CHAPTER TWELVE. . .
Glory Be Your Downfall

"They will want you to succeed, but never more than them. They will write their names on your leash and call you necessary, call you urgent."
Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous

Very few days of Christmas were enjoyed by August Darlington-the joy of the holiday often shrouded by obligation. It's rare that Cassiopeia Darlington allows her son to abandon his duties in favour of his friends, and the days are becoming less and less as time goes on and as he grows older. The times August enjoyed were days of lazying on the couches of Lily's home, Malia by his side and hot chocolate gripped in their curled, warm fists as they doubled over in laughter at her father's rather appalling attempt at pancakes on the merry morning. The sun flickers through his closed curtains, playing with the shadows of his eyelashes battering against his cheeks as he rises with the rays. For a few moments, August allows himself to lay still, breathing in tune with the shifting of the breeze outside, and he finds peace. But it doesn't take long for the peace to be interrupted, the crashing of metal dishes in the kitchens on the floor below him strike his ears violently like the clashing of cymbals. He sighs, and he tenses within the same moment; the juxtaposition, the underlying battle between the content warming feeling of his covers tangled around his body and the realisation that his impending day is going to be spent picked apart and sown back together with obligation.

The room around him is too large of his liking, August remembers as he opens his eyes. Empty: void of him. The only mark of his living presence are books strewn across the mantle-most likely placed haphazardly after the week bender of straight reading comforted by the lulling sounds of The Beatles during the last holidays-and the collection of miscellaneous clothes littered across his furniture. A tentative knock sounds at his door, and August rises, pulling on a t-shirt that was tossed over the back of the couch by his fireplace. His toes catch on the satin of his pyjama pants and he momentarily loses his balance before August catches himself and wrenches open the door to reveal Theodora. He can't help but smile, the expression pulling on his lips like his emotions were the puppeteer of his body.

"Morning," she greets brightly, practically vibrating with excitement. Theodora pulls him into a crushing hug, her few years of Quidditch already having created a ripple of nimble muscle. "Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas, Gremlin." He adds the nickname as a last thought, holding her tightly to his chest. A wavelet of protectiveness creates a pang in his chest and throughout the rest of his body, and August fights every urge to pull her into the room and never let them leave. "Present time?"

"Present time." Theodora nods in confirmation and steps into the room.

August closes the door behind her and flops onto the blue couch, pulling his wand from the pocket of his joggers to light the fire. It roars to life, the usual yellow glow dulled by the sunlight as he flicks his wand again and the curtains open and light spills into the open space.

"You go first," Theodora insists as she collapses beside him with an eager smile.

August laughs, rolling his eyes and reaches down to the coffee table to pull a small pile of things towards them. Theodora tears into the green wrapping paper of the closest present without hesitation, pulling out a small, handwritten cookbook filled to the brim with family recipes from Aunt Zoe. She beams at August, hugging it to her chest. "I have no idea how you convinced her to give up her recipes, but I'm forever thankful."

August presses a kiss to her forehead, ignoring the way her nose furrows in annoyance before nudging the other presents towards her. "Open the rest."

Next, Theodora moves for the blue wrapping paper, morphed around an odd teardrop shape connected to the shape of a handle. She pulls another face as a gold whisk slips from the packaging.

August smirks. "Go beat the shut out of that batter, kid."

Theodora laughs, and her whole body melts into the action: head thrown back against the armrest, shoulders shaking with the force. She picks the last present up carefully, turning the wrapping paper over in her hands carefully. The rectangle is hard, and she presses a finger against it with a quizzical look. August jerks his chin, she rips open the paper and watery tears fill her blue eyes.

"August," she says his name softly, almost like a prayer. Theodora traces the lines carved intricately into the wood of the photo frame, ivy curling around the corners and creeping towards the edges. The photo that lies within the glass causes a ripple of bittersweet warmth throughout Theodora's chest, and she smiles. It's her and August, arm in arm at their respective ages of fifteen and thirteen. They stand in front of their Aunt Zoe's-Theodora a wild child, dirt smeared on her cheeks like warpaint as her head snapped back, and she laughed at something her brother said. August, ever the heir, held himself proudly with an arm balanced over Theodora's shoulders; his insignia of purple and blue bruised knuckles giving away his true colours. His amused expression, solely directed on Theodora with an air of fondness most wouldn't recognise within his pointed smile. Here, he was free of the intrusiveness of the Darlington name; safe within the comfort of Zoe Montague's home. Theodora's gaze flickers up to August. "I love it."

"I'm glad." August whispers; the loud noise of the doubt the manor creates shifting into the back of his mind. Head bowed into his lap, August hides his smile.

Theodora senses the shift within him, and pulls a small box out of her pocket, prying August's fist apart to shove the velvet square into his now-open hand. "Open it!"

"Okay, okay." August says, the words followed by a laugh. "Just give me a second to get my bearings."

