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patchycoat‌:

It’s their typical banter, Sirius poses an idea not half bad but in need of improvement, Remus points out the improvements, Sirius swings the opposite direction. Remus would complain to the futility of their debates if he didn’t enjoy them as much as he did, and in the end, Remus has held Sirius back enough that the four of their group have managed to survive this long. Perhaps there is some merit to the process, then.

His face scrunches in playful skepticism as Remus leans forward to put his mug down. He shifts in his seat, arms folding together      “ Yea –Something tells me I won’t. See, and how you phrase it sounds exactly like all the times whatever damage we do doesn’t tidy up so easy. Your record just doesn’t back up your claims, mate, I’m sorry. ”     There’s a small glance as the other approaches the back of his chair, a shake of disagreement at his joke of making James any sweeter.

Remus swiveled around to face the other, arm slinging over the back of his seat, finding a notch beside Sirius’ arms,     “ If James was any sweeter to Lily, he’d be – ”     The sudden awareness of how close they were dawned on Remus in that moment, catching his words.     “ Insufferable. For her to be around. ”     He could feel his cheeks growing hot, eyes flicking from around Sirius’ face to held eye contact. Inside is the urge to turn away, to face forward and keep his eyes to the ground, to not toe their line. His words grow more distance, as if spoken more on the principle to finish his thoughts than anything else   “ Some wedding gift that’d be. ”

                    For someone so determined to be the center of the show, Sirius always had difficulty drawing his attention anywhere beside Remus. There was something about him, something so inherently charismatic that it rang more as truth than charm, not entirely unlike the moon breaking through the clouds on a particularly dreary night. ( It was a horrible metaphor, really, and Sirius knew better than to voice it aloud -- though that didn’t meant there weren’t stars in his eyes. )                “That something is merely your innate pessimism, and you really should learn to pay it no mind.” And Sirius leans down, putting himself at the same level as Remus despite leaning on the back of the chair. He’s acutely aware that they’re too close, that it’s dangerous to be too close, but Sirius had always chased the high of smoke billowing from flames better left in the distance. “Besides, what’s the big deal if it doesn’t tidy up with the flick of a wand? You really think Muggle police will be able to track us down?” 

               Unwilling to give Remus such an easy opening to disagree, Sirius pressed on towards the topic of the greater good. “I was thinking more in a sexual sense, Moons, but I suppose James could always shower their bed with so many rose petals you can’t find the sheets.” Sirius isn’t sure, but he thinks he’s drawn closer, that his voice has dropped in volume and pitch just a shade, like they were sharing intimate secrets instead of banter. He blamed it on the flush that had crossed Remus’s cheeks ( which was also to blame for drawing Sirius’s attention away from his eyes and towards his lips ).                 Would it really be so bad? 

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                                 WORDS    carry   w e i g h t :                                              a character study via definition 

black ( alternatively, Black )

it feels dirty upon his tongue now, the weight of generations spilling over like blood that refuses to leave his lungs. there’s a terse smile that crosses cherry-stained lips, a divide between pride and desecration; how heavy it is to carry a curse but, but-- oh (OH) -- how light to know that it is the vision of that stray sheep, the prodigal son never destined to return. it is fingers smudged in oil and charcoal, occasionally in ash. it is birth and rebirth meaning that it is also death and resurrection. 

love ( alternatively, hate ) 

there’s a fine line: bullshit. there’s a gaping chasm between two poles, meaning that all gray definitions of either are considered a loss to the underworld. thus it is a hell to sift through charred remains wondering what part of his heart used to lay in which crevice and which fragments had been pilfered by grave robbers. it’s hard to give when one doesn’t know, and thus all is tainted with disproportionate passion. neither word seems enough to invoke the emotion, yet the chasm has swallowed all over possibilities. there are merely unnamed emotions and thus empathy evaporates. 

home ( alternatively, distance ) 

he never learns to walk. why waste the time? why tolerate restraint? life is a marathon, and the faster he tears through it, the closer the finish line looms. it shouldn’t be a comfort, yet it is: a darkness that serves as a light, a promise that what is behind is lost and what is ahead may yet prove salvation. there is warmth ahead if only he can catch it. he can shed his skin if only he leaves behind a trail of bloody footprints and bridges consumed by red and orange. there is a rule  ( previously unspoken ) to never call a place [ redacted ] for he must always move on. [ redacted ] is calling and he must go. 

