Author's Note: A fic commemorating Sirius Black, one of my
favourite characters. I love Sirius Black with all my heart, and I'll
miss him in the Harry Potter series. And he belongs with Remus Lupin
forever.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own any of the characters from Harry Potter. They belong to J.K. Rowling and anyone she chooses to share them with. I make no profit off of them, only my own joy at using them in my attempts at storywriting.
Harry sat back against the tree, eyes closed. Even though it had been months since Sirius' death, Harry still missed him like he'd died yesterday. His heart ached with every movement, every exhalation. Any second, he might fall apart into tiny fragments of tears and anger. Harry was angry with Dumbledore, for letting it happen. A small part of him knew that it wasn't the Headmaster's fault at all, but Harry didn't know whom else to blame. Except himself. And he did that, excessively, neverendingly, ceaselessly. He hated himself for letting Sirius fall, for standing there and watching him disappear. Hated himself for breaking Remus' heart like that. Remus said it wasn't his fault, but Harry couldn't listen. Wouldn't listen. If he did...if he let himself see that it wasn't his fault, he might just break. Already, the cracks were spreading across his heart, tiny, hairthin fissures that burned like paper cuts and stung like lemonjuice poured on open wounds.
Harry hadn't cried since Sirius died, not a single tear. Everything was building up within, tearing at his insides like a freak tornado, taking his heart, and whirling it to bits like a centrifuge. He hurt. He never stopped hurting. Dumbledore had told him that crying would help heal, but Harry couldn't believe that. Didn't want to believe that. If he cried, and felt better...he would forget Sirius, forget his guilt. That couldn't happen; Harry wouldn't let it happen. Couldn't stand it if it happened.
But, finally, like a dam breaking, the tears came. He sobbed, shoulder- heaving, frame-wracking crying that Harry couldn't have stopped if he wanted to. Harry was glad there was no one there to see the Boy Who Lived cry until his eyes stung and his throat burned and he felt...better. Lighter, somehow. The tears flowed to his heart, healing and closing the fractures there, setting him on the path to healing. Never forgetting, not forgiving, but healing slowly, oh so slowly. When Harry opened his eyes again, his eyes felt gritty, but he felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. And Harry was grateful to Dumbledore, and maybe, just maybe, hated himself a little less.
Remus lay curled in bed, eyes squeezed shut tightly. He was a man grown, and mature for his age, but now, the werewolf could only close his eyes and wish he was dead. Maybe then, he could join Sirius, in that faraway place he'd gone to. That first night, when Dumbledore had brought him the news of Sirius' death, Remus had screamed. He'd cried, he'd begged, he'd yelled until his throat was hoarse and he coughed up blood, he'd thrown himself against walls and broken furniture with eyes misted red with rage and grief. He'd woken up the next morning with split knuckles and bitten- through lips, bruised arms and hipbones, bleeding palms, and no voice.
He ached all over, inside and out. The external hurts had been easy to forget in favour of the internal anguish, the cold stillness that had filled him. It had seemed so surreal that first morning, like any moment Sirius would walk into the living room where Remus sat on the couch and hadn't budged since he awoke. Sirius, with his shining long black hair, like midnight, beautiful kind eyes, and kinder soul. Sirius would sit next to him and heal him and the pain would go away. Remus had wanted to believe that, oh so much. But he couldn't, and somehow, he knew it. But Remus couldn't move from that couch; he sat there for who know how long: hours, days maybe. Remus couldn't keep track, but he'd renamed his days. Day One AS, or After Sirius. He was currently on Month Three, Day Four AS, and the pain hadn't gotten any easier to bear. He cried himself to sleep every night, woke up the next morning with fresh tears on his cheeks, and ripped sheets around him. Remus didn't think he would ever heal; every night brought more dreams, more memories that he hadn't known he remembered. Each dream, when he woke to find that Sirius was gone, now and forever, reopened the wounds, tore the scartissue apart and he bled once more, anew, all over again. And he cried again, so often that once, when he'd put his hand up to wipe away the tears, his hand had come away stained red.
Now, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes, ready to lose himself in dreams again, pleasant dreams where Sirius was still alive and kissing him sweetly, slowly, making love to him night after night to the sounds of their combined breaths and beating hearts. Dreams where they sat together in silence, happy just to be near each other. Dreams where they were with Lily and James again, only now the dreams turned to nightmares, where Lily and James and Sirius were together, but Remus was stuck behind a filmy curtain, and he could just barely make out their laughing shapes. How he wanted to join them, to be with them again. But when he tried to pull back the veil to sit with them and laugh with them, they'd turned haunted sad eyes to him and shake their heads, mysteriously silenced, no. Remus raged and screamed, why? why?! And he couldn't understand why they wouldn't let them join them, but still they shook their heads, no. Always no, each time the dream came. Finally, Remus would grow sick of dreaming and would shake himself awake, to lie still again and hate himself.
