Rating:
R
House:
The Dark Arts
Ships:
James Potter/Lily Evans James Potter/Sirius Black Remus Lupin/Sirius Black
Characters:
James Potter Lily Evans Peter Pettigrew Regulus Black Remus Lupin Sirius Black
Genres:
Character Sketch Darkfic
Era:
1981-1991
Spoilers:
Prizoner of Azkaban Order of the Phoenix
Stats:
Published: 02/14/2006
Updated: 02/14/2006
Words: 4,101
Chapters: 1
Hits: 1,173

Every Black has a Black Side

Veronica L

Story Summary:
Sirius sits in Azkaban, thinking too much for his own good.

Chapter 01

Posted:
02/14/2006
Hits:
1,173


Every Black has a Black Side

Sirius Black woke up. He felt very cold. His feet were icy and his head felt hazy and unclear. The nightmare he had, had all seemed so real. But then again, reality had merged with his nightmares and he was confused... which was which? After all, he was insane, wasn't he? He scrambled through his memories like files; that was something one usually did when one had nothing better to do.

*

"I'm going to barf," he had said, being full of Lily's pudding (apple, slightly blackened from over-baking).

"Aw, that's sweet," she retorted, sarcastically.

"There there..." James put his arm around her, before clutching his stomach. "I want to barf as well," he groaned, childishly.

There was the sound of a baby crying, and Lily quickly hurried to tend to him. "Harry. You're the only person around who's not going to barf. I'm not so alone in this world after all..."

Alone in the world....

*

It took him a while to realise where he was. He wasn't stupid or anything, anyway, he was in prison for God's sake - he was expected to be in denial, any place was better than here.

It was very cold. If Sirius hadn't been behind the bars, he would have lodged a complaint about the central heating system, or lack there of. But unfortunately, he was Inmate 247605 ....why was he Inmate 247605 anyway?

It was all a mistake, wasn't it? Everything was a mistake. Life was a mistake. Life sucked.

James. Lily ...it was all a big mistake. Peter.

'Epiphany' was such a pretty word. 'Betrayal' wasn't.

There was a sound and Sirius felt the coldness overwhelm him. Dementors. Sirius didn't like Dementors. They always made him feel so depressed.

But no amount of flippancy would every cancel the fact that they were in his head right now, filling him with thoughts of murder and James. He could hear them violating him. Mind raping him. Rotten creatures.

A happy thought, Sirius urged himself as his hands became sweaty, and slipped against the bars. The cold bit him sharply, but he was numb to it. Just any happy thought.

Remus' bloody stupid hat. Kisses that made him feel as if here were flying. Harry bouncing up and down in his arms, squealing "Padfeet!" The time when James had got drunk on five bottles of Butterbeer...who the hell still got drunk on Butterbeer at the age of seventeen anyway?

*

It was as if he was taken to a vivid three-dimensional, cinematic experience.

He saw James' body on the ground, eyes still open. But he didn't cry.

It was unlike James to play possum. He was always so alive, and could never keep still. To him, sitting still equated to boring. As James used to say, he had better things to do than be bored.

Thinking of this, Sirius had given his best friend a good, hard slap on the shoulder. James' flesh made a sort of ringing noise. "Wake up, you bloody idiot! Look at your house!"

But James hadn't responded. Not to any of the friendly shoves and pushes that Sirius had given him. He acted as if he hadn't even heard Sirius yell. Insensitive prick.

Perhaps he was unconscious.

Sirius did his best but he couldn't wake James up.

"Wake up, wake up...." He had had a cold and his voice was gruff. His throat kept on locking up. He checked for a pulse and was getting somewhat hysterical as he couldn't find one. He giggled to himself. Then he forgot how to breathe.

It had started raining. How pathetic, God was certainly listening to him.

Resigned that his friend wasn't going to wake up anytime soon, he searched desperately for a blanket or something to warm up his friend. "You're going to get goose-bumps Prongs," he remarked in a sing-song voice, much louder than necessary, considering he was talking to himself. "So don't look at me like that, you know I hate it when people stare. Prongs? Aren't you cold? You're going to get the flu, and then Lily will break both my legs and take pictures of me in humiliation. James?"

