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As he sits on the bench to his sixth year at Hogwarts, leaning against the window, eyes screwed shut and lips pursed, pain is still wracking through his body. Sirius isn’t quite sure when, exactly, the horrible pain started— he knows it was at some point over the summer, but pinpointing it is difficult, as the days of the summer have blurred together into a mass of hurt and panic.
Sirius is no stranger to the Cruciatus Curse; the first time he was put under it, he’d been five years old and had asked Walburga so, so many questions. Too many questions about the wrong things. He’d wanted to know why he should hate muggleborns, black people, queer people, everyone. He’d asked about why they deserved so much and others so little. He didn’t understand so many things, and he refused to take anything less than a detailed, logical explanation for an answer. Walburga hadn’t enjoyed his merciless pestering and denial of her ideologies.
He’d been getting himself a cup of water as he drilled her, and had slipped and shattered the glass. That’s what had sent her over the edge.
She’d spun on her heel and whipped her wand out, aiming at his chest. His only warning was a hissed instruction to be quiet, then Earth-shattering pain, and he was on the floor, screaming and writhing. No one had been home to hear his cries the first time— nobody save Regulus, who was in his room, too young to understand.
That day marked the day that Walburga Black finally rid herself of whatever mental barrier was preventing her from brutally abusing her oldest son, and boy, oh, boy, did she take advantage of it. Needless to say, over the years, he’s become well acquainted the Torture Curse.
Nothing, though, has ever been as bad as this summer.
For hours and hours every day, he would be placed under the Cruciatus Curse, he would be beaten, he would be tortured. Orion and Walburga would take turns, but she would stick around for far longer and come back more often. Orion only really came to hurt him when he was particularly angry or annoyed, but Walburga needed nothing more than a vague inkling of boredom to torture him into unconsciousness.
He can count on one hand how many times he was fed, as well. From what he’d pieced together from what Orion and Walburga’s minimal conversations (they don’t get along much at all, they try to talk as little as possible), he only got to eat any leftovers they may have had. He’s quite sure that they must have ordered the house elves to make less than usual, because he’s really not had much to eat— or drink, for that matter.
Sirius thinks that the starvation combined with the heavy torture is why he’s so physically affected.
He’s been in horrible pain, radiating out from all the hundreds of spots he’s been hit with the Cruciatus Curse. After months of it, he feels like there’s sandpaper under every square centimetre of his skin, scraping away at his flesh with every motion, every breath. It feels like there’s daggers embedded in his joints, stabbing at him whenever he tries to move.
It’s especially concentrated in his right leg and hand, which are both red, hot to the touch, and feel like they’re on fire whenever anything brushes up against them. Unfortunately for him, he has to keep them both covered (with his shoe and sleeve, respectively), lest his friends see the marks covering them. He had, for some reason, instinctively brought his right hand in front of his left to cover his face whenever he had to block anything, and curled his right leg in front of his body when he had to protect himself while on the floor. Due to this, they were covered in bruises, blood, and the pale marks surrounded by bright inflammation, caused by that damned Unforgivable. The limbs have been going numb pretty often, as well.
More worryingly, he’s been having these weird spasms. Every once in a while, the intense pain in his Curse marks flares up and he finds himself on the floor, whatever limb is hurting shaking and jerking uncontrollably. Sometimes, the spasms spread to other part of his body as other scars become inflamed.
On top of all that, his chest has been oddly tight and achy for the past day-or-so. It’s felt, for about twenty hours, like someone has been sitting and slowly letting their weight rest heavier and heavier on him. Sirius keeps trying to stretch out, arch his back and, hopefully, let more air into his lungs, cure his shortness of breath, but everything burns when he does, so he stopped that after the first few attempts.
His whole body is shaking and he feels ill, he has all summer. He’s just exhausted. He so desperately wants to sleep, but, thanks to the pain, the spasms, the tightness, he can’t calm himself down enough to sleep. It’s been a problem for nearly his whole life, but those few months had been hell for his sleeping. He’s so tired, but hasn’t been able to rest properly in about sixty days.
Somehow, all three of his friends walk into the compartment at the same time. They must’ve seen each other on the platform and joined up on the way to the train.
