Author: Regala Electra
Timeline: Set after PoA, Movieverse
Summary: There is still screaming left.
Author's Notes: I didn't intend for this to take me so long to complete nor did I even expect it to turn out how it did. I can only hope it doesn't suck and offer sweet, sweet lovin' to those that feedback. Or something.
He keeps his eyes open and records the darkness, the passage of time, for he can keep it now. He is almost without fear that it will disappear: taken, mutilated, forever corrupted, not unlike a mobius strip of repetitions until time itself stops and there is nothing left but the darkness and the dread of eternity.
It is not that the Dementors take away your memories. It is an easy mistake to make; after all, there are few sane wizards to tell the tale of what truly happens.
He is sure he does not say this out loud. Because the sound of his voice has been raked over and splintered by endless screams and his inner monologue, that is almost clear, almost seems like a someone he used to be. A shadow in the darkness.
If he even remembers himself.
The Dementors burn and twist the memories instead. It is as if there are flames licking at the corners of moving photographs and magically preserved voices become scratched and twisted, and echo a long, long way off. Eventually the garbled voices all speak the same words over and over again until there is nothing but repetition and it is an everlasting noise that will never cease.
And he screams at them to shut up shut up until he too joins the madness.
The colors fade grey and are swallowed by browns, in dirt and blood, until all is lost into nothingness, ebbing into the darkness with the false hope that a mere *lumos* will bring them back.
He doesn't even remember the color of Lily's eyes, the eyes that were so brilliant in the child's face.
He must protect, must, must remember - and then, he doesn't, and it is only a familiarity of a child's raw cry and the burnt remains of the house, as he enters it, always enters it, the realization that it is he, he who brought this-
No, it was Peter and still, he needs to watch the light seize out of the rat's eyes, to look every bit as still and dead as James.
But no, Harry is safe and Peter is - out there - and he must rest for just a moment.
He crumbles, a heap of ruin robes, into the old shack, no shrieking here to be found, save his memories. It is a small shack and Muggle-built, piled with broken bits of Muggle devices. He pays no attention and listens to the sound of nothing.
And then the screaming starts.
For just a speck of *lumos* and in the garbled screaming (traitorliesbetrayer) the promise of silence eternal.
He laughs (it is a scream, not a laugh, a scream that is a laugh, was there ever a difference between screaming and laughing or has it faded in the emptiness?) at James' and Lily's wedding not because he enjoys the champagne, or is proud that his best friend has snagged a woman he doesn't deserve, he laughs at it because he is not fool enough to marry, the dark tinge remains and then he laughs again.
And he stands in destruction and the laugh rips apart the world until it is nothing save the strained screaming of shattered memories.
It is his fault because he let it all fall apart with a mere word, a mere look, a mere spark.
The laughter was merely the sound as he went to pieces. It was a shattering that fell into darkness and he had only then to realize - he was the weak link.
Peter's eyes trail nervously over Remus' back as Remus leaves, wearily announcing he'll be away and saying nothing further. When Peter blubbers that he's worried about Remus, the first trap is set and Sirius bounds into so easily.
Their animal natures are true and he didn't see anything, his damned tongue wagging with so much fucking pride, such a clever dog, such a clever fucking trick.
He groans but not does move as he listens to the sounds of the world around him, the small town far too quiet. He mustn't sleep.
The Dementors take away your dreams.
His cock is pressed so hard against his body, but he forces himself to lie still against the cold floor. His mind is empty and now is the time when it is so much easier to tear apart. As he shivers neither in heat or coldness (his notion of temperature was one of the first things to go), his defenses, the few thereof, have all been stripped away.
When he comes in hot, stilted shakes, it is like a mad hunger, these half-starved orgasms, and his throat is too raw to let out the smallest of screams.
The Dementors glide off in their dark swaths of misery, finding what little joy he has left a good enough meal for the moment.
The first lesson he learned there is that when you stop screaming, they very nearly let you believe that they've forgotten about you. The death-silence is anticipated and feasted on as much as the constant screams and wails. When there is the sliver of hope dangling like the sharpest of swords, then they go in for the kill, and the screams grown louder even as the his voice fractures into a shadow of itself.
So there is still screaming left and Sirius' voice almost remembers itself: his laugh was like a bark and it was a bark like a sound of petty, lost memories in warm days he cannot recall. And the last time he laughed, it was no laugh he'd ever done before.
