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Sirius must be dreaming.
That's the only explanation for why his body feels light as air as it merges with the incorporeal vibrations of the atmosphere. He can see a white mist all around him, coalescing like cotton balls around the movement of his arms as he raises his hand to his face. Like particles of water attached to a clean glass surface, the mist gathers in patches so that when Sirius looks down at himself, there are parts where his skin is uncovered. In the visible spaces on his arm, he can see grayish-white skin, the color of corpses. He flexes his fingers and the mist moves, revealing skeletal, weather-beaten hands, the knobs of his knuckles standing out as he curls his hand into a fist.
He's dead.
As he thinks the words, he remembers the Department of Mysteries and the desperate dash to Harry's side as Lucius Malfoy raised his wand. He can still smell the acrid scent of flying curses and the mad laughter that overcame him as he fought back, finally, after years on the run. To stretch his wand arm and fight back against the people who'd taken James from him, who'd taken Lily, who'd taken everything that Sirius Black loved in his pathetic life. It was liberating, perhaps the only thing Sirius doesn't regret of his short life.
Because he's sure he must be dead. There's no other explanation for the burst of light that covers him from head to toe, that warmth that settles in his chest and calms him. He closes his eyes, but instead of peace, he finds himself watching the events leading up to his death.
He's once again in the large, echoing, rectangular room with the stone archway in the center, the pearlescent black veil fluttering ominously. This time Sirius is floating above the dais containing the veiled archway, his head brushing against the stone ceiling of the room. He sees himself shoving Lucius out of the way with a simple spell, sees Harry pull out his wand and fight back, hears himself, mad with exhilaration, yelling, "nice one, James."
Hearing it now, the echoes of his mistakes seem to fill the room so that even as Sirius watches himself fighting Bellatrix, he can still hear the words "nice one, James," over and over. He's laid himself bare with those words, proclaimed to the world the deepest secrets of his heart. He knows Moony heard it, can see it on the pity on his face as Sirius is hit with Bellatrix's spell, how he runs to comfort Harry as Sirius watches himself fall through the veil.
It didn't even hurt.
What hurts is the way Harry's scream pierces through the sounds of battle, that anguish that pulls at Sirius's heart, an agonizing yell for the unfairness in the world. He and Harry only ever wanted a family and neither got it in the end.
He stays a while longer, though he can feel the tug in the center of his abdomen that warns him his time is almost up. He doesn't know where Vanished things go, much less where a man who lost everything and believed in nothing, will end up. But for the moment, he lingers as a spectator to his friends' sorrows, watches Harry break free from Moony's grip, sees him run after Bellatrix. He stays to watch Moony sink to his knees, his hands reaching out for Sirius's discarded wand. He's the only one left, the last witness to their friendship, the only one who can still remember the sounds of four boys on the edge of greatness.
Peter doesn't count. Peter will never count. Not after everything.
Sirius spares another glance towards the door where Harry went, but Moony stands and after a moment's glance at the fluttering veil, he follows after Harry. Then, because surely this is the end, Sirius closes his eyes and gives in to the pull at his waist.
-
He opens his eyes to the floating white world engulfed in mist, that feeling of insubstantial existence surrounding him as he tries to figure out how to stand. His feet don't hit anything solid but he feels himself recenter, a shifting of gravity that tells him he's where he's supposed to be. Nothing of this world reminds him of the pain of his life. He is at peace here, and because the feeling is new, Sirius embraces it, lets it fill every part of his body until it's everything he can do to keep from crying. He doesn't remember ever feeling this way in his life.
But the moment doesn't last. The same way nothing good has ever lasted in his life. As he tries to turn to look behind him, he becomes aware of a faint rippling of shadow in the distance, a smudge against the brightness of this place. He blinks and the smudge shimmers, a pearlescent black that grows the longer Sirius looks at it. It spreads in ever increasing circular swirls, shortening the distance between it and the cotton-like mist surrounding Sirius. He inhales as the smudge grows larger, seeming to shoot towards him. He gasps as it comes to a stop, perfectly round and smooth enough that he can see his mist-covered face in the reflective surface.
He doesn't recognize the man looking back at him, the sharp angles of his face, the beginning of laugh lines at the corner of his eyes. His black hair hangs in waves over the left side of his face, the thick strands of his youth combed to the side, falling just above his shoulders. He was always a handsome man, but the years weighed heavily on him, and though he can see parts of himself in the reflection in front of him, he knows it isn't him in the black orb.
And yet, the man reflected back at him is also covered in cotton balls of mist, every inch of his skin that isn't his face sealed off from Sirius's gaze. He tilts his head just to watch the reflection move it too. He smiles, a forced, stilted thing that pulls at his face and makes his jaw muscles clench. He wants to scream and finds that he can't, something about the weightlessness of this place keeping him silent. It's not as though Sirius can't yell. It's simply that to do so here would be unnecessary. Unwanted. He doesn't want to break the peace in his heart.
He doesn't know what's meant to happen now. He's never had an awareness of an afterlife. There was no need, in his youth, to think of such things, and by the time Azkaban reduced him to the hollow shell of a man that he's been these last few years, there was nothing for Sirius to believe in. But if he were a man who believed, he thinks the afterlife would be something other than an endless orb of pearlescent black in a mist-covered world. He thinks James should be here, at the very least.
At that thought, the orb in front of him shivers as a thousand vibrating points shoot outwards. He watches as they come towards his face. He feels the pinch of a needle, and then everything within him stills, as his bones turn to lead. He lands on nothing, his feet finding no purchase but feeling as though he's solid against solid, a weight pushing against the delicate fabric of the strange world he inhabits. He inhales and the black orb expands, oozing like thick liquid until it encases Sirius in its center.
