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Come With Me



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Old July 2nd, 2011, 8:45 pm
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Come With Me

Oh, brother, I can't, I can't get through.
I've been trying hard to reach you 'cause I don't know what to do.
Oh, brother, I can't believe it's true.
I'm so scared about the future and I want to talk to you.
Oh, I want to talk to you...


Come With Me

There was only one who heard the whisper properly. Heard it, absorbed it, felt it- a subtle little knife managing to press in on all sides.

And if the small cluster of people-those who started the whisper and egged it on for some more- had looked up from their drinks at the right time, all they would have seen was the end of a black cloak hurriedly slipping into oblivion.


1972


They were Sirius's robes-to begin with, of course- but now, were the significant pieces of clothing that Regulus donned; all day, every day. In fact, even with his eyes defiantly closed, Sirius swore he could still see the snake, the silver, the emerald. To deal with this pressing problem, he plastered posters of lions and gold and scarlet. Green gave him a headache, anyway.

Regulus gazed, open mouthed, when he first viewed his brother's oh-so-dynamic 'decorations' and Sirius bit back a laugh, instead saying, "Hasn't Mum told you it's rude to stare?"

And, in retaliation, Regulus leapt upon him. With an indignant yell, Sirius turned sharply to deal what should've been a magnificent blow, but somehow, halfway through the scuffle, both ended up sprawled on the floor, breathless and giddy.

"Does it make a difference?" Regulus soon asked, his words clear and open in the air.

"Mm?"

In reply, Regulus hesitantly fingered the end of his too long robes. And Sirius knew, instantly, what he meant. "No," he said carefully, with a cautious shrug of the shoulders. "Not...not really."

1974


He had only really entered the bedroom to borrow a pair of socks. It was only once inside, that Sirius realised just how deadly an occurance a pair of missing socks could be.

The softly comforting fabric was held loosely in his fingers, and he straightened up from the dark oak drawers and saw them all.

Snakes, silver and emerald, Sirius could manage to swallow. Undoubtedly with some difficulty, but he could swallow them all the same. It was something he could understand (House Pride and all that lark), and coming from his brother, something he could let be.

But what he saw wasn't simply snakes and colours. It was skulls and snakes, coupled with newspaper clippings of brutal attacks and murders...

And everything made so much sense now; everything had this lucid, horrific clarity: frequent snide comments, the "How to Recognise and Kill Werewolves" Essay that always seemed too dark and disturbingly graphic...all these tiny niggles meshing into this mass of sickening comprehension.

The socks lay forgotten on the floorboards.

Dinner was a tense affair- at least, for Sirius. Regulus's eyes narrowed when Sirius gave his shin a well aimed kick from under the table and then proceeded to knock over a Black Family Heirloom Goblet, filled to the brim with water. ("Oh, sorry, Regulus, truly.")

The evening ended with Sirius punching Regulus squarely on the nose at the top of the stairs and they ended up tumbling down them-neither quite sure of who pushed whom- and it was not like the almost innocent fight of two years ago.

Later, Sirius adamantly stated that he had won, but really, he reluctantly knew both of them had inevitably lost.

1976


It happened after the explosive fury and after the screams; the momentary, artificial calm after the storm.

It was a unique moment in that, for once, it didn't contain any badly concealed malice or spite.

Sirius simply stood in the doorway, letting the cold gust of now night-time air creep down his neck, spotted his brother standing his ground at the foot of those infamous stairs and the unusually quiet words were out before he could stop them: "Come with me."

Regulus stiffened (an inherited trait; the Black way of controlling panic), hissing, "You don't mean that."

A crashing silence descended upon them and for once, Sirius's mouth opened, merely emitting a strangled noise of protest. Too little, too late.

Heavy seconds passed until: "And I hate you for not meaning it."

Regulus' grey eyes-so like his own-seemed overly bright in that response, that it almost seemed as if...But, the lighting in Number 12 Grimmauld Place had the potential to be callously deceptive. All in all, it didn't matter anyway for Sirius had left his former home before he could decide.

