Chapter Text
Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head
And as I climb into an empty bed
Oh well, enough said
I know it’s over—still I cling
I don’t know where else I can go
- “I Know It’s Over ,” The Smiths
Sunday, 15th March, 1987
It isn’t over.
The alarms begin to sound before they’ve even made it out of the Department of Mysteries—horrible, blaring sirens that wail and echo and make it impossible to think. It’ll only be a matter of minutes before the aurors descend on the Ministry, and the death eaters along with them. Even with Dorcas, Sirius doubts they’ll all be able to make it out in one piece.
But Voldemort’s dead, he thinks, even as resigns himself to the fact that he won’t be seeing his brother again. Reg is safe. It was worth it, in the end.
It had to be.
“Invisibility cloak,” Potter shouts, “In my bag—”
Dorcas accios it, without any hesitation, the two of them moving like soldiers preparing for battle. Sirius doesn’t understand how they still have energy left to fight. When Dorcas begins to hand the cloak to Potter, though, he pushes it back towards her.
“Take it,” he insists, “Get out!”
Dorcas hesitates, staring at him.
“But you can’t…”
“Take it.”
Sirius can see the calculations that each of them are running, like generals at a chessboard, the words that remain unspoken. Dorcas has a better chance of battling her way through the army that’s bound to be amassing in the Ministry lobby as they speak. But if she can get out, no one will ever suspect she was here. James Potter, on the other hand, is a known terrorist. He’ll always be a wanted man. Between the two of them, it’s clear who’s more important to the Order right now—who’s more useful. Potter can barely even manage an accio in his current state.
As for Sirius—well. He’s always been disposable.
Dorcas doesn’t hesitate long. Sirius knows how her mind works; she’s always been flawlessly, ruthlessly logical. She comes to the same conclusion as Potter, and wraps the cloak around her shoulders.
“Don’t speak to them,” she says, “Don’t say anything. Just—hold out, okay? I’ll get help. Just hold on.”
In the next second, she disappears. Sirius nods, numbly, at the blank space where she stood. The alarms continue to wail.
“Come on, then,” Potter says, after a moment. He extends an arm, and Sirius accepts it, leaning against the other man for support as he limps forward. They don’t bother to run; there’s no point.
They make it out of the Department and halfway to the elevator before the aurors flood in.
* * *
It’s a holding cell, first, that they’re thrown into—one that Sirius recognises, one of the cells down in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, where they hold prisoners before sending them off to Azkaban. The aurors rough them up a bit, but there’s no real interrogation. That will come later.
Sirius doesn’t speak. Potter doesn’t, either. They remain silent, confusion and anger and chaos roiling like a river around them. Voldemort’s corpse is in the Department of Mysteries; notorious terrorist James Potter has been caught red-handed just outside. The conclusions don’t so much require a jump as a single step. The fact that Sirius Black, Wizengamot member and death eater, has been discovered working with terrorists isn’t so surprising—ever since his mysterious reappearance, there have been suspicions. And besides, there are all those other nasty rumours about him…
Still, the aurors do make an attempt to turn him, separating them and offering Sirius a series of excuses that he supposes he’s meant to find tempting: did Potter imperio him? Was he under the influence of potions? Was he threatened?
Sirius doesn’t speak. When they bring in a legilimens, he throws up occlumeny wards. When they bring in veritaserum, he relies on the tolerance he’s spent years building up. When they threaten crucio, he laughs. The auror questioning him is just beginning to raise his wand when a knock on the door interrupts him.
Sirius Black’s wife, as it turns out, has procured him legal counsel, and the aurors will have to consult before continuing their interrogation. Sirius is returned to the cell with Potter, who raises a single brow at him. Sirius shakes his head, once. Then he sits down, leans his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes.
It’s impossible to know what’s happening. The entire wizarding government isn’t meant to hinge around the Minister, of course, but Voldemort has spent so long consolidating power that his sudden death seems to have left a black hole in the bureaucratic operations of the Ministry. After their initial capture and questioning, Sirius gets the sense that he and Potter have simply been…forgotten. Hours pass. There will be an emergency meeting of the Wizengamot, Sirius supposes, to install an interim Minister, but he can’t imagine what else could possibly be drawing the focus of the aurors. He remembers Dorcas’s frantic promise: I’ll get help. Surely, the Order wouldn’t send members to fight some kind of battle over two prisoners? And even if they did, could they possibly have the numbers it would take to overrun the aurors and the death eaters?
Sirius desperately, desperately wants to ask Potter. This was his plan; shouldn’t he have some idea of what was supposed to happen once he succeeded in killing Voldemort? Did he know about Dorcas all along—was this all another deception on the part of the Order, another lie?
Somehow, Sirius doesn’t think it was—or, if it was, he can’t bring himself to believe that Potter knew. The other man appears drained of more than magic; the past twenty-four hours seem as though they’ve aged him twenty four years. He sits with his elbows on his knees, shoulders slumped, face drawn and haggard. There’s no spark left in his eyes. Instead, he stares ahead at the wall, gaze distant and half-dead. Sirius tries to imagine what it must be like, to spend your entire life preparing for a single mission only to fail.
