Series - Elysium: The Retelling of Nielliun Morne
Chapter II - La Valse Fatigante
A/N - Hello again. I hope you're pleased thus far. There's room for a little more light-heartedness from here on out. This chapter will set up the circumstances for the rest of the story.
La Valse Fatigante
"A deadly struggle for my soul would have broken the monotony nicely." - Sirius Black, Order of the Phoenix*
The air that lurked beyond the comforting shield of the warm eiderdown was cold and stale, Sirius knew. He wrenched the bedcovers over his face and thought he may remain abed for some time if it meant he would be spared the sight of his miserable surroundings.
For there was certainly nothing beyond the sheets that was worth regarding first thing in the morning. If anyone had ever told the teenage Sirius that, at thirty-six, he would awake in the very same Number 12 Grimmauld Place from which he had already once escaped, he would have scoffed and, upon realising the truth of the statement, wept.
"Well and you're here, Sirius," he muttered to no one, pushing the sheets into his face, never wishing more to be suddenly stricken blind.
Shroud-like, grey drapes whispered about the window, where a chill draft slithered through ever-present chinks in the casement-- a breath of depression that always seemed to creep through the house like the rattling gasps of Dementors. The walls were steely smooth and soot coated, so cave-like and so unlike Hogwarts' warm sandstone, the ceiling vague and discomfortingly too far above. Monstrous armoires and trunks littered the room, all of them full of clothes, heirlooms, and artefacts... things which Sirius considered nothing more than refuse and shameful skeletons that he must find a way to do away with. The heavy mantle-piece and hearth teemed with intricately carved, jewel inlaid, twining vipers which Sirius could have sworn slunk ever so slightly in the right firelight.
He need not look to know all this. He could fill the chinks and block the draft, scourge and scrub the walls, light two dozen candles, bury and burn the family articles, and panel the fireplace... But he could never banish the feeling of cold breath on the back of his neck, the claustrophobia of the chamber, the lurking evidence of the house's former residents, or the constant gaze of the bright cuts of emerald and amber that seemed so eye-like in the faces of the serpents... or the permanent imprint that they had stamped upon his mind. Like a parasite, the essence of this hellish place had burrowed under Sirius' skin long ago... it had been dormant for some time, but was again awakened with his return.
Reluctantly, Sirius peered blearily over the edge of the sheets and made out the time on the aged face of the grandfather clock residing in a dusty corner. 10:41. Later than he had thought. But, then again, Sirius hadn't been able to get to sleep very well the night before. A little rum from the cellar had aided that around half past two, effectively providing some counting sheep.
Sirius groaned and swung his feet to the chilled floor. Something shifted in the corner and Sirius started before he remembered that it was Buckbeak settling back into his nest of dank straw. He liked the sound of the Hippogriff's rustling feathers and strange bird-like cooing as he liked the soothing sound of Crookshanks' purring. He regretted that the cat had been shipped off with Hermione to school. In certain circumstances, the simple, unconditional company of animals was better than the companionship of humans... animals didn't question or judge you.
Sirius wondered vaguely if it was even worth the trouble of finding and dressing in day-robes. But what if someone should call? True, no one from the Order was scheduled to come by and Remus was off on some useless odyssey for Dumbledore-- something involving covert operations, or bugging networks or... socks or something. It didn't really matter if Sirius himself was not allowed to help out. But there was always the long-shot... to not get dressed would be to assume that no one would call and to assume that would be to abandon hope. That wouldn't do.
So he pulled some rumpled green robes over his head and attempted to straighten them fruitlessly. He also donned a pair of greying socks and thrust his feet into some brown boots that he discovered under the bed. He did not bother to fasten them, but stumped downstairs with them flopping about his ankles.
"Do I even want breakfast?" he asked himself, glancing around the dreary kitchen. He found that he was not very hungry when he didn't have anything on which to expend his languishing energy. "Just some coffee..."
His head issued a dull pain and Sirius supposed it was due to the alcohol. "I don't understand it," he said to the empty room. "I wouldn't think that such an excellent quality--" he paused to read the label of the empty bottle which had been lying next to Kreacher's cupboard, "-- One-Hundred Proof Caribbean Rum as my parents would keep would give one a cheap-wine-hangover."
"Master always reaps what Master sows. Yes, yes... young Master pilfering from Mistress's fine stores..."
