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Chapter Text

Sirius Black knew the taste of blood well. In his sixteen years of life, there was hardly a taste he knew better. Regardless, knowing something is not the same as enjoying it.

When Sirius peeled his eyes open to glare, rather dejectedly, at his bed hangings he recognised the taste instantly. At first, he assumed he'd bit his cheek during the night and hadn't noticed- this had happened before. It wasn't until he lifted a hand to scrub over his face that he noticed the mild resistance from his joints.

With a groan, Sirius lifted his head. The sheets as well as his arms and pyjama bottoms were stained rather spectacularly in deep red. He found his torso caked in dried blood. Some part of him wanted to laugh at that. House colours, after all. His skin had even taken on a yellowish tint in recent days.

He hadn’t worn a shirt to sleep, despite the February chill. Earlier that year he'd slept in whatever jumper Remus wore that day. Now that wasn't an option, so Sirius went without.

"Sirius?" James' voice called hesitantly. Sirius didn't respond. If he waited long enough James would say his piece and leave.

"I've left a sandwich from lunch on your trunk." Afternoon then. "And Mary said if you don't come and see her then she's going to come up here and drag you down by your ear." James laughed. Sirius didn't.

James paused. "We're all worried about you, Sirius." He took a deep breath. “Regulus-”

"Remus isn't." Sirius's voice came out scratchy and hoarse from lack of use. “And leave my brother out of this, James. I don’t care if you’re in his bed or not.”

James hesitated again, "Remus." He said, "Remus is… well, Sirius, he's-"

"He hates me. Got it." Sirius cut him off coldly, a little more confident in his tone. "You can leave now." He avoided the Regulus comment, Sirius thought.

He was probably smart for it, considering how Sirius reacted when he first found out. You’d be mad too if you found out your best friend had been dating your brother behind your back for almost six months. Granted, perhaps you wouldn’t curse said best friend six ways to Sunday.

James didn't reply, but Sirius heard the door shut as he left.

He unstuck himself from his sheets, undid the charm holding the bed hangings closed, and stumbled to the shared bathroom.

"House colours." He muttered.

There was no pain, perhaps a dull ache somewhere inside him but that was hardly from the cuts. Heartbreak, more likely, caused that particular ailment. Not that Sirius could blame Remus… not at all.

He almost couldn’t recognise himself. Rib bones were clearly visible under his skin. They seemed sharper, and while he’d always been pale, his veins seemed to glow blue under translucent skin. The hair Sirius took such pride in was too long, tied in a bun at the base of his neck, and slicked through with grease from serious neglect.

Sirius neglect.

Funny.

James would like that joke.

Some things couldn't be changed though. The birthmark on his shoulder, or the tattoos surrounding it. Or the Moony tattoo written in bold letters against his stomach, not that it was visible at this time- his entire torso was a bloodbath- but Sirius knew it was there. Like a ghost, a presence in his mind obscured in all too subtle a way.

Sirius clutched his wand like a safety blanket. Raising it, he cast a clean-up spell, the nature of which was furniture, not people, effectively removing any trace of blood to his eye.

He averted his eyes before they could catch on the word fifteen-year-old Sirius was so sure he wanted to be reminded of at every glance in a mirror.

Sirius fell into a routine of a sort, or perhaps choreography could be more accurate. He waved his wand at his bed, using the same spell he’d cast on himself to clean and make it up, then moved the plate James left him. Everything he ate tasted like sand anyway. Sirius placed the plate on the ground and opened his trunk. He reached down to an old quidditch jumper of James’. He unwrapped it, an unconscious decision, and removed three items from inside; An empty bottle of firewhiskey, a blade from his potions kit (Top of the line! Says Horace Slughorn, Potions Master at Hogwarts: School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!) and a polaroid picture.

From inside the tiny frame, Remus’ grin caught his eye. Lily took it, at Sirius’s, now infamous, birthday party. She used a muggle camera, for which he was glad. He wanted to keep a snapshot of that moment without the chaos that erupted around them- Remus, grinning, completely sober, and Sirius, planting a kiss on his cheek, unsurprisingly black-out drunk. They curled up on the sofa in the common room, undoubtedly the centre of attention, with not an inch of space between the two.

Sirius resisted the urge to set the picture on fire and be done with it. Instead, he grabbed the glass bottle and launched it at the wall, right under the window where Remus would smoke at night. It smashed, of course, lying in shards under the window, which Sirius, now realised, was open. Groaning, he stomped over to close it.

It was dark outside- when did that happen?-, and clear. The moon shone clearly through the darkness, full and-

Full.

Remus.

The next few minutes were a daze of stumbling and apologies directed toward inanimate objects as Sirius realised he’d (a) allowed the full moon to sneak up on him and allowed the tell-tale signs to do the same, (b) had more broken glass in his body than could technically be considered healthy and (c) needed to get to the shack as soon as humanly possible.

Why wouldn’t James have reminded him? Unless-

Unless Remus told him not to.