Except they didn’t fail—Voldemort’s dead. In the end, does it really matter who killed him?
But it’s hard to feel any sense of victory, sitting in silence for hours in a cold cell. Even Sirius, sceptical and half-expecting to die, had anticipated violence or triumph. Instead, as the adrenaline fades, and the time stretches on, he’s left with the seemingly endless torture of waiting. Even if he wanted to speak to Potter, Sirius knows from experience that these cells are layered with listening charms. Silence is the only option.
As time wears on, Sirius can feel his consciousness begin to drift. He doesn’t sleep, exactly, but the exhaustion still takes its toll; he finds himself dozing, floating in some twilight realm between waking and dreaming, only distantly aware of the weight of his body and the throb of his ankle and the hard stone against his back. The cell door slamming open jolts him back into consciousness, sharply.
“Black,” grunts the auror—a different one than any of those that came before. “Your counsel’s here to speak with you.”
This time, Sirius isn’t taken to an interrogation room. Instead, he’s brought to a small conference room, with a wooden table and chairs and a pitcher of water that nearly makes him cry when he sees it. His tongue feels like a block of wood inside his mouth.
Inside the room, Dorcas is seated beside an older witch, a grey-haired woman with sharp eyes and wire-rimmed spectacles. Sirius is too exhausted for the shock to be anything more than dull and distant, even when the auror leaves the three of them alone. Although he knows that it’s technically his right to confer with legal counsel before any interrogation, he also knows from experience that the aurors have many methods of bending the rules; rarely do prisoners actually get the opportunity to exercise their “rights.” Sirius once saw an alchemist thrown into a cell in Azkaban for a week simply because he was suspected of supplying healing potions without official prescriptions—the aurors continuously delayed his meeting with legal counsel through minor errors in paperwork, and by the time the end of the week rolled around and they dragged him out of his cell he confessed to everything the aurors had wanted to hear before they could even get him back to the Ministry to meet with his counsel, begging for probation instead of a return to Azkaban.
Sirius is being held under suspicion of helping assassinate the Minister. He has no idea why he isn’t already in Azkaban.
“Dorcas,” he says, voice cracking. She hurries to him, glass of water in hand, and he drinks gratefully.
“We can talk,” she tells him, “I’ve already checked the room, and added my own wards—I’ll take them down when we leave, don’t worry.”
“What’s going on?” Sirius asks, once his throat is working properly again, “Wh—” He breaks off, eyes flicking over to the unfamiliar witch. Dorcas tracks the gesture, and reaches out to take his hand.
“We can trust her,” she says, catching his eye, “This is Ophelia; she’s working with…us.”
She gives the word a significant weight, raising her eyebrows. Who is us? Sirius wants to ask, Have you been in the Order this entire time? Why didn’t you say anything? It’s difficult to tamp down on the stab of betrayal, leaking resentment like a poisoned knife.
“What’s going on, Dorcas?” Sirius repeats. She’s still holding his hand.
“I wish I could explain everything,” she tells him, an apology laced through her voice. “I really do—but there’s not enough time. What you need to know is…Albus Dumbledore is trying to take control of the Ministry.”
“What?! Albus Dumbledore’s dead.”
“He’s not—I know, I know, I told you, there’s no time to explain everything. He’s come out of hiding; he’s offered to serve as interim Minister, and there’s a good chance he’ll be selected.”
Sirius shakes his head, at a loss for words.
“But…how? Half the Wizengamot are death eaters!”
Dorcas’s eyes gleam.
“And the other half aren’t. Trust me, Sirius—he’s been preparing for this for a long time. We’ve been preparing for this. A lot of us—more people than you realise. Voldemort ruled with fear, and now that he’s gone, a lot of people aren’t afraid anymore. It’s all a mess right now—everyone taking sides—but if it works…if it works, we’ll have control of the Ministry. And then…Dumbledore will be able to pardon you.”
“Pardon?” Sirius asks, vaguely, still trying to process what Dorcas is saying. She nods.
“Once people understand what Voldemort did, who he really was, public opinion will change; the people who took him out will be heroes.”
Sirius studies her, warily, all too aware of the older witch watching them from the table. He knows Dorcas said they could trust her; still, he chooses his words carefully.
“The…people who took him out?”
Dorcas nods, slowly, a meaningful look in her eyes.
“You,” she tells him, “And…the Chosen One.”
He stares at her.
“The Chosen One?”
Dorcas swallows. For just a second, something falters in her expression; then it smooths, correcting itself.
“James Potter,” she says, as though reminding him. “The two of you, all on your own. It’s all going to come out, Sirius—the prophecy, everything. People will…they’ll know that you’re heroes.”
“Heroes,” Sirius echoes. He thinks of himself, standing frozen in fear. Of James, struggling helplessly from the trap he walked directly into.
