Three Goblin Art
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
blake kathryn
$LAYYYTER
todays bird
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Not today Justin
Mike Driver
Kaledo Art
ojovivo
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Stranger Things
trying on a metaphor
No title available
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Xuebing Du
pixel skylines
Product Placement
@theartofmadeline
taylor price
seen from Germany
seen from Italy
seen from United States
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seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from Philippines
seen from United States
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seen from Netherlands
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@padfootisming
CRT CHALLENGE: MYERS-BRIGGS PERSONALITY TYPE
87% EXTRAVERTED / 56% INTUITIVE / 69% FEELING / 81% PROSPECTING / 66% TURBULENT
‘ It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ACHE for – and if you DARE TO DREAM of meeting your heart’s longing. It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will RISK LOOKING LIKE A FOOL – for love – for your dreams – FOR THE ADVENTURE OF BEING ALIVE. ’
I JUST CAN’T FIGURE OUT NOTHING [SELF]
Regulus would hate this.
It should be strange to think about someone he hadn’t seen for more than a year, but Sirius thought about Regulus all the time. How odd, that his perturbing little brother should intrude upon almost everything. Sirius could be minding his own bloody business and Reg would come waltzing through his mind, derisive comments and calm smile intact. Even as a child Reg had been sharp as a whip, always with a clever remark lined up. When he was younger, Sirius never knew whether he should berate or praise him for it. I can’t imagine how it must feel, their father had said once. And Sirius, surprised and a little irritated at Orion breaking his stupor, said, What are you talking about? Orion looked across to his heir, candlelight glinting off his glasses, mouth hidden by his beard. Why, to be eclipsed by your brother.
Had he been eclipsed? Sirius ran a hand over the surface of his motorbike, cloth gliding over her sleek black exterior. Maybe he had. Maybe he hadn’t even realized Regulus’ slow rise, his parents moving silently in the background, the set of the play moving behind the dark curtains. Until at last, when Sirius was sixteen and angry and left forever, the curtains rose and Regulus slid coolly into place, the spare heir useful at last.
Once such rumination would make him angry. And Sirius had been angry at Reg for a long, long time. Angry that he hadn’t fought enough; that he hadn’t gotten out when Sirius did. Angry that his little brother, who had once looked at him with trusting eyes, had merely remained at the top of the stairs and watched their mother disown Sirius with a wave of her hand. Sixteen years of – and here his lip curled – love and care, and their eldest was out on his ear, mussed hair, dragon earrings, velvet cloak and all.
Now, though… Sirius stopped polishing the bike and sighed, rising from his crouch. He traced a finger along her handlebars, from which dangled an exotic tangle of feathers and cloth that Lily had made him.
Regulus really would have hated the bike. Sirius could picture his brother’s expression as if they’d parted yesterday. The wrinkle of his nose, the glint of uncharacteristic confusion in his eyes. For Merlin’s sake, what is that?
To his surprise, Sirius found himself smiling. Tugging himself away, he recommenced cleaning the bike. He worked in silence for a little while. That day, in the library, perhaps his father meant How does it feel to be replaced. Because that had been only a week before Sirius had left in a furious whirlwind, off to Prongs’ sanctuary, leaving his little brother on the stairs. Orion was a quiet man. Somber. More interested in his weird and disturbing books than his two offspring. Walburga had been mother, father, and disciplinarian, at times doing away with the first two to focus on the last. Orion appeared as an apparition in Sirius’ memory: the edge of his cloak disappearing around a corner, a door half-closed as a fire crackled and pages turned; the peculiar smell of his magical tobacco. A man who lived like a ghost, but saw everything.
How long did you know, old man? Sirius thought. How did you know your spare would come in handy?
Drawing the cloth one last time over the bike, Sirius returned to Regulus. Four months. That was how long it had been since his Hogwarts graduation, since he’d seen Regulus’ pointy face through the school’s crowds. They had orbited like two wayward planets in those last few months, ever at odds, their trajectory just slightly off-kilter. Where once they mirrored one another – Sirius the light to Regulus’ dark; Regulus the calm to Sirius’ storm – there was nothing but ever-expanding spacial abyss. A penetrative silence that turned Regulus’ gaze from his and kindled the fury in Sirius’ belly. You stupid tosser. They could have escaped. They could be free together.
Growing tired, Sirius turned and leaned back against his bike. The courtyard of the Order’s London base was dappled with sunlight, the weather unusually warm for this time of year. A cool breeze stirred the tree branches, light playing across cobblestones and scenting the air with jasmine. If he tilted his head just-so, Sirius could see the opal surface of the wards glimmer above the courtyard’s brick walls. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. Somewhere in this city, Regulus existed. He may be wearing a Death Eater’s mask, but they were still blood. He felt Reg’s pulse beat in time to his own, their veins mapping and overlapping London, heedless of affiliations and battle lines.
