Team: Montrose Magpies
Position: Beater 2 (Reserve)
Season 11, Round 4
Prompt: Write about someone making a promise they don't intend to keep.
Additional Prompts
(11) - [trope] Forbidden Love
(12) - [dialogue] "For what it's worth, I truly am sorry."
Thank you to star, MB, and Moonimo for beta'ing!
Trigger Warnings: Character Death; Bigotry & Prejudice; Racial Slur; Blood; On–Screen Beheading; Murder; Not Graphic but On-Screen Sexual Content
Everybody says Sirius is older than a boy his age should be.
Sirius thinks it must have something to do with all the hate in his body.
Sirius hates the Dark Lord.
Sirius hates the faction that won the war.
Sirius hates the fact that he is the Lord–Heir to the Dark Lord's greatest allied house.
Sirius hates the fact that the rebels keep fighting even though it will always be a losing battle.
Sirius hates the hope that's crushed every time the Death Eaters come back, gloating about their victory.
He hates until there is a writhing bundle of it in his gut and it threatens to eat him alive.
Somewhere, all the lines he'd been treading disappear and his hate encompasses him.
He's in a fight, a battle if you will, and fighting for a kneeling werewolf with an ax hanging over his head.
He's fighting for the man who knew him better than anyone and imprinted on Sirius' soul, more forcefully than the branding he hadn't wanted on his arm. The boy he watched in the courtyard every day, the rippling muscles underneath deeply tanned skin, the sweat soaked curls that plastered onto his forehead; the intelligent words that were hidden by a roadman accent and swear words colorful enough to impress even Bellatrix.
His wand is flashing with light at the tip as he duels various Death Eaters, disabling and dispatching them with ease.
The end of the battle—or at least his part of it—is anticlimactic, really. Sirius spins around, eyes wild and looking around for any other threats.
Regulus is standing just a metre away, stance wide. His wand is pointed at Sirius, but his eyes are pale with fear. Sirius swallows and his next breath trembles. Static rings in his ears and he doesn't catch everything Regulus says but he does hear, "—am sorry."
Sirius doesn't get to ask what his little brother is sorry for—he was forced—before Regulus utters something, and green lights up his vision.
Weightlessness.
He's floating and he's sinking, two opposing actions but somehow Sirius is managing it.
His eyes blink open and he forces them wide, watching all the colors streak by. He breathes, or at least goes through the motion of it, because his chest merely rises but Sirius can feel that there is no real need for oxygen.
He's dead.
Regulus killed him.
The colors stop and morph into scenes he's quite familiar with.
Sirius floats, pressed up against what feels like a glass pane, to watch the memories of his love.
Ghosts can't cry, Sirius finds out as he watches, but that doesn't mean that they can't feel as though their chest has been forcibly opened and their heart beats all their blood onto pavement; like they're dying even though they're already dead.
"Whatcha doin' 'ere, pretty boy?"
Sirius blinks and spins around, locking his shoulders and lifting his head to look at the person who spoke. He's not short by any means, standing at 5'11, but this person is taller. He's easily 6'4 or maybe even taller.
In short—even though he's not—the man towers over Sirius.
He clears his throat and juts his chin out, standing as tall as he can. "Just observing," he answers coolly.
The man cocks a brow. "Fo' 3 'ours?"
Sirius is momentarily distracted by the way the sun hits green–gold eyes and lights them up like a forest in a sunrise. He almost swallows his tongue and he shrugs, though the movement is stilted.
His mother would've hexed him for it.
"So what're ya actually doing 'ere?" the man asks again, arms crossing over his chest. His eyes glare down at him, bright and sparkling in the sun, and Sirius stares right into them.
The scars that line the man's body can't be just from punishment, though he can imagine a good portion of them are, if he talks this way to everybody who he deems suspicious.
"How is that any of your business?" Sirius says lightly. "Just keep your head down and do your job."
A snort. "Alright then, pretty boy."
Sirius grimaces at the nickname but the man has already turned away.
From the sidelines of the memory, unseen, Sirius floats and watches.
It's not a matter of when Sirius fell in love, it's a matter of when he became aware of it.
The person of his affections—Scar is the only name Sirius can find for him—is always working in the courtyard when, conveniently, Sirius is always there to watch him.
Somewhere in all of that, between the way Scar would confront him and the way Sirius would answer.
Somewhere between the way Scar would loom over him even though Sirius was never intimidated and the way Sirius would smile in that charming way that never seemed to work with Scar.
Somewhere, somehow, it became a game.
And it's all fun and games before someone gets hurt.
Sirius opens his eyes—he'd closed them when the memories became too hard to bear—when a familiar, crackling noise gets his attention.
Dried leaves being stepped on, brittle twigs shifting underfoot.
He presses his forehead against the glass pane as he looks out.