“Heroes,” Dorcas repeats, a bit more firmly, “You and Potter. The two of you took down Voldemort. Right?”
Sirius glances at the older witch, still watching them.
“…Right.”
Dorcas releases a breath, squeezing his hand. She offers him a small, forced smile; then she pulls him forward, abruptly, into a hug.
“They’re going to take you to Azkaban, Sirius,” she murmurs, face pressed into his hair. Her voice has gone a bit watery, and when she pulls back, he can see tears in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she tells him, “I tried, but—they’re going to take you. Both of you. Until they finish selecting an interim Minister, and they can have a trial. I couldn’t stop it.”
Her voice breaks on the last word, and Sirius realises, abruptly, that she must be just as exhausted as he is; he doubts that she’s slept, wonders if she’s eaten.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, pulling her back into a hug, “It’s okay, I’ll be alright.”
Dorcas breaks down, finally, crying into his shoulder. Sirius holds her, and feels the ozone of her magic in the air, and wonders how someone so powerful can feel so fragile, trembling beneath his hands.
* * *
Sirius has been to Azkaban before. He knows what to expect. Or at least—he thinks he does. But passing by dementors on the way to pick up or drop off a prisoner is a far cry from actually being locked inside one of the cells himself, unable to escape. There’s no reprieve; only the icy chill of misery, the relentless surfacing of every worst memory—every fear, every falter, every failure. He sees the faces of people he tortured, people he killed. He sees his little brother’s empty coffin, lowering into the earth. He sees his mother crying, small and huddled on the hardwood floor of his father’s office.
Any attempt to fight back the chill, any desperate grasping at happy memories only draws the dementors, like moths to a flame. They twist memory, distort it. Dorcas’s laugh becomes a scream; stolen kisses become angry words; childhood games turn to punishment at the end of his father’s wand. There is no choice but to sit in the misery, and to stew. Time slows to an endless crawl, losing all sense of meaning. Dorcas promised she’d get him out, but what then? A pardon, for the crime of killing Lord Voldemort? But if this is truly the Order’s moment of triumph, their chance to purge every festering sore left by Voldemort’s reign, then what of Sirius’s other crimes? What of the blood on his hands? Does one frantic night spent breaking into the Department of Mysteries undo every other night that he spent at Voldemort’s beck and call, doing his dirty work, carrying out his cruelty? Sirius told himself, a thousand times, that he was nothing but a knife; a tool; an object wielded by another’s hands. He retreated, a thousand times, into that cage of steel, until he could watch a man plead for his life, and feel nothing.
But he wasn’t a knife. He was a person.
How can one night erase it?
By the time the sun rises, Sirius knows that he is exactly where he’s meant to be. There’s no point in fighting. He deserves this. He deserves worse. He could spend the rest of his life locked inside this cell, and it wouldn’t atone for the harm he’s done. It wouldn’t bring back any of the dead. What life could possibly be left for him, outside of this cage?
What life could be left for him anywhere?
* * *
Saturday, 21st March 1987
Three days, they tell him, later. Three days locked in Azkaban. Others spend weeks, months, years. No wonder they all go mad.
He doesn’t remember his release. Dorcas tells him, later, that he wouldn’t move. That she had to drag him out. That he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t sleep, for the first few hours. That when he did sleep, finally, his entire body shook with nightmares. That he screamed himself awake.
He doesn’t remember it—any of it. Not the release, not the transfer. He first becomes aware of a low, steady buzz, like an insect through thick fog. He follows it, sluggishly, feeling as though he’s wading knee-deep through the swamp of his own mind. Eventually, he realises that it’s a voice.
“Ah,” says James Potter, “There you are.”
Sirius blinks, and returns to himself. They’re back in the cell—the holding cell, the one at the Ministry. They’ve been given chairs, this time. And a table, food, water. He’s sitting across from James Potter, who has apparently been speaking to him this entire time. His skin is sallow, sunken. There are dark circles beneath his eyes. The smile he offers is brittle.
“Decided to re-join the land of the living?”
“What…?”
“We’re out.” Potter reaches across the table, nudging a glass of water towards Sirius. “For now.”
Sirius drinks. It’s like swallowing ash.
“The trial?” he asks, and Potter nods. Sirius feels as though his head is spinning.
“Then…Dumbledore…?”
“Interim Minister for Magic,” Potter confirms. His smile twists, turning into something ugly, for a moment. He looks away.
“I need to speak with him, but they—they won’t let me.”
Sirius hesitates, choosing his words carefully. He doubts that anything they say in this cell will be kept confidential, and he still doesn’t know how much he’s allowed to give away.
“Then…you didn’t know?”
Potter looks back up. He’s drumming his fingers against the table. It feels strangely familiar.
“It’s all…I didn’t think it would happen so fast.” He huffs, sardonic. Mutters, “Stupid. I never…I suppose I just never thought very much. About what would come after.”