Sighing, he hurried off and went looking for a blanket. Why weren't things ever there when you needed them? Clucking like a mother hen, he tripped and saw....

Lily Potter.

She too, was lying on the ground. Like James, she had a look of immortalised terror on her face.

Somehow seeing Lily Potter affected Sirius much more. He backed away instinctively and felt sick. He vomited his dinner, lunch and breakfast out. He could even see the half-digested peas he had defrosted for a pitiful meal a couple of days ago. Those peas hadn't gone down too well.

"Lily? James?"

They couldn't be... they couldn't be... how could they be?

James had just had his twenty-third birthday, for fuck's sake. Twenty-three year old people just didn't die like that. It wasn't natural and Sirius didn't like it.

*

He was now banging on the bars, screaming like a mad man (well, a trifle madder than what he was already). He hit the bars with all he had and could feel the sharp sting as the skin peeled off his knuckles, and his voice drowned to a harsh whisper.

Where are you? I need you.

*

"Good luck, Padfoot." James had patted Sirius on the back. They had just finished switching the Fidelius Charm from Sirius to Peter. "That was some cool bit of spell work too, Sirius. Thank you and take care of yourself. We probably won't see you for a while, not until you-know-who gets over...." He swallowed.

"Don't worry about me." Sirius breathed a sigh of relief. "I'll be fine."

Oh, really now?

James had smiled and then shut the door. Sirius watched the door swing shut, as if in slow motion. He blinked stupidly several times, before returning back to his path, walking jauntily, as if nothing major had happened. As if there wasn't a funny sort of twinge in his chest.

*

He wouldn't see them anymore. Somehow the thought didn't horrify him that much. It was like a dull ache you got used to. Like an annoying tooth ache. Or a mosquito bite on your bottom. Or a nervous ache in your belly when your heart jumped, like falling from a height whenever you saw him smile.

Like all young people, Sirius believed that he was invincible. Nothing he read about in the Daily Prophet would ever happen to him. Accidents, murders and the like were just interesting headlines he consumed, with his daily bacon and eggs.


Even though it was everywhere, death didn't seem that dire. He had always envisioned himself to be living for a hell of a long time, being a stingy old geezer and annoying the charming old widower next door to him. Life was just life. Which was why James couldn't die. He was perfectly healthy. How could he die? It didn't make sense.

If he wasn't here, where could he be? In heaven as an angel, dressed in a toga and Birkenstocks and carrying a harp? That was James at Halloween, not dead James. Dead James was incomprehensible. Dead James was totally impossible.

Sirius wondered if he was suffering in denial. But then again, people in denial didn't wonder whether they were in denial, did they?

*

Reality shifted and he was seventeen years old again.

*

His mother glared at him, cigar dangling at the end of her mouth. She slapped him, hard. She had always had amazing upper arm strength.

"You're disowned. You're nothing."

He stood as he watched his mother char his name off the Black family tree with the cigar. He felt the emotions: the relief, the humiliation, the anger, the anger, the humiliation and the relief. It was a mixture of all of them, he honestly couldn't tell which one he felt more. He didn't say anything. It wasn't as if words were flowing out of him like honey. There was nothing. For once, he was speechless. He couldn't even say that he was speechless.

*

It was all Peter's fault really. That's right. Everything was Peter's fault.

Immediately, his mind became filled with Peter. It was like an obsession. 'Peter's fault' became a mantra.

Logic screamed at him, urging him to think of something else - something pleasant, something to drive away the Dementors but all he could think about was Peter. Oh, and how sweet his death was. Hey, that was actually something pleasant.

It was really sad how Peter had died so painfully. It could have hurt so much more. It was a waste of feeling.

He could envision it just now, he would blast Peter into more than a million pieces. He wanted to glorify, to revel in his old friend's death so much, it hurt. He hated Peter so much, he felt as if he couldn't breathe. Hate was an emotion he understood.

