Chapter Text
Sirius lay sprawled out on an emerald green leather sofa in the Slytherin common room, which was technically forbidden, but no one stopped him anymore, even the wary glances had stopped. No one dared to when he walked in like he belonged there, surrounded by his brother and his friends. Not when he looked like he didn’t care if he got hexed or thrown out or arrested.
The room smelled like smoke and sharp expensive cologne. Green fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows against the dark stone walls. Everyone else had drifted off to bed or out for some midnight trouble, except for Regulus and himself.
Regulus sat cross-legged on the carpet, head bent over a strip of dragonhide, scratching out intricate runes with steady hands and silver ink. Sirius watched him in silence for a while, a half-empty bottle of firewhisky resting on his thigh like a part of his persona.
“What’s it for?” he asked eventually, voice hoarse from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep.
Regulus didn’t look up, his whole demeanor was relaxed. “A protection charm.”
Sirius snorted softly. The idea that his brother would need a protection charm was hilarious to Sirius in his intoxicated state. “For you?”
“No.” Regulus glanced up, the firelight catching the grey in his eyes; his eyes, Sirius’s eyes, their mother’s eyes, the Black eyes. "It's for you.”
Sirius blinked slowly, the room swaying just slightly around the edges. Regulus words not really making any sense, why would he need it? Regulus had made it sound like he was sure of the fact that Sirius was in danger, and would have made Sirius felt uneasy but instead he felt a thrill. A thrill for the unknown.
“You think someone’s coming after me?”
Regulus hesitated. Just for a second. And then, “No. I think you’re coming after you.”
Sirius tilted his head, that familiar smirk forming on his mouth, brittle and sharp. “That some kind of prophecy Reggie?”
“No.” Regulus’s voice was too steady. Too quiet. “It's an observation.”
There was a tense silence between them then. The kind only brothers could sit in without flinching or squirming. And Sirius, wrecked and spinning and not quite present, let it stretch. He didn't know what to say to that, he didn't want to say anything to that. He knew damn well what he was doing to himself, but he didn't know if he wanted to stop, not now, not ever.
“You’ve got something inside you,” Regulus said finally, his voice almost too soft to hear over the fire, “that wants to burn this whole place down with you still inside.”
Sirius stared into the flames. He could feel it, too. The fire in his chest, crackling under his ribs. Rage, shame, guilt, hunger. Loneliness. A thing with teeth and no leash that wanted to devour everything within reach.
“Maybe I’ll let it,” he whispered, it felt like a promise when he said it outloud.
Regulus didn’t answer. He just folded the dragonhide in half, pressed the seam with his wand, and handed it over. “For when you decide not to,” he said. “If that ever happens.”
Sirius didn’t take it at first, just stared at it like it had personally insulted him. He looked at the charm. Then at Regulus. Then away. It sat between them like a choice he wasn’t ready to make. But then he looked back and met his brother's gaze, it was filled with emotions that he could never make himself say out loud.
And just like that, Sirius realized that he could hurt himself all he wanted. But he could at least make it easier for Regulus, so he swallowed his pride for the first time and took the charm and the way his brother's shoulder sagged in relief made it worth it.
The silence was heavier now.
Not just around Sirius, but inside him. A constant pressure behind his ribs, pressing against bone and memory, growing tighter with each breath. It moved like smoke through him. Quiet, clinging, impossible to cough out. Some days the silence was so loud it felt like screaming in a locked room. Other days, it was just a numb hum beneath his skin, a dull ache where laughter used to live.
He hadn’t spoken a full sentence to James since the day on the station before summer. It didn’t feel possible. Just half a year ago, they couldn’t go more than an hour without talking. Constantly pickering loudly, finishing each other’s sentences mid-laugh like they’d invented the language together. But a lot has changed since then.
Sirius was no longer just their Sirius. He was once again Sirius Black.
The name sat like a curse in his mouth, old, sharp and far too familiar. He wore it like armor now; cold, polished, unyielding. It kept people out, no one ever pushed him anymore. It made it possible for Sirius to just be, to spiral in peace.
