Hey people! I know a lot of you hoped that Chapter 27 would be up in time for Christmas, and I did to. Unfortunately it isn't and I'm sorry but I couldn't actually reconcile myself to the idea of not putting up SOMETHING to say thank you to you all for your dedication in reading my stories and Christmas is the time for presents so… This piece is one I wrote a long time ago, almost a year ago in fact, back when AOA was just five or six chapters long. I've always said that I had the end planned out for AOA and that I'd even written the epilogue but I've kept it in a drawer so to speak for all this time. Now, I would like to post it for two reasons, firstly to say Thank You to all my readers and to offer this small update for Christmas. But also, secondly and more importantly, as a solemn promise that one day, this story will be finished. It might take a year, five or even ten years lol, but I do swear that one day in the future I will remove this « One-shot-story » and post this piece as the final chapter of All Over Again. Then I'll have to sit back and wonder what the Hell I'm going to do with my life lol. ^^ So here it is, the only piece I've ever actually cried about whilst writing it. I hope it touches you as the idea and JK Rowling's books touched me. Thank You and of course, I wish you all, a very Merry Christmas. =) Lili X x x x x x x x x x x x x
13 years later…
It hadn't changed. Red cushions were still red, the gold edgings still gold, all so familiar, so much like the dreams and the tricks his mind played that for a moment he had to stop, catch his breath and his sanity, fighting back the cold that still crept over his skin. The flames danced in the stone hearth, crackling and spitting in welcome and disgust, disgust that curled his own dry lips.
How far he had fallen they seemed to say, the School Idol, one of the Legendary Quartet, the most beautiful face the stones of Hogwarts had ever seen. Now standing in rags and filth, beauty transformed into beast, angel into corpse. The irony twisted the tatters of a smile.
If only they could see him now.
All those girls, the ones who worshipped him, drooled over him, gasped in ecstasy at his barest touch. All those boys who'd dreamed of filling his shoes, who'd envied him and feared him and yet had simply been unable to do anything but follow where he led.
And the flames mourned, the loss, the downfall, remembering how much he'd had, how much he'd had to lose and how he'd lost it all.
The cat's sharp meow brought him briefly out of the past; he glanced down as the orange furball wrapped itself around his legs, and for the briefest of seconds a face swam before his mind, pale and round, nose wrinkled up it pouting dislike. Cat's, the winy voice said, beurk.
The snarl cut through the empty room , beastly and all but mad as an arm slashed out at the image in his mind, ripping the traitor into shreds mentally as he would do physically in a few short minutes. Vengeance called the man on, his lips eager for the blood he would finally spill, the murder he had been imprisoned for finally accomplished. Revenge would be so so sweet.
The stairs moved towards him as if in a dream, his feet stepping up and over the creaky step as though it had been yesterday, lips pulled back over yellow teeth in a soundless growl, Padfoot's hackles rose, he could smell him, the traitor, the rat in every sense. Another step, then another, silent as the grave. James' grave. Their brother's grave, his brother buried under stone and earth all because of him.
The figure stepped onto the small landing that led to the boy's dormitories and stopped suddenly before the huge paned window.
Moonlight shone through the glass and over the cruelly familiar landscape, lighting up the silver softness of the grounds and the black mirror of the lake. The tree waved in the breeze and pain shuddered through his chest as he remembered them beneath it's kindly branches, the two of them, young and beautiful and in love.
The man's back seemed to straighten; beneath the matted knots of black hair, the merest glimmer escaped from eyes that had once shone brighter and more dazzling than the stars they now stared out upon from sunken hollows. Light glowed suddenly in violet depths, a spark of fire, of a long forgotten beauty, of an old and broken perfection.
And in that moment, the moon seemed to turn towards him, in shock and recognition of one she had once loved so well.
Then he blinked. The magic faded. Silver turned to grey, purple-blue to empty black and he crept towards the stairs, a pitiful shivering echo on it's last dying sound.
The Lady of the Night frowned and turned away, shaking her head at the mistake. A wistful silly hope.
That beautiful boy was lost long ago.
That man, he was gone.
The door swung upon under his smudged and unkempt fingers, the scent thickening with every step he took. The memories were fading now, reality was waxing stronger, like the wild, demonic smile that was spreading over lips that could once have been perfect. Once upon a time. Another life. A kinder, sweeter life.
The occupants were asleep, only the regular snores coming from the bed furthest away punctuated the unearthly silence. He prayed they wouldn't wake. Not yet. Not when he was so close.
The rat's scent was unmistakable, and he followed it over towards the second bed on the left, desperation quickening his breath and setting his eyes aglow with unholy fire. Grimy hands clenched and unclenched sporadically, as though itching to grasp that pale flabby neck.
