See first part for notes about this collection of stories.
Disclaimer: I am but a poor college student. Please don't sue me.
Note: So we've arrived at the epilogue to this vaguely connected collection of stories. Hope you've enjoyed yourselves. If you want to leave a review letting me know what you thought of the whole she-bang, that would be swell.
"If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life."
i.
"Take a sad song and make it better…"
Sirius thinks his parents would probably die if they saw him now—lightheaded with firewhiskey
(wretched stuff, Altair always said—cheap and vulgar)
and sprawled half-naked in another boy's bed. He is drunk and oblivious, relaxed, aware only of James's hand in his hair and the soft Muggle music the other boy is singing. Hardly fitting behavior for a son of the House of Black. The thought makes him smile.
The firewhiskey has made him drowsy, and he closes his eyes, content to lie with his head on James's stomach and listen to the low, pleasant sound of James's voice.
Don't be afraid…
(James stumbled across Muggle music during fifth year; yet another highlight of the hitherto unsuccessful courtship of Lily Evans. Sirius thinks most of the music is shit, but he keeps his peace, since James seems to be genuinely fond of it. Some of it isn't so bad, anyway. Sirius has come to tolerate The Beatles, though he still doesn't understand James's fascination with them.)
James plays idly with Sirius's hair as he sings—toying with the long strands that fall into his face, scratching lazily behind his ears. Sirius's scalp tingles. He thinks about purring.
Don't carry the world upon your shoulders…
James's hand slides down Sirius's neck to glide warm and steady over his skin, fingers splayed between his shoulder blades. Sirius hums low in his throat, and James's stomach shakes beneath Sirius's head as he laughs.
Remember to let her into your heart…
James's hand lingers at the base of Sirius's neck, soothing in its gentle possessiveness. Sirius nuzzles just a bit into the soft skin of James's stomach, and long fingers tighten on his nape.
Sirius allows himself to think, as he drifts into oblivion, that he has never been happier.
ii.
Even as he opens the door, Sirius pretends that he does not know who is on the other side.
James looks unusually serious, tonight—subdued, somehow. He offers no excuses, no pretexts, not even his usual roguish, arrogant smile. He simply stands there, staring. Sirius stares back.
"Lennon's dead, you know."
Sirius nods. "I know."
They look at each other for a moment more
(for well you know that it's a fool)
before finally Sirius reaches out and pulls the other man into the flat.
Later, curled in his bed with James's arm heavy over his hip, Sirius cries—for John, for The Beatles, for the stupid Muggle music he never even liked. James crawls up his body, pressing close underneath the flimsy covers, and covers his face with gentle kisses.
James is warm and solid against him. James's mouth is wet and salty on his, and Sirius cries for genius, for ruined love, for a legend cut short.
James sings as he brushes his lips against Sirius's chin
let it out and let it in
jaw
waiting for someone to perform with
eyelids
and don't you know that it's just you
and somehow the lullaby has become a dirge, and Sirius cries until there is nothing left.
iii.
The nights are the worst.
Most nights, he dreams of Azkaban. It is terrible and frightening and brutal—and, too, it is familiar. He knows well the tender mercies of the dementors. He suffers at their hands
(moaning weeping shattered, icy pull in his hollow chest)
but it is infinitely worse to wake in the haunting darkness of Grimmauld Place.
("I'll kill you before I let you go back there.")
The bedchamber looms dark and imposing; it is a cage, trapping him within the shadows of his memories. The tapestries and portraits are gone from the walls, but their spirits linger. The house is full of ghosts—Regulus and Altair and Araminta, cousins and uncles and long-dead ancestors, headless house-elves still groveling in pools of their own blood. The air is heavy and oppressive with their frozen breath, and they torture him—plaguing him with childhood nightmares
(bony fingers digging into his skin, wild gray eyes, cold stone against his back)
and regret
("You idiot—don't you know you're on the wrong fucking side?")
and unease.
He dreams.
He is on the floor, shuddering and trembling, lost in pain. He cannot think, cannot breathe, but Regulus is prodding him, hissing his name. Regulus curses and grunts as he pulls him roughly from the floor, got to get out of here, and they are running.
He staggers through the dark passageways, his brother's arm tight around his waist, but the pain is too much, and he stumbles. He is falling—Regulus is gone, and he hits the floor, fingers scrabbling for purchase across the stones.
Pain. Cold. Shadows.
I am not afraid, he insists, and a Quidditch-roughened hand smoothes back his hair, cups his head, trails faintly down his cheek with the delicate flutter of butterfly wings.
"You were made to go out and get her…"
"I hope you're rotting in hell," he says, groping in the darkness. "Don't you fucking leave me again, you bastard."
He dreams of hazel eyes, soft whispered music in his ear, warm fingers slipping from his grasp, and he wakes up choking.
iv.
Mornings are awkward.
Months of arguments and shared company have resulted in an uneasy companionship. Molly never fails to bid him good morning and offer breakfast, but her smile is tight and guarded, as if half-expecting him to lash out.
Sirius does not attempt to ease her fears. He usually grunts in greeting and waves away her offer of tea. Instead he makes his own coffee, slamming cupboards and adding a few clandestine splashes from hidden bottles when Molly's back is turned. The coffee is strong, and he drinks it black and scalding, gasping as it burns down his throat with the bittersweet taste of firewhiskey.
Following their pathetic morning ritual, Sirius and Molly do their best to ignore each other as they go about sorting out the dark mysteries of the House of Black. Molly is efficient, and dedicated to her task. She only rarely needs his assistance, generally when she encounters a particularly nasty or intricate curse set in place by one of his more creative ancestors. For his part, Sirius does little to seek her out. After all, he has not forgotten what she said to him.
He's not James, Sirius!
He knows that she meant well. Probably she genuinely believes that she is protecting Harry—protecting them both, maybe. He is not blind. He can see that she cares for Harry like her own child. Given time, he could forgive her for that.
But he cannot forgive her for those words.
He's not James, Sirius!
So exasperated, condescending—as if speaking to a child. As if Sirius needed it all explained to him. As if he truly could not understand that Harry was not his father.
James is dead, she might well have said. Dead and gone. You've lost him forever, you sorry bastard, and you won't ever get him back, no matter what you do.
As if he doesn't know.
v.
scarlet crimson blood wine blinding
sharp pureblood features twisted in madness hatred triumph
rush of air past his ears
Harry's stunned face pale under rumpled black hair
Remus Moony thin scarred alone
pounding throbbing pressure in his chest
falling flying weightless undone
warmth
grasping hands blazing heat around his waist
don't let me down
final flutter of the veil before his eyes
and
"Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes."
-Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde, Irish playwright
