Titel: The Leaking Snowglobe or London Heracles
Disclaimer: Alle auftretenden Figuren und Orte gehören J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury, Scholastic, Warner Bros. und Schießmichtot wem noch. Jedenfalls nicht mir.
Autor: Pignose
Charaktere: Sirius Black, Orion Black, James Potter
Rating: T
Kapitel: 1/1 Oneshot
Bearbeitungszeit: Mittwoch, 28. November 2007 bis schlussendlich Sonntag, 23. März 2008
A/N: Nun, was soll ich sagen? Ich denke, die Bearbeitungszeit, die nun tatsächlich fast vier Monate beträgt, dürfte schon ein gewisses Maß an Auskunft darüber geben, wieviel Zeit und Mühe in diesem Oneshot (welcher neben seinem anfänglichen einfallsreichen Arbeitstitel "Sirius-OS" im Laufe seines Werdegangs ungefähr so viele Namen getragen hat wie Kurt Tucholsky) steckt. Es war ein großes Projekt, welches ich tausendmal überarbeitet habe, bis ich heute sagen kann, dass ich mit dem Ergebnis zufrieden bin. Es war mein Anliegen, diese Begebenheit, welche "The Leaking Snowglobe" schildert, so darzustellen, wie ich sie mir vorstelle, wennauch (oder gerade weil) sie so oft völlig anders gezeichnet wird.
Inspiration: Viele, viele Dinge haben die Entstehung dieses Oneshots maßgeblich geprägt, denn während ich ihn schrieb, hat sich der geplante Verlauf tatsächlich um 180 Grad gedreht.
Zu nennen währen, um das mal sinnvoll aufzubauen, drei Lieder:
The last fight von Velvet Revolver, Like a rolling stone von Bob Dylan und Blackbird von den Beatles. Interessierte können sich gerne die Texte zu diesen drei Stücken durchlesen, denn sie werden sicher ein wenig Aufschluss oder zumindest recht verschiedene Perspektiven auf die Handlung des Oneshots werfen.
Darüber hinaus natürlich die Sage Herakles am Scheideweg, überliefert von Xenophon, und vielleicht ein ganz kleines bisschen die Kurzgeschichte The Flying Machine von Ray Bradbury (welche übrigens unglaublich toll ist, ich lege sie jedem ans Herz). Als Vorlage für Sirius' kleine Schmiererei dienten die Texte von Johnny Rotten, dem Sänger der von mir und Sirius geliebten Sex Pistols.
Zur 'doppelten' Namensgebung, also dem Anhängsel "or London Heracles" hat mich Frankenstein von der unglaublichen Mary Shelley inspiriert, welches im Original den Titel Frankenstein or the modern Prometheus trägt, was im übrigen ein grandioser Name ist.
Als Anstoß, um die Stimmung des Textes richtig einfangen zu können, dienten mir außerdem Ballad of a thin man von Bob Dylan und die Mondscheinsonate von Ludwig van Beethoven. Immer wieder wunderschön.
The Leaking Snowglobe
Or
London Heracles
And all the while we could have smiled
For one thing on our minds
The very thing you strive for
Is the thing that makes you blind
Dirty Pretty Things, Gentry Cove
Prooemium
The choice of Heracles
Bequeathed by Xenophon
Long, long ago, when the world was young, there were many deeds waiting to be wrought by daring heroes. It was then that the mighty Heracles, who was yet a lad, felt an exceeding great and strong desire to go out into the wide world to seek his fortune.
One day, while wandering alone and thoughtful, he came to a place where two paths met. And sitting down he gravely considered which he should follow.
One path led over flowery meadows toward the darkening distance; the other, passing over rough stones and rugged, brown furrows, lost itself in the glowing sunset.
And as Heracles gazed into the distance, he saw two stately maidens coming toward him.
The first was tall and graceful, and wrapped round in a snow-white mantle. Her countenance was calm and beautiful. With gracious mien and modest glance she drew near the lad.
The other maiden made haste to outrun the first. She, too, was tall, but seemed taller than she really was. She, too, was beautiful, but her glance was bold. As she ran, a rosy garment like a cloud floated about her form, and she kept looking at her own round arms and shapely hands, and ever and anon she seemed to gaze admiringly at her shadow as it moved along the ground. And this fair one did outstrip the first maiden, and rushing forward held out her white hands to the lad, exclaiming:
"I see thou art hesitating, O Heracles, by what path to seek thy fortune. Follow me along this flowery way, and I will make it a delightful and easy road. Thou shalt taste to the full of every kind of pleasure. No shadow of annoyance shall ever touch thee, nor strain nor stress of war and state disturb thy peace. Instead thou shalt tread upon carpets soft as velvet, and sit at golden tables, or recline upon silken couches. The fairest of maidens shall attend thee, music and perfume shall lull thy senses, and all that is delightful to eat and drink shall be placed before thee. Never shalt thou labor, but always live in joy and ease. Oh, come! I give my followers liberty and delight!"