Sirius would find Regulus. And after he metaphorically flayed the skin from his bones, he’d hold him and never let him go. Because Walburga couldn’t have tainted them both. There was still hope. They’d be together again. And soon.
_________________________________
Ω “I COULDN’T FORGET EVEN IF I WANTED TO,” Dorcas all but screamed. “And yes, fighting so similarly to them is certainly a bad thing.”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” Sirius’ voice sounded cold, even to his ears. He remained leaning against the wall, arms crossed, regarding Dorcas with a defiant look. “What, so we’re supposed to be the hallowed heroes, pure and all that? No thanks. I reckon Aversio’s got the right idea.” Sirius set his jaw. “Fight fire with fight.”
TAKE ME TO CHURCH [SIRIUS + REGULUS, 1975]
He just didn’t understand. The two of them were fundamentally different somewhere, and he couldn’t figure it out. How was Sirius so okay with this? If he really was this far invested, that he’d already planned to ask Alphard for money, just how long had he been planning this? He had to know that he’d be leaving alone. Regulus could never leave their parents, could never willingly inflict that kind of heartache and misery on them. Losing one son was bad enough, but to rip both from them? If Sirius was leaving it only meant that Regulus had to stay. That the option had been taken from him.
And then he’d said it. That name fell from his lips, and Regulus’ heart sank. It only confirmed what he’d believed for years now anyways. If he was running to the Potters then he was right. Sirius would rather have had James for a brother than him. He was shaking his head as Sirius was telling him that the details weren’t important, and that it was taken care of. Didn’t he see? Of course the details were important. The details mattered more to Regulus than the act of leaving itself.
Leaving because he was different from the rest of them was one thing. Leaving because he would rather be with another family instead was another thing entirely, and that was the difference to Regulus, what had him stammering, insisting that he couldn’t, reaching up to wipe at his eyes.
“You don’t have to go. Sirius they love you - I love you. They might not be the best at telling you that, but they show it in other ways. If they didn’t they would have blasted you off the tree already. They just want you to be a better son - It isn’t that hard. Please… Please, Sirius. Don’t do this.”
The instant Sirius saw something flicker in the depths of Regulus’ gaze, it was futile. Reg was a tricky book to read – he always had been, although even that seemed somehow untrue; surely there had been a time when they were boys, when that electricity had snapped between them, a series of unspoken seamless gestures and expressions, shared glances behind a parent’s back – but as he’d grown older a certain shadow had slipped into place. Or maybe Sirius was jealous of his little brother’s infallible stoicism when he was anything but.
Impatient and hurt, Sirius turned on his heel and stalked to the opposite wall, running his hands through his hair. How could he make Regulus understand? How in Merlin’s name could he express the way it felt like he couldn’t breathe? Grimmauld Place was more than dust and tacky blood: it was a gilded cage of the most terrible, humiliating, tremendous kind, and Sirius felt the urgent rush to freedom like a wild animal thundering along his bones.
Whirling back to Regulus, Sirius threw his arms in the air. “They do not love me, Reg!” He choked on a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “For fuck’s sake – they hate me! I hate me! I hate the me I am when I’m around them. I’m not what they ever wanted and good bloody riddance!” The last part was shouted toward the door. His hands were shaking with anger. Every petty injustice, every snide comment, every curled lip suddenly flooded his mind. Walburga, cold and cruel. Orion, distant and sullen. Some parents. Some home.
Then, darker things. The slide of a knife blade, silver glinting in the dark. A huff of warm breath on the side of his neck, a hand digging into his shoulder. A wand raised across a dining hall. The sound of shattering china still rang in his ears.
“You don’t get it,” Sirius bit out, startled to find tears pricking his eyes. Furious, he blinked them away. He breathed heavily and stared at the wall above Regulus’ head, collecting himself. “I can’t be what they need. Or want. I can’t.”
Just like that, he felt exhausted. Sirius went back to the bed and sank onto it, cradling his head with his hands. After a moment he looked up at Regulus. “Please come with me,” he pleaded, tone low and cracked. “Please.”
arsonists lullaby || sirius & regulus [au]
His gaze falls when he’s reminded of the fact that the two of them aren’t brothers, not anymore. His mind races, the horcrux itself filling it with far darker thoughts than he could ever come up with on his own. Lightning strikes and illuminates them, and all he can think about is how pathetic he must look, coming back like a dog with its tail between its legs. His skin is pulled far too tight over the remains of sinewy muscle, but his face is all skin and bone. Dark circles sink from his eyes to his too high cheekbones, his chest rises and falls dramatically as he searches for a breath that will last him and not be wasted on the mental battle of wits he’s having with an inanimate object. He has to will the words out of his mouth not to be ‘just kill me,’ and it takes a moment before he’s registered that the wand is no longer at his heart, instead near his hand. He opens his fingers slightly, the tiny action taking much more energy than he thought it would to release his white knuckles grip. The chain is still twined through his fingers, the locket dangling a foot beneath his hand. “I will tell you everything I know… Do you have somewhere more private for this conversation?”
