Rusted Cages
by Nanaho-Hime
For Static Lull
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter
Your final conversation together takes place in the dark kitchen of Grimmauld Place, and he is looking disheveled and drunken and miserable. He sits at the table, ignoring your presence, and you make no move to attract his attention. You were never particularly close, and it is Order business that keeps the two of you in minimal contact as opposed to no contact.
You were Head Girl when he was in his first year and he managed to give you one hell of a run for your money. You were one of the select sent to take him down after the death of the Potters, and you were one of the few who doubted his guilt.
It didn't take a genius to figure out how much Black loved the Potter family.
He sits at the kitchen table, absentmindedly stroking a rusted birdcage with a long finger. You drop off your mission report in front of the bird cage, disapproving of the smell of firewhiskey on him.
He peers dazedly at the mission report, picks it up as though checking its weight, snorts and throws it over his shoulder.
Before you can scold him in that matronly tone you seem to possess, he pats the seat next to him.
"Take a load off, Vance."
You are surprised, and irritated, but you are too courteous to outright refuse him and you sit next to him, primly at the edge of the seat.
"You know my great great aunt Cassiopeia used to keep all of these birds in cages around her manor in the woods. Everyone thought it was pretty wicked, but the real reason she kept them locked up was she didn't want them to fly like all of the other little damn birds."
He pauses and throws the cage at the wall. There is a clatter as it hits the stone floor.
"Sadistic bitch."
You are silent because you are not good with these metaphorical situations, but you can't help but feel sadness for him. He slumps in his seat.
"Do you ever feel like a caged bird, Vance?"
You think over you answer, because it reminds you of your tiny mother, locked inside her own house. It reminds you of your reclusive father, and your bitter brother, and your baby sister. All little birdies, always locked up in some sort of cage.
"I think there are very few people in this world who ever get to fly."
He pauses and snaps for Kreacher. When the house elf grudgingly presents him with another goblet of fire whiskey he takes a swig.
"Deep stuff Vance."
He says no more, and you leave him there, hunched over his goblet.
He falls soon afterward, and you think of cages again, and how open wounds, physical or otherwise, create the cages. Too many open wounds to ever truly be free, of sorrow and anger and hatred.
In the months that follow, when you see a bird fly, you think of Black and wonder if the doors of his cage have finally set him free.
You think that, perhaps, it has, because there's no room for sorrow and anger and hatred behind the veil, and when you're free of them, the cages just rust away until they are no more.
A/N: Experimental and a new style for me. Hope you liked it all the same. Please tell me what you think of the changes, yay or nay?
Reviews are love :)