𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 [𝐣.𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫]

29: 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔡𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔱𝔞𝔩

TW: suicidal ideation, angst, graphic depictions of gore, vomiting

James lay in the hospital wing in feverish agony. For two days, he'd drifted in and out of consciousness. He felt like he'd been sliced open and filled with lead filings.

Sometimes, he felt Madame Pomfrey draping cool clothes across his forehead. She wrapped his arms and legs with gauze that held the ice packs firmly against his burning skin when his temperature spiked. Other times, he traveled between worlds, drifting.

Sometimes, the pain would be so intense he'd have thought his insides were melting. Kidneys, intestines, and even his lungs burned like they were doused in gasoline and lit aflame, melting into a gooey heap of sinew.

With each breath, he felt as though he was drawing in lungfuls of smoke, oxygen replaced with venom as it scorched his windpipe and filled his chest with a fiery agony. He could imagine his necrotic organs, blackened and burned, licked by the invisible flames.

When he wasn't delirious or otherwise unconscious, he was gripped by the never-ending torment, gasping and choking as he was torched by hands he couldn't see.

Hot tears filled his eyes as quickly as he could shed them.

Madame Pomfrey was desperate. She'd inserted a catheter into his arm, releasing minuscule amounts of pain potion. She feared what it'd do when it reacted to the poison.

Afraid his heart would give up.

I.V. bags were hung on a post by his bed, holding the pain relief, hydration, and nutrients that kept him alive. He had been too weak to swallow, choking on the potions she administered until he gasped, chest rising and falling rapidly.

He couldn't stop thinking about him. Sirius.

He mumbled his name unconsciously, his first thought when he plunged into the world of waking. He traced each syllable with his tongue fervently.

Sirius. I want Sirius.

And then, one day, he was there.

His eyes were swollen, cheeks pallid and gaunt. But he smiled cautiously, ruffled his hair, and gently tipped water past his cracked lips. It hurt to swallow and engaged his weak esophageal muscles, but he didn't choke. The water was cool. He liked it.

"James," Sirius rasped, carefully brushing his hair away from his sweaty forehead. He cradled his feverish cheeks, and James reveled in that single touch of warmth that hadn't burned him. "James."

And then, slowly, he began to sob.

"I've done something terrible, James." And he buried his hands in his head, shoulders shaking with silent tears. "I've done something awful."

"What did you do?" he whispered, voice harsh and unused. A cough rattled inside his lungs. Hazel eyes matched against the grey. His mind was hazy, a thick cloud of blankness encompassing any events from the past week.

But Sirius didn't tell him, only remained silent. Then he stood up and said that he had work to do.

James let him go unwillingly. "But you'll visit again?"

"Yes," Sirius said, gaze averted.

He never did.

********

For three days, Remus slept.

His bones ached, his bruises too, his scabs itched, his bandages pulled. His arm, legs, and chest were wrapped in thick, constricting gauze. They were soaked in salve, but the dull, persistent pain throbbed in every inch of his body.