[Sirius' latest round of fixed staring is (somewhat belatedly) interrupted by the fond blood-traitors. The comment is made, the conversation continues on, and Sirius processes the remark and looks slowly around at Remus. A mild tint of amusement colours what is passing for a fleeting smile, there and then gone again. He's forgotten what it's like to have inside jokes. He's mostly forgotten jokes at all.
Blood-traitor status did him precious little good in keeping him out of Azkaban. Perhaps it inexplicably cast him as the likelier traitor, knit too close to his family tree to extract himself. That's what they must have said, anyways. He wouldn't know.
Snappish, he looks around at Goldstein instead, picks out the most offensive word she's offered--]
We don't have any masters.
[That rankles, like a hand rubbed wrongways against fur. But despite that, she does have a good point, says a sensible part of Sirius. Remus is more or less acquiescing the same and calling it irony, that's all. They are asking a lot without proof, without knowing that it will ever actually matter, and Sirius turns his stolen wand over in his hands, a very thin defence against the possibility of two Dark wizards, scores of muggle deaths, old evils that they can't contain, barely contend with.
But that's the way it's always been, hasn't it. When Sirius looks up again, he's collected some more bits of himself.]
We want you to believe us. [Us. Another thin defence, but one Sirius is glad to wear again. Perhaps they once had put too much store in themselves as the Marauders, but he'll never be the one to say it. It's Peter that's to blame. Cut out that rot and they'd have been fine.] Remus is right. If anyone wakes up and recongises me, wants to start some campaign against me, then we want you to help us shout them down.
And we want you with us, if it comes to that. Against Voldemort, against Grindelwald, against anyone that's going to come out of that sleep up there and wreck havoc. There might be only four of us, but that's better than any of us trying to do this alone.
[The Order was down to thin ranks by the time Sirius got shut away in Azkaban, hopelessness barely countered by their purpose and grim conviction. That's the way it's always been becomes rather less comforting if Sirius lets himself remember how it ended, if he thinks for a moment about a garden strewn with rubble, little ruby-red shards of glass from that leaded pane above the cottage door, sprinkled like snow through the grass and crunching under the heel of his boots. A price he wouldn't pay twice if it was asked of him. All of that matters, but it matters rather less if James is up there asleep.]
no subject
Blood-traitor status did him precious little good in keeping him out of Azkaban. Perhaps it inexplicably cast him as the likelier traitor, knit too close to his family tree to extract himself. That's what they must have said, anyways. He wouldn't know.
Snappish, he looks around at Goldstein instead, picks out the most offensive word she's offered--]
We don't have any masters.
[That rankles, like a hand rubbed wrongways against fur. But despite that, she does have a good point, says a sensible part of Sirius. Remus is more or less acquiescing the same and calling it irony, that's all. They are asking a lot without proof, without knowing that it will ever actually matter, and Sirius turns his stolen wand over in his hands, a very thin defence against the possibility of two Dark wizards, scores of muggle deaths, old evils that they can't contain, barely contend with.
But that's the way it's always been, hasn't it. When Sirius looks up again, he's collected some more bits of himself.]
We want you to believe us. [Us. Another thin defence, but one Sirius is glad to wear again. Perhaps they once had put too much store in themselves as the Marauders, but he'll never be the one to say it. It's Peter that's to blame. Cut out that rot and they'd have been fine.] Remus is right. If anyone wakes up and recongises me, wants to start some campaign against me, then we want you to help us shout them down.
And we want you with us, if it comes to that. Against Voldemort, against Grindelwald, against anyone that's going to come out of that sleep up there and wreck havoc. There might be only four of us, but that's better than any of us trying to do this alone.
[The Order was down to thin ranks by the time Sirius got shut away in Azkaban, hopelessness barely countered by their purpose and grim conviction. That's the way it's always been becomes rather less comforting if Sirius lets himself remember how it ended, if he thinks for a moment about a garden strewn with rubble, little ruby-red shards of glass from that leaded pane above the cottage door, sprinkled like snow through the grass and crunching under the heel of his boots. A price he wouldn't pay twice if it was asked of him. All of that matters, but it matters rather less if James is up there asleep.]