The Greater Good
by Kiana Unei
Not mine. None of it. No money is being made from this.
Procyon is the name of Canis Minor's (little dog's) brightest star, by the way. Just like Sirius is the name of Canis Major's brightest. How did Harry know this? Dunno. Astronamy class, maybe. But I know, isn't it an awful name? Harry was under pressure at the time though. Nick suggested it. I HAD to use it- I owed him for not telling our parents where I hid my report card!
Surprise, surprise, Nick did not find Azkaban Fortress.
Chapter V (continued):
Deneb Procyon Black
In a perfect world, the Minister of Defence could arrange for the best make-up and costume designers of the Muggle world (magic is too easy to detect) to come in and make it look as though Sirius Black had put up one hell of a fight to escape; that is, smear mud on his face a bit, use fake blood, and so fourth.
Then again, in a perfect world Sirius wouldn't have to play the role of the recaptured villian.
He coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Stupid, bloody sadistic freaks, he thought bitterly.
"Need a hand?" Mr Wesson asked.
"Yes." Sirius glared at him, knowing full well that the man hadn't really intended to be of any help.
"Well," Wesson glanced him over, but didn't make a move to be of any service, "you couldn't just waltz back into Azkaban, now could you?"
"Why not? Last time I didn't so much as scruff my feet on the way to the island."
"Yes . . ." Wesson looked thoughtful. "But the less you attract attention, the better."
Sirius started to say something about what Mr Wesson could do with his fear of extra attention, but was interrupted by the opening of the room's single door.
"Aha," Wesson said, looking relieved, "Ms Maelani, may I present to you Sirius Black?"
"THIS is Sirius Black?" Her blonde eyebrows raised slightly.
"What, too charming?" he asked, grinning- then winced, and let it go.
"No, too relaxed." Maelani studied his face with the screutany acceptable for a jewler studying a prized diamond, then quickly took in the rest of his battered physique.
"Okay, Black, I'm going to ask you a few questions, and I want you to answer honestly and to the best of your ability. Understand?"
"Yeah." As long as they're nothing personal, he thought. Or my secret of escaping Azkaban . . .
"Fine!" She seated herself across from him, gray-green eyes flashing with- eagerness? "What is your name?"
"Sir Lancelot of Camelot." Sirius answered confidently, managing to keep a strait face.
"Beg pardon?" Maelani looked startled.
"Okay, you're pardoned. How 'bout me?"
"What?"
"Mr Black," Wesson sighed, ". . .please."
"She knows my name," he growled. Wesson gave him a dirty look, which Sirius returned. "Fine. I am Sirius Antony Black, eldest son of Elizabeth and Richard Black- "
"How old are you?" Maelani interrupted.
"Dunno. Somewhere in my thirties, I'd guess." If Harry was fifteen- or was he? Drat, he'd have to know today's date. If Harry was fifteen, that'd make Sirius . . . let's see . . . One year plus twelve is thirteen, thirteen plus two was fifteen . . . How old was he when he was taken to Azkaban? If James was eighteen when he married Lily, he must've been about nineteen when Harry was born . . . twenty when Harry was a year old . . . nineteen years older than Harry . . . Thirty-three, or thirty-four, depending on Harry's age. Maybe. When was Sirius born, again?
"Do bannanas chew blowing-gum?"
"Huh?" Sirius was startled out of his thoughts.
"Mr Black, answer the question," Wesson ordered.
"Er . . . no, they don't. Not that I'm aware of, anyway."
"Can you discribe," Maelani continued, "to the best of your ability, your feelings regarding colours?"
" 'Colours'? Erm, yeah . . . without colours, the world would be a pretty dull place . . . rainbows wouldn't exist . . . kids would fail art . . . I wouldn't have a last name . . ."
She seemed satisfied. "Mr Wesson, through my oppinion, and the oppinions of NeuroTech, Mr Black is hereby judged sane, in all senses."
"Thank you," he said. NeuroTech? What the hell was that? He filed the name away for later investigation. "And by the way, Ms- Maelani, was it?- if you weren't so cold, you might be considered rather attractive."
