Shut your eyes and think of somewhere, Somewhere cold and caked in snow. By the fire we break the quiet, Learn to wear each other well.
“When things get rough, Sir, just remember us.”
I once recited Lily a poem, to try to woo her over. James tried that once, and she punched him in the face. When I did it, she just sat there in awe.
She used to look at me like that a lot, like she wasn’t sure how to react to me.
Everything was always a mystery.
The first time we kissed, I thought my heart would explode, thought I’d never be whole again. I thought that the world would collapse right under my feet, that my stomach would be eaten by butterflies.
I’ve always hated that saying.
This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb,
She told me I was sad that day, that my eyes were sad. I didn’t really understand what she was saying until we were kissing one day, and she stopped, pushed my hair out of my eyes, and smiled at me. When I asked what, she told me that there was a sparkle in my eye, that I looked happy. Happy. Lily always made me happy.
Which made James angry, of course. We were secret about our relationship, obviously, but we were still really excellent friends, and he hated me for that.
I think I’ll always feel guilty about dating the very object of his affection, but, then again, sometimes I don’t because I know how good we were together and how good they were together.
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
Sad, she called me. “Sirius, you’re so sad. Sometimes I just want to cry when I look at you, and all I want to do is make you happy again.” Happy. Lily always made me happy.
We never made love, never had sex, never fucked. She used to argue with me that there weren’t three different types, and I always loved that argument. It was one of the only times I could get her to talk about sex of any kind.
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood So in my veins red life might stream again,
The Dementors stay so close to my cell, which would, normally, bother any other sane person, but, being an Animagus, I have the option to escape.
Lily loved me as a dog, loved that she could just curl up with me and fall asleep, wake up hours later and have me staring down at her, a human face begging for a kiss. But she loved the dog, loved how playful and adorable I always was around her.
That, that was one of the few things we were public about, one of the few things James and I fought about regularly. Lily was the only thing that really brought out James’ really awful side toward me. She was the only subject that caused him to hate me, if only a little. And I know he did, though I’ll never regret loving Lily.
She keeps me alive in this place.
Just the thought of her alone keeps me alive, keeps me going, and keeps me sane. Without her, I would fold up on my knees and beg for death. Living isn’t an option without her memory inside of me, her heart beating inside my own.
But Lily’s dead. She’s dead. That son of a bitch killed—
And thou be conscience-calmed — see here it is —
I dream when I’m a dog, and it’s always of her, always of her beautiful red hair, her shimmering emerald eyes, her soft skin, her warm touch.
Everything about Lily was attractive, in a million different ways. I could sit for hours and just stare at her, mesmerized by each little grace that was her.
My eyes are heavy.
In this place, I never want to wake. In my dreams, she is my everything.
I hold it towards you.
Okay, so you’re probably thinking, what the hell, Mary? Could you be a little more confusing? And yea, I probably should have put a notice at the top, but I think this needs to be read once with no clue and once with a clue.
This is written in stream of consciousness (hence its shortness; this is hard to write, ugh) while Sirius is at Azkaban. I think this style of writing is very active as an “insane” style. I feel like, writing like this, it really portrays the way Sirius’ mind works now. He is constantly switching topics and constantly thinking so as to avoid reality or stay on one topic long enough to connect to something bad.
But, that said, if you don’t like it, I’m sorry. This was an experiment. Now onto my spiel:
I’ve taken on a stupidly large idea that I’ve dubbed The Snow Patrol Project. This is part twelve of thirteen.
Some odd amount of months ago, I made my boyfriend a mixtape of only Snow Patrol songs, those only that reminded me of him, and so I’m taking those thirteen songs and turning them into oneshots that feature only three pairings: Harry/Ginny, Draco/Hermione, and Sirius/Lily. Yes. I know. It sounds crazy, and it probably is, but I think I’m going to have a lot of fun with this.
So. If you’re reading this now, look out for the next one: Set the Fire to the Third Bar. It’s a Harry/Ginny. And I hope anyone who reads this goes on to read the other twelve!
Disclaimer: Lyrics at the top belong to Snow Patrol. The poem scattered throughout the story belongs to John Keats. The complete version is as follows:
This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That though would wish thine own heart dry of blood So in my veins red life might stream again, And thou be conscience-calmed — see here it is — I hold it towards you.