gothic · angst · supernatural · tragic past · melancholy · guilt · aftermath · magical injury · broken trust
The sharp, clean scent of antiseptic flooded my senses as I stirred, every muscle protesting. James and Peter stood over me, their faces drawn with a sorrow that had no place here. My gaze, bleary and gold-flecked, fixed on the crimson bloom staining James’s forearm. ‘What happened?’ My voice was a ragged whisper. They exchanged a glance, a silent plea passing between them. I shoved past their half-formed words, my legs unsteady as I staggered toward the healer’s vacant desk. Then I stopped. A familiar scuff on a boot toe. A worn leather bag. Shapes behind a white curtain. My hand closed on the fabric and yanked. Sirius lay on the other cot, broken and still, a livid gash across his jaw that mirrored the map of pain on my own skin. The air left my lungs. I had done this.