Since the moment four years ago when Sirius first woke up upon the island, there's never been a time when he's been anywhere else, by dream nor enchantment or physical means. Harry's been, and Neil as well, but Sirius always remains, patient or otherwise, locked inside a door perpetually closed to him.
He blinks, the world changes, and it hits him with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
So long he's been without magic that it's the first thing he notices: Something that for his entire life had been so intrinsic, so naturally part of him, now supercedes sight and sound and touch, not a tingle but almost a weight, the inborn pressure of potential. It knocks him back in his chair, thin chest jaggedly rising with startled breaths.
Oh god, he thinks, gray eyes wide open. It's happened. He's gone. Gone from the island, gone from that improbable life and even less probable scrap of happiness.
The first thing he sees, though, when his eyes finally take in his surroundings, jolts him from that deduction. A moving photograph, small but lovingly framed atop a sturdy, chaotic desk, a little boy with cheeks so chubby Sirius almost mistakes him for a stranger. The Remus Lupin Sirius knows has been gaunt since age eleven.
The rest of the room reveals itself in pieces, layers pulled back too slowly. He's been here before, he realises. Only the once, and it had looked different then, more worn and with the cold bleakness that spoke to a family resigned to its fate. Now, here, there's a warm cosiness to it right down to the scent of dinner wafting in from the kitchen.
But there's something else. Dank and cloying, the dim but distinct scent of the future.
Harry's voice spurs him up, chair knocked back with a clatter before he sprints from the room, pieces notching together in the din of his brain. The blot of dark, messy hair brings him up short, rounds him back, mouth open to speak, only to be cut off by the unmistakable sound of a howl coming from the back yard.
"Stay in the house," he grits out, and takes off again, guided more by instinct and scent than any flimsy memory of the place, out the back door with a slam. A leap from the back porch and he lands on four feet.
There's no hesitation, no time to revel in how good it feels or malign how unprepared he is, how thin. He's little more than a black smear across the yard before he disappears into the grass.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2012-01-31 12:58 am (UTC)He blinks, the world changes, and it hits him with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
So long he's been without magic that it's the first thing he notices: Something that for his entire life had been so intrinsic, so naturally part of him, now supercedes sight and sound and touch, not a tingle but almost a weight, the inborn pressure of potential. It knocks him back in his chair, thin chest jaggedly rising with startled breaths.
Oh god, he thinks, gray eyes wide open. It's happened. He's gone. Gone from the island, gone from that improbable life and even less probable scrap of happiness.
The first thing he sees, though, when his eyes finally take in his surroundings, jolts him from that deduction. A moving photograph, small but lovingly framed atop a sturdy, chaotic desk, a little boy with cheeks so chubby Sirius almost mistakes him for a stranger. The Remus Lupin Sirius knows has been gaunt since age eleven.
The rest of the room reveals itself in pieces, layers pulled back too slowly. He's been here before, he realises. Only the once, and it had looked different then, more worn and with the cold bleakness that spoke to a family resigned to its fate. Now, here, there's a warm cosiness to it right down to the scent of dinner wafting in from the kitchen.
But there's something else. Dank and cloying, the dim but distinct scent of the future.
Harry's voice spurs him up, chair knocked back with a clatter before he sprints from the room, pieces notching together in the din of his brain. The blot of dark, messy hair brings him up short, rounds him back, mouth open to speak, only to be cut off by the unmistakable sound of a howl coming from the back yard.
"Stay in the house," he grits out, and takes off again, guided more by instinct and scent than any flimsy memory of the place, out the back door with a slam. A leap from the back porch and he lands on four feet.
There's no hesitation, no time to revel in how good it feels or malign how unprepared he is, how thin. He's little more than a black smear across the yard before he disappears into the grass.