Neither of us were expecting to face Voldemort in that room, Sirius reminds himself. They were meant to destroy a horcrux; not end an entire war. Sitting across from him, James Potter gives the impression of a man in free-fall. As though he’s been walking a tightrope his entire life, only to discover that it’s been cut from under his feet.
Potter looks away again, muttering half to himself,
“I need to speak to Albus.”
Sirius feels his heart clench.
“Let’s talk about something else,” he says.
Neither of them offers another topic; instead, they lapse into silence. Sirius sits, letting it grow, retreating back into the fog of his mind without realising. If he closes his eyes, he can hear the distant crash of waves on rock.
“Do you think they’ll send us back?” he whispers. When he opens his eyes, James is watching him. He appears to consider the question.
“I don’t know,” he says, finally. Sirius swallows.
“I don’t think I can go back there.”
“I know.”
Potter’s fingers tap tap tap against the table.
“What will you do?” he asks, abruptly, “If they let you go?”
Sirius takes a breath. He can see his brother’s coffin, lowering into the earth. But it’s not real—it’s not; he has to remind himself. Regulus is the entire reason that he’s here.
“I want…to spend time with my family,” he says, slowly, words carefully chosen, unsure whether his brother is still in hiding. Is it safe yet? Is Regulus safe?
Potter nods. He seems to understand.
“Family,” he mutters, glancing away.
“And you?”
Another hollow laugh.
“I don’t know,” Potter says, still muttering. His words match the staccato rhythm of his fingers. “I never—I guess I just never thought about it. What I would do. What it would be like, if…this happened. I imagined it, pictured it, so many times, but never—never what would come after.”
Silence. Sirius waits.
“Lily’s pregnant,” Potter says, “So.”
Lily. Sirius sifts through memory, but all of it is second-hand. From what Regulus showed him, they were friends; she was one of the ones in his flat, the redhead with the round face and wide smile, the one who helped make potions. He doesn’t know much more than that.
“And it’s…?”
“Yeah,” Potter nods, “Yeah. So. Guess I’ll—guess I’ll be a dad.”
The words begin to come faster, along with the tapping fingers, as though a dam has broken.
“I always idolised my dad,” James says, eyes somewhere far away, “He was my bloody hero. He used to…fly with me. Tell me stories. He wouldn’t read them; he’d make them up. Every night, a new one. So I’d never get bored.” He looks away, towards the bars of their cell.
“I blamed myself, you know,” he says, “After his death. It was only because of me that Voldemort…”
The sentence hangs, the single name a horrible noose.
“But now,” Potter sniffs, shakes his head, “Now I don’t know. Don’t know what to think. Don’t know who I am. Don’t know—”
His voice cracks, falters. His fingers continue to tap. In the quiet of their cell, the shuddering breath he draws feels far too intimate—like seeing roadkill, something flayed open, parts of the body not meant to be exposed. They shouldn’t be here with each other, Sirius thinks. Neither of them are what the other needs.
Still, he tries.
“Well…you’re going to be a dad,” he says.
Potter sniffs again. Pauses his tapping to rub roughly at his nose.
“Yeah,” he nods, “S’pose I am.”
He smiles, again, weakly.
“God, Sirius,” he says, “You have no idea how…terrified I’ve been, ever since she told me. It…it was an accident, see, but she—she didn’t realise, not until it was too late for the potions to work, and she…decided to keep it.”
“And you?” Sirius asks, “Did you want…?”
He shrugs, waving a hand, unsure how to finish that sentence.
“Yeah,” James says, after a moment, “Yeah, I think I did…I think I do.”
He looks down at his hands as he says it, his fingers tapping on the table. Sirius watches, waiting for cues.
“You’ll be a good dad,” he says. He doesn’t know if he believes it; it just feels like the right thing to say. If Potter senses that, though, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he looks up, painfully earnest.
“I want to be,” he says.
* * *
The trial passes by in a blur. Sirius half-wonders if he’s dreaming, pulled out of the cell by aurors and marched into the Wizengamot and unable to stop the flashes of memory that come with the amphitheatre and its benches, so alike to the room with the veil. But there’s no veil in this room; only a chair and a podium for the wizard asking questions, Sirius in the middle with his hands magically bound, a criminal.
He recounts the story of what happened, omitting Dorcas, and the trap, and the veil. In their place, he uses passive language, stripped of all agency: There was a fight. Voldemort was hit with a killing curse. The snake was a horcrux. It was destroyed.
The accusation of horcrux-creation is a heavy one, and it ripples through the chamber in a series of hushes voices, low murmuring. Presumably, those loyal to the Order have already presented evidence of Voldemort’s horcrux creation, using it to justify his death. Even amongst the oldest and darkest pureblood wizards, horcruxes are considered evil. It’s a tipping point; an opportunity for those who once supported Voldemort to switch sides. Knowing what they know now, of course, understanding the depths of his depravity, they would have never supported him in the first place—if only they had known before! Wilful ignorance, a political shield. Voldemort’s corpse on which to pin the blame.
