Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. The last place on earth Sirius wanted to be. The dark moulding walls always felt like they were closing in on him, with their horrid paisley wallpaper. They could fall down and trap him there, lost in the rubble for all time, a coffin made from the worst place on earth.
When Dumbledore had suggested it, Sirius had almost fled the country. Yes, Voldemort now knew that Sirius was an Animagus, but given that Wormtail had been a traitor this entire time, it was reasonable to assume that he’d actually known for much longer than that. Sirius had been getting around just fine as Padfoot, and he didn’t really see any reason to change.
Then Dumbledore had used Harry as a reason to stay. The fucker.
“How are you going to be there for Harry if you’re not in the country, captured by the Ministry or killed by Death Eaters?” he mewled in that annoyingly quiet and calm voice.
Sirius wanted to punch things.
“I could take on a couple of Death Eaters. You know I could,” Sirius bragged, dread pooling in his stomach.
Dumbledore stared at him before replying gently, “I think we both know that it is not the Death Eaters that are the problem.”
Sirius hadn’t been able to say anything. He just glared at the older man with resentment and shame. Dumbledore had been there when they had clasped him in irons and locked him in the tower at Hogwarts, over a year ago. He’d heard Sirius’ broken pleas and the screams as the irons triggered his memories of Azkaban.
By the time Hermione and Harry had shown up to save him, he couldn’t talk because he was hoarse.
Now, Sirius was stuck here in this house that was like a tomb. Everywhere he turned there were memories that continued to suck him dry every moment he was forced to stay here.
Visions of his father haunted the study. One moment he would be sitting at his desk and Sirius would remember the times where he’d come in here just to be with him. Orion would be silent as his young son did his homework on the floor beside him. It was starkly different to the ones where his hand had cut across Sirius’ face, making him fall to the ground, his expression a mask of contempt as he spewed curses.
His mother haunted the parlour. Unlike his father, there were no nice memories. He had to stop himself from tip toeing every time he entered the room. All he could see were the broken shards of glass covering the floor, as they had so many times before, her screams filling his ears until they echoed around his skull. If he stayed in there for too long, his body would start to spasm as it recreated all the times she had turned her wand on him.
He avoided those two rooms, as a matter of course.
The other room that caused him pause sat across the hall from his own. He’d been in there once. He’d felt like he had to because it was like it was taunting him. Remus would probably tell him it was due to closure, or some other psychobabble bullshit, but there was something deep inside him that needed to be there.
He opened the door and was astonished to find it slightly less decrepit than the rest of the house. It made sense, Kreacher had always loved Regulus. Regulus with his soft nature, that had been battered and bruised into something cold on the outside. A shell that he’d worn imperfectly, probably until the day he’d died. Sirius had always been able to see underneath, to the boy hiding inside.
Every surface of the room was covered in Slytherin green. The sight made Sirius feel sick. He hated what they had done to his little brother. Slytherin had loved Regulus and Regulus had loved them in return. He’d gone a little mad because of it. After all, receiving love, after years of not having it at all, was a little heady. Sirius was familiar with the sensation.
But, of course, with that love came rules and restrictions and a culture that Sirius could see wore him down year after year. The weight of all that green dragging him under the water.
He’d laid down on the bed and curled into a ball. The air was musty, and it was stupid, but it almost felt like he could smell him on the sheets. Sirius closed his eyes and bawled like a child as he gripped the paper-thin fabric in his fists. He pressed his face into the pillow and let it drain out of him until he was spent, and all that remained was a darker patch of green.
If he concentrated, he could hear Regulus laughing.
Sirius leapt up. No. It wasn’t in his head; he could hear him laughing.
The ancient elf popped into existence in front of him, scowling. “What is the Young Master wanting? I is being very busy today. None of your ungrateful little jokes.”
“I just heard Regulus,” Sirius insisted, hating how hope flooded into his very being at the thought. “I heard him laughing.”
Kreacher tore the pillow that Sirius hadn’t even realised he’d still been holding out of his hands, his eyes blazing. “That is not being a very funny joke.”
Sirius pushed open the door and ran up the stairs. The laughter had sounded like it was coming from above.
He slammed open door after door, making the walls shake with the impact of the handles against the plaster.
The empty silence of the house taunted him. He’s not crazy. He heard him! He had. He was right here. He’d been here all along. He had to be.
That was the moment that Sirius realised that he never truly believed his brother was dead.
“Regulus,” he whimpered as he pushed open the door to the musty old library and collapsed in one of the big armchairs.
It was Regulus’ favourite place. He would spend hours reading. Hundreds of books, one after the other in a never-ending stream that would sometimes make him confused about his own reality. It was a gift really. To be able to sink so deeply into the world of fiction, that the traumas of his real life faded away.
It wasn’t a gift they’d shared. Sirius read when he had to, but he didn’t enjoy it. He preferred to be out there living his life. Just another reason why this period of captivity was making him lose his mind.
The pain of his brother’s loss was all he could think of. The ghosts of the past haunted him as the thought that his brother could still be alive swirled around his head. He stumbled up out of the chair and took the first book he could reach off the shelf and threw it onto the floor. Before he knew what he was doing, he was tearing all the books out of the bookcases. He pulled and flung them around him, until he was surrounded by paper and broken spines.
When it was done and there was nothing but an empty shelf, he looked around himself in horror. It was a scene he had seen too many times to count. Rooms destroyed through the rage of his mother. Nothing left but a shell of what once was.
“No,” he whispered in horror.
Kreacher chose that moment to appear in the hallway. “Filthy blood traitor, destroys all of our treasures. Is this how we honour the young master’s memory?”
Sirius pulled at his hair as he screamed at the elf, “Get out! Get the fuck out you decrepit toady.”
Kreacher glared at him one last time before leaving .
Sirius turned around in a circle as he surveyed the wreckage. He’d destroyed everything. Just like your mother. He gritted his teeth and took out his wand. He was NOT like his mother. He was broken and bleeding, but he would fix his goddamn messes, even if it killed him.
He cast Reparo and watched the books fly back onto their shelves, their spines knitting themselves together. He held it until every ripped piece of paper, torn leather and thread was firmly back where it belonged.
With one last look, he fled to his own room where he attempted to write to Harry. Harry didn’t think he was a monster, and he could be better for Harry.
For Harry he could be anything.
Read the rest on Ao3
https://archiveofourown.org/works/63326689/chapters/162230473
The art is mine! Idk I just like drawing people falling.
