Sirius sat on the edge of his bed, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. His bandages still itched, tight and bulky around his wrists, but he left them alone. Across the room, Barty lay on his stomach, his feet kicking lazily in the air as he scribbled furiously in his crayon filled notebook.
“Hey,” Sirius said softly.
Barty didn’t look up. “Hey, hey, hey.”
Sirius hesitated. “They gave me more labels today."
That got Barty’s attention. He turned his head, expression unreadable. “Labels? Like soup cans? Or the kind they stick on your back when you’re not looking?”
“The second one, probably.”
Barty rolled onto his side. “What flavor are you, then?”
“Bipolar. Borderline.” Sirius shrugged. “I’m apparently a human mood swing with abandonment issues.”
Barty stared at him. “That’s a very dramatic soup. Bit spicy.”
Sirius snorted in spite of himself.
“They said I’m emotionally unstable. That I feel too much. That I panic when people leave me. And it’s all true. But it still hurts, hearing it out loud.”
Barty slowly sat up, letting his journal fall shut. “They said I have schizophrenia. Did you know that? Voices, visions, wild things. They think I’m bonkers. I am, probably. But they’re not wrong.”
He leaned forward, oddly serious. “But you? You’re just… a cracked glass. Still sharp. Still beautiful. Just fragile in places.”
Sirius blinked at him. “That’s weirdly poetic.”
“I’m an artist,” Barty said simply, picking up his red crayon again. “All of us are just shattered things trying not to cut each other.”
Sirius lay back on his pillow, exhausted. “I hate how much that makes sense.”
Barty began to draw again, humming softly under his breath. After a while, he said, “I’m glad you’re still here.”
“Me too,” Sirius whispered.
And for a moment, the silence between them was almost comforting.
It was late, the ward quiet except for the irritating buzz of the hallway lights and the occasional soft shuffle of staff rounds. Sirius lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, sleep eluding him again. Barty sat cross-legged on the floor, drawing against the side of his own bed with a crayon, the paper pressed to his knee.
“Your boyfriend came again today,” Barty said quietly.
Sirius turned his head, his voice rough. “Yeah. He did.”
Barty didn’t look up. “He always comes. Brings you coffee. Talks to the nurses. Smiles like it’s not hurting him inside.”
Sirius blinked slowly, throat tight.
“You’re lucky,” Barty said. His voice cracked a little, soft but trembling at the edges. “My boyfriend used to visit. He brought me sweets once. He said he’d wait.”
Sirius didn’t say anything.
“But he doesn’t come anymore.” Barty’s hand stopped moving, the crayon stilled mid-line. “He’s dead. They told me he died.”
“I still see him, though,” Barty murmured. “Sometimes he’s in the corner. Sometimes outside the window. I draw him, so I don’t forget.”
He lifted the journal and turned it toward Sirius, revealing a sketch... delicate, almost angelic, of a boy with wild eyes and a soft smile. “His name was Evan.”
“I don’t think he knows he’s dead,” Barty whispered. “I don’t think I do, either. Not really.”
Sirius pushed himself upright and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Quietly, he walked across the room and sat beside Barty. He didn’t touch him, didn’t say anything. Just sat with him.
Barty turned another page and began to draw again. This time, he used blue.
“I think Evan would’ve liked your boyfriend,” he said. “Remus seems gentle.”
Sirius closed his eyes. “He is.”
And they sat together in the soft light, one broken soul beside another, while Barty drew the people they missed most in colors they could still see.
They sat there in silence for a little while longer, the soft scratching of Barty’s crayon filling the room.
Sirius glanced at the journal, then at Barty’s profile, pale in the dim light, eyes distant but focused on the page.
He spoke gently. “Do you know how Evan died?”
Barty paused. The crayon stilled in his hand. His head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something Sirius couldn’t hear. He was quiet for so long that Sirius almost didn’t expect an answer.
Finally, Barty said, “No.” His voice was soft. “I don’t.”
He kept staring at the page. “I think I used to. I think it was loud. Or maybe quiet. Maybe it was both. Maybe I watched. Maybe I didn’t.”
He pressed the crayon to the page again, drawing harder now. “Every time I try to remember, it’s like… someone’s holding a hand over my eyes.”
“I wish I knew,” Barty added, barely audible. “But I think… I think if I did, I might break.”
Sirius reached out, just barely brushing Barty’s shoulder.
“You’re not broken,” he said.
Barty let out a dry, breathless laugh. “Oh, Sirius. I’m so broken. But that’s okay. Evan was too. We were beautiful that way.”
And then he kept drawing, as if the memory might someday come back in red and blue and black lines.
The overhead lights dimmed with a low hum, then cut out completely, leaving the room bathed in the soft, blue glow of the hallway’s night lighting.
Barty didn’t move from the floor. He just kept scratching faintly at the paper, the sound barely audible, like the flutter of moth wings. Eventually, the crayon stilled. He whispered something as he stood, maybe a name, maybe nothing, and rolled onto his bed.
Sirius lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It was too dark to see much, but he could still make out the faint outlines, the vent overhead, the seam of the ceiling tiles, the shadow of the window frame across the wall.
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