And as she spoke the maiden stretched forth her arms, and the tones of her voice were sweet and caressing.
"What, O maiden," asked Heracles, "is thy name?"
"My friends," said she, "call me Happiness, but mine enemies name me Vice."
Even as she spoke, the white-robed maiden, who had drawn near, glided forward, and addressed the lad in gracious tones and with words stately and winning:
"O beloved youth, who wouldst wander forth in search of Life, I too, would plead with thee! I, Virtue, have watched and tended thee from a child. I know the fond care thy parents have bestowed to train thee for a hero's part. Direct now thy steps along yon rugged path that leads to my dwelling. Honourable and noble mayest thou become through thy illustrious deeds.
"I will not seduce thee by promises of vain delights; instead will I recount to thee the things that really are. Lasting fame and true nobility come not to mortals save through pain and labour. If thou, O Heracles, seekest the gracious gifts of Heaven, thou must remain constant in prayer; if thou wouldst be beloved of thy friends, thou must serve thy friends; if thou desirest to be honoured of the people thou must benefit the people; if thou art anxious to reap the fruits of the earth, thou must till the earth with labour; and if thou wishest to be strong in body and accomplish heroic deeds, thou must teach thy body to obey thy mind. Yea, all this and more also must thou do."
"Seest thou not, O Heracles," cried Vice, "over how difficult and tedious a road this Virtue would drive thee? I, instead, will conduct thy steps by a short and easy path to perfect Happiness."
"Wretched being!" answered Virtue, "wouldst thou deceive this lad! What lasting Happiness hast thou to offer! Thou pamperest thy followers with riches, thou deludest them with idleness; thou surfeitest them with luxury; thou enfeeblest them with softness. In youth they grow slothful in body and weak in mind. They live without labour and wax fat. They come to a wretched old age, dissatisfied, and ashamed, and oppressed by the memory of their ill deeds; and, having run their course, they lay themselves down in melancholy death and their name is remembered no more.
"But those fortunate youths who follow me receive other counsel. I am the companion of virtuous men. Always I am welcome in the homes of artisans and in the cottages of tillers of the soil. I am the guardian of industrious households, and the rewarder of generous masters and faithful servants. I am the promoter of the labours of peace. No honourable deed is accomplished without me.
"My friends have sweet repose and the untroubled enjoyment of the fruits of their efforts. They remember their deeds with an easy conscience and contentment, and are beloved of their friends and honoured by their country. And when they have run their course, and death overtakes them, their names are celebrated in song and praise, and they live in the hearts of their grateful countrymen.
"Come, then, O Heracles, thou son of noble parents, come, follow thou me, and by thy worthy and illustrious deeds secure for thyself exalted Happiness."
She ceased, and Heracles, withdrawing his gaze from the face of Vice, arose from his place, and followed Virtue along the rugged, brown path of Labour.
