His life didn't flash before his eyes. He didn't blink his way through childhood and sharply breathe his way through adulthood. No, death wasn't all it had been cracked up to be.
Instead he recalled vaguely, longingly, hopelessly, a summer's day. An anniversary of sorts.
The train grumbled and rumbled and stuttered beneath
him, almost as unsure as he was about this journey. Not quite,
though. 'Tea, sir?' He looked up. She was young,
pushing a deadweight trolley and plastering a smile to her tired
face. He knew what it felt like. 'No, I'm fine. Thanks
anyway.' And he tried to smile properly for her, but it didn't come
out right, he couldn't bring himself to. She gave a practiced,
polite nod of the head and tipped the trolley forward, slouching
lazily over it. He was, uselessly, trying to prepare himself
for the sight. He wondered if it was coated, soaked in moss by now.
Like James and Lily. Or if it was cold, left out to whether the wind
and rain and snow. Or if it smelled of the same tobacco she used to,
or if was tinted the same shade of tired grey as her eyeshadow. Or if
it was broken in places. He hoped so. It would be more
truthful. A better memory. A better tribute. More accurate. The
train pulled in an hour later, a muffled voice buzzing over the
speakers, announcing their destination. Dumbledore would have greatly
disapproved if he ever found out that Sirius so much as left the
house, let alone the country. It didn't matter really. He'd accept
the consequences. After a busy, blurring station, a cab and a
walk that felt as though it lasted a century on heavy feet, he was
there. The gate was rusted and looked disapproving of visitors. He
creaked it open, stepping heavily, brushing rain off his coat and his
hair. The path was gravelly and crunched and cracked beneath
him; it was a large cemetery... it had seen too much use, though, he
thought, a cemetery with so much as one grave to visit has seen too
much use. Having not bothered to find out which section she
was in beforehand, he spent the better part of an hour searching,
thinking he'd found it, preparing, searching more. His head
was full of the dead and, by the time he came across it, he was
prepared to leave. English summer rain had soaked him through, he was
shivering and miserable and, if he was being entirely honest,
beginning to doubt the decision to come in the first place. It was a
bad idea. He was a convict now, actively being searched for by the
Ministry. This would only serve to dirty her name further. He could
practically hear the headlines shouting themselves in his head. But,
once he was there, he couldn't move. Not an inch. It was small
and grey, not caked in moss or the smell of absent firewhiskey... not
whethered, not tired, not old. It was almost as though years
hadn't passed for it. Stuck in its original, clinical, plain stone
form, the only distinguishing factor engraved onto its lifeless
surface. 'Marlene McKinnon' He couldn't breathe, for a
moment. Couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't. Just...
couldn't. He traced the year. 1981. It hadn't been a good year
for him. James, Lily, Peter... Lena. No, it hadn't been a good year.
Not in the slightest. The absurd urge to wrap up the cold
stone in his jacket struck him. He didn't want her cold. Even six
feet under, where she'd never feel it. Not ever. Not even if she'd
wanted to. He took off the big black jacket that had seen him
through storm after storm and placed it over her, his mouth twitching
into what might have been a smile. It always had looked better on her
anyway.
Maybe, now, he could ask for it back.