Golden: Chapter Two
Title: Golden
Rating: mostly PG-13
Summary: Follow Remus Lupin through his year as a Hogwarts professor as he faces his demons, comes to terms with his past and finally learns to move forward.
Characters: Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, Ginny Weasley, Lily (Evans) Potter, Harry Potter
Pairings: past!Remus/Sirius, onesided!Remus/Lily, Remus/Ginny
Setting: Year 3, primarily at Hogwarts
Warnings: Some sexual themes and strong hints of May/December, though nothing too graphic
Spoilers: PoA and beyond
Word Count: 2,613
Author's Notes: Feedback and constructive criticism are definitely appreciated. I'm fairly new to fic writing, so don't be shy about letting me know what works and what doesn't. Reviews are love!
I thought of Romania often as the September days darkened and the autumn winds picked up speed, howling fiercely over the moors. Loose leaves were tossed across the wide expanse of grass before the castle; a number managed to be blown inside by the breeze and crunched underfoot, leaving a patch of dust for Filch to mutter about.
I had initially departed for Romania the week after James and Lily's deaths. The scope of Sirius' betrayal seemed beyond my comprehension, and it made my mind ache with resistance and misery to even contemplate his madness. Had there been someone left to talk to, I might have endured, but James and Lily were dead at Voldemort's hand, Peter at Sirius's, or so I then believed. The man himself, Sirius Black, my one-time lover, was in Azkaban, far from my reach.
I trudged through London for sleepless days after hearing the awful news. Utterly silent, my face white and my hair unkept, shivering in threadbare Muggle jackets, I moved like a phantom through the Underground, shying away from the magical world and all of its inhabitants. Of all the ghosts that haunted me, Sirius was the most persistent. His scent clung to me, inescapable; no matter how often I bathed, I smelled him on my skin. Whenever I closed my eyes I could hear his urgent whisper, and smell the acrid smoke from the destroyed Potter house.
Perhaps it was Dumbledore who suggested the trip to me, a few days after the murders. He was the one who arranged it, in any case. The world at that time seemed steeped in chaos; there were widespread celebrations in honour of Harry's survival, but also persistent doubt about the destruction of Voldemort, and many wizards remained in mourning for James and Lily and the others who had been lost to the Dark Lord’s ranks. There were also little knots of devoted Death Eaters who, for a short time before the Ministry rallied and cracked down, continued their tradition of murder and terror. Though for the most part joyous, England was a suspicious place during the months following Voldemort's apparent demise. Witches and Wizards who had endured terror for over a decade viewed any outside their community as threats, and as a werewolf, not to mention one with definite ties to Sirius Black, I had already begun feeling the persecution.
There is little I remember of the first weeks in Romania. A memory of my cramped flat swims to mind, distorted like an image viewed from under water. The pale blue paint was peeled away in some places, exposing ancient woodwork. There was a battered metal furnace that grew too hot to touch yet scarcely warmed the place at all. I huddled there a lot, in hiding from the world, my life reduced to a small twin bed covered with faded, mismatched quilts. Days would pass and I would scarcely stir except to procure a cup of hot, flavourless coffee or gnaw some stale chocolate biscuits in hopes of stoking my nonexistent appetite. I cried, persistently, clutching rumpled photographs of my deceased friends, intermittently furious with Sirius and yet longing for the warmth of his body again.
Eventually, time passed and my grief, though still overwhelming, was framed, allowing me to function. On Dumbledore's orders, I infiltrated a group of Eastern European werewolves but found little to report. These werewolves were not Voldemort loyalists, though their views on Muggles were similar and the few literate ones could identify him in paper clippings. Rather, their main concern was blood and flesh on which to feed, coupled with rights for our kind, particularly the right to run amok and kill at will. On random dark nights, they hunted the lonely streets on the edge of Bucharest in search of solitary prostitutes and faceless runaways. I devoted a great deal of time to this work, feigning interest in the spilt blood, memorising the most minute details of my acquaintances in the underground in order to forget the faces of my lost friends. At the time, my sorrow was so complete, I barely suffered pangs of remorse for the killing I was required to take part in. It was only with the youngest streetwalkers, who had pert, pale faces made garish with lipstick, that I hesitated at all.
It was in silent contemplation one late afternoon that Ginny found me.
"Professor? Ah - Remus?"
"Yes?" I looked up from my desk, stowing my moon phase calendars under a sheaf of recent student essays. "Ginevra. Everything okay?"