But no, he'd didn't have that luxury. It would have to be quick. Madness twisted the white skull-like lips and he looked down to smile ravenously at the knife already in his grip. He could taste it, the blood pouring from the rodents body. The knife trembling in his hands as he stabbed over and over again, each blow with a pant of relish, of revenge and ten years of hatred. No spell, not brief and painless. Muggle methods, MJ. You would be proud. However little of the action itself.
For a moment he almost saw her, proud and upright with that old defiance, her black eyes flashing in silent rebuke, her brows like a furious black « v ». The closet thing to a mother he'd ever had. The mother they'd both shared, they'd both loved and lost, before….
The woman's disappointed face was swept away by an impatient hand.
The wound was old now. So old it barely stung. Not like the other fresher ones that still bled. Nothing could stop him now, could prevent him from murdering that piece of trash, halt him in his thirsty quest for revenge. Nothing but…
If the knife had fallen to the floor, it would have almost certainly woken the four sleeping teenagers. As it was, it slipped numbly from his fist to hit the black discarded robes in silence.
The man didn't even sigh with relief. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. All he could do was gaze upon a face that had haunted his dreams and his nightmares for ten excruciating years.
His feet had moved forwards before the man's brain caught up, blackened filthy hands reaching for his brother, his soul mate, the other half he had lost. James. His James. His Prongs. There, sleeping in the bed, messy shock of black hair a spider-shaped shadow across the scarlet cushions. The long, slightly arrogant nose, the round gold glasses thrown haphazardly upon the nearby nightstand.
And then the boy moved.
The man stopped mid-stride, heart breaking one final time as what was left of sanity returned. Reality flooded his tired broken mind as the small thin face turned on his pillow into the beam of moonlight that crept in through the open window.
Highlighting a small, lightening shaped scar.
The man seemed to wrench his quivering fingers back, as though dragging them through deepest quicksand unwilling to give up this last, terrible hope that this nightmare was one he could wake up from. Away from the boy too young to be the one he craved, his chin too rounded, his expression too troubled to be that of his brother.
Dark, flickering eyes fastened on the pale face as though beholding a masterpiece of old. Those pools of madness suddenly soft and full of wonder as they drank in those familiar features, only this time realising, acknowledging the true incredible identity of the owner.
Harry.
Somewhere in the man's chest, something he'd thought long-dead stirred. First just the tiniest spurt, then an ancient stone shell seemed to crack and a heart that had petrified all those years ago suddenly split apart in a huge overwhelming rush of love for this one last gift. One last part of Lily and James and their legendary, extraordinary love.
How much the boy had changed, from the gurgling chubby-cheeked toddler he'd held so proudly in his arms. How much he'd missed, the intruder realised with a silent spurt of agony that screamed like a sword-thrust through the chest. His Godson, his ward now that both his parents were dead. Now this wiry teenager fighting battles as bravely as his father.
The grimy fingers were reaching out again unconsciously, itching to touch this miracle. If the features were James' the soft pale skin was not. MJ and her son's rich gold had mingled with Lily's milky cream to meet somewhere halfway in the middle. More like Henry, the man realized with a shock, only with James' raven hair.
The tears were creeping down his cheeks before he realised his eyes were blurry, digging ditches in the dirt grime like a river through the land.
He was beautiful, beautiful and so precious that the man longed to wake him and hold him in his frail grasp. But he couldn't. The boy wouldn't know, couldn't understand. Harry, his Godson who would surely hate him more than Voldemort himself, the betrayer, the murderer and could he blame him.
The tears welled and ran and fell for long minutes as he simply watched the boy turn in a troubled sleep. He would have given the world to be able to watch him for eternity, but something else called stronger.
Revenge.
Hatred battled with the rush of love behind the white twisted mask that had once been brown and beautiful. The struggle raged on, in the quiet shadow of Moon until finally the bloodlust triumphed. Murder called him, his fingers tingled with the desire to kill, chest heaving with deadly rage.
With impossible grace the man bent to the ground and, never taking his eyes from the sleeping boy, closed his fingers round the steel knife. His long limps unfurled, his body twisted away and cringed at the effort it took.
With one last look of yearning, Sirius Black turned and walked over to the next bed and raised the knife.
And there it is; The End . One day I will say those words and I hope you'll all be there to read them when I do. For now, I hope you enjoyed this very short piece, and maybe, as a Christmas present, even review ;)
Just to be clear, it's set in Harry's third year when Sirus breaks into the castle and the Gryffindor Boy's dormitory and Ron wakes up to find him standing over him with the knife. That's when this scene ends, just as Sirius raises the knife to kill Peter, aka Wormtail, but before he walks over to Ron's bed he has to cross the room and doing so sees Harry sleeping in the bed.
Luv y'all
Lili
X x x x x x x