Resurrect me

Chapter One || SIRIUS

The thing that made Sirius Black sick was the irony. That he had tried, again and again to escape this house and yet, when he had finally succeeded, he was imprisoned. And then when he had escaped that, he had been imprisoned once again. Facing life locked in the same house he had tried so hard to leave. Amongst the same whispering portraits, slumped in the same chairs that were years old, faded and covered in a thick layer of dust which no one had the time to clean off. For a boy who's only wish was to be free, it seemed he had spent most of his life imprisoned,
It felt wrong to be thinking that way though, not when there were people out there dying for the war and he wasn't. He was surviving. But he itched for the ongoing fight. Itched to feel that adrenaline in his blood that he'd always felt during a battle of any type of fight. Whether it be a brawl after a quidditch match or the type where he very nearly was killed by a death eater, he yearned to be fighting. Risking his life for his nice and nephew. Avenging James.

The fact remained stone cold in his head. Sirius Black wanted to be dead. He wanted it to be him. It should be him. It played in his head, year after year after year, repeating itself. It should be me. It should be Sirius in that grave.

"Sirius."
He glanced up, aching to scream at the blue eyes that watched him.

"What, sorry."

"Albus was just requesting you begin cleaning the drawing room, he believes there to be objects in there of great significance."

Oh.

Brown eyes caught his. An almost imperceptible expression passing his face, only noticeable to him after all those years spent together, hands brushing, lips meeting in the dark. He could almost feel his fingers aching to reach out, to cup that face in his hands, to trace the scars running down his body.

His Moony.

Just say yes. The expression said. I'll do it, I'll help you. Don't cause trouble.

He straightened his back, moving his gaze back to meet Dumbledore's. "Of course, we'll get started tomorrow." He forces out through gritted teeth.

Dumbledore nods at him. He moves his attention away from Sirius.
Keep in line. His mother's voice whispers inside his head. Respect them. Don't talk. Don't look. Don't move.

But oh, how she'd laugh, Sirius thinks to himself. How she'd laugh to find these filthy blood traitors in her house.

__

Remus remains, as ever, continuously out of reach. And the memory of him stiffening in Sirius arms, of him flinching away, of him shaking his head. It stays, permanently residing in his mind, replaying behind his eyes until he feels sick with grief and longing. Until he feels like the tears behind his eyes will threaten to break. And James is not here to reel him back in, to open his curtains up around his bed and offer it as a sanctuary.

Remus, in reality, is sat awkwardly in a ripped, velvet chair, his legs to long for him to fit comfortably, a book resting on his lap. The sight is so utterly Moony he has to resist the urge to move his head to rest on his lap. To run his fingers through his hair.
Remus has grown up. He's gone. Sirius doesn't think he has. He thinks he clung to that part of him left in hogwarts, hasn't let it go, kept it to keep himself alive. And now he's stuck, between a part of him that doesn't exist anymore and the reality of his situation.

He throws his head back onto the bed. Yawning as he stares up the ceiling. Look at me. He thinks. Remus, naturally doesn't even glance up from his book as Sirius continues to focus on him, distracted only, by the harsh knock on the door.

Whoever Sirius expected it to be, it isn't Snape.

He sits up immediately, staring at him and cursing himself . Snape shouldn't be taking him by surprise. Why is he letting him take him by surprise? Why is he even pushing his way into the room? Why has Sirius even let him into the house? Why has he even let that slimy, leech-

"Dumbledore needs you."

Oh.

Sirius glances over at Remus. Who has infuriatingly looked up for the first time in an hour.

Send me instead. Let the wolves tear me apart. I don't deserve to be alive after everything I've done but you deserve to live and be happy and let yourself be loved again.

Snape clicks his tongue at him impatiently. "Both of you. All three of us."

Oh.

Sirius narrows his eyes. "Why should I even trust you?"

But it's Remus who grabs his arm, this time without hesitation, gripping it furiously and sending sparks through his body, so much so that he almost lets himself shiver in front of Snape.
"What if it's Peter." He says sharply, not a question, a statement.

There is no expression on Snape's face. "The floo's ready. He said to come immediately."

I don't think I trust you. Sirius thinks. I don't think I trust myself, or my hands or my mind.
But all he can see is Remus. And he knows he trusts Remus. It's been hard for him to learn how to trust. First it was James then Remus. And Peter. Though it makes him want to pick through the grimy window. But James, James is dead and he knows now that he can't trust Peter. But he trusts Remus. So he follows him.