[toujourslibre-blog1]

goodgeon‌:

LOCATION : DAVEY’S APARTMENT, CAMDEN TOWN, LONDON DATE : 30 SEPTEMBER 1979

❝ ONE DAY, MISTER BLACK, YOU WILL WALK THROUGH THAT DOOR AND ANNOUNCE YOU’VE DECIDED TO PUT ME ON RETAINER. ❞

Can you hold court inside your own flat ?  IF YOU COULD, Davey Gudgeon would be doing it, reclined as they are in the center of the loudly - floral couch that takes up the lion’s share of what’s left of the living area.  ( IT’S ALL VERY GLAMOROUS, you see ; why have roommates you can have a SMALL FORTUNE in cross - bred Sativa and a rather peckish VENOMOUS TENTACULA to keep you company ? )

RIGHT,  about that retainer.  ❝ And it will, without a doubt, be the best day of my life. ❞  Unearthed from their breast pocket — — purely for dramatic effect, of course, WHY ELSE — — is a glass jar small enough to fit entirely inside a long - fingered palm, fully nearly to its brim with preternaturally BRILLIANT GREEN.  ❝ Try this on for size. ❞   They hold it out.  ❝ — — I also accept tips ‘n TWO FORMS OF CURRENCY and offers of a ride on that spectacular motorbike of yours. ❞

@toujourslibre

               Davey Gudgeon is nothing short of an experience. Each encounter was a different variation on a theme, some refreshing burst of liveliness that is nearly as addictive as the stuff they sell. Sirius had thought about these interactions frequently, often wondering why he found Davey so endearing rather than strictly draining. Several theories had emerged, but currently, Sirius favored the notion that it was because for all of the dramatics, Davey read as someone uniquely genuine. It was as if life were the show for Davey rather than the other way around.     ( But really, he could just as easily chalk it up to the fact that Davey had something that Sirius would always want: an escape. )                “Don’t hold your breath, Gudgeon. Wouldn’t want you passing out before it’s time for our next meeting, would we?” And Sirius was smiling because it was difficult to do anything else. He was currently situated in a different world, and proximity was occasionally enough to impart the high. He strode behind Davey, leaned over the edge of the couch as an excuse to be even closer. Lazily, he stretched an arm over their shoulder to take the bag off their hands and slip it safely into his back pocket. “If it’s half as good as last time, I might end up owing you a combination of all three.” For now, he pressed his lips to Davey’s cheek, lingering only for a second before hopping over the back of the couch and settling with ease on the cushion beside his favorite dealer.                 “Anything new in the works?” 

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[toujourslibre-blog1]

patchycoat‌:

Remus was happy around all his friends, but being with Sirius was like watching the night sky. Wonder and awe spread across his chest like drinking something warm. It was beyond a crush, something that grew only from knowing someone for so long, for getting to know all of them and accepting all of it. He had it bad.

But Sirius was still his friend, they still simply hung out with each other, and it was always fun. Even more, tonight they had a purpose. Sirius was putting together a stag party for Prongs, and Remus was set on making sure it didn’t end in the four of them dying.

    “ Yes I do. ”     He gave the affirmation with a hit of a shabby armrest of the couch his was sitting on. He shifted to lean on it, cheek resting on his fist as he listened to the other’s plans.

At first, he’s impressed. James would love a muggle candy factory, he was a big enough dork to appreciate a scavenger hunt, and the idea was completely reasonable. Sirius just might be onto something. Remus’ expression reflects his thoughts, brows raised in approval, and dipping down when he heard the inevitable concerns     “ one ”     he flung a clumsy hand out, holding up a single finger,     “ You are not touching any of the factory machinery ”     He took the offered mug with the hand flung out, shifting his seat on the couch     “ Lily’ll kill us if we bring James back in the form of sweets. ”     Both hands now wrapped around the mug, he took a sip as if there was hot coco in it. He stifled a cough from the burn of the drink, continuing on     “ I’m not being funny, mate. You don’t know shit about muggle factory machines, you’re gonna get James turned into sweets. Honestly he’d probably not mind but Lily definitely would. ”

               There was something about watching disapproval slowly blossom on Remus’s face that always made Sirius want to take things a step farther. In a way, things weren’t considered fun until Remus Lupin officially vetoed the whole affair. ( It’s a lie, naturally. There’s something innately enjoyable about sitting here, only a foot away from someone who had always been an enigma, someone that drew him in and made him wonder where the unspoken lines fell. Maybe it was because Remus was always so good at dictating what was generally permissible and what wasn’t that the questions kept to shadows sprawled in unspoken gray space, free and unbound and full of temptation. )                “You say that now, darling, but something tells me that you’ll be changing your mind once we actually get there. There’s always so many gears and levels, and whatever damage we do can always be undone with magic. It’s harmless.” And Sirius speaks as if risks don’t exist, because for him, they don’t. As much as he loved the frivolities of life, there were very few things he needed, and he could count them all on one hand. With three of those things at his side on the night of James’s Stag Party, there was very little for him to lose. 