Sirius tells his truncated story, and he leaves. They put him back in the holding cell; they take Potter away. Time passes; they bring Potter back. They wait.
Four hours later, Sirius Black is a free man.
* * *
It’s jarring, at first. He has no wand; his clothes are soiled and dirty. They’re forbidden from using magic for a forty-eight hour probationary period, then released into muggle London. It becomes clear almost immediately that none of their family has been informed of their release, or where to find them. It’s as though the Ministry wants them to violate their probation; how the hell are they supposed to contact someone, to do anything, without magic? They don’t even have any money.
“Albus will tell them,” Potter says, “He’ll let my mum know to come get us, or…Dorcas, maybe. They’ll be here soon—we just need to find a place to wait.”
The waitress at the muggle café doesn’t look particularly pleased to see them. Sirius supposes that might have something to do with the fact that neither of them have had a bath in nearly a week. But the building is practically deserted, anyway, and they take a corner booth near the back, far away from the rest of the customers. They order black coffee, and ignore the waitress’s dirty looks.
“What happens now?” Sirius asks. Potter has taken up his rhythm again, a steady tap tap tap of fingertips against the counter.
“Things…change, I guess. Things will get better.”
Sirius snorts into his coffee.
“Really?” he raises a brow, “Because half the wizards I saw sitting in the stands at that trial supported Voldemort, and it didn’t look like anyone was getting ready to throw them into cells at Azkaban.”
Potter shrugs.
“It’ll take time,” he says.
Sirius stares, watching him tap his fingers and ignore his coffee. After a moment, he leans forward.
“It’s really been Dumbledore all along, then?” he asks, “It was always his master plan? Did he ever tell you anything about what happens now?”
“It wasn’t my job to think about that!” Potter snaps, abruptly, “I had…I had to focus on Voldemort.”
Sirius watches him deflate, voice trailing off at the end, anger gone just as quickly as it appeared.
“…You really didn’t know?”
After a moment, James shakes his head. Neither of them needs to clarify what the question is about.
“He always said it would be me,” James whispers. “It…it was supposed to be me.”
Sirius sips his coffee. It’s watery, bitter.
“Can we trust him?” he asks.
Potter’s head snaps up, brow furrowed.
“Yes,” he says, without hesitation, “Of course we can trust him. He was like a father to me.”
“He’s the reason your father is dead.”
James looks stricken.
“Don’t say that.”
“Am I wrong? If he knew it wasn’t you, and still said it was—”
“Don’t, just—stop.” James drags a hand through his hair. The tapping fingers have turned into a fist. “Don’t say that,” he repeats, voice low, “You don’t…you don’t know him. Not like I do. He always had a reason for the choices he made.”
“We all have reasons.”
“He always had a good reason. I just…” Potter shakes his head, once, as though dislodging some errant thought, “I just need to talk to him.”
“Okay,” Sirius says, turning back to his coffee. Potter’s right; he doesn’t know Dumbledore. But for now, at least, he can trust that the man is better than Voldemort.
The bell above the door to the café jingles. Sirius watches the muggles pass outside. There are so many of them, all dressed in their funny clothes, all hurrying, all with somewhere to be. It would be so easy, he thinks, to get lost amongst them.
“You.”
There’s a witch, standing at the end of their table. She has her wand raised. She has it pointed at James Potter.
“You,” she says, again.
There’s something about her that feels inexplicably familiar, but Sirius can’t quite put his finger on it. She’s only a child; can’t be more than seventeen. Yet her face is twisted with rage, with inhuman fury. Her eyes glisten with tears. The wand trembles in her hand.
“Hey,” James says, carefully, “Hey, now—there’s no need for that.”
“You killed my brother!” she spits.
“Just put the wand down—”
“YOU MURDERED MY BROTHER!”
The muggles are taking notice, now. Sirius can hear their confused murmuring, can see them craning to get a look in his peripheral vision. But he doesn’t dare take his eyes off the witch.
Fuck the probation, he thinks. He needs to use magic—needs to disarm her. Only he’s exhausted, and his wandless magic is still unreliable, and he has no way of knowing if he’d be able to raise his hands and aim and cast all with enough force and speed to disarm her before she shoots off a spell of her own. Her wand is already pointed directly at Potter’s heart.
Normally, Sirius knows, all it would take is a flick of his fingers for Potter to send her wand skittering away—barely a twitch. But he’s been drained. His magic is still recovering. In his current state, he’s damn near defenceless.
“Just—hang on!” Potter says, keeping his voice steady, still trying to talk her down. This is a man who’s faced down hydras and sphinxes and basilisks. This is a man who faced down the Dark Lord himself. The witch in front of him is only a girl—just one girl.
But Sirius recognises that rage in her eyes.
Her eyes…
“I don’t know your brother,” Potter says, and in the same breath, Sirius realises why she looks familiar.
“Peter Pettigrew,” he breathes. The girl’s eyes dart to him for a moment, before locking back on their target.
