Title: Cursing the Darkness.
Author: Antidisestablishmentarianist / Kitty-kitty
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter - he's the property of Ms. J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, Scholastic, Bloomsbury and Raincoat books.
Author Notes: Yes, I KNOW, I promised I'd continue with "Riddles of the Past"... and I will! I swear! This is a writer's block resolver... I'm going to try writing from a Diary point of view... for once, it's not involving Ginny (I've recently discovered that about 90% of my fiction either have Ginny and Tom or Ginny and Draco)... but is featuring a slightly OOC Sirius and... don't get me started.
July 17th, 1976
I can safely say that I've never been this terrified in my life (believe me, there's things in my life you'd have nightmares about, including and above the women's frilly lingerie in my little brother's closet that he insists isn't his and the house elf's quite frankly unhealthy obsession with my mother.) Let me give you an idea why. It's something like three in the morning, I'm sitting on a train next to a woman wearing a fox around her neck (the things you see on the Underground at this hour!)... well, that's not why I'm frightened... it's better if I go back a bit.
Alright, yesterday evening - after dinner - I was helping Mrs. Potter (who's insisting I call her Mary... or Margaret... or Margery... well, now you know why I won't call her it) with the dishes. I was drying, she was washing and James was putting away. He hadn't been looking well at all and after he'd dropped a dish and looked at it in some sort of shock, his mum suggested he should lie down for a while.
... Aha ... we were both up half the night (well, we're always up half the night. Snape doesn't get revenged on his own) because he insisted he couldn't sleep. He just got paler, weaker, shakier... urgh, don't want to remember that... let's just say I spent an hour or two holding back his hair for him while he was sick (I've said it before. You shouldn't have long hair if you can't manage it.)
You'd have to be a complete idiot to miss that there was something wrong there. He was throwing up stuff that I haven't seen in my long (sixteen years!) history of being on this earth... first yellow, then thinning out to this horrible watery black stuff. (Yes, I'm sorry, I have to be descriptive. I'm not worrying alone!)
Well, the next hour or so is a blur. I remember pulling Mr. Potter out of bed, Mrs. Potter wringing her hands out and James sprawled up against the sink splashing water in his face. He had to be carried to the fireplace and... bloody hell ... he looked so small. Not like our Prongs at all!
Mrs. Potter patted me on the head distractedly the entire time. If it was anyone else, I probably would have wriggled out of her reach (just because I can turn into a dog doesn't mean I like being treated like one) but she was too obviously worried about James. I empathized, and anyway, I'd never seen my own mum that pale and frightened. I'd been in shock before, but the tears in her eyes sort of brought it home.
"Listen, I can't bear the thought of you alone," she told me (I honestly didn't mind. Andy owes me a favour and I'm growing fond of her toddler, Dora.) "I'll send you to my cousin, she's absolutely lovely and ... they've got very talented healers at St. Mungos, you needn't worry over James one bit. We'll keep in contact and tell you how he is. It won't be long, I promise."
I nodded. There was nothing else I really could think of to do. All I could think of was James looking so small and childlike, or with tears streaming down his face by the sink... and I felt like crying myself. (If anyone ever finds this thing, I swear I'll hex them into next week. I don't usually keep a diary, honestly.)
The train's stopping now... there's a woman supposed to meet me here and I'll bet you at least five galleons that I already know her. All the pure- blood families are related - I'm sure I'm tied into the Potters somewhere along the line of third cousins - and my mother made it a point that I knew my relatives. I think I see her now - black hair, petite ... a little downtrodden. Of course, it is three in the morning and it is raining... oh, there's the boarding call.
I'll write later - promise. ... oh, what do you care? You're a diary.
Sirius.
Author: Antidisestablishmentarianist / Kitty-kitty
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter - he's the property of Ms. J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, Scholastic, Bloomsbury and Raincoat books.
Author Notes: Yes, I KNOW, I promised I'd continue with "Riddles of the Past"... and I will! I swear! This is a writer's block resolver... I'm going to try writing from a Diary point of view... for once, it's not involving Ginny (I've recently discovered that about 90% of my fiction either have Ginny and Tom or Ginny and Draco)... but is featuring a slightly OOC Sirius and... don't get me started.
July 17th, 1976
I can safely say that I've never been this terrified in my life (believe me, there's things in my life you'd have nightmares about, including and above the women's frilly lingerie in my little brother's closet that he insists isn't his and the house elf's quite frankly unhealthy obsession with my mother.) Let me give you an idea why. It's something like three in the morning, I'm sitting on a train next to a woman wearing a fox around her neck (the things you see on the Underground at this hour!)... well, that's not why I'm frightened... it's better if I go back a bit.
Alright, yesterday evening - after dinner - I was helping Mrs. Potter (who's insisting I call her Mary... or Margaret... or Margery... well, now you know why I won't call her it) with the dishes. I was drying, she was washing and James was putting away. He hadn't been looking well at all and after he'd dropped a dish and looked at it in some sort of shock, his mum suggested he should lie down for a while.
... Aha ... we were both up half the night (well, we're always up half the night. Snape doesn't get revenged on his own) because he insisted he couldn't sleep. He just got paler, weaker, shakier... urgh, don't want to remember that... let's just say I spent an hour or two holding back his hair for him while he was sick (I've said it before. You shouldn't have long hair if you can't manage it.)
You'd have to be a complete idiot to miss that there was something wrong there. He was throwing up stuff that I haven't seen in my long (sixteen years!) history of being on this earth... first yellow, then thinning out to this horrible watery black stuff. (Yes, I'm sorry, I have to be descriptive. I'm not worrying alone!)
Well, the next hour or so is a blur. I remember pulling Mr. Potter out of bed, Mrs. Potter wringing her hands out and James sprawled up against the sink splashing water in his face. He had to be carried to the fireplace and... bloody hell ... he looked so small. Not like our Prongs at all!
Mrs. Potter patted me on the head distractedly the entire time. If it was anyone else, I probably would have wriggled out of her reach (just because I can turn into a dog doesn't mean I like being treated like one) but she was too obviously worried about James. I empathized, and anyway, I'd never seen my own mum that pale and frightened. I'd been in shock before, but the tears in her eyes sort of brought it home.
"Listen, I can't bear the thought of you alone," she told me (I honestly didn't mind. Andy owes me a favour and I'm growing fond of her toddler, Dora.) "I'll send you to my cousin, she's absolutely lovely and ... they've got very talented healers at St. Mungos, you needn't worry over James one bit. We'll keep in contact and tell you how he is. It won't be long, I promise."
I nodded. There was nothing else I really could think of to do. All I could think of was James looking so small and childlike, or with tears streaming down his face by the sink... and I felt like crying myself. (If anyone ever finds this thing, I swear I'll hex them into next week. I don't usually keep a diary, honestly.)
The train's stopping now... there's a woman supposed to meet me here and I'll bet you at least five galleons that I already know her. All the pure- blood families are related - I'm sure I'm tied into the Potters somewhere along the line of third cousins - and my mother made it a point that I knew my relatives. I think I see her now - black hair, petite ... a little downtrodden. Of course, it is three in the morning and it is raining... oh, there's the boarding call.
I'll write later - promise. ... oh, what do you care? You're a diary.
Sirius.