He can still see the white light on the outside of the orb, can sense the peace that exists out there, but he's in his body once more, his feet landing on the bottom part of the orb, his hands free of the mist. He looks down at himself, his pristine gray t-shirt tucked into black tailored trousers, a leather jacket, completing the ensemble. He owned the same jacket when he was in his early twenties, the beaten leather perfect for keeping the chill out at night when he rode his motorcycle. He can see his hands now. They're filled out and pale, a natural color that is a far cry from the grayish-white of before.
If he didn't know any better, he would think he was alive.
YOU ARE.
The sound isn't a voice. It starts as the echo of a far-off sound, a faint whisper that's not really there in a cold, empty room. Sirius hears it like a memory. One moment, nothing exists. The next, he remembers the words as though they've always been inside his thoughts.
"Hello?" he calls, surprised to hear the way his voice lingers.
It floats around him, weighed down and alive.
This is how he knows he's dead.
BUT YOU LIVE.
The same odd memory lingers in Sirius's head, and because the world has become a strange place, he decides to play along.
"Where am I?" he asks.
YOU ARE HERE. THAT IS, NOWHERE AND EVERYWHERE.
Sirius turns on the spot, but everywhere he looks, he sees the same white expanse of nothingness. The only thing that's solid is the orb underneath his feet and the voice in his memory. He tugs at his leather jacket, feels the jab of wood against his waist. He pulls his wand out in one smooth motion, but it feels wrong, the magic unrecognizable.
"What is this place?" he asks.
IT IS A CHOICE.
The memories come unbidden as though something is dragging them forth, ripping through the walls Sirius's built over the years. It's James in every one of them, James laughing, James punching his arm, James shoving him as they make their way across the grass to the lake at Hogwarts. It's James curled up next to him in their bedroom at the Potters', his forehead on Sirius's arm, his hand on the curve of Sirius's elbow. James in every one of Sirius's dreams, running his hands through his hair, wild exhilaration in his eyes as he climbs off his broomstick, that wild laughter as he throws his arms around Sirius.
HAVE YOU MADE YOUR CHOICE?
Sirius can feel his heart beating hard against his chest, a wild out of control thumping that leaves him gasping for breath. He can remember the question along with the memories, a vague awareness of an answer needed. His choice has been clear ever since he saw James Potter sitting in the train compartment on their first year at Hogwarts, that prim and proper posture belonging to the well-off, a pureblood that Sirius hadn't met before and, therefore, a pureblood he had to meet. It's always been James. Always will be.
DO YOU CHOOSE?
"Yes," Sirius says, sure of this, if nothing else in his life.
THEN, WAKE UP.
-
"Wake up, love."
Sirius would know that voice anywhere. It's deep and welcoming, a faint hint of amusement underneath the words. He's heard James call him "love" countless of times before, right before he headed off to a Quidditch match, before detention, when they had to part ways before exams, at the end of the year, at the beginning. But Sirius's favorite has always been this, in the morning, with the sun just beginning to creep through the blinds in James's room, when James is still half-asleep.
Sirius stays still a moment and imagines that he's sixteen again, hiding in James's room and nursing the wounds his mother's words left him. He can almost feel James next to him, the firm press of his hand on Sirius's elbow, the heat of his body as he curls towards Sirius. It's exactly as he remembers from when they were teenagers, that closeness that seeped into Sirius's bones and left him confused and ashamed.
He's always loved James Potter. That much became clear when he lost him. Nothing that ached so much could be anything but love. And it hurts again now to think that this is death—an eternity in James Potter's embrace, forever longing and never having.
"Wake up," he says again, his mouth by Sirius's ear.
Perhaps, he was wrong, Sirius thinks. Perhaps, heaven is an eternity of dreams, forever lost in the feeling of James's mouth on the side of his face, pressing kisses into his hair.
James's hand is firm and real as it slides up Sirius's arm to touch the side of his neck, to get his fingers entangled in Sirius's hair. He can feel James shifting, recognizes the softness of a down comforter beneath him. They're in a bed soft as air that reminds Sirius of the weightless world he came from. As he reaches for the memory of cotton mist, he feels the press of James's lips against his, foreign and wanted.
He's been waiting for so long, imagining the different ways that James Potter might kiss, that he reacts instinctively, leans forward to meet him halfway. He opens his eyes because to miss the way emotion lives on James's face would be a cruelty. He's already missed so many opportunities, so much lost to their laughter as they joked, shoving each other along the Hogwarts staircases. He's opened his mouth to kiss James hundreds of times, closed it thousands more, locked away the desire that ran through him as he watched James.
He's beautiful, painfully so, because he's older than Sirius ever got to see him, vibrant hazel eyes, soft as they look down at Sirius. He has the beginnings of crow's feet when he smiles, a thin line that starts at the edge of his eyes and follows the line of his wire-rimmed glasses. His black hair is an unruly mass on top of his head, pushed away as though James's been running his fingers through it.
Sirius reaches up reflexively, his touch feather-light as he runs his fingers over James's cheeks, his mouth, the line of his nose. "How old are you?" he asks.
James rolls his eyes. "My birthday was a month ago," he says. "And besides, you're older than me."
Yes Sirius wants to say. He always has been. Always will be.
"Come now," James says, rolling away from Sirius and spreading out next to him. "Twenty-five isn't that old."
Sirius turns on his side, refusing to look away from him. He's still James, still has that arrogant tilt to his head even as he lies there. All the usual traces of the well-bred have found a home in James Potter, from the elegant line of his nose to the sharpness of his cheekbones. His skin still shines like it did when they were teenagers, his brown skin flawless and smooth, a combination of good genetics and even better skin-care routines. Sirius would know the secret even if James hadn't told him back in sixth year—both of them hunched over the array of potions and lotions in the center of James's four-poster, their curtains drawn shut.