1979


One of the many positives of Sirius's motorbike was its sheer speed- obvious, but true. Everything went by in a whoosh of colour; houses and scenery whizzing into a stinging blur.

He felt strangely detatched, this feeling only intensifying as he sped on: Other motorbikes, cars, blank houses, things of no meaning, Remus's flat-

Oh. Remus's flat. And just thinking that brought back a welcoming familiarity. Automatically, he parked the motorbike, prising white knuckles off the handlebars and making his way into the building: ninth staircase on the left.

He actually collided with someone on the fifth floor and only after blinking a little did Sirius realise that it was Remus.

"Hello!" he said cheerily, smiling in surprise at the unexpected visit.

"You-you're here," Sirius stammered, "Here, n-not somewhere, here-"

"Yeah, I was going for a walk," Remus went on, incoherency being relatively normal Sirius-like behaviour, "But, never mind that, now- I didn't really want to, just wanted to get up and do something. Fancy a cuppa?"

Sirius nodded wordlessly and it was then that Remus frowned. "Are you alright?" he asked, gripping Sirius's shoulder lightly.

"Yeah, 'course, Moony."

Remus smiled absentmindedly at the nickname, climbing back up floor after floor, Sirius following him in a daze.

It was when they were in front of Remus's modest looking door, Remus fumbling for the keys ("Alohamora would be too risky; think of the Muggles."), that Sirius said it. He was merely testing the words to see what they would sound like and even when, "He's dead," was out in the open, it still felt surreal.

Remus dropped his keys.

"What? Who's dead? Sirius, answer me!"

"Regulus. Heard it in the Hog's Head."

And Remus's eyes were wide, hands brushing Sirius's shoulders in sincerity, "God, Sirius, I'm sorry."

Sirius shrugged the hands off harshly. "S'alright. Barely knew him."

One of Remus's eyebrows rose in a typical You can't fool me expression, but, instead of saying anything, he picked up the fallen keys and opened the door.

"Well, what about that cup of tea, then?" Sirius blurted out loudly and nearly sprinted inside.

By the time Remus caught up, it was to meet a boiling kettle and Sirius fiercely clasping a white mug. They stood side by side, watching the kettle whistle shrilly and then fall silent, with a touch of old teenage awkwardness, a hint of Look, I don't quite know what to say, here.

Sirius tried to exhale calmly, remembering a discarded childhood of boyish scuffles and laughter and forgotten socks and tumbles down the stairs and over bright grey eyes.

His grip on the mug soon accidently slackened and it smashed into shards on the floor. He bent down to retreive them, to hear a firm, "I don't care about the bloody mug," from above. He stayed in the crouching position, anyway, a constricting, tight feeling in his chest, in his throat.

"I miss him," Sirius forced out painfully as Remus lowered himself down, too, in order to meet his gaze. "That's so st-stupid, isn't it? I-I mean how can you miss someone you haven't seen for..." and he trailed off because his chest hurt and there was something trickling down his face and he couldn't pause to wipe it away; there was no time, no time...

"Oh, Padfoot," Remus whispered softly, simply and pulled him close.

1996

It didn't take very long for Sirius to admit to himself that he was dead. After he fell, there was a great deal of shouting, swearing and then screaming: No, no, too soon, Remus, Harry, you can't take me yet, please, please.

He eventually quietened, to see a lone figure making his way towards him.

He always had this belief that, when he died, it would be James whom he met first. The thought had even slipped into his shadow filled dreams since his escape from Azkaban.

However, he was undoubtedly faced with eyes near identical to his own, and had never experienced the strongest urge to both punch (again) and touch someone to check they were real at the same time.

Regulus's hands were shaking ever so slightly; it probably wouldn't have been noticed if the rest of his body wasn't so still. "I have something to tell you," he murmured slowly, "...Come with me."

And Sirius did.
---------------------------
Feedback.

The starting words written in italics before the title, are some of the lyrics of Coldplay's song, Talk.

This entire story was inspired by the roleplay thread HP Past in the Quidditch Pitch, where the greatest creativity dwells.


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Last edited by FutureAuthor13; July 3rd, 2011 at 10:21 am.
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