Title: Black Lament
Summary: What light can the world hold without Sirius Black? The only way Nymphadora Tonks can even begin to answer it is through solitude.
Note: I heart this piece. It was originally part of a story with five perspectives which would extend into a serial, but I got lazy and took it down. I still loved the Tonks portion of this, 'though, so I'm putting it back up. :D This is post-'Order of the Phoenix'. Obviously.
The deluge of rain refused to cease; the world mourned for Sirius Black.
It was curious still, to think that he had died a convict, believed by many to be a black-hearted murderer, a remorseless slaughterer who cared for naught in the world save to kill more innocent people. Dull brown hair hung by her cheeks, and the curls there had no bounce, no flounce – they were flat, scarcely existing. Her eyes, currently grey, could have held any sheen she wished; however, she chose grey. Grey, grey – mournful, plaintive, melancholy grey.
His eyes had been grey, Nymphadora recalled. Like a stone castle's wall, or a cement sidewalk. Yet she preferred to liken them to blissful, quiet waters, a brilliant sheen in the dying moon's light. Not the ocean, mind – that tended to incline to the blue, or even green. Yet like that of still waters: a lake, or pond, even.
Tonks watched her reflection lean it's cheek against a balled fist, her stone grey eyes stared straight back at her without mercy. Her lips held no merriment, no slight mischievous twitch upwards at the ends; they were sullen, the gentle contours of the pink flesh slowly turning downwards.
It had been a horror, in Saint Mungo's. Torturous beyond anything – she wished for nothing but to die, die and be finished. To rejoin Sirius, her mother... To be at peace. She had quite nearly gotten her wish: she was certain she would die of the shame. It was her fault... All her fault – if she had just beaten Bellatrix, Sirius might have...
The raindrops streaked across the glass, giving the illusion that the tree across the road was weeping for Sirius. Tonks wanted more than anything to run out and ascend into that damn tree's branches and tell everyone who would listen that he was NOT a murderer – he was probably the kindest soul you would ever meet. He was beautiful, sweet, loving. He was impish, the bold rogue, playful, and witty. He was her cousin, and it pained her more than anything to see him slandered on a daily basis, and Sirius was no longer there to retort, to mockingly moan in the indignity of it all.
He was not there, and she was supposed to stand there and let them.
Let them desecrate his blessed name, to curse him, to befoul him, Sirius, himself. She had to sit there and allow them to blame him for everything, to – to –
Nymphadora bowed her head, the mouse brown curls wilting beneath the pressure against the glass. In her reflection, a tear slid down her pale cheek.