"No," Sirius says, thinking of James's carefully lined potions in their bathroom. "Twenty-five isn't that old."
"Damn right," James says. "We're the same age for the next six months, and then I get to make fun of you."
Twenty-five, Sirius thinks, as he watches James stretch, the way his arms go over his head. He brings them down slowly, his palm pressing against Sirius's head. He's grinning as he pushes Sirius's face further away, until Sirius has no choice but to turn to his left. His eyes land on the bedside table, on the simple black framed photograph, and there, at last, is the thing that breaks his calm.
He sits up, recoiling from James's touch, as his feet hit the hardwood floor. He knows James is saying something, but all Sirius hears is a loud, high pitched ringing as his vision narrows down to the photograph. On it, there's Lily Evans, beautiful red hair tossed over her shoulders as James pulls her close. Sirius is in the photograph on Lily's other side, his hand over James's as they rest their hands on Lily's stomach. She's shaking her head, her own hand curled protectively beneath theirs, a beautiful smile breaking across her face.
Sirius reaches for the frame, his fingers shaking as he pulls it closer. He can't make sense of what's happening, the complexities that exist in this heaven that was made for him. Here, he's supposed to have James to himself. There should be no pregnant Lily Evans, no beautiful Muggle-born witch who wormed her way into Sirius's heart. It isn't fair that even in death, he can't have what he wants. But if he's honest, this place makes more sense now. For there's never been a world where Sirius gets to keep good things.
He feels James's fingers before he hears him, a firm press on his shoulder that grounds him. "Padfoot," he says. "Are you all right?"
"Lily's here," Sirius says, unable to stop himself.
"Well, yes," James says, shifting along the mattress until he's sitting next to Sirius. "Lily's here. Downstairs actually."
Sirius can feel the heat of James's leg against his, and he's thinking of seventh year without meaning to. The night when James burst into their dormitory in the Gryffindor Tower and threw himself onto Sirius's bed. He was young and alive, every bit of him vibrating with barely suppressed glee.
"You'll never guess who agreed to go on a date with me," he told Sirius.
He was so close then too, his side pressed against Sirius's legs as he sat on his bed. Everyone always thought James Potter was untouchable, arrogant, cold. But when he was with Sirius, he was just a young boy in love that ached to share his affection, a crumble of tender pieces. James was so loved he didn't know what to do with all the excess, and Sirius, who had never been loved before, couldn't keep away. It was a matter of time before he got carried away in James, before their brotherly shoves turned into lingering touches.
If Sirius could have gotten a little more time. If Lily had said no just once more. Ifs that go on forever. The list was ever-expanding the longer Sirius lived. Even now, in death, the list goes on. Always so close and never close enough to get what he wants. He should get it printed on a t-shirt, make it the new Black motto, "too slow when it matters."
He looks back to the photograph in his hands and knows that Harry's growing within Lily. That soon, Sirius will stand beside James and become Harry's godfather. He remembers what comes after, the flash of green light, the Dark Mark, Hagrid's arms holding him up as he cries over James and Lily's bodies. It figures that this is his punishment for being too slow to save them—an eternity watching it unfold over and over.
"Padfoot," James says, pulling Sirius away from his thoughts.
He's watching Sirius carefully, apprehension in every one of his features. He takes the photograph and Sirius lets him, waits as James takes his hand. His fingers are calloused, which means he's still playing Quidditch, still dismounting his broomstick with messy hair and bright eyes. Sirius can see him so clearly in his mind, the harsh intake of breath as the Captain's badge dropped from his Hogwarts letter, how he threw himself into Sirius's arms, the hard ground against Sirius's back as they fell. What Sirius wouldn't do for a second chance.
"If Lily's downstairs," Sirius says, reaching out to tug at James's shirt. "Why are you kissing me?"
James opens his mouth to answer but Sirius pulls him in to press their lips together. He'll never tire of James's mouth on his, the way he digs his fingers into Sirius's hair and pulls him in, that desperate edge to him as he tries to get closer. Sirius can feel it all over his body, a lightning bolt of sensation running up his spine as James kisses him back. He doesn't care what world he's in, he realizes with a jolt. All that matters is that James keeps kissing him, keeps letting Sirius hold him. What matters is that these are new memories that Sirius will keep for as long as he's able.
When they part, James is grinning. He bites his bottom lip and eyes Sirius's t-shirt. "We should go see Lily," he says, his fingers toying with Sirius's collar.
"Will she be upset?" he asks.
James laughs as he stands, his hands going up to smooth out his hair where Sirius's fingers have messed it up. "She doesn't care what we do, love. She's seen much worse."
"What?" Sirius asks.
He means that James has never called him "love" the way he did just now, full of casual affection and tenderness. He wants to ask what happened, where he is, why the world is the way it is. It frightens him to have so much, makes him feel unsafe as he waits for the inevitable disaster that's to come. Sirius doesn't get to have good things even in death. So he asks "what," when he means, "where am I and who are you?"
"Summer of '81, Sirius," James says, misunderstanding the question. "Moony and Evans have never been the same since."
Then he's gone, out through the bedroom door, and Sirius is alone. He takes his time looking around the room, at the wide, open spaces of what's obviously a master bedroom. There are windows on either side of the bed, two Mahogany bedside tables, and an antique dresser that Sirius has seen in Grimmauld Place. He frowns as he sees it, the Slytherin serpent carved into the handles, a faint trace of silver along the edges.
He's never seen the dresser outside of Grimmauld Place before, and even as he thinks that, he feels the memories slam into him. His head hurts, a throbbing pain that starts at his right temple and spreads across his forehead. He remembers being stuck in Grimmauld Place while Dumbledore walked in and out with members of the Order of the Phoenix. The dresser was Regulus's, pushed to the back of his room, and the only reason Sirius went looking for it was because Dumbledore asked for a good hiding place.
