Sirry Ficlets [3/5]
So, I took it upon myself to make up a personal challenge and actually do it. I chose five words from The Random Word Generator and decided to write five connected ficlets. :-D I've finished three, am working on the fourth, and figured I'd share. Let me know what you think?
EDIT: I probably should let you guys know that this is Sirry. Hehe.
Please read these in order!
The words: required, projects, deny, sticky, slowest.
The ficlets:
Title: Required
Rating: T, possibly M.
Warnings: Alcohol abuse, minor violence. That's about it.
Word count: ~590 words
Grimmauld is destroying Sirius. It’s a plain and simple fact that stares Harry blatantly in the face every time he peers into his godfather’s eyes and sees nothing but phantom pain, nothing but nightmares and broken hopes and the tainted glint that’s the only remainder of an empty Firewhisky bottle sitting innocuously on the corner of the dining room table. Harry stares at it, as Sirius is doing, but instead of seeing a reprieve and the freedom that Sirius so desperately desires, Harry sees hatred and hurt and the few remaining drops of the poison that’s taking Sirius away from him.
Remus tries to tell him that it’s not worth it, that Sirius’ rages aren’t going to stop because it’s Harry trying to take the bottle from him; Sirius has chosen his path and this war isn’t leaving them the time to do anything but fight. But Harry’s had enough of fighting and can’t help but watch in desperation as Sirius pours himself another drink, hours after Harry had tugged him up into the bedroom, tucking the man in and ignoring the stench of liquor with absolute grace.
He can’t let this happen, can’t let Sirius die, can’t let Grimmauld and Firewhisky whisk Sirius into some world where there were never any Dementors, or war, or betrayal and lies. Where James and Lily Potter are still alive and Azkaban was nothing but a wisp of fear in the back of everyone’s mind. Sirius isn’t good at facing pain, Harry knows this, but he won’t be alone and Harry tries telling Sirius this as he wrenches the bottle of alcohol from trembling hands that have more strength than they should.
It doesn’t do any good; Harry finds himself cast to the floor with angry gray eyes flashing somewhere above him, and he realizes, belatedly, that they’re alone in the house. There’s rage and pain and drunken focus on Sirius’ features, and Harry knows them that if he tries anything, that Sirius will lash at him like the wounded animal he is. It doesn’t matter that he’s Harry Potter, that he’s the savior of the Wizarding world, that he’s only seventeen and has faced more horrors than some people twice his age, that he’s Sirius’ godson. None of that helps Sirius in any way, and Harry finds that he prefers it this way.
Sirius winces and turns away from him, long, tangled hair snapping with the force of the movement; Harry watches as a shaking hand passes over the blotchy surface of the table and doesn’t move or breathe, much less allow himself to think until Sirius is out of the room, cradling the Firewhisky and humming a soft, haunting tune under his breath that Harry hears in his nightmares later that night.
Harry finds the man sprawled in the hall beside his parents’ bedroom door, eyes glassy and wide and a broken half smile crosses his features when Harry crouches to his level; the young man wonders what he has to do to get through to the older, and barely reacts when a soft, liquor flavored kiss his pressed to his mouth briefly. Sirius rests his head on Harry’s collarbone after he pulls away and whispers,
“I don’t need your help, Harry.”
Harry’s surprised at just how sober Sirius sounds, and brushes his own kiss along the man’s jaw as he runs a gentle hand through greasy hair. He knows Sirius isn’t going to remember this later, but nods nevertheless and whispers back, “I know. But it’s all I have to give.”
Title: Projects
Rating: T, possibly M.
Warnings: Alcohol abuse, minor violence, language. Nothing too terrible.
Word count: ~875 words
Harry takes to watching Sirius at the oddest of times; he is well aware of Hermione and Ron’s eyes on the back of his neck as he stares after his godfather, but he cannot help himself and ignores their questions when they ask. They’re not interested, not really, but Harry knows they want to appear concerned for his sake. He wishes they wouldn’t, as they have things of their own to concentrate on, but is somehow grateful that they’re even putting forth the effort. It doesn’t mean anything, compared to his dilemma with Sirius, but they try, and Harry is glad.