They’re all talking so loudly, Sirius’ head, already pounding, feels like someone is driving a spike through his temples. He slumps forward and buries his face in his hands, groaning in agony. The movement tears at the deep lacerations on his back that are barely a few hours old, and he’s sure he’s bleeding, now, but he can’t move— that one motion sapped all of the little energy he refrained from wasting on getting into the train cabin. He lets out a shaky, broken breath, but can’t look up when he hears the matching gasps from the other Marauders, he’s too drained.
“Padfoot?” James prompts, voice hesitant, scared. Sirius hears three trunks fall on the floor, where his own is, and three sets of footsteps walking closer. Someone’s hand ends up on his shoulder, and he flinches. He’s got a massive mark from the Cruciatus Curse right where whoever it is— Remus, he thinks; the hand is thin, with long fingers, so it must be— put his hand, there’s massive bruises around it, and there’s a deep cut right next to it.
Apparently, Sirius is silent for too long, because James sniffles and makes a heart-wrenching coughing sound, clearly a coverup for a sob. James has always been emotional, it’s not surprising that seeing someone he’s so close with in obvious pain is enough to make him cry.
“Sirius, hey,” Remus’ soft, higher voice comes. It’s easier on his ears than James’ loud voice— no offence to his brother, but, when you have a migraine, that volume is far from pleasant. “Talk to me, Annwyl,” he prompts, running his thumb in what would be a soothing motion, if Sirius wasn’t in so much pain, over his shoulder.
“Nmm…” is all he manages to whimper. It’s an out of character noise, he knows, but it’s all he can do at the moment.
“Oh, Padfoot,” Remus breathes, and he sounds so hurt. Sirius bites his lower lip, scrubs his face, and looks up at the worried expressions of his friends, which only intensify when they see his face. He has a black eye, a split lip, a million little cuts on his cheekbones from Walburga’s rings, a gash on his forehead from being smashed into a table by Orion, and he has a deep scrape on his jaw from hitting the floor. On top of that, he has bruises in the shape of hands around his neck, and some cuts on it from particularly aggressive punishments.
“‘M tired,” Sirius mumbles, wrapping his arms around his torso.
The trio around him shares a series of complicated looks he doesn’t bother trying to decode, then they collectively nod. They all stand, Remus last, his joints popping and cracking audibly in defiance.
James sets about getting all of their trunks into the overhead compartments, and Remus sits down next to Sirius, Peter across from him. James then drops into the seat across from Sirius.
Remus reaches out to pull Sirius down. It burns, moving, but he bites his tongue and makes a valiant attempt to act like the motion doesn’t make him feel like his skin being stripped from his muscles and then salt is being scrubbed roughly into the open wounds. He obediently falls into his boyfriend’s lap, facing his stomach, and shuts his eyes to try and breathe through the pain.
“Sleep, Seren. I’m here,” Remus says sweetly, and Sirius tries.
Eventually, after about half an hour of soothing his pain and listening to his friend’s quiet chatter, he does manage to pass out on Remus’ skinny thighs.
~~~~~
The feast is a blur; Sirius’ head feels fuzzy the whole time, and his ears are ringing loudly enough that he isn’t comprehending any of the conversational buzz around him.
The tightness and deep ache in his chest was worse when he woke up, and has continued to worsen over the course of the hour and a half it’s been since then. The pain in his chest has also spread to his neck, jaw, shoulder, back, and even his upper arm, for some reason. He’s nauseous, and he’s got a relatively severe case of heartburn, despite the fact that he hasn’t had the stomach to eat anything. He’s short of breath, more so than earlier, and he’s got a cold sweat going. On top of all that, the pain in his hand and leg has practically doubled, and, from the glimpses he’s gotten of them, they’re even redder, and he can feel the intense heat of them through his trousers.
Sirius takes a deep breath, trying to fill his lungs with air, but it sends a wave of hurt streaking through his nerves. The air quickly leaves his body and he slumps over in pain. Nausea washes over him, and he grits his teeth, biting his tongue, trying to keep the bile in. Thankfully, he manages to swallow it down, but his eyes tear up at the acrid taste.
“Sirius?” Remus’ voice pierces the bubble of static in his mind.
Sirius hums, acknowledging. He folds his arms over his chest, curling in on himself further. He’s so tired.
“Are you alright, Baby?” Remus asks, hand resting on Sirius’ upper back. Is he alright? Fuck no, but he can’t tell anyone that. Telling people that would mean talking about what happened to him, and that’s not something he thinks he can handle.