"It's not pilfering considering it belongs to me, Kreacher."
Sirius did not bother to look at the house elf as he crawled from his nest. "Of course, Master," muttered the wretched little fiend. He added, "It will throw priceless china to the rubbish heap but it will not throw out the whiskey."
"Shut it, Kreacher."
He conjured a pot of simmering coffee on the ancient, blackened stove and nearly burnt his fingers pouring it. He sipped moodily and picked at the peeling pain on the table leg, leaning his chair dangerously far back. He knew the fine line just before gravity would take over, however. He'd discovered this the hard way during many dull Arithmancy classes.
It seemed a thousand years ago that he'd sat in Arithmancy class. Boring as it may have been, he wished more than anything, his insides aching, to be transported back to that time. During his long days and weeks to think, he'd decided that seventeen had been the ideal age. Every other year of his life was dark or at least pale in comparison. He'd been on top of the world and that had left quite a height between himself and the ground when he'd fallen.
"Go... clean something," he said absently to Kreacher simply because he didn't like the company of the house elf.
"Whatever Master says... grovelling, snivelling, putrid son of a bitch it is..."
Barking harshly, Sirius replied quickly, "Dead on, little chap! Mother was rather--"
Kreacher yelped at his faux pas and Sirius could have sworn he heard the beast beating his head against the wall and begging forgiveness from his mother's portrait down the hall. He laughed again, joylessly.
It really hadn't been so long since Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys had left. Only a week since the brood had gone off to Hogwarts. Only five days since Molly and Arthur and Bill had returned to Ottery St. Catchpole. Only four days since Remus had gone on his quest... thing. In that time, Dung had briefly dropped by, depositing a rather dodgy looking sack which steamed ever so slightly and emitted a peculiar smell of singed hair. He presented Sirius with news no more captivating than word that the singer Celestina Warbeck was caught up in some sordid scandal with the Head of the Ludicrous Patents Office at the Ministry.
Other than that, nothing.
He made a face as he took a swig of coffee and found it now only lukewarm. But he forgot the coffee quickly and slammed the mug on the table when he heard a clicking and scratching from the direction of the corridor. It took a moment before he realised it would be an owl delivering a Daily Prophet. Of course, Grimmauld Place could not have a direct subscription, but Dumbledore received two and graciously sent one on to London with a personal owl.
Hurrying up the short flight of dipped stone steps, Sirius loped to the front door. Wouldn't do to leave an owl waiting outside. Through the encrusted pane, he could see it shifting from foot to foot on the brief sill of one of the windows that were so like arrow-slits on either side of the entrance. It was like his parents had built a fortress against the rest of the enlightened, outside world. Cracking the door momentarily, he took the newspaper from the bird's leg and set it free.
He made his way to a small living room on the right side of the hall which was relatively clean and bright compared to the rest of the cursed house. He slumped into a high backed emerald chair and unfolded the paper, sighing.
Sirius choked with his next breath.
On the front page, bold as a hag on Hallowe'en, were the words "Suspicions of Black's Whereabouts" and his own face. Sure, the photo was two years old and Sirius thanked the heavens that he no longer resembled the haggard, grey, skeletal man that scowled up at him from the parchment. But...
Skimming quickly through the obvious outline of his history, conviction, and escape, Sirius arrived at the important bit. There was a theory going about that he was in London.
"Damn..." he muttered, a lump of lead having settled into the pit of his stomach. He read a bit farther and hit himself in the forehead with the heel of his palm. "King's Cross..." he said aloud, knowing that he must have been spotted on the platform by some Death Eater scum casually dropping their spawn off for the train. For who else would know of his being an Animagus? He knew that he wasn't really in any more immediate danger than he had been for there were always occasional reports in the Prophet, quoting him as hiding in Scotland-- or disguised as a vampire in Moscow-- or running a drug cartel in Reno. But it was, nevertheless, annoying because he knew Dumbledore would step up his insistence upon his remaining a shut-in. Sirius growled and turned the page, knowing that, had Kreacher been present, he would have informed Sirius that "Master always reaps what Master sows."
As disturbing as that report had been, the newspaper had been waiting to reveal even darker secrets and Sirius thought the people at the Prophet must somehow be taking a sick pleasure in torturing him personally today.
