" never believed we'd be back in here again. " eyes littered down below from the tower of the castle, watching the piles of the snow gather on the windowsill outside. it seemed like yesterday. to the resurrected man, only years ago — yet reality was stifling. age had not enveloped him quite the same as the others. he did not afford that virtue. the time that others had gotten to grow into themselves. to see the skies & listen to the waters like he once had. death had kissed him on his cheek before he could even grasp & waiting in the hogwarts walls felt as though he were in purgatory. sat beside his wife & best friends — unable to meet or know the man, once boy, that they all laid their lives down for. his boy. 

 rage & discontentment both cohabited the darkened eyes of jan polat. locked away like a prisoner that wasn't able to find refuge in their newfound life. he'd lost years. they all had. sirius included. to be in question of how their hearts revived after years of being in the ground. all the answers were what the new order could give them & it didn't feel satisfactory enough for jan. he wouldn't be able to understand the breath in his lungs or why no one could take it away from him in this second life but that was miniscule to what had been weighing on his chest. 

harun. harun. harun. 

his name felt like poison & an anecdote together. 

sirius hums in agreement. hogwarts. it used to feel like a home, all those many years ago. it used to be somewhere safe and warm, untouched by war. now, dirty and wrong as he is, he feels like he's polluting those memories — like wherever he walks, whatever he touches, he's writing over those happier times in thick, black ink. leaving something ugly and permanent. a stain that won't rub out.

" before i died? " sirius smiles grimly. " might as well say it, mate. no point being coy. seems like we're quite well-acquainted already. "

" a couple of years, i think, " he shrugs, hands stuffed in his pockets. " i mean. they all say we knew each-other. wrote letters and that. i don't remember any of it — much as i wish i did. "

he never wanted a kid of his own. too much pressure. too much heartache. such is the burden of coming from a dynasty of fucked up, evil people with no real business reproducing. no guarantees. no real way of knowing you're making something good until it's too late. but he'd always rather liked the idea of being an uncle. a godfather. there'd never been any doubt in his mind about jan and lila's child. about harun.

The Latin was pretty fucking simple. Avada Kedavra. I kill. Severus had poured over the language of the spell, the numbers behind its construction. Its strength lay in its inescapable simplicity. It implied only one thing: the target was alive. How else would it be killed, if it was not alive? And despite Black’s impressive lack of sense, he was not empty between the ears. He must know this was the only explanation.

“ Idiot, ” Severus scoffed contemptuously. “ Stop moving or you’ll spill your guts out. ” His eyes flickered towards Black’s side, the trembling hand pressed uselessly against it. His grip on his own wand tightened, slick with Black’s still-warm blood. Severus killed before, many times, but he never left a man to bleed to death in an alley. Nevermind a man who would bleed on and on without dying, until the wound was seen to.

He killed Lila, Severus thought. But what he saw in Black’s mind did not align with what he knew.

Severus’ lips pursed with indecision.

“ Where were you before you got to the Ministry? How did you get there? “ Severus himself certainly wasn’t in London. He thought back to the moment between the pub and the battle … there was the light, the noise, the curtain parting with a flutter. And before that … before that …

Severus wanted to sink into Black’s mind and find the endlessness. The Empty. The guiltless, fearless place, the place without blame. He wanted to cup the memory of that lonesomeness like a flickering candle and stare into the flame until it became the world.

His teeth clicked shut around the want.

He kept an arms length between them. Air caught in his lungs. He watched Black’s face intently for any hint of recognition. “ Try to remember, ” he whispered. “ How did you get to the Ministry? ”

sirius scoffs. " yeah? and who's fault is that? " it's easy to lapse back into the old way of things even now — even when his head is spinning and time is crawling and all he wants is to lie down and sleep.

" well, " he says uncertainly, trying to recall and finding he may as well be grasping at smoke. there's no name and no place. no firm time, but rather a dozen or so refracted moments. his head thrums with the effort. where were you before the ministry? how did you get there? he should know, but when he closes his eyes to picture it, there's only rain. torrential rain unlike any he's ever seen before. a house in ruins. their house. peter, cowering. crocodile tears and blinding light and then screaming — merlin, the screaming.

but there's laughter too. wild and unrestrained. his, he thinks, but it's got about as much humour as a wake. it's more of a howl, if anything — like he's turned into a cold, north wind.

when he opens his eyes he's shaking. he turns to the side and wretches, but nothing comes up. he has neither the will nor the presence of mind to apologise. he simply brushes his hand against the corner of his mouth and whimpers when he smells blood.

But then, his brother's voice reached him with the most absurd words someone could possibly say in this situation. That's when Regulus knew it was really Sirius. He was really here. And there was no propriety or reason in this world that could've prevented his reaction.