“Yes,” she says, voice cracking. Potter’s eyes dart between the two of them. He still doesn’t look afraid; he still looks like he thinks he can talk her down.
“I don’t know any Peter Pettigrew,” he says.
And why would he? Peter was just one more death eater, one more faceless enemy, one more obstacle standing between James Potter and destiny. He was no one; an afterthought. The runes he carved were more real to Potter than Peter himself ever was.
Potter’s face is open, sincere. He spent so long playing the hero, Sirius thinks, that he can’t understand, now, the position that he’s in. James Potter only ever killed villains. He isn’t equipped to comprehend what it might mean to become the villain of someone else’s story, in the process. But the girl staring down at him now has the same hatred that James Potter wore in his eyes when staring down Voldemort. In that way, they’re alike; mirror images of vengeance.
“I don’t know your brother,” James says.
“You killed him, you bastard,” the girl hisses.
The spell only takes one second. When Sirius moves, he moves too late.
* * *
Friday, 1st May 1987
They build a statue of him. It goes up one month after the funeral, in the centre of the Ministry lobby. Where a different fountain once stood, now there’s James Potter, Chosen One, wand gold and raised and glittering, water cascading like magic.
It’s amazing, how quickly things get rewritten.
Now, James Potter is the hero who killed Voldemort. The entire Order are heroes. The death eaters get trials; some are sent to Azkaban. Others are pardoned, testifying that they only served under duress, pledging a dedication to change their ways. Sirius Black is returned to his position on the Wizengamot, where he votes, mindless and numb, in favour of Dumbledore’s policies. They’re good policies. Better than Voldemort’s. Instead of muggle cullings, muggleborns’ families will be allowed as an exception to the Statute of Secrecy; their children will even be able to visit home on school holidays from Hogwarts. All wizards can live in harmony. Change will come slowly, but it will come. With time.
On the day that the statue goes up, Dorcas comes to the Ministry to meet him for lunch. Sirius stands beside her, in the lobby, staring up at the face of the Chosen One. They haven’t spoken about what happened that night since his death.
“It should be you,” Sirius says, when they get home.
“Sirius…”
“Why are you letting them do this?”
He doesn’t know where the anger comes from. His moods recently have shifted like a caged animal, alternating wildly between cowering and lashing out.
Dorcas stares at him, stubbornly.
“You don’t think he deserves it?”
“They’ve just—erased you!”
“What makes you think I’d want a statue?”
“He wouldn’t want it like this!”
Dorcas folds her arms. Her voice is cold.
“Well he’s dead, so I don’t think it matters much anymore what he’d want.”
Sirius paces, tugging a hand through his hair.
“They all think he was the Chosen One.”
“Maybe he was the Chosen One.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You said—”
“I know what I said!”
Dorcas turns away, fingers digging into her biceps. When she speaks again, her voice is softer.
“I know what I said,” she repeats. Sirius shakes his head.
“What does that mean, Dorcas? I watched you kill Voldemort. You were—are—the Chosen One.”
She moves to the window. It’s dark outside. In the reflection on the glass, her face looks very tired.
“That’s what they told me,” Dorcas says, “My parents. And Dumbledore. That’s why we couldn’t join the Order; why we had to hide in plain sight, to blend in. To convince everyone that we were loyal purebloods, until the day finally came…I thought it was fate. Destiny. Then I saw James in that room; I heard what Voldemort said to him.”
She takes a breath, as though steeling herself.
“I’ve done my research, now,” she says, “And there were at least five of us. Five of us who fit the terms of the prophecy. One’s family fled to America; one died before they turned eleven. One I couldn’t find any more information on; they disappear from all records.”
“But you’re the one who killed Voldemort,” Sirius says. Dorcas turns, finally, to face him.
“Does that make me the Chosen One?” she asks, “Or just the lucky one? The one who was there at the right time? If things were different, it could have just as easily been me in that trap.”
“But things weren’t different.”
Dorcas laughs, a hollow sound.
“And does that make it fate? Retroactively putting all the pieces together to make them fit?” She shakes her head, voice bitter.
“The Prophecy is bullshit. There was never any destiny. We were both just kids with too much power and adults in our lives who thought they knew the best way to use it. Let him be the Chosen One.”
“But you deserve credit—”
“For killing someone?”
She stares him down, as though daring him to speak. When he doesn’t, she sighs.
“Do you honestly think it would be better that way, Sirius? How do you think people would react, if they knew I was walking around with a fucking hurricane of magic at my fingertips? How do you think they’d treat me?”
“Then it was your decision?” Sirius asks. For a moment, he watches her expression falter.
“This is what’s best for everyone,” Dorcas mutters. She turns to look back out the window. “Besides—I’m sick of being someone else’s weapon.”
* * *
Sunday, 31st May 1987
“Is it over, then?” Sirius asks. He’s standing on the rooftop, smoking a muggle cigarette. Regulus moves to stand beside him, hands in his pockets. He looks knackered, and happier than Sirius has seen him in weeks.