"Excuse me?" She favoured him with a cold glare, then turned back to Wesson. "Sane, but deplorable."
"Understood. Thank you, Doctor." Wesson said.
Doctor? NeuroTech? The Minister of Defence trusting a notorious convict to play Indianna Jones on a secret mission not even trusted to specially-trained Aurors? Something was going on, something big. And Sirius Black hadn't the faintest inkling as to what it might be.
"Meester Wessoh?" A French contralto broke through Sirius' ponderings.
"Yes- ? Oh, Ms Ibse, I didn't see you there!" He, too, looked startled. The woman stood just to the side of the door, perfectly still, as if she had been there for an indeterminable time. He face was, like Sirius', absolutly void of expression. Unlike Sirius, though, her gaze seemed due to absolute calm, rather than having been crushed into stillness. Her face unnerved both male occupants of the room.
"Ms Ibse, this is Sirius Black." Wesson figited slightly with the pressed collor of his shirt.
" 'ello," Ibse offered. She, too, seated herself opposite him. ". . . 'Ow do you feel? Uncomf'table, nervoos, cold?"
"Actually, yeah," he stared at her. "Et vous? Ca va?"
"Oh!" Her face broke into a slight grin- but, also like Sirius, the look did not reach her eyes. "Bien. Vous parlez francais?"
"Uh . . ." he drew his thumb and first finger together in the universal guesture of "a bit".
"C'est bien. Je m'appelle Sonna Ibse." She pronounced it "SO-na eb- SAY", which Sirius thought sounded much nicer than the way Wesson said it. But maybe that was only because he took an imidiate likeing to her, and detested Nathanial.
"Um . . . porqua, wait, no, er . . ." Okay, what are the words? THINK. "POURQOI . . . Merde. Je ne sais pas les mots."
Sonna laughed. "Is okay. Me, je took forever to learn anglais."
"That's nice," Wesson interrupted, "now please, use it. No French- speak. I want to be able to understand what the bloody hell you're saying to eachother."
"Vous etres tres stupides, n'est-ce pas?" Sirius said to him.
"Vous 'etes'," Sonna corrected.
"Merci."
"Enough!" Wesson was getting red in the face. "Ms Ibse, I take it that Black's safe enough to rely on, since you won't stop talking at him! Dismissed."
"Yes, sir." Sonna rose and left the small room; Sirius was actually sorry to see her go.
"Bloody psychic freak," Wesson mumbled.
" 'Psychic'?" Sirius blinked up at him.
"Yes. 'Psychic'." From his expression, Sirius could tell that the subject was closed.
"Now prepare yourself, Black," Wesson said, grinning slightly, "tomarrow will be a very buisy day!"
* * *
" 'Not there'?" Harry stared up at the red-cloaked guard.
"I'm sorry, kid," the man said. "They must've brought him in early; didn't want to chance him escaping, I guess. He's gone."
Harry felt the base drop out of his stomache. Gone? Gone?! GONE?!! He had been fifteen years old for nine hours now. Happy Birthday, Harry, you're now officially an orphan.
"What?" he asked timidly. There's some mistake, there's got to have been some mistake!
Cold shivers ran up and down his arms, legs, and spine. There was no mistake. None at all. Sirius Black was gone. Forever.
He sat down on his knees, leaning up against the cold hallway wall, and cried.
A/N: Why is it that when I sit down to write something always comes up? "Clean my room or else!" Got to go- Nooooo! Argh! Hopefully I'll be able to get more up today. This stupid computer not only doesn't have spell check in English (or in French, by the way) but it won't let me put accents over letters, so the French part of this looks really weird! Darn! Oh, well, hopefully those of you who understand French will know what I meant. For those of you who don't, pretty much what their conversation was was ('~' two was's- argh!) this:
Sirius: And you? How are you?
Ibse: Oh! (I'm) Well. You speak French?
Sirius: Uh, a bit.
Ibse: That's nice. My name is Sonna Ibse.
Sirius: Um, (not a real word), wait, no, er . . . WHY . . . S***. I don't know the words.
Sirius (to Wesson): You to be very stupid, are you not?
Ibse: You 'are'.