He remembers pulling open the doors, the snake handles shivering under his touch as they gave way. Only a Black could open the dresser, whether by birth or marriage, it didn't matter. All Sirius knew was that if anyone else attempted to get inside, it would ignite its contents. Dumbledore laughed when Sirius told him about it, but he left the parcel anyway, let Sirius guard it, didn't even ask him to not open it.
But overlaid with that memory, there's another. It's Sirius last year, standing on the stone front steps of Grimmauld Place, his eyes on the brass snake knocker handing from the wooden door. James was with him, their fingers entwined. They stood outside for an eternity, letting the cool fall breeze wash over them, as Sirius worked up the courage to go back into his childhood home for the first time in eight years.
"Not to push, Padfoot," James said eventually. "But it's bloody freezing, and I really don't fancy spending the day after our honeymoon staring at your mother's house."
Sirius laughed and finally moved. They went to Regulus's room, to the dresser, stood in front of it until James moved forward to touch it.
Sirius shakes his head now as he remembers the fear that ran through him then. He can remember picturing the contents of the dresser going up in flames, all the pictures he saved over the years burned to nothing. He looks at the dresser in front of him, remembers, "our honeymoon," and thinks hard about James's left hand. He closes his eyes and it's as though there are two sets of memories tucked into his brain. He remembers Lily and James laughing as they kissed under the flowered archway Wormtail made for them on their wedding day. But he also remembers James kissing him over and over as Lily and Moony pelted them with flowers.
He's almost afraid to look at his hand, almost misses the silver band that wraps around his ring finger. He can remember the day he and James went to get the dresser clearly now, the way that memory pushes past the one of Dumbledore. He sees James, his eyebrow raised, hand poised over the snake handle.
"We can always go check the tapestry," he said.
Sirius remembers shaking his head, thinking that the world could burn and go to hell with his mother, because dresser or no, James was his family, his friend, his husband. Then James touched the handle and it gave way under his fingers, the doors of the dresser swinging open as he laughed.
Only a Black could open the dresser, Sirius thinks, looking down at his wedding band. He doesn't know where the sense of calm comes from, doesn't understand how the only thing he can think of is that in no world would James ever take the Black name willingly. It's that thought that finally grounds him. He can feel the weight of gravity on his shoulders, that sense of being exactly where he should be, but also nowhere.
He turns on the spot, tries to see through the dark purple sheets into the blankness he first woke up in.
"Where am I?" he asks the room.
It answers him with silence, an absence of noise so clear, Sirius almost convinces himself that he's losing his mind. He thinks back to all the things his parents forced him to read when he was younger, the forbidden spells and curses. He doesn't think he's ever heard of a potion that conflates two worlds into one, that makes its drinker dream another life, vivid enough that Sirius can still feel the impact of Bellatrix's curse on his chest.
He stands there and tries to remember his life before this moment. He knows he left home when he was sixteen, knows, too, that it hurt more than he was ever willing to admit when his mother didn't stop him. That pain is real, the way it aches after all these years to know that his mother's reputation mattered more than her son. He knows Voldemort rose to power during his last year at Hogwarts, knows that he, James, Lily, and Moony all joined Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix to stop the Death Eaters. He remembers Regulus dying and his mother and father following soon after.
But as he tries to remember Wormtail, the memories grow fuzzy, like static across a phone line, he can hear a mess of words—Wormtail begging for his life, Wormtail screaming that Sirius killed all those people, Wormtail calling him a traitor, James yelling with rage and sorrow. He has fractured memories of himself pointing his wand at Wormtail and of Wormtail pointing his wand in return, hatred clear on his face as he stood under the Dark Mark. He knows Wormtail fell with Voldemort two years ago, knows also that Wormtail's still out there.
It's as though there are two worlds fighting to replace each other in Sirius's memories. He knows that he died, knows that he was given a choice that brought him here. What he doesn't know is where here is, or why, to stay, it seems as though he has to forget where he came from. But just as he's preparing to sort what he knows from what he doesn't, he hears Lily calling him. And he hadn't known just how much he missed her, until he hears his name coming from her mouth with that edge of annoyed fondness he's never quite been able to remember correctly.
So he goes, leans into the ache that settles in his heart at her voice. He's married to James, that much he knows and accepts. But what he remembers as he walks out of the room and towards Lily's voice, what almost undoes him, is the knowledge that she's carrying his and James's child. That life grows inside her for them, that she offered when they got married, that Sirius cried into her lap and told her he would never be able to repay her for giving them what they thought they could never have.
So what if this world isn't real, Sirius thinks. So what if he's dead? So what if things are just a little bit off? He's nothing if not adaptable, nothing if not practical. So what if he's dreaming so long as he never wakes up again?
-
Lily Evans is beautiful, a glorious mass of red hair and freckles, bright green eyes that Sirius knows deep down his child will inherit. She's carrying his baby, sitting on James and Sirius's couch, her feet propped up on their coffee table. Sirius is in his home, married to James, waiting for the moment they have to take Lily to hospital. He doesn't know how to describe the emotion in his chest as he looks at her, as he holds onto James's hand as tight as he can.
He inhales shakily, wants to ask Lily if she needs another pillow, if she needs something to eat or drink. He doesn't know what to do as he looks at her, everything within him refusing to believe that this is real. He's fighting the desperate urge to flee, to escape before his world crumbles to nothing. This can't be real. But he has all the memories, every visit to Lily's Muggle doctors, the way she rolled her eyes when she told them that Wizards needed to catch up to modern medicine. He remembers watching awed as the Muggle doctor let them hear their baby's heartbeat for the first time.
Please Sirius finds himself thinking. Please let this be real.
He gets no response in return, just Lily frowning at him and saying, "All right there, Sirius?"
"Yes," he says, feels James's free hand on his knee. "I forgot how far along you were is all."