She nodded sincerely. I'd witnessed the recent transition in her life. Ginny had begun to emerge from the protective shell she had kept around herself at the start of term. Occasionally, I would see her walking in the halls with a gaggle of uniformed schoolgirls, or even unfolding and reading flirtatious notes from boys in class, always with an amused, wistful smile on her face.
"Yes. I was just wondering, er --"
I waited, letting her gaze around the room, admiring the grindylow in its tank.
"I wondered if you would give me some lessons," she said, after a few seconds. "Defense lessons," she clarified further, with a studious frown as though to inform me of the seriousness of the request. Her hands hung limply from her wrists, betraying neither hope or urgency. She seemed to have paid a bit of attention to her lacklustre robes, however, and had turned her precocious second year's knowledge to sprucing them up. The faded colour had been restored to fresh black, and the hem had been sewn, though from the looks of it, by hand instead of magic. She hovered prettily near the desk, her lips pale pink and pursed thoughtfully.
"Well," I considered. "You aren't my star student, Ginny," I told her, thinking of Hermione Granger's hand shooting into the air with perfect confidence, “but you are progressing nicely, and your marks are some of the highest in the second year class. I really don't feel you need to dedicate a lot of extra time to this subject, though, of course, if you really want a tutor I can ask one of the older students to --"
" -- no. No." Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she grimaced. “I'm not talking about studying the theory, or brushing up for exams. You know what happened” - she peered over her shoulder as though concerned someone could be listening through the thick door - “before. I wasn't able to protect myself from him. I didn't understand what he was."
“The school does have a duelling team,” I explained. “While you are too young to join, I'm sure they would be more than happy to assist you in learning a few basic manoeuvres. Or, of course, you could always turn to the duelling club for practise.” Images of Sirius, a flash of his white smile as blue flame erupted from his wand, rose up in my memory, unbidden. They had been the staring members of the club, James and Sirius had, both eager combatants in the mock battles as Peter and I watched in silence from the sidelines.
She sighed, sinking down to sit on one of the abandoned desks. “Yes, I know about that,” she informed me, dismissive. Her eyes begged me to understand. “I’ve considered joining before. I’m rather good at the minor jinxes already. But this is different. I need to know what it was I faced, what Tom Riddle was, and how to defend myself from that type of thing. You’re the only one who can help me.” She stared at me sternly, and I could see her mother’s impatience brooding behind her eyes. “Professor, I've never heard of ghosts that behaved like he did. I’ve never come across another enchanted diary or even read about one in books. I know this is more than an ordinary spell - it has to be, doesn’t it? After all, it was him - Voldemort.”
She gave me a look that requested answers but hurried on before I could speak. “When my parents first found out about all this, my father started to say something, but my mother interrupted him. They've never spoken of it further. Can you tell me?"
A word shimmered to mind and paused on my tongue. Horcruxes, came the distant thought and with it a momentary fright. Of those Dark things, I had never been taught. The subject had never been mentioned in school, not even in my advanced NEWT Defence Against the Dark Arts courses. I had only ever heard of them because of Sirius and James, the perpetual explorers. They had stolen a book from the library on the subject of Dark Arts once, and perused it with thinly disguised fascination coupled with horror. Horcruxes, I thought, a soul, cut in half, a momentary red gush of blood and the bright green flare of murdering light. Looking at the girl before me, I pursed my lips decidedly.
“I'm aware,” I said carefully, “of such things, but I’m afraid there isn’t a great deal I can teach you about the subject. Objects like Tom Riddle’s diary are exceedingly rare.” Perhaps nonexistent, I hoped, but did not say. “Unfortunately, there is not a significant body of knowledge about these topics, but in this case, I’d advise you not to trouble yourself over it. Concern yourself with the practical aspects of Defence, such as protective and shielding spells, all of which, it so happens, the Hogwarts duelling club specialises in.”
Ginny affixed me with a dark look. “But you don't understand. I still dream about him. I have nightmares about the things he’s done, the things I told him.” She paled a little, and smoothed her robes. “I can’t leave it be, I have to know what it was, exactly. I understand it’s something Dark,” she added shrewdly. “That’s why you can’t teach me, isn’t it? Won't you just tell me what it is? I can do the research alone.”
She was too young, her freckled skin gleaming pearly in the faint light from the cloudy sky. There was nothing I could tell her; how could she, or anyone, hope to duel a Horcrux or fight evil that significant?
