In the Woods Dark and Deep

Summary: ㅤAn empire built with the bones of the slaughtered. A dynast driven mad with power and bloodlust. Old Gods returning as the serpent feeds further on its own tail. Wars spreading, a plague of grief and rage. And an ancient darkness slipping up from the depths of its own prison.

"He's fine! Just a little anxious so I order something to help. him. relax!" The doctor pulled again and this time you weren't asking nicely. Pulling the doctor away from Lars and nearly onto his ass, your voice came cold and authoritative.

"Get out of this room before I drag you out." With a spat curse and a look you knew you'd be addressing later, the doctor left. You'd be reprimanded almost certainly for telling off a doctor like that but he wasn't helping Lars at all. The poor man was trembling all over, skin red from crying and from a pain response you understood him to have. It was heartbreaking and immediately your attitude softened entirely. Carefully you pulled a stool up to the examination bed but kept a good distance so Lars didn't worry about being grabbed again. His eyes were screwed shut and when they were open he blinked hard and fast, he was having a bad episode and all he had needed was someone with some damn patients. She hated how doctors always acted like they knew best and it didn't matter what the patient needed. Most doctors weren't like that but the one they were stuck with was an asshole about everything.

"I'm sorry about this," you told him quietly not wanting to startle him, his eyes blinked but remained on the floor. "That was probably so scary." Lars still heaved through breathes and you glanced up to the heart rate monitor he was still hooked up to. It was concernedly high, you needed to help him calm down. "How about I sit here with you for a little while? Just in case you need me? And we don't have to talk, we don't have to do anything just breathe. Could you maybe breathe with me? I get nervous when I have to do it alone." Lars glanced quickly at you, barely a moment's glance but he recognized you. You lived on their street, on the corner. He'd seen you jogging sometimes, or in your yard, you'd always been kind. Always said hi and always pretended you didn't see him when he openly and very obviously ran to hide from you. So he nodded, a little jerk of his head before you thanked him so softly in came on a breath and hit him carefully. Lightly. You took a deep breath and Lars struggled through another, you held it a moment, Lars did his best, then you guided him through a slow exhale. And you repeated this once or twice more before praising him, "Great job. You're doing so good." He blushed but it wasn't as dark or nearly as uncomfortable.

"Your name's Lars right? I live on your street, I've seen you chopping wood a few times. I don't have a wood burning stove, bet it's really nice." Lars began slowly relaxing, leaning more into the bed instead of half out of it. His watery eyes looked over to you a little longer smiling just a hair as he nodded.

"It's nice, yeah. And-um, y-yeah I'm Lars. I-I've seen you running sometimes." He looked away then almost embarrassed at having admit that. You just smiled. As he calmed more, the blood came throbbing painfully in his hand and he gripped it instinctively. You noticed the movement and the gauze that was much redder than it should have been. What did that doctor do to him?

"Is this why you're here, Lars? Did you hurt your hand." He looked at it, nodding bashfully before looking at you. When you weren't looking at him he took a little longer to look away.

You were pretty, he'd always thought so. It was why he always tried to hide when you'd speak to him or see him. Lars wasn't the best at talking to new people and you'd only moved in a few months ago. He knew you worked here, though. He'd seen you come home really early when he was getting ready to go to church or work outside and he'd seen you leave fairly late. Always in scrubs. Usually bright colors. Today you wore a bright green with Snoopy and Woodstock on them. He liked them.

You said his name and he quickly dropped his eyes, "Can I take this gauze off? I'll have to clean it and move it a bit. If I put on two gloves and maybe let you keep your hand on a paper towel, do you think you'll be okay? Do you think it'd be enough layers I won't hurt you?" Everyone in town had "warned" you about Lars and his peculiar ways but it was always out of kindness and care. They all loved Lars deeply and only wanted you to understand him a little bit so you wouldn't be offended and the like. You weren't. You thought he was sweet just— anxious. A lot. You watched him think it over, gauging the pain he was already in and deciding how he wanted to proceed. It was important he made that choice. And understood he didn't have to put up with being mistreated or his needs ignored. Finally, after a few moments and deep breaths, he nodded.

