Glass Houses

Chapter twenty three

Sirius didn't go back to the dormitory that night. The thought of sleeping in the same room as his attackers was probably a stupid idea. An idea that made the bruises around his neck ache, and the deep, bloody graze on his arm burn painfully. Seeing Peter sound asleep would either make Sirius want to run away or attack him right there, and he wasn't sure he could resist the temptation of the latter.

Instead, he slept on Moony's bed, staring down at the boy who had laid out a blanket and pillow and was sleeping on the floor beside him. Sirius watched as Moony's chest rose and fell slowly with every deep breath. He looked younger in sleep, like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He was laying on his stomach, his curls falling over his face and one hand resting softly on the pillow.

He looked like a person, Sirius realized.

Not an instructor, not a man who held Sirius' life in his hands. He looked like an eighteen year old boy. In that moment Sirius had never been more desperate to know who Moony was. What his name was, why he chose Dauntless, what faction he had been born into.

He wanted to know about his scars. He wanted to see if they were on his back, his stomach, his chest. He wanted to know the story behind the silver lines that looked like the moon had drawn lines on the boy's skin.

But Sirius only gazed at him through tired eyes, knowing that his questions may never be answered as he drifted off to sleep.

Sirius opened his eyes and his body was on fire. It seemed as though a night's sleep had made the pain worse, not better. He snuck a glance at the floor beside him, frowning when he saw the makeshift bed empty, the pillow and blanket still laying on the ground. Sirius forced himself out of the bed, clenching his teeth together to keep him from crying out as he walked stiffly to a small mirror on the other side of the room.

He wasn't really surprised to see the purpling bruise on his cheek, nor the bruise on his side when he lifted his shirt. Wincing, he ran his finger along the scrape that stretched the length of his arm, remembering his fall onto the concrete the night before. The most jarring thing was the bruises on his neck. Distinct fingerprints in purple and blue like a necklace that he couldn't take off. The sight of it made anger burn in his blood, and he glared at his reflection, almost jumping in surprise when the bathroom door opened beside him.

Moony stepped out, dressed in black, his hair still dripping and his cheeks flushed from the shower.

He was so beautiful it hurt.