Dorian Gray sold his soul for eternal youth. Sirius would have settled for a door that locked, an empty room, a defenceless Peter Pettigrew, and a knife. Or a chainsaw.

*

Yesterday, he had met Peter Pettigrew. Fate worked in funny ways. He hadn't been meaning to, the shock and horror of what had happened had just sunken in and before he knew it, he was looking into the eyes of the person of his very thoughts. The devil spoke and smiled.

Peter had squealed and sobbed, and perhaps had yelled, "Lily and James how could you". Sirius had no interest in what the bloody bastard had to say for himself. He did the only thing anyone would do. He wanted Peter to suffer. Wanted to torture him. Right then and there. In a public street no less. In front of all the Muggles.

He wanted Peter to be in excruciating pain. Wanted to see the thick blood dropping on romantic pavement. Wanted to taste its coppery scent in his throat. Wanted to scream like a mad man, watch pretty crimson liquid spurt in little parabolas, mid-air.

Perhaps the insane light dancing in his eyes gave it away, for Peter was scared of him. He shrieked like a girl, then blew himself up. If only Sirius had gotten to his wand before... oh, he would have done so much more. Sirius felt as if he could give death a new meaning, he could colour it in shades more brilliant than sticky red, let the artist within him have more than two seconds of shining glory.

He laughed.

Sirius was always proud of his twisted sense of humour. He saw the entire irony of the situation, of the double-crosser Peter and his sadistic side was amused. He had laughed at the cowardice of the fool, of the sick satisfaction he would have felt if he had felt Peter's neck snap against his bare hands, the muscles tear as he ripped apart the ligaments and the beautiful red colours of a traitor's blood soaking through the clothes. That was what he dreamed of. What he wanted.

Some men dreamed of young underage maidens. He was much saner, fantasising about death and blood and viscera. Pink intestines and slippery liquids, the colour of kerosene.

A dream is a wish your heart makes.

But what a person wants and has, are two completely different things.

If Sirius got what he wanted, he wouldn't be sitting in this cell, would he?

Actually, maybe he still would have. For the murder and torture of Peter Pettigrew.

He laughed again, harshly. One day in Azkaban had already brought out the sick insane side of Sirius Black. The side that nobody had ever seen.

This was life. Life which sucks, even when it ends.

It was so fucking funny. Pettigrew could murder his best friends in cold blood, but he was pissing his pants at the thought of Sirius Black. The rat served the scariest man in a century, but preferred suicide to Sirius.

If Sirius had any capacity left for caring, he would have felt hurt.

But he hadn't cried at all, not once. He never cried. He was a man.

When his mother had disowned him, not a single tear had been shed. When members of the Order had been brutally dispatched one by one, he had grimaced and then moved on.

He couldn't cry. It was a bad habit broken by his mother. "Well-bred pureblood gentlemen never cry," his mother had told him once, when he was eight with a broken arm. He remembered wincing, as tears had sprung to his eyes with the pain. But he hadn't cried. Not even when he had retorted that his mother's comment made her sound as if he were an animal, and she had backhanded him for talking back, cutting his face with her ring.

Since then, he had never tasted the salt from his tears. The crease in his eyelid had never stuffed up, due to over crying and puffy eyes. Many times, he was proud of the fact that he was 'so damn manly' but now he was deeply ashamed.

Deeply ashamed that he couldn't even cry for James and Lily Potter.

What kind of person was he? If he couldn't cry for the things he loved most in the world... everybody would cry. Everybody except

For a monster.

*

His mother had told him that he was a monster. A monster for turning his back on his family. What had she got wrong? She had brought him up with all the money and prestige in the world, with the traditional ideals a Black should know. Some people would kill to be born with the silver spoon in their mouths. So why the hell was he such a failure? He broke his mother's heart. She had such high hopes for him. Regulus was never the son he was. Regulus lacked that charisma, that ruthless ambition and a lack of appreciation for the beauty that comes with pain. That sensation of just feeling and loving humans for what they are, pieces of meat and bone, thinking that they're strong but underneath false bravado, the weakest in the animal kingdom.