@padfootism
Sirius stared at the locket. Through the driving rain he couldn’t see much, but in the infrequent flashes of lighting silver and green gleamed seductively, as coy as a wink across a bar. His chest tightened, lungs blooming black. The space around the locket seemed to fade away, his eyes drawn ever closed to the glimpses between Regulus’ dirty thin fingers. A harsh whispering entwined with the storm’s roar. It sounded like –
With a start, Sirius tore his eyes away. The world brightened considerably, black spots dancing before his eyes. Forgetting himself, he rubbed at them with his left hand, scowling against the image impressed on his eyelids. When he looked back at Regulus’ plaintive expression, Sirius’ scowl remained. In a jerking movement, he drew his wand away and held out his free hand. The phoenix tattoo seemed accusing between them.
“Hold on,” Sirius said, and when Regulus gripped his hand, a crack of thunder sounded their retreat.
They appeared in darkness. What was immediately apparent was the absence of rain: instead there was the distant gentle lap of an ocean, the scent of dust and old paper. The old cottage groaned around them, long abandoned but held up through sheer force of will and a number of haphazard standing charms. Without staggering Sirius stepped away from Regulus, conjuring a towel to wipe the rain off his face. He tossed it wordlessly to his – to the boy standing across from him in the abandoned kitchen. Only the waxy light of the moon illuminated their surroundings.
“Private enough?” Sirius said at last.
“We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.” – Richard Siken, Crush.
AT DUSK; THE BURROW [SIRIUS + OPEN]
Smoke curled from the end of his cigarette. It bloomed orange in the dusky light, the sun suspended just above the horizon. Sirius could glimpse it between the apple trees at the end of the Burrow’s back field, bare now because of the season, but comforting in the memories it brought to mind: laughing here in summer, supine on the grass, the boys tumbling down the hill to leap onto Sirius’ back. Times like that made him wish Padfoot weren’t a secret to keep: Molly’s boys would love him with a tail.
Exhaling a slow stream of smoke, Sirius leaned more fully against the wall next to the back door. Behind him the kitchen was buzzing with conversation as people flooed in one by one. The meeting was set to start soon. He felt a familiar prickle of excitement at the thought.
The back door opened and closed, letting out a gust of warm air and the scent of fresh bread and thyme and salt. The smell mingled with the vestiges of summer and Sirius breathed deep. Turning his head to observe his new companion, he smiled at them.
Reaching up to untuck a cigarette from behind his ear, Sirius offered it out. “Smoke?”
arsonists lullaby || sirius & regulus [au]
He is all too aware of Sirius’ gaze on the locket, winding the chain back between his fingers, pulling it back into his closed hand. He knows what the horcrux does, all of the horrible things it makes him feel and think. How it serves itself, already trying to convince him that the worst thing he could do is let Sirius at it. He knows that Sirius couldn’t handle it - not with everything he’s been through. Regulus can barely handle it himself, it’s effect on him clear with just a glance at his ravaged body. Most would look at him and think him at rock bottom. It’s only the fact that he knows it isn’t that keeps him going.
He takes Sirius’ hand and closes his eyes tightly. He knows the sensation coming, like being squeezed through a straw, and he can’t help but fall when they land on the other side. It’s clear that he’s weak. He couldn’t take Sirius if he tried. He doesn’t bother to stand, remaining on his knees on the dusty floor, letting his eyes adjust. He ignores the towel that Sirius tosses at him, being wet from the storm the farthest thing from a worry to him.
He doesn’t know where they are, and that alone is good enough for him. He can only trust that Sirius has some sense of how important this is. That he wouldn’t have brought him into a trap, or somewhere where others could listen in on their conversation. He has to assume that they’re somewhere safe. It takes him a great effort to pull himself back to his feet, nodding his approval. He opens his hand, and he doesn’t need the room to be illuminated to be able to clearly see the locket in his palm, the sight of it burned permanently in memory. “If you want to disarm me, I understand. The pieces of my wand are in my back pocket and there is a small knife strapped to my ankle on the inside of of my right boot,” he realizes how close he has invited Sirius and his hand quickly closes, “For your own sake, I must ask you not to touch the object in my hand.” He pauses, trying to catch his brother’s eye in the dark, “Do you know what it is?”
