The Hollow Men
summary; It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single witch in possession of a desk job must be in want of an adventure. I wasn t. SiriusOC
disclaimer; The Harry Potter series is property of J.K. Rowling. The title comes from a poem by T.S. Eliot. All recognizable quotes are likewise credited to their creators, as are any other recognizable characters, locations, brands, etc. Isadora Walsh, on the other hand, is property of myself. No further disclaimers shall be given.
a / n; This is a story that has been lurking in my head for quite awhile in one form or another, but I have just now found the time and nerve to post it (believe me, writing an original character has been such a taboo, I thought I might never start it). It is a work in-progress, so I would very much love it if you gave me some feedback. And for the record, this will be cannon-compliant.
PROLOGUE
Vile deeds, like poison weeds, bloom well in prison air; it is only what is good in man that wastes and withers there.
- Oscar Wilde
As a child, I knew all sorts of fantastic tales -- muggle, magical -- I had appetite enough for all of them. From Babbity Rabbity and her golden statue to Sleeping Beauty and the prince who kissed her alive again.
Incidentally, my last kiss was not the fairytale kind.
("Avada Kedavra.")
Not in the slightest.
("Dora, darling, stay close." I was six and should have known better. My father had warned me of dark magic and those who dealt in it.
But there was a jewelry case in the corner whose insides sparkled like liquid gold and whose painted mermaids beckoned invitingly. Pretty, I thought. Harmless. I picked it up.
My shrieks lasted hours.)
Then again, Azkaban was never painted up to be a castle -- its foundations were the stuff of nightmares; its heirs were not princes, their kisses cast curses, not the opposite.
("It's about your father, Miss Walsh."
"What do you mean?"
Unnecessary -- the look on his face was telling enough.)
My Dementor was a mockery a cruel parody of the endings I had long read and wished for. Twenty-two and still believing in fairytale endings. Foolish.
It leaned over me, its fingers caressed my cheeks like a drowned corpse, chilling, suffocating.
("What is it you've got there?"
"I think it's a--" the scarlet envelope in my hand began to smoke.)
A Dementor unhooded is a terrible thing to be seen, and likely the last. Mine had blind eyes and scabbed skin and other horrors I had no words for, only feeling, and that limited to terror.
("What do you mean it was Sirius? Remus what do you mean!")
My last kiss was not the fairytale kind.
It was lipless and rattling and only a moment--
("Avada Kedavra.")
But this is not the beginning.