"The— The gloves will help." You nodded with a quiet agreement before rolling back a bit and putting on a few pairs of gloves. It would make moving a little harder but you knew he needed this and he needed his hand looked at. Lars watched you carefully almost anticipating you'd try and trick him. To test if touch really hurt him if he wasn't looking, but you kept your word. He counted three layers of gloves. Seeing how tight that made him filled him with a sickly churning guilt but you didn't mention it. It didn't outwardly affect you at all, and honestly? It really didn't. If it helped Lars feel safe then it was what you'd do. Not just because it was your job but because Lars was kind, he was gentle, and he deserved the patience he gave others. You cared about him. You cared about all your patients but Lars had held a special place in your heart since you first met him moving in. He hadn't spoken or looked at you all that much but when he saw you struggling with the heavier boxes and furniture, he wordlessly stepped in to help. Before he knew you. Before you asked or even noticed him. Because that's who Lars was. Awkward and shy, maybe perpetually anxious, but above all that he was caring. He wanted to help sometimes even if he might not know how. So yeah, if more gloves helped him trust you, helped him feel brave again, then it wasn't an inconvenience at all.

You still set his hand on a cloth before carefully removing the gauze, hissing in sympathy. It was a pretty nasty cut but not deep enough to damage tendons or nerves. Maybe just a stitch or two. Lars' body tightened up looking at it. It looked worse now. Was it because he got scared? Did he make it worse? "Good news, Lars," you smiled up at him making him blush, "I think we'll just need two teeny-weeny stitches. Nothing really serious." You pinched your fingers and heightened your voice which may have looked childish or silly but it helped him. He smiled a little before his eyes fell away again. "I'm going to flush it out, shouldn't burn it's just some really clean water." He liked that you were telling him what you were doing before you did it. Even something as little as that meant a lot to him. And your touch was very gentle, light, like you were making a conscious effort not to grab or force him with too much pressure. You weren't looking at him again and he watched you work, followed the slope of your nose and the way it crinkled when you focused on something little. He admired the way your hair lay and the way your skin reacted to the different light, shimmering with what he assumed was sweat but it still somehow looked beautiful. He watched your tongue poke from the corner of your mouth, the pinch between your eyebrows while you worked. Yes. You were very pretty and he couldn't help the little smile growing a little wider when you sat up meeting his eye. You had been so attentive and patient with him, he kept his eyes on you the entire time you spoke,

"All done! You did awesome, Lars. Just keep this wrapped and dry, I'll send ya home with some stuff to keep it all clean and then you just come back in a few weeks and get em removed!" Lars nodded looking at his wrapped hand before rushing to speak seeing you stand,

"Will you be here?" You stopped by the curtain tilting your head a bit. "W-When I have to- to get out?" He was flustered again. All that confidence evaporated the moment you looked at him and smiled.

"I'll try to be, if not you can come to my place? I have everything there, too. How's that sound?" Lars nodded gratefully, a wider smile as you waved. "I'll send ya some release papers then you can call someone to pick ya up?" He nodded again, voice small but much steadier than when you walked in and so heavy with sincerity something in your chest ached.

As deeply as their hatred of muggles ran, Grimauld Place remained a home of decadence and opulence. Furnishing from long lost ships swallowed by the north sea, riches squirreled away in hidden stones and forgotten passageways; rumors continued to slither from lips in hushed voices of bone worked into Grimauld Place's very bedrock. Hiding in plain sight, the family always claimed, but many know there's more to their location than merely wanting to be nearer their future prey. The Lestrange manor, however, never managed to reach the same level of mysticism and intrigue. Theirs was a stone castle cut from the deepest rock in the cliffs of the Black Sea; a rough unforgiving stone the hue of soot and brimstone ensuring the air remains moist. Stone blocks remained uniform from grave to galley never once shifting from its final resting place. A castle as old as theirs, centuries of war and battle wounds carved into turrets and gaping at the deepest, oldest, sections, dripped continually with the unpleasant smells of damp earth and all forms of mold and moss it fed, and the sticky stench of death that from the family mausoleum lining the lower levels. In short, the Lestrange manor was built on a crypt and smelled of a grave. Death upon death upon —