White fume spiraled up towards the dark, old ceiling as Sirius Black exhaled, transforming into misty shapes before vanishing into nothingness. There was a perfect silence in the room, and the sound that his ancient, decayed bed made at every single movement he dared to do almost hurt his ears. Stolidly he raised his right arm and took another drag on his unfiltered high tar cigarette. Slowly and pleasurably he inhaled the smoke and enjoyed the taste of tobacco that was being left in his mouth, while he could feel the vapour circulate in the insides of his lounge. Sirius enjoyed smoking. Not only that it underlined the public image he pursued, moreover it gave him the opportunity to relax, and at least a cigarette was something to hold in his hands while the smoke filled the void in his chest. His eyes followed the blurred figures that rose from his lips as he let the smother leave his body, and this time they seemed to be turning into vague profiles which kept becoming clearer. One of them was somehow bulky and looked like a square-shouldered, hunchbacked old man, and it occurred to him as if it strangely resembled a giant, just when he noticed a second shape coming into sight. It was smaller than the other one, but also even harder to identify, and all he could securely spot was some kind of a fluffy wing. Momentarily he watched the misty shapes floating above his head, swirling around in front of those pillows and sheets that he hated so much, but which nevertheless felt so strangely familiar as he examined them now, obscured by those thin lines of smoke. For a moment he hesitated. His tired eyes wandered across the room which had meant only torture, misery and imprisonment to him as long as he could remember, and he thought of all those nights he had cried himself to sleep, his face pressed against the pillows which had never given him any feeling of comfort or sociability, just the smell of his mother's bitter perfume. But there was also something different in this room, something positive, something that had in fact given him a feeling of home in this cheerless old house throughout all these years. It was the spirit of childhood, of youth, of temporary indifference enabled by the simplicity of a childish mind. He remembered himself attaching a single broad Gryffindor banner to the naked, high walls at the tender age of eleven. It had been the first holidays after his entering at Hogwarts, and he had not been able to understand the beatings he had received for this 'act of dishonour' then, as his father had spat the words into his face. However it had only been a matter of time until he had caught the point about what seemed to be so terribly wrong with him, and consequently he had started not only to accept but to return their hatred, to provoke their superficial anger wherever he could spot an opportunity. The remains of his resistance were still arranged around him: rigid pictures of gleaming motorcycles and amorous pin-up girls were attached to the walls, almost covering the ancient paperhangings entirely. They had once been his obsession, his fantasy, a symbol of his domestic rebellion. Nowadays they were nothing but empty shells, soulless shapes in a desolate room.
Yet there was something beyond. Between the immobile copies of semi-nude women hang a single photograph that stood out from the rest. It was the lively portraiture of four young men, four friends being all smiles and looking as if nothing in the world could ever tear them apart. Four faces, so similar in expression and so different in character at the same time: Submissive and comfortable, melancholic and contemplative, naive and upbeat... and then, shockingly real and ascertainable, there was his very own face, venturous and majestic. The youthfulness and untouchable grace of his own effigy dreaded him, but nevertheless, or maybe hence, battered his trance of hesitation. He got up and felt a horrible pain tear his mind apart. By his rapid erecting he had not thought about the swollen injury nearest his temple which started aching immediately. He swore silently, unavailingly trying to drive the pain from his mind and staggered towards his closet. The old hinges screamed raspingly as he opened the doors, starting to seize random clothes from the inside. Impatiently he ripped several drawers open and closed them again with a harsh kick, until he finally took his old rucksack and stuffed everything into it that he had just pulled out of the wardrobe. He flung the old bag over his right shoulder and got to his bedside cabinet, which was set underneath a small ornamented mirror. As he took his wand and knife from the small table, he happened to find his cobwebbed mirror image staring at him from the walls. Pungent, dark-grey eyes lay under a pair of straight-lined eyebrows, and a nasty looking black eye surrounded his left temple. He tried to touch it carefully, but a numbing pain raced through his head as his fingertips reached the pulsating bulge and his forehead puckered like the skin-like surface of hot milk. His handsome face looked unusually strained, pale, almost gaunt, and his long pitch-black hair made him look even more sinister. Inaudibly a tiny flake of ashes parted from the cigarette that clamped between his lips. Slowly it spiraled towards the ground until it finally landed on the surface of the cabinet where it mingled with the thick layer of dust that covered the wood. For the last time Sirius aspirated a cloud of smoke and let the end of his cigarette ignite. Then he stubbed it out right in the face of his reflection.
Before slipping on his jacket he stuffed his hair under a baker boy cap so it would not bother him while flying, and without a single glance back over his shoulder he opened the door to pace down the stairs. Like everything else made of wood in Number Twelve, Grimmauldplace, the stairway sounded fragile and decayed, and once more it seemed as if the house was groaning in debility. Despite the fact that he felt by far more spirited than before now, his limbs still seemed rather heavy and his legs moved neither fast nor slowly. Suddenly the creaking of his feet stamping onto the wooden stairs was disturbed by another sound – a murmur, a whispered swearing. Sirius already knew where it came from before a few steps later, Kreacher the house-elf came into sight, scrubbing the dark wall so strained that he did not even hear his master approach. The latter recognized instantly what his servant was actually working on, since it was his very own scrawled handwriting on the wall that said in huge, red letters:
Purity's a prat's belief
That breeds no thing but silly grief
No pig will fear a lot o' buggers
That features only half-baked sluggers
So get your arse calamity
For purity is pratity
Sirius could not hide a smile, nor did he actually want to do so. As he walked past the house-elf, he refused to give a snide comment but made sure to strike the cleaning bucket with his left foot. With a splashing noise, the whole content gushed down the stairs.
"Pity", said Sirius grinning.
