Disclaimer: All characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Inc., AOL/Time Warner and associated companies. No offence, legal or otherwise, is intended by the online publication of this story. Neither is profit. Make love, not lawsuits!
Notes: Sirius in Azkaban. Implied James/Sirius.
Pain--has an Element of Blank--
It cannot recollect
When it began--or if there were
A time when it was not--
- Emily Dickinson
Blank
by
switchknife
He doesn't remember much of his past. He's not allowed to. There are gaps in his memories, like missing teeth, that he can feel only through their absence. He catches the tail-end of a whisper sometimes, a shift of sound and feeling in his sleep, in his dog-dreams--the scent of musk warm and close, the brush of a hand over his forehead. Twitch of muscle under his fingers, stubbled skin under his mouth--but gone the instant he tries to put a name to it, to this rough, sweet thing under his tongue. Pieces and pieces building on each other. He spends many hours like this here, building little towers of memories like a house of cards, knowing that one cold draft from under the door will sweep them all under.
Who did he love, before this? It doesn't seem important, sometimes. After all, he can remember who he hates--crunch of rat-bones in his jaw reminds him, every shadow-shift in the darkness reminds him. He is a wild creature caged, hungry for the hot burst of blood. He likes the hate so rich with salt in his throat, furring his tongue so that he wakes up with it, goes to sleep with it, wakes up with it, goes to sleep. It is the only thing that reminds him he is alive. It is the only thing he has.
Why didn't you come to save me? he asks the owner of the rough-sweet skin in his mind. You would have come to save me. You should have.
It is only then, slipping off to sleep with this rage, that he remembers.
Gold, he sees, a little flutter far against the pale cloth of sky--warm summer wind carrying someone's laughter to him, someone's voice, and he turns his head to see dark hair, whipped and tangled, a flash of teeth, joy-feral, eyes bright and hazel behind the glint of glass.
James, he thinks, gasping, and wakes up. James.
Quickly, before the cold in front of his door returns, he picks up that name--wraps it in hate, safe and tender as a child, and hides it in his mind. This is the only way to keep it. The only way. And this, he thinks, is how he'll save all the others--all the other names he cannot recall.
They're all to blame for something, after all. He's sure he can blame them for something. Just like the one who left him before. Just like--