Houses of the Holy

Black and Gold

TW: Panic/anxiety attack, negative self talk, swearing, past trauma courtesy of Walburga fucking Black in the forms of: domestic abuse, graphic (ish) descriptions of needles, blood, and broken bones. Use of the cruciatus curse as a form of torture, verbal abuse, emotional manipulation. Walburga Black's A+ Parenting in short. Please do ask for a summary of the chapter if you don't feel comfortable reading, I totally get it :) (Ha you thought it would get better? pffftttttt that's funny - ALSO, let me know if I missed any, its a generally pretty heavy chapter, so look after yourselves <3 )

Well, there is a house in New Orleans

They call the Rising Sun

And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy

And God, I know

I'm one - The Animals, House Of The Rising Sun

***

The sky has been cracked open, pale, beautiful fingers digging into the cracks, pulling them apart. The earth beneath James's feet is soft, green grass, stretching for miles and miles, not another thing in sight. He can feel his clothes, sticking to his skin, wet with rain from the sky, as it screams. The pale hands score deep gashes across the face of it, grotesque cuts bleeding onto the land below. James stares up at it, feeling the bloody rain spilling down his cheeks like tears, under his collar, staining his white shirt like he's been shot. The wind is picking up, battering at the pale hands, almost in desperation, a plea to stop, an unanswered cry for help. The hands falter slightly, before digging in again, cracking the sky down the middle. A screaming howl of wind is the only thing that portrays the sky's pain and she's cracked open, bloody rain coming down faster. James is rooted to the spot, horrified.

There is something behind the crack, the deep gash that splits the sky open, something dark, and small. The pale hands tear the crack open further, bloody rain dripping down the knuckles. The crack widens, and a terrible groaning and cracking sound is heard, splintering cracks spreading across the sky. Behind the crack, there's a boy, wrapped in shadows, cowering from a tall figure, dressed in white, bloody rain splattering across the scene. The boy flinches, and the pale hands reach for him. James notices in a split second, a tattoo that winds his way around the wrist, a collection of stars suffocating the skin.

***

There you go

With your fancy lies

Leavin' me lookin'

Like a dumbstruck fool - Bee Gees, Jive Talkin'

James

James sits bolt upright, sweat on his skin, breath coming quickly. What the heck was that?! He doesn't usually dream, and when he does, it's never anything like that. That was brutal, and grotesquely beautiful, in a twisted way. The hands looked oddly familiar, but surely he would recognise that tattoo anywhere, wrapping around the wrist, across the hand.

He shakes himself, pulling the covers off, and rubbing his eyes. He stretches his arms over his head, enjoying the satisfying cracking sound. He shudders a bit, standing up and checking the clock. 04:58 am. Two minutes before his alarm would go off. Weird. He tries to be quiet, grabbing his Quidditch gear, before pulling on a shirt and some shorts, heading down through the common room, and down several flights of stairs, out onto the grounds. It's still very dark out, and he has to use his wand, making his way to the Quidditch changing rooms. No one else is around, and he knows its a good time for practise. He pulls on his gear, and tucks his bag into his locker, with Sirius's elegant cursive on the front 'Captain. Potter, James.' With little hearts around it because that's Sirius when given a sharpie.