“Tired,” Sirius says, instead. “An’ sick,” he mumbles, looking up at Remus’ worried face. Remus frowns deeply, then grabs Sirius’ big, callused hand and kisses his busted knuckles. Thankfully, it’s his good hand, his left one, that Remus reaches for, so he lets it happen.
“If you want to leave the feast early, you can,” Remus suggests, tilting his head to the side to lock eyes with Sirius. That is an option, the animagus realizes. No one will give a shit if he leaves the feast.
“Might do that,” Sirius nods. He could go and be alone. It’s not usually something he’s looking for, but, currently, with his broken physical and mental state, some quiet, without the expectations of others, sounds brilliant. He glances at James, who is deep in conversation with Peter, then at Remus, who smiles and nods supportively. “Gonna do that,” he says.
“Would you like company, Star?” Remus asks.
Sirius doesn’t know how to politely answer that. His boyfriend is so kind, but saying no feels mean. He doesn’t want to fuck things up. What if Remus gets angry at him for not wanting anyone around him? Mercifully, Remus seems to pick up on his worried expression.
“It’s okay if you don’t,” Remus says, offering a sweet smile. Sirius grabs his hand, kisses the scar crossing the back of it. He fists his sleeve in his other palm, but the movement makes his arm jerk in pain.
“I’d… I’d rather be alone, please,” Sirius says, his jaw aching as it moves. He’s worried it’s obvious that he’s not just sick, not just tired, but Remus’ amber eyes are so kind, so calm, that he doesn’t think the werewolf can tell his body feeling like it’s giving out due to his parent’s abuse.
“That’s alright,” Remus squeezes his hand. His soft voice is just loud enough to pierce the ringing in Sirius’ ears, but he has to focus to hear him.
~~~~~
Back in the dorm, the horrible pain in Sirius’ right hand and leg are intensifying. His hand is worsening at the same rate it has been for the past few days, but his leg is absolutely burning. It feels like a million daggers being stabbed into his skin, like acid is being poured over wounds. It’s not as bad as the Cruciatus Curse, thank Merlin, but it’s still awful. Past the pain, his hand and leg have had a deep feeling of discomfort, of restlessness. Each scar on his body from the Curse is on fire, as well.
Despite the brutal sensation, all Sirius wants is to sleep. His most desperate wish is to lay down in bed, wrap his broken body in the quilt Hope Lupin made Remus years ago (he and Remus have long-since shared a bed), and let his consciousness slip away.
He can’t, though. Not yet.
He has to check his bandages, make sure he doesn’t get any blood on the bed. He ditches his cloak and vest, rolls up his sleeves, toes off his shoes, and pulls his socks off. He worse flats, today, not his boots, because it touches his leg less. He turns on his heel to walk towards the bathroom, but, the second he puts any weight on his right leg, it’s like electricity is being shot through his veins.
The anguish makes his vision blur, his head spin. The earth spins, tilting to the side, and his world narrows to a sharp point as his legs give out and he collapses to the floor. His knees and palms hit the carpet, sending sparks through his nervous system, and he cries out his hurt, into the silent room. Tears spring into his eyes, and tremors run through his body.
His leg jerks to the side, and Sirius falls to his stomach, rolling onto his side and curling up. The spasm spreads to his chest, and he chokes on his own puke as his back forcefully arches against the pain. He sobs, jaw slamming shut around the noise, and grabs at the carpet, fist grasping the edge as he unwillingly presses his face into the ground.
He coughs, sputtering, and vomits on the red carpet. He rolls onto his back, curling up the other way. His throat burns and he keeps coughing, but he can’t take any time to breathe, because the agony is still washing over him in waves. The tightness in his chest keeps getting worse and worse, and he reaches up to grab at his shirt, pull it away, but he tries with his right hand, and the second it comes into contact with his clothes, he cries out again.
Suddenly, that fuzziness in his head intensifies, and his ears begin ringing even louder. He can barely hear anything over the sound in his head, not even his own gagging and sobbing. He feels simultaneously hot and cold all over, pinpricks covering his body, and he can barely breathe. His vision is fading in and out, covered in black spots that keep dancing and moving, and everything is blurring, be it with tears or otherwise, he’s not sure.
Sirius can feel his body spasming, twitching, each motion sending a new feeling of anguish shooting through him. He whimpers, but can’t hear it. The ringing has completely drowned everything else out. His vision has, officially, fully blacked out— whether his eyes are closed or he just can’t see, he isn’t in the position to know. The pain is mingling with a feeling of restlessness and a detached, hot sensation.