"I wish I could forget," Lily says, patting her belly. "I keep trying to pick things up and almost falling over. I love you both, but I'll be glad when this baby is out of me."
"Evans," James says in mock-outrage. "That's your future godchild you're talking about."
"I didn't do this for you, Potter," Lily says, wrinkling her nose. "Never forget that."
Sirius eyes James warily, remembering their years at Hogwarts, Lily forever annoyed at them. But James laughs and throws his arm around Sirius's neck. He drags him close and kisses the side of his face, lingering by Sirius's ear.
"I can ask her to go," he whispers, plays it off as though he's just brushing his face against Sirius's.
James will be the end of him, Sirius thinks. That has always been true, is true even now when they're together, when Sirius can feel the string of memories fighting to replace each other, his mind working hard to make sense of the impossible. He should give in, wants it so badly, it's frustrating that it hasn't happened yet.
It's him, the way it's always been, just himself getting in the way of his own happiness. There's a part of Sirius that can feel the end, and he still hasn't decided fully, if the pain of knowing none of this is real is worth the happiness he's felt since he woke up in James's embrace.
"Sirius," James whispers into his ear, and there are so many memories that start with James's mouth next to his face that it's so easy to pretend everything's okay.
He knows what James's body feels pressed up against him, as he whispers about clandestine meetings between classes. He knows it feels like this, James warm beside him, touching but not giving. Except, this moment is different, like this world is different. Here, James's lips touch Sirius's face, and his hands lay possessive on Sirius's back. He's warm and open, giving and touching.
I love you, Sirius thinks a little desperately.
He should say it while he still has the chance, say it here where James will laugh and say it back. He thinks of this world dissolving, of the pearlescent orb that asked him to choose. He's so scared of doing the wrong thing, of having made the wrong choice. He has no memory of even asking for this, knows that he simply thought of James and then he was here.
Maybe he is going mad. Perhaps there was never another world where Harry hugged him at Christmas, where Moony drank with him and pretended the liquor washed away all of their heartache, where James and Lily died. Maybe Sirius should stop thinking so much.
"I love you," he says, turning towards James.
He's met with James's hazel eyes, wrinkling at the corners as he smiles at Sirius. "I love you too," he says.
It's nothing like Sirius imagined, no impassioned dalliance in the Hogwarts hallways. He's not shoving James against the changing room lockers after a Quidditch game. They're not even sitting in their dormitory, James's collection of skincare products laid out between them, his earnest eyes on Sirius, waiting for his judgment.
This is better. There's no contest. Sirius would gladly go through all the years of not having James if he could get him now, like this, exasperated fondness on his face as he grins at Sirius. He'd go through it all again—Bellatrix, Lucius, Wormtail's betrayal—if he could hear James tell him he loves him just once. Just like this. It's enough.
"You two are disgusting," Lily calls over to them. "It's been over a year since you were married. The honeymoon phase is over."
Sirius forgot she was there, and as he's turning to her, James catches his face in his hands. "Don't listen to Evans," he says. "She's just jealous."
Lily laughs and Sirius reaches for his favourite memory of her, the day before Harry was born, when she sat at the kitchen table and told him she was naming the baby Harry, if it was a boy. But as he tries to recall the detail, the memory goes fuzzy. The more he reaches for it, the faster it disappears until Sirius can't remember what he was doing. He shakes his head and sees Lily watching him, her eyebrows raised in question.
She's always been good at reading him, ever since Dumbledore made her Prefect and she started spending her days chasing after James and Sirius. He remembers her the first time she caught him and James setting off fireworks in the hallway outside of the Slytherin dormitory. She was furious when Severus walked out and his robes caught fire, angrier still when Sirius blew her a kiss as James dragged him away.
She caught them, but instead of reporting them, she hexed their mouths shut using a spell she found in one of Filch's books. Sirius knew he had a pile of them tucked away somewhere in the darkest corner of his office. They were books the more dedicated of their peers brought from home to help them plan their misdeeds. Rumour back in the day was that Godric Gryffindor himself bestowed one of the books on his favourite student after they left Hogwarts. That student was said to have passed it down to his child, and so on, until the day another caretaker had taken it off their hands.
Sirius never gave much credit to the stories, but James was morbidly curious, and Sirius was nothing if not a good friend. They tried to find the books for years to no avail, and the fact that Lily waltzed in and just picked up one of the books, held it out in front of them, and used one of its spells was nothing short of miraculous. Sirius wanted to propose marriage then and there.
But James, beautiful, foolish James looked at him and said, "rubbish."
And because Sirius was an idiot, and because, in a single evening, Lily became Sirius's idol, he pursued her relentlessly. He waited for her between classes, copied bad poetry from Madam Pince's recommendations, and stopped doing things when she was on patrol. James fought him every step of the way, would sneak off when Sirius wasn't looking and generally make Lily's life more difficult than it had to be.
It took all of fifth year and a good portion of sixth year for James to just come out and tell Sirius that he thought it was rubbish that he wanted to marry "Evans of all people." And because Sirius assumed James wanted a go with Lily, and because he loved James more than he loved anyone else in the world, he stepped aside. He spent his sixth year trying to work James into every conversation with Lily, brought him along to Hogsmeade, and found every excuse to leave the two of them alone.
Then, the summer before their seventh year, James grabbed Sirius by the shoulders, yelled, "I don't want to date Evans. I'm in love with you, you absolute wanker," and kissed him on the porch steps.
Sirius has memories of many kisses after that, of nights fumbling with their blankets as they tried to keep quiet. There were the days where James walked through a room, only to come back and kiss Sirius on the cheek, on top of his head, on the lips. Little wisps of half-forgotten memories of all the ways James's kissed him over the years, the easy welcoming ones and the desperate frightened kisses during the war.
