AN: I'm sorry for not updating in a while, and that this chapter is pretty bad, but I just had to get this story updated. Thank you so much to all my wonderful reviewers you reminded me that this story was not a lost cause. I probably won't post in November because I'll be doing YWP (young writers program) NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), and 333 words a day for 30 days doesn't seem like a lot but it's going to take up all my writing time. I recommend you try out NaNoWriMo, I did it last year and it's really fun. Now, on with the story!

Disclaimer: I don't own HP.

Warnings: child abuse, trigger warning, suicidal thoughts/actions, depression.

He could barely remember how to breath. For how was breathing possible when his own emptiness had sunk on him like a great stone, it's strength to powerful to even try to resist?

Sirius fumbled for his cigarettes, hand picking one out of his box and sticking it into his mouth. He clicked on the Muggle lighter with a tiny sigh, iridescent flame shaking in his hand before he inhaled it.

"Sirius," a voice said softly.

Please, leave me alone.

Silence replied to Remus' call.

"You shouldn't smoke."

The words held so much more than a mere reprimand. "Okay." Sirius was too tired to say anything else.

"You have a Quidditch game in half an hour."

Too empty to muster a single swear.

"C'mon, Pads."

"Tell James I'm busy."

The words sounded ridiculous, even to his ears. Busy…sure, busy laying in bed on a Saturday morning.

"They have no one to replace you with, Sirius," Remus was urging.

Smoke and nicotine soothed his frustration. "Don't." He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, exhaling softly. "Won't." Have I lost my voice? "Go."

"Can I open your curtains?"

Too irrationally exhausted to resist… to exist.

Sunlight attacked him, quick and sharp, like a hissing snake drawing back from its prey.

"Rem."

"Sirius, please come downstairs. We have less than half an hour until the match starts." A warm hand fell on his, the one that was fumbling with the cigarette. It brushed his lips ever so slightly.

Sirius wondered if he was physically capable of getting up.

oOo

Later, they would call it a good game. Excellent flying conditions, players at their best, won with more than double the Ravenclaw's points.

But Sirius had to disagree.

He felt like shit.

Black hair flying in his face, grey eyes struggling to make out anything, hands gripping the broomstick so tightly he thought they would break. Sirius was tired and felt ill and really really really hated Quidditch.

"Phillip Chang is approaching the Gryffindor goalposts!" Frank Longbottom shouted into his microphone.

His sigh a mere cloudy exhale, Sirius dove clumsily, reaching out for the Quaffle he caught by the tips of his fingers.

"Potter!" he roared, seething.

"Calm down, Sirius," James yelled back as he approached.

"Then get this thing away from me." He pushed the red ball towards his friend.

"Merlin, you woke up on the wrong side of the bed," James scoffed.

"Potter and Black seem to be talking. Why the hold up, boys?" Frank commented. Both paid him no mind.

Sirius rolled his eyes. "What do you think? I don't want to be playing Quidditch with you wankers."

"You arse! That's no reason to not even try!" James' face was alight with rage, glasses glinting in the sunlight.

"I caught the Quaffle, didn't I? Isn't that what you wanted?" Sirius felt his temper rise inexplicably. "Bastard!"

"I can't believe you!" his friend shouted.

"Fuck off and go find Lily to pester," Sirius hissed.

The dull pain made him recoil, pull back and round his shoulders into himself. Panic forced him to freeze, his entire body anticipating another blow.

"Now that was unexpected. Potter punched Black in the face and now- he's off! Potter passes the Quaffle to McKinnion- McKinnon going for the Ravenclaw goal- she's surrounded! But no, there comes Potter- McKinnion passes to Potter- Potter scores! Ten points to Gryffindor! That was a wonderful pass from McKinnion…"

Frank's voice drew Sirius out of his paralyzation. Cursing under his breath, he bitterly flew back to the center goalpost. He cast a quick glance to the seats- Peter was chewing nervously on his nails, Remus' entire body stiff and attentive.

Moony, get me out of here.

But his plea fell on thin air and he saw nothing but James' furious face when he let the Quaffle slide neatly into Gryffindor left goalpost.

After what seemed like an eternity, his friend yelled for him to come down, you bastard, the game's over! to which Sirius heeded, ignoring his team's cries for him to wait as he trudged into the locker room.

Locking himself inside, Sirius quickly shed his robes. Suddenly he wanted to strip himself bare of the rough wind and James' yells and his own heavy heart. Sirius furiously tore off his shirt, wanting to tear out the scars that lined his body like ragged, patched stitches where there had once lay smooth skin. He yearned to open the old wounds, shred himself to pieces, let his own despair pour out the body that had tried so hard to conceal it. The scars made him livid.

He traced one running across his hip, a fracture in the pale oasis that had once been his skin. Sirius could remember the night he had gotten it vividly. The sky had been cloaked in obsidian, pouring shocks of rain down onto the grimy streets of London where Sirius had stood in his parlor, jaw clenching instinctively.

Orion's eyes were as dark as the storm raging outside their windows. "You thought foolishly hanging a banner in your room would make you a rebel?" His voice was low, but it made Sirius tense; standing in front of him was a predator, it's fangs bared and its body shifted into attack position.

He didn't open his mouth.

"Traitor."

Fear clawed at his heart's door. Sirius couldn't speak.

The ringing silence burst. "Answer, you fucking coward!"

Pain hit him, deep and heavy and stinging.

Sirius' hands found the deep lashes scored into his chest.

The words were still echoing in the house when all that could be heard was the slap as leather hit skin.

Please, please, let it be over. Sirius trembled beneath the agony that wracked his body. Let it all end.

But then cold metal hit him, drawing back along his bare skin and leaving a trail of flickering scarlet.

Screams joined the dark chuckling.

And then his hands were clawing at his throat, fumbling in their effort to rid himself of the thin scar that shone stark against his neck.

"How dare you ask to get out of this house? You don't deserve anything. You pitiful excuse for a human."

The knife pressed against his neck. Out of the corner of his eye Sirius could see a drop of crimson blood stain his shirt.

"You don't deserve to live. You know that, don't you?"

Sirius' breathing was hitched, his throat pulsing as a metal blade was pressed against it. His hand batted weakly at the knife, fingers slipping on the blade. Pain burst in his wrist as it hit the sharp silver. Red swam in his vision.

But Orion had grabbed hold of his wrist, examining the cut almost curiously. Then he looked up, and his face was twisted into a sneer. "Next time, do it properly."

The knife dug into his throat and Sirius heard no more.

He felt like he was splitting apart, his harsh breaths testimony of his agony.

Sirius wanted to tear his scars out, but instead he pulled a piece of glass out of his fallen robes' pocket and added one more.

"Next time, do it properly."

He screamed into his skin.