Regulus laughed. Soundlessly. Maniacally. Almost like he was lost to whatever sanity that could dictate his reaction in this situation. What would mum say now? Watching her estranged children sharing this much insanity in her favorite fucking room. And as the muscles on his face seemed frozen on that one reaction, he felt the tears coming. Only fucking Sirius could make him laugh right now. Despite how bad he felt. Even though he wasn't completely sure what made him start moving towards his brother.

"When the fuck was I friendly, arsehole?", Regulus grunted, hands holding Sirius so close, so fiercely, he was afraid of letting go. One moment, he was coming undone because Sirius was alive. The next, he was holding his brother, losing the fight against his tears as they stained Sirius' shirt. Humiliating. That was how he would recall this very moment. "Listen-- this is bad, Sirius. I'm not even sure I'm here right now, so we're completely fucked. He'll come for you to make me pay for what I did. And despite my better judgement, I can't let anyone else touch one bloody hair on your stupid head if not me, so we're leaving, ok? Right the fuck now."

he's dreamed his brother's death a thousand times over. it haunts him in the quiet moments, when he sits by the window with a cigarette and watches the dawn steal in. the streetlights flicker out one by one. a star blinks out, and the world keeps turning. but in the now, where they stand with their arms wrapped tight around one-another, he barks a wet laugh and shakes his head. " fair point, " he muses. " by your standards, that was practically rapturous. "

cautious as he is to let himself hope, it's clear that this is no trick. regulus is here. he's solid and warm and real — and yet sirius still fears he's chasing phantoms. like his brother might somehow slip through his fingers and disappear back into that peaceful dark beyond the veil.

he draws back to really look at him for the first time — searching his eyes and swallowing his guilt down dry. there's an animal fear there that puts sirius in mind of days where they'd hide behind curtains and beneath their beds, faking at being brave while their mother howled like a storm. he left that version of himself behind, and in so doing he left regulus to weather it alone.

never again.

" why would he do it? " sirius moves his hands to remus' chest and shoves, steps forward, then shoves again. " because he's a coward, that's why. i mean really, remus," sirius laughs wildly, manically, scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair. " the man's a rat! we all thought we were so fucking smart — you'd think one of us would've seen this coming. "

but they hadn't. not once had it occurred to any of them to look twice at poor, pathetic peter pettigrew. so on edge, these days. so quiet. so afraid.

there's something ugly expanding in sirius' chest, crushing his lungs and causing his heart to hammer like a war drum. it feels like drowning — one hand extended towards the moon in the surface of the water and the other holding fast to something heavy, letting it pull him down out of reach of the light.

sirius shoves again and spits blood on the floor at remus' feet.

" but let's hear your version. why would i do it — hm? what makes that so much more likely? " because you're a black. because you were born bad. because there's a madness in you that can't be cured with all the good will in the world, mate. you could try forever and you'd still be rotten as they come. he doesn't need remus to say it, but he so desperately wants to hear it all the same — wants him to acknowledge the ugly truth of of how far they've fallen. once gilded kings brought low as dirt.

Black eyes trained on grey in the fading light. His mind, expanding, enveloped Black’s own, like a final caress, closing the lids on sightless eyes. It’s the only reason he saw it. Black’s final thoughts, quick as flashes: a living room, a vow. Polat’s trusting face. A name, red as blood: Wormtail. Then a peaceful, quiet, endless nothing. Untroubled. Achingly familiar. I was here — once — I know this pla ——

This is the end.

“ You fucker, ” Black said. Severus blinked. 

What?

Black kicked up his wand and heaved. Severus stepped back, wand up, mind sweeping through the possibilities. Nothing clicked. This was impossible. Except for the plain fact that it was.

Black growled some insults. “ Shut up for a minute, I’m trying to think, ” Severus said, mind running a mile a minute before the words caught up to him. “ And fuck you! ” He reassessed the situation quickly. Black was injured, back to the wall, and alone. No backup was rushing in. Their enemies, clad in red and purple, were not the Death Eaters. The snow crunched under his feet — it was not mid July anymore. And the peaceful nothing called to him like an old friend.

Something was terribly out of order. Severus looked at Black and decided he still had the advantage. He pressed on. “ I just killed you, and you’re not dead. You know what spell that was. ” His eyes narrowed. He held Black’s gaze with his own. Wand raised, but for what purpose, he did not know. He couldn’t kill Black, that much he knew. “ How did you get to the Department of Mysteries? Where were you before? ” A theory began to form in his mind, unbidden. “ You’re already dead, aren’t you. ” 

If Severus pointed his wand to his own neck and cast, what would happen?

severus is unguarded. it would be cheap and rotten work, but he could do it. and there's a fledgling part of him that wants to — wants to press the tip of his wand against severus' throat and whisper it like a prayer. he tried to kill me first, he imagines saying — and it wouldn't even be a lie. he grips his wand tight and almost does it, almost licks his forefinger and thumb and extinguishes that last glimmer of hope that he's any more virtuous than the worst of them, but severus' accusation stops him cold.

you're dead, aren't you?

sirius stares at the man like he's lost his damn mind. for all his faults ( and make no mistake, there are many ) severus is a practical-minded sort. how many times has he endured that grating tone of his, drawling on and on in an effort to prove how smart he is — how very above them all he feels, despite being no more extraordinary than shit on a shoe?