James didn’t even try anymore. Not with words at least. But Sirius still caught him staring sometimes, across the Great Hall, from the Quidditch pitch, through the gaps in the crowd. It was never anger in his eyes as it had been before summer. Not anymore. Just that horrible, quiet grief that made Sirius want to tear something apart. Himself, preferably. Maybe even Snape
Remus had tried again, and it had left Sirius shaken to the core.
It was between classes, a Tuesday, the corridor outside Charms echoing with laughter and footsteps and things Sirius no longer felt part of. He hadn’t slept since Sunday. He smelled like smoke and firewhisky. There was ink on his hands, blood under one fingernail and his hair was a mess. A hangover curling behind his eyes like a ghost. He was just trying to get to the next class without any hiccups.
Then-
“Sirius.”
Just his name. But in that one word was everything they couldn't say to each other anymore. Everything that used to pass between them without speaking. A hand in the dark. A stolen breath. The way Sirius used to press his face into the curve of Remus’s neck and pretend that meant safety. Nights where they would trace their fingers over each other's scars.
And Sirius flinched like he’d been burned.
He didn’t stop walking.
Couldn’t.
Because if he stopped, if he turned and looked into Remus’s eyes and saw that softness, that hurt, that love still sitting there like a bruise that never healed - he would shatter.
And he couldn’t afford that. Not again.
So he kept walking.
Didn’t look back.
Didn’t say a word.
Just kept going away from the past he was yet ready to face.
He could feel Remus gaze on him as he darted through the corridor, but he made no move to follow Sirius, like he knew it wouldn't lead to anything. And that fact that he had given up on Sirius so fast made the act of blinking back tears much harder.
In the dungeons, Sirius no longer needed to ask if he belonged.
He simply did, and it had become his safe haven.
No raised wands. No sneering questions. Just friendly and curious eyes, with something akin to respect in them.
He walked in, sank into cracked leather armchairs or onto the cold stone floor, and no one looked twice. They let him exist there, sharp-edged and half-ghost, like a stray dog they’d learned not to kick. And after the interaction with Remus earlier that day he was forever grateful that no one gave a shit.
Barty passed him a potion in a heavy-stoppered bottle. The liquid inside was thick and green, viscous as tar. “A gift,” he said before he headed into the dorm with a small wink.
Sirius didn’t ask what was in it.
Didn’t care, hadn't for a while.
He uncorked it and chugged the whole thing, his throat tightening against the burn. The taste was sharp, but the high was cleaner than powder. It didn’t drag him under. It lifted him just enough to forget the weight in his chest. Just enough to feel something like peace. Sure, the powder made him stop feeling like the world was ending, but whatever this made him feel better, lighter. Instead of simply not feeling, he felt all the good things that he had almost forgotten how to feel.
It made his blood feel thin, like nothing could weigh him down.
He liked it better than Firewhisky.
Liked that it didn’t leave a smell behind for anyone to notice. For Remus, James and Peter to notice.
Because for all the things Sirius had done, for all the lines he’d crossed and bridges he’d burned, he still couldn’t stand the thought of them looking at him with that quiet hurt, or worse, disappointment in their eyes. The kind that said I know what you're doing to yourself and I don’t know how to stop you.
This was cleaner. Easier.
The potion left no evidence in its wake. No stench. No related pupils. Just lightness and peace.
And Sirius loved it.
Loved that it made the screams in his head fall quiet for a while, pushed back by the need to just be.
The screams weren’t always voices. Sometimes they were images; James’s face that night at the Shack, pale with horror. The way Remus had looked when he found out. Like the wind had been knocked from his chest. Like he didn’t recognize Sirius anymore.
Sometimes the screams were just memories.
Warm skin. A hand tangled in his hair. The way Remus used to say his name, soft, amused, a little breathless in the dark.
The potion dulled all of it.
Until Sirius was weightless. Boneless. Empty.
He could lie there on the floor of the Slytherin common room, head against cold stone, and feel nothing but relief that the potion brought.
And wasn’t that the point?
