fic: A Mournful Rustling in the Dark (HP; Sirius; gen)
A Mournful Rustling in the Dark
Harry Potter; Sirius (Sirius/Remus); g; 785 words
Sirius's memories are a feast for the Dementors.
I didn't expect to be writing this but it is, as usual, all Nichole's fault. She sent me a screencap of a tweet that said: "Do you think memories of Remus helped Sirius fight the dementors all those years?" and this happened. Title from Longfellow. Originally posted to tumblr without a title. Or read it at AO3.
~*~
A Mournful Rustling in the Dark
When Sirius arrives in his cell in Azkaban, he thinks of fighting. Even manacled and without a wand, he thinks he could probably beat the Aurors guarding him--the war taught them all a lot of things they'd have been happier not knowing, and that was on top of all the things he'd learned in the Black family library long before he'd been barred from that hallowed sanctum. A spell that could incapacitate half a dozen people at once crawls up the back of his throat, but he swallows it down.
It's not worth it. He's not worth it. He deserves to be locked up, to pay for his mistakes.
James and Lily are dead and Peter's got off scot-free and it's all Sirius's fault. He shivers as he relives the past few days in all their gory Technicolor glory--Harry's wails and Peter's lies ring in his ears as he sinks to the floor of his cell and clutches his knees to his chest.
It's only after the vivid memory fades that he realizes it's the Dementors' doing. There's so much inside him for them to feed on, and they're all lining up for their share.
Let them have it, he thinks, calling up memories of his mother's disdain when he was sorted into Gryffindor, his father's frequent tirades about behavior unbecoming a Black and a pureblood (let alone the son and heir), Bella's taunts about his Muggle-born friends, his own surprising sadness at Regulus's poor decisions.
He remembers Remus's resignation and James's disappointment after he'd sent Snape to the Shack, the despair that had begun to permeate wizarding London, the air of suspicion that hovered around Remus whenever he attended Order meetings, and his own burgeoning belief that Remus was going to betray them all, encouraged by Wormtail’s sneaky little lies.
There are so many terrible things for him to feel that he can barely manage to change into Padfoot at first. Weeks turn into months turn into years and he lets himself float on the sea of despair that surrounds him whenever he's in human form.
He's not sure how much time has passed when he finally claws his way back to some semblance of equilibrium, clinging to the ragged edges of sanity when he realizes that Remus is still out there, and maybe he can find Peter and avenge James and Lily.
And then he remembers that Remus doesn’t know, that Remus believes Sirius is guilty, and he almost drowns again in his despair. It’s all Wormtail’s fault, and some day, Sirius is going to make the little rat pay.
Hatred burns out some of the guilt and rage helps him to focus, and the thought of vengeance keeps him going for a long time. He starts marking the days, which are all the same but for the growing number of scratches on the wall and the waxing and waning of the moon he can see from the tiny barred window of his cell.
Being Padfoot helps, too, though as a dog, he still dreams of running through the forest on bright moonlit nights with Prongs and Moony at his side.
He's been in Azkaban for twelve years when he sees Wormtail on the front page of the Prophet. His mind works much more slowly than it used to, but the implications are clear--if Wormtail is at large, Harry needs to be protected, and Sirius is the only one who knows that.
He needs to go to Hogwarts.
No one has ever escaped Azkaban before, but Sirius was the first Black to be sorted into Gryffindor in two hundred years, became an Animagus at fifteen, and was one of the finest duelists on either side during the war. He can certainly outwit a few Dementors.
He digs out a few happy memories from the depths of his heart--the sharp jut of Remus's shoulder blade against Sirius's chest when they curled up together in bed; the warm sleepy smell of the crook of Remus's neck in the morning when he woke up; his crooked half-smile blurred by steam from his first cup of tea, the taste of chocolate on his tongue. The soft brush of his hair and the rough scrape of his stubble on the soft hidden skin between Sirius's thighs and the wet heat of his mouth.
Sirius feels more awake and alive than he has in years, the memories keeping him warm as he paddles through the icy waters of the North Atlantic. He's focused on protecting Harry and exposing Wormtail, but in the back of his mind, he wonders if he'll get to see Remus, and make some new memories to go with the old ones.
