To the Right of the Veil

Everyone on the "other" side of the veil wore bright blue spandex. Sirius had yet to figure this out. Even the big bald guy who shouldn't have been wearing spandex wore it. Like a uniform. Kind of. He sighed, sitting on the pile of extra bright blue spandex. It was actually really comfy sitting on the extra bright blue spandex, but not so comfy wearing it, really. It chafed the 'no-no region', as Sirius liked to call it.

Every hour, on the hour, a new ballet symphony began playing off in the distance. Currently, they were on The Nutcracker, but Sirius had a feeling they'd be switching over to Swan Lake soon. It was then that he had his fifteen seconds of fame, his hour of glory…

He danced for them.

It kept the insane ones from going even more insane, and the sane ones from going insane to being with, and the ones who were teetering on the line… well, they just kept on teetering on the brink of insanity but never actually went over it. They were all, instead, quite enamored by Mr. Black's spectacular show - he was the Swan Princess, the Prince, all the featured dancers, the chorus and all the small parts whose names no one knew. But of course, his crowning moment was Act II, the Black Swan. The thirty-two pirouettes were flawless every time. However, the spandex chafed. He was in so much pain.

And then there the opening overture was, haunting melody with beautiful harmonization… He began his lovely dance. In between acts, the audience applauded.

***

Outside the veil, a young girl sat crying, desperately clutching a magazine titled, WWW - The Convict Issue. The cover featured a picture of Sirius Black, smiling nicely, his hair glinting in the light and tousled fashionably. He winked roguishly, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. The girl wailed, tossing her head back, the tears falling. Her bright red hair was in disarray, falling out of a sparkly scrunchie. She looked to be the ultimate fangirl -- Ginny Weasley, President of the I-Love-Sirius-Black-And-Don't-Care-If-He's-Guilty-Of-Killing-A-Dozen-No-Thirteen-Oh-Bugger-It!-Or-If-He's-Dead! Club. (The name would have been longer but even Ginny Weasley didn't have that much breath.)

"Oh, Sirius," she wailed, shaking madly, her whole body shuddering with each sob. "I LOVE YOU EVEN IF YOU'RE DECEASED!"

***

The pirouettes were not going well. He was only on number twelve, and already he was traveling across the floor, moving quickly to the right. Uh-oh, Sirius thought to himself. I have to tighten my buttocks to stay in one place! He tried, it didn't work; his buttocks were as tight as could be. He began moving more madly, more out of control… Sirius was only on number twenty…

At twenty four, he was in the dark shadows at the edge of the area behind the veil. At thirty, he was completely in the dark. He shrieked, closed his eyes, and made it barely to thirty-two without falling. He stopped, and bowed, his eyes still closed. There was no applause -- no applause!? There was another shriek, echoing his own.

"Oh my God! It's Sirius Black, back from the Dead!" Ginny Weasley was shrieking at the top of her lungs. He was outside the veil, standing far off to the right of it. Sirius screamed, flapping his arms and looking around for something to cover his spandex clad body with. Fangirls couldn't see him like this!

And fangirls (plural, mind you) there were. They crawled out from behind the desk, the columns of the veil archway, they came from the shadows, they dropped from the ceiling (SWAT style) and the whole floor seemed to gape open with trap-doors. Sirius again shrieked, and sprinted for the doorway, being ambushed left and right by hands grabbing for his magnificent ballerina-body.

The only safe place was the streets of London. In his bright blue spandex.

***

A Muggle, standing on the corner of the street, gasped as the man in bright blue spandex sprinted by, screaming his head off. He was followed by a gaggle of girls, all screaming as well. Made for a bloody bad headache. The Muggle shrugged it off anyway, muttering as he continued on his way, "Damn bloody performance artists. Think they can do whatever they bloody well please."