Author: hikaru / _regarde
Archive: Please ask permission.
Feedback: If you so desire.
Disclaimer: They're all J. K. Rowling's, and I've got the feeling that she'd have my head for this.
Warnings: Incest, character death, adolescent fumblings, evil, but mostly incest.
Summary: Sirius thinks that his brother can bring him back to the fold. Or something like that, cause I suck at summaries.
Notes: Written for 15minuteficlets. Challenge word of the week was "obsession." Unbeta-ed.
He hurt me. Every time we spoke, I came away scarred. Every time he even crossed my path, I realized what a worthless life I'd led. I scorned my family, my lineage, my history, but I followed this Dark man, perhaps in hopes that someday I could get it all back.
He hurt me, badly, and yet I could not get away from him. He was my world since his birth. I doted on him just as any brother would be proud to do. I cared for him, read him stories as he drifted off to sleep, smoothed his hair away from his face when he lay ill, like he often did.
I loved him. I needed him. I would have left everything behind for him, if he would just have come back to me.
When we were teenagers, he came to me, he came to me in the night and wriggled into my bed. It was a term break, and mother had – surprisingly enough – left me well alone. The entire family was ashamed of my Gryffindor status, even him. But he came to me anyway, curled up next to me, and said "brother, I love you," and he kissed me, and all was forgiven.
Or so I thought.
Innocent kisses evolved into adolescent fumbling, evolved into fucking, and he would fuck me raw, and I would allow it. I would allow it because I thought he loved me, I thought that pain was part of that love. I thought that by allowing him to do it, to make me bleed, to make me swallow his seed – I thought that by allowing it, I would be redeemed by him, by the family, by my entire lineage.
I would be a Black again. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Indeed.
After a while, he stopped coming to my bed. He spent his nights away from home, that damned Mark searing his arm, cavorting with the likes with Malfoy and Snape and fucking Pettigrew. When he did return home, when I was able to owl him, I begged, I pleaded.
Please, brother, come back to me. Show me that you need me; I surely need you. Please, brother. Absolve me, make me whole, make me one of you again. Show me that you love me, prove what you said to me in the dark of night so many years ago. I need you. I need you to hurt me, to punish me, to show me the error of my ways.
The owls would go unanswered; he would rebuff me in the hallways of our home. He stalked away, shoving me roughly aside, my pleas echoing sadly off of the stark walls of 12 Grimmauld Place.
One day, years later, he came home, in a panic. "They're after me, brother," he wailed, breaking through the wards and the spells on the house and tumbling into my arms. "I want out, and now they're going to kill me," he panted, "and you have to help me." He clung to my shirt, eyes desperate and wild, fear trembling through his whole body.
I looked at this Dark man, the one that I called brother, the one that I called lover, and I turned him away; I rebuffed him just as he had done to me. He consumed my life for so many years – too many years – and I would have no more of it.
"To the wolves with you," I said quietly, darkly, channeling all of his personality and very being that I hated and craved at the same time. "You deserve no less. Merlin help you." I pushed him down and walked away.
What became of him – aside his untimely death – I am not sure. I know he left, ran from the house, and that somewhere between here and there, he was found and ruined for his actions.
I am not sad.
I do not need him anymore. I do not need that hurt.