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heartofspells · 2 years

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How was Sirius with Harry in his low times after the trauma?

Oof. You're going right for the hurt, aren't you? But what am I if not a deliverer?

I very carefully avoided addressing this more than strictly necessary in the actual story itself. Because it's a difficult thing. How do you explain to a four-year-old, who's used to hugs and playing, wrestling, arms locking around legs, climbing all over you, that you can't stand to be touched by anyone anymore in a way that child will understand?

But here's another little outtake from At the Healing Edge of Broken, occurring sometime during chapter 10.

Cw: reference to mild, accidental hitting of Harry (but he's fine, it didn't hurt him), vague sense of depression, resistance to unwanted touch because of past trauma

(thank you so much to everyone for these. they could all be from the same person, but i don't care. please work my brain. let me live in this world for as long as possible. send all your questions, comments, musings to me. i will happily take them and hold them close)

Harry doesn't understand and Sirius can't explain. Lily and James both try, but Sirius can tell it doesn't catch or make any sense to the small boy, face still filled with confusion, eyes shifting to Sirius at odd moments.

They'd kept him away for a few days after it had happened. Sirius hadn't been consulted with the decision, but he knows his friends had thought it best. He thinks they were probably right judging by his reaction when Harry had finally returned and launched himself at Sirius where he'd been tucked into the corner of the sofa. Sirius had stiffened, arms flailing out wildly under the unexpected touch, having been drifting in a void and had not heard Harry entrance into the house.

Sirius had struck him, just a little, right in his side. Not enough to even really hurt, but it had been more than enough to cause Harry to retreat from him, eyes wide with startled shock, and guilt had welled so high inside Sirius, he'd nearly broken all over again from its crushing weight. Lily had checked him over as Sirius had watched from a distance, assuring Sirius Harry was more than fine, but it hadn't eased his hammering heart or coaxed the shriveling guilt from his body and soul.

But Harry, in the same way children always seem to move on from things so easily, most times, forgets soon enough. He wants to play, urges Sirius down to the floor with him, and Sirius goes when he can, when he's not sucked too far away from everything that matters most. He sprawls over the carpet with Harry as he always has, rolling cars about, teasing at Snuffles, making Harry giggle and tell him he's being silly, Padfoot. It warms Sirius, but eventually, Harry grows bored, wants to roll around, wrestle and tumble. He wants to touch, and Sirius can't.

He retreats with a mumbled apology, James watching from the doorway of the room, moving in to take Sirius' place with an ease Sirius knows is forced. He disappears to his room. He stays here a lot now, here or the back garden, his friends coax him back to the land of the living again. Because that's what this feels like, like some sort of limbo, a purgatory, if Sirius believed in such things. He's starting to, because he's stuck there, here. Can't escape. Voices of the damned scream constantly inside his head, so loud Sirius can't even begin to force them away.

Harry doesn't understand, maybe never will, and Sirius dearly hopes he never has to, that there's never a reason for his godson to look at this situation Sirius has found himself a part of, entrenched inside, and have even a notion of so that's what that was. He still searches Sirius out, urges him into play. He finds Sirius in his bedroom one afternoon while Sirius is waiting for dinner, for Remus to come, that wonderful distraction he craves and clings to like a man dying without oxygen until it's suddenly returning.

The boy climbs up onto the bed with sure movements, settling beside Sirius on its surface, staring up at the ceiling, Sirius watching him curiously. His expression is grave, green eyes pensive, small mouth twitching in deep thought.

"Hello, Padfoot," he says eventually, tone incredibly solemn for his four years. "Mummy says you're hurt again. Did you fall?"

Something in Sirius aches at the question, at the way Harry is still trying to make sense of the way things seem to have shifted around him. He shakes his head, still not moving it from gazing at his godson.

"No, Harry. I didn't fall."

Harry nods, looking a little more confused, mouth pinching up. "Where're you hurt? I can get my doctor bag, but Daddy said that won't work."

"Daddy's right, sprog," says Sirius quietly. "I wish he wasn't, but it won't work. But you can practice on my leg again sometime soon, just not today."

He expects Harry to brighten at the offering, but he doesn't, instead rolling to his side to face Sirius, his expression still far too dour for Sirius' liking.

"But if you're hurt, a doctor can fix it," argues Harry in growing frustration. "Mummy can take you to hospital. Kings can help you, make you feel better."

Sirius doesn't know what to do. What can he possibly say to calm the angry confusion mounting higher and higher in the boy beside him? He shifts to match Harry's position, gaze drifting over his frowning face, wanting to reach out and the lines away, knowing they have no right to be there or exist at all, Sirius the cause. He always is, for everyone, in everything. He can't escape it, no matter how hard he tries.

"Harry," he says on the breath of heavy sigh, "a doctor can't make this better." Sirius glances over him as Harry's face falls in front of him, and Sirius tries to find a way to explain. "Did you know there are different sorts of hurts?" Harry shakes his head, and Sirius tries to smile. "There's the type you can see, like when you hit your head on the table or scape up your knees sometimes, or like when I fell and injured my leg. Those are the types of hurt a doctor or mummies and daddies can fix. But there are other hurts, deeper ones. You can't see them with your eyes, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. They hurt your heart and your mind. And they hurt just as bad, sometimes more, but they aren't things that can be made better with a plaster and sweets. Does that make sense?"

Harry's eyes drop as he considers Sirius' words, his face pinching in further, mouth pulling at its corners. "What makes it better?" he finally asks, looking back up at Sirius.

Sirius' smile is sad, and he wishes desperately for it do be anything else. "I'm still trying to figure that out," he admits softly.

"Does Remus help?" And there's a bit of hope filling his green eyes now, shining a little, shifting Sirius' smile to something different, grateful. He's aware of how his godson feels about the other man, loving it when he comes round during the week, begging them not to leave when they do, Remus coaxing him from the house, the only one that's been successful so far.

"He's trying," says Sirius. "But it's not just him. Mummy and Daddy help as well, and so do you, just by being yourself."

"I do?" questions Harry, amazement filling him, drawing him from his well of confusion.

"Of course you do," attests Sirius adamantly, and before he can stop himself or think too much about what he's doing, he pressing forward, wrapping Harry up in gentle arms, pulling the boy close to him. "You always have, because I love you. You, Harry Potter, are one of the best things I've ever had in my life."

Sirius can feel the boy's smile against the skin of his neck where his nestled firmly. He squirms in his arms, a wonderful, joyful sound emerging from him, and Sirius thinks this is okay, this touch, this hold. He can do this. With Harry, he's okay.

#at the healing edge of broken #sirius black #harry potter #remus lupin #james potter #lily evans potter #wolfstar #outtake #ask #answer #my writing #holli writes #send me your burning desires

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