Forgotten Memories

Forgotten Memories

Behind the veil, there is nothing, only whispers.

Contrary to common opinion, when you fall through the archway, when you fall through that veil that flutters and shifts without the aid of breeze or hand, you don't die. The veil isn't the gateway to the land of the dead, it's not a crack in the surface of the earth where you fall into and get burnt to a crisp, you don't fall through and die or don't die. You only cease to exist in the world that you've left and you become a separate, different entity in another world.

The veil is a portal to another world, a place where the flowers bend to the will of the dark and there is blood on the moon. It's a place that is littered by nothing except the lost and it is where, should you fall through the veil, you will stand for the rest of time. Every day is every night, hours become weeks and weeks become days, years pass by in the blink of an eye. Past and present and the future merge into a meaningless issue because time is an undisclosed presence here in this new world, one that never changes, never moves. Nothing ever moves here, not time, not emotions, not you.

There is only one thing that stirs here and those are the whispers, the eerie wisp that dances through non-existent walls and non-existent hearts and over the barest hairs of your skin. It presses gently but urgently against you, leaves light slashes of invisible cuts that never heal, and whispers of memories in your ear.

And then things begin to play around you, things that seem somehow familiar but you just can't place it, and it's reeling like an old-time movie that you've seen a hundred times, a hundred thousand times...only forgotten...

...See that boy with the broken smile?

He intrigues Sirius the most out of the twenty-nine others, him with his hastily brushed hair and disheveled clothes and dark bedroom eyes, dark, dark, glittery strange in the flickering of the hall. He fascinates Sirius, because even though he tries to be the same, whispering innocently in cheek, Sirius can still see that he's different, oh so very different. There are old scars on his cheek, on his pale, long, extraordinarily beautiful hands, and Sirius can see them in his eyes too, savage and ugly, weary in the honeyed clandestineness of his eyes.

His hand, the whisper of a name...Remus Lupin...the shy tremble of grey lashes that follows, and a friendship is sparked, a friendship that broke and cracked, marred by untruths and mistrust, stood against time, lasted years beyond love, stronger than infinity to space.

...It was death. Flesh and blood and grease and death on Remus's hands, over Remus's reticent innocence. The killer that Sirius has created haunts him in his nightmares, follows him with smoldering amber eyes, reaches for his heart with broken fingers, and Sirius runs, runs as fast as he can in his dreams, runs and flails, screams bloody guilt until Remus shakes him awake to the cool breeze of midnight. Moonshine filters through the curtains and reality is just one minute away from the dream, one kinder, clearer conscience than his, and Sirius cries. Remus stays, holds him and loves him through his tears, and even when Sirius retches, throws himself over the side of the bed and is sick, shame and guilt in an awful rancid mess pooling on the floor, Remus is still there, long, white fingers a spiraling contrast as he holds Sirius's hair back tenderly.

...The air is choked with fear, humid with sour suspense, terror and everything that even old men are afraid to know. Peter's nose is twitching as if he can smell the hard rancour in the air and Sirius can tell it excites him, the way his eyes grow bloodshot and large, crazy with a desperate greed Sirius knew existed but it still makes his stomach twist with burning disgust, feverish hate.

Eight years of friendship, of trust and belief and schoolboy crushes shared, eight years disregarded, shattered in the massive supernova of blood red smoke, savage hearts and unfounded dreams of children, of lovers torn from destiny's course.

Sirius is laughing when the Aurors come, but they're only really cruel wicked taunts disguised as snickers and chortles, and they will never stop, never did stop all that time in Azkaban. And every night, he can hear the wolf call but when he calls back, nobody comes.

...Ground triumph, exoneration and elation when Remus comes at last, shows at the dingy door, damp sweat on his brows and trust in his eyes. The truth is repaired and Sirius is drowning in Remus's smell of chocolate and books and late night whiskey. They stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder, one person in the fight for what was taken from them: their friend, their glory in the needed hours, their love, that summer night, thirteen ephemeral years ago.

...There are new lines on Remus's face, new lines that run old courses and pink, pale, scratchy remains of unhealed scars and Sirius hurts as he touches them, hurts because he knows Remus hurts too. He hates the wolf for changing his Moony, hates Peter for those thirteen wasted moons that he can never see, never protect Remus from, hates with vengeance a thousand strengths, a million times more. But Remus's eyes are sad, wants to forget and so Sirius says nothing, only thinks inside as he runs trembling, smoke stained lips down Remus's creamy moonshine throat, makes love to him till Remus shines with wet wanting on innocent skin and in the curves of his beautiful, beautiful eyes.

...Sirius is falling.

Bellatrix is laughing.

Harry is shouting.

And Remus's amber eyes are a silent scream, crying wet, broken tears, calling for Sirius but Sirius will never come again.

Remus will watch Sirius fall over the stone edge, it's like a dream gone wrong in the crooked hands of Hell and he stands there, terror rendering him helpless. He can only grow old as the lunar cycle grows old, run but never escape, watch Sirius falling forever, never returning. He can close his eyes at night, curl into a ball with the sheets pulled over his shivering body, but there's always salt on his cheek, the ghostly touch of strong hands, and the taste of Sirius's lips lingering on his, and Remus will never sleep again, never forget.

And Sirius will only ever watch, watch that boy with the broken smile and the man he grew up to be, watch that kid beside him, the one with floppy black hair and the bright, adoring love in his eyes, watch as his life replays again and again around him without ever remembering because behind the veil, there is nothing, only whispers.