ARDOUR
Prolouge
A great black dog stood in the open doorway. Behind him the hallway had been recently decorated with shiny new paint. The smell of it lingered in the air. Before him the little flat was little more than a hovel. The other residents of the building complained ardently about the way that, for more than a decade now, it had lain empty and festering. But there was nothing to be done. It was owned outright by its former resident- and he was nowhere to be found.
"Until he is returned, I am afraid, it is illegal for us to so much as paint the front door, nevermind refurbish it and sell it on!"
All that was known for certain of the owner of the dirty little flat was his name: Mr Black. People had difficulty remembering his face, even those who had lived in the building during his time. Some were of the opinion that he had been the strange old man with the lovely, sleek black cat. Perhaps he had died and his family had neglected their small inheritence? Others were certain that Mr Black was the tearaway youth with the scruffy clothes and pretty little wife- no one ever understood how he had ended up with her!
"I own," Mrs Gibbons declared any time the subject arose, "I own that their name was Black!"
The previous year there had been a popular rumour that their mysterious Mr Black was the terrifying looking escaped convict frequently featured on the news. Was his name not Sirius Black? The dirty man with the thick, unkempt black hair and hollow eyes sent shivers down the spines of the residents, but wouldn't it be glamourous if he were to appear on their doorstep! And wouldn't it fit so nicely? Wouldn't it make sense that Mr Black hadn't done anything to his little flat because he had been in prison all this time?
It was an indulgent fantasy to them. Little did they know that they had cracked the mystery of Mr Black. The dog padded over the threshhold, his paws making distinct prints in the thick layer of dust coating the floorboards. The main room was fairly empty now, but for the moth eaten sofa and the old stove. The dog kicked the door shut with one of his hind legs and sniffed, checking if it were safe. The air around him contracted and he morphed smoothly from a scruffy dog into a skinny, dirty man- the very image of the escaped convict.
Sirius Black rolled his head, crunching his neck, and then made his way across the room to a door open ajar. He pushed it open gently and looked in at the dusty bed and chest of drawers, the spoiled and skanty curtains fluttering at the open window, the yellowing book still sitting on the bedside table. These were the things left from his old life, his sole posessions. Certainly he had money, and then there was that awful house that he had supposedly inherited, but those were not the things he craved, the marks of a life. A single book and a dusty bed didn't signify a fulfilled youth.
He sniffed again, but he could only smell dust and damp. These were ghost rooms now. He walked over to the window and looked out. Everything was different now. The other buildings in the street had been torn down as the surrounding area had been revamped. Sirius gazed out of the window and tried to connect these rooms to his past. He didn't hear the click of the front door, or the soft padding of feet crossing the floorboards. In fact he didn't notice anything until the footsteps reached the ever creaky floorboard by the foot of the bed. It was at that point that something connected, and Sirius was trasported back to a past mentality. Subconsciously he turned around, that playful smile on his lips, one hundred percent certain of who he was about to see.
He was wrong though, and jumped in shock as he saw who really stood on the creaky floor board.
"Oh my- you gave me the fright of my life!" he cried, pressing his hand to his chest.
"Sorry," a man in the dowdy robes, the intruder, laughed.
"So you found me..."
"I knew you would come here," the man lowered his eyes, only half-smiling now, "It's the only place with a connection to-"
"I know," Sirius turned back to gaze out the window, "I thought you were...but only for a moment. It was foolish of me."
They lapsed into awkward silence, eyes cast to the ground as they contemplated hurtful memories. The visitor carried a box which Sirius had failed to notice. Now, the visitor placed it softly on the bed, patting the lid lightly. Sirius looked at it without comprehension.
"Remus?" he questioned the other.
"I was very angry when you were arrested, as I'm sure you know, not just with you, but with myself. I came here in a...a blind rage and it was filled with all these things- pictures and letters and silly little notes that...that I know you remember. It was filled with life and I wanted to preserve that so I packed it all up before the Ministry could come and rip everything to shreds looking for evidence..." Remus faltered, unsure if he had done the right thing or not, "I thought that you might like them back now."
Sirius nodded and brushed his hand over the lid, his heart swelling. Gingerly, he opened the box and was struck by the colour of everything- the photos and notes, the colourful paper, the silly cards and drawings. He stroked a finger down one particular photograph, his face crinkling with sadness.
"Sirius, I'm so sorry," Remus said, resting his hand on top of Sirius's.
"Don't be," was Sirius's dismissive reply.
"You just spent twelve years in Azkaban for a crime you didn't commit-"
"No, no you're right I amn't a Death Eater, and I didn't murder Wormy. But I meant to, and you very well know that there are other crimes on my conscience," he pulled his hand away.
"You can't keep blaming yourself for-"
"Yes I can," Sirius interjected, "It was, after all, my fault."
They were silent once more and stood staring straight into each other's eyes. This flat, this room- it was a time warp. It could easily have been thirteen years ago, they could easily be thirteen years younger, thirteen years more stupid, standing in that exact spot having the exact same conversation. Sirius looked at the box of mementos once more and felt no pleasure in seeing it there. It was all lies, the pretty colours, the happy smiles. He hadn't lived some sort of fairy tale and then suddenly, out of the blue, been thrown into prison. Things had been shit for a long time before that. He picked up the one picture he had stroked and stuffed it into the pocket of his robes.
"I'll keep that one," he said, "just to remind me of exactly what I ruined. It isn't a life in that box, Remus, or at least not my life. It's a few little moments when things were okay that are completly outnumbered, over-balanced by the awful and the horrible and the-"
He collapsed on the bed, his face crumpled in emotion. Remus hovered uncomfortably at his side, his own expression forlorn. He placed the lid back on the box and lifted it up. Casting his eyes back over Sirius once more, he retraced his steps to the bedroom door.
"Don't stay here too long," he spoke quietly, holding onto the door frame.
He lifted his hand away and saw words carved inexpertly into the wood.
Rebecca Black was here
And then in a different hand
1960-1981.