I looked out the window at the gathering clouds. It was too early for the moon to be visible, but I thought I could see it anyway, just a faint white outline against the grey horizon. It was nearly full, and its beckoning call sang in my blood, leading a chorus of a thousand wolves all howling for liberation.
“I'm sorry.” I stated firmly. “Ginny,” -- I raised a hand as she started to leave, huddled in disappointment - “I can't explain to you what happened with the diary. I’m not entirely sure about that myself, but I can help you in your studies, if you wish, maybe even show you a few jinxes that will be of use the next time you're faced with a problem.” I thought of Lily's killer Bat Bogey hex with a pang of loss.
Her face brightened a little. “Really? You would do that?”
“Absolutely,” I answered, intrigued by her eyes as she affixed her gaze to my face, searching for promise. "My schedule is a bit cluttered at the moment, but Thursday nights will work, at least for the time being. After supper, then?”
She scampered off with a smile on her face, leaving me to my thoughts. I watched the robes swirl around her legs in a cloud of black. Her hair swung down her back as she took her leave. Briefly, I calculated her age; twelve, perhaps thirteen. Not a day more, surely and hence too young for the darker, more serious curses; Sectumsempra, the first to flit to mind, would be far beyond her reach.
A resolute knock came, the sound of sharp knuckles against the door. It was not Ginny, I knew, as I waved my wand to open it. Severus Snape stood in the doorway, a challenging sneer on his pale lips, his black eyes fiery. Lank strands of hair lay across his forehead, framing his thin face. His robes hung overly large, obscuring his form beneath them.
“At Dumbledore's request,” he explained sharply, drawing my attention to a number of clear vials. “I trust you are familiar with the dosage, Lupin?” he questioned, drawling the name with a mocking lilt.
“Yes, I am,” I answered. Severus hardly looked different from the days when I had known him as a boy. His clothes still seemed ill-fitting and his form was awkward, though he now possessed a certain grace and certainly had much better posture. His mouth was set, locked in annoyance and undisguised frustration. I had heard the rumours of how badly he wanted my job, and wondered how disappointed he must have been to learn who exactly had stolen the cherished position from him.
“Thank you, Severus,” I added cordially, expecting him to set the phials on an empty desk and go.
Instead, he remained and came closer, stepping across the room until he was inches from my desk. He dropped the phials onto the papered surface with a thin tinkling sound. His smirk was maddening, stirring tension into the air, which I pretended to ignore as I again withdrew my lunar calendar and begin marking the times I would be absent from class.
“Something else perhaps, Severus?” I questioned lightly after enduring his stare for a few moments.
His eyes narrowed into onyx slits. “I don't trust you,” he announced, studying my face for the least betrayal of guilt. “Dumbledore may believe you have severed your old ties, but I don't, not for a minute. It's no coincidence Sirius Black escaped at the same time you came back here.”
“Interesting viewpoint, Severus. The same could be said of you.” My voice remained mild, almost emotionless, but my eyes challenged him. “Where do your loyalties lie, Snape? Are you a devoted member of staff, or have you merely gone into hiding in the absence of your leader?”
He blanched a bit at my frankness, and I went on. “I know you were a Death Eater. I know you participated in death and destruction. I have no doubt that you were there the night James and Lily died. There is blood on your hands,” I pronounced.
He turned a shade whiter, his dark hair and eyes contrasting with the utter pallor of his skin. His mouth hung open slightly, betraying shock, while his eyes glistened with a momentary, undisguised pain. At the time, I believed the hurt was for Voldemort, for the death of his precious cause, and not for the loss of a loved one. He blinked his glittering eyes.
“No more so than on your own, werewolf,” he spat. His hands trembled and he coiled them into fists. “I'll be watching you,” he informed me tightly, and hurried out, slamming the door so loudly it echoed down the stone chamber.
Finally, I allowed my shoulders to stoop. My tight muscles collapsed and I sank my head down onto the blotter, burying my face in the crook of my elbow. My shoulders shook with tears that I struggled to contain. No one had spoken Sirius's name to me in years; just the sound of it made me ache as though stabbed. I thought I could hear his voice, an urgent whisper, like the sounds he once made as we lay beneath rough sheets, believing ourselves perpetual youth, before the talk of traitors and danger emerged. I thought of his black hair, worn long like Severus' and yet so different, silky under my hand. I believed I could hear his careless laugh, through my own sobs.
