These Eyes:

The eyes are familiar to Remus, yet not.

It reminds him of the first day, the glimpse of something strange, something that should not be seen in the eyes of an eleven-year-old boy. It's fear, it's anger, it's something... else. Something that Remus has never seen before in his entire life- Not in the brief glimpse he catches of himself a second before he transforms in the cold dark Ministry dungeon; Not in the faces of his parents when they see him lying on a cold stone floor, broken and bleeding and in pain, looking all of his seven years; Not in the empty, guarded eyes of the ministry official who had locked the little golden-eyed boy up in his cell every full moon night for six years.

He remembers watching that something fade away, slowly, with each smile, with each clap on the shoulder and each successful prank. He remembers how, sometimes, in an unguarded moment, when they would sit by the lake together, Remus reading and James polishing his Nimbus 1001, Peter feeding the giant squid, and Sirius sitting and just watching them, it would disappear all together.

But it was always there, small and tiny and lurking dangerously under the happiness; buried underneath the boisterous exterior, hidden by smirks and laughter and loud, public declarations of love; hidden by gorging on treacle tart and threatening to lick his friends if they tried to stop him from turning the Slytherin common room into a sewer; hidden by being vociferous and casually breaking each and every family tradition one by one.

And when another howler came from home, when there was a letter telling him that his Uncle Alfred had died, the something grew more pronounced, threatening to burst out from behind the wall he had built up to block it out, threatening to overflow like all the tears he had held back and never let fall. Remus and James and Peter would pretend not to notice and would, instead, give him some extra pudding and let him mess up their beds and lose their favourite quills, and maybe sling their arms around his shoulders more often than required and be harsher on Snape than was strictly necessary. They would do anything to keep it away.

And it is there now, clear, and bright and glowing in all the wrong ways. Left to fester in twelve years of darkness, annulling the decade of hard work put in by three boys to make those eyes shine. It is there, annihilating the laughter, the kindness, the arrogance, the sheer warmth of the eyes that Remus could once read as well as his own.

These eyes are Pain, they are Sorrow. They are filled with images that no man should ever have to see in his life; they are lined with the shadows of an eight year old lying awake in his bed, curled up tightly under his sheets at three in the morning, listening to the screams of pain from the house elves his mother was torturing. They think of the fear, the mind numbing fear and soul-sucking guilt of betraying a friend and almost killing someone. They think of a blown-up street, of so many people, dead, gone, forever.

They are filled with memories, every second of every day, memories of the sight of their best friend's body lying broken on the ground, white against the maroon carpet that they liked so much; Lily upstairs, her hair strewn around her face, red like blood; a one year old Godson, lying sobbing in his cot, green eyes clenched shut, blood erupting from the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, screaming for his mummy.

These eyes, they scream, Betrayal! They scream of being fifteen with no one to love them except their three friends; of longing for their mother to love them, and hating themselves for it; of finding a mother in someone else, as well as a father, and then having their own blood rip that away from them again. They burn with hate, and grief, and rage, and with the unfairness of being imprisoned for something they would have rather died than dream of doing.

They say, but I loved you Regelus, and it's my fault you died. They say, you didn't trust me, Remus. They say, one brother is dead, another I want to kill, and you, the third, didn't love me enough to trust me. They are tormented, condemned, vulnerable. They are lost. They beg for forgiveness for something they didn't do; please, Remus, please, they cry, please don't leave me alone again.

These eyes, they are no longer stormy grey eyes of Padfoot that light up when James throws him a stick or when Remus rolls his eyes and says, fine, he would do some research on tracking spells for the map. They aren't the ones that glow with mischief and call Remus Moooonyyyyyyyy, or complain that Pete left breadcrumbs on his bed again, or ugh Remus, Wormy, make him shut up about Evans! They aren't filled with mirth and joy and laughter and wow, I love you guys so much we will be friends forever and ever and ever. They aren't glazed over with firewhisky or with the joy of we won the bloody Quidditch cup, we won the bloody Quidditch cup! They don't sparkle like a five-year-old's every time they visit Honeydukes. They don't close wearily at the end of a long day.

They don't wink at McGonagall or have staring competitions with don't crinkle up when they turn to look at the sun, or close with contentment after a night spent dodging Filch. These eyes aren't brilliant at Transfiguration without even trying, or hopeless at Divinisation. They don't hang around Hagrid's hut or stand on the bench, grabbing at owls so that they are the first to get the newspaper. These eyes don't love Christmas and Easter and Halloween and April Fool's day. They don't tease Remus about his strange love for chocolate or scowl and wrinkle their small nose at James when he teases them every morning, no I am not an old man, I just like doing the crossword, all right? They don't fiddle with their tie like on their first date with a third-year Ravenclaw, because of the others watching from under the coat, and they don't glare when Remus tells them to apologise to the latest accidental victim, lip sticking out and looking as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouth.

They don't gaze at the tiny golden dust-mites drifting into the common room on a Sunday afternoon or sit and wonder about the war and how they can help and make a difference. They don't comfort, without words, James, when Lily turns him down yet again or Remus, when he has had a particularly rough moon or Peter, when his father has been killed by death eaters. They don't smile and say, good on you, mate, when Lily agrees to go to Hogsmeade with James. They don't claim to be dirty and full of worldly knowledge, and then look at you with all the trust and naivety of a child. They aren't bewildered, and gloriously happy when James announces that he loves them all, because they are the brothers he never had, goddamit, and they will stick together till the end of time itself. They aren't caring and open and trusting. They don't go around tugging at people's shirt-cuffs when James is pining and Remus is reading and Peter is playing Gobstones with some fourth-year and wail, I'm boooreeeddd, come play with meeee. Nor do they flash, hard and cold, when Snape says something about Remus' condition. They don't sometimes drift away, gaze into the deep blue lake or up at the crescent moon or at that leaf resting quietly on the windowsill- all wonder, contentment, happiness, full of a mystery that even Remus can't understand, however hard he tries.

They've seen too much of the world, too much of what people can do- how they can leave you to rot an empty prison alone and in agony; how they can convict and innocent man without a trial; how friends who promised to be always be there with you can die, turn away, betray. The eyes are teeming with shadows, dark and threatening, shadows that shutter the windows, block out the sunlight, cram into every nook and cranny and settle down heavily, like dust, accumulating over the years spent all alone. They have seen too much of the darkness of men's hearts to ever be grey and carefree and innocent and curious again, these eyes.

They are no longer Sirius' eyes, Remus thinks.

These eyes, they are broken. These eyes, they are Black.

A/N: Sorry. Angst.