Chapter Text
When Dora was a kid, before Hogwarts but after the war, her mum used to take her to France every month to visit Lydia. They would spend a few hours in different cities but in the end, they always ended up in the same three bedroom apartment. Her mum came by herself far more often than that. Dora didn’t really get why her mother, who easily got bored with people, would willingly spend time with a woman who barely spoke.
It was not that she disliked Lydia. She answered her endless questions, usually with one or two words. Dora could speak for hours in her company, about anything she wanted and she’d listen. Once she asked why she didn’t speak much and Lydia said, “You speak enough for both of us, that’s why”, which made her snigger. It was the longest sentence she said up until that point.
She was rich -old money, her father explained-, much like her mother’s estranged family, but she never cared when she touched her expensive stuff with her buttery fingers or broke them, which kind of became a challenge for her, to see what would make her crack. She almost set her house on fire once, but she didn’t react to that either, and at that point, she was defected, not to mention grounded.
Her mother didn’t take her to Lydia for five months, only gave in when she noticed her daughter would stare at her cousin’s face in the mirror in secret at night when she was supposed to be sleeping.
That time, their trip turned into a ceremony, with his father and mother both giving her severe warnings.
When they arrived, Lydia didn’t react to seeing her after long months, which baffled her. Dora was rarely ignored or looked over. She drew attention to herself without even trying. But when her mother left them alone to prepare tea, she lit up a stick, and inhaled it for a long moment. She eyed Dora, then demanded, “Where have you been?”
It was the first time since they’ve met that she spoke first.
“I was grounded for nearly burning down your house.”
She scrutinized her, which made her think of her dad’s wrinkly mother, who loved to stare her down every chance she got.
“Yeah, don’t do that again,” she said in the end, tapping her stick into a flower pot. She didn’t seem particularly concerned, either for the plant or her house.
“I saw these in a Muggle film,” Dora changed the subject, because even as a kid she didn’t give out promises she couldn’t keep. “Mum took me to one last week.”
“It’s called a cigarette.”
“Is it Muggle?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have one?” she asked, grabbing the pack on the table.
The bored answer came as she tried to wiggle one out. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re harmful,” she said, snatching it from her hands when it became obvious she wouldn’t put it down on her own.
“Then why are you inhaling it?”
“I’m an adult, that’s why.” She pointedly took another drag.
“Do all adults do this?”
“No.”
“Then why are you?”
“It’s a habit,” she said, words coming out like a taunt.
Dora turned her nose up, not satisfied with the answer. “It smells horrible.”
“So do you.”
“I do not.”
“You tell yourself that.”
Dora narrowed her eyes when she stubbed one in the pot and lit up another, puffing out a cloud of smoke.
“Can I have one when I go to Hogwarts?”
“Sure. Try not to get caught though. You could have one now but Andy would catch me, so you can’t.”
She sniggered, “You’re not very responsible, are you?”
“I don’t have to be,” she rolled her eyes.
“Why? Is it because you’re rich?”
She huffed a laugh, like her mum, and Dora nearly wet herself with excitement. “No, because I was smart enough not to have a kid.”
“Your kids would’ve been ugly anyway.”
“Your mum’s pretty but she had you.”
“I can be the prettiest person if I want to be. I’m a metamorphmagus.”
“Yeah? Show me.”
She changed her face but Lydia’s face didn’t light up with wonder like other people’s.
“That’s me,” she said matter-of-factly, looking away in boredom.
Dora tilted her head to peek into the mirror, and sighed a breath of relief when she saw it had nothing to do with Lydia.
Then she looked over at the woman watching her distress with amusement, and she shrieked, throwing herself onto her.
The cigarette fell on the carpet.
Lydia laughed and laughed and laughed.
She nearly burned the house down, again, but she was not grounded.
Lydia didn’t smoke when she was in the room again until she turned seventeen.
****
Stepping into Lydia’s house always leaves a bitter taste in Dora’s mouth. Now, nearly fifteen years later, it’s still hard not to see that woman whenever she looks at her.
She joins Lydia on the balcony. She doesn’t acknowledge her but it doesn’t bother Dora, she’s grown used to it over the years. She knows by now that it’s better to keep quiet until she finishes thinking whatever she’s thinking about, though she has some ideas what’s it about..
