Dedicated to the crew at the S.S. Sirius-ly Twisted over on FA.

WARNING: Dismemberment, cutting and slash of the Harry/Sirius kind – don’t like, don’t read.

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It’s been nearly a year since Sirius died – and almost a week since Harry just about died too.

Malnutrition, because he doesn’t eat.

Dehydration, because he won’t drink.

Blood loss from all the times he’s tried to bleed away the pain.

We found him in his room at the Dursleys’, looking at the blood dripping down his hand. He’d written Sirius’s name everywhere we could see – on his sheets, on the floor, on the wall, on himself…

He’s physically fine now, but he’s dead inside.

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Harry Potter sat on his stark white sheets, and stared at the blinding white walls with an unnatural hatred.

Sirius had black hair. Sirius had black eyes. Sirius’s last name was Black, and wasn’t black the complete opposite of white?

Harry remembered when he’d been put in this room. The scars on his wrists and his arms and his legs did too. The walls were so white… and for a while, they were red. He wished he could bleed black.

He remembered when the first Healer had come to talk to him. She’d introduced herself as Healer Smyth-White. She’d needed a Healer herself afterwards.

The next Healer made the mistake of commenting on the clean whiteness of the room.

Next, Ron had come in, his white face contrasting against the bright orange of his freckles. Harry hadn’t meant to bite him, he really hadn’t, but he saw the way Ron’s face just looked like some eyes and some freckles painted on the white, white wall…

He never visited again.

Hermione came to see him, but she had a tan so her face wasn’t white. She hadn’t worn anything white either, so that was OK. Harry talked to her for a long time – about black, dogs, Sirius, black, Padfoot, Sirius, dogs, black. She sat and looked at him with a piteous expression and listened to everything he had to say. When it was time for her to go, Harry had cried, because she brought darkness to he room with her black bag and her black hair bobble… She gave the bobble to Harry, and Harry wore it on his wrist until it snapped. Even then, he kept the pieces where he could see them, because it stood out against the brightness.

Harry grew his hair out so it flopped into his eyes, so he was seeing the white room through a fringe of black.

Hermione visited again, and earnestly told him what he needed to do if he ever wanted to get out of the white room and see the night sky again. Harry listened, and did exactly what she said, so when they finally let him out she cried and hugged him so tight that black spots danced in front of his eyes.

Harry didn’t mind.

He wore black clothes every day. He even managed to stop himself from attacking everything white so he could read – read about people visiting in dreams, of veils and sacrifices, of resurrections and rituals.

Reading with Hermione, reading on his own, reading on the sofa, reading at the table. Reading would help him, Hermione said, and Hermione was always right, because when he read, he almost forgot that Sirius was gone and that Sirius had left him.

Once he started reading, he couldn’t stop. He was fascinated by the way the black texts danced across the white page and made you look at it and read about blood, sweat and tears.

After a while, Harry found a book about resurrection rituals hidden under the floorboards in Sirius’s mum’s room. He found the ritual Voldemort had used in his fourth year, and began to understand that if Pettigrew could do one, he certainly could.

He began to talk to people again, obsessively storing every titbit about Sirius but still talking. Gradually, Remus and Hermione let him have things again – like quills and ink and more books and things that were so white you could blind yourself on them – but Harry didn’t attack them, he didn’t want to go back to the white room where the wood was white and the sheets were white and the door was white.

Using black ink, Harry wrote about rituals that would bring Sirius back. All of them required a price, sometimes a price that Harry couldn’t get. Harry wasn’t allowed out of 12 Grimmauld Place until he was completely better.

On the night of Harry’s seventeenth birthday, Harry remembered he could use his wand and snuck out of the house. He used a small charm to make an incision in his forearm and let out an odd shrieking cry that attracted a Thestral. Harry let the Thestral clean the blood from his arm, and then he asked the beautiful, winged black horse to take him to Diagon Alley.