Theodora twitches, tapping a nail against her thigh in anxious anticipation. Carefully, August cracks open the lid, eyes trained solely on the middle of the small cushion that rests inside, a silver skeleton key rests atop the white velvet. Confusion crosses August's expression, and he picks it from the cushion, turning the cold metal over in his fingers.

"What is this?" He asks.

"A key." Theodora deadpans, and August surveys her with a look of matching fire. She sighs, explaining. "I had Dipsy find the skeleton key to the mansion since it unlocks every room, and I found a very special one."

August traces the edge of the keys, and looks up to Theodora. "Show me."

☾☾☾

Theodora and August spent their day concealed in the hidden library on the ground floor of the manor; entrenched in the enriched detail of the books littering the mahogany shelves. Dipsy brought them coffee, and small cakes so they could chew to their hearts content as they swapped stories-laughter spilled into the air between them but still he remained tense, finger tapping against the cloth of his pants. Later, the Darlington Ballroom is decorated to golden perfection: thin-metal flakes of ivy dusting the creams walls, enchanted instruments playing a carefully timed, and chosen tune in the corner of the room while the elite watch with judgemental eyes and poison smiles. This time seventeen year old August Darlington hates the sight of it with every cursed bone in his body, rather than his younger, weaker self, and he finds Theodora huddling in the corner, dressed to perfection but hiding from her responsibilities. The consequences of Cassiopeia Darlington's dollhouse still ring a horrible tune through the air, and August still cannot look her in the eyes as Cassiopeia approaches, passing over the threshold and into her position by his side. The regal Monarch of the Darlington Dynasty locks eyes on her son, the scorned woman's lips locked into a smile. Those who do not know her would mistake it for confidence; but those who do, are not as blind. Her gaze his heavy on August's cheeks, and his eyes flicker to where his father stands, watching his son and wife with careful eyes. A finger hooks in August's cheek, wrenching his face to his mother's.

"My son," she says; an inkling of a wretched smile playing on her face.

August controls his expression, pushing down the resentment pooling deep within his stomach. Duty over pain, the mantra repeats like a Greek chorus singing to it's hero-a tale of woe, and a tale of responsibility. The voice is iron and steel; jagged and sharp. He pulls his face from her hands, biting his lip at the flash of pain that comes with her nails scraping across his sensitive skin.

"Dance with me." She doesn't present him with a question, a preposition, but rather a statement without the room to provide no as an answer.

Again, just like once upon a time, August is swept into the easy waltz of the dance floor, hands ghosting over his mother's body: he can't touch, but he will force himself to play the part of the doting son. The rhythm is easy to keep if he just remembers to step; graceful and poised is what he must be here, always-a phantom of the boy made of fire, and bruised knuckles that Hogwarts has come to know. Thunder rages outside, a crack of lightening hits the ground somewhere with a vicious vengeance; a reminder that Christmas has never been a joyous time. Zeus is cursing the land this evening, and August remembers two words, pathetic fallacy: the attribution of human feelings and responses to inanimate things or animals, especially in art and literature. How the sullen clouds outside, skirting the edges of the night sky seem to reflect the resentment burning within his sickening stomach; and the flickering shadows seem to draw closer and closer till he can't breathe anymore. August forces himself to suck in a breath and the world seems so far away, hands still ghosted in his mother's own and her hip.

"No Merry Christmas for your mother?" Cassiopeia was tight-lipped before she let that sentence slip as they glide past a dancing couple-the Head of Magical Game and Sports, and her husband.

August remains silent, lips pressed together in a thin line of contempt. He spins her, putting as much space between them as possible.

"Anybody catch your eye?" Cassiopeia asks simply. She eyes the distance while she moves, head whipping around to lock on August each spin. "You're distracted, and I was hoping we could speak this evening."

"There are many places I'd rather be." August answers tensely. "We will not be speaking."

The blur of brown and glistening jewels of red laced into the lengths of Cassiopeia's hair almost launches him backwards-all he sees is the glow of his dorm in Gryffindor tower; scraped knees hitting the ground and the burnt pamphlet resting in his trembling hands. A reminder of misdeeds and malicious action. He's ALONE again, and the iron voice's tone is final, but then the doors to the ballroom burst open and Remus struggles against the head of his mother's security for the evening. Cassiopeia's expression hardens as August lets go, launching himself across the room in a streak of black and white.

"He's with me." August rushes out, breathing ragged. "Let him go."

"He was not on the guest list." Emilio Rossi regards him with a levelled look. "He is not allowed in."

"I said: he's with me." August repeats firmly, yanking Remus away from Rossi with a jagged scowl. He ensures they're secluded in the corner of the room before turning to Remus. "What the fuck are you doing here? Are you insane?"

"It's important." Remus says.

"And you couldn't just send a note?" August asks exasperatedly.

Remus shakes his head urgently. "It couldn't wait, it's Sirius."

August pales, clasping Remus' wrist tightly in his trembling hands. The boy, ever the one who sees, is aware of partial details of Sirius' situation at home-the fierce disdain he holds for his family name. Their nights, stolen moments were spent discussing anything and everything, including the literal and figurative bruises that their families had left behind. His tone is demanding. "What happened? Tell me what happened, Lupin."

