Push and Pull (Sirius Black X Reader)

Remus and I decide to floo to Sirius' house instead of apparating there, and there's a part of me that suspects that Remus just doesn't want to touch me to apparate together. I understand.

Still, I've never quite liked traveling by floo. I don't like the smell of the fireplaces, the way the smoky ash gets lodged in my nose for the rest of the day; I don't like being squeezed and jolted through the network; and I don't like stumbling out of a fireplace like a buffoon, disoriented and choking on ash.

I don't tell Rem any of this though. I don't want to make this any harder than it has to be. Not for him, and not for us.

Remus whispers the address to me even though we're alone, and something about his conspiratorial tone makes me nervous, so I just nod with wide eyes, repeating the address only in my mind, not aloud.

"Rem?" I say as I stand before the fireplace, the little tin bucket he keeps full of floo powder in my hand.

"Hmm?" he hums distractedly.

"What happens if he's mad?" I ask, and I can hear that my voice sounds weak—thin and reedy.

"Then we'll come home and give him time," Rem says. His voice is so calm, so matter-of-fact, that I don't question him. I just nod and hand him the bucket, filling my palm with some of the floo powder. I take a deep breath even though nothing can settle my nerves right now.

"12 Grimmauld Place," I say as clearly as I can, and I wonder if the network can sense the way my voice wavers. Maybe it will send me somewhere else, somewhere safer. The flames roar to life and I push through, willing Remus to be quick behind me so I don't have to do this alone.

When I emerge, I do so in a dusty room. It's dark and eerily silent, decorated with vintage wooden furniture sheathed in old, faded covers meant to keep them clean. I take a step forward and the whole house seems to protest, creaking and groaning with each minuscule movement.

The flames die down behind me, green light flickering down until it's nonexistent, and I shudder as a cold waft of air settles over my bones. Part of me wants to call out for Sirius, but the rest of me wants to put the meeting off for as long as possible.

I hear something stir, but it's too dim to see anything. All of the windows are shrouded in thick red curtains, velvet swathed in dust bunnies. My breathing quickens and, against my better judgment, I take another step into the room, listening closely for the sound. I hear it again—the rustle of fabric. I know it's probably a rodent burrowed into some of the abandoned furniture, but my heart still skips a beat.

I turn around and watch the fireplace, rubbing my arms to ward off the chill, but Remus doesn't come. I begin to worry. Did he go to the wrong place? Did I?

The rustling sounds again, and I whip around, locating the source of the sound. One of the curtains obscures the origin. I take a step forward and reach out to touch the curtain, slowly pulling it aside. I expect to see light filter in from a dust-streaked window, but instead, malice-filled eyes stare down at me.

"You!"

I gasp and step backward, forgetting there's a covered piece of furniture behind me. I collapse onto it, a plume of dust poofing into the air around me, and then I begin to cough on it, tears streaming down my face as I inhale it into my lungs. The curtain falls to the ground, and I stare at Walburga Black through tears.

"You, the filthy little half-breed that sullied my son!" she continues, staring down her nose at me.

"I—Mrs. Black? I—"

"You tarnished my family's good name, and now you dishonor the Black line by stepping foot inside this house!"

"It's—I'm sorry," I stammer, trying to push myself off of the furniture, but the wooden frame must be rotted, because my hand sinks further into it as Walburga Black begins screaming more insults, eyes alight with anger. I mumble apologies, but I'm shaking too hard to stand, especially knowing that I've destroyed some of the furniture. She picks up on that, too, and begins shrieking about the destruction of her family's property.

Finally, I stumble away from the sofa and back away from the portrait, holding my hands out to calm her, but her face has turned red and she's spewing curses still. I jump when the fireplace roars to life beside me and, moments later, Remus emerges. Remus rushes to me and steadies me from behind, placing his hands on my shoulders as he takes in the sight before him. I think he begins to say something, his hands tightening on my shoulders, but the door opposite the portrait bangs open, the doorknob slamming into the wall hard enough that I suspect it's gone through the drywall.

Illuminated in green light is Sirius Black, gaunt and pale, wet hair hanging in soft curls beside his face. His eyes are already on his mother's portrait, a deep frown on his face, and then his eyes fall on me and Remus, and his eyes widen, hands falling slack by his sides. The fire dies down and the severity of his expression—the wild eyes and deep cuts of his facial structure—wanes in tandem, the absence of the harsh light painting him softer.

He stammers for a moment, eyes flickering between me and Remus and the portrait, and then he barks, "Christ, mother, don't they say the strict are meant to mellow with age?" He crosses the room with long strides and tears the curtain back over the portrait, muffling some of Walburga's protests.

He stays like that for a moment, facing the wall, and then he slowly turns and brushes his hair from his face. When he turns, Remus tears his hands away from my shoulders and takes a step back.

"Sirius," he says fondly. "How are you holding up in this beautiful little palace of yours? I feel sorry for intruding, seeing the wonderful company you keep here when I'm not around."

"Oh, I can hardly stand the thought of leaving, which I assume I will be forced to do rather soon, yes?" But his eyes keep drawing back to me, and he's blinking like he's trying to figure out if I'm a figment of his imagination.

I, on the other hand, can't stand to look at him. I'm in shock, shaking at the knees and sweating from the palms. I can't handle the softness of his gaze, the familiarity of his voice, the gentleness of his body language. What happened to the man who murdered our friends? The one who Rem was convinced was guilty and persuaded me, at some point during these last twelve years, of the same? I look between the only two men I have ever loved, and I struggle to recognize either of them. Rem, who, up until a few months ago, was steadfast regarding Sirius' guilt, now setting foot in his home and teasing him as if the past twelve years were nothing?

And Sirius, once obsessed with his appearance, disheveled before me, jaw stubbled over and his shirt sleeves just a hair too long. Once never afraid to tease me, now treating me like I'm nothing more than a piece of glass to be broken.

It's too much.

It's making me anxious, and I want to cry, but more than anything, I'm irritated. I'm angry at them both. At Sirius for being imprisoned and at Remus for letting it happen. For letting me become this shell while Sirius rotted away in that prison. I'm angry that they're talking around me, glancing over at me like I'm going to shatter.

I won't, even if it's simply out of spite.

I'm half conscious of them talking about the weather, mundane and cowardly. They're both watching me as they speak, and Remus raises his eyebrows toward Sirius as if to say, Didn't I tell you?

I grit my teeth and clear my throat, drawing their attention to me. Not to my fidgeting hands or my blank facial expression or the way they think I am, but to me.

"I want coffee," I say and then press my lips together. "With milk."