Suddenly, something is touching him, and he cries out again. His back spasms violently, he chokes on more puke— he’s not sure where it came from, he’s not eaten much of anything— and whatever— whoever is touching him brushes his hair out of his face.
They yell, whoever it is. They call out. Sirius doesn’t know who it is, what they’re calling, nothing. He can’t even clearly make out the voice. The hand in his hair is gentle, but it still burns when it brushes his forehead.
Someone else is touching him, then. The new person starts moving his body, and he sobs his pain, desperate for the hands to get away from him. Despite the way he flinches away and tries to roll to the other side, the person’s arms reach under his back and legs. He damn near screams when his bad leg is touched, but the person only hesitates for a moment.
Sirius is then lifted off of the ground, leaned against someone’s chest. Someone else’s hands are running over his face, his chest, his shoulder, and he flinches away. The hands pull back, and he hears loud, worried voices through the ringing in his ears, but the fluff filling his brain is too thick for him to comprehend anything.
Whoever is carrying him starts moving, and he whines. The talking above him is still going on. A third voice joins them, just as urgent. The talking makes his head pound, and he groans, because it feels like it’s being slammed into a brick wall over and over again.
Then, his brain fuzzes out again, the small amounts of light that’s manages to filter through his vision is blacked out once again. The world shrinks down to nothing but the pain in his body, and he feels another tremor run through him, then another spasm makes his legs kick out, his arms jerk, and his back arches again. He cries out again, a shout of pain.
The arms holding Sirius jostle him, but he doesn’t hit the floor, they manage to keep him up. The voices get loud, so loud he whines, and they’re so alarmed. After a lapse in movement, whoever is carrying him starts moving again. Quick steps make him bounce against their chest, and it makes him sob and writhe in pain, but whoever is carrying him doesn’t stop sprinting.
As he’s carried, Sirius’ head spins faster and faster, and everything goes black.
~~~~~
Sirius comes to and his eyes immediately sting from the bright light. He groans and throws his left arm over his face, waiting to properly wake up before he tries to remember what happened, figure out where he is, and take stock of his body.
When he finally takes his arm off of his face, he recognizes the ceiling quickly. It’s high and arched, a warm off-white with pretty detailing. It’s the hospital wing. He’s spent countless hours in here, talking to Remus after full moons, being healed after pranks gone wrong, or patching up quidditch injuries. He thinks he’d be able to draw the exact pattern on the roof in his sleep.
He looks around, seeing the wing completely empty. It’s unnerving, but it makes sense. Typically, this early in term, there’s a few homesick first and second years kicking around the place, but they only stick around for a day or so. After the first handful of days, they’ve usually recovered enough to stay in their own dorms. There’s always a cold or lice outbreak a couple of weeks into the year, just because of the spontaneous close-contact and passing of the Sorting Hat, as well.
Due to the emptiness, Sirius thinks it’s been between three and twelve days. He has to assume it’s been closer to three, based on how much mobility he seems to have preserved.
He yawns, arching his back off the bed to stretch, then takes abrupt notice of the sudden pain jolting down his spine. It travels through his body, ricocheting down his arms and legs, throbbing under his right knee and pounding in his right hand. It’s deep, to the bone, but it feels different. He grits his teeth and opens his eyes (when did they close?).
Sirius holds up his right hand, expecting to see the whole thing bandaged, maybe severe bruising, based on the feeling. What he does not expect is to see is nearly half of his hand is now missing.
His pinky, ring, and middle fingers are completely gone, and a big chunk of his hand, just under his last two fingers, is lost, as well. It’s wrapped in bandages, the only part that meets his expectations. His hand is mutilated, and filled with the same kind of pain as his leg. He pushes himself up to sitting, ignoring the pain in his back when he moves.
He can already tell, based on the way the blanket drapes over his legs, what’s happened, but he can’t believe it until he pulls it to the side. Sure enough, his right leg has been amputated right under his knee. It’s also wrapped tightly, aching, and he feels his eyes widen. He runs his left hand, his dominant one, over the pale skin above the bandage, slowly down, down, to the edge. It hurts, but he traces down to the new end of his leg— that part burns.