That was it. Remus didn’t want him there. Of course, he wouldn’t, with what Sirius had done at the last full moon-

Sirius wouldn’t want anything to do with himself either.

The worst part? Aside from Remus’ distance, Sirius couldn’t ignore how much the action, or the thought that went into it, reminded him of his mother. Walburga Black, who cast crucio on him for the first time at twelve years old. Walburga Black, who entered into a loveless marriage and produced two children for the sake of blood purity. Walburga Black, who beat Sirius within an inch of his life during the Christmas holidays in his fourth year. Walburga Black, who disowned her heir so easily, knowing she had a spare waiting in the wings.

Regulus wasn’t like her, but he wasn’t like Sirius either. He was too compliant, too willing. Sirius would be lying if he said he wasn’t terrified for his brother. But he also didn’t regret leaving. The Potters saved him and he was eternally grateful for that fact. Reggie, however, couldn’t be saved unless he asked. And Regulus Arcturus Black wasn’t going to ask anyone for help, as he’d informed Sirius in a furious whisper just a mere twelve weeks ago.

Yet he hadn’t any problem crawling to James for another type of help. That gave Sirius hope for his brother’s fate. Hope was in short supply those days, and Sirius wasn’t going to let it go just because Regulus was a stubborn shit.

In other hopeless news:

Witnessing Remus’ pain was worse than anything his mother could have possibly inflicted in all her torture. The toll it took on Sirius was unlike any suffering he’d ever known. He would have welcomed any spell, curse, or potion in its place. Alas, was anything that simple?

When Sirius told Snape how to make it to the shack he hadn’t considered any type of consequence for himself, or, more importantly, for Remus. He knew, of course, weeks later, that even Snape was undeserving of such a fate.

And Remus was everywhere, reminding him of that fact.

His face haunted Sirius’ nightmares and dreams alike, his conscience has always been Remus’ voice- a fact that only became apparent once he couldn’t bear to hear it.

As a result, Sirius will do anything to drown him out.

On many nights Sirius considered bringing himself to the astronomy tower, or just taking his blade to an essential artery. He couldn’t do it. Not while Remus didn’t understand the regret that lived inside him, like a disease. That, however, doesn’t mean he hadn’t come close.

James had taken up a sudden interest in medicinal magic. He never said why, but they knew. Everyone knew. They just didn’t care.

Sirius fell heavily against the door. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes hard enough for stars to emerge in his vision. He watched them with increasing interest for some time. It was only when the door began pushing against him that Sirius realised he’d fallen asleep.

The sun was just beginning its ascent over the hills, and light already began pouring through the window. The door was hitting him harder now. Sirius crawled across the floor, rapidly stuffing the blade and polaroid into his trunk, along with the old jumper.

The door opened, and in came James Potter, smiling like he didn’t have to be up and learning Herbology in an hour. Behind him trailed Peter Pettigrew, looking very much like he had to be up and learning Herbology in an hour.

When they saw him crouched at the foot of his bed breathing erratically, James froze. Peter ran the other way, presumably to get a teacher or some other form of help (Read: The girls). James inched toward him slowly, and Sirius backed away like a cornered animal.

“What happened?” James asked calmly. He lifted his hands in a surrender gesture. Sirius felt himself relax against the bedpost.

“Nothing much,” Sirius said, his voice felt scratchy again, “The glass? I just had a moment.” Sirius shrugged the best he could. His attempt at nonchalance was wearing thin.

James grimaced, “Sirius. I know it’s harder but English, please. Not French.”

“Mais putain! Je ne parles pas-” He cut himself off. Sirius could have sworn the words were in English. How long was he unaware of his own thoughts?

He repeated his previous statement, slowly, listening to each word as it passed his lips.

“Pads.” James said, tone level, “I mean the blood.”

Sirius shook his head quickly, “No.” He said, “No. I cleaned it up. There is no blood.” James’ face turned sympathetic. He nodded and, gently, placed a hand on Sirius’s shoulder, which the boy neither leaned into nor shied away from.

“No blood, Padfoot, got it.” James smiled tightly. Normally, Sirius would’ve seen right through the attempt. This Sirius, however, wasn’t normal by any standard.

Silently, James pulled his wand from his waistband and cast a couple of heavy-duty cleaning spells. The first on Sirius’ sheets, then the bathroom sink, which newly sported bloody handprints upon the porcelain, and lastly on the floor underneath Remus’ window where a heap of broken glass lay dormant.

They had taken Sirius’ wand as a precaution for nights like this after he’d tried a charm on his bed hangings and almost got himself killed. Remus disagreed, his exact words were, “Let him vanish the wall and jump for all I care.” He admitted later he didn’t mean it, but he also wasn’t the one who had to find Sirius on nights like these.

Four months passed since Sirius told Snape how to bypass the Whomping Willow. Four moons. Each time James’ hope resurfaced, hope history wouldn’t repeat itself. Hope they’d return and Sirius would be Sirius again. Hope there would at least be less blood. His prayers hadn’t been answered so far and he was beginning to doubt they ever would be.

Chapter Text

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