Loving James was the easiest thing Sirius ever did in his entire life. Easier than getting sorted into Gryffindor. Easier than walking out on his parents.
"We're going to make Lily actually sick," he says now, touching his forehead to James's.
James's grin broadens, but he lets go of Sirius's face and turns back to Lily. "You're always welcome to our bathroom, Evans, you know that."
Lily gives them the finger and as Sirius laughs, he swears he sees a smudge in the distance, as though someone's cut out a piece of the world. He feels a sharp stab of pain on his right temple and a tug at his abdomen. But the feelings only last a moment before they're gone, and he pays them no attention as he turns back to Lily.
-
He dreams in pearlescence, a shimmer of disjointed images that are both familiar and not. He sees them play out before him as he stands on the side, this barrage of memories that keep him pinned to his mattress. There's himself and James as arrogant young boys, heartbreakingly beautiful and free. He watches as James runs his hand through his hair, how he tugs until it goes unruly, the way his eyes slide to Evans until Sirius looks away, how James glances at Sirius's profile, longing evident in the way he holds himself. It takes Sirius's breath away, the way James reaches out, how his hand finds Sirius's arm, the way he leans in, so achingly wanting.
Sirius wants to go in there and shakes himself, to scream, "look at the way he looks at you. It's not just you."
Pathetic and useless though it may be now, he aches for the person he was, the one who walked around thinking the world belonged to him. He misses the way James fed the rich pureblood that lived inside Sirius's veins. How he felt important and better because James never left him, because James thought him worthy of his time. He's always been awed at the thought that someone so beautiful could want Sirius when his parents didn't, awed at how much it made him want James in return.
He was an idiot. A pretentious fool who thought that a beautiful boy was enough to justify the way he treated others. Severus was only ever an outlet for Sirius's anger, no matter how much he deserved the disdain with which they regarded him. Severus was easier to hate than his own parents, easier to throw him around than it was to come to terms with the fact that Sirius's parents were shitty people who didn't love him, who loved their beliefs more than their children. Easier to lift Severus by the pants and laugh at him than it was to think of his mother burning a hole in their family tapestry where Sirius's face used to be.
He aches to his very bones as the memories shift, as he sees himself and James, arms around each other as they make their way to the lake at Hogwarts. There's James tugging Sirius until they trip over their feet, land on their backs, laughing as the sun beams down over their faces. Sirius watches the way James rolls over on top of him, how he pins him to the ground and Sirius almost moves to meet him halfway, that moment where he freezes, where he knows he made a mistake. Then James rolls off him, laughs away the awkwardness, and keeps going, pretending he didn't feel Sirius's mouth brushing the side of his face.
He dreams of the night he showed up to Godric's Hollow, sees the ruined cottage, the broken stones that cover James and Lily. It's worse to see it laid out before him, their lives ended over a single man's foolish attempt to buy himself recognition. He hates Wormtail, burns with the urge to find him and cut him into pieces so that he can feel some of Sirius's pain. He's on his way out, in the dream, when he finds his wand. There's a faint wrongness to the magic, as though it's a memory of something familiar, one degree removed from what it should be, the furniture shifted two centimeters to the side.
He wakes with a gasp, his hand clenched into a fist as he throws the covers off himself. He's thinking of stone passages at Hogwarts, of slashing the Fat Lady's portrait when she refused him entry to Gryffindor Tower. He can still hear the ringing of her screams and the thundering of heavy boots on the stairwells.
"Sirius?" James asks, his voice thick from sleep.
"It's nothing," Sirius says, reaching out for his bedside drawer.
He keeps his wand tucked into the top one, in between the Quidditch calendar James gave him as a joke last Christmas, and the Muggle book on motorcycles from Moony. Because he has a motorcycle, and James, and Lily who is helping them have a child. There's Moony and his pristine job at the Ministry, the one he worked so hard for, barely above a secretary but enough for him to make a living, nonetheless. There's even Wormtail, dead the day before his twenty-third birthday because he preferred Voldemort to his friends.
This is Sirius's life. Not the fragmented reality that haunts his dreams. Here he's married to James Potter-Black and they're expecting a child together. He doesn't want to remember a world where James died, where he spent his youth in Azkaban, where every morning he woke up was painful.
He shakes his head as he sits, reaching for his wand. The magic is wrong, settling over him like an old coat he can no longer fit into. He inhales shakily, the smooth wood of his wand reminding him of a black orb with a reflection he didn't recognize. He touches his face, feels the thick waves of his hair as they fall over the side of his face. He can feel the beginnings of stubble growing along his jawline, all the sharp edges of his face that would make him gaunt in another world.
He casts Lumos, but it goes too bright, and James makes a sound of irritation as he opens his eyes.
"Padfoot," he says, stopping when he sees the look on Sirius's face. "What's wrong?"
It's impossible to put into words the range of emotions that run through Sirius as they look at each other. He wants to tell James everything because James is his best friend, because if there is anyone in the world who will understand, it's him. But just as Sirius talks himself into saying something, there's a bang from outside their room.
"James," comes Lily's voice, an edge of desperation in her tone. "Sirius, get the fuck out here."
"Lily," James says, his eyes going wide as he throws himself out of bed. "Padfoot, the baby."
-
He's beautiful, a shock of dark hair framing his tiny face. When he opens his eyes, they're bright green, vibrant round things that look exactly like Lily's. He looks so much like James that Sirius goes breathless, his heart beating out of control in his chest as he cradles their baby close. Exactly like his father, except he has Lily's eyes, this bundle of joy that squirms as Sirius's presses his face to his hair.
"He's perfect," James says.
He's standing behind Sirius, his chin over Sirius's shoulder as he looks at their baby.
"He is," Sirius says. "How's Lily?"
"Asleep," James says, glancing behind them.