Sirius remembers why he’s here. He remembers the train ride, leaving the feast early, collapsing in agony in the dorm room. He recalls the blurry memories of someone coming, someone holding him, someone carrying him. In retrospect, it was probably Remus and James. His boyfriend would’ve gone to check on him the second the feast was over, concerned for him after his quick exit. Remus must’ve called James, the only Marauder that can carry Sirius’ tall, broad, surprisingly heavy body, especially while he’s nearly unconscious, a dead weight.
That spasm had been nothing like any of his others. He’s collapsed before, his vision has blacked out, he’s puked, but he’s never been like that. He’s never experienced that level of agony in one of them. The way he completely lost control, the tightness in his chest— everything about it is new. Now, he’s lost his leg and part of his hand because of Walburga and Orion.
Poppy walks up to him. He doesn’t even notice her until her hand is on his back, rubbing soothing circles on his skin, through the thin hospital shirt.
“Sirius, Dear,” she says gently, sitting on the edge of the bed. Sirius sniffles, eyes blurring. This time, it’s not due to whatever the fuck happened with his last spasm. He’s crying.
“I lost…” he trails off. What is he planning to say? His leg? His hand? His mind? He’s known he’s fucked up for a long time, since he was only a small child, but now he has proof. Proof that he’s broken, proof that he’s less than, proof that he’ll never be able to live a normal life. Just like everything else in his life that falls apart with such ease, it’s the House of Black that’s wedged a knife between his reality and the freedom he so desperately craves.
“I’m sorry,” Poppy says, pulling him so his head could rest against her shoulder. Sirius has to hunch over to reach, he’s a good bit taller than her, but he’s already trying to curl in on himself, so it’s not a chore. His body hurts, still. The comfort she offers is appreciated.
“Why?” Sirius whimpers, pushing himself off of her to look her in the eyes. “Why’d…?” he can’t finish his sentence. He just looks at her, hoping for an explanation as to why parts of his body are missing.
Poppy sighs. “Do you know what can happen when somebody is put under the Cruciatus Curse frequently for long periods of time?” she asks him, tucking his long curls behind his ear.
Sirius shakes his head, unable to speak.
“Sometimes, when people have the Curse used on them the way it was used on you, it can cause a lot of problems. I’m sure you know plenty about the mental problems it can cause— PTSD, depression, anxiety, all that. But it has a number of physical problems, as well,” Poppy explains, and Sirius dreads where this is going. “It can cause permanent scarring, pain spasms, headaches, migraines, nausea, insomnia, irreversible nerve damage, heart problems, seizures, and even death, depending on the person,” she lists. “What you experienced, five days ago, was a heart attack.”
Sirius looks down at his lap, at the missing chunk of his hand, at his amputated leg. “Why’re they gone?” he asks, not bothering to address the fact that he’s been unconscious for five days. Every word out of her mouth makes him feel less deserving of the kindness she’s treating him with. He’s rather she just rip the bandaid off, not draw this out with sugarcoated words and gentle phrases.
“The extensive cursing to your hand and leg caused your veins to constrict and your nerves to begin shrivelling up. The cells your flesh is made up of was also beginning to die due to the severe damage it suffered. The bones in your hand and leg had also started to become brittle, thanks to the nutrients being cut off from reaching them,” Poppy tells him, never stopping the gentle rubbing of his back. “Your limbs were dying, and the only way to fix it was to amputate them so it wouldn’t be able to affect the rest of your body. Along with that, those parts were too weak to function properly and would continue to become more painful and even more fragile. You would’ve lost them regardless.”
“Oh,” Sirius whispers. He hears Poppy take another breath, then stop, hesitating, like she has something she wants to say but is hesitant to speak. He sighs. “Spit it out,” he mutters. He wants to get this over with.
“Unfortunately, you’re going to end up having more heart attacks in the future,” Poppy says slowly, and it feels like Sirius’ stomach sinks to the bottom of his abdomen. “Your heart has been irreparably damaged by the Curse. The best we can do now is find ways to improve your quality of life and make sure you aren’t killed by one of the inevitable attacks,” her voice ticks up at the end, like this is something positive. It’s not. Sirius feels sick.
“Oh, yeah?” he says numbly, voice low and monotone. He can’t make himself use his usual intonation, can’t force his loud volume and constant grin.
“I have something for you,” Poppy says, reaching to grab whatever it is off the table next to his bed. She presses it into Sirius’ shaking, callused hands. It’s a little black case, a zipper sealed around it. It’s got a little handle, and it’s made of something soft, and he can tell it’s heavily padded, like there’s something fragile in it. “There’s a potion in there, and a syringe,” she explains. Sirius frowns. “You won’t need to give yourself an injection every time, but, if you feel a heart attack coming on, you’ll need to either drink the potion or take the needle,” she adds.