               “Besides, Lily may end up thanking us for making James a bit sweeter by the end of the night.” He grins then, as if all their problems were solved, as if everything outside the cottage had settled down into perfect pax. In a way, maybe it did. He felt steady in the moment, and it showed as he rested his arm over the back of Remus’s chair, leaning in just a shade more. The closer he was, the better he felt -- the better he’d always felt, save for one night. 

[toujourslibre-blog1]

numbcarrow‌:

   The smell of smoke was enough to catch Amycus’ attention, turning to the source of it and landing his eyes on the beautiful, sour wizard seated at the bar. He recognized the source of the flame instantly - the newspaper plastering the alley. Amycus had gotten quite a chuckle out of it, the dramatic writing, the doom and gloom of it all. In truth, despite being a Death Eater, he had less of a clue than anyone - Voldemort was not what he considered a close friend, and he slept through the DE meetings usually. Now, he was just curious, watching, mildly amused as the whole wizarding world went into a chaos of emotion. Amycus couldn’t relate, but this abrasive act of rebellion had been interesting enough to rise and investigate. 

  His chin rested in his hand, elbow on the slick counter top, as Amycus gazed inquisitively at him. One of the Order, he had decided nearly instantly. It didn’t bother him. “All this?” Ammie repeated, eyebrows raising, a smirk on his lips. All this. “Oh, you mean our lovely Coffe’s biased reporting skills? Quite a laugh, if you ask me. Don’t you miss the good old days, when it was fact over opinion?” 

               Sirius knew of Amycus, but had been fortunate enough to avoid any lengthy interactions with him. There were the gatherings he’d been forced to attend when he was younger, ones where his parents had pointed out all the people that he really should consider befriending, but they had an otherwise blissfully vacant history.               “So you believe that darling Coffe is entirely devoid of fact?” Sirius asked, cocking a brow. The paper was still burning, and the flames were rapidly descending towards his fingertips. “Might be one of the most reasonable things I’ve heard all night.” If Amycus’s reputation didn’t proceed him, Sirius would’ve bought him a drink (and maybe a shade more, given such a tell-tale smirk). It was rare, after all, to sit with a pureblood that didn’t immediately drip acid from their lips. A bit of a... pleasant surprise, though Sirius would be eternally defensive after being a part of their society, of knowing the depths parents descended to indoctrinate their children.                Just as the fire threatened to burn the tips of his fingers, Sirius dropped the charred paper to the floor. “Watch your shoes,” he warned before grabbing the nearest half-full glass and dumping its contents over the lingering flames. They fizzled out, and alcohol began to seep through the concerning cracks in the floor. 

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rigelgreengrass‌:

      Rigel lets the cigarette be taken away from him, because:

     He’s got another one; Dumbledore’s dead and it’s a marvellous day to act charitable; it, above all, may very well be the first time since this morning that someone brought to the table anything more than goddamn semi-coherent wallowing, so isn’t that nice. One has to accept little gifts as they come.

    “I’m a changed man,” he concludes, with great feeling, after watching Sirius do the whole song and dance to bestow the boldest of truths and the wisest of lessons upon Rigel’s person. It’s par for the course: a little unexpected, a little amusing, very Sirius Black from what Rigel knows. He’s got the corner of his lips threatening the edge of a smile, because it’s a particular brand of mutinous, to be waving around muggle toys and such thing when you come from their kinds of families — and in one way or another, that one’s a friend they share. 

         But then, of course, Sirius has to go shit on his dearest menthols. 

    “And you,” Rigel looks at him with grave disappointment, even if mostly for show, reaching out and retrieving the cigarette from his mouth to take a drag, blow the smoke back towards him. “—are a philistine. But we already know that, do we not, from your taste in mentors?”

               It had taken Sirius three years to discover the difference between good and interesting. Good people were loyal, determined, morally righteous, agreeable -- but they weren’t inherently interesting. No, interesting people were those with a dash of mystery and a deadly dose for the dramatic.                 He was in good company.                 Never one to retreat from a challenge, he grinned as the smoke settled between them. Careful to keep his hands out of sight, he slipped his wand from his back pocket. A flick of the wrist brought the smoke together, swirling until it gathered into the shape of a dragon. Another flick, and it dissolved in flames.                As if nothing had happened, Sirius dove into conversation. “I’ve been called worse things by better people. Besides, I assumed a Sophist like you would be more concerned with experience. Don’t tell me you haven’t learned how to suppress a cough whenever you inhale actual cigarettes.”                The quip about Moody hadn’t fallen on deaf ears, and while Sirius knew that he should take offense on behalf of his mentor, yet his smile lingered. Moody was more than capable of handling his own battles, and half of the man’s success stemmed from making enemies. “it’s good to know that the hatred between the two of you is mutual. Makes my being here significantly less awkward.”                  Lodged somewhere between devil-may-care and morbid curiosity, Sirius moved a step closer to his new accomplice. “My cigarette lighting services don’t come free, you know.” He leaned towards him and parted his lips expectantly. 

