What sealed it all was that it was going according to plan.
It was what Sirius could hold on to every time another curse hit him. Every time his own voice echoed in his ears and his throat hurt, raw from thirst and endless screaming. It was all going according to plan.
They were still trying to get the secret out of him. No one would ever suspect Peter. As long as Sirius was being tortured, as long as he held out, James's family was safe. Harry was safe.
It was not a thought that lent itself to hope in a conventional sense. Sirius was not hoping for rescue, he knew there was none coming. He had the vague thought that one day it would be over and he would be dead, and the secret would stay safe. He had been ready to die for the cause ever since the war had begun and now he had to live and suffer for the cause. Although in his mind it was less abstract than that. In his mind he remembered the last time he'd held Harry in his arms, the feeling of his tiny fist around his hair and how strong that little baby could already tug. He remembered Lily's laughter and James's smile and Peter's nervous chuckle and the vague notion that there should be peace for them one day. Sirius didn't think he was meant for peace. This role he'd chosen suited him.
He had no idea how much time had passed since he had been captured. They only gave him water and food when absolutely necessary, only healed him when he came close to dying. Maybe it had been weeks. Perhaps months. Any day he held out was a victory for his side and that thought alone kept his will from breaking. He was too proud and stubborn to allow for anything else.
The cell he was in had no windows, only iron rings in stone walls, one of which he was shackled to by the cuffs around his wrists. When he was left alone he was slumped over, huddled against the wall, legs drawn in against the chill damp in the air and to feel less vulnerable. His shirt had long since been torn to shreds by various curses, he was half naked with wounds all over his body, some fresher, other starting to scab over. No permanent damage, never that. It wasn't necessary. Sirius knew from school holidays at home that magic allowed for so many ways to punish someone that would end up not leaving a mark.
His hair was filthy, the way he'd have never let it get, hanging before his eyes and sticking to his face. They all really liked grabbing him by the hair and almost pulling his scalp off, going by how it felt. Sirius had never been tempted to shave his head as much as now.
He wouldn't really do it. He remembered complaining and joking about it once. Not too long after school, when they'd been by the sea and all the sand had gotten in his hair and it had been a pain to wash out, with magic not being much help. Lily had been pregnant at the time, James was preoccupied with tending to her and Peter had been ready to cut it right then and there, declaring that it'd only be fair to even the ground and give other blokes more of a shot. Then Remus had protested and it had somehow ended in Remus combing his hair out, which was the kind of memory that filled his stomach with butterflies while his chest got too tight.
There were many such memories with Remus. In school, plenty. After school, less and less, because the war was there. That spectre that kept him from saying what he maybe should have said to Remus, as his own inevitably painful death was taking on more concrete form and as the boy, the man he knew as Remus became less tangible with every day, as they both had to shoulder burdens they couldn't explain to each other. Different paths and friends could look at each other and discover that circumstances beyond their control had made them uneasy strangers. The memories remained, however, and chained up in his cell without any hope of ever being free again, memories had begun to feel more real than anything else.
Not that far from where he was kept, only a few floors above in the manor of some Death Eater - wearing a mask, of course - greetings were extended to new arrivals. Wary greetings, because no wizard trusted werewolves. A senior pack member had come in with Remus Lupin, looking at the Death Eater with barely concealed hatred. Nothing unusual there either.
"Took you longer than expected," the Death Eater remarked, looking them both up and down, hand hovering near his wand.
"We don't just come when you whistle."
"Not in a speedy manner, at least." Turning to look at Remus, the masked man gave a nod. "You will do."
no subject
It was what Sirius could hold on to every time another curse hit him. Every time his own voice echoed in his ears and his throat hurt, raw from thirst and endless screaming. It was all going according to plan.
They were still trying to get the secret out of him. No one would ever suspect Peter. As long as Sirius was being tortured, as long as he held out, James's family was safe. Harry was safe.
It was not a thought that lent itself to hope in a conventional sense. Sirius was not hoping for rescue, he knew there was none coming. He had the vague thought that one day it would be over and he would be dead, and the secret would stay safe. He had been ready to die for the cause ever since the war had begun and now he had to live and suffer for the cause. Although in his mind it was less abstract than that. In his mind he remembered the last time he'd held Harry in his arms, the feeling of his tiny fist around his hair and how strong that little baby could already tug. He remembered Lily's laughter and James's smile and Peter's nervous chuckle and the vague notion that there should be peace for them one day. Sirius didn't think he was meant for peace. This role he'd chosen suited him.
He had no idea how much time had passed since he had been captured. They only gave him water and food when absolutely necessary, only healed him when he came close to dying. Maybe it had been weeks. Perhaps months. Any day he held out was a victory for his side and that thought alone kept his will from breaking. He was too proud and stubborn to allow for anything else.
The cell he was in had no windows, only iron rings in stone walls, one of which he was shackled to by the cuffs around his wrists. When he was left alone he was slumped over, huddled against the wall, legs drawn in against the chill damp in the air and to feel less vulnerable. His shirt had long since been torn to shreds by various curses, he was half naked with wounds all over his body, some fresher, other starting to scab over. No permanent damage, never that. It wasn't necessary. Sirius knew from school holidays at home that magic allowed for so many ways to punish someone that would end up not leaving a mark.
His hair was filthy, the way he'd have never let it get, hanging before his eyes and sticking to his face. They all really liked grabbing him by the hair and almost pulling his scalp off, going by how it felt. Sirius had never been tempted to shave his head as much as now.
He wouldn't really do it. He remembered complaining and joking about it once. Not too long after school, when they'd been by the sea and all the sand had gotten in his hair and it had been a pain to wash out, with magic not being much help. Lily had been pregnant at the time, James was preoccupied with tending to her and Peter had been ready to cut it right then and there, declaring that it'd only be fair to even the ground and give other blokes more of a shot. Then Remus had protested and it had somehow ended in Remus combing his hair out, which was the kind of memory that filled his stomach with butterflies while his chest got too tight.
There were many such memories with Remus. In school, plenty. After school, less and less, because the war was there. That spectre that kept him from saying what he maybe should have said to Remus, as his own inevitably painful death was taking on more concrete form and as the boy, the man he knew as Remus became less tangible with every day, as they both had to shoulder burdens they couldn't explain to each other. Different paths and friends could look at each other and discover that circumstances beyond their control had made them uneasy strangers. The memories remained, however, and chained up in his cell without any hope of ever being free again, memories had begun to feel more real than anything else.
Not that far from where he was kept, only a few floors above in the manor of some Death Eater - wearing a mask, of course - greetings were extended to new arrivals. Wary greetings, because no wizard trusted werewolves. A senior pack member had come in with Remus Lupin, looking at the Death Eater with barely concealed hatred. Nothing unusual there either.
"Took you longer than expected," the Death Eater remarked, looking them both up and down, hand hovering near his wand.
"We don't just come when you whistle."
"Not in a speedy manner, at least." Turning to look at Remus, the masked man gave a nod. "You will do."