Sirius watches the Death Eater on the floor of the Lupin’s old kitchen. Regulus would have trouble fighting off a kitten in his state - but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. Sirius’ gaze flicks down at the locket only once. It’s a quick movement, but even that brush makes his stomach convulse.
Gritting his teeth, he twitches his wand once.
A fire leaps into the grate, dousing the room in a warm glow. The crackling of the fire competes with the harsh whispering of the – whatever it is. The sound skitters around the room, fading in and out of his aural consciousness, slick as oil on his fingers. Don’t think of Him. Sirius’ stomach tightens again, like he’s actually going to throw up.
“You were always better at wandless magic than me,” Sirius reminds Regulus quietly. With shadows licking across his face, he murmurs a spell and, true to Regulus’ word, a handful of splintered wood comes sailing towards him. Sirius doesn’t catch the remains of the wand but lets the pieces fly across the room to fall with a clatter somewhere in a dark corner. He watches Regulus for a moment longer before turning away and leaning against the dusty kitchen table.
“You should get warm,” he says instead of answering Regulus’ question. There’s another tense pause. When it’s apparent neither of them will concede without the other, Sirius’ mouth tightens and he crosses his arms, watching the scrap of a boy with a guarded expression.
“Do I want to know?” Sirius counters. He thinks of stumbling through the rubble of a building, brick dust and smoke clogging the air, of a guttural sound amplified, a red-eyed figure turning slowly in the gloom.
He can’t look at… that thing. He can only stare at Regulus; and something in his eyes makes Sirius say suddenly, brokenly, “It’s his, isn’t it?”
Ω DORCAS EYED SIRIUS SUSPICIOUSLY. Before he could even finish his sentence, her fists were laying into his chest, heaving punch after punch at the prat. They had a mutual respect for one another at the best of times, and at the worst Dorcas found herself irate with his irrationality.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Sirius,” she hissed. “How would your best mates feel hearing you say such nonsense?”
“Oi! Stop! Dor- hey!” Merlin’s big, saggy balls, the girl could throw a punch. Defending himself as best he could, Sirius tried to shield his face, hunching his shoulders and curling back against the wall. “Mind my – that’s my hair, you imp –”
At length, she relented. With as much dignity as he could possibly muster (given the fact she’d attacked him! Sirius! Dorcas had attacked him!), he irritably straightened his leather jacket and fussed with his hair. Eyeing her warily, Sirius glanced between her furious expression and those little fists of fury. Jesus. What a night.
“They’d be on my side,” Sirius replied pompously. “’Course they would. The Four Lustkateers, we are.” Or whatever that saying was. Frowning, he gingerly inspected his face. “I should deck you right back, Meadowes,” he mused, “but I won’t. Because I’m a gentleman.”
Lowering his hand, his expression shifted into one more guarded. “All you know about them is what you’ve read in that rag The Prophet. For all you know, they could be changing the tide of this war. Have faith, for God’s sake.”
FLASH FIRE [SIRIUS + REGULUS]
Most people knew what pushed them over the edge at any given moment. Most even knew what facilitated the thundering in one’s veins, the persistent urge to wend headlong into danger, no matter what face it wore… The woman at the bar, with her bottle-blonde hair and spiced rum smile. Or the man on the street corner, long legs clad in muggle jeans but cigarette smoke shaped like dragons. And Sirius, with the worst mask of all, stumbling down the middle of a blackened London street, too drunk to feel his face.
It was the fourth shot that did it, he thought hazily as he wove along. Or maybe when that goblin fella bought him a round. Either way, the Boozy Baron was a raucous place to be on a Friday night, particularly when one was bored, and maudlin, and so desperately lonely for Moony, Prongs – anyone, anyone at all – but none of them came, none of them cared, so here he was. Black almighty. Collapsing sideways into a muggle car to vomit into the gutter.
Passersby, depending on their own degree of inebriation, alternately cheered him on or quickened their pace. The world span around him. Sirius’ head lolled sideways against the car window. His stomach roiled; his mouth was bitter with Bulgarian gin. He groaned lowly, crushing hands into his eye sockets.
Masked figures arrived at the muggle park late in the evening, eye witnesses alleged, where upon finding a muggle family, drew their wands and fired…
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Sirius gasped at the tide of bile that rose in his throat. He choked once, bringing up acid. With numb fingers he retrieved his own wand, of sound mind enough not to drop it into the frankly disgusting puddle of puke nearly touching his Docs. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated, James’ voice floating through his mind, warm with a smile, Come on, Padfoot, you big baby – and immediately the minty feeling of a sobering charm washed over him. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, but the happy fuzziness of booze gave way to cold reality. And here he was, in muggle London on a Friday night, bloody freezing his balls off and sober-ish to stoke the flame in his belly.