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pettigrewwhiskers‌:

He didn’t drink much anymore, he’d been scared to go into most pubs, terrified he’d be followed if he was; he didn’t want that to happen again. He just wanted to be alone but to be alone meant to be vulnerable. Yet here he was, alone in Diagon Ally and regretting his choice to have a drink or two with some co-workers. But it had been an excuse not to go home, and he’d just had pumpkin juice, despite the odd looks he’d been hit with for it. Now they’d left with sombre nods that they’d see him tomorrow. What if he didn’t get a tomorrow? There were so many reasons for him not to get a tomorrow and so many of them could be hiding down the dark ally’s between the shops; Merlin he hated the dark. He had to get out of here and get out of here now.

As his breathing increased a little he saw light in the distance and headed towards it as fast as he could without running; the Leaky Cauldron formed itself out of the darkness ahead of him and while he doubted it boded well it was so much better than being out alone in the dark with his frantic imagination guiding him. He darted inside and closed the door, leaning against it for a moment and looking around the bar, his gaze quickly following several others to a man who was burning something near the- Sirius?

Safe. The thought was immediate and he scuttled forwards, half stumbling as he tried to get onto the nearest bar stool and grabbed the other’s bicep lightly, “Sirius, what are you doing?” he practically whispered, “Put that out people are looking!”  

               The easiest way to assure that Sirius would do the precise opposite of what you wanted was to demand he do something. It was a truth that unfortunately extended to his best mates, which meant that when Peter grabbed his arm and asked him to stop, Sirius was compelled to do the exact opposite. “Should we not make a scene?” he asked just before standing and climbing atop his barstool. There was barely room enough for his feet, and given the whiskey he’d already imbibed, he had to soften his knees to keep from toppling off the perch altogether. 

               “Can I get everyone’s attention?” It was almost unfair how easily Sirius’s voice filled the pub, though many had already been regarding him with weary eyes. Currently, their eyes were fixed upon the fire still burning in his hand. “I’m assuming you’ve all read this.” He waved the paper, and a piece fractured off. Its burning edges fell at Peter’s feet. “Assuming the lot of you have, collectively, the brainpower of a newt, you already know this is complete and utter troll shit. If you believe a single word of it, I invite you to make your way over the bar and buy me a drink, because I surely won’t be able to listen to your drivel sober. Don’t let fear motivate you towards stupidity. I don’t give a damn where you lot come from -- everyone here has to have an ounce of humanity left within them. Listen to that for a minute instead of this load of fear mongering, and we might make it through the night.”                 Content with his impromptu moment of fame, Sirius hopped down from the stool and pressed the still-burning paper into Peter’s hand. Passing the torch, so to say, though perhaps with a heavy hand. “What brings you to such a prestigious institution as the Leaky Cauldron on such a night, Petey? No need to stalk me, considering you have an eternally open invitation to anything I do.” 

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dromedatxnks‌:

Sirius’ smile was enough to feel her slightly brighter, always so happy to see the one family member who hadn’t disowned her or didn’t rejoice at the sight of the burn mark left where her name should have been on the familial tapestry. Of course she missed her sisters, and it made her ache with every fibre of her being when she considered all the family members her daughter was missing out on, the sneaky trips to Honeydukes with her aunties and the way she should have been spoiled by them. But if nothing else, Dora had her unofficial Uncle Sirius and that made the ache slightly less intrusive, making it more bearable to know that the rest of the people she’d spent half of her life with now acted as if she was dead. 

‘‘Well, if it’d of been me, I might have stood on the chair to make my point but that might be more to do with my height than my desire for theatrics.��‘ There was a playful edge to her voice as she sat on the stool next to him, requesting a glass of wine from the bartender rather than a butterbeer, something she’d never really been a fan of before. Andromeda certainly appreciated Sirius’ dramatic side, especially because she was pretty similar when she was irritated or worked up, and in her younger years, she’d been the orchestrator of some very award-worthy tantrums. Now she was the Mother of a child who liked to throw those kind of fits, and she could appreciate the other side. 

Her fingertips wrapped around the stem of her glass when it was placed in front of her, giving a little sigh. ‘’Dumbledore is dead and we don’t know where He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is. I hate to be a downer, Sirius, but can we really call that a win?’’ A wrinkle of her nose and Andromeda had to admit that her fear was only just beginning. 