Other students called him the Fallen Star now.
The joke started quietly. Half-whispers behind hands, tucked between snickers in the corridors, soft enough at first that Sirius could pretend he didn’t hear it. A bitter pun on his name, passed like contraband between houses, gaining edge with each retelling.
Once, he’d burned at the heart of Gryffindor like a flame no one could ignore. Reckless, brilliant, untouchable. Now he was just smoke and ash. So Sirius could not bring himself to hate the nickname, it was so scarily accurate that he didn't know what to do.
Sirius didn’t care though.
Or rather, he let them and himself think he didn’t care.
He smirked when he heard it. Raised an eyebrow. Sometimes even repeated the nickname back at them with a dramatic bow and a mock salute. Let them think he was in on the joke. Let them believe he was too far gone to feel it.
But in truth, he was unraveling by the inch.
Quietly. Slowly. Painfully.
Every morning was harder than the last. The mirror showed him a stranger’s face. Eyes hollow, mouth tight, cheekbones too sharp beneath skin that didn’t quite look alive anymore. His robes hung loose on his frame. His hands shook when he thought too long. He no longer wore short sleeve shirts underneath his robe, afraid that the robe would slide up and showcase what Sirius does to himself on an almost daily basis.
And when he slept, if he slept, he dreamed of teeth and blood and Remus saying his name like it still meant something important. He always woke up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
Regulus had heard the nickname.
Sirius knew because one night, as they sat in the half-light of the Slytherin common room - neither speaking, neither quite looking at the other - Regulus finally said, so softly it could’ve been a thought, “They shouldn’t call you that. Fallen star, it's not right”
Sirius gave a lopsided grin, the kind that never quite reached his eyes anymore. “Why not? It’s accurate.”
Regulus didn’t argue, but Sirius saw something shatter in him.
But Regulus didn't say anything, didn't say you’re more than that, or you used to be brilliant, or you’re still my brother. He just sat there, tense and still, jaw clenched like he was holding something back.
Maybe it was disappointment.
Maybe it was guilt.
Maybe it was fear that he wasn’t wrong.
And Sirius didn’t ask.
Because asking meant hoping that he could still be okay.
And hope was far more dangerous than any curse.
It was a Sunday evening in November when Sirius ran into Remus in the library.
Or more fell into him. Sirius was high as a kite, swaying slightly, trying to reach a book on the top shelf when he lost balance and in his intoxicated state he didn't do anything to stop himself from falling, just let himself fall face first against the ground. But he never hit it.
Remus caught him by the wrist before he could.
“Sirius- what the hell?”
There it was again. His name, like a stone thrown through glass. The reminder of what could have still been if nothing that had happened in the last year had occurred
Sirius blinked at him, dazed. Still not sure what situation he had found himself in. “Lupin. Hi, what's up?”
Silently thanking and cursing the drugs for turning his brain off enough so that he didn’t have to comprehend the situation unraveling before him.
Remus’s eyes flicked to his face, and then his sleeves, which had slid up slightly in the fall. He saw the marks. Not just the old ones, but the ones he made just an hour earlier, the fresh ones. His expression changed, eyes welling with unshed tears. And just like that Sirius felt like no drugs in the world could make the panic that welled in his chest stop.
“Sirius, what are you doing to yourself?”
Sirius pulled away, too fast, from the grip Remus still had on his arm. Knocking a stack of books to the floor in the process and almost falling again in the process of getting as far away as he could.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Sirius-”
“Don’t pretend you still care.” His voice was colder than he meant. Louder. It echoed off the walls of the quiet library like thunder. “You said I was just like them. Remember?”
“I was angry,” Remus whispered, voice filled with desperation.
“You were right.” Sirius laughed, sharp and broken. “I am. I am just like them, I know that now. I'm a Black, always have been always will be.”
Remus’s mouth opened, but Sirius didn’t wait. He turned and walked out, faster than his legs wanted, head swimming. Pretending not to hear Remus' helpless voice call out after him.
He didn’t see Barty waiting outside until it was too late.
“You alright, mate?”
