thought of bringing chapstick with him had slipped his conscience. Who the fuck would bring chapstick to the hospital? A narcissist, that's who.
"Oh," she beamed. "Jane Doe? Do you know her?"
There was a certain edge to her voice, accusations buried beneath the cold, warped words. It rubbed Sirius the wrong way; he didn't like the way she looked at him. He owed her nothing – not an explanation, not a date, not a sultry once over. Something within him snapped.
"I'm gay," he stated, eyes dangerous and voice low.
Wanda blanched; the redness in her cheeks spread to her perked ears.
"Oh," she whispered. "Apologies. Go ahead in."
Sirius said nothing as he entered the hospital. Not a single piece of him felt sorry for the way he'd treated that woman. Who was she to assume he'd want her? All because she was a Veela? People like that weren't even his type; the only person he'd ever been attracted to lay in his bed, sound asleep, and would soon rouse to the painful truth that Sirius had disappeared after sex. That sent a message, didn't it? He hoped that he wouldn't be upset.
Ward twenty-eight frightened Sirius, and he hadn't even taken five steps through yet. It was unlike his visit last year; back then, he'd been too worried about Remus to even notice the howling from other patients too much. Ward thirteen had been for those whose recoveries were certain. There'd been no question back then. Even though they wept and howled in pain, that ward was for those who would come out on the other side of their battles without a doubt. Healers worked their hardest to ensure their survival and comfort; they knew that life was clear for those patients.
Ward twenty-eight was for the ones who were going to die. Their ends were near; some were soundless, close to the brink of oblivion, while others cried in pain. Without a set destination, without an outcome he was sure of, the journey to room 473 was long and strenuous, painful, almost, and uncomfortable. There were some begging for the end, asking Healers to just kill them. Others spoke to their families softly, a raspiness in their voices and exhaustion in their eyes. Sirius' skin crawled at agonizing speeds; he wondered which one of his loved ones had been unlucky enough to end up in such a place.
Just down the hall, conversing in front of a closed door, had been Fleamont and Dumbledore. Dumbledore, unbothered and chipper as always, twisted his growing beard around a ringed finger as he spoke, voice too soft to overhear. A low hum answered him, eyes accusatory and cold. No one wanted to be woken up at five in the morning, not even Fleamont Potter – the early bird. In fact, he must've come on short notice given his appearance; the man was still in his sleepwear. Whatever the issue had been, it was clearly urgent.
"Ah, Mr. Black, how lovely it is to see you," Dumbledore chimed, his chilly hand resting upon Sirius' shoulder.
"You saw me two days ago," Sirius growled.
"You're right, I did," he agreed, "but old men like me lose their sense of time. Just a moment ago it was the New Year!"
Fleamont sighed, "I'm sorry I woke you so early, Sirius, but I felt as if this was important enough to do so."
Sirius nodded, throat full of air he could not swallow.
"As you know, there was a family attacked in Bath not too long ago," Fleamont continued, tiptoeing around an inevitable truth. Nevertheless, Sirius was sure that if James or Lily, even Peter, were hurt, they would've told him by now. Fleamont was stoic, but he was still human, and neither Euphemia nor the Evans family was anywhere to be seen. Small victories, he told himself. "Most of the family was slaughtered; a man and his wife, their three children."
Sirius felt his mouth run dry, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. He must've known one of their children; no one would've called him here otherwise. Sirius didn't like the impending dread settling at the bottom of his stomach, rearing its ugly head and tangling with his insides. Some part of him was thankful that Fleamont eased him into the truth but the other, the more brash part of him that needed to grow up, just wanted him to spit it out.
"One of the three children managed to survive," Dumbledore smiled warmly, though pity was evident in those faded, denim eyes. "A young girl – Julienne Jerome. I believe she was a friend of yours?"