His eyes almost close and he fights to keep them open, but he is lost, far gone, and is no longer a fugitive waiting in a Muggle shack. He is remembering. He almost forgot how to do such a thing.
There is the seventh time, because the numbers stay even though the purpose of them has emptied out of his head, when Sirius moved his mouth too eagerly and was not ready for all of Remus' cock and that howl and the bitter salt nearly choking him at the back of his throat and he managed, somehow, but felt foolish and inexperienced, and kissed his way back up-
And then he screams until all he remembers is the shame of his futile gestures, because he felt nothing for Remus and remembers only the body and the very shape of things, but the subtleties, Remus reaching out to push a lock of hair out of Sirius' eyes, that too burns away until all he remembers is sweat and numbness and the letdown post-orgasm.
And then he comes in between Moony's legs, they're both half-dressed, and he flushes, it wasn't supposed to be like this, he was going to do all the bloody things he'd wanked off about and it was just a rustle of clothes and their cocks pressed against each other and he'd been set off.
The warmth of Moony's body or the way he brought Sirius down for a kiss are greedily devoured and fade into the cold blankness, a white noise he soon forgets.
Soon, the only kiss they shared was one when they bumped and clacked teeth and Sirius bit down on Remus' tongue.
He can't recall the part where Moony forgives him and sucks him so hard that when he comes he sees stars. He knows it exists, knows it as much as he knows that Remus never knew how damned beautiful he looked with just his thumb brushing across his lip, a nervous smile on his face after Sirius burst out with a particularly dirty double entendre.
And then when Sirius attempted to tell him that, there was a moment where Moony gave him a 'you are a complete berk' look, something he swore up and down that he would preserve and frame in a gaudy golden frame that sang of the wonders of one Remus J. Lupin - that too curls into ash, black and ruined as everything else.
When he had finally remembered that he's a dog, is not a dog, but can change, he never once dared to give himself over to the simpler pleasures, the ones dog-human can understand clear in black and white vision, because there too, Remus disappears, perhaps because that's all he ever was - a mere flicker on the peripeny on Sirius' memories.
And yet, that is almost a lie. Almost.
In Padfoot's body, he felt love hurtpain hurtlove.
But Remus never kisses him, the feel of their lips against each other, that first mad time when they both had no idea how deep they could fall, no, he never seeks the memory of that sensation of lips pressed against his own. He cannot.
Eventually he forgets the very curve of his lips and how Remus' mouth arched just so as his tongue reached out to meet with Remus and always Remus.
A violent, vicious jolt, Sirius slips back into his human form, the body unfamiliar, thin and cold. That change was not meant; his control is slipping into the darkness.
He misses fur and dreams, because a dog can dream a dream that humans cannot dare to remember, and he must work his cock quickly. Now he finds pleasure in the pain, in the roughness of his calloused hands, in the boniness of his too thin fingers and he goes too fast, too hard, too tight, his body screams and he remains silent, not even a gasp escapes his lips and his vision goes blacker, blacker than his dark cell, than the night, and he comes with a choked sob.
He's never dared to call out Remus' name.
That was the greatest disappointment to the Dementors, he is sure of it. He would not let them have that word, because he was (is) innocent. Yes. That word.
He had said it over and over again because that was one word that stayed in his mind and meant something. It was true and it could not be rifled by greedy Dementors, it could not be plucked out and shredded apart. He pieced together the fragments of insanity and remembered veritas and murmured spells, learning how to take the very ink from the night and carve it into his skin, the deeper it went, the more he felt that innocence.
Peter. James and Lily. The child. Harry.
Peter. The rat. The liar.
And he was innocent.
Whatever he forgot, whatever he shunted to the side did not matter. Because he realized that he's at Hogwarts.
A spark returns.
It is not warm in his hands and it flickers out, out.
Remus was dead to him because it was a necessary sacrifice, one spark of light to aide him through the night.
His voice hoarsely whispers *lumos* yet again but there is no further light in the darkness.
He knows the dawn approaches but cannot believe it.
Remus' voice rings (a memory, true and pure as he has never thought he'd ever hope to regain) clear through the black and he closes his eyes.
"Can't sleep, Sirius?"
That is the least of it.
He ignores the illusion, his partonus glimmering weakly, the werewolf beneath his eyelids. He will continue to go south beyond the cold and the darkness, until he is bathed in light and heat and even his bones no longer ache with the infinite memories, carved in his skin and burned in his mind.