She had told him that he would one day end up feeling sorry for himself, that he would wish that he never threw it all away. He never thought that she'd be right. It was his fault. He had suggested the switch with Pettigrew. It was as if his mother had jinxed him (he wouldn't be surprised if she actually had though).

All right, he was no angel. Angels were boring and lame anyway. He remembered a particular vicious row with his parents, when he was fifteen and a ticking mind bomb. His mother had been aplomb with rage.

His younger brother didn't talk to him for weeks after that. His father wouldn't even look at him. His mother cried and screamed, and was bed-ridden. He didn't care. Now he couldn't even remember what the argument was about first place. Was it about Remus and the company he was keeping?

He didn't care.

To put it bluntly and truthfully, he didn't give a fuck about his family.

He didn't care when he saw the body of his brother, entrails trailing on the ground, as the Aurors carelessly dragged the body. His brother was just another stamp on the page, another headline in the newspaper, another gruesome picture with handsome features bruised and his bones broken. Another name in the obituaries, another grave overlooked, in the shadows of a thousand other tombstones.

He didn't care because his best friend was there, when he broke down: dry sobs sending his body into incoherent convulsions. His best friend sat there, just listening to boring anecdotes of a distant childhood: how Regulus was such a happy child, a sharp contrast to the resentful Sirius. How Regulus was always fair, he always begged Sirius not to rile Mother up anymore - couldn't he see how sad Mother was? It was Regulus who smuggled bits of food for Sirius when he had been grounded and sent to his room without supper. Regulus who took Sirius' beatings for him and never complained, not once. Regulus the golden child. Regulus, who was the family's golden lamb because he was loyal, and heterosexual.

Regulus the dead golden child, slaughtered for a cause not his own. It had killed Sirius to see the man Regulus had become. He was such a good child, it had been such a waste.

And who was he to talk?

Sirius didn't believe in God, because he didn't like the idea of a higher power and how he wasn't in control of his own worthless existence. But now he was pleading with God. He didn't know what he was pleading for, but he supposed that it didn't matter.

He didn't know what to feel.

He had loved James more than anything else. James was his brother, for Regulus had wanted nothing to do with him. James was Sirius' Regulus. He was the Regulus that Sirius wanted. James had saved Sirius from himself.

Sirius remembered watching James sleep, dark lashes gently fluttering in slumber. He remembered the slightly parted lips, in sleepy pout, and the faint freckles on the bridge of the slightly burnt nose. Sirius remembered a warm wet sort of feeling, pleasant and unpleasant, feeling sad and happy at the same time. Perhaps that was love?

Perhaps.

When Sirius was sixteen, he had realized what a masochist he was. He had a sick fascination for pain. He would always remember 'accidentally' scraping his fingers while sharpening his quill and just feel. It would be just him and the pain, but he never felt alone.

Not like now.

Perhaps the reason why Peter was so scared was because he had seen that side of Sirius Black. Sirius didn't mean to.

He was nineteen, and Lily had invited all the Marauders for dinner at her Muggle parents' home. Her mother had left a bowl of hot soup on the table and Sirius had accidentally touched it. His hand jerked away from the pain for a minute, before he gingerly placed his hand on the bowl and held it there for a few minutes. He had no idea why he did it. He remembered coiling his fingers and parting his lips (trying to reproduce the look on James' face while he was sleeping). He remembered feeling as if he were hurtling through the air, mouth open in silent rapture.

He had suffered from burns. Everybody had brushed it off as an accident anyway (Mrs. Evans apologized profusely, and had wanted to call for medical aid). Only Peter had seen the whole thing, known that Sirius had done it on purpose. He had never ever told on him though. Nevertheless, it still freaked Sirius out that Peter was watching him all this time.

His mother had called him a sentimental idiot. She had tormented him with her sick mind games. He wondered what his mother thought of him now - now that he had a life sentence in Azkaban.

She'd be as smug as a bug. He had had it coming, didn't he? Although he did rather pity her, even though he hated her, guts included. Unlike Regulus, he did not listen to everything she said, adoringly.