The grave look is answer enough, and August swears so viciously that the nearest group of people turn to them with wide, offended eyes. August's stare, heavy and riddled with fury, remains on Remus and his grip on his wrist tightens. "Bring me to him."

All Remus can do is nod as the finality echoes. They turn towards the door, finding August's father lingering in the doorway. August, his gaze burning, glares at the older man, and pushes his way to stand in front of him.

"I'm leaving." He says, arms crossed. Cassiopeia Darlington's gaze cuts the back of his neck like jagged glass, but he ignores it. "You can't stop me, and neither can she."

"I wasn't going to try," his father says kindly. August I clasps his son's hand in his own and squeezes. "Whatever it is, I can see that is important. Go, and I will ensure you have as much time as needed."

The anger in August's stomach flickers dimly for a moment; it's enough to scrape up a weak, grateful smile and squeeze his hand. He turns to Remus, burning once again. "Let's go."

☾☾☾

Glory will be the downfall of the many, that is something that August decided long before he ever realised the true extent of his family misgivings; but as he stands in the threshold of James Potter's sitting room, he realises that his own downfall comes in a vastly different form. All thoughts vanish the moment he lays eyes on a trembling Sirius, shirtless and eyes bloodshot as he rests, elbows on his knees in front of the fire. In the years they'd known each other, it had never occurred to August that he's never seen Sirius without a shirt covering the expanse of his torso, even in the locker room during the Quidditch season. The muscles are nimble, strong and they ripple as he moves to look at August with blank eyes, but it's what covers them that almost causes August to halt in his tracks and throw himself in the green fire of the Potter's Floo, straight to 12 Grimmauld Place. Scars; from little white nicks to a jagged line spanning from the top left side of his stomach to the bottom right. He'd run out of dittany that time. August has his own; a motley of red, suckered wounds and silver lines littering his knuckles underneath the set of sterling rings he wears-his family insignia and the gift from Juliet-but never before had he seen one like Sirius'.

August doesn't allow himself to falter, pulling the choking tie from around his neck as he carefully approaches Sirius. He almost doesn't notice the silence, James and Remus watching quietly from the doorway, Peter having disappeared into the kitchen. Sirius' head sags, shoulders slumped with defeat, a blurred image of the enigma that August knows him to be. Something within August stirs, but he forces himself to smoothly walk across the room until he stands in front of Sirius, back to the others.

"Sirius," August softly coaxes his chin up with a gentle brush of the fingers. As Sirius's chin rises to meet his gaze, that something within him breaks and silent tears stream down his freckled-cheeks. This, he thinks, will be his downfall. Sirius' own tears follow in suit.

"I left." The words are broken, cracked with emotion.

August kneels. "Yes or no?"

"Yes," Sirius whispers.

August doesn't need anymore prompting; his left hand settles on the back of the other boy's neck and squeezes gently, and his right thumb wipes the stray tears from Sirius' dirty-ridden cheeks. It clearly hadn't been an easy journey making it from Grimmauld Place to Godric's Hollow. "What do you need?"

Sirius looks to him, eyes dark and storming underneath his long eyelashes, and gives him the simple truth: "You."

He looks small, drained, when folded into my arms on James' bed, fast asleep with his head resting against my chest, August notes quietly. His eyes haven't left Sirius since they made it into James' room-it took ten minutes to coax Sirius into moving from the sitting room to a safer space, away from unnecessary prying eyes. Sirius' cheeks are tearstained, the glistening tracks playing dot-to-dot with the freckles that stipple across the skin like tiny constellations. August traces them with a soft finger, a cigarette poised between the fingers of his other hands, and smoke drifts through the open window as his eyes flicker to a quiet James and Remus, dragging the smoke into his lungs for a brief moment before looking back to Sirius.

"Did he say anything?" August questions, voice gravelly and gruff. "Anything at all?"

James shakes his head, and Peter appears at the door with a plate of sandwiches.

"Your Mum insisted I bring them up. . ." Peter explains quietly. "Don't have to eat them."

"Thanks, Peter." Remus replies. He takes the plate and sets it on James' desk, pulling a sandwich from the pile. Taking a tentative bite, he watches Siruis' chest rise and fall. He says nothing about the way August holds him protectively, lips pressed against each other in a thin line and a silence falls over the group of teenagers.

"Can he stay here?" August asks into the silence, running his hand through the tangle of Sirius' long curls. He's careful in pulling the waves apart, detangling the onyx knots.

"My house will always be open to him." Replies James, immediately. "That has always been said."

The words hang in the air. August doesn't have to say thank you for James to know he's grateful that Sirius has a place to be safe. At one point in his young life, August decided that glory will be the downfall of the many; the corrupt and malicious of the world will be so drunk on their hubris that it will destroy them. And as he looks down to Sirius' fitfully sleeping form, August realises the few will not be brought down by glory, but rather by love.