               Ten minutes ago, Sirius thought he’d be incapable of pulling off anything remotely close to a convincing laugh, yet he couldn’t help the low chuckle that flew from his lips at the scene Andromeda so skillfully described. He could imagine it, vaguely: her standing atop one of the rickety chairs with balance so superb she doesn’t even think about falling, and it’s a makeshift soapbox of sorts where she knows everyone will be able to hear her. “I’ll have to give it a try next time,” he said, the ghost of a smile still clinging to his lips. “You always were such a marvelous role model.” And the compliment falls from his thoughts with only a hint of playful teasing. Overall, he was being honest. She’d been a source of inspiration for as long as he could remember, often serving as the initial icebreaker when it came to those topics the Black family was so apt to blast your name off the family tree for. Without her blazing that path, his escape from Grimmauld Place would’ve been an even bloodier affair than it already was.                 The feel-good spirits ended there, and Sirius was forced to replace them with a deep swallow of liquor. “The media’s trying to twist the good news in favor of his supporters,” he explained. Ever since he’d read the article, he’d conjured up his own version of the truth, and he wasn’t capable of deviating from it now. “Dumbledore wouldn’t have fought him if he wasn’t sure he’d win. There’s no way the bastard made it out unscathed, and I’d be damned if he made it out alive. One of his supports probably found his body and removed it so that they could keep their blood supremacy wet dreams alive.” 

[toujourslibre-blog1]

quitecontrvry‌:

The headlines welcomed her into the doors of the Leaky Cauldron, large black letters screaming the obvious at her. They did little to liberate her or form the stone of uncertainty in the pit of her stomach. Instead, it left her stuck in the purgatory of circumstance, between the proverbial rock and hard place. Damned if she does, damned even more if she doesn’t. It twisted her throat in a knot. She had been shaken free at a cost, and the price was written there on the Prophet front pages.

She needed a drink, something promising to burn down her throat and leave her eyes watering. The bar was crawling with the like of the underside of a rock in a forest, aligning nicely with what Mary intended to take up as her new dwelling. After all, when you fall in the middle, what else is there to do than bury yourself into the soil? Sliding into the closest barstool, she waited for a bartender to drudge their way over. She had no intentions of chiming in on the swirling conversations around her, wanting her drink and maybe a few to follow and then to Apparate home to Lalo, burying her face in her fur and snuggling under the blanket to forget, yes, to try and forget ——

The smell of smoke struck her like a rubber band, wisps of blonde hair falling into her eyes as her nose followed the scent and took her sights with it. Sirius. 

Of bloody course.

She watched as she held up his copy of the Prophet, words curling up into smoke as the flames ate away at them. Flickering away for the briefest of seconds, she caught sight of the lighter in his hand, phantom of a smile tugging the strings of her lips. Its current presence brought back a fonder, simpler memory, where she’d swatted at him upon seeing it in his possession and swearing up and down she could never take him anywhere for reasons exactly like that. “Dunno,” she muttered dryly. “I’ve been told not to do much thinking per my doctor’s orders. Apparently, having original thoughts exerts lots of effort for your brain, especially when it’s been compromised. And you can’t have that.”

               Prior to the war, Mary had been an endless source of pleasant memories. She’d pulled back the curtain on blaring music, guitars that ripped through entire concert halls because they could, to blunts and pills that were passed selflessly from stranger to stranger in the name of experience and community. Half of the shirts in his wardrobe were from concerts he’d attended with her, and the lighter in his pocket had been pilfered from their very first night out together. Before the war, he would have sung Iron Man at her until she hexed him.                 Now? Now he wasn’t really sure what to do. He was grateful as hell to have her, but she wasn’t the same. She’d been through too much, more than he could say he’d even seen. It made her untouchable, something just out of his league that he couldn’t quite catch up with. Their history was splintering under the pressure of a bleak future, and Sirius found himself merely calling out for the bartender: “I need a drink before this whole place accidentally goes up in flames, yeah?” And it took only a second for a glass to appear before Mary. The bartender nearly stopped pouring, but a cough from Sirius tipped the neck of the bottle a bit more, and by the time they were left alone there was a high ball sitting before Mary nearly overflowing with whatever rail liquor had been the easiest to grab. It was a start. 

               “Luckily, drinking’s not off the menu,” Sirius admonished. He waved the Prophet through the air until the flames burnt out, and then he took to shredding it piece by piece, as if different forms of destruction would undo the news and bring back the dead. “And since you aren’t allowed to think, I’ll just have to do it for you.” He grinned at her, as if he had just proposed the most original idea of the night. “I’ll start by replacing some misconceptions you may still have: contrary to popular belief, the Beatles did not rewrite the history of music.” 