Distantly, the air sparked prickling up your spine and becoming static at the base of your skull. A warning. A survival instinct you'd perfected over so many years fearing your own breath. How long had you drifted? At first, nothing seemed different. Bodies still twirled and danced around in practiced rehearsed dances, smears of black on black with the very rare streaks of mossy green and deep wine red. Shades too deep to really differentiate between if anyone asked you. No one would though. No one ever did. The electricity worsened, pricking down the lengths of your arms bringing your spine to a coil, tightening the spring and winding tighter and tighter preparing for a fight you'd most certainly wish were a flight.

"You'll be next, you know." Your brother's voice felt like the thickest oil; greasy as it slipped over you and the feel of it stained with every word he spat. Rabastan never did like you.

"It would have to be," you replied flatly, " no one would stoop as low as you offer you a daughter." Without any change or even a pitying glance you added, "Maybe you'll find a man—" The stinging itself was familiar and maybe that would be depressing if it had ever be unfamiliar. Sometimes you found yourself poking and instigating fights and purposefully spoke smartly just because not being hit felt like a trap. A cruel way to store all the frustration and anger and displeasure in life just to unleash on you all at once. It wasn't relief you felt when things were still in the manor — it was fear.

Rabastan's snarl came with wet, spitting warning, "Don't forget your place in this world," your name sounded dirty, almost pitying a horrid thing, "you're lucky to be sat here in your pretty little dress all dolled up and smelling so good," his nose dug into the hair above your ear inhaling deeply. You swallowed your words and discomfort hard knowing better than to shift in expression by any degree. "You'll be right here, where you belong, and we have you here for another seven days." You preferred the snarl to the way your brother looked at you now.

And then those pricks began to burn.

"You're awful loud this time, Black." A rumbled brook of cool water trickled his way, the words coated in the purr of such a constant chill that pulled at something in the back of his mind. Not sticky and warm like anything fond and happy to draw another Dementor for a feast but merely — familiar. "You're typically loud, of course, but this feeding you sounded absolutely deranged." Sirius lifted his head, craning it towards a missing stone near the top of his cell. That giggle… the musical discordant chiming —

"Lestrange," the name came on a snarl. Yes, the youngest Lestrange but not his cousin nor the infamous Rabastan and Rodolphus, no — their sister. "Caught you along with the rest of your shite family?"

"Don't be so rude. I'm sure your entire shite family's around — somewhere. Oh perhaps they're enjoying the rooftop views." Another chilling ripple of knell bells and Sirius felt heat thread into his blood dragging with it the sting of venom surging his body up towards the small opening, yellowed teeth cracking in a vicious snarl.

"What my family's done does not put blood on my hands!"

"And yet mine does?" It came fast, harsh, and bitterly through the stale air. Somewhere in the dark of his neighboring cell he puzzled out the shape of something darker than the dark. No chains were needed in this place, amid dementors, the ceaseless stormy sea colliding into the tower, and a place where time itself became swallowed into the nothing prisoners soon feared life outside the safety of their cells and yet, something in Lyssa Lestrange's cell glinted briefly. "I am here under the trials and sentences of a family I had not asked to be bred into, beneath beliefs not my own and crimes committed by me out of nothing but the human need to survive, for the prevailing of my own worthless, hungry, cowardice life and why are you here, Black? What crime is it you committed so disgustingly unforgivable that you've been tossed among the death eaters to rot? Gryffindor's golden Black, the black sheep of the Noble House, hm?" An onslaught of biting, spitting, relentless words rushing him masterfully. Strategically. Disorienting. Although he could not see her properly, he sensed her slowly recoiling further into her pit. All bite and venom slipped into something somehow far more biting, "Oh I do like when you're quiet but want to know a secret? I much prefer the way you sound when.. you.. scream."

