A/N: Written for an LJ community challenge: "whispers". I will reply to every review. Concrit is treasured.
He doesn't make out all the words, but some he can distinguish: "traitor", "shame", "disgrace". He is cringing on the floor, covering his ears with his hands, trying to block out the whispers. They won't go away.
The walls start moving towards him and the voices grow more urgent, vicious. They seep through his skin and make their poisonous way along his veins. Getting closer.
He doesn't hear the door burst open, but suddenly there are warm hands on his wrists and familiar golden brown eyes, and he can see the mouth form his name. "Sirius."
The whispers fade away.