[toujourslibre-blog1]

blackestlestrange‌:

It had been the stress of the day and the days to come, Bellatrix told herself. That’s why she hadn’t noticed him. That’s why she hadn’t razed the Leaky Cauldron to the ground and burned every last idiot in the place to ashes. That’s why she’d foolishly and idiotically stopped at the bar for a drink instead of going straight home after her trip to Gringotts. The second she heard his voice, a voice she’d never forget, a voice that haunted her still, to this day, she felt her blood run cold, anger curdling in her stomach like spoiled milk. Her hand clenched so tightly around the stem of her glass she thought she might break it.

She could still walk away. She had her back turned to him, so he couldn’t see her face, and she doubted he would still recognize her just from a silhouette. She was capable of making a clean, quiet escape if she so wished. But Bella was many things, and a coward certainly wasn’t one of them. Despite how much she knew this would sting later, she had no choice but to face it now.

“You hardly care what I think,” she said, tone frigid. “No matter what I say, you’ll do as you please. You always have.” Her voice shook with something like anger, but it felt more visceral, more loaded, and she didn’t dare to delve further into her mind to figure out what that might be. “A toast,” Bella said, finally turning to Sirius, a twisted, sarcastic smile curving her lips. “To Albus Dumbledore. A wizard ripped from us far too young. What ever shall we do without him, dear cousin?”

               It was rare for Sirius Black to think that he had made a mistake, but he was staring down one hell of a misstep. It was similar, he supposed, to staring at someone that had their wand pressed to your throat. You only had two options: fight or flight. And how could he not stay and fight when she had taught him so well?                 “You know, I was under the impression that you didn’t know me at all anymore. The world is full of pleasant surprises, apparently.” Sirius spoke as if it were possible for vitriol to be laced with honey. Yet deep down there was something shaking within him, as if the vibrato of her voice were enough to disrupt the domino fortress he’d constructed around his past. It was always dangerous to meet Bellatrix tête-à-tête -- not because she scared him, but because she still knew him far too well. He took a deep breath, repressing any part of him that she may still be able to recognize.                 Knowing all too well how Bellatrix viewed the world, Sirius was careful with his next move. He kicked his heel up onto the peg of her barstool, looking all too casual for a man who recognized the ever-raging war between them. Every word, every gesture, every thought had to be about strategy, else he’d walk away with an ache no healer could mend. There was no time for memories. His past was a graveyard.                 “Oi barkeep,” Sirius barked with a nod towards the bartender, who merely cocked a less-than-interested brow at him. “My darling cousin is making a toast. I’d love a whisky to join her -- all on her tab, naturally.” The glass before him, previously empty, filled with dark amber. He felt his soul settle just a bit, like something slotting into place. “To Albus Dumbledore, who, even in death, is greater than any that opposed him. But you already knew that, surely.” Sirius shrugged, tossed back his drink without so much as a wince. The warmth that hit his throat was more comfort than burn, but as was the case when you lived life amongst the flames.                 “I take it you’re here to mourn, though I wouldn’t disgrace Dumbledore’s memory by suggesting you were here for him. Attend any funerals lately, Bella?” And her name was shortened, murmured with an artificial affection that made a mockery of their past. 

[toujourslibre-blog1]

I didn’t like having to explain to them, so I just shut up, smoked a cigarette, and looked at the sea.

Albert Camus, The Stranger  (via spoutnik1)

[toujourslibre-blog1]

ETCHINGS ON YOUR CONSCIENCE ( by the hands that had them killed )

place | south bank of muggle london time | october fourth status | closed (  @rxgulusxarcturus  )

               There was something different about being in Muggle London, something that always quelled the fire burning in Sirius’s chest when the flame threatened to consume him wholly. Maybe it was the way Muggles always appeared so fixated on the problem directly before them, or how they could be oblivious to an entire war threatened to spill into their world. There was a simplicity to be found in the exhaust and soft drop of the rain on his cheeks, and that simplicity lulled Sirius back to the days before the war when his biggest concern was finding a way to talk himself out of detention. It left him with bittersweet nostalgia settling in the back of his throat that was difficult to swallow.                 Digging his hands deeper into his pockets, Sirius jogged across the street, ignoring the resulting honks of several cars as he darted out in front of them. The rain had started to warp from comfort to chill, and he sought shelter in what appeared to be some sort of pastry shop. He placed an order at the counter before finally taking a seat, restless energy finding a home in gentle music and the white noise of idle chatter all around him. It was peaceful -- until he noticed a sight that made his heart leap from chest to throat.                 Seeing Regulus shouldn’t have this effect on him anymore. It shouldn’t freeze his blood, wrench his heart with a guilt that had been bred into him. But it did. More subdued reactions arose whenever he heard someone speak his name, or when a throwaway phrase jolted him back to the days where he would died for the boy. There’s no point in admitting that the knee-jerk reaction to protect was still ingrained in him, that he could feel a part of himself unwither and spread like ivy across the space between them. It was a part of his soul that Sirius Black had yet to ruin, though he tried his best.                 Over the past several years, an unspoken truce had befallen them. To save them the frustration and embarrassment of a fight, they ignored one another. There existed between them a plane that could never be transversed for it was full of half-baked lies and self-deception. It was a no man’s land, a place where the first to set foot would be shot down within a second. It was where weakness went to die, and Sirius had no intention of becoming a martyr this afternoon. 