“Yeah,” he says, “He’s a boy. Harry. After her dad.”
“Mm.”
Sirius flicks ash from the end of his cigarette.
“Still don’t know why you asked me to be here.”
“Come on—just come down. She wants to talk to you.”
So Sirius follows, down through the bustling hallways of Mungo’s, eyes catching on the lime green healer’s robes. It still feels surreal, having his brother at his side. No longer dead; no longer in hiding. Regulus doesn’t seem used to it, either—he still watches wizards pass with a wary frown on his face, body tensed like he’s ready to run.
When they reach Lily’s room, though, his body relaxes, and the smile that breaks across his face feels like a kick in the teeth. Sirius remembers when he was the only person his baby brother would ever smile at, like that. It’s difficult to accept that there are people, now, like Lily, who have relationships, memories—entire lives with his brother that Sirius will never understand. In many ways, she knows Regulus better, now, than Sirius does.
“Sirius,” Lily says, “Thank you. For coming.”
She’s incredibly sweaty, arms boneless on the mattress, slumped against her pillows.
“Where’s the baby?” he asks.
“Effie’s with him; they’ve just taken him to clean him up. He’ll be back soon.”
“Harry, right?”
“Harry,” she says, voice reverent. Then her eyes catch on something over Sirius’s shoulder, and she sits up a bit.
“Remus!”
Sirius’s heart crawls into his throat. When he turns, Moony is stepping into the room, smiling awkwardly and ducking his head. He’s got shadows like bruises under his eyes, and his hair is longer. They’ve only seen each other once since that night Sirius agreed to help the Order—at Potter’s funeral. They didn’t say a word to each other.
“Hiya, Lily,” Remus says, only sparing a nod for Sirius and Reg. He moves to her bedside, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, like shit,” she waves a hand, “And like I want to cry, and also like I could really use a drink.” The two of them laugh. Sirius feels as though someone’s glued his feet to the floor.
Moony’s eyes dart to his, then away.
“Your message said you needed to talk to me?” he asks, directing the question to Lily. She nods.
“Yeah—yes. To both of you.”
As she speaks, Reg drifts closer to the bed. Sirius follows, trailing behind, trying to leave as much space between himself and Remus as possible.
“I wanted to ask if you—both of you—would be Harry’s godparents.”
Sirius blinks.
“Er…his what?”
“It’s—well, it’s a muggle tradition,” Lily explains, “I suppose it’s meant to be religious, but…well, essentially it just means that you’d care for him. If anything were ever to happen to us.”
Sirius frowns, turning to his brother.
“Shouldn’t Reg…?”
“I’m his dad,” Regulus says. On top of the bedspread, he clasps Lily’s hand. His voice is stony, defensive, as though daring either of them to argue with him.
“You—oh.” Sirius can’t entirely hide his shock. Lily smiles, damply, from her throne of pillows.
“It only seemed right,” she says, “I couldn’t…I could never do this alone, and Reg…”
Sirius turns, studying his brother’s face. He knows his brother has grown up; still, he can’t help seeing the child he was raised with.
“You’re just…really young,” he says.
“We’ll have Effie,” Regulus says, “And…you, I hope.”
“Both of you,” Lily adds.
“Yeah,” Remus says, before Sirius can say anything else, “For sure, Lily—anything you need.”
Sirius nods. There’s a lump in his throat; he’s not sure how it got there. So he sticks to nodding, reaching out to grasp his little brother’s shoulder. Regulus understands.
There’s no time for the silence to grow awkward; the healers return a moment later, along with Effie and the baby. They shoo everyone away for a moment, adjusting equipment and checking spells and returning the child to Lily’s arms, where she coos at him gently. Once the healers have left, the rest of them return to her bedside, and Sirius catches his first real glimpse of Harry.
He looks just like his father, until he opens his eyes.
* * *
He manages to catch Moony on the way out. It’s a near thing; the man almost makes it to the apparation point, ignoring Sirius’s calls. He has to reach out and grasp at Moony’s arm to finally get him to stop, and when he does, Remus yanks away so violently that Sirius staggers a step, off-balance.
“What?” he hisses, finally. Sirius stares.
“Can we talk?”
“What could we possibly have to talk about?”
Moony’s face is cold; his eyes are cold; his words are cold. The early-summer sun shines overhead, and Sirius has to suppress a shiver.
“Please,” he says, “Just for a minute.”
There are other wizards walking past, giving them strange looks as they stand there, half-blocking the apparation point. Remus huffs, seemingly uncomfortable with the attention, and says, curtly,
“Fine.”
They move out of the way, Sirius following as Moony ducks into the mouth of a nearby alley, then watching as the other man lights a cigarette. He takes a drag, blowing smoke towards the bins three steps away. Then he lifts a brow, frowning.
“Well?”