On the anniversary of Sirius' death, six somber and pale people gathered in at the Shrieking Shack to remember him. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, pale and composed, holding hands tightly, were first to arrive. They seated themselves on the bed where they'd sat so long ago yet not, when they'd first met Sirius Black. After them came Albus Dumbledore, twinkling eyes no longer bright and flashing, but sad and dampened, and Minerva McGonagall, wrinkled hands clutched together in front of her, tears bright in her eyes. Dumbledore nodded a sage greeting to the other two and stood back, Professor McGonagall next to him. Harry Potter came next, looking slightly disheveled and frayed at the seams, but not crying yet. Or again. No one knew he'd cried, months ago and never cried again.
Finally, Remus Lupin arrived and stood in the doorway, looking even more tattered and threadbare than usual, eyes red from crying, hands bandaged and still seeping blood. His once beautiful amber hair hung limply around his bruised white face and he barely managed a nod to the other five occupants before closing his eyes in pain.
Dumbledore spoke first, remembering Sirius' life from when he arrived at Hogwarts until just a year ago, when everything had been cut off for him so suddenly, right in his prime. Dumbledore had surveyed the other wizards as he spoke, watching their reactions. Halfway through, Hermione had buried her face in Ron's shoulder, weeping quietly. He'd held her, rubbing her back soothingly until she quieted. Harry sat near them, yet so far away, fists clenched in his lap and jaw set, stony gaze fixed on the floor across the room. McGonagall had cried too, letting the tears fall down her face unchecked. But Remus. His reaction was so unexpected and reserved. The werewolf had not moved since arriving, even when Dumbledore spoke of his former lover, Remus had stayed limp and cold, unmoving as if dead. The Headmaster of Hogwarts frowned slightly; worry creasing his wrinkled brow further. Remus must let it out, but to whom? No one could understand his anguish, not really. For no one but Lily and James had loved each other, the way Remus and Sirius had loved each other, deeply and completely. It was unjust in ever sense of the word that their life together had ended so abruptly and chaotically. It seemed to Dumbledore that Sirius was not the only one who had died precisely one year ago.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own any of the characters from Harry Potter. They belong to J.K. Rowling and anyone she chooses to share them with. I make no profit off of them, only my own joy at using them in my attempts at storywriting.
Harry sat back against the tree, eyes closed. Even though it had been months since Sirius' death, Harry still missed him like he'd died yesterday. His heart ached with every movement, every exhalation. Any second, he might fall apart into tiny fragments of tears and anger. Harry was angry with Dumbledore, for letting it happen. A small part of him knew that it wasn't the Headmaster's fault at all, but Harry didn't know whom else to blame. Except himself. And he did that, excessively, neverendingly, ceaselessly. He hated himself for letting Sirius fall, for standing there and watching him disappear. Hated himself for breaking Remus' heart like that. Remus said it wasn't his fault, but Harry couldn't listen. Wouldn't listen. If he did...if he let himself see that it wasn't his fault, he might just break. Already, the cracks were spreading across his heart, tiny, hairthin fissures that burned like paper cuts and stung like lemonjuice poured on open wounds.
Harry hadn't cried since Sirius died, not a single tear. Everything was building up within, tearing at his insides like a freak tornado, taking his heart, and whirling it to bits like a centrifuge. He hurt. He never stopped hurting. Dumbledore had told him that crying would help heal, but Harry couldn't believe that. Didn't want to believe that. If he cried, and felt better...he would forget Sirius, forget his guilt. That couldn't happen; Harry wouldn't let it happen. Couldn't stand it if it happened.
But, finally, like a dam breaking, the tears came. He sobbed, shoulder- heaving, frame-wracking crying that Harry couldn't have stopped if he wanted to. Harry was glad there was no one there to see the Boy Who Lived cry until his eyes stung and his throat burned and he felt...better. Lighter, somehow. The tears flowed to his heart, healing and closing the fractures there, setting him on the path to healing. Never forgetting, not forgiving, but healing slowly, oh so slowly. When Harry opened his eyes again, his eyes felt gritty, but he felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. And Harry was grateful to Dumbledore, and maybe, just maybe, hated himself a little less.