“I see,” Sirius mumbles. He doesn’t want to keep this case on him. He wishes he didn’t need it. Apparently, though, he does.
After a few long moments of silence, Sirius’ eyes boring holes into the kit in his hands, Poppy breaks it.
“Are you alright, Dear?” she queries, voice still so gentle, like he’ll break if she speaks any louder.. Like he’s fragile. Like he’s broken. Sirius hates it.
He’s not delicate! He’s been abused and tortured for his whole life, he’s been through hell! He’s been through more than anyone else he knows, and, even if he hadn’t, there’s no way for anyone to come out of the Nobel and Most Ancient House of Black fragile. He’s tough as nails, he’s strong, and the one thing he hates most is pity.
“I’m fucking fine, thanks,” Sirius hisses at her, gritting his teeth despite the lingering pain in his jaw. He digs seven nails into the kit, because that’s all he has. Sure, the skin is still the same pale, callused, scarred thing it used to be, but there’s less of it now. Seven nails, seven fingerprints, seven fingers. He glares at his hands as though he could magically regrow them.
Poppy sighs, resigned. “I know you’re upset, Sirius, and you have the right to be, but there’s no point in being cross with me,” she tells him, voice firmer. “You should be mad at whoever did this to you,” she says, softer than he’s ever heard her. Sirius’ eyes well with tears again. He’s not even sure when he stopped crying, but he did, and now he gets to humiliate himself a second time— hell, a third time, since he’s already showed up half-conscious, spasming, sobbing.
“I never said I wasn’t,” Sirius grits out, squeezing the kit as hard as he can. It doesn’t give. He shrugs her arm off of his shoulders and moves back to the centre of the bed. He puts the kit on the other table beside the bed and lays back down, turning his back to Poppy.
“I’ll leave you be,” she says, and he feels the bed shift, hears her feet hit the floor as she gets up. “Call me if you need anything, Dear,” and she walks off.
She leaves Sirius in silence, allowing him to process this news.
~~~~~
It’s about an hour after Poppy leaves him when new people enter the hospital wing.
Sirius is lying on his back, right hand in the air, looking at it. It’s ugly, he thinks, even with the bandages. He can only imagine how hideous it’ll look when they come off. The pictures the scarring, the loss that will forever stain him.
More than that, people will stare. Typically, Sirius enjoys attention. Maybe he’s not the biggest fan of staring, but he doesn’t mind it. But now? Now, they’ll stare because he’s disfigured.
He wonders if he’ll be able to play quidditch, now. Will they let a fucking invalid on the team? Losing a leg and three fingers will certainly affect his ability to play. His leg will make balance harder, and, as a beater, his grip is important. On top of that, the stress, and excitement, and passionate emotions of the game will probably increase his risk of having another heart attack.
Marlene is going to beat his ass, he thinks, if he has to leave her as the only beater on the team. They work so well together, they’re an unstoppable force, and she’ll be disappointed if he has to drop out.
He’s too focused on his newfound disabilities to hear the door to the wing swing open and the so-familiar chatter of his friends entering.
“Padfoot!” James cries, throwing himself onto Sirius’ chest. His face finds into the warm spot between Sirius’ neck and shoulder, and he presses a kiss onto the skin there. “Oh, Pads, fuck,” he whimpers, and, all of a sudden, there’s moisture at the crook of his neck and James is sobbing.
Remus sits on the edge of the bed, cards his fingers through Sirius’ long, tangled curls. Peter gets in the chair on the opposite side. Remus leans down to kiss Sirius gently, lips on lips, so soft.
Sirius still hates it. He’s still not fragile. He doesn’t need to be treated so gently.
“You fucking terrified us, Seren,” Remus tells him. Sirius locks eyes with him, and is surprised to see that he, too, is tearing up. A glance at Peter confirms that all three of them are, at the very least, on the verge of tears. Remus sniffles, wiping at his watery eyes. His lower lip quivers, and Sirius’ heart breaks. He’s being too selfish. He can’t keep being angry, he’s just going to hurt them more if he doesn’t pull his head out of his ass.
