Disclaimer: I do not own the character or characters mentioned in the story, he/she/they belong to J.K. Rowling. Also I am making absolutely no money by writing this story.
Note: I promise I didn't write this story out of dislike for any one character. It wrote itself and I fashioned it after H.P. Lovecraft to try and give it a nice creepy twinge.
Harmless Sand
Burning on the horizon a window is open, the sea breeze pushes at the white curtain. It is the same breeze that blows the sand up into his face constantly. It edges up under his eyelids and up his nose and into his mouth. His throat is covered with it. Black hair, disgustingly matted and ragged, hangs over his forehead and around his face.
Behind him is another window with a dark curtain that might have been black before the sand scraped its color away. On either side of him the ocean stretches out forever. The sun sets on one side and is rising on the other but he cannot suppose which is which. The glaring half discs cast an unnatural red glow upon the water. The waves, thick and stumbling, like clumsy children, roll over and over each other, lapping at his strip of lonely sand. The suns never move.
On he walks. He stumbles toward the window in front of him. His body is bare and exposed. Once he had worn a black cloak and robes. The sand wore them to rags and then ate them entirely. It wears away at his fingernails now. His toenails are nearly gone, angry red oblong squares cover the tips of his toes instead, stuck fast with sand. His skin is bright pink all over, and sticky, the first few layers are gone. His hair sticks to it in his face. He would brush it away but his fingers are just as raw. The sand stings, pelting him everywhere. The winds come from every direction, and switch and swirl sometimes. In some places, like below his knees and over his hips the skin was thin and has worn completely away. The muscles are bright red and brownish. Beneath them, when he moves, he can see the white bone peaking through.
His eyes fade faster than ever now. The corneas scratched and etched and ruined. He would walk with his eyes closed but he fears getting turned around. As time passes the curtain before him gets less white and the curtain behind him gets less black. They will be the same color soon, a very dull gray. Then he will have no way of knowing if he is walking the right way.
Somehow he knows that if he could just reach the right window...
What? What would happen? He can't remember.
On he walks. He thinks that if he doesn't reach the window soon the sand will wear him away to nothing. It will eat into his stomach and into his head through empty eye sockets. Then, when he is dead his fluids will seep into the restless ocean and the sand will scratch his white bones away.
The sand beneath his feet is fine and white. He tries not to think what it is made of. What it was before it was sand.
On he walks. The winds scream, as they do sometimes. They sound like voices. Teasingly they whisper his name, the one thing he cannot seem to forget. He tries, because the name means nothing to him anymore. But every time he feels it starting to slip it rises again, blown back by the whipping gusts.
"Sirius Black." The winds cry.
The white curtain flutters in the distance. But it is gray now, so gray. Has he been turned around? A ripple of fear shoots though his belly, interrupted by the always constant wearing of the sand.
"Sirius Black. Sirius Black." they sing.
He pauses and looks behind him to see a curtain that is the same as the one before him. The half suns float atop their blood red beds, sending identical glares into his damaged eyes.
On he walks. The voices, that don't sound like voices at all but like the winds again, are chuckling.
"Dead man walking." they say.
