Of The
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Remus/Sirius
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,561
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Remus/Sirius
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,561
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Of The 6/31
Notes: Italicised quote is from 4.5 of Shakespeare's Hamlet. Quote near the end is from the aria 'Dido's Lament' from the opera Dido and Aeneas by Purcell and Tate.
xxvii.
He is dead. Surely dead.
Blackness surrounds him, heavy and inky and thick, envelopes him, invades him. Owns him.
Can't think can't feel can't hope can't remember.
Can't do anything save for nothing at all.
Nothing becomes something when They glide past him. Back and forth They glide, They hover, They keep, and he is dead. Surely dead.
Sirius is dead and these things - They - are Charon but he hasn't an obolus to pay - Pay? Pay? However can he possibly pay for what he has done? - passage. He hasn't an obolus, thus he is doomed to stay Here.
Here.
Here with They and their shadows of fabric and greed and need, here with They and their punishment of horror and cold and loss. If he had but a wand, he would conjure an obolus to pay his fee so that he would be free far gone only--
No, he wouldn't conjure. He wouldn't.
Deserving of this. He is.
He is deserving and he isn't...
It occurs to Sirius, somewhere between the absence of light and the hunger for...something...that he isn't dead.
Were he dead, he wouldn't be aware that he can't think, can't feel, can't hope, can't remember.
Remember.
"'Pray you love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.'"
Oh.
A voice soft and lilting and patient. His.
"Pray you love, pay sodding attention. There is a pansy, and I'd like to fucking pluck it right now."
A voice loud and leering and impatient. His own.
He hears and he remembers.
Muggle books and operas and fires and tea and him, all lean and lost and his.
"Remus." His voice is raspy and thin from disuse but it feels good, so good, to speak, to hear something besides the black, to form a word with lips teeth tongue effort.
It feels good to remember.
Does Remus remember?
He doesn't know. Can't know.
If Remus does remember, would it be only of what happened That Night?
Probably so and oh.
A killer of kind, forever marked as a Betrayer of Brothers...
Death may be kinder than life.
Hand scrabbles across dirt floor until fingers clasp around something small cold round hard - a stone - and he scrambles to a stand.
They glide past. He bangs on iron bars, bangs on iron bars with his obolus.
He bangs and bangs until They come. Until They feed. They ignore his passage fee and feed.
They feed and he screams.
Screams words that meant nothing once upon a time but now mean everything.
"'Remember me, but ah! Forget my fate.'"
He screams.
Then there is blackness.
xxvii.
He is dead. Surely dead.
Blackness surrounds him, heavy and inky and thick, envelopes him, invades him. Owns him.
Can't think can't feel can't hope can't remember.
Can't do anything save for nothing at all.
Nothing becomes something when They glide past him. Back and forth They glide, They hover, They keep, and he is dead. Surely dead.
Sirius is dead and these things - They - are Charon but he hasn't an obolus to pay - Pay? Pay? However can he possibly pay for what he has done? - passage. He hasn't an obolus, thus he is doomed to stay Here.
Here.
Here with They and their shadows of fabric and greed and need, here with They and their punishment of horror and cold and loss. If he had but a wand, he would conjure an obolus to pay his fee so that he would be free far gone only--
No, he wouldn't conjure. He wouldn't.
Deserving of this. He is.
He is deserving and he isn't...
It occurs to Sirius, somewhere between the absence of light and the hunger for...something...that he isn't dead.
Were he dead, he wouldn't be aware that he can't think, can't feel, can't hope, can't remember.
Remember.
"'Pray you love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.'"
Oh.
A voice soft and lilting and patient. His.
"Pray you love, pay sodding attention. There is a pansy, and I'd like to fucking pluck it right now."
A voice loud and leering and impatient. His own.
He hears and he remembers.
Muggle books and operas and fires and tea and him, all lean and lost and his.
"Remus." His voice is raspy and thin from disuse but it feels good, so good, to speak, to hear something besides the black, to form a word with lips teeth tongue effort.
It feels good to remember.
Does Remus remember?
He doesn't know. Can't know.
If Remus does remember, would it be only of what happened That Night?
Probably so and oh.
A killer of kind, forever marked as a Betrayer of Brothers...
Death may be kinder than life.
Hand scrabbles across dirt floor until fingers clasp around something small cold round hard - a stone - and he scrambles to a stand.
They glide past. He bangs on iron bars, bangs on iron bars with his obolus.
He bangs and bangs until They come. Until They feed. They ignore his passage fee and feed.
They feed and he screams.
Screams words that meant nothing once upon a time but now mean everything.
"'Remember me, but ah! Forget my fate.'"
He screams.
Then there is blackness.