Sirius: Thank you.
by Kiana Unei
Not mine. None of it. No money is being made from this.
Procyon is the name of Canis Minor's (little dog's) brightest star, by the way. Just like Sirius is the name of Canis Major's brightest. How did Harry know this? Dunno. Astronamy class, maybe. But I know, isn't it an awful name? Harry was under pressure at the time though. Nick suggested it. I HAD to use it- I owed him for not telling our parents where I hid my report card!
Surprise, surprise, Nick did not find Azkaban Fortress.
Chapter V (continued):
Deneb Procyon Black
In a perfect world, the Minister of Defence could arrange for the best make-up and costume designers of the Muggle world (magic is too easy to detect) to come in and make it look as though Sirius Black had put up one hell of a fight to escape; that is, smear mud on his face a bit, use fake blood, and so fourth.
Then again, in a perfect world Sirius wouldn't have to play the role of the recaptured villian.
He coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Stupid, bloody sadistic freaks, he thought bitterly.
"Need a hand?" Mr Wesson asked.
"Yes." Sirius glared at him, knowing full well that the man hadn't really intended to be of any help.
"Well," Wesson glanced him over, but didn't make a move to be of any service, "you couldn't just waltz back into Azkaban, now could you?"
"Why not? Last time I didn't so much as scruff my feet on the way to the island."
"Yes . . ." Wesson looked thoughtful. "But the less you attract attention, the better."
Sirius started to say something about what Mr Wesson could do with his fear of extra attention, but was interrupted by the opening of the room's single door.
"Aha," Wesson said, looking relieved, "Ms Maelani, may I present to you Sirius Black?"
"THIS is Sirius Black?" Her blonde eyebrows raised slightly.
"What, too charming?" he asked, grinning- then winced, and let it go.
"No, too relaxed." Maelani studied his face with the screutany acceptable for a jewler studying a prized diamond, then quickly took in the rest of his battered physique.
"Okay, Black, I'm going to ask you a few questions, and I want you to answer honestly and to the best of your ability. Understand?"
"Yeah." As long as they're nothing personal, he thought. Or my secret of escaping Azkaban . . .
"Fine!" She seated herself across from him, gray-green eyes flashing with- eagerness? "What is your name?"
"Sir Lancelot of Camelot." Sirius answered confidently, managing to keep a strait face.
"Beg pardon?" Maelani looked startled.
"Okay, you're pardoned. How 'bout me?"
"What?"
"Mr Black," Wesson sighed, ". . .please."
"She knows my name," he growled. Wesson gave him a dirty look, which Sirius returned. "Fine. I am Sirius Antony Black, eldest son of Elizabeth and Richard Black- "
"How old are you?" Maelani interrupted.
"Dunno. Somewhere in my thirties, I'd guess." If Harry was fifteen- or was he? Drat, he'd have to know today's date. If Harry was fifteen, that'd make Sirius . . . let's see . . . One year plus twelve is thirteen, thirteen plus two was fifteen . . . How old was he when he was taken to Azkaban? If James was eighteen when he married Lily, he must've been about nineteen when Harry was born . . . twenty when Harry was a year old . . . nineteen years older than Harry . . . Thirty-three, or thirty-four, depending on Harry's age. Maybe. When was Sirius born, again?
"Do bannanas chew blowing-gum?"
"Huh?" Sirius was startled out of his thoughts.
"Mr Black, answer the question," Wesson ordered.
"Er . . . no, they don't. Not that I'm aware of, anyway."
"Can you discribe," Maelani continued, "to the best of your ability, your feelings regarding colours?"
" 'Colours'? Erm, yeah . . . without colours, the world would be a pretty dull place . . . rainbows wouldn't exist . . . kids would fail art . . . I wouldn't have a last name . . ."
She seemed satisfied. "Mr Wesson, through my oppinion, and the oppinions of NeuroTech, Mr Black is hereby judged sane, in all senses."
"Thank you," he said. NeuroTech? What the hell was that? He filed the name away for later investigation. "And by the way, Ms- Maelani, was it?- if you weren't so cold, you might be considered rather attractive."