The war hadn’t worn the care out of them yet, and that’s good, that’s something Harry wants to protect, wants to save. Voldemort was turning the world into a place of hurt, of loss, and fear; to see his best friends fall prey to that would be devastating in ways he couldn’t quite name. But his focus was on Sirius now, even if it should be on Voldemort, on finding a way to destroy that bastard, on preparing himself for the possibility that the future laid out before him could be quite brief. Harry couldn’t help but watch Sirius, wondering if there was something he could do or say to stop the man’s slow tumble into the madness that had threatened him for years.
Sirius woke at various hours; it could be early, it could be late, it could be mid-afternoon; it depended entirely on what time the man fell into bed, or was carried there, and that depended entirely on what had happened the day before. If he had a good day, if Remus was around and talking of Tonks, of their future engagement, if Harry made him tea when he first crawled out of bed and whispered a good morning that wasn’t tainted with hurt, Sirius wouldn’t drink until late, until after Harry had fallen asleep. He’d wake mid-morning, and would be almost entirely sober the following day.
If he had a bad day, if the Order had dropped in and Snape and delivered more than one acidic insult that never failed to hit his mark, Sirius raged and grabbed the bottle the second the visiting members left; Harry almost wished they would stay, if only to delay the inevitable pain. Sirius would be smashed by dinnertime, and after feeding the man a meager supper, Harry would walk him up the stairs and tuck him into bed-where Sirius would stay until dawn. He’d tumble out of the messy covers as the sunlight ventured into his room, would shower, and the cycle would start all over again, until Sirius was so drunk he couldn’t walk and Harry had to spell his body up the stairs or leave him where he lie, because he couldn’t face this particular brand of self-destruction on that particular day.
Harry takes to feeding Sirius whenever he can, whenever the man is close to being sober and has an appetite to speak of; he sneaks extra sugar into the man’s tea in a bid for calories and ignores the raised eyebrow Remus offers him when he finds Harry storing pint after pint of the Muggle ice cream that Sirius is fond of in the old freezer in the kitchen. He can’t explain this to Remus, this inexplicable need to fix Sirius, to see him through the worst of it, but as he finds himself being torn away from Sirius for longer and longer periods of time because of the war, Harry wonders if maybe he should try to explain. He can’t do this alone for much longer, and he’ll bear it for as long as he can, but Voldemort is getting near and whenever Harry is alone with Sirius he can’t help but think that his time is limited and that Sirius will never get over this if Harry dies.
That thought never fails to chill him, and Harry starts peppering Sirius’ face with kisses whenever the man will allow it, trying to tell him without words, trying to show Sirius that he loves him and just can’t say it because there’s a great possibility that he won’t be alive for much longer, that he can’t do that to the man, can’t do it to himself. He’s in love with Sirius and it’s so wrong, so complicated that Harry can’t help but feel that it’s so fucking right. That this is what they need, and if only Sirius would stop drinking long enough to realize it, too. Because it’s there, in his eyes, when he pulls Harry close during his drunken fancies, dancing them to some tune that only he can hear; it’s there, when Sirius is almost sober and staring at Harry painfully across the breakfast table, voice thick with sleep and hoarse from screaming during the night as he says,
“I…need you to help me, Harry.”
Harry nods, closing his eyes briefly as they threaten to tear up, because he doesn’t trust his voice to reply. His time is almost up, he can feel it in the air, but he’ll do his best with what he has left and he can only hope that Remus, Ron, Hermione, anyone catches on and figures it out.
Title: Deny
Rating: T, possibly M.
Warnings: Alcohol abuse, minor violence, language.
Word count: ~630 words
Breathe, breathe, breathe, Harry reminds himself over and over again as he races through the dark of the Forbidden Forest, heart pounding so loudly in his ears that he can’t hear anything else. He wonders if the Death Eaters are still following him, this far into the forest, and can’t help but choke back a sob at the thought; he wants to live so goddamned badly, but he doubts it’s going to happen, now. How fucking ironic would that be? To kill Voldemort and then be killed by Voldemort’s followers. To go down, this close to the end of it all.
Harry could taste copper and salt on his lips as he ran himself into further exhaustion; he could taste magic and fear and he knew that if he stopped running now, that it would all be over, Death Eaters or not. His heart was simply beating too fast, too hard, and to stop suddenly would mean giving up and opening himself up to the terror and pain that he had been holding back with all of his might in a bid for survival. He crashed through the trees, not caring about the noise he was making, thinking only of breathing and running and living.