" apparently not, " sirius grins. spreading his arms wide like he's just performed some spectacular trick and wincing, gasping aloud, when his abdomen flexes and the skin around the wound tears, easy as parchment. he doesn't know the name of the curse he's just weathered, nor it's intended effect, but he knows he needs a healer — or perhaps some temporary means of preventing his innards from becoming outards.

Even though his eyes were wide open, Regulus saw the world turn black. The pressure coming from all sides at once, the ability to breath stolen from his lungs. He was everywhere and nowhere at all. Folding into himself and unmaking the very fabric of what made him Regulus, just to reappear somewhere else. Truth to be told, he had always been at awe with the concept of apparition. It was suffocating, terrifying, and downright sickening. But it was also the closest he had ever been to existing in two places at the same time. To uncovering whatever dwelled in between the things he could see.

At some point, he even thought this was the answer to his own problem. The place where he could find a way to remove the Dark Mark. Shame that, this time, he used it to hide himself from all the noise he could hear inside the house, all the people. Ironic that he didn't even think about the in-between as he apparated to the family tapestry room. He didn't want to leave just yet. Not as he navigated the odd comfort he got from Remus, or the slight unease that came along with it. So he hid himself. In plain sight, in the most Black place in the whole of Grimmauld.

As a kid, those faces in the family tree unnerved him. Like ghosts looking back at him, demanding, ruling over his life. Now, he couldn't help the desire to just be one of them. To become the skull above his name. Or the burned mark above Sirius'. Anything, but this. The not knowing, the misplaced feeling, the tremors and the nightmares. "You're alive. Your name is Regulus Arcturus Black, and you're fucking alive," he whispered under his breath, eyes closing as he drowned in the sound of his own heartbeat. He needed to hold on to the facts. Assure himself that Remus wouldn't lie. That, somehow, he actually trusted that man to give him this truth.

Regulus took a deep breath, the sound of the door opening wrenching him out of his own mind. At this point, he didn't even bother to reach for his wand. Just resigned himself to the scrutiny of whomever came to him in this twisted room. And when he saw who it was closing the door behind them, Regulus felt his heart stop. His lungs compress. His eardrums explode. "No", he commanded. And it hurt. Merlin, it hurt. Destroyed whatever was left of him as he shook his head in denial. "You should be dead... I need you to be dead, Sirius", otherwise, Voldermort would have control over him. Regulus would once again have something to lose. And he couldn't, for the life of him, lose Sirius again.

it's been mere days since ' the resurrection ' ( a rather uninspiring designation, all things considered ) and yet it feels like a lifetime. there's been a lot to catch up on and a lot to learn — both about himself, and about the world beyond grimmauld place. they're all ghosts here, in some manner of speaking, but there's one ghost in particular he can't seem to shake. he haunts his every waking thought, equal parts looming threat and empty promise.

regulus.

sirius can't recall much about the last time he spoke to his brother. he recalls being told of his death, of course — recalls feigning indifference and excusing himself to seek oblivion at the bottom of a bottle. several bottles, actually. since then, the matter of his brother has become something of a forbidden thought. he's in no rush to confront his guilt, nor to try to clear his conscience. he wants to suffer for it, but he wants to do so on his own terms.

needless to say opening the door and finding himself face to face with the man himself feels like an infringement on his right to private self-flagellation.

He seemed to have interrupted something ceremonial. Jan Sirac Polat stood behind the man his father once loved so dearly. One who had sacrificed everything. He was nothing short of a legend to Jan. Both eerily familiar and absolutely unknown.

"You can go in if you want," he said, piercing through a tense silence. A contemplative quiet that, at least from the stories he had been told about the man, he wouldn't usually associate with his namesake. "It's more yours than it is mine."

They wandered in before Jan hopped on to the bed. The old thing still had a spring to it, bouncing Jan up and down a few times in a way that instantly made him feel small.

His eyes followed Sirius' own. He imagined it couldn't have been all that different from what he remembered. There was little effort put in to making the space feel anything like Jan's old bedroom. The stars that used to shoot by on the ceiling and band posters that sometimes woke him with a late night drum solo were long gone with the rubble. The room was and would always be Sirius'.