Everything in him aches to tell the two he's watching. The form of him who is smiling and sneaking around and alive, that he shouldn't do it. That it'll lead to more pain than he thinks is imaginable.
His voice doesn't work and he wants to cry, but he can't.
The only thing that happens is the window pane fogs up. It's cold and frosty now, kind of like how he feels, but Sirius can't see through it so he wipes it away.
The memory shows him—them—in a forest, stars above twinkling and sightless to what is happening, due to the canopy covering them. Sirius had honestly thought it was safe, that nobody could have ever found out.
Scar is a half–breed, a werewolf, a rebel turned slave.
Sirius knew his feelings for Scar were scandalous at best. Execution worthy at the worst.
Of course, it's just his luck to get the execution.
The forest was their safe place.
It was the place that Scar ran when he was a wolf rather than a man, where Sirius walked when his mind echoed with all the hate in his body.
Fingers trail up his spine, sending sparks and lightning through him, and Sirius is helpless.
Scar has him pressed against a tree, has him submissive to his wants, and there is no fight from Sirius. He is lax, pressing lazy kisses against a freckled jaw, while Scar just lingers against him.
There is no fast, burning, need or want. It's a slow, discovering intimacy that is shared in touching fingertips and a nose dragging against skin and a soft, content exhale against sweaty skin.
"I love you," Scar murmurs, eyes closed and forehead pressing against Sirius'.
Sirius pauses, letting his eyes drift up to where they can only just see Remus' brown lashes. "Those are fighting words, mon amour," he murmurs. "Nevertheless, je t'aime."
Scar lets out a huff of laughter. His hands tighten on Sirius' legs and shifts them, holding onto them securely, and Sirius locks his ankles behind Scar's back. "Don' tcha ge' all fancy on me," he says quietly.
"Alright then," Sirius murmurs, bringing his hand up to cup the back of Scar's neck. "I love you, Scar."
A smile graces his lover's face and lips press against his softly. It's a slow kiss that melts Sirius into Scar's body.
It feels like the very definition of love.
And through all of this, they never notice the figure watching them. The silver eyes that take them in, wide and shocked, and the throat that bobs with fear.
Sirius, now that he's dead, does notice.
And he wonders how they could have ever deluded themselves to think that they would never be caught.
Regulus was under just as much pressure as Sirius.
Sirius hadn't realized it at the time.
But, by Merlin, does he realize it now.
Regulus enters his room without any warning and a silencing ward is up without any warning.
"It's not true right? That your lover is a werewolf," he says with no preamble. His tone is almost begging. "It's not true, right Sirius?"
Sirius shoots up from his bed, wand in hand, and Regulus flinches. His face twists with too many emotions for Sirius to even try and decipher them all.
"This is dangerous territory you're treading, Sirius. You know that." Regulus runs a hand through his hair, breaking the picture of a perfectly composed pureblood Heir.
Though he already knew that Sirius could see right through him; what was the point of trying to be one, if he knew it was all false?
He doesn't say anything and looks over his brother. "Why does this matter to you?" he murmurs.
"You're the Lord–Heir. I don't want to be the Lord–Heir," Regulus answers.
Sirius scoffs, weighing different spells on his tongue. "Try again."
Regulus presses his lips together. "It's dangerous, Sirius," Regulus says. "I'm just… I don't want to lose you to your own foolishness."
That strikes Sirius in the heart. His wand lowers just a little bit.
"We're careful," he says. "We won't get caught. Not as long as you don't tell."
Regulus bites his lip. "Okay," is all he says.
Sirius takes in a breath. "You promise?"
A hesitant nod. "I promise to not tell."
At the time, Sirius hadn't seen it.
Now though, he can see the skull pin on his breast as irregular and the way it shines with magic.
A listening charm.
Regulus didn't have to tell.
Sirius had done it already.
Sirius floats, taking two would be steps away from the glass pane.
He watches the color streaks of moving memories and covers his eyes.
Why is he watching this?
What torture is this?
Merlin, please, make it stop.
He'd pray to Mother Magic for it to stop.
He doubts that she'd do anything about it.
You are a hateful person, Sirius Orion Black, and you need to let go of all this hate inside of you, somebody whispers.
He thinks of skeletons with souls weaved between the bones and dark shrouds for wings; eyes that are white voids like a Seer's eyes and a voice like the cracking of dry bones.
Never, he whispers back.
The hate was the only constant in his life.
It was the only thing that let him know he was alive when he wasn't with Scar.
Scar was the only one who could get Sirius to forget about the hate.
The hate that showed itself when he sat down for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and when he had to speak to the lunatics he kept company with.
The hate that showed itself when he watched the rebels turned slaves toiling away while he prospered above them.
The hate that showed itself when he saw Scar's sleeping quarters of patted down dirt and a raggedy blanket on top.