[toujourslibre-blog1]

dromedatxnks‌:

Most nights, Andromeda preferred a quiet evening at home, finding that rather than being bored by the typical humdrum of family life - she loved it. She loved the routine of bathing Dora, plaiting her long dark hair - well, the colour admittedly did seem to depend on her mood - before her or Ted read her a story. Dora usually argued that her Dad did it best and she wasn’t entirely surprised, given his profession, but she always liked to watch them from the doorway, the sight of them cuddled up in bed together more than her heart could bear. If she ever felt guilt over her decision to leave her family, if she ever had a single doubt, all she had to do was look at her family and realise that she’d made the best decision for her. She might miss her sisters, and she would have given anything to see them, but the price would always be her family and she’d never pay that. 

Still, it took quite the offer to drag her away from the routine she loved so much, but then again, she’d never been good at saying no to Sirius. Even as kids, when they’d been cousins running around Grimmauld Place together, she’d enjoyed his attitude and they’d grown closer since, bonding over shared trauma and the constant title of family disappointments, probably. He was the one link she had to her old life and she couldn���t help but cling to him, wanting him to stay safe and well so she had that link to the past. Andromeda worried for him, especially being a part of the Order, but she knew she’d never change his mind. Stubbornness was another Black family trait, it seemed. 

Her eyebrows rose as she entered the Leaky Cauldron, the sight of the makeshift flame in her cousin’s hand something that wasn’t totally surprising. Drama had always run in their veins, she was sure of it. ‘’Do you mean the Prophet specifically or just your dramatics with it?’’ She questioned dryly as she moved to the stool next to him, still a good few inches shorter than him. ‘’For a man that likes to keep himself to himself, you also very good at making a scene, you know.’’ 

               There was something about Andromeda that always seemed to settle something within Sirius, however temporarily. Perhaps it had to do with their shared ache and jagged edges, results of tearing themselves so violently from clutches that had seemed inescapable. Broken as it had left them, Sirius had no desire to go back, so Andromeda was viewed as less of a link to their shared past and more as an example that someone with many of his same wounds could live -- could thrive -- despite the scars. 

               She gave him hope, really. 

               “It’s one of my many talents, so I’m glad you noticed,” Sirius said. He dropped the kindling on the bar and snuffed out the flame with the bottom of his pint glass. “If you have any constructive criticism concerning my dramatics — particularly with regard to how I could have escalated the scene — I’m all ears.” He smiled at her, a gentle admission that he was glad she was here despite his current mood (and, maybe, because of his current mood). Things felt a little less desperate with her around.

               He took a drink, stared at the watermark that had spread over the charred end of the Prophet. Even the news was at war. “I’m sick of people saying the war is lost when it’s just been won.” 

[toujourslibre-blog1]

THESE ARE THE  D A Y S (  you need double what it takes  )

place | remus’s cottage time | october fifth status | closed (  @patchycoat​  )

               Despite a scattered history of living with the Potters and spending dinners with the Lupins, Sirius couldn’t fully peg down the definition of a home. He knew the abstracts, that it was a place full of love, a place that you could always run to, a place that welcomed you back with no questions asked, but he had always felt like a trespasser in other people’s happiness. The buildings that James and Remus called home had been as warm as the smiles of its inhabitants, but it never felt like something Sirius could fully immerse himself in. There were too many dark cracks in his past to readily accept so much light, and so he went without embracing the notion of a home as a physical space.                 Tonight, though, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was what home felt like if you built its foundations in another person. It was as easy to stroll into Remus’s world now as it had been before they knew what war was, and Sirius wondered if the unique ability to lower his guard and fall into himself was akin to sinking into plush cushions before a warm fire in a house brimming with love.                 Merlin, he’d had too much to drink. (  And yet it felt like not enough . )               “You need another drink,” he projected, rising from his chair and making for the bottle of Ogden’s left abandoned on the counter. It had been full when Sirius arrived, yet now it was half gone. He was just beginning to feel the warmth spread from his core, and he took a quick swig to accelerate its takeover before stiffly pouring the liquor straight into two mugs that had been left by the sink. It didn’t matter that Remus still had his fingers wrapped around a glass, or that Sirius had abandoned his own empty cup on the other side of the room.                  Fresh drinks in hand, Sirius strolled lazily back into the living room, comfortably sitting himself on the arm of Remus’s chair. “So -- James’s stag party.” The title still brought a stupid grin to Sirius’s lips. “I read about this candy factory in Wales. They produce a million units or some shit per day and it’s all sorts. They do tours in the morning but I’d rather not spend the most exciting day of the year walking around with a group of tourists. So we do a scavenger hunt across Muggle London during the day -- hide clues with the Bowtruckles in Kensington Gardens, brew a potion in the bathroom of a tea room on Oxford Street, commandeer one of those monstrous red things to get us to King’s Cross, so on -- and it ends at this factory in the evening. It’s a Muggle factory, so it should be easy enough to slip in after hours, and the machines can’t be that hard to work.” He pressed one of the mugs into Remus’s free hand. “Thoughts? Inevitable concerns?” 