~*~
Feedback is always welcome.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/840621.html.
people have commented there.
Harry Potter; Sirius (Sirius/Remus); g; 785 words
Sirius's memories are a feast for the Dementors.
I didn't expect to be writing this but it is, as usual, all Nichole's fault. She sent me a screencap of a tweet that said: "Do you think memories of Remus helped Sirius fight the dementors all those years?" and this happened. Title from Longfellow. Originally posted to tumblr without a title. Or read it at AO3.
~*~
A Mournful Rustling in the Dark
When Sirius arrives in his cell in Azkaban, he thinks of fighting. Even manacled and without a wand, he thinks he could probably beat the Aurors guarding him--the war taught them all a lot of things they'd have been happier not knowing, and that was on top of all the things he'd learned in the Black family library long before he'd been barred from that hallowed sanctum. A spell that could incapacitate half a dozen people at once crawls up the back of his throat, but he swallows it down.
It's not worth it. He's not worth it. He deserves to be locked up, to pay for his mistakes.
James and Lily are dead and Peter's got off scot-free and it's all Sirius's fault. He shivers as he relives the past few days in all their gory Technicolor glory--Harry's wails and Peter's lies ring in his ears as he sinks to the floor of his cell and clutches his knees to his chest.
It's only after the vivid memory fades that he realizes it's the Dementors' doing. There's so much inside him for them to feed on, and they're all lining up for their share.
Let them have it, he thinks, calling up memories of his mother's disdain when he was sorted into Gryffindor, his father's frequent tirades about behavior unbecoming a Black and a pureblood (let alone the son and heir), Bella's taunts about his Muggle-born friends, his own surprising sadness at Regulus's poor decisions.
He remembers Remus's resignation and James's disappointment after he'd sent Snape to the Shack, the despair that had begun to permeate wizarding London, the air of suspicion that hovered around Remus whenever he attended Order meetings, and his own burgeoning belief that Remus was going to betray them all, encouraged by Wormtail’s sneaky little lies.
There are so many terrible things for him to feel that he can barely manage to change into Padfoot at first. Weeks turn into months turn into years and he lets himself float on the sea of despair that surrounds him whenever he's in human form.
He's not sure how much time has passed when he finally claws his way back to some semblance of equilibrium, clinging to the ragged edges of sanity when he realizes that Remus is still out there, and maybe he can find Peter and avenge James and Lily.
And then he remembers that Remus doesn’t know, that Remus believes Sirius is guilty, and he almost drowns again in his despair. It’s all Wormtail’s fault, and some day, Sirius is going to make the little rat pay.
Hatred burns out some of the guilt and rage helps him to focus, and the thought of vengeance keeps him going for a long time. He starts marking the days, which are all the same but for the growing number of scratches on the wall and the waxing and waning of the moon he can see from the tiny barred window of his cell.
Being Padfoot helps, too, though as a dog, he still dreams of running through the forest on bright moonlit nights with Prongs and Moony at his side.
He's been in Azkaban for twelve years when he sees Wormtail on the front page of the Prophet. His mind works much more slowly than it used to, but the implications are clear--if Wormtail is at large, Harry needs to be protected, and Sirius is the only one who knows that.
He needs to go to Hogwarts.
No one has ever escaped Azkaban before, but Sirius was the first Black to be sorted into Gryffindor in two hundred years, became an Animagus at fifteen, and was one of the finest duelists on either side during the war. He can certainly outwit a few Dementors.
He digs out a few happy memories from the depths of his heart--the sharp jut of Remus's shoulder blade against Sirius's chest when they curled up together in bed; the warm sleepy smell of the crook of Remus's neck in the morning when he woke up; his crooked half-smile blurred by steam from his first cup of tea, the taste of chocolate on his tongue. The soft brush of his hair and the rough scrape of his stubble on the soft hidden skin between Sirius's thighs and the wet heat of his mouth.
Sirius feels more awake and alive than he has in years, the memories keeping him warm as he paddles through the icy waters of the North Atlantic. He's focused on protecting Harry and exposing Wormtail, but in the back of his mind, he wonders if he'll get to see Remus, and make some new memories to go with the old ones.
~*~
Feedback is always welcome.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/840621.html.
people have commented there.