He was brought up short, tumbling into a clearing and realizing he’d ran into an arc, ran into the black lake, and he could see across it without problem; the night was clear, peaceful and starry, an exact opposite of the scene before him. Battle was still being waged in flashes of light and short, sharp commands, bitten off screams and across the water, Harry knew that people were dying, could taste it like ash in his mouth as he fell to his knees. His legs gave out beneath him the second he stopped, a short cry falling from his mouth before he was stifling it against his scorched sleeve.
He could still taste Sirius’ kiss and, digging his hands into the dirt before him as he doubled over, eyes tearing up as he vomited into the grass, Harry thanked any and all gods there were that Sirius had drank himself into a stupor mere hours before Dumbledore had called for him, voicing ringing through Grimmauld as he activated every charm he knew of to grab Harry’s attention. Sirius had looked at him with bright eyes, pulling him close in a flash of movement that defied his drunken stagger of seconds before and growled, “You will come back,” as he crushed their mouths into a kiss that made Harry’s lips bleed and heart race. He pushed Harry away then, staggering towards his bedroom, leaving his godson to wonder if what had happened were a dream and if this was really happening in the first place.
“I love you, goddamnit,” Harry had called, striking out and connecting with the wall, wishing he had more time as he fumbled for his wand in his robes and turned towards the kitchen, where the fire was blazing bright green, Dumbledore’s voice ringing in his ears as he called Harry into battle.
“I love you so fucking much,” Harry murmured into the grass as he sank down and pressed his face against the mottled earth, heart pounding in time to the short cries over the water. Voldemort was gone, but the Death Eaters were still strong, and Harry sobbed harshly, the noise tearing at his throat, tears stinging in his eyes as he wondered if this was it. If the darkness at the corners of his eyes was the final end, if Sirius was going to get a message in a few hours from Remus, if Remus was even going to be alive to give the message.
Wondered if Sirius had even heard him as he cried out in the hallway.
Go to the next ficlet.
Please, let me know what you think of these? I promise to have the last two up tonight. :-D I'm almost done with them, so it shouldn't be long.
EDIT: I probably should let you guys know that this is Sirry. Hehe.
Please read these in order!
The words: required, projects, deny, sticky, slowest.
The ficlets:
Title: Required
Rating: T, possibly M.
Warnings: Alcohol abuse, minor violence. That's about it.
Word count: ~590 words
Grimmauld is destroying Sirius. It’s a plain and simple fact that stares Harry blatantly in the face every time he peers into his godfather’s eyes and sees nothing but phantom pain, nothing but nightmares and broken hopes and the tainted glint that’s the only remainder of an empty Firewhisky bottle sitting innocuously on the corner of the dining room table. Harry stares at it, as Sirius is doing, but instead of seeing a reprieve and the freedom that Sirius so desperately desires, Harry sees hatred and hurt and the few remaining drops of the poison that’s taking Sirius away from him.
Remus tries to tell him that it’s not worth it, that Sirius’ rages aren’t going to stop because it’s Harry trying to take the bottle from him; Sirius has chosen his path and this war isn’t leaving them the time to do anything but fight. But Harry’s had enough of fighting and can’t help but watch in desperation as Sirius pours himself another drink, hours after Harry had tugged him up into the bedroom, tucking the man in and ignoring the stench of liquor with absolute grace.
He can’t let this happen, can’t let Sirius die, can’t let Grimmauld and Firewhisky whisk Sirius into some world where there were never any Dementors, or war, or betrayal and lies. Where James and Lily Potter are still alive and Azkaban was nothing but a wisp of fear in the back of everyone’s mind. Sirius isn’t good at facing pain, Harry knows this, but he won’t be alone and Harry tries telling Sirius this as he wrenches the bottle of alcohol from trembling hands that have more strength than they should.