"Excuse me?" She favoured him with a cold glare, then turned back to Wesson. "Sane, but deplorable."
"Understood. Thank you, Doctor." Wesson said.
Doctor? NeuroTech? The Minister of Defence trusting a notorious convict to play Indianna Jones on a secret mission not even trusted to specially-trained Aurors? Something was going on, something big. And Sirius Black hadn't the faintest inkling as to what it might be.
"Meester Wessoh?" A French contralto broke through Sirius' ponderings.
"Yes- ? Oh, Ms Ibse, I didn't see you there!" He, too, looked startled. The woman stood just to the side of the door, perfectly still, as if she had been there for an indeterminable time. He face was, like Sirius', absolutly void of expression. Unlike Sirius, though, her gaze seemed due to absolute calm, rather than having been crushed into stillness. Her face unnerved both male occupants of the room.
"Ms Ibse, this is Sirius Black." Wesson figited slightly with the pressed collor of his shirt.
" 'ello," Ibse offered. She, too, seated herself opposite him. ". . . 'Ow do you feel? Uncomf'table, nervoos, cold?"
"Actually, yeah," he stared at her. "Et vous? Ca va?"
"Oh!" Her face broke into a slight grin- but, also like Sirius, the look did not reach her eyes. "Bien. Vous parlez francais?"
"Uh . . ." he drew his thumb and first finger together in the universal guesture of "a bit".
"C'est bien. Je m'appelle Sonna Ibse." She pronounced it "SO-na eb- SAY", which Sirius thought sounded much nicer than the way Wesson said it. But maybe that was only because he took an imidiate likeing to her, and detested Nathanial.
"Um . . . porqua, wait, no, er . . ." Okay, what are the words? THINK. "POURQOI . . . Merde. Je ne sais pas les mots."
Sonna laughed. "Is okay. Me, je took forever to learn anglais."
"That's nice," Wesson interrupted, "now please, use it. No French- speak. I want to be able to understand what the bloody hell you're saying to eachother."
"Vous etres tres stupides, n'est-ce pas?" Sirius said to him.
"Vous 'etes'," Sonna corrected.
"Merci."
"Enough!" Wesson was getting red in the face. "Ms Ibse, I take it that Black's safe enough to rely on, since you won't stop talking at him! Dismissed."
"Yes, sir." Sonna rose and left the small room; Sirius was actually sorry to see her go.
"Bloody psychic freak," Wesson mumbled.
" 'Psychic'?" Sirius blinked up at him.
"Yes. 'Psychic'." From his expression, Sirius could tell that the subject was closed.
"Now prepare yourself, Black," Wesson said, grinning slightly, "tomarrow will be a very buisy day!"
* * *
" 'Not there'?" Harry stared up at the red-cloaked guard.
"I'm sorry, kid," the man said. "They must've brought him in early; didn't want to chance him escaping, I guess. He's gone."
Harry felt the base drop out of his stomache. Gone? Gone?! GONE?!! He had been fifteen years old for nine hours now. Happy Birthday, Harry, you're now officially an orphan.
"What?" he asked timidly. There's some mistake, there's got to have been some mistake!
Cold shivers ran up and down his arms, legs, and spine. There was no mistake. None at all. Sirius Black was gone. Forever.
He sat down on his knees, leaning up against the cold hallway wall, and cried.
A/N: Why is it that when I sit down to write something always comes up? "Clean my room or else!" Got to go- Nooooo! Argh! Hopefully I'll be able to get more up today. This stupid computer not only doesn't have spell check in English (or in French, by the way) but it won't let me put accents over letters, so the French part of this looks really weird! Darn! Oh, well, hopefully those of you who understand French will know what I meant. For those of you who don't, pretty much what their conversation was was ('~' two was's- argh!) this:
Sirius: And you? How are you?
Ibse: Oh! (I'm) Well. You speak French?
Sirius: Uh, a bit.
Ibse: That's nice. My name is Sonna Ibse.
Sirius: Um, (not a real word), wait, no, er . . . WHY . . . S***. I don't know the words.
Sirius (to Wesson): You to be very stupid, are you not?
Ibse: You 'are'.
Sirius: Thank you.