Sirius can hear her faint snoring and he smiles as he thinks of her, hands on her lower back, face bright red as she told them to take her to hospital. She was a different person once they crossed the hospital's threshold, and Sirius still has the indent of her fingernails on the back of his hand. But he owes her. For as long as he lives, he will never be able to thank her enough.
"What are we naming him?" James asks, drawing Sirius's attention back to their baby.
Sirius looks down at their sleeping child, the curl in his hair that's obvious even as it lays flat on his head. He's going to have a terrible time getting it to behave the way he wants. Sirius can already imagine the days in front of the mirror, as James pours Sleakeazy's on a little boy that looks so much like James as a child, that Sirius wants to laugh. He's losing it. It's the only explanation for why he has memories of a thirteen-year-old boy with big green eyes and jet black hair, for why he can reach back and see him at different ages.
He knows this child, knows the nuances of his expressions, and that bravery that disguises a deep-rooted pain. He's always wanted to keep him safe, always felt that he was letting James and Lily down for not doing so. Yet, here he is, with another opportunity in another life, or perhaps the same life but in a different reality. He doesn't understand the mess his thoughts have become, but he will never mistake the peace that settles in his chest as he holds his and James's child.
He would die for them.
He thinks he might have already.
So he inhales, lets himself feel the warmth of James's presence holding him close. "Let's name him Harry," he says.
"Harry Potter-Black," James says. "I like it."
-
He wakes from a dream full of screaming, the bangs of flying curses cutting on and off. The images swirl into a jarring array of colours, getting smaller and smaller until they form an orb. Sirius walks towards it, his body knowing what to do even if he doesn't. But as he gets closer, the orb expands, spreading around him until it forms a room. It's the Department of Mysteries, specifically the stone, rectangular room with the crumbling stone archway, that black veil fluttering in the still room.
He tries to walk towards the veil but his body is a weightless thing that floats to the ceiling. No matter how hard Sirius tries, he can't get closer. But he knows he must, knows it the same way he knows that he's asleep with James in their home, like he knows that Harry lies next door, his little hands wrapped around the yellow blanket that Lily gave him. He's asleep so he tells his body to wake, pushes through the fog of sleep and the lethargy that tells him to stay still.
When he wakes, James is breathing quietly next to him, their home blanketed in darkness and the silence of the country. He gets up and pulls his wand out of his bedside drawer, the wood settling into hands as though it was made to be there. He feels the rightness of it settling into his bones, and though he should be glad that everything seems to be going back to normal, the foreboding sense of a thing unfinished sticks with him. He has to go to the Department of Mysteries and settle things once and for all. He owes that to James and Harry.
Before he goes, he leaves a note for James, letting him know that he needs to take a walk and will be back by morning. He heads for Harry's room next, pushes open the door, and walks inside. Harry's sleeping in his crib, his hair pushed away from his forehead, his tiny hands around his blanket. Sirius watches him breathe a moment, drinks his fill of Harry's round cheeks, and waves his wand over the crib. The spell is a Black family secret, a protective charm meant to give Harry peaceful dreams.
He waits a moment longer, watching the blue light of his spell seep into Harry's crib, lingering like cobwebs before it dissipates. Harry stirs, his nose wrinkling as he rolls over onto his back. He's so small and fragile, this breakable body that settles under James's hands and into Sirius's embrace. And as he watches Harry, the same ache that's been with him these past few days rears its head. It's the pain of things unknown but wanted, a yearning that feels familiar. He has everything he could ever desire but he's still so afraid that it'll be taken from him.
He doesn't think he can come back from that kind of loss again.
"I'll be back, Harry," he whispers.
He waits to see whether Harry will wake, and when he doesn't, he leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him. The walk through the house is easier. Sirius has a mission now and he doesn't stop to look at the way his things are scattered around the house. He has a home and he wants to keep it, to be free to enjoy the forever cemented in the jumble of dishes in the sink, the rocker by the living room doorway, and the scattered shoes in the entrance. Lingering to take it all in won't help. He has to set things right.
He picks up James's cloak on the way out, allowing himself that bit of sentimentality as he steps outside. It's eerily silent a moment, like the pause before an exhale, the streetlights casting an orange glow over the mailboxes and the front steps of the houses lining the sidewalk. Sirius tucks his cloak closer around himself and heads down the street as the whistling wind rustles the leaves overhead.
He walks until he finds an empty road and Apparates, the sounds of London, awake and well, filling his ears as he arrives. Sirius is in the alley outside of the Ministry's guest entrance, the lone phonebooth visible at the other end. He goes over and steps inside, waving his wand as the bottom of the booth opens up. It's a short fall and Sirius lands on his feet, propelled by the knowledge that he's almost where he needs to be.
He passes a couple of late-night workers, and they wave at him as he goes. He smiles back automatically, the muscles of his face used to this. He's happy here, and the thought that he could be, still shocks him. He feels like a drowning man, one whose history doesn't match his traumas. It's frustrating to exist as two people, to be on the watch for danger that doesn't exist.
He passes empty stone corridors, dodges behind statues when he sees someone who looks like they might stop him. It's the easiest thing in the world to get to the Department of Mysteries, to the rotating chamber of wooden doors. He waits as they spin around him, his eyes focused on a spot in front of him. He knows which door it is without being told.
It swings open as he walks forward, the door shutting on its own when he crosses the threshold. The space is as cold as he remembers, his footsteps echoing in the vastness of the room. There are circular rows of seats sunken into the floor at the center. They surround a raised dais upon which the stone archway stands, giving the appearance of an ancient thing awaiting its end. It's made up of pieces of larger stones that look as though they've been chipped at, little bits missing here and there, the rest of it close to crumbling altogether.