Sirius sputtered, the air in his lungs knocked from their vessel. It must have been a cruel joke, some sort of test by the Order. Moody commanded them to perform this vile task to ensure that the members were ready for tragedy. That was right up the bastard's alley; Sirius would kill him. He wouldn't allow them to play such a joke on Remus; a tragedy of this magnitude would break him. It would shatter the realm they'd been building steadfast; not even Moody would corrupt that.
"If this is some test –"
"Sirius," Fleamont shook his head. "She doesn't have much longer."
"What do you want me to do," Sirius cried. "I wasn't even her friend! I wasn't nice to her, I didn't eat with her, didn't smile at her. I was a complete bastard to her since the day I met her."
"I understand that she was close with Remus," Dumbledore said. "However, I think it's best if you and your friends stayed with her during her final moments."
That was understandable. The entirety of the Jerome family had been mercilessly slaughtered in their home; Sirius didn't have to try too hard to imagine the scene. The way Moody described it – blood drenching the carpets, upturned furniture, the Dark Mark hovering above the roof – made him sick to his stomach. Julienne lived through that; perhaps she was stronger than he thought. Stronger than any of them, really.
"James and Lily are in with her currently," Fleamont said. "I sent a message to Peter, but he hasn't responded."
"Because he's an unreliable cunt," Sirius spat, the ill wishes for Pettigrew returning tenfold.
"Oh, my," Dumbledore chuckled, unruffled by the man's rage. "It's been quite a while since I've heard that one."
Sirius waltzed past the men, steeling his nerves and holding his breath. His palms may have been sweating, and his heart splintered his ribs with each beat, he willed himself to carry strength.
Upon entering the room, his eyes darted to the occupied chair just on the other side of the hospital bed. Lily, in her nightclothes, leaned close to Julienne, her hair caught in the sticky trail of old tears. She held her hand – her bandaged hand – and spoke softly, the crackles of defeat present in every word. Tremors racked through her feeble body; exhaustion was taking over. How long had she been here? Minutes? Hours? Sirius couldn't make out the darkness under her eyes; he sighed.
James stood in the corner, one hand clapped over his mouth as he watched. His body was strict, lifeless like a gargoyle, but with a thunderstorm of emotion in his eyes. James and Julienne had never been close; he'd been too wrapped up in the world of the Marauders to really pay her any attention. He didn't dislike her and was quite friendly whenever they did pass.
The same could not be said for Sirius. Guilt trickled into his veins, ice sealing over his nerves. He'd hardly ever been kind to Julienne. Their friendship was hot and cold, and his attitude toward her was apathetic at best. Jealousy reigned over his judgment of her; it clouded his thinking. Years ago, her romance with Remus had awoken a force of nature within him. Throughout school, he hated her. Hated her name, her smile, her laugh, her hair, her perfect face, and the kindness she showed despite his cruelty. The way she forgave him, in the face of him never apologizing, made him nauseous.
Because here she was now: no family, only one true friend, dying an excruciating death with a slashed throat and gutted stomach. The Healers had done their best to stabilize her, but the damage had been done. The only thing left to do was wait; time was not on her side. It meandered around her, dancing in mockery as death always did when you needed it most. Sirius approached James, unable to meet Julienne's fluttering stare.
"How long have you been here," he asked.
James, as if waking from a trance, blinked rapidly, "Just an hour. Lily got the first message."
"Figures."
They stood in silence, Lily's sputtering words acting as a fuzzy noise in the background. Sirius was grateful the door blocked the wailing from other patients; no one should have to hear that as they go, and no loved one should be subjected to it as they waited.
"I didn't really know her that well," James muttered. "Knew that she liked Moony and she was Head Girl. I knew she was too nice for her own good, but… nothing worth knowing."
"I know she liked poetry," Sirius sighed. "She's the one who gave Remus those depressing novels in our first year. And she played a million and one instruments; it was honestly ridiculous."
"I've always wanted to play an instrument," James commented off-handedly. "Must take a lot of determination to learn so many. Guess that means she was determined."