She’s still in her nightgown, without any glamour or any make up on. It allows for miniscule crow’s feet to show in the corners of her eyes, and the purple veins to stand out under her pale skin. It bothers her, the way she hides her age.
Dora settles down across her, gathering the plate waiting for her. It’s a simple omelette but it’s there, despite her looking like a ghost, with a cup of black coffee.
It makes her feel like a monster for keeping things from her.
Lydia is dragging her thumb over her ring finger over and over -as if she’s used to having a ring there- something Dora picked up on more than a decade ago.
Dora drops her fork and she swears under her breath, bending down to pick it up. Lydia winces at the sound and her eyes turn towards Dora, setting something on the table she hasn’t noticed until now. Dora steals a quick glance –a photo- and a lump forms in her throat with an uncomfortable swirling sensation in her stomach at the sight of her mournful eyes, always glistening like she’s one second away from collapsing into the ground and sobbing.
She clears her throat and jerks her chin at the photo. Lydia ignores the unasked question and takes a sip from her cup.
“What’s the occasion?” Dora asks with her mouth half full, mostly to annoy her until she snaps out of her mood. She’s so prickly when it comes to table manners. Lydia gives her a long suffering look and smacks a hand over the photo.
“Yesterday was the day Barty got caught,” she says crisply, her mouth stretching into a grimace. She picks up her fork, pushing her eggs around a bit with a thoughtful expression on her face, as Dora’s unease reaches a new peak.
Lydia opens her mouth like she wants to say something but her face closes off just as it came.
Dora doesn’t think she’s the only one keeping secrets and it unnerves her. Lydia has never been an exceptional conversationalist, she’s never been to initiate hard discussions but she never dodges questions.
She’s brutally honest when she’s asked a question.
“How’s Sirius?” she asks instead.
Drunk, she thinks but holds her tongue. You’ll be seeing him now, she thinks next and shoves bread in her mouth to refrain from blabbing.
“Miserable,” she croaks out around the dry bread, taking a big sip from her coffee to dislodge it from her throat.
Lydia waves her wand towards her, and it swiftly goes down to her stomach.
“Of course he is,” she snaps, her fork clattering in her plate, “he hates that house.”
Dora hesitates, because it is classified information but it’s also so obvious that denying it would be insulting her intelligence.
Lydia spots her dilemma and rolls her eyes, “Don’t hurt yourself. I understand you can’t tell me about it.”
Dora desperately hopes she’ll be this understanding when she finds out how much stuff there are she couldn’t talk about.
“I should go get changed while you eat,” she sighs, her eyes unfocused like there are million things running around in her head.
“Alright,” she replies mildly.
When she’s sure that she’s gone, she grabs the picture from where she’s left it.
She examines the picture carefully. She’s pretty sure she hasn’t seen this one before. It’s a Muggle photograph, with 1980 scribbled on the bottom corner in a handwriting she does not recognise. In it, a very young Sirius is glaring at the camera, healthy and handsome, with his arm hugging Lydia’s bare leg. She is grinning at the camera, with a bottle of Muggle beer halfway to her mouth.
She can guess who’s taken the photo.
She puts it back, her heart picking up a slightly dangerous pace and chews her food, still warm from Lydia’s Statis Charm. She pushes the anxiety and the doubt to the back of her head, resigned to her fate of being cut to pieces and probably being ignored for a whole year.
****
Sirius tips the bottle to the empty glass despite knowing, to his very core, that he was pushing it. He shouldn’t. But he will, just to prove a point. To whom, he doesn’t know.
The problem lays with the goddamn bottle. It’s empty. He’s half sure this is the same spell Remus used to use when they were in Hogwarts. For some reason, the bottles seemed to last longer when Remus wasn’t around.
Remus isn’t fond of drunk Sirius.
He could go downstairs and fetch another bottle if Remus is not around but he will notice anyway. Sirius knows he counts. He doesn’t want to risk running into Tonks either, who’ll definitely snitch.
He expected to get along better with Andy’s daughter, especially considering he’d liked the kid before Azkaban. He has enough insight to accept it’s only him who is reacting poorly to her cheerful attitude. Remus and Tonks get along, much to his annoyance.
