[Taking on James' weight when he staggers sideways is as natural as anything, a shift of his stance, without any stumbling. Equally natural would be the way that Sirius could list off James' least favourite everything, rote memory. If there were a James Potter quiz game, Sirius would be tops every time.
And natural, too, is the expression that tightens his face, angry and dark and closed-in the moment that James says Peter's name. Unnatural in some ways, but not foreign. Sirius has always been easy to anger. It will be, for James, like having your arm around a dog all bristled and growling.
The milk-snorting-Howler incident is difficult for him to summon up, because when Sirius thinks of Peter he thinks now of finding him in a dim corridor, pale-faced and sweating. James, his jaw set resolutely. He's still our friend.
Sirius shrugs out from under James' arm at last, a sharp tight movement.]
He's not here.
[And d'you really want to know what I want to do with him, James. An echo that's years old now. Sirius can feel the tight knit of his shoulders. He looks at Remus again, not so much for strength as for one final confirmation. Remus, who has been at the other end of this, where it all unravels. Where there's funerals and prison sentencings and wars, where he stood it all bleak and alone.
He looks back at James straight after. Love and anger make a tight feeling in his chest, like a fist.]
Look, we've got to tell you. Time doesn't work properly here. It gets cocked up. You were here before, you don't remember it, but you were. And Remus, he's older. He can tell you more about it. The-- war, and Voldemort. Everything. [Inadequate explanation. Sirius' mouth twists. All at once, then, like hacking off rot or pulling a knife free.] Voldemort goes for you. You make Peter your Secret-Keeper. He betrays you, and you're killed.
[The last word comes out flat. No matter how many times he says it, no matter how many times he tells James, or some other version of Remus--he can't make it make sense, he can't put together a world with the shape of James not in it.]
no subject
And natural, too, is the expression that tightens his face, angry and dark and closed-in the moment that James says Peter's name. Unnatural in some ways, but not foreign. Sirius has always been easy to anger. It will be, for James, like having your arm around a dog all bristled and growling.
The milk-snorting-Howler incident is difficult for him to summon up, because when Sirius thinks of Peter he thinks now of finding him in a dim corridor, pale-faced and sweating. James, his jaw set resolutely. He's still our friend.
Sirius shrugs out from under James' arm at last, a sharp tight movement.]
He's not here.
[And d'you really want to know what I want to do with him, James. An echo that's years old now. Sirius can feel the tight knit of his shoulders. He looks at Remus again, not so much for strength as for one final confirmation. Remus, who has been at the other end of this, where it all unravels. Where there's funerals and prison sentencings and wars, where he stood it all bleak and alone.
He looks back at James straight after. Love and anger make a tight feeling in his chest, like a fist.]
Look, we've got to tell you. Time doesn't work properly here. It gets cocked up. You were here before, you don't remember it, but you were. And Remus, he's older. He can tell you more about it. The-- war, and Voldemort. Everything. [Inadequate explanation. Sirius' mouth twists. All at once, then, like hacking off rot or pulling a knife free.] Voldemort goes for you. You make Peter your Secret-Keeper. He betrays you, and you're killed.
[The last word comes out flat. No matter how many times he says it, no matter how many times he tells James, or some other version of Remus--he can't make it make sense, he can't put together a world with the shape of James not in it.]