Trespass at Ministry
Sturgis Podmore, 38, of number two, Laburnum Gardens, Clapham, has appeared in front of the Wizengamot charged with trespass and attempted robbery at the Ministry of Magic on 31st August. Podmore was arrested by Ministry of Magic watchwizard Eric Munch, who found him attempting to force his way through a top-security door at one o'clock in the morning. Podmore, who refused to speak in his own defence, was convicted on both charges and sentenced to six months in Azkaban.*
Sirius again uttered a curse. Why had he had to discover this in the newspaper instead of receiving a letter from someone earlier? A member of the Order thrown in Azkaban! and no one had said anything! He knew how Harry must have felt trapped at Petunia's house without information.
Of course, the door they spoke of had been the door at the Department of Mysteries that everyone always griped so much about having to guard. The point of guarding the door had been to keep people from forcing entry! What the hell did Sturgis mean by trying to get through? Sirius could not make heads or tails of it.
Well, there wasn't a thing he could do about it right now. He felt sure that a meeting of the Order would be called in response to this and he'd have plenty of time to talk about it then. He felt a spark of sympathy for Sturgis. Six months didn't hold a candle to twelve years, but would be nothing less than dreadful. For him, Sirius remembered the first few months had been the worst. In the case of Sturgis, just as he would start to stop caring and fall into blank, banal despair, he would be set free.
Feeling more queasy than ever with his headache and this depressing knowledge, Sirius dragged himself upstairs, entirely forgetting the Prophet crossword that he'd originally been meaning to work.
Without any thought of where he was headed, he wandered into the drawing room and spied the immense, heavy grand piano that sat rotting at the far end of the chamber. It had been years and years since he'd played.
Never exactly having missed it, Sirius had not been bad with music. He wondered if he could still manage a refrain or two. He didn't have anything better to do with his idleness.
Stepping toward the piano which had suffered a shoddy dusting from the Weasley twins, a flood of memories rushed to Sirius. Regulus had been significantly better than his older brother at the keys, but Sirius supposed that this was borne out of no real talent and more out of a burning desire to ingratiate himself to their parents. Scientific name: "Regulus Sycophantus". Sirius had never been anything but defiant. But his mother nagged him to practise and his father always cuffed him when he slipped up and made a blunder at a particularly difficult stretch of Barkwith's classical Suite. And he didn't mind playing so much.
He lowered himself to the bench and plunked a single finger down on a random ivory dragon-tooth. It sounded very loud in the silence, and it wasn't as out of tune as he supposed it to be. Hesitating, Sirius situated his hands and began to play.
"Haven't lost it..." he said to himself, faintly pleased, his fingers dancing lightly, if uncertainly, over the keys. He was not entirely sure what he was playing though. It was a somewhat slow, despondent tune, dwelling on certain long low notes and skittering theatrically through lighter ones. Somehow, it reminded Sirius of himself-- his happy times all too brief and his disheartening times all too drawn out. Sirius could not for all the gold in Gringotts remember the title of it. It came to him abruptly: La Valse Fatigante. The Arduous Waltz.
"That's you precisely," he told himself, chuckling quietly. "The Arduous Waltz."
Ceasing, Sirius noticed a small vial of something sitting on top of the piano. He lifted it and it left a ring on the black wood. The glass was thick and violet hued, the liquid within watery and dark coloured, slightly iridescent. It was most likely just a commonplace solution or even a cleaning concentrate that Molly had forgotten, but one could never be sure in a depraved place like good old Number 12.
Finding himself curious, Sirius groped for his wand and pointed it at the bottle. "Waddiwasi," he commanded and the cork shot with force at the vaulted ceiling, not disturbing the contents much. Holding it up, he still could not determine what it was. Sirius recalled that in First Year Introductory Potions, Professor Von Lochstein had expressly stated that one must never directly inhale, but only waft, an unknown substance. He also recalled that he had not cared much for Von Lochstein.
Sirius, the dog in him taking over his instincts, brought the mysterious beaker a little closer and tentatively sniffed from what he thought was a safe distance. He immediately felt himself go light-headed.
"Mnemosyne Potion. How thick of me," Sirius muttered treacly-- his voice sounding high-pitched and weird to his own ears-- before his head crashed into the piano and he was vacuumed into an unplanned, delusional kip.
A/N - I have no idea what's wrong with me. Who knows what dimension that came from. A few amusing moments, but the main point was that short bit about La Valse Fatigante. Everything after this for a long time is very realistic flashbacks, just so you know.
