a / n ;; You have no clue how much I don't ship this pairing, but I couldn't get the concept out of my head, so here it is. Shoddy endings aside, I'm mildly proud of this.
edited;; May 3, 2010 at 12:57 p.m. (for formatting and typos).

of divination and dying young

The threaded lines on mother's tapestry reflect the light so brilliantly. They make crisscrosses against his skin, and for hours afterwards he attempts to scrub them from his memory, but gold and blood are thicker than water and his red-raw skin isn't changing anything. And he knows this, but he doesn't stop.


He meets the boy with messy hair and round spectacles at his great uncle Marius's funeral. And it's ironic because the name he gives is so much like early graves, and he would be reminded of this before it was all said and done, but for now their smiles come easy and they talk of breaking away from the bonds of blood that hang around them like halos (or maybe like nooses around their necks).

But James is already a traitor at the tender age of ten and a half, and Sirius can't help but feel a little bit jealous.


Salvation comes in an envelope. And at long, long last he's whisked away from the nightmares in which golden boa constrictors wrap their way around his limbs and throat and he can't scream and he can't breathe and he thinks that this is what it must be like to die.

But now he falls asleep to crimson and gold, and it's nothing of the sort his family values. He shares a secret smile with James at this, and for the first time in a long time he knows everything will be just fine.

Here. Home.


James pretends he doesn't notice the way Walburga Black turns her nose up at him on the platform. He ignores the words that tumble from her lips.

'Traitor' 'Filth' 'Disgrace to your heritage'

Sirius scowls and calls her a foul slag, because that's what best friends are for, and James should write him anyway and they could talk Quidditch and Evans and how one day he'll run away and never look back.

He doesn't need the tea leaves and crystal balls his cousin Narcissa is oh so fond to tell him this. The prophecies he believes in are the ones you fulfill yourself.


Sirius figures it out first, grinning proudly as his bones shift back into place. Peter claps enthusiastically, jabbering on about his brilliance, while Remus is bound up with bandages in the hospital wing, and Sirius is always only a moment too late (remember this darling. this is your legacy). And James, James thumps him on the back and calls him a mangy mutt.

It only takes the better part of a fortnight for James to master the transformation, too.

"You're beautiful," he breathes without a thought as his fingertips run through the silk soft fur.

He knows he should, but he doesn't want to take it back.


His mother's mouth is sharp as tacks and her spell aim is spot on.

The windows of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place are thrown open, and the sounds of air rushing through tail twigs is all but lost in the night.

Sirius smiles as he dusts golden ash off his robes and raises his fist to knock on the door.

This is everything he's ever wanted, but he's yet to realize that dreams are as flammable as the threads on his mother's tapestry. It's a gospel he'll know well before the end.


The first time he sees them walking towards him, fingers intertwined, he grits his teeth in a smile of sorts that threatens to split his face and heart wide open.

This is James and he should be happy for him.

But he isn't.

Not even at their wedding, but he's a master of smooth moves and stunning smiles and no one would ever be the wiser.

He's James's best friend, after all.


"Godfather," James beams, shoving a plump, sticky bundle into his arms.

Sirius pretends not to notice how even this moment is tainted by the black cloud-implications hanging over their heads, because this is a war and they might not make it out alive.

He doesn't know it yet, but the time they have left together can almost be counted on his fingers.


The wand he holds pointed at Peter's throat shakes ever so slightly, because this is (was) his friend and James wouldn't want this, but this isn't for James or Lily or Harry, this is for him and--

"How could, you Sirius? Lily and James!"

This is a show, and he knows this, but he hesitates because this really is all his fault.

The street explodes in a flurry of dust and rubble and unrestrained magic, and Sirius is wrestled to the ground before he knows what's happened.


You're only as good as the company you keep, and he knows this. His mother used to remind him every so often (but apparently not quite often enough, because it didn't seem to stick).

The company he keeps now are empty shells and the ghosts of things best left forgotten. And regardless of the miles and months he puts between himself and Azkaban he can't shake the feeling that he's much the same.


And as his eyes roll into the back of his head, he thinks that this has been a long time coming.