“Yeah, mint. Fucking fabulous,” Sirius said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
Barty smiled like that was exactly the answer he wanted and threw his arm around Sirius' shoulder before leading them down to the Slytherin common room. Without meaning to Sirius found himself leaning into the warmth, it was nice.
That night, Sirius took more than he should have.
He wasn’t counting anymore, because what was the point? The line between enough and too much had long since blurred. His limbs felt loose, his skin too thin, like he was barely holding himself inside it. The castle passed in a haze of stone, shadows and angry portraits until he reached the Astronomy Tower.
He ended up on the floor, as always. Cold stone against his spine, breath fogging in the night air, eyes locked on the constellation that would always give him a bittersweet feeling.
Orion’s Belt.
His father used to point it out to him when he was a child, one heavy hand on Sirius’s shoulder, the other lifted toward the heavens. "Look, son. That's your house. Your name. Your legacy."
Back then, it had felt like something sacred, like it made him important.
Now, it just felt like a cage of stars, and he couldn't help but feel the hollow between him and the stars that should feel like home.
He blinked slowly, the edges of his vision soft and trembling. Somewhere in the wind, he thought he could almost hear her voice - sharp, cold, triumphant. That voice that used to cut straight to the bone when he was younger.
"Tu aurais pu être le plus brillant de tous."
You could have been the brightest of them all.
Sirius could feel the laugh bubble within him at the irony.
It started small, just a breath, a bitter sound. But it grew, louder, cracked and hoarse, echoing up into the sky. He laughed until his chest ached. Until his eyes stung. Until the stars above him blurred into streaks of light and memory.
He laughed until he cried.
And when the tears came, they didn’t stop.
He didn’t go to classes for the next two days.
Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He was either curled in bed, or paced the darker corridors beneath the school, letting time blur around him. He felt like the entire castle had seen him break apart beneath the stars, like every set of eyes held the memory of his laughter turning into sobs on the floor of the Astronomy Tower. Even though he knew he’d been alone.
No one from Gryffindor came looking for him, even though Remus knew of the scars littering his arms and it felt like salt in an open wound.
But Regulus did.
He found Sirius sprawled on the dusty floor of an abandoned classroom, head resting against the cracked edge of a table. There was a bottle in Sirius’s hand and faint, smeared traces of white powder dusting the skin beneath his nose.
Regulus leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with something halfway between concern and resignation, like he knew there was nothing he could do.
“You’re getting worse,” he said quietly, gaze traveling over his twin brother's frail frame.
Sirius didn’t answer.
Didn’t move. Wasn’t sure that he could even if he tried.
Regulus’s gaze flicked to the bottle. “I told Barty to ease off.”
That got a reaction.
Sirius scoffed, hollow and sharp. “You’re not in charge of me, Reg. And Barty isn't either, I chose this.”
“No,” Regulus said, voice tight. “But if you keep this up, someone else will be.”
Sirius turned his head, eyes bloodshot, but clear enough to lock onto Regulus’s face.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Regulus hesitated. Just for a moment. Then:
“There are people watching you. Powerful people. You’ve got their attention.”
“I don’t want it,” Sirius snapped.
“You’re Black blood,” Regulus said. “You’ll get it whether you want it or not.”
Sirius sat up, the movement clumsy and too fast, his body swaying slightly. He hurled the bottle at the wall with a snarl. It exploded against stone, glass stars scattering across the floor, jagged and bright. One shard sliced into the skin of Sirius cheek, but he couldn't be bothered to react.
“I might be a Black, but I’m not one of them.”
The words hung in the air like heavy smoke, suffocating the brothers.
Neither of them said anything, but Regulus' silence was proof enough for Sirius. He was like them, whether or not he liked it. And that recognition was far worse than any words would have been. Because sure, he had thought it before, heard it from Remus even. But to have it face it this time was different, it wasn't said in a fit of anger, or as a manipulation tactic, no it was a real genuine reaction.
That night, Sirius carved into his arm.
He didn’t bother trying to heal it this time.
The pain felt honest. In a way nothing was anymore.