The hate that showed itself when he screamed and cried in his bedroom, tearing apart silks and bedsheets as he hated the unfairness of life.
Sirius is dead now and the hate has not left him.
It feels heavier now than it did when he was alive.
Sirius is walking down the hall, making his way to the courtyard, with a small pep in his step.
A ring, a thick, gilded platinum and rose gold band with a carved crown of leaves and moons, is in his pocket. He thinks it'll look beautiful on Scar's finger.
Regulus finds him just two halls down from the courtyard, and stands in front of him. His eyes are hard and stony. Sirius thinks he can see an undertone of sorrow and fear in them, too, but brushes it away.
He's handed a small scroll with a wax stamp of a bleeding crow holding it all together.
An execution decree.
Sirius opens it with a grim heart, hate boiling in his heart.
He reads it and raises a brow. "Who is… Remus Lupin? A bit on the nose for a werewolf, isn't it?" he says, joking and mocking in equal parts.
Regulus' lips lift slightly, as though to form either a smile or sneer. Nothing is really made though. "He's commonly known as Scar, by his associates and lover," Regulus answers calmly, eyes staring right into Sirius' soul. Then his eyes flicker down and Regulus looks younger for a moment.
"I'm sorry, Sirius."
Sirius' blood is replaced with ice.
The memory swirls and washes away.
Sirius watches all the colors streak by. He doesn't close his eyes.
The battle is different to a bystander.
It is bloody, Sirius standing in front of Scar and battling every person who dares come at him. No spell ever touches him and Scar is talking to him even though Sirius couldn't hear him at the time.
Now he can, and his heart is shattering even more with every plea and bargain that Scar makes. Green–gold eyes are staring at him with fear, with horror as Sirius fights for his lover.
MacNair is dead, armless and beheaded, and more people follow him.
Death Eaters fall left and right, and the Dark Lord doesn't do anything. He watches, seemingly amused at the beginning, but slowly that dwindles as Sirius fights on.
Until Sirius is standing alone, panting and blood–soaked, and then he spins around.
He's faced with his brother before he can say anything to his lover.
Sirius still doesn't get to hear all of what Regulus says.
Instead, he watches the Killing Curse strike his body, his body collapses to the ground, and Scar shouts as if his entire world has shattered.
And maybe it had.
Sirius can't fathom being that important to somebody.
There are no more memories for Sirius to watch. There are no more that he truly wants to watch.
So he floats in the room that he died in, watching Regulus stare at his lover with tears clinging to his lashes. "I will commence the execution," he announces, though there is only one person who is truly listening.
Scar doesn't seem to be listening, his eyes staring at Sirius' body and tears are on his face. He doesn't fight when Regulus kneels beside him; he doesn't fight when a wand presses against his neck.
Sirius wants him to fight.
Wants him to show that he is alive.
"For what it's worth, I truly am sorry," Regulus murmurs to Sirius' lover.
Scar looks away then, and his eyes shift to Regulus' face. They turn a shade of amber that speaks of golden nectar, sunlight peeking through a canopy, and drowning beauty.
But maybe only Sirius sees that, because Regulus pales just a shade lighter and he probably looks more ghostly than Sirius does.
Sirius closes his eyes then, when Regulus utters the severing curse.
The hate under his lungs seems to disappear when Sirius exhales out and Regulus lets out a hurriedly stifled sob that isn't hidden by the thump of a head.
It goes dark for a moment after that and Sirius is floating and sinking again.
Have you let go? somebody in the darkness whispers.
(He knows who they are now)
Sirius thinks of his little brother, who, in his mind, is crying and sobbing into his bloody hands.
Sirius thinks of his little brother, who he had thought to be the embodiment of darkness.
(it rattles through his brain)
Sirius thinks of his little brother, who is only just the same little boy Sirius used to comfort at night.
Sirius thinks of his little brother, who he prays for and wishes him all the strength and courage in the world.
(death)
Yes, I let go, he whispers back.
The darkness is gone and Sirius is floating again.
Sirius walks back to the forest, he walks back to the spot that brought him the least amount of pain.
It takes 938 seconds—yes, he counted but he didn't have much to do otherwise, did he?—for Scar to float up beside him.
A ghostly hand that is still dappled with freckles takes his and Scar brings it up to kiss it. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Scar smile a little bit.
"We can be together now," Sirius says to break the silence. "Without worrying about anybody finding us."
Scar smiles more then and Sirius faces him. He traces the scars that crinkle when Scar smiles. "Do you want me to call you Scar or Remus, now?" he asks with a small, contemplative frown.
There is a laugh and Scar kisses his lips gently. There is no physical warmth in it but it still sends lightning sparking through him.
"I don't care as long as it means I'm yours."
When night comes, they do something they could've never done when they were alive.
They laugh and run and kiss in the darkness of the forest, spinning in the places illuminated by a bright, full moon.