The Thestral waited for him near the entrance while he got the things he needed, then it took him to the Ministry of Magic, visitor’s entrance. The stupid gits hadn’t even changed the code, and there was no one there to see him creep into the Department of Mysteries, and there was no one guarding the Veil room.

Harry stood so close to the Veil that the dark shroud could caress his face. Then, he stepped away and set up the black cauldron for his ritual.

He’d get Sirius back, no matter what, he vowed out loud, the words echoing eerily around the stone dais.

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Harry couldn’t remember much of what happened that night - lightdarksmokeveilscreams“TAKE IT!”Bloodpainarmswarmdark – but he woke up with warm arms wrapped around him and his face wet with tears.

His arm hurt like hell, but it was all forgotten when he turned around to see the beautiful face of his Sirius framed with black hair, grimy tear streaks down his cheeks. Harry buried himself in Sirius’s strong arms and tried to wrap his arms around him so tight he couldn’t leave, but his left hand seemed to be missing.

Not caring, Harry cried in pure joy as he draped some mercifully dark robes over Sirius and gripped Sirius’s left hand with his right. They exited the Ministry together, hand in hand.

They rode the Thestral to Grimmauld Place, where Remus wept for an entire hour, Hermione slapped Harry in the face, then sobbed for nearly twenty minutes as Madame Pomfrey looked at his arm stump and then at Sirius.

Harry wouldn’t let go of Sirius’s hand for the next week until Sirius’s many promises convinced him he wouldn’t go, and that he’d never leave him never.

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Almost completely better, Harry dated Luna for a while, but couldn’t help thinking of Sirius’s dark mane compared to Luna’s bright tresses. Harry even managed to wear white clothes once in a while, but not often. He went out on his own sometimes, and stared at Sirius’s bright star, and laughed at the whiteness of the star against the darkness of the sky.

Over six months and many broken relationships, Harry realized someone else had already claimed his heart.

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“Hi Sirius,” said Harry happily, sitting next to him and taking hold of his hand gently.

“Hey, Harry!” greeted Sirius, genuinely happy to see him. A beautiful smile lit up his pale face, and Harry wondered why he’d ever hated white as he memorised how Sirius’s pale face contrasted perfectly against his black hair.

They sat together in front of a roaring fire, Sirius’s arms wrapped comfortably around Harry and one leg over Harry’s.

After a while, Harry noticed that Sirius’s hand was tracing warm circles on his stomach. Harry smiled a soft smile and he tipped his head back and turned slightly, hesitating before capturing Sirius’s mouth with his own.

Sirius pulled back, wide-eyed and staring at Harry with half fearful, half hopeful eyes. Harry grinned happily, and pressed his mouth urgently to Sirius’s again, black fire exploding in his heart and running through his veins.

This time, Sirius kissed him back. His tongue ran along Harry’s bottom lip, and then plunged into his mouth as Harry ran his remaining hand through Sirius’s hair, fingers triggering shivers of delight as they dragged across his scalp.

Harry let out a startled gasp as Sirius pulled his Weasley jumper off his head and tossed it behind the sofa. He planted wet kisses down the side of Harry’s neck and travelled down the shoulder and left arm, all the way to the stump at the end.

Sirius raised his eyes, and kissed the end of his arm tenderly, before unbuttoning his shirt and bending down to capture Harry’s lips again. Harry smiled against Sirius’s insistent mouth and slid the dark shirt from Sirius’s shoulders.

This time, it was Sirius’s turn to let out a muffled squeak as Harry’s hand reached for Sirius’s belt. He discarded it easily and guided Sirius’s hand to his own. It was tugged off rapidly as they stood up together, trousers quickly unbuttoned and thrown away.

Kissing him so hard that it took little effort to push Sirius to the floor, Harry straddled Sirius legs and licked hot circles around his belly button and up. He raised his eyes once as the door cracked open, but it was only Hermione, and she smiled happily when Harry gave her the happiest, brightest grin in two years.

After all, he had Sirius and Sirius had him.

What more did he need?