“I’m sorry, Moony,” Sirius says, cupping Remus’ face with his good hand. “I didn’t… I didn’t realize what was happening— didn’t know how bad it would get,” he says, and it feels dangerously close to an admission of what Walburga and Orion did to him. It feels dangerously close to letting them in, opening his chest for them to see the monsters, the memories, the nightmares that dwell in there, have lived there for his entire life. He’s tired of them, but he doesn’t want to let anyone see the dirt in his soul.
James’ leg brushes the stump that used to be Sirius’ own. Sirius sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, the lets it out, groaning in pain. His hand flies from Remus’ jawline to James’ shoulder. It’s still a would— a very deep one, at that.
“Pads, your leg—” James says urgently, sitting up. He turns, straddling the older boy’s waist, and Sirius hears the collective gasp as his friends and boyfriend see his disfigurement. Shame prickles his skin, makes his face colour. People think it’s impossible to make him blush, but they’re wrong. The quickest way to made his face go red is to embarrass him.
“I know,” Sirius mumbles, crossing his arms and hiding his mutilated hand under his other arm. “It’s awful, I know,” he feels tears prick his eyes, and presses his lips together to hold back his misery.
“Let me see your hand,” Remus orders, and Sirius feels like he’s going to vomit again. He hesitates, curls his two fingers into the fabric of his shirt, frowning deeply. “Sirius. I saw your hand when I found you, it was just as red as your leg,” Remus says, reaching for the animagus’ sleeve. Sirius clutches at his shirt, resisting Remus’ persistent hands.
“It’s fine, Moony,” Sirius tries to pacify him, attempting to stay pleasant despite his achy heart.
“If you were fine, you’d have no problem showing me your hand,” Remus says bluntly. He grabs Sirius’ short sleeve, pulls at it even harder, and Sirius looks away. Remus grabs his face and turns it so they can look at each other. “Padfoot, I already saw when we walked in,” his voice is so gentle, but it still hits him like a bag of rocks when he hears those words. His boyfriend knows. Remus knows he’s mutilated, Remus knows he’s damaged.
“Oh,” is all Sirius can manage. He tears up, eyebrows drawing in.
He finally gives in, letting Remus pull his right hand away from his body to inspect the damage. They all gasp again, and he feels Remus turning his hand over in his own, running his fingers over the edges of the bandages in what looks almost like reverence, but can’t be. Nearly half of his hand is missing, nothing about it is good, nothing about it is positive, nothing about it is something to think of with that look on your face.
“Sirius, what happened?” Remus asks. There’s the dreaded question, the one that makes Sirius want to hide under his blanket, jump off the astronomy tower, something. He just wants to run away from this conversation.
“Had a heart attack, apparently,” Sirius says with a shrug. The way he said it, like it doesn’t mean anything, made his friends take a brief moment to understand the gravity of a sixteen-year-old who’d never had any previous health issues having a heart attack. Three pairs of eyes snap onto him; hazel, amber, and a near-black brown, all alight with concern. Concern for him. That’s overwhelming.
“You had a what?” James echoes, voice cracking in half on the last word. “You had— you had—” he cuts himself off with a whimper. “Paddy, you could’ve…” he hiccups, sobs, and pushes his face against Sirius’ muscular chest, and Sirius wonders if his best friend is trying to listen to his heartbeat to make sure it’s working properly. It’s not, he knows, but James’ concern is sweet.
“You nearly died,” Peter says, voice high pitched and scared. James sobs again, louder, this time. Sirius feels bad, wondering briefly if he should’ve told them that. But, no, if he’s going to have one again, eventually, they’ll need to know.
“I know,” Sirius runs his fingers through James’ messy hair, kisses the top of his fluffy head, and then reaches out soothe Peter, rubbing his shoulder. The short boy moves closer, all but curls around Sirius’ arm. He turns to Remus, who is still holding his injured hand, and is watching him with an unreadable expression. “Moony?”
“Why’d you have a heart attack, Seren?” Remus asks, eyes burning with a disarming sort of intensity. “And why did that mean you had to lose body parts?” he adds. Sirius feels incredibly scrutinized, but it’s for good reason.
“It’s, uh,” Sirius glances around at his friends, anxious. “Apparently heart attacks can happen if… uh, if you’ve been put under the Cruciatus Curse,” he doesn’t wait to see or hear their reactions. “As it turns out, that curse has a lot of awful long-term side effects, did you know? Like— insomnia, nausea, migraines, nerve damage, seizures— and, obviously, heart problems. Um, it can cause death, too,” he laughs nervously. “My hand and leg are because they took the brunt of the cursing, and it fucked them up irreversibly. I was going to lose them, eventually, they just got so weak, and fragile, and painful,” he explains, forcing a smile.
