A/N:Written for the "C-I-T-I-E-S: A Competition", created by when words sting on the HPFC forums. The rules were to write a story located in a random city. I was assigned Montreal.
Summary: Sirius's old lover remembers him after reading about his escape from Azkaban.
Disclaimer: HP and all of its characters belong to JK Rowling.
Thank you so much for reading!
~ Julie
The brightest star
Her long, slim finger slowly traced the picture on the front page, as if she was caressing him again. After all those years, she never thought that her reaction would be so gentle, so longing. He looked extremely pale and thin; the sunken face, the dishevelled hair and the angry eyes…they didn't belong to Sirius Black, not to the one she knew, at least.
SIRIUS BLACK S'ÉCHAPPE D'AZKABAN
Sirius Black escapes from Azkaban, said the title. Of course he would escape. No one, not even the Ministry could restrain Sirius Black. He, who defied his pureblood family, who never abided any rule at Hogwarts and who challenged all wizardry traditions by riding a muggle motorbike. Sirius was different from any wizard she had ever met. The man on the picture was not Sirius Black. He couldn't be, because it hurt to think that after all his preaching about muggles and wizards as equals, he sold himself to Voldemort. She wondered what happened to him, what made him change his mind? Or maybe he simply never meant any word he said about the "pureblood bullshit", as he put it. Maybe it was just a rebel phase, like every teenager has, against the noble Black family.
Absentmindedly, she looked up at the sky and her eyes desperately looked for Sirius, the brightest star in the night. That was the man she knew – bold, irreverent and captivating, extremely talented and intense. She caressed the picture again, refusing to believe that Sirius Black was a dangerous murderer. Yet, there he was, in the front page of Le Magicien Quotidien. She couldn't help but shiver, because now he was on the loose. He was not in the past anymore, he was out there, somewhere, right now. Would he go after Harry? Would he travel abroad? Would he try to contact her?
"Of course not," she whispered and finally became aware of her surroundings. She was occupying a table for two outside a café, but sat alone. The cup of coffee on her right hand had run cold and she was the only customer left. Inside the café, she could see the waiters already putting away the chairs. She called the blond man that took her order and quickly paid the bill. The night was oddly chilly for the summer season and her fingers were getting numb.
Slowly, she walked through the narrow streets of Montreal and couldn't help but focus on the sky above. It was dark, full of stars and different; but she only had eyes for Sirius, bright and shiny. She sighed deeply, while mentally reprimanding herself – she shouldn't have bought the Quotidien, shouldn't have read the article and shouldn't have held it under her arm. Of course it would affect her; of course the night would be different. It didn't matter that thirteen years had passed; at that moment, she felt like the nineteen year-old girl that ran away from home, away from everyone.
She suddenly realized that she was wandering through a deserted and unfamiliar Boulevard. Thirteen years had passed since her arrival to the city and she still felt like an outsider. She didn't feel like a citizen or resident of Montreal; she was just an English woman living abroad. At the end of the Boulevard she found a narrow and long park with a wonderful view of St. Lawrence River. She sat on a bench, facing the calmed water, and looked for Sirius in the sky again.
And it was at that moment, starting at the bright star, when she finally understood that he would never leave. He would always be there, everywhere, forever present in her heart, mind and skin – innocent or guilty, imprisoned or free. It was not that she couldn't let it go, she simply didn't want to. Sirius Black…how could a person be so deeply carved in someone's soul?
She closed her eyes and bitterly crumpled the newspaper on her hand. It was his entire fault…and hers, for being so reckless and naïve. What were trust, love and friendship in the middle of a war? Did they really think that once it was all over, they would be the same? After months of hiding and fighting, and after losing their families and friends, could they possibly be the same? Clearly not. He was a fugitive now and she simply was an English woman living abroad.
A distant clock stroke twelve and she decided to resume her stroll back home. Slowly, she walked along the linear park, until she reached a small and humble building. She took out her wand and whispered, "alohomora!". But before walking through the door, she turned around, because the night was different.
Despite the darkness, she noticed that there was something definitely moving a few metres away. So she grabbed her wand tightly and slowly approached to the shifting shadows. One, two, three steps – and she was surrounded by four cloaked figures. She couldn't see their faces, but the long black robes were too familiar – these weren't ordinary criminals.
"Drop your wand," said one of them in a slow, menacing voice.
And then, out of impulse, she simply tightened the grip around her wand and Disapparated, completely aware of the fact that she wouldn't be returning to the city anytime soon.