Carve Me Open / r.l. + s.b. /

Godspeed

"happy are those who can love and hate without pretense
without detour
without nuance"

-via Irene Némirovsky

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Potter Manor, December 1975

Sirius adored libraries. He hated reading.

He adored the smell of old parchment mixed with Euphemia's perfume. He hated memorizing line after line of tedious information for school.

Sirius adored the crackle of the broken spine, the splintering beneath his fingers. He hated when James decided folding the top corners was a sufficient substitute for a bookmark.

He adored watching Remus's amber eyes flicker from word to word, scanning paragraph upon paragraph. He hated when he was too engrossed in his poetry to pay him any attention.

He loved their library. He hated how much it reminded him of Remus.

Sirius adored the Potter's. He hated their pity.

"I understand if you don't feel comfortable taking him in, given the circumstances," Alphard conceded, watching the fire crackle behind the hearth.

Fleamont, hair wild and glasses askew, offered a glass of water to his guest, "Sirius is welcome here. He always has been."

Euphemia strode in then, a small tray balanced on her right hand and a warm towel folded in her left. She tended to Sirius silently, dabbing the sweat from his forehead and neck, tucking away damp strands of hair. Sirius allowed her, mumbling incoherent apologies every now and then for barging in so unexpectedly.

"Yes, but," Alphard took a long gulp of water, "not in this context."

Euphemia, affronted, glowered at Alphard, "Sirius is always welcome here. It's been like a second home to him."

Alphard threw his hands up in defense, "I don't mean to offend, Mrs. Potter. I was only saying that there's certain baggage coming along with this particular visit."

Fleamont, who'd been fairly quiet since their arrival save for the pleasantries and general responses, moved to sit in the old, red armchair. He raked his messy gray hair away from his face, rings catching in curls effectively along the way. He wore a troubled expression, confusion laced with unease – concern could have been a great word.

"Does his Mother know he's here," he asked softly.

"I think she'll figure it out in the morning," Alphard admitted. He promised himself he would only offer the Potter's the truth so that they were best prepared to face an enraged Walburga whenever she decided to show her twisted little face. Alphard could hardly imagine the Potter's facing his sister; light magic against dark, family pinned against family. He could only hope she'd at least try to remain civil; the Potter's didn't ask for this. Though, they sure weren't denying it either.

"What did they do to him," Euphemia asked, examining Sirius's hands.

His nephew watched her quietly, brows knitted together, with pained frown etched into his features. He looked, almost, afraid to draw his hand away. Afraid that it might spark more conflict if he had. In that case, he let her look. It was quite the conversation starter.

"My niece decided it was best to..." Alphard's words failed him. He took one look at his nephew, who'd been recoiling from Mrs. Potter's touch since she began tending to him, and sighed. "I think this conversation would be better discussed in your study."