Rating: mostly PG-13
Summary: Follow Remus Lupin through his year as a Hogwarts professor as he faces his demons, comes to terms with his past and finally learns to move forward.
Characters: Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, Ginny Weasley, Lily (Evans) Potter, Harry Potter
Pairings: past!Remus/Sirius, onesided!Remus/Lily, Remus/Ginny
Setting: Year 3, primarily at Hogwarts
Warnings: Some sexual themes and strong hints of May/December, though nothing too graphic
Spoilers: PoA and beyond
Word Count: 2,613
Author's Notes: Feedback and constructive criticism are definitely appreciated. I'm fairly new to fic writing, so don't be shy about letting me know what works and what doesn't. Reviews are love!
I thought of Romania often as the September days darkened and the autumn winds picked up speed, howling fiercely over the moors. Loose leaves were tossed across the wide expanse of grass before the castle; a number managed to be blown inside by the breeze and crunched underfoot, leaving a patch of dust for Filch to mutter about.
I had initially departed for Romania the week after James and Lily's deaths. The scope of Sirius' betrayal seemed beyond my comprehension, and it made my mind ache with resistance and misery to even contemplate his madness. Had there been someone left to talk to, I might have endured, but James and Lily were dead at Voldemort's hand, Peter at Sirius's, or so I then believed. The man himself, Sirius Black, my one-time lover, was in Azkaban, far from my reach.
I trudged through London for sleepless days after hearing the awful news. Utterly silent, my face white and my hair unkept, shivering in threadbare Muggle jackets, I moved like a phantom through the Underground, shying away from the magical world and all of its inhabitants. Of all the ghosts that haunted me, Sirius was the most persistent. His scent clung to me, inescapable; no matter how often I bathed, I smelled him on my skin. Whenever I closed my eyes I could hear his urgent whisper, and smell the acrid smoke from the destroyed Potter house.
Perhaps it was Dumbledore who suggested the trip to me, a few days after the murders. He was the one who arranged it, in any case. The world at that time seemed steeped in chaos; there were widespread celebrations in honour of Harry's survival, but also persistent doubt about the destruction of Voldemort, and many wizards remained in mourning for James and Lily and the others who had been lost to the Dark Lord’s ranks. There were also little knots of devoted Death Eaters who, for a short time before the Ministry rallied and cracked down, continued their tradition of murder and terror. Though for the most part joyous, England was a suspicious place during the months following Voldemort's apparent demise. Witches and Wizards who had endured terror for over a decade viewed any outside their community as threats, and as a werewolf, not to mention one with definite ties to Sirius Black, I had already begun feeling the persecution.
There is little I remember of the first weeks in Romania. A memory of my cramped flat swims to mind, distorted like an image viewed from under water. The pale blue paint was peeled away in some places, exposing ancient woodwork. There was a battered metal furnace that grew too hot to touch yet scarcely warmed the place at all. I huddled there a lot, in hiding from the world, my life reduced to a small twin bed covered with faded, mismatched quilts. Days would pass and I would scarcely stir except to procure a cup of hot, flavourless coffee or gnaw some stale chocolate biscuits in hopes of stoking my nonexistent appetite. I cried, persistently, clutching rumpled photographs of my deceased friends, intermittently furious with Sirius and yet longing for the warmth of his body again.
Eventually, time passed and my grief, though still overwhelming, was framed, allowing me to function. On Dumbledore's orders, I infiltrated a group of Eastern European werewolves but found little to report. These werewolves were not Voldemort loyalists, though their views on Muggles were similar and the few literate ones could identify him in paper clippings. Rather, their main concern was blood and flesh on which to feed, coupled with rights for our kind, particularly the right to run amok and kill at will. On random dark nights, they hunted the lonely streets on the edge of Bucharest in search of solitary prostitutes and faceless runaways. I devoted a great deal of time to this work, feigning interest in the spilt blood, memorising the most minute details of my acquaintances in the underground in order to forget the faces of my lost friends. At the time, my sorrow was so complete, I barely suffered pangs of remorse for the killing I was required to take part in. It was only with the youngest streetwalkers, who had pert, pale faces made garish with lipstick, that I hesitated at all.
It was in silent contemplation one late afternoon that Ginny found me.
"Professor? Ah - Remus?"
"Yes?" I looked up from my desk, stowing my moon phase calendars under a sheaf of recent student essays. "Ginevra. Everything okay?"