Though he is glad -selfish, ungrateful- that Tonks keeps Remus busy enough that he doesn’t pester him during his free time.
He rubs his arm, numb and vaguely throbbing. He recalls someone talking about how your arm might hurt if there was a problem with the heart, barely more than a hazy memory, without proper characters or a setting.
Witches and wizards rarely suffer from Muggle diseases but it happens occasionally, even though most purebloods he knew would die before they saw a Muggle Healer.
It would give immense satisfaction to some people if he died of a Muggle disease.
Lily once told him elephants die of broken hearts.
How does a heart break anyway?
He groans, doubling down with a sharp intake of breath when the sunlight escapes through the heavy velvet curtains. Only redeemable part of living in this house, he thinks, is that his ancestors’ love for Dark isn’t just metaphorical. It still feels like daggers digging into his brain, after years of living in near absolute darkness.
He’ll get that fucking bottle. Remus or no Remus. If he’s imprisoned here, then he refuses to do it sober.
He tries to get up but the floor is further than he thinks it is, and he lurches before his hands land on the dusty side table.
Kreacher always leaves some place dirty, and preferably somewhere he’ll have to touch.
He blinks, and his loyal companion’s, Elizabeth’s, face clears. He mutters a greeting to her and waits for her to reply in kind for one long moment.
She doesn’t, but Sirius thinks her smile looks more affectionate than seductive today. At least she’s not going to tattle. Which is more than he can say for other portraits in the house. He likes his Muggle photos.
With Harry gone back to Hogwarts, Remus and him are left as the only inhabitants of this bloody house once again, other than some order members coming in and out. Sirius pretends to be oblivious that it is more to check up on him (on his behaviour, not his mood), than any relevant Order business.
It doesn’t sting anymore. Hard to care when you can’t tell Remus and Tonks apart.
He opens the door without any difficulty but his anxiety skyrockets when a variety of voices reach him.
It is a Saturday.
Orderday, as he likes to call it in the privacy of his mind.
Realisation hits like a slap in the face. He lets the shame sit heavy in his stomach before he slams the door behind him and runs to rummage through his bathroom cabinet for a Sobering Potion with trembling hands.
He can’t find it. Terror seizes his insides, his head buzzing and he reminds himself it is not the time to have a panic attack.
Orderday is the day he keeps it together.
These feelings are familiar. The sweating, the tremors, the nausea. He knows how to deal with this. This isn’t any worse than the Dementors. This isn’t worse than Harry in the Triwizard Tournament. This is definitely not worse than Harry in a fucking Death Eater’s clutches.
It could be, a treacherous voice reminds him.
But it isn’t, he insists. It can’t be.
He slowly places potions on the sink, one by one, until he finds the familiar green bottle. He sniffs to be sure, gagging immediately as the heavy smell hits him and makes him wobble. He throws it back and as soon as he swallows the oily liquid, his head clears and words align instead of just filling his head.
He brushes his teeth, and cringes as his eyes roam over his face in the mirror. Years haven’t been kind to him while in Azkaban, but there hasn’t been any improvement since then either. He looks just as old as Remus.
He heaves a silent sigh as he starts the water and strips. He’d rather just crawl back to his bed but he can’t go down smelling of sweat, whiskey and stale cigarettes. He’d rather be late than stinky.
He puts this remark aside to use on Snape if he comments on his tardiness.
****
Hushed, urgent tones. He can separate Tonks’ and Molly’s voices over others, owing to their tendency to speak in higher tones when they’re stressed. They’re arguing, possibly about him.
He hopes Remus set something aside for him to eat to get through the morning at least and he is suddenly disgusted with his own hypocrisy, remembering what he thought of his friend just fifteen minutes ago.
It is hard to be fond of drunk Sirius even if it’s in his own head.
Remus is visible through the kitchen door, and he gives Sirius a tentative smile and an awkward wave, which he returns with a raised eyebrow.
“Hello Remus,” he greets.
Before Remus can reply Moody appears and motions him in. “We’ve got a guest,” he says, careful eye, eyes, on him. Which isn’t unusual in itself but there is also a warning underneath, and he nods curtly. He doesn’t even have the energy to snap at Snape, let alone argue with a guest.
“Alright,” he drawls and pushes Remus aside to peek inside, his steps faltering as he takes the scene in.