Sirius swallows. He didn’t actually have much of a plan, just a sense that there are…things. Things he needs to say; words that seem to bubble up in his chest and get caught in his throat every time he looks at Remus.
“Did you know?” he asks, finally, “That they were going to…ask us? To be his godparents?”
“No,” Remus says.
Sirius waits. Remus smokes. After a moment of silence, Sirius clears his throat.
“Neither did I,” he says.
Remus continues to watch him, silently. His eyes are as sharp as the broken bottles scattered like confetti beside the bins. Sirius swallows, searching for something to say.
“Er…what have you been up to? You sort of disappeared, after…”
After the funeral.
“Why do you care?”
That night, in the hotel. Those memories—together, in that flat, listening to muggle music, reading on the sofa, smiling at each other when we each thought the other wasn’t looking.
“I just…I want to make sure you’re doing okay.”
A small, bitter smile twists the corners of Moony’s lips.
“I’m fine,” he says.
“I mean, it’s just…Reg told me you haven’t been staying with them, and I wanted to make sure…do you have a place to stay?”
“Why do you care, Sirius?”
“We were…”
Friends? Lovers? Something? Sirius doesn’t know what to say, so he lets the words hang between them, a half-finished sentence. Moony’s face is set in stone.
“We weren’t anything,” he says.
Frustration sparks in the pit of Sirius’s stomach, kindling an anger that he only half-realised was there.
“We both know that isn’t true!” he snaps, hands curling into fists, “I’m not…I’m not saying we still are—whatever we were; I’m not saying we have to…be that again, I’m just…I don’t understand why you can’t just be honest about it! I know that you felt something for me, Moony, and I…I know that I felt something for you.”
Sirius shuts his eyes, takes a breath.
“I know that I loved you,” he admits.
He opens his eyes. It’s like staring at a statue—cold, unmoving stone.
“And now?” Remus asks.
Sirius blinks, thrown by the question.
“What?”
“Now?” Remus says, again, voice hard, “How do you feel now, Sirius?”
Sirius swallows, searching. He can feel…he can see the memories, Regulus’s memories; he has the words in that letter, written in his own hand, memorised. But he can’t feel it. It’s like reaching for a dream.
“I don’t…”
“Exactly,” Remus doesn’t even let him finish, “Because it wasn’t you. Because you aren’t him.”
“Well, I’m what’s bloody left!” Sirius spits back, “And you don’t know what it’s like, to just—two fucking years of my life gone, and I am just trying to sort through it!”
“That was your choice,” Remus says, voice low, pulled taut like piano wire, “Not mine.”
“I did it to protect you!”
“I didn’t want you to protect me—I wanted you to stay with me!”
The words burst out of him, sudden, startling. Sirius stares at the man across from him, shocked—the stone mask has finally shattered, and his features now are all twisted out of shape, anger and agony and accusation all tangled together in his eyes. The cigarette burns, forgotten, in his hand.
“I wanted you to stay with me,” Remus repeats, bringing his voice back under control, “And you didn’t.”
He abandons the cigarette, dropping it onto the ground, crushing it beneath his shoe.
“Whatever answers you’re looking for, Sirius, you’re not going to find them in me.”
Sirius doesn’t try to catch him, this time, when he leaves.
* * *
Dorcas joins him, that night, on the roof. They sit together, staring up at the moon. She leans her head against his shoulder, sharing body heat.
“How was Lily?” she asks.
“Good,” Sirius answers, unable to muster the emotion that’s meant to go along with the words, “The baby’s a boy. Harry. He looks like his dad.”
Above them, the stars are quiet, bright, glittering. The sky is clear. It’s a beautiful night.
“They asked me to help look after him,” Sirius tells her, “If anything ever happens to them.”
“They?”
“Reg says he’s going to help raise it. Him.”
Dorcas hums, nudging a bit closer.
“So you’re an uncle,” she says.
Sirius shrugs.
“I guess.”
“You don’t seem very happy.”
Sirius shuts his eyes. Like a curtain, falling over the stars.
“Are you happy?” he asks.
Now it’s Dorcas’s turn to shrug.
“I thought I would be,” she says, “I thought I’d feel…victorious.”
Victorious. Voldemort is dead. Azkaban is full of death eaters. Muggleborn wizard’s families are no longer slaughtered; Hogwarts houses are no longer sorted by blood purity; every wizard is allowed to use a wand. But next week Sirius will attend a session at the Wizengamot to vote on new obliviation policies for muggles exposed to magic. Last week the ban on creatures, including werewolves, attending Hogwarts was upheld in court. In two weeks, two years, two months, how much will really change?
“It’s not enough, is it?” Dorcas murmurs, as though reading his mind.
“No,” Sirius agrees, “It’s not.”
After a moment, Dorcas squeezes his arm.
“What if we could do more?” she asks.
When Sirius turns, she’s smiling at him, hopefully, the glittering stars reflected in her eyes. Despite everything, he finds himself smiling back.
It isn’t over, Sirius thinks.
“Like what?” he asks.