Sirius Black, pensieve memory, 31.10.1981
Name: Sirius Black
Date: 31 October, 1981
Format: Pensieve memory
Relevance: Sirius Black's worst memory, presented to Walburga Black with extreme prejudice on the occasion of Walpurgis Night.
The memory begins suddenly, a cacophony of rushing air and the throaty, mechanical rumble of some sort of machinery. Sirius' body shifts forward over the handlebars of his motorbike, the insistent wind catching at his cloak and setting his hair writhing in frenetic tangles about his face. His teeth are gritted, a sharp, white shine in his pale face. Pleasure? Determination? Anger? There are no emotional cues in his expression and he soon directs his attention at the rushing contours of the darkened ground below.
Sporadic collections of light that are small towns pass by with the unfelt wind that continues to tear at his clothes. The bike banks without warning, the ground hurtling closer with alarming speed, but Sirius' face is still smooth and he gives the bike a practiced tug at the last second, bumping down to earth and coming to a gradual stop. He dismounts with a confident swing of his legs almost before the motorbike stops rolling.
His steps are scraping crunches as he hurries along the narrow road away from the loose grouping of buildings behind him. His wand appears in his hand, concealed low against one thigh in a fold of his cloak as he continues to move with steady speed. The darkness twists the outline of the house he's striding towards so it appears a collection of awkwardly put-together shapes: a wrongly-sloped section of wall, the canting rectangle of a chimney, all identifiable, yet somehow skewed. His footsteps falter and then stop entirely as a large form looms up before him, all bristling hair and heavy movements.
Sirius raises his wand without delay, the faint glow directed forward, illuminating the startled face of Hagrid and a whimpering bundle held in his arms. A small noise pushes from Sirius' throat, high and lonely-sounding.
“No.”
He charges forward, wand tip gathering light, sickly green sparks becoming a crackling trail through the night air as he runs headlong towards a broken mass of bricks that once comprised part of the cottage's front wall. The noise is back again, grating and strangled, and he pushes his way into the wrecked house as the anguished moan spills out of him and dies. Hagrid's voice is an indistinct mumble from outside, the timbre of it recognisable, but the words strangely muffled.
Picking his way through collapsed brick and broken and overturned furniture, he makes his way towards the stairs. He climbs as quickly as the debris will allow, glancing up as wind stirs his hair: most of the roof is missing, this back part of the house almost entirely open to the sky. The stars glitter impassively, the space between them a crisp and empty autumn black. He reaches the doorway of the back room which is decorated obviously as a nursery. A large chunk of its back wall is missing, the baby's cot on its side and jumbled together with bits of plaster and material from the roof.
A fiery spill of long hair glints in the light from his wand and Sirius is quickly on his knees, heedless of the jagged rubble about him. His hand reaches out to stroke back the red tangles from Lily's cheek, the movement tender and cautious as if he worries he'll wake her. “Lily?” he asks quietly, his hand still resting on her face. “Lily. Hagrid's got Harry. Where's James?” The words break off as Sirius takes an unsteady breath. “It's alright. You've every right to be cross with me. I don't blame you.” He brushes away some pieces of brick and slides an arm under her shoulders, lifting her slowly towards his chest. His lips find her forehead, pressing against the dusty skin before he lays her back down, lowering her head carefully to the ground and closing her eyes with trembling fingers. “You can go right ahead and be cross for as long as you like. I won't even tease you about it.”
Sirius stands, his posture proud and his back stiff. “Don't worry. I'll find him.” His feet lead him back down the littered steps, his Lumos stronger now, his arm sweeping from side to side as he descends to the main part of the house. “James?” His tone is calm as if expecting James to come around the corner from the kitchen. There is no sound, no answering movement. “Prongs. Don't joke with me. I saw Lily.” Here his voice catches for the first time and when he speaks again, it is with urgency, perhaps even a small spike of panic. “Damnit, Prongs.”
The movement of light continues until a contorted something is illuminated, the angles too soft for furniture. Sirius freezes. “James?” The word is a whisper and Sirius staggers forward with uncharacteristic carelessness, feet skittering over fallen objects and he's on his knees again, pushing away broken bits of this and that. His hands stop, shaking hard now, the light from his wand tip jittering crazily over the pallid lines of James' face. James' eyes are staring upwards, his mouth partly open as if he's about to speak. Sirius' fingers are against James' neck, tugging down his shirt, pushing through his hair, curling into a fist which he slams against the floor with a ragged, desolate howl. His arms are around James, trying to sit him up, trying to get him to his feet, but his dead limbs splay awkwardly, unresponsive and loose. Another cry rips out of him, muffled in the crook of James' neck, then he's suddenly silent.
Sirius lets James slip to the floor, pressing James' fallen wand back into his hand, closing his eyes as well and kissing the corner of his mouth. Hagrid is there when he finally draws to his feet and Sirius is obviously not listening to the flood of clumsy apologies. His voice is cold and keen as a blade. “Give him to me.”
Hagrid stares at him in confusion.
“Give him to me.” Sirius' arms come out towards the squirming twist of blankets and the unruly nest of black hair and his voice shakes only a little. “I'm his godfather, Hagrid. He's my responsibility now. It's what James wanted.”
Settling Harry better in his grasp, Hagrid shakes his head solemnly. “Got my orders from Dumbledore, I have. He said I was to bring young Harry along to him at his aunt and uncle's and no arguments about it.”
Sirius' hands clench into white-knuckled fists and then drop uselessly to his sides. He smooths his robes meticulously and raises his chin, jaw hard. “Then you had better take my motorbike. It'll get you there faster.”
“Your motorbike? But I-”
“Take it.” He pauses, rubbing at his chin. “I won't be needing it anymore.”
“If you're certain.”
“Hagrid. Don't ask me again. Just take it. I've some business to attend to, and Dumbledore is waiting.” He turns away from them all, living and dead, and strides out of the house, throwing back over his shoulder, “Take care of him.”
Sirius is quiet, halted in front of the ruined cottage as Hagrid makes his way to the bike and seats himself comfortably, Harry nestled in the crook of one arm. The engine rumbles to life and Hagrid makes a slow circuit as he gets them turned about, then lets out the throttle, picking up speed in a soft cloud of dust that dissipates as the tyres part with the ground.
Sirius watches the two of them soar away on the growling motorbike, remaining still for a long time until they're well out of sight. Lurching unsteadily to the side, he's loudly sick behind a ludicrously untouched tree, the leaves of which rustle gently in the evening breeze. Wood rasps on wood as he steadies himself against it with the wrist of his wand arm, then he straightens, carefully rearranging his clothes once more. His hand trembles as he wipes the back of it across his mouth and he smiles slowly in the weak moonlight. It's a cold smile, his eyes dead holes below the delicate darkness of his lashes.
An uneven curl of laughter falls from his lips, rising, then interrupted by the fierce crack of Apparation.
The memory goes black.