‘Masked figures’. Fuck The Prophet. Say their names, make them real. Sirius grit his teeth and straightened, bones creaking like an old man. His head thumped in a distant way, like a hangover a couple of hours old, and his mouth was cotton wool. Swallowing dryly, Sirius surreptitiously vanished the vomit and hauled himself upright and away from the car. After a few moments, he slipped back onto the footpath and joined the stream of muggles as they headed into town proper.
Sirius ran a clammy hand over his face, wishing he were as good as Remus when it came to sobering charms. The bitter autumnal air whistled straight through his black jeans and leather jacket, making him swear under his breath and shove his hands into pockets. To the casual observer, he was another half-drunk, maybe headed home or to another gig, the scent of booze and smoke lingering in his wake.
Masked figures. Muggle family. A string of attacks…
The temptation to about-face to the Boozy Baron was great, as was the idea of apparating straight to Remus’ little flat and collapsing on his threadbare couch. Maybe even to Peter’s, which really only highlighted how desperate he felt. But each passing muggle stoked the tightness in his chest, the heat building beneath his skin. Look at them, he thought dazedly, so vulnerable.
“You’ve not got a clue,” Sirius said aloud. A couple going in the opposite direction looked at him in alarm. He tipped his head back and laughed.
Tightening the grip on his wand in his pocket, Sirius veered right and jogged across the road and down an alley. This close to the city center the music poured out of pubs and clubs and accompanied the steady swell of happy, drunken muggles, all yelling and laughing and stumbling along. King’s Cross was teeming with life – very public life. Sirius didn’t want to really articulate what he was thinking: that if he were one of them, this is where he’d be. Why strike the extremities when you could plunge into the heart?
The adrenaline drip increased; he welcomed it like an old lover, a gust of cool air after a sweaty, tangled sleepless night. Danger had an intimate taste to someone like him. Sirius was burning up.
Casting a notice me not charm, Sirius disappeared further into the crowd. The vestiges of gin threaded through his system, muted by the minty sobering spell. The effect was not unlike waking up after passing out, half-drunk and disorientated but strangely sharp-eyed, like he had to prove to himself this wasn’t about to be a colossal mistake, like he wasn’t too tipsy to take one of them on head-first. The cold air bit his lungs, made them ache. His hands trembled, as they did when he was coming down, and he couldn’t stop swallowing the taste of gin and sweat and mint.
The crowd thrummed about him, muggles diverting as if he were a stone in a river. Come on, Sirius urged, eyes peeling over the muggle nebula, to the places they would hide: shadowy corners, quiet alleyways, dark doorsteps.
Come and try me.
arsonists lullaby || sirius & regulus [au]
There is no humour in the laugh that escapes his throat. He doesn’t reach out to try and catch the fragments of his wand as they fly from his pocket across the room Sirius’ words are true. He had always been better at wandless magic than his brother.
Past tense.
“I couldn’t transfigure a tin can if I tried - and I have.” Under other circumstances the words would have either son laughing, but the years have taken that from him. He doesn’t know if Sirius laughs or not, echoes in his head drowning out other sound as he looks at him and waits for an answer. ‘He left you before, he’ll leave you again, to rot in prison this time - if he doesn’t kill you.’
His knuckles go white again, around the silver in his hand, dirty nails biting into his palm. It takes effort to bring himself back, to notice that Sirius has avoided his question. He casts only a glance at the fire and lets the silence sit there. This is a game of give and take. If Sirius won’t answer his question, Regulus won’t do as he says. He isn’t sure he could ever get the chill out of his bones again regardless, but he doesn’t need to say that. He does need to wait a few moments longer for an answer.
He inches closer to the hearth when Sirius asks if he even wants to know, and shrugs, “Probably not, but you need to.” Simultaneously Regulus is glad that he did know what the object was, and wished he’d never needed to. He’s staring at Sirius when he sees the wheels begin to turn.
Only he isn’t exactly right, and Regulus only knows how to start his next statement with, “It isn’t his.” He struggles to figure out how exactly to phrase what it is after that, closing his eyes as though it will help him block out that voice. He takes a couple more steps towards the fire, water still dripping from the ends of his hair down onto his back, “It is him. A piece of him at least Salazar Slytherin’s locket. His horcrux.”