Sirius shook with such violence his bones rattled and his teeth audibly cracked leaving the taste of the enamel at the back of his throat but like the snake of her Hogwarts house, Lyssa merely slithered among the shadows. A shadow in the deep waves of a bottomless ocean. Every word he had racket up his throat and ready to unleash clattered to the pit of an empty stomach, rattled about his head like cracked glass. Unwelcome visions of James, his best friend, his bright eyes and easy laugh, the warmth of his embrace, the firm unshakeable trust in all those close to him, James with the courage of a lion and a heart unmatched in worth and size came crashing through Sirius only to be sensed, tracked, and then pulled right back out. A wretched, shameless, sobbed scream ripped through him along with every one of those blessed memories and visions and behind it settled the chill of death. The cold of a bottomless grave. The hollowed out chill of emptiness. Another wave of icy stabbing, nerves misfiring hot, cold, stinging, burning at every synapse drug following memories from his very soul. The sound James' laugh, the warmth of his friend's embrace, the smell of quiddich jerseys and drunken nights spent stargazing or swimming in Black Lake. Cackling, howling, and distantly, mockingly, the drifting sound of James calling his name pulled Sirius from the cell and into a temporary death…

Psst, Sirius blinked sluggishly but couldn't rouse entirely. Another hiss between teeth now followed by his name… but not James' voice now. Something still, steady. "Are you awake yet, Black? They've brought bread if you're not hungry could you toss it through, love? Hm? Mine's more mold than wood." She giggled quietly. Comfortably. Sirius' eyes opened but nothing came clearer. His own cell cradled no light outside what may shine against wet stone. The cold of the sea warmed him and slowly that gift of an end slipped into the pain resurgence of life. Sirius could only shudder through a sob, shamelessly pleading with nothing for a reprieve. Some kind of ease to his torment. A lessening of that deep aching agony of his loss. "They'll only keep coming, you know," Lyssa reminded cruelly, "You with all your friends, and all your happiness, a whole bloody life full of warm, sticky, endless adoration, love, and gooey memories. All of them pure and unblemished. No wonder we're a bustling hallway of hungry ghosts." Her laugh was muffled but it punched the air from his lungs.

"Must be that's why they threw you next to me," Sirius spat clawing at the stone searching for up, "those bloody demons starve on bitches like you, don't they? Leave the beastly sight of you hungrier than when they arrived!" After so many smart comments and bitter insults, her moment of silence startled him.. Eerily the entirety of the prison fell into a foreign impending nothing. The screaming ceased. Every familiar, constant, predictable sound Sirius so relied on to anchor his sanity collapsed on its head. Only the dripping of water met his cell. Was this a new hell? Sirius barely felt his feet beneath him, wasn't entirely certain he was even stood and only aware he moved on some innate molecule too primitive to name. His breath stuttered towards that window into the cell beside his. "You're scared same as me, aren't you? The great Lyssa Lestrange, afraid of dying." Whatever brought about the loss of sound crackled with the pitching, hysterical laugh Sirius felt in his chest but seemed lost in the distance as soon staccato into it.

"A want to live is not the same as a fear of death," a hush stirred along the ground, slithering from all directions. "There are worse things than our own death, Black, here, let them show you—"

Lightening struck Sirius at the base of his spine shocking a blinding, white hot pain so deep withing him the marrow of his bones blackened and with that — everything around him.

Months passed. Perhaps years. Or maybe only hours, time was a forgotten certainty. A word he barely recalled the meaning of. Tremors shocked through him every few moments, reminding the innocent man what true pain felt like. Thoughts came and left on a sieve, leaking and slipping away without ever full forming. Noise was back. Chaotic, dizzying, cacophony no longer discernible from one sound to another until her voice slipped through. He'd come to expect it in times like this. When his world cracked, when it fell from under him and reality began disintegrating.. Lyssa spoke. Despite what he could only assume she'd suffered, knowing how he did, her voice never trembled. Never shook or pitched tensely. He accused her of starving the dementors, of having not even a moment's breath of a happy moment. Of something strong enough to fuel her soul and feed their tormentors, but he hadn't meant it. At least, not when he had first charged her with such a crime but now, the even and conversational cadence she managed to still uphold, Sirius wondered if she were there at all.