“Who did it?” Remus demands. Sirius swallows, but he knows it’s time. He sighs.
“Walburga. And Orion. Mostly Walburga,” he says quietly. “They did a lot of things to me,” he whispers, and all of his strength goes right down the drain. Tough as he is, the memories of what his parents did to him have always hurt him to remember. “Just… lots of painful things,” he blinks tears out of his eyes. He’s already done more than enough breaking down in front of people.
After a too-long silence, especially considering the fact that James is lying on his chest, Sirius chances a look at the trio around him. He instantly regrets it.
Peter’s eyes are watering, and his mouth is open. He’s clutching at Sirius’ arm, chubby hands shaking, dark eyes boring into the oldest boy’s soul.
James is full-on bawling, gripping Sirius’ shirt so tightly that his usually brown knuckles are going pale, and his glasses are fogging up from his tears. He’s sniffling, lips quivering, and Sirius can’t bear to look at his brother in such a state for too long, so he moves on.
Remus has tears on his face. His lips are parted in shock, already big eyes wide, thick eyebrows raised. His tanned hands are completely still, and his thin body is ramrod straight and incredibly tense. He doesn’t even seem aware of the waterfalls flowing from his eyes, too focused on Sirius’ face. His face has gone pale, making his silvery scars fade and his freckles stand out.
“Guys?” Sirius says hesitantly, laughing awkwardly.
“Your fucking parents?” Remus’ voice is incredulous, but it’s so shaky, so scared.
“Uh, yeah?” Sirius tries to smile, but he doesn’t think it’s convincing anyone. “That’s, uh, that’s what I said, right?” he bites his lip, looking at James and Peter for support, but they both look sick to their stomachs and like they very much agree with Remus’ tone. James suddenly sits up, drags Sirius until he’s sitting, and holds his face. They lock eyes, and Sirius is momentarily taken aback by the sheer passion in his firm gaze.
“Sirius,” James starts, and it catches the attention of the mentioned boy. James never calls him his name. “You’re never going back to them. I won’t let you,” he says, more somber than Sirius has ever seen him. “You’re coming home with me. You’ll be safe.”
Sirius’ chest feels warm, but he stamps it down. “No, James,” he says, shaking his head. James opens his mouth to protest, but Sirius keeps talking. “I’m sick. I’m not…” he sighs. “I’m going to keep having heart attacks. Poppy gave me a kit with a potion and a needle— I need to either drink it or inject it whenever I get one. There’s no way to stop getting them, my heart is already too messed up,” Sirius chokes on his tears, looks down so no one will see them spill. “My leg is gone, my hand is fucked… I’m an invalid, James, I’m broken! You don’t want that burden— your parents, they’re absolutely brilliant, they’re amazing people, but they don’t want that fucking burden, either! You don’t want… you don’t want me,” Sirius sniffles, then sobs, buries his face in his hands as his broad shoulders begin to shake and heave.
“Sirius…” James says, forces his head up. “That doesn’t change anything, Paddy,” he smiles, warm and genuine and James. “I still want you with me, and Mum and Dad already love you. You know you’re always welcome with us,” he kisses Sirius’ cheek, then the palm of his wounded hand. That traitorous, easy-to-break warmth stirs in Sirius’ chest again, so different from the tightness and heat of his heart attack.
“You’re not a burden, Padfoot,” Peter speaks up, having moved onto the side of the bed. “Losing a leg and part of your hand, having heart attacks… it’s not good, but it doesn’t make you a burden, you know?” he smiles shyly, grabbing Sirius’ muscled arm and leaning against his big frame.
“And, Seren?” Remus pipes up, slinging both arms around Sirius’ shoulders. “Please, never call yourself an invalid, broken, or anything like that. You’re not. You’re bloody perfect,” he says, kissing Sirius’ cheek.
Sirius sobs— he didn’t even know he’s crying, but he is. He curls forwards, grasping at his friends— his family— and presses his face into Remus’ shoulder, allowing James and Peter to wrap him in their arms, nuzzle into his own shoulder and neck.
This is what safety is, he realizes. This is family. This is being cared for, being loved, being cherished.
Even if it cost an arm and a leg, Sirius is glad he’s gotten to this point.