It’s a relief being a Death Eater hasn’t drained Regulus of a brain. Curling his lip, Sirius bites out a nasty humorless laugh. Reg is right: he does need to know. Not necessarily for the Order – they’re fucked whatever happens – but for Aversio, for himself. Because this war fastened its blackened shackles around his body when he was but nineteen years old and no matter how hard he’s writhed, how much he’s carved from himself, fleshy pound after pound, it’s never been enough. Sirius is no longer a handsome man: his face is gaunt, his eyes dull. There is something so unutterably like Walburga in his demeanor that it makes him physically recoil. There’s a reason he doesn’t own a mirror anymore; why the two-way he shared with James was smashed a long time ago.
Or maybe that had more to do with a confessional evening in Prongs’ kitchen, a startled silence, those bright eyes fading into suspicion and hurt… In the end, Sirius had cut far more ties than he’d ever wanted to. But that was what war did, he supposed bitterly. It bled you dry.
Sirius watches Regulus formulate an explanation. And the longer he watches, the more it’s beginning to dawn on him that this isn’t just some bullshit ploy. Something – happened. Or is happening. And Regulus, the boy of hollow bones, is at its epicenter. The firelight throws harsh tongues over them both, bathing them in an orange light that contrasts sharply with their surroundings. Regulus’ fist is so tight around the – whatever it is. Like he’s afraid of what might happen if he lets go.
“A – what?” Sirius stares at Regulus with a furrowed brow. His wand feels heavy where it’s tucked by his side, arms still crossed. Tilting his head, Sirius narrows his eyes in confusion. “A horcrux? A piece of – Merlin.” He can’t look at it, but Sirius’ attention focuses suddenly on the locket with a pang that goes right through him
He straightens abruptly, the kitchen table skidding back a little with the force. “You’re telling me that a piece of Him is in – that?” Sirius’ voice is hoarse and tinged with alarm. He recalls a time long ago when their positions were reversed, when pleading and explanations and appeals in the end meant little. But this time it’s Regulus who is too calm to be emotional, though the stillness of his face burns in the gloom. Sirius is winded.
“Reg.” It’s not a plea; it can’t be. He shakes his head slowly, throat so raw he can barely breathe, his brain struggling to comprehend that… “What the fuck have you done?”
James/Sirius ;)
(Kind of AU but also kind of not? Enjoy!)
Fifteen and drunk, too drunk to do anything but flop on the grass of the Potter estate, laughing and warm and breathless. The sky so dark and clear, air balmy against their skin. “You really are my best mate,” James slurs happily – and Sirius, who has always touched James, never felt there was a boundary between their bodies minds souls, doesn’t resist flinging an arm over James’ chest and drawing him close, tucking his nose into the warm curve of James’ neck, feeling someone’s pulse stutter.
“You don’t understand,” James whines, flopping onto Sirius’ four-poster bed. “Lily is all I want. She’s beautiful, talented, amazing…” And Sirius, disgruntled his cigarette rolling has been disrupted, shoots his best friend A Look. “Contrary to what you might think, Potter, I’m all too aware of your bloody obnoxious obsession with one Miss Evans…” “I’m not obsessed,” James corrects, incorrectly, “I just genuinely feel like we’re meant to be.” Sirius runs his tongue along his cigarette paper, arching an eyebrow at James without looking at him. “Yeah, well, remind me when her trying to hex your balls off suddenly means she’s ready to bear you a brood of screaming offspring.”And James, frowning fuzzily, glasses askew, mopes at Sirius in a way that twists something in his stomach. “You’ve been spending too much time with Remus,” he says instead, and Sirius makes a face and finishes rolling his cigarette. “You’re so nasty to me.”“Yes,” Sirius agrees. He leans over James so their noses touch, his dark hair pooling across James’ mouth. James’ eyes go warm and slack, pupils dilating. “I loathe you.”
Keep reading
Ω DORCAS FELT SLIGHTED. Her copper-colored gaze narrowed to an agonized glare as Sirius Black, the impossible git that he was and so often prided himself in, defended his ridiculous stance and made claims that his friends would stand by him through it all.
“Muskateers, you fucking idiot. Don’t reference something if you can’t get it straight,” Dorcas snapped, her hand raising in another threatening fist, but this time she made no contact. “A gentleman my ass. If you want to hit me, go on. I’m still not going to agree with your stupid ass.”
She was on the defense, her posture ruler-straight and expression irate.
“That’s not all I know, Sirius,” Dorcas said quietly. “I was at the game. Regrettably so. Quidditch is fucking stupid, but I was there, and I saw them. They are no innocent beasts. And they are changing the tides of this fucking war. Know why? They are giving those valiantly fighting evil just another thing to worry over. They’re a distraction from the true evil. They aren’t fucking helping and if you disagree you can go fuck yourself, SIRIUS.”
