And You Shall Shatter Them into Pieces

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He doesn’t know why he ended up here of all places, places of death, of dirt, of cold. He doesn’t want to be here, because he already was, and getting away once was all he’s allowed in this new eternity.

He doesn’t know why he ended up this way, with his thoughts jumbled in his head like random patterns of winds that blow inside his heart. Wasn’t wind before, wasn’t scattered before, unless in that moment he fell forever he scattered and never got put back to pieces that fit into his whole.

The wind blows to his old hell.

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He can move through and over and between, not like before when he was here in that time before. When he was trapped in time in place, in Their place, in Their time, because then, they took his.

Now, he is stealing Theirs.

He steals places to hide, and no one finds him, because no one cares about anything but their own holes in their minds. He remembers the holes. He hides in the moon, because the moon is his forevermore, given in love.

And on the night when the sun doesn’t shine, he realises They can’t touch him anymore.

--

He bides his time because that’s forever, he knows, and he knows his time. It’s kept by a frozen watch in a silvery robe, with a wand in a pocket he reaches through to get. Except he doesn’t need the wand he cannot grasp with fingers he doesn’t have, so he leaves it there against his used to be hip, with used to be thumbprints, and used to be smiles and gasps and sighs.

He watches with eyes that don’t see, but see, and sees Them, but They don’t see him or see him, because Sirius doesn’t live here anymore.

--

It’s all an accident, he knows, he’s an accident, and he’s accident prone again. He’s ten years old with a torn trouser and knee, and his perfect Pure, perfect Right, perfect Blood is dripping into the earth that drinks him down as his mother yells and screams and froths in the back of his ten year old mind. But he’s not torn this time, because the wind can’t be torn into shreds.

Because the wind is the one that tears through anything it wants, tear through walls and bars and bodies and earth.

And he’s the wind in this place.

--

He’s blown through one of Them, sits inside, and it’s so warm and soft, and there are people he knows. He waves to his brother and cousin as they sit at a picnic somewhere he used to love, and fight over the last biscuit in the tin. He waves to himself as he makes friends, and lovers, and families, with people who miss him, he hopes.

The one of Them screams, and he blows away because he remembers the screams that hurt his heart, his head.

The next time he hides in the moon, he realises he’s colder than Them.

--

He knows what’s happened to his pieces, and he wants them back. But he’s sixteen again, kicked out of his home, out of his first life, life two and three and four and five are later and older, but not wiser. They can’t keep him out, but they can keep his pieces in, pieces of the Moon, the Moon that he used to own, the Moon that owns him still and quiet and forever.

They each have a piece, and there are more of Them than there are of Him, but that doesn’t matter.

He stops to hide in the moon.

--

He thinks They try to hide from him like he used to, does hide from Them. But They can’t hide, because he can see, see like They never could never can, and he follows his pieces. It’s a map, They’re his map, that tells him who he was which is who he is, and he curls inside Them like Padfoot in front of the fire, in front of the Moon, in front of the Beast.

They scream at him as he keeps his pieces, but it doesn’t matter any longer, because He’s the He now, and They are just them.

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