It doesn’t do any good; Harry finds himself cast to the floor with angry gray eyes flashing somewhere above him, and he realizes, belatedly, that they’re alone in the house. There’s rage and pain and drunken focus on Sirius’ features, and Harry knows them that if he tries anything, that Sirius will lash at him like the wounded animal he is. It doesn’t matter that he’s Harry Potter, that he’s the savior of the Wizarding world, that he’s only seventeen and has faced more horrors than some people twice his age, that he’s Sirius’ godson. None of that helps Sirius in any way, and Harry finds that he prefers it this way.
Sirius winces and turns away from him, long, tangled hair snapping with the force of the movement; Harry watches as a shaking hand passes over the blotchy surface of the table and doesn’t move or breathe, much less allow himself to think until Sirius is out of the room, cradling the Firewhisky and humming a soft, haunting tune under his breath that Harry hears in his nightmares later that night.
Harry finds the man sprawled in the hall beside his parents’ bedroom door, eyes glassy and wide and a broken half smile crosses his features when Harry crouches to his level; the young man wonders what he has to do to get through to the older, and barely reacts when a soft, liquor flavored kiss his pressed to his mouth briefly. Sirius rests his head on Harry’s collarbone after he pulls away and whispers,
“I don’t need your help, Harry.”
Harry’s surprised at just how sober Sirius sounds, and brushes his own kiss along the man’s jaw as he runs a gentle hand through greasy hair. He knows Sirius isn’t going to remember this later, but nods nevertheless and whispers back, “I know. But it’s all I have to give.”
Title: Projects
Rating: T, possibly M.
Warnings: Alcohol abuse, minor violence, language. Nothing too terrible.
Word count: ~875 words
Harry takes to watching Sirius at the oddest of times; he is well aware of Hermione and Ron’s eyes on the back of his neck as he stares after his godfather, but he cannot help himself and ignores their questions when they ask. They’re not interested, not really, but Harry knows they want to appear concerned for his sake. He wishes they wouldn’t, as they have things of their own to concentrate on, but is somehow grateful that they’re even putting forth the effort. It doesn’t mean anything, compared to his dilemma with Sirius, but they try, and Harry is glad.
The war hadn’t worn the care out of them yet, and that’s good, that’s something Harry wants to protect, wants to save. Voldemort was turning the world into a place of hurt, of loss, and fear; to see his best friends fall prey to that would be devastating in ways he couldn’t quite name. But his focus was on Sirius now, even if it should be on Voldemort, on finding a way to destroy that bastard, on preparing himself for the possibility that the future laid out before him could be quite brief. Harry couldn’t help but watch Sirius, wondering if there was something he could do or say to stop the man’s slow tumble into the madness that had threatened him for years.
Sirius woke at various hours; it could be early, it could be late, it could be mid-afternoon; it depended entirely on what time the man fell into bed, or was carried there, and that depended entirely on what had happened the day before. If he had a good day, if Remus was around and talking of Tonks, of their future engagement, if Harry made him tea when he first crawled out of bed and whispered a good morning that wasn’t tainted with hurt, Sirius wouldn’t drink until late, until after Harry had fallen asleep. He’d wake mid-morning, and would be almost entirely sober the following day.
If he had a bad day, if the Order had dropped in and Snape and delivered more than one acidic insult that never failed to hit his mark, Sirius raged and grabbed the bottle the second the visiting members left; Harry almost wished they would stay, if only to delay the inevitable pain. Sirius would be smashed by dinnertime, and after feeding the man a meager supper, Harry would walk him up the stairs and tuck him into bed-where Sirius would stay until dawn. He’d tumble out of the messy covers as the sunlight ventured into his room, would shower, and the cycle would start all over again, until Sirius was so drunk he couldn’t walk and Harry had to spell his body up the stairs or leave him where he lie, because he couldn’t face this particular brand of self-destruction on that particular day.
Harry takes to feeding Sirius whenever he can, whenever the man is close to being sober and has an appetite to speak of; he sneaks extra sugar into the man’s tea in a bid for calories and ignores the raised eyebrow Remus offers him when he finds Harry storing pint after pint of the Muggle ice cream that Sirius is fond of in the old freezer in the kitchen. He can’t explain this to Remus, this inexplicable need to fix Sirius, to see him through the worst of it, but as he finds himself being torn away from Sirius for longer and longer periods of time because of the war, Harry wonders if maybe he should try to explain. He can’t do this alone for much longer, and he’ll bear it for as long as he can, but Voldemort is getting near and whenever Harry is alone with Sirius he can’t help but think that his time is limited and that Sirius will never get over this if Harry dies.