Sirius just nodded. He wondered if she had been determined. Julienne was a different breed, really. The only girl Sirius cared to notice had been Lily, and that was with much reluctance. At first. Lily was a force to be reckoned with – headstrong and sturdy. Of course, she looked as feeble as a dandelion, and her voice could've fooled you for an angel. Nevertheless, she was one tough cookie – tough and smart and frightening at times.
Julienne was soft. He'd only ever seen her mad once; their first year, after Remus' first transformation. He'd been calling her all the wrong names, teasing her for befriending the love of his life. Sirius had been jealous of her, and maybe of more than just her relationship with Remus. She was kind and forgiving, something he had not been. Patience was a virtue she'd somehow stumbled upon, and his tolerance was about as thick as Remus' arms. In spite of the way he treated her, she remained amenable. Peter missed two events and Sirius called him a cunt.
"She was one of Lily's best friends," James said quietly. "I don't know how she's going to take it."
Sirius rubbed James' shoulder, "She'll be alright, Prongs. Just give her time."
"I don't know how I'd handle it," he stumbled upon his words, a haze of tears clouding his eyes. "God forbid something ever happened to you or Moony or Peter… I don't think I could take it."
"Don't talk like that," Sirius quipped. "We aren't going anywhere."
"You don't know that," James snapped, voice low so not to disturb the girls. "We think we're invincible. Look what happened to Julienne, and she isn't even part of the fucking Order."
James proved a good point; Sirius felt his heart falter. Julienne wasn't a part of the Order. The probability of her affiliation with Voldemort was low. Her place in this war had been nonexisting until her attack. How long would it be before Voldemort came for them, and would they be ready?
"Would you be able to live without Remus," James asked suddenly. "Because I sure as fuck couldn't live without Lily."
Sirius wouldn't let himself imagine a world without James and Remus. Fuck, he couldn't even imagine a world without Lily's nagging and pestering behavior. His mind had traveled far enough that morning. Still, a question begged to be answered in the tiniest nook of his head: could he survive on his own?
Lily let out a sob, her pale hands grasping a limp one desperately.
So that had been it. Julienne had died. She'd died for no good reason, caught in the middle of a war she took no part in. Died painfully and slowly in the company of only a single friend. Life was cruel. But then again, it wasn't always meant to be kind. Fleamont had told him, "Expecting life to be fair because you are fair is like expecting a lion not to eat you because you didn't eat him." Sirius supposed he was right.
Fleamont entered, leading Lily out of the room as he talked her out of her hysterics. James was reluctant to see her go, but his father convinced him that she needed a moment to ease her pain. A walk outside would soothe her nerves. Dumbledore, however, lingered as the Healers wrapped her body.
The old wizard looked solemn. She'd been his student. Sirius doubted he ever thought twice about her, though. There were so many of them; how could a single man keep up with all of those students. Even so, his face expressed pain and sorrow, something the moment deserved.
"I believe she wanted to be an Owlet trainer," Dumbledore mentioned. "She was wonderful with animals, so I heard. One of Hagrid's favorites."
Sirius, and James as well, was unsure of what to say, and when faced with the inability to form words, one simply stands there and hope it ends soon. His feet felt heavy like lead had been tied to his ankles. A single step and he'd go toppling over. Alphard's death hadn't felt like this; it didn't slice him open in such ways. He abhorred the feeling.
"I apologize for the imposition, however, I must ask something of both of you," Dumbledore sighed, turning away from the sheet fitted body. "As Order members."
They nodded. Sirius had expected anything else to come out of his headmaster's mouth. A plea for a funeral, or maybe more hours of training. It wasn't as if he'd a job to return to. Quidditch season was over. More hours were an obvious request. Nonetheless, as Dumbledore always did, he administered such a shock to Sirius that he nearly clocked the old bastard in the jaw.
"I must ask that you not tell Remus of this."