His breath hitches, and he stares at the woman watching the empty street from the windows. His head whips back to look at Remus, who shrugs helplessly, looking vaguely apologetic and defiant at the same time.
She turns slowly at the sound of his steps, the move so familiar and strange at the same time. The way she holds herself is so odd, yet it’s the only thing that makes sense.
Arms crossed in front of her chest, fingers splayed on her opposite arms. Is she hugging herself? Her eyes fixated on the floor. Like he is not worth her eyes on him.
He keeps his mouth shut, bites on his tongue, so he can’t say anything, can’t say her name, can’t breath loudly. He is hyperventilating, he hears, air leaving and entering through his nose so noisily. Everyone can hear.
“Rosier came here to assist us with the possible safe houses the Death Eaters are using,” Moody says, seemingly oblivious to the tension.
That gets everyone to move, except Sirius. She lifts her eyes to send a scathing glare at Moody, which he ignores as he fills his cup with tea.
Ignores her, he muses. How does one do that?
Remus is still watching him warily, ready to intervene any second. He tears his eyes away from her, searching everyone’s faces, blood rushing to his head, to his ears. They seem to be so far away, a little blurred around the edges. Molly and Arthur Weasley’s mouths move but it’s slower than it should be. Tonks, Shacklebolt. Fucking Snape, looking disinterested in his misery. That can’t be good, he thinks but can’t recall why it matters.
He takes the closest chair, mindlessly taking the cup Remus offers. He feels the liquid spill over his fingers, then Remus’ fingers are on his hands again.
One of her hands drops, landing in her abdomen as though she has a bellyache.
Does her belly ache when she’s nervous? Is she nervous?
He can’t remember. Azkaban made him forget a lot of things.
She refuses the scone Molly offers with a poor imitation of a smile. She doesn’t meet Molly’s eyes either.
Does the thought of eating make her sick?
Did she forget how to smile?
Muggle clothes. That, he remembers.
Tight jeans and high heels.
Oh. He could lean down a bit, and she could tilt her head back, baring her neck and their lips would meet. She wouldn’t even have to stand on her tiptoes. Would she look into his eyes then?
Her feet carry her to a chair. The plush carpet is muddy brown, instead of beige as it was once, and hideous. He hates it immediately. Her heels don’t make a sound. For a second he imagines her examining her shoes after and having to clean them. His heart flutters anxiously, his face flaming with the thought.
He’s going to kill Kreacher. After he makes him throw this away. Is she going to be here to walk on it?
She looks so vibrant in the room, like a painting. Like they’ve arranged all the lights to fall on her. He can’t be sure if this is real.
She crosses her legs. Right leg above left. She used to keep the left leg up top.
Or was it the right one?
Her feet stand stiff in the air, jerking in barely there movements as if she was tapping the floor. He could see a light blue vein at the top.
“Sirius, soup?” Molly asks.
He nods.
Ripped jeans. Her hands clasp over her naked right knee. Skin to skin. No rings. He wants to laugh in delight, to shriek, throw the ring dangling from his neck at her face.
She looks so poised. Like a real pure blood.
Except the clothes. Showing too much skin, too much of her curves to be a proper pure blood. Loose, thin white shirt, with too many buttons open, swell of her breast peeking with each breath she takes. That wasn’t new. She’d always been a fucking tease.
Head facing down the right corner, away from him. Arms stuck to her sides, shoulders tense but she’s not moving, not a flicker.
Red lips. Darker than blood. Thinner.
No no no.
Grimacing. Uncomfortable.
Lips parting slightly, but they’re too dry, and they stick together at the left corner before her tongue peeks out to fix it.
Her eyes, refusing to meet his. He can’t remember their colour. Why didn’t he pay attention when she looked at Moody?
Was it blue?
But no, it doesn’t sit right.
Brown? Like milky chocolate?
He can’t remember how he felt about her eyes. Did they make him warm or excited? Can’t remember if she liked his eyes and he craves for her to look at him so he can relearn and never forget it again.
He’ll never forget it. He’ll carry it to the grave.
A heartbeat.
There it is.
They’re hazel.
They’re gold and bright and they roam over his face, up and down, left and right, like she can’t decide where she wants them to land.
Her pinky finger flexes.