Under Kreacher's heavy revilement his now swashing steps continued rumbling down the stairs. If the picture of his friends had not awakened him entirely, this little prank definitely had. He passed the heads of his family's former house-elves and rushed along the elaborate floral patterns of the wallpaper until he finally skipped the last steps and stood in the corridor. A noble Victorian candelabrum swayed slightly above his head and painted the hall in a dim light. Since he had all he needed already with him, there was no point in wasting any more time. Energetically he paced towards the artfully carved wood of the front door, turned the silver door knob and pulled it jerkily.
He squinted his eyes immediately, since the glistening light that shone in now almost blinded him. In contrast to the twilight of Number 12, the actual road of Grimmauldplace was shining in bright white. Outside in the dark night, the streets of London were covered in glistening snow. Sirius stood there without a motion, feeling the cold creeping up his legs. He had spent the past days isolated in his room without considering how the world would look outside at all.
"Will you close that door, boy. It's getting cold in here."
Sirius winced as the low voice cut the silence. He turned slowly and found himself looking straight into the dark eyes of his father. Orion Black was a tall, broad-shouldered man, certainly charismatic, albeit in a haughty and darksome manner. He was well dressed as he wore a precious waistcoat, leaning sublimely on his ornamented cane like an ancient nobleman closely examining a servant who asked for a hearing. Like two stranger cats that come across on their ramble they did nothing at all than stare at each other carefully, not moving an inch.
"I'm leaving", said Sirius finally. The words slipped out of his mouth, but he noticed that they sounded not at all as assured as he had intended them to be.
"Tell me if I'm wrong, but I think I did not ask."
The words of his father hit him like a well directed punch to the stomach. He realised that with only a single sentence, he had been made a complete fool.
"Or do you think I'd care if you did?" Orion Black added unconcernedly.
Sirius cleared his throat. He had to avert his gaze.
"No", he said bitterly.
"Then you're wrong."
Sirius felt his heart stop. Doubtfully he looked at the tall man in front of him, who continued as his son remained silent.
"Even if you try to deny and ignore it, Sirius, your veins contain the same blood as mine."
"Blood", Sirius muttered with a bitter grin. "It's about blood all the time, isn't it? All 'bout your blood purity shit and –"
"Don't talk about things that you're not versed in at all, silly", his father interrupted him.
"I dare say that I understand you a lot better than you think, boy. You pretend to be such a strong, proud man ... I say you're not. You spend your whole time thinking about how alienated and different you are from us… I say you're not. And now you're standing here with a pack of clothes in the doorway and you're shocked that the bally weather dares to be too cold for your trendy clothing… Now you say you're leaving. I say you're not."
At once Sirius felt awkward. Just as less than a minute before, his father's words hit him devastatingly. He had been prepared to stand screams and insults, but not a calm answer that was in fact nothing but the truth, and above all the truth in a shape that he had not known himself until now. He realised that he had been silly. Silly, childish and stupid.
"I … 'Course I'm leaving", Sirius stammered insecure. Although he could not think of any reasonable argument against his father, there was no way he could admit his failure.
"No, you're not", repeated the other man. Again an impervious silence spread in the room and persisted until Orion Black raised his voice again.
"Look at yourself… I can't deny that you've grown a handsome, noble man, Sirius… But it's all just on the outside. In your head you're still a child. Do you really think you can hurt me with naked Muggle women and a smearing on the wall? All you'll reach with that is at the utmost troubling my house-elf."
Sirius could think of nothing to say. His anger and his courage were breaking slowly with his will. All he could feel now was shame. Horrible, profound shame.
"You treat me like a prisoner", he finally muttered. "There's no point for me in staying here. There's no freedom to be found in this place."
Orion Black chuckled.
"Freedom", he sighed. "What's freedom for you, Sirius? Living with as little restrictions as possible? Doing whatever you fancy to do? If so, you'll find more freedom in my house than beyond that door. The world is a brutal place. It's lethal to the inexperienced."
Although he spoke rather quietly and calm, his voice was resonant and booming. It sounded like the continuous pounding of an old locomotive running slowly on the rails.
"For seventeen years I granted you shelter and food. You were free of worries about handling your life. Tell me, Sirius, if you can count the times that you've got yourself into trouble. Did I cast you out? Apparently I didn't. More likely I tried my best to relieve you from your difficulties."
Once more Sirius was at a loss of words. He felt the strap of his rucksack slipping off his shoulder, but his hand gripped it tightly to keep it from touching the floor.