An awkward silence, not unfamiliar, but unwanted, overtook them and Jan had no choice but to break it. "Those yours?" he asked, nodding in the direction of a dusty chest filled to the brim with old vinyls of bands he had never heard of. "You've got shit taste."

jan sirac. sirac as in sirius. there's something about it that makes his chest feel tight — and that's saying nothing of the fact that this bloke could be his best friend's twin, for fuck's sake. " dunno about that, " sirius says, amused. " i've not slept in that bed since 1975. "

but he wanders in regardless, looking around as he goes and taking stock of the ways it's changed — and the ways it hasn't. jan hasn't touched much, but it still feels warmer somehow. the grimmauld of his memory is a cold, quiet place. it seems, with the arrival of the polats, the bare bones of the house are finally host to something joyful. something alive. it feels like a place where people could be happy.

his mother would hate it.

ron being ... the husband? it's getting hard to keep track. so many names ( most of them weasley-adjascent ) and so many faces. if it gets much worse, he might have to resort to calling people 'mate' or 'you' and call it a day.

" you can take a fair bit of it, at least. sometimes getting folk together is more important than all the other shi — stuff. " it's a skill he can appreciate, because it's a skill he doesn't have. he's never been the glue. from what he's heard and seen, hermione seems to be holding everyone together through force of will alone.

the atmosphere is electric

against sirius' better judgment, he whoops as he fires off a series of curses, only dimly conscious of the ally at his back. there's blood in his mouth and an all-too-familiar itch beneath his skin; the thrill of the fight, and the promise of an outlet for his basest instincts. what he lacks in precision, he makes up for in raw power and improper enthusiasm. he's soaring on the wings of adrenaline, a thousand feet high —

— and then there's a wand against his side and a spell on his companion's lips. he doesn't recognise it, but neither does he have time to wonder.

the pain is unlike anything he's ever felt. it's a blade on fire. he gasps and staggers, clutching at his abdomen with both hands and feeling the blood gush out through the gaps between his fingers; thick and hot and wet. " fuck, " he gasps, breathing ragged as he turns to face his assailant. " you? "

Severus shoved Black against the stone wall behind them with an arm against his throat. Drove Black’s hand into the open wound with the heel of his palm. Warm blood gushed from the wound and onto the white, glistening snow, now marred with streaks of red. He envisioned this moment in fits of rage and resentment, always aglow with burning fury. Now that it finally came, Severus’ mind was cold to the touch. A focused calm bloomed in his mind like early frost. ‘ I will kill you now, ’ he said softly.  ‘ But first I will tell you why. ’ It was only proper. A man killed in vengeance must first be told of the deed that took him. 

He dug the heel of his palm deeper into the wound. Warm blood soaked his fingers and traveled down to his elbow. ‘ You killed Lila, ’ he said. ‘ She trusted you with her life, and you led Him to her home. You’re a coward and a traitor. You’ll die as you lived. ’ He released Black’s wounded side and brought the tip of his wand to his enemy’s heart. ‘ Avada Kedavra. ’ 

Before every line he crossed, Severus always looked. He did not enjoy killing. But he never looked away from what he did, and why he’d done it. He held Black’s eyes with his own as the space between them lit up in green.

sirius' head hits the wall and his vision erupts into stars. the pain is hot and dizzying, and it's everywhere. he's dimly conscious of yelling out in pain, of bile rising in his throat, but the sound is cut short by an arm against his jugular and a whisper against his neck. he reaches to pry it free with blood-soaked fingers, leaving streaks of red on the sleeve of his assailant's coat, and only then does he reclaim the presence of mind to know who he's looking at — who he's hearing.

you’re a coward and a traitor. you’ll die as you lived. word travels fast then. sirius opens his mouth to retort, but severus' next words bring time to a standstill. this can't be how it ends. the world around them is engulfed in brilliant green light and then ... nothing. not nothing as in the end of all things, but nothing in the more literal sense of the word. nothing happens.

and in the beat after, alight with new-found adrenaline, sirius brings his knee up and reclaims his wand from where it had fallen at his feet. " you fucker, " his chest heaves as he stares at the other man, one trembling hand resting back against his side, his lips peeled back in a snarl.

pure, unbridled hatred like the face of a tempest. that's it, sirius thinks. that's what i'm looking at. it's an older friend even than remus himself. he's seen the ghost of it in friends and family. strangers in the street. hell, he's seen it in the mirror. but remus? remus is the level head. he's the voice of reason, all platitudes and peace-keeping — and an edge of well-meaning condescension. he's too good for this. he's above it.

that makes one of them.

sirius grabs remus' shoulders and bares his teeth in a snarl. he doesn't want to fight him, necessarily, but he's as good an outlet as any for the pressure building inside. there's something almost freeing about the prospect. they've been dancing around this for months now, always keeping their hands behind their backs and their eyes on the ground.