She nodded sincerely. I'd witnessed the recent transition in her life. Ginny had begun to emerge from the protective shell she had kept around herself at the start of term. Occasionally, I would see her walking in the halls with a gaggle of uniformed schoolgirls, or even unfolding and reading flirtatious notes from boys in class, always with an amused, wistful smile on her face.
"Yes. I was just wondering, er --"
I waited, letting her gaze around the room, admiring the grindylow in its tank.
"I wondered if you would give me some lessons," she said, after a few seconds. "Defense lessons," she clarified further, with a studious frown as though to inform me of the seriousness of the request. Her hands hung limply from her wrists, betraying neither hope or urgency. She seemed to have paid a bit of attention to her lacklustre robes, however, and had turned her precocious second year's knowledge to sprucing them up. The faded colour had been restored to fresh black, and the hem had been sewn, though from the looks of it, by hand instead of magic. She hovered prettily near the desk, her lips pale pink and pursed thoughtfully.
"Well," I considered. "You aren't my star student, Ginny," I told her, thinking of Hermione Granger's hand shooting into the air with perfect confidence, “but you are progressing nicely, and your marks are some of the highest in the second year class. I really don't feel you need to dedicate a lot of extra time to this subject, though, of course, if you really want a tutor I can ask one of the older students to --"
" -- no. No." Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she grimaced. “I'm not talking about studying the theory, or brushing up for exams. You know what happened” - she peered over her shoulder as though concerned someone could be listening through the thick door - “before. I wasn't able to protect myself from him. I didn't understand what he was."
“The school does have a duelling team,” I explained. “While you are too young to join, I'm sure they would be more than happy to assist you in learning a few basic manoeuvres. Or, of course, you could always turn to the duelling club for practise.” Images of Sirius, a flash of his white smile as blue flame erupted from his wand, rose up in my memory, unbidden. They had been the staring members of the club, James and Sirius had, both eager combatants in the mock battles as Peter and I watched in silence from the sidelines.
She sighed, sinking down to sit on one of the abandoned desks. “Yes, I know about that,” she informed me, dismissive. Her eyes begged me to understand. “I’ve considered joining before. I’m rather good at the minor jinxes already. But this is different. I need to know what it was I faced, what Tom Riddle was, and how to defend myself from that type of thing. You’re the only one who can help me.” She stared at me sternly, and I could see her mother’s impatience brooding behind her eyes. “Professor, I've never heard of ghosts that behaved like he did. I’ve never come across another enchanted diary or even read about one in books. I know this is more than an ordinary spell - it has to be, doesn’t it? After all, it was him - Voldemort.”
She gave me a look that requested answers but hurried on before I could speak. “When my parents first found out about all this, my father started to say something, but my mother interrupted him. They've never spoken of it further. Can you tell me?"
A word shimmered to mind and paused on my tongue. Horcruxes, came the distant thought and with it a momentary fright. Of those Dark things, I had never been taught. The subject had never been mentioned in school, not even in my advanced NEWT Defence Against the Dark Arts courses. I had only ever heard of them because of Sirius and James, the perpetual explorers. They had stolen a book from the library on the subject of Dark Arts once, and perused it with thinly disguised fascination coupled with horror. Horcruxes, I thought, a soul, cut in half, a momentary red gush of blood and the bright green flare of murdering light. Looking at the girl before me, I pursed my lips decidedly.
“I'm aware,” I said carefully, “of such things, but I’m afraid there isn’t a great deal I can teach you about the subject. Objects like Tom Riddle’s diary are exceedingly rare.” Perhaps nonexistent, I hoped, but did not say. “Unfortunately, there is not a significant body of knowledge about these topics, but in this case, I’d advise you not to trouble yourself over it. Concern yourself with the practical aspects of Defence, such as protective and shielding spells, all of which, it so happens, the Hogwarts duelling club specialises in.”
Ginny affixed me with a dark look. “But you don't understand. I still dream about him. I have nightmares about the things he’s done, the things I told him.” She paled a little, and smoothed her robes. “I can’t leave it be, I have to know what it was, exactly. I understand it’s something Dark,” she added shrewdly. “That’s why you can’t teach me, isn’t it? Won't you just tell me what it is? I can do the research alone.”
She was too young, her freckled skin gleaming pearly in the faint light from the cloudy sky. There was nothing I could tell her; how could she, or anyone, hope to duel a Horcrux or fight evil that significant?