"I think you've already had enough trouble. Don't increase it just for the sake of it. Your life will be so much more pleasant if you stay, believe me. There's nothing to be found out there in the cold."
Although he refused to admit it, Sirius knew that his father spoke truly.
"Leave and I will let you go. I wouldn't try to stop you… Stay", he continued, "and you shall be sheltered."
Silence fell again. Both men stared at each other in a dazed spirit. The only noise to be heard was the trail of water trickling quietly down the stairs. Sirius felt his grip around the cold leather strap loosening. He lifted his hand to the doorknob. His mouth opened slightly.
"Father," he said almost inaudibly. "I –"
"Orion!"
The sudden voice cut the silence like the first flash of lightning in the quiet of approaching thunder.
"Whom are you talking to?"
The cackling voice came from above. It was undoubtedly that of Walburga Black.
"It's the bastard, isn't it? What did the filthy defiler do again now? I shall teach that boy to insult the name of my family!"
Orion Black remained straight-faced. He did not move a muscle. All he did was standing there, piercing his son with his eyes as to tie him with his gaze. Sirius felt his rage returning. He shivered.
"Your house shall be my prison nevermore", he snarled.
"Then so it is to be", replied his father.
Sirius grabbed the doorknob tightly and pulled it harshly as he turned around. The last thing he saw in Number Twelve, Grimmauldplace was a curious pair of young, black eyes gazing through the handrail of the stairs. Then, with a rumble, the door slammed shut behind him.
Sirius stood in the cold of the street, the sound of the closed door still echoing between the old walls of the other houses in the road. Grimmauldplace was deserted. A single blackbird was bouncing on the opposite snow-covered pavement, unavailingly picking for worms.
"Accio motorbike", Sirius spat.
Impatiently he churned up the snow with his boot. Finally, the gleaming motorbike landed resiliently with a crashing noise on the lane. He swung himself onto the bike and revved the engine. The blackbird startled and flew away.
So did Sirius.
Crackling the motorbike thudded onto the tarmac again. The flight had been uncomfortable since the slashing wind had chilled him to the bone. With chattering teeth Sirius passed the opulent frostbitten flowerbeds and knocked on the front door of the handsome old house. Inside he could hear footsteps moving calmly towards him, and within a moment the door was being opened. A billow of warm air embraced him as he looked into the kindhearted face of an elderly woman.
"Oh, Sirius", she said smiling. "What a pleasure, dear boy."
"Mum?" yelled a younger voice from behind her. "Who's there? Is it him?"
Several more footsteps followed, but this time they sounded faster, rather agitated.
"Finally!" said a young man as his delighted eyes peered past his mother. "I already wondered where you remained so long!"
"James", said the woman. "Why don't you first invite Sirius to come inside? Then you'll still have plenty of time to talk, won't you?"
"Alright", he said grinning. "Hurry then, Sirius, get in. You smell like a wet dog, by the way."
The house of the Potters was a beautiful, brick-red 19th century cottage, and its interior decoration was exactly as one would have imagined it from outside. The living room sported a light beige wallpaper and a few chequered wingback chairs that gave the room a very cosy atmosphere. The furniture in general was all wooden and rather rustic, and warm, dancing flames crackled in the tiled fireplace. As they entered the room, a beautiful, old grandfather clock was striking, but Sirius did not know which time it announced. Altogether the Potters' house was very Arts and Crafts movement style, absolutely homey and perfectly classic British.
"I'll get you some hot chocolate, boys", said Mrs Potter kindly. "But don't forget to see your father before you go to sleep, James. You know how he was looking forward to Sirius' arrival."
As she vanished into the kitchen, Sirius gave James a rather astonished gaze.
"Oh, we knew you were coming", replied James to the unsaid question. "Well, at least sooner or later."
They dropped into a notably cosy looking couple of armchairs next to the fireplace and made themselves comfortable.
"So, had a good flight then?" asked James inquisitively.
"Hell, no, it was awkward!" Sirius chuckled dryly. "Didn't have such a bad trip for ages."
"So much the better you're at home now", sighed James.
Sirius smiled slightly. As he stared into the air he suddenly noticed that James was playfully tossing a small, gleaming ball.
"Oh, knock it off, James!" he murmured. "Are you still sold with that silly snitch?"
"That ain't my snitch!" retorted James. "Which is by the way anything but silly, you git."
"What's it then you got there?" asked Sirius annoyed. He knew that James would not stop playing with it until he showed some interest.
"Something Moony sent in for Christmas, but I actually dunno what it really is", James said as if he found Sirius' question quite absurd.