[toujourslibre-blog1]

rigelgreengrass‌:

where: ministry of magic when: october 3rd, 1979 who: @toujourslibre

    it magically somehow just goes and turns out, rigel notes, by now suppressing about eight suicidal fantasies, that a little tragedy works wonders for making the ministry all around brickshit insufferable.

he spends the better part of the day tuning out people with their teary-eyed and traumatized wannabe mantras — oh, not albus, not dumbledore, where do we go from here — rigel, in all his tact, bit his cheek and coughed into his coffee as many times as he could bear before finally getting banished from the ongoing meeting. ( so maybe barking out a laugh in the midst of a very inopportune moment, wherein someone may or may not be sharing their sorrowful feelings on the matter of war and such other injustices, wasn’t too empathetic of him. maybe it’s okay he’s been disabused from sitting through the order groupies anonymous. he would never want to be gauche. )

which by way of fate and having fuck all to do leads him out into the yard, recognizing sirius — who’s waiting on alastor, surely — as the only person next to the suggestion box they all as an office collectively decided to use as an ashtray, and moves to investigate in exactly which ways he can get on alastor’s nerves this beautiful afternoon; even if mostly by proxy. he leans his side against the brick wall close to where sirius is fucking around with…a lighter, is it? and pulls out a cigarette of his own. 

   “you know, a good old incendio does go a long way.”

               There was no place more droll than the Ministry, and it showed on the faces of every employee. With their scrunched up noses and perpetual frowns, they looked rather like gnomes -- and were half as helpful. Throughout every high and low, the ministry had sat within their deadened halls merely reacting to events. The reactions were painfully obvious today as people walked and wallowed and bemoaned the events that have come to pass despite not lifting a finger to stop it. 

               Unable to stomach the remorse of inactivists, Sirius took to the outdoors, abandoning the lobby for the bitter rush of cold air. He shrugged his shoulders to his ears, the comforting weight of his jacket brushing his neck as he did. It was grounding, though not quite enough. The voices in the lobby had been left behind but they haunted him still. 

        Poor Dumbledore.     Aye, he was a good man.            Not much hope with him gone, is there?        Someone really ought to erect a statue in his honor.                 Why? So He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named can tear it down? 

Idiots, the lot of them, speaking as if they really knew who Dumbledore was, what he’d done for them. He represented a cause, had been one of the first people to exemplify freedom. His loss was an ache in Sirius’s chest, dull and throbbing and impossible to replace no matter the number of statues or memorials or vigils spawned in his honor. 

               Sirius was tired of thinking about it. Each murmur was a fresh wound, and he’d bled enough the past few days. He needed something different, an escape, something to take the edge off, so he patted down his pockets, breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the blunted edge of a cigarette carton. He flipped it open, thanking Merlin as he did, only to find that it was fucking empty. He dropped it to the ground, kicked it under the suggestion box without a second thought. It was just another thing letting him down lately, something else adding to the stress that was embedding knots in his shoulders. Even without something to smoke, Sirius flicked his lighter on, starting and stopping the flame at will because it was something small and destructive that he had control over. 

               Incendio does go a long way. Sirius’ lips curled into a half-smile at the wry suggestion just as his soul latched greedily upon this distraction. It wasn’t the best in the world ( the number of times Sirius had heard Moody rant about Rigel was too numerous to count ), but it was one with a wry tone and cigarettes. 

               Good enough. 

               “Why waste your breath?” he asked. “This is just as effective. Here, let me show you.” And he reached for the cigarette between Rigel’s fingers, taking it between his own without an ounce of hesitation. A moment later, it was alight and dangling between Sirius’s lips, smoke flooding his lungs only to escape back to the air, drifting away like fog in the cold. 

              “You have shit taste in smokes.” 

[toujourslibre-blog1]

a roman companion

It took three full years. Three years of begging, of trying to trade in good behaviors, of remarking on how well behaved other dogs were. They promised to take care of it, to train it to do all sorts of tricks that would impress company. Seven fights, two attempts to run away, and three long years later, and finally a border collie showed up one Christmas Morning.

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