There were so many things wrong with what Dorcas was saying, Sirius hardly knew where to begin. Offended at her impatience – how was he to know what a Buskateer was! – and furious at her assumption – a distraction, his arse – Sirius tightened his jaw and narrow his eyes. There was always a temptation when he was around Dorcas to play things down: they were so similar, in quite a lot of startling ways, that it felt natural to shrug things away and get another round, to share a smoke out the back in silence, to wordlessly exchange a volley of feelings, some too tenuous to articulate properly. There were only a few people with whom Sirius could be himself, unadulterated, and she was close to entering that territory. But when she said shite like this… “Has it crossed your mind that they’re working with the Order?” Sirius snapped back. “Or, I don’t bloody know, that they’re just as hacked off about the Death Eaters as we are?” He resisted the urge to pace back and forth and instead kept perfectly still, hands fisted by his sides, hair tangled in his eyelashes. He lifted his head and regarded her down the bridge of his nose, the lines of his long body tight with irritation.
“Unless they attack us, I say we leave them alone.” Sirius unclenched his fists in a poor attempt to appear nonchalant. “They’re not acknowledging us. Why acknowledge them? Leave their revolutionary tactics and ignore whatever they get up to. We can’t be some all-knowing vigilante group.”
He shrugged angrily. “Who made us Britain’s police, anyway?”
BUILDING BRIDGES [SIRIUS + DORCAS]
@personallyassassinated
Anyone who was anyone important knew that it took a lot for Sirius to swallow his pride. He was famous for holding grudges, instigating cold shoulders, glaring across rooms, and in general acting like “an insufferable arse, honestly, Pads, just calm down” (quote James Potter, circa 1976). Of course, to Sirius, such reactions were perfectly within the realm of acceptability given most people’s inclination towards being boring or not laughing at his jokes. Dorcas, however, fit in neither of these categories, and thus it was with no shortage of begrudging self-reflection that Sirius found himself wanting to make amends.
Their blow-up at the Burrow hadn’t been the most mature of conversations, but Sirius couldn’t help but think, uncomfortably, that it had only been a matter of time. He’d been tip-toeing the line between innocent ignorance and irritated self-righteousness for too long – it was long overdue for someone to call him out on it. He could only be thankful he’d had the piece of mind to shut up about actually being a member of Aversio. Merlin, whoever knew being a double agent would be so bloody exhausting?
Sirius didn’t do regrets, although he did regret the fact that it was Dorcas who confronted him. He was only thankful their altercation hadn’t ended with someone (read: him) throwing something.
So here he was, outside Dorcas’ new little flat, pressing the muggle doorbell. A cigarette was stuck in the corner of his mouth and he hadn’t bothered to brush his hair that morning; beyond his soft t-shirt, customary leather jacket, and ripped jeans, he appeared as normal, were it not for the wary, slightly self-pitying expression in his slate grey eyes.
After a long moment, he exhaled a puff of smoke and leaned forward to bang on the door. “Meadowes. You know it’s me. Open the bloody door, will you?” Then, against his best regards, Sirius added reluctantly, “I heard you needed help moving and all that shite.”
NERVE [SIRIUS + AMYCUS]
@oberint-dum-metuant
With a crack like a muggle gunshot, Sirius apparated into darkness.
His lungs tore with the effort to breathe normally, his throat constricted and dry with brick dust. Eyes squeezed shut against the light of red-green hexes imprinted in his mind, Sirius hacked noisily, choking on the sharp autumn air. His fists gripped the ground like a lifeline, pine needles pricking skin painfully. The knees of his jeans grew damp the longer he knelt there, doubled over, fighting to keep control.
Come on, he thought desperately, get it together.
At length Sirius’ breaths came more evenly, the adrenaline seeping out of his system. It left him light-headed and nauseous; a sudden surge of bile made him heave, acrid water puddling on the forest floor before him.
Wait – forest.
Swallowing again and again, Sirius looked up, weak as a kneazle. The first thing he noticed was the absolute silence. Aside from the distant cooing of nocturnal animals, the forest was dark and blank as the grave. Quiet enough to make his ears ache. Even the sky glimpsed between the canopy of red pines was void of stars, although it wasn’t an overcast night. Only the pale light of the moon helped his eyes adjust to the oppressive blackness. The smell of bile, sweat, and pine made him want to puke again, but he resisted with difficulty. Closing his eyes, Sirius’ head hung down before he forced himself to lean back on his haunches.
Feeling weird and boneless, he struggled to think why here, of all places. Why did he pick a random forest to apparate to, when he had any pick of safe houses and –
The realization was like a thunderbolt.