He was a failure and Regulus was dead. But then again, what did she expect? She deserved it; if anybody deserved two deceased sons (he was just as good as dead). What the hell was his father thinking of anyway, when he married his mother?

He refused to be manipulated like a little toy. All his life, he had been trying to get past boundaries and break rules. Like a rebel without a cause, he broke rules for the sake of it.

No rule came between him and Peter's corpse.

In the end, the only thing that mattered was that he was innocent. He might have been a lot of things but he was definitely innocent of both charges. That meant something. Gave him hope, something he had always had. Something knowing James had given him. Something Remus always had.

False hope was so underrated.

*

He saw the Dementors appearing outside. Felt the cold take over him. Maybe he even relished it.

Voices were crying in his head. "I'm innocent," he whispered, hugging himself. Even though the Dementors would never be able to suck it out of him, he doubted that it would be enough to stop the insanity.

He bit his lip to stop the feelings from pouring out of him uncontrollably. Feelings of jealousy, bitterness, fear, rejection... feelings of settling for the second best, the wrong best friend.

*

He found himself face to face with a memory of Regulus again. This time, he guessed that he was around eleven years old, talking to his very serious-looking eight year old brother. Even then Regulus was an extraordinarily tragic figure, with his tidy hair and stiffness rarely found in a lively child.

"I'll miss you Sirius," his brother had said formally, but his voice shook and Sirius had laughed and helped his brother up the tree.

"I have a surprise for you." He smiled fondly at the younger boy, who was gazing up at him with all the attention a young child gives to somebody they love.

A cry of astonishment followed, after Sirius unclasped a fine gold chain from his neck. "Do you know the story of Jacob and Esau, Regulus?"

The young boy listened transfixed as Sirius began the tale.

*

"I don't understand." The confusion was obvious in the boy's eyes. "You're giving me your birthright?"

Sirius nodded. "You know I don't care for all that firstborn crap. Never show anybody else though, especially mother. You know that it'll get me into trouble and you wouldn't want that, would you?"

Regulus nodded hastily and Sirius placed the chain around his neck. The chain bearing the crest of Black. It had gone to every firstborn son of the household. "And then when I come back for the holidays, you can give it to me. It'll be one of our secrets. Cross your heart, hope to die?"

But Regulus had never given it back and Sirius had forgotten about it, as the leaves of trees withered and time went on. When Regulus had died, the chain was still on his broken neck and it was returned, bloodstains and all, to him. The original owner.

*

He unclasped the chain from his own neck and ran his fingers along the outline of the motto ("Toujours Pur").

"Don't come, don't come... I know you!" the wizard in the cell next to him mumbled. "Black. Black. Every person has a black side. Even you! Even you! Even the angels in hell... oh, save me. Salvation is here!"

Sirius cast a disgusted look to his right, and laughed out aloud.

"You've got it right." He crushed the pointy end of the crest against his palm, and felt it digging into his flesh. It hurt a lot. "Every fucking body has a black side."

If Sirius Black was doomed to a lifetime of insanity, he might as well enjoy. This time he welcomed the coldness enveloping him, as he confronted all the faces around him: Remus Lupin biting his lip in muffled heartbreak (Sirius didn't mean to do it); Lily Potter cradling Harry, and James' expression of delight (something Sirius didn't understand, died in him there and then); his brother's disappointment (if only Sirius could save him - the stupid idiot would have been grateful) and so much more. Rainy days, and bitter kisses, and substitutes which Sirius didn't really mind.

He liked substitutes.

The motor cycle was a substitute for a broomstick, and in the end he flew faster than any Nimbus.

Sex was a substitute for love, and he preferred it much, much more.

Roses were a substitute for beauty, but what was beauty?

Remus was a substitute for James. He had been good, in a sweet sort of way. God knew how that man knew how to give head.

And Azkaban was a substitute for hell.

Every Black went to hell, because every Black had a Black side. Sirius was better than them because he had a black side and surprisingly, a religious side. How funny.

Peter brought out the best in him. Too bad he was dead.

Fin.

If a person is in denial and wonders whether they're in denial, are they actually in denial?