That thought never fails to chill him, and Harry starts peppering Sirius’ face with kisses whenever the man will allow it, trying to tell him without words, trying to show Sirius that he loves him and just can’t say it because there’s a great possibility that he won’t be alive for much longer, that he can’t do that to the man, can’t do it to himself. He’s in love with Sirius and it’s so wrong, so complicated that Harry can’t help but feel that it’s so fucking right. That this is what they need, and if only Sirius would stop drinking long enough to realize it, too. Because it’s there, in his eyes, when he pulls Harry close during his drunken fancies, dancing them to some tune that only he can hear; it’s there, when Sirius is almost sober and staring at Harry painfully across the breakfast table, voice thick with sleep and hoarse from screaming during the night as he says,
“I…need you to help me, Harry.”
Harry nods, closing his eyes briefly as they threaten to tear up, because he doesn’t trust his voice to reply. His time is almost up, he can feel it in the air, but he’ll do his best with what he has left and he can only hope that Remus, Ron, Hermione, anyone catches on and figures it out.
Title: Deny
Rating: T, possibly M.
Warnings: Alcohol abuse, minor violence, language.
Word count: ~630 words
Breathe, breathe, breathe, Harry reminds himself over and over again as he races through the dark of the Forbidden Forest, heart pounding so loudly in his ears that he can’t hear anything else. He wonders if the Death Eaters are still following him, this far into the forest, and can’t help but choke back a sob at the thought; he wants to live so goddamned badly, but he doubts it’s going to happen, now. How fucking ironic would that be? To kill Voldemort and then be killed by Voldemort’s followers. To go down, this close to the end of it all.
Harry could taste copper and salt on his lips as he ran himself into further exhaustion; he could taste magic and fear and he knew that if he stopped running now, that it would all be over, Death Eaters or not. His heart was simply beating too fast, too hard, and to stop suddenly would mean giving up and opening himself up to the terror and pain that he had been holding back with all of his might in a bid for survival. He crashed through the trees, not caring about the noise he was making, thinking only of breathing and running and living.
He was brought up short, tumbling into a clearing and realizing he’d ran into an arc, ran into the black lake, and he could see across it without problem; the night was clear, peaceful and starry, an exact opposite of the scene before him. Battle was still being waged in flashes of light and short, sharp commands, bitten off screams and across the water, Harry knew that people were dying, could taste it like ash in his mouth as he fell to his knees. His legs gave out beneath him the second he stopped, a short cry falling from his mouth before he was stifling it against his scorched sleeve.
He could still taste Sirius’ kiss and, digging his hands into the dirt before him as he doubled over, eyes tearing up as he vomited into the grass, Harry thanked any and all gods there were that Sirius had drank himself into a stupor mere hours before Dumbledore had called for him, voicing ringing through Grimmauld as he activated every charm he knew of to grab Harry’s attention. Sirius had looked at him with bright eyes, pulling him close in a flash of movement that defied his drunken stagger of seconds before and growled, “You will come back,” as he crushed their mouths into a kiss that made Harry’s lips bleed and heart race. He pushed Harry away then, staggering towards his bedroom, leaving his godson to wonder if what had happened were a dream and if this was really happening in the first place.
“I love you, goddamnit,” Harry had called, striking out and connecting with the wall, wishing he had more time as he fumbled for his wand in his robes and turned towards the kitchen, where the fire was blazing bright green, Dumbledore’s voice ringing in his ears as he called Harry into battle.
“I love you so fucking much,” Harry murmured into the grass as he sank down and pressed his face against the mottled earth, heart pounding in time to the short cries over the water. Voldemort was gone, but the Death Eaters were still strong, and Harry sobbed harshly, the noise tearing at his throat, tears stinging in his eyes as he wondered if this was it. If the darkness at the corners of his eyes was the final end, if Sirius was going to get a message in a few hours from Remus, if Remus was even going to be alive to give the message.
Wondered if Sirius had even heard him as he cried out in the hallway.
Go to the next ficlet.
Please, let me know what you think of these? I promise to have the last two up tonight. :-D I'm almost done with them, so it shouldn't be long.