Despite himself Sirius groaned, rubbing a hand roughly over his face. How fucking ironic. Even when he’d been free from their clutches for over three years, his pureblood past shadowed him as steathily as a boggart. Feeling sick, but for a different reason, Sirius’ hand fell from his face and he took in his surroundings in distaste.
Well. At least the Death Eaters he’d engaged back in muggle London wouldn’t think to apparate here after him in a million years. The forest was a remnant of a time long past, privy only to the most eminent of pureblood families. He wondered whether any of the house elves managed to escape the hunts, whether they were here, roaming free, having escaped a most gruesome fate. There was a reason Walburga had such an extensive house elf head collection, after all.
Sirius gathered himself. He ran his hands through the mulch and pine needles until his fingers touched the familiar wood of his wand. Raising it, he cast a quiet lumos, only enough to illuminate a few feet in front of him. His eyes took a moment to adjust beyond the ring of grey light. The clearing he’d apparated into seemed even more nightmarish once revealed. Trees high as muggle buildings stretched ominously upward, a schizophrenic collection of blackened boughs and twisted trunks, curious eyes gleaming in the dark only to disappear in an instant. Groaning, Sirius stood with difficulty.
Nothing seemed to be amiss: his left sleeve was a little singed, and the knees of his jeans were torn clean through. His hands were tacky with mud and blood, although a preliminary check confirmed it wasn’t his. Sirius wiped the brick dust from his eyes. The acrid smell of magic clung to his body, reminding him of the Death Eaters he’d left behind. They’d put up a good fight, but it hadn’t been enough to take him down. Two against one – fucking cowards.
Sirius was busy contemplating this little victory – before he’d apparated away, he’d hit one of them with a particularly nasty stinging hex that had the bastard crumpling to the ground – when he heard a snap behind him,
Turning sharply, Sirius peered out into the gloom. If this were a film, he thought wryly, I might call out like a total knob. But this wasn’t a film, and he wasn’t a knob (most of the time), and so he remained completely still, listening.
{ someone new } ✘ rodolphus & sirius ✘ sept 20th, 1978
Rodolphus stumbled through the grate of the Ministry’s damnable Floo Network, a flurry of ash following in his wake. A light dusting coated his suit, and for a moment he pondered the advantage of the Visitor’s entrance and the miserable trudge through muggle London that it entailed. But at least he would arrive in one piece. There were a great many things he would rather be doing besides making calls to his father’s various connections inside the Ministry, a fact that already had his nerves and annoyance rubbed raw. Inconveniences did not lighten his mood. He paused briefly to bat at his shoulder’s and adjust the tightness of his tie, the fabric of his collar biting against the skin of his neck. It was only in this small moment that a familiar face caught his attention, a face that, truth be told, he had hoped to never see again.
Brow folded in utter confusion, Rodolphus crossed the atrium of the Ministry with quick steps that were muffled in the rest of the din of foot traffic. Really, it was a miracle he had seen the man at all through the immense crowd and the pure fact that by all rights this man was….well– dead. Brushing the last bits of dust off his shoulder in case he really wasn’t mistaken, it was almost unconsciously that Rodolphus straightened as he approached, clearing his throat lest he make the heinous mistake of stumbling over his words. And with great trepidation, Rodolphus tapped the old man’s shoulder. ❝Excuse me, Professor…. Trimble?❞
@padfootism
This wasn’t a bad idea. Really, it wasn’t. Anyone who had, in the Order meeting, made various noises of disagreement (and even, in the case of one person in particular, threatened to permanently transfigure him into Padfoot and chain him to a fence), would see the genius in Sirius’ espionage ways. Because this would definitely go according to plan, and then they’d all have to eat their socks. Or whatever that saying was.
Kidnapping the Minister would be pointless without outside intelligence. As Aversio’s resources were largely dependent upon their handful of young members, insider knowledge was required in order to milk the Minister for all he was worth. This, of course, was Sirius’ reckoning. Everyone else was too stupid to see how much sense it made.
Thus, in lieu of a devilishly good-looking mussed-haired young man in leather, Sirius was a tall old bloke with a beaky nose, some wild facial hair, and a permanent squint. Every so often, the glamour charm wavered, and in the wrong light Professor Trimble appeared alarmingly like the disinherited Black boy. But then Sirius would cough, surreptitiously mumble a continuity spell, and Trimble was back in all of the glory of his ear hair and brocaded waistcoat.
Trimble had been lurking by the floos, debating the success of simply marching up to the elevators and pretending to be on his way to a meeting, when a husky voice sounded behind him.
Quite alarmed, Trimble whirled around. Oh, Sirius thought. Fuck.
“My boy!” Trimble boomed, then coughed as Sirius remembered how mild-manned his old deportment master had been. “What a charming coincidence. How do you… do?”