I looked out the window at the gathering clouds. It was too early for the moon to be visible, but I thought I could see it anyway, just a faint white outline against the grey horizon. It was nearly full, and its beckoning call sang in my blood, leading a chorus of a thousand wolves all howling for liberation.
“I'm sorry.” I stated firmly. “Ginny,” -- I raised a hand as she started to leave, huddled in disappointment - “I can't explain to you what happened with the diary. I’m not entirely sure about that myself, but I can help you in your studies, if you wish, maybe even show you a few jinxes that will be of use the next time you're faced with a problem.” I thought of Lily's killer Bat Bogey hex with a pang of loss.
Her face brightened a little. “Really? You would do that?”
“Absolutely,” I answered, intrigued by her eyes as she affixed her gaze to my face, searching for promise. "My schedule is a bit cluttered at the moment, but Thursday nights will work, at least for the time being. After supper, then?”
She scampered off with a smile on her face, leaving me to my thoughts. I watched the robes swirl around her legs in a cloud of black. Her hair swung down her back as she took her leave. Briefly, I calculated her age; twelve, perhaps thirteen. Not a day more, surely and hence too young for the darker, more serious curses; Sectumsempra, the first to flit to mind, would be far beyond her reach.
A resolute knock came, the sound of sharp knuckles against the door. It was not Ginny, I knew, as I waved my wand to open it. Severus Snape stood in the doorway, a challenging sneer on his pale lips, his black eyes fiery. Lank strands of hair lay across his forehead, framing his thin face. His robes hung overly large, obscuring his form beneath them.
“At Dumbledore's request,” he explained sharply, drawing my attention to a number of clear vials. “I trust you are familiar with the dosage, Lupin?” he questioned, drawling the name with a mocking lilt.
“Yes, I am,” I answered. Severus hardly looked different from the days when I had known him as a boy. His clothes still seemed ill-fitting and his form was awkward, though he now possessed a certain grace and certainly had much better posture. His mouth was set, locked in annoyance and undisguised frustration. I had heard the rumours of how badly he wanted my job, and wondered how disappointed he must have been to learn who exactly had stolen the cherished position from him.
“Thank you, Severus,” I added cordially, expecting him to set the phials on an empty desk and go.
Instead, he remained and came closer, stepping across the room until he was inches from my desk. He dropped the phials onto the papered surface with a thin tinkling sound. His smirk was maddening, stirring tension into the air, which I pretended to ignore as I again withdrew my lunar calendar and begin marking the times I would be absent from class.
“Something else perhaps, Severus?” I questioned lightly after enduring his stare for a few moments.
His eyes narrowed into onyx slits. “I don't trust you,” he announced, studying my face for the least betrayal of guilt. “Dumbledore may believe you have severed your old ties, but I don't, not for a minute. It's no coincidence Sirius Black escaped at the same time you came back here.”
“Interesting viewpoint, Severus. The same could be said of you.” My voice remained mild, almost emotionless, but my eyes challenged him. “Where do your loyalties lie, Snape? Are you a devoted member of staff, or have you merely gone into hiding in the absence of your leader?”
He blanched a bit at my frankness, and I went on. “I know you were a Death Eater. I know you participated in death and destruction. I have no doubt that you were there the night James and Lily died. There is blood on your hands,” I pronounced.
He turned a shade whiter, his dark hair and eyes contrasting with the utter pallor of his skin. His mouth hung open slightly, betraying shock, while his eyes glistened with a momentary, undisguised pain. At the time, I believed the hurt was for Voldemort, for the death of his precious cause, and not for the loss of a loved one. He blinked his glittering eyes.
“No more so than on your own, werewolf,” he spat. His hands trembled and he coiled them into fists. “I'll be watching you,” he informed me tightly, and hurried out, slamming the door so loudly it echoed down the stone chamber.
Finally, I allowed my shoulders to stoop. My tight muscles collapsed and I sank my head down onto the blotter, burying my face in the crook of my elbow. My shoulders shook with tears that I struggled to contain. No one had spoken Sirius's name to me in years; just the sound of it made me ache as though stabbed. I thought I could hear his voice, an urgent whisper, like the sounds he once made as we lay beneath rough sheets, believing ourselves perpetual youth, before the talk of traitors and danger emerged. I thought of his black hair, worn long like Severus' and yet so different, silky under my hand. I believed I could hear his careless laugh, through my own sobs.