Hanging from the archway, the black pearlescent veil shimmers. Sirius is meant to go through it. He can feel the truth of that, the moment he thinks it. He walks down the stairs on his right to the bottom of the rows of seats. From there, the veil seems to ooze as Sirius looks at it. He heads towards it, a magnetic pull around his abdomen propelling him forward. He thinks of James and Harry, asleep in their beds, not knowing the turmoil that lives within Sirius.
He's doing this for them, for himself. Because he was once a boy who wanted everything and grew up to be an adult with nothing. Because within him, there still exists the person who never gave up, who waited at the Potter's every summer, hoping to get a letter from his parents. He wants to be here, in this world, wherever it may be. He wants it more than he's ever wanted anything else in his pathetically short life.
Come, the whispers behind the veil seem to say.
He goes, his steps getting heavier the closer he gets to the archway. Once he's standing in front of it, he pauses, thinks of another room, in another life, where he went through the veil and died. He wants to live is the problem. But he knows that to do so requires sacrifice. Life itself requires growing pains. So he steels himself against the panic that threatens to overcome him as he looks at the fluttering veil. Then, he closes his eyes and steps through.
-
Sirius must be dreaming, that's the only explanation for the way his body floats away to nothingness. He goes upwards, his eyes on a black smudge in the distance. He inhales and the smudge grows, its circumference growing ever larger as Sirius keeps breathing. He watches it come closer until it's big enough to take up most of Sirius's line of vision. As he attempts to reach out to the orb's smooth surface, he realizes that he can't move. He tries to turn his head, but he's stuck watching the shimmering surface in front of him.
He doesn't know the man staring back at him, his face lined with wrinkles, the downturned corners of his mouth that speak to years of sadness. His skin looks ashen, his long black hair hanging limp around his face, a greasy shine to it that absorbs the light around him. The man's cheekbones stand out in sharp relief, and he looks as though he hasn't eaten a good meal in a long while. Sirius blinks and the man in the reflection does too.
He tries to reach out and finds, to his surprise, that he can. He watches fascinated as the man in the reflection moves his hand as well, the way they meet in the middle, their fingertips separated by the shining surface of the orb.
"Is this me?" Sirius asks.
He feels the answer come to him like a memory, an affirmative that leaves him panting.
"Why?" he asks.
But he doesn't need an answer because the memories flood through him as he exhales. He can see himself falling backwards through the veil in the Department of Mysteries, the moment he ceased to exist cemented perfectly in his mind. He's been here before, surrounded by cotton-like mist, in a world that was his afterlife.
Make a choice, the memory told him.
But he never made one. Despite what he's always wanted, Sirius never actually made a conscious choice.
MAKE ONE NOW.
How can he, Sirius thinks. There is no choice to make when James and Harry are waiting for him at home.
A CHOICE MUST BE MADE.
He's talking to no one, but the answers exist like a half-forgotten dream, insubstantial things that disappear the more Sirius reaches for them. He can't remember the timbre of the voice, or if he's listening to words or a sound, but he knows the gist of the message. He must make a choice.
"Where am I?" he asks.
He means, is this real?
Around him, thousands of points on the orb expand and retract until the whole thing seems to shiver. He waits and isn't surprised when one of the points shoots forward. It touches his cheek, a flash of ice-cold against his skin that knocks the air out of him. His head goes back as the onslaught of memories hit him, explanations mixed in with answers to the question he asked.
He was born on a cold November night or on an inexplicably warm November morning. His brother either loved him or hated him. He either had a family or he didn't. All options presented to him existed either in one world or the other, both those worlds growing side by side, until the moment of Sirius's death when the worlds entwined. He exists as the point around which two intersecting lines attempt to become one, which means that when he chooses, only one can continue.
The options are these: to stay with James and Harry, where Lily and Moony visit regularly, or to die. But, perhaps, Sirius is being unfair. He has the choice to stay with James and Harry in a world where he has a home and a husband. Or he can keep the memories from the old one. He can keep Harry grinning at him from across the table in Grimmauld Place's kitchen, Moony passing him a glass of firewhiskey, the feel of air against his face as he ran on all fours across a secluded mountain path, Molly wrapping a comforting arm around his shoulder as he cried over James and Lily's graves.
There is no choice.
He'd choose James a hundred times over in whatever way he could have him. He'd give up every second of the Sirius who cried himself to sleep on the cold floor of his cell in Azkaban, in exchange for the chance at a new life.
There was never a choice.
But even as he thinks it, everything around him goes dark for a moment. He feels his world reorient, his feet planted firmly on the ground. He blinks, and in between each exhale, he gets flashes of would-be memories, floating strings of truths that will be. He sees Harry, grown-up and laughing, his arm around Ginny Weasley, their heads pressed together as they watch three little children running across the garden. The oldest boy carries his and James's names, his jet black hair hitting Sirius harder than he could have thought possible. There, in the curls on top of Harry's son, lives James Potter. He goes on in Lily Luna's smile, in the curve of Albus Severus's nose.
This is the price, laid out before Sirius in excruciating detail. To give them up, to erase this life full of wonder for Harry so that Sirius can be truly happy. Because that's what it boils down to, that despite how much he tried, Sirius was never content. The truth is that one week with James more than makes up for those years alone. The truth is that now that he knows what it's like to have everything, Sirius can't give it up. No matter what it might cost.
"Will I remember them?" he asks, thinking of Harry, of Moony, of the graves in Godric's Hollow.
NO.
Sirius pictures James in the morning, laughing in his arms, the way he cradled Harry close, how he pressed him into Sirius's arms. He thinks of Harry, with James's unruly hair and Lily's vibrant green eyes. He thinks of the note he left next to James, of the promise he made Harry, asleep in his crib.
HAVE YOU MADE YOUR CHOICE?
He inhales, lets the weight of this moment settle into him. Then, because it truly is the easiest thing in the world, he says, "yes."