Remus lay curled in bed, eyes squeezed shut tightly. He was a man grown, and mature for his age, but now, the werewolf could only close his eyes and wish he was dead. Maybe then, he could join Sirius, in that faraway place he'd gone to. That first night, when Dumbledore had brought him the news of Sirius' death, Remus had screamed. He'd cried, he'd begged, he'd yelled until his throat was hoarse and he coughed up blood, he'd thrown himself against walls and broken furniture with eyes misted red with rage and grief. He'd woken up the next morning with split knuckles and bitten- through lips, bruised arms and hipbones, bleeding palms, and no voice.
He ached all over, inside and out. The external hurts had been easy to forget in favour of the internal anguish, the cold stillness that had filled him. It had seemed so surreal that first morning, like any moment Sirius would walk into the living room where Remus sat on the couch and hadn't budged since he awoke. Sirius, with his shining long black hair, like midnight, beautiful kind eyes, and kinder soul. Sirius would sit next to him and heal him and the pain would go away. Remus had wanted to believe that, oh so much. But he couldn't, and somehow, he knew it. But Remus couldn't move from that couch; he sat there for who know how long: hours, days maybe. Remus couldn't keep track, but he'd renamed his days. Day One AS, or After Sirius. He was currently on Month Three, Day Four AS, and the pain hadn't gotten any easier to bear. He cried himself to sleep every night, woke up the next morning with fresh tears on his cheeks, and ripped sheets around him. Remus didn't think he would ever heal; every night brought more dreams, more memories that he hadn't known he remembered. Each dream, when he woke to find that Sirius was gone, now and forever, reopened the wounds, tore the scartissue apart and he bled once more, anew, all over again. And he cried again, so often that once, when he'd put his hand up to wipe away the tears, his hand had come away stained red.
Now, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes, ready to lose himself in dreams again, pleasant dreams where Sirius was still alive and kissing him sweetly, slowly, making love to him night after night to the sounds of their combined breaths and beating hearts. Dreams where they sat together in silence, happy just to be near each other. Dreams where they were with Lily and James again, only now the dreams turned to nightmares, where Lily and James and Sirius were together, but Remus was stuck behind a filmy curtain, and he could just barely make out their laughing shapes. How he wanted to join them, to be with them again. But when he tried to pull back the veil to sit with them and laugh with them, they'd turned haunted sad eyes to him and shake their heads, mysteriously silenced, no. Remus raged and screamed, why? why?! And he couldn't understand why they wouldn't let them join them, but still they shook their heads, no. Always no, each time the dream came. Finally, Remus would grow sick of dreaming and would shake himself awake, to lie still again and hate himself.
On the anniversary of Sirius' death, six somber and pale people gathered in at the Shrieking Shack to remember him. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, pale and composed, holding hands tightly, were first to arrive. They seated themselves on the bed where they'd sat so long ago yet not, when they'd first met Sirius Black. After them came Albus Dumbledore, twinkling eyes no longer bright and flashing, but sad and dampened, and Minerva McGonagall, wrinkled hands clutched together in front of her, tears bright in her eyes. Dumbledore nodded a sage greeting to the other two and stood back, Professor McGonagall next to him. Harry Potter came next, looking slightly disheveled and frayed at the seams, but not crying yet. Or again. No one knew he'd cried, months ago and never cried again.
Finally, Remus Lupin arrived and stood in the doorway, looking even more tattered and threadbare than usual, eyes red from crying, hands bandaged and still seeping blood. His once beautiful amber hair hung limply around his bruised white face and he barely managed a nod to the other five occupants before closing his eyes in pain.
Dumbledore spoke first, remembering Sirius' life from when he arrived at Hogwarts until just a year ago, when everything had been cut off for him so suddenly, right in his prime. Dumbledore had surveyed the other wizards as he spoke, watching their reactions. Halfway through, Hermione had buried her face in Ron's shoulder, weeping quietly. He'd held her, rubbing her back soothingly until she quieted. Harry sat near them, yet so far away, fists clenched in his lap and jaw set, stony gaze fixed on the floor across the room. McGonagall had cried too, letting the tears fall down her face unchecked. But Remus. His reaction was so unexpected and reserved. The werewolf had not moved since arriving, even when Dumbledore spoke of his former lover, Remus had stayed limp and cold, unmoving as if dead. The Headmaster of Hogwarts frowned slightly; worry creasing his wrinkled brow further. Remus must let it out, but to whom? No one could understand his anguish, not really. For no one but Lily and James had loved each other, the way Remus and Sirius had loved each other, deeply and completely. It was unjust in ever sense of the word that their life together had ended so abruptly and chaotically. It seemed to Dumbledore that Sirius was not the only one who had died precisely one year ago.