It's that time again. Time to thank the wonderful reviewers!
SunnyMoonlight: Yeah, I do tend to write rather dark. Personal failing? But you do at least have Lockhart. And the chapter after this one should be on the lighter side. I'll do Snape as soon as I get a job and can afford to buy HBP. I hate being broke.
Vanna: The first thing I'd end up doing if I got a mirror for my birthday would be to break it. Not on purpose, but because I'm so clumsy I make Tonks look like a ballerina.
Reyna: Hehe. I thought you'd appreciate Lockhart. Smarmy git that he is. Oh, and he wants me to pass this on to you… Lemme find the note… Aha. "Dint yu know? I AM the coolst guy EVAH!" At least, I think that's what he said. His cursive is abysmal.
Misa: I'm trying to avoid Snape and McGonagall until I can afford to buy and read HBP. I know a lot happens to effect them in that book, so I want that perspective before tackling them. I'm afraid these stories aren't too likely to connect up, though. They all bounce about in time and space, although I try not to make any of them conflict with one another.
Oooh, Today we have Wyrm's first attempt at a songfic. Well, not the first. The first was going to be Moony's chapter, but Wyrm, being Wyrm, was going to do the fic to The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S.Eliot. Meaning that halfway through, on the sixth page, Wyrm gave up. Although if anyone wants a copy of what was completed, email and one will be gladly provided.
Anyway, Harry Potter and co. belong to the wonderful JKR, and Patterns belongs to Paul Simon.
As usual, it was a quiet evening on Grimmauld Place. The full moon had been the night before, and the waning moon silvered the street. The sounds of a muggle radio punctuated the silence, the words carrying clearly in the still night. A man lay awake in his bed, and listened.
The night sets softly
With the hush of falling leaves,
I used to like the sound of falling leaves. Now… now they sound too much like dementors. All day and all night, that rustling-leaf sound. When it got loud, it meant one or more of them was coming closer. They seemed especially fascinated by me. It's because I was the only one in the wing who stayed almost sane… I heard someone walking past the house one morning in autumn, though, and was almost out the door with Remus's wand before I realized it was a human, and not THEM coming for me.
Casting shivering shadows
On the houses through the trees,
Not that everything doesn't cast shadows in this damn house. That's what it is, a house built out of shadows. Shadows. That's what I'm turning into, a shadow of myself, trapped in the house I grew up in and swore I'd never set foot in again.
And the light from a street lamp
Paints a pattern on my wall,
That's what we should do once it's cleaned out. Paint it. Gryffindor colors. Just to hear the old bitch scream. Doesn't have to be Gryffindor colors. Just anything bright and cheerful. Whitewash the walls, throw out all this heavy cursed furniture… Hell, paint the whole house white, inside and out! That'd get darling Mumsie's goat. The noble and most ancient house of Black, painted white. And it's not as if Dumbledore or anyone would mind. It's my house, after all, and I have to live here. Not as if I'm doing anything else useful.
Like the pieces of a puzzle
Or a child's uneven scrawl.
Would the paint be enough, though? To make the house liveable? Lay the ghosts of Black? I want to live somewhere a child could live without having nightmares. An adult couldn't live here without nightmares. I can't, at least. I've lost track of how many times I've woken up in the middle of the night to cry on Remus's shoulder…
Up a narrow flight of stairs
In a narrow little room,
Knock out some walls… Who really needs a house with forty rooms?
As I lie upon my bed
In the early evening gloom.
Because it's not as if I have anything better to do. I hate being useless. At least Moony's here with me. Asleep. Last night was hard on him.
Impaled upon my wall
My eyes can dimly see
A house elf! Wait, no, that's in the hallway.
The pattern of my life
And the puzzle that is me.
The pattern of my life. Defiance, pain, hope, betrayal. Rinse. Repeat.
From the moment of my birth
To the instant of my death,
Sometimes I wonder if I haven't already died, and this is my Hell. But if I'm in Hell, Moony shouldn't be here. He's done nothing to deserve it. Same for Harry, and Hermione, and the Weasleys…
There are patterns I must follow
Just as I must breathe each breath.
Patterns. I fought against them my entire life. Everything laid out for me perfectly, every moment of my life planned from infancy. Guess I showed them, didn't I? I wonder if Mum was twisted enough to be proud of me when I was sent to Azkaban. Nah, she probably had proof I was innocent, and didn't do anything to help me. Bitch. Bet she'd have adopted Wormtail if he hadn't managed to get Voldemort killed. Disgrace to dogs to call her a bitch…
Like a rat in a maze
The path before me lies,
Now I don't get to choose my pattern, and I can't even fight the one that's been chosen for me, because it's to protect me. But I'm not accomplishing anything here. I'm just running around in a maze with no exits…
And the pattern never alters
Until the rat dies.
And may mine be the hand that kills him. Then I'll be free, and I can leave this house, haunted as it is by the ghosts of my past, and the life I was born to lead.
And the pattern still remains
On the wall where darkness fell,
The pattern always remains. It's always there to dictate what I should be, and am not, will not, can not ever be…
And it's fitting that it should,
For in darkness I must dwell.
Darkness. I should rename the house. Darkness Manor. How… fitting.
Like the color of my skin,
Or the day that I grow old,
I used to believe I'd never grow old. Or grow up, as the case may be. And then James and Lily died, and I had to grow up…
My life is made of patterns
That can scarcely be controlled.
Well, there it is. Padfoot, for those of you who somehow didn't guess. Nothing really new in this chapter. I mean, we all pretty much know how Sirius feels about life, the universe, and everything. I was just listening to Simon and Garfunkel, heard this song, and thought 'heeey…' Actually, a lot of Simon and Garfunkel seems to apply to Sirius. Obviously, this is another not-happy ficlet, but I did try to insert a little black humor here and there. Pleasedon'tkillmeforthebadpun!
For those of you who just can't get enough Wyrm, check out my other active story, The Boy Who Lived: Take Two, where Remus and Sirius raise Harry. I'm trying to alternate its updates with Internal Monologues updates. My one-shot 'Dangerous Beasts' also comes highly recommended by the incomparable Reyna. Oh, and lest I forget, the now-obligatory review-threat. Review, because I have a werewolf, and I'm not afraid to use him! (Giggles evilly and gets out the key to the fluffy handcuffs, heading for the bedroom.)