"Lovely", Sirius sighed, but then he startled. "Hold on, did I miss Christmas?"
"No, you dork", James laughed. "It's still some days to go."
"But then… You're not seriously telling me that you already opened Moony's package, are you?" asked Sirius, half knowing the answer.
"'Course I am", said James assuredly. "He also sent in one for you, but don't bother, I didn't touch it."
With his head he pointed behind his chair, where Sirius spotted a tidily boxed package lying next to a disastrous mess of wrapping paper, chocolate and CDs.
"He's a fine chap, old Moony," said James. "Always gives pretty nice presents, doesn't he? But this thing here really is the biggest crap I've ever seen", he assessed laughing. "Give it a look."
He held it out to Sirius who examined it closely. As he could see now, it actually was no ball at all but some kind of cupola, since it was flattened at the bottom. The surface was made of glass and thus allowed to watch the inside of the small object, which contained what looked like a tiny city of even tinier houses and lanes like pieces of twine. The small roofs were painted white and the windows dimly yellow, probably to give them the look as if they were illuminated.
"And there you've got the great finale, dear gentleman", snickered James derisively and suddenly shook his hand forcefully.
As he kept it still again, Sirius' eyes widened as he watched the strange object. Tiny flakes of snow were now spiralling wildly through the streets of the small town underneath the glass.
"Dear me", he whispered quietly. "How fair and beautiful it is."
"Silly, ain't it?" blustered James and started to toss it again.
"Give it a rest James, you'll break it in the end", said Sirius. "It's still a present, ain't it?"
"I'll stop the moment you'll start acting like a real Marauder again", sighed James. "What's wrong with you anyway? So far you've been bloody boring tonight."
"I'm just tired as hell and you're hacking me off with that, that's all."
"Alas, poor chap! Look out, Pads, catch it!" he suddenly yelled and threw his toy into the air.
Sirius abruptly lifted his arm and reached out for the small object. As he thought he had got it in his hand, the glass surface slipped off his wet fingertips. With a shattering noise the cupola knocked the small side table next to Sirius' armchair and fell to the wooden floor with a clang.
Silence spread in the living room. The small object swayed slightly on the floor. The collision with the edge of the table had struck a hole into the thick glass surface which was now leaking with water. Quietly the fluid trickled onto the wood, rinsing out the tiny flakes of artificial snow.
Sirius sat there, his arm still outstretched. Watching the leaking snowglobe on the floor he felt like standing in the dim, cold corridor again.
"I…", he finally said, his voice shivering. "I didn't mean to break it James, really –"
"Don't bother", murmured James shrugging. "Mom will fix it."
Sirius gulped. Again there was silence.
"You know what, I'll have a cigarette before I go to sleep", he finally muttered.
"Splendid, I'll come with you."
"No."
Sirius' harsh answer had apparently shocked James to a great extent, since he looked at him rather irritated.
"I mean, I forgot to take another package with me, and this one's already pretty empty, and if you'll come with me I'd yield one to you anyway, y'know?" he said, forcing himself to smile.
"Alright", said James grinning. "I'll be upstairs, so just leave the door ajar."
Sirius lifted the collar of his leather jacket as he stepped out into the cold again. Shivering he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, but it did not please him. In the cold and acrid air the fume tasted stale and felt suppressive. Upstairs James was listening to one of the old CDs that Remus had given to him. With a sudden gust of wind the front door was being shut. Sirius swore silently, but listened as James turned up the volume of the music and the words became intelligible.
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free"
He had to think of the small blackbird in the frozen lane of Grimmauldplace, and how it had hopped around light-heartedly despite the fact that there were no worms to be found at all.
"Silly thing", he said to himself.
Tenderly and calmly the quiet music continued, but it was the trickling of water that remained on his mind.
"Blackbird, fly
Into the light of the dark black night"
His stomach cramped as the blackbird set off the pavement in his thoughts. His face felt numb and cold. He pressed his lips together, digging into the snow on the floor with his boot once again. Warm tears filled his eyes, but he did not let them pass over his eyelid. The voice in the silence kept on singing quietly.
"All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise."
The night was huge, and the dark profound. As the music died away, he felt as if he would suffocate in the suppressing silence. A muscle in his face kept twitching every now and then, and his hands were still shivering. Stolidly he raised his right arm and took another drag on his unfiltered high tar cigarette. His eyes followed the blurred figures that rose from his lips as he let the smother leave his body. In the black of the night the white smoke of his cigarette looked like churned up powder snow.