Hey. It's been awhile (oops!)
For the Trick or Treat Halloween event at the Reviews Corner. My prompt was simply 'angst' … that's right up my street!
Uh, not exactly a Halloween fic, though. I felt uncomfortable writing one after Halloween! So … I went for Bonfire Night. I love Bonfire Night. :)))
REMEMBER, REMEMBER
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Remember, the remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
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The first time Sirius Black ran away from home, he was eight years old.
Not that running away was his intention, exactly. It was November, and the gloominess outside of the windows wasn't helping to battle the darkness that always swamped No. 12, Grimmauld Place. The walls seemed to be closing in, and his parents tightened their chokehold over what he could and couldn't do, now that the small garden was deemed off-limits because of the muddy ground (it wouldn't do for Sirius to traipse muddy footprints over his mother's prized carpets, after all). And he was bored, of course. No library—not even one as extensive as the Blacks'—could satisfy an eight-year-old boy.
At least Spring had held tea parties, and loath as he was to interact with his parents' abominable friends, he'd rather have awful company than no company at all. The window, it seemed, was the only option.
He'd read plenty of books where the brave protagonist sneaks away from his room, climbing down the vines beneath his window and spending the day stealing from markets and having all sorts of fun. Sirius, however, could see no vines beneath his window. Nor did he know where any markets were, and he's been taught that stealing was for ruffians. There were probably a hundred places in London where he could have fun, but getting to them was the issue.
After a day's reconnaissance, he found a trellis beneath the bathroom window. There were no sturdy vines, like adventure stories always described, but the wood was held to the wall with a firm tacking charm, and he was small for his age. Once his mother swept off to a lunch meeting with one of her lady friends (taking the ever-charming Regulus with her), and his father locked himself into his office, Sirius hauled himself out of the bathroom window and scrambled down the trellis. His grip slackened the last few feet, and he stumbled onto the stones below. His knees were scraped, hands covered in tiny nicks from the rough wood, but he smiled.
He was in the little alleyway between numbers twelve and thirteen. To his right were the dustbins; to his left was freedom.
Anyone who saw the eight-year-old boy running pell-mell through the streets of Islington would've thought it was the effect of the anticipation of that night's festivities. Even his odd clothing—a starched white dress shirt and a cravat under a not-quite-muggle jacket (with tails!)—could be explained away as part of a costume, or as from the influence of traditional parents. Sirius couldn't care less. For the first time, he was out of the house, without a cold hand on his shoulder or a watchful stare at his back. He could breathe.
He found himself lost, and couldn't bring himself to care. The walls of houses were bathed in a soft rutilant glow, washing them in shades of orange and brown until it was as if the entire world was sunk into amber. It was cold, the wind cutting through his jacket, but he relished in it: this was the feeling of freedom.
A girl his age rushed past him, and Sirius took a moment to stare in confusion. She was pushing along an old wheelbarrow, within which was a man, legs spilling out of the front. From under the hem of his old trousers poked odd bits of straw. Straw, too, edged through the gaps between the buttons of his shirt. He had a crudely-drawn mouth and scribbled eyes on a paper plate, which was taped to his broom-handle spine.
"What … what are you doing?" Sirius asked the girl.
She gave a gap-toothed grin. "Penny for the guy?" she asked him. "We're nearly out of time."
He frowned. "What?"
The girl snorted at him and ran onwards, her little legs working to push the barrow in front of her.
Sirius wandered a little further, careful his feet didn't slip on the cobbles—this street was old, and twisted, and beautiful—and keeping his eyes fixed on the halo of dying sunlight over the rooftops of London. The sky had quickly darkened to an indigo blue, though it was only five O'clock.
"C'mon, c'mon, or we'll miss it!" came the excited squeal from around the corner. Footsteps on cobblestones—this Muggle boy didn't seem so worried about his fragile ankles as Sirius had been.
"I thought it was later! It's only five!" is the answering reply from a harried parent. Sirius wondered what it would take for his own parents to look at him with such fondness in their gaze. To follow him and not scold him for running. To hold his coat in the crook of their elbow, as this mother was doing for her child.
After a moment of staring after the family of two, Sirius found himself following. There was something about the electric excitement, the eager smiles and soft eyes, that drew him through another alley and then onto a wide green.
The grass was a miserable emerald, but the people scattered over the lawn didn't seem bothered. Despite the cold breeze and darkening skies, they lay their picnic blankets over the floor, or set up folding chairs and opened up their Thermos flasks of hot chocolate. He'd never imagined community like this—young and old, rich and poor gathered on a weathered green together.
In the centre of it all was a stack of wood half as tall as Sirius's house, and tied to a pike in the middle was the tattered shape of a man.
There was a moment of horror in which Sirius thought this must be a witch-burning. That Muggles had once again taken up the tradition of witch-hunting, and the craze was starting over again, as it had in the 1600s. He'd read the history books: fire and death and trial after trial of Muggles and magical alike. His parents had warned him about this; his parents had described the terrible crimes against witch-and-wizardkind, and that it would happen again.
The man being burned was tall, and hunched over as if his spine had been pulled out (like Kreacher did when he cooked fish for the family). He was facing the opposite direction, but Sirius could see the hopelessness in the angle of his shoulders and the shake of his straw hands—
Straw. Though no-one was looking, Sirius blushed. This was no witch being burned, but a fake man, similar to the one the girl had been pushing around in her wheelbarrow earlier. He moved his gaze elsewhere, eager to hide his embarrassment (even from himself).
Two men were bending over a few yards away from the fire. One was pushing a pair of objects into the soft ground, and the other held a box of matches in his hands, examining the work of the other. Sirius stepped forwards, curious to see what they were—
"Sirius Black!" There was a harsh hiss next to his ear, a vice-like grip at his shoulder.
He spun around quickly to face the enraged countenance of Walburga Black. The warm glow that had been thawing his heart was stifled in an instant, and the smile melted off his face to leave him staring in horror at his mother.
"Mother…"
Her face twisted. "There is no excuse—no excuse!—for being here, boy. It is unbecoming of you to run from our home. Why would you even—" She shook her head as if brushing off the thought. She looked around the little green and turned up her nose at the group of Muggles. "Let's return home, shall we?"
He wanted to protest, to see what those men were doing, to watch the man—the fake man, the one with straw spilling from his sleeves—burn and the families mingle. He wanted to stay here, where everyone smiled and cradled their hot drinks and let the children run in circles around the green.
"All right, Mother," he said instead, resigning himself to his fate. He felt his shoulders slump, and his head fell until his chin met his chest.
As Walburga dragged Sirius back to Grimmauld Place, there was a crack like gunshots behind him. He wrenched his head to look back, just for a split second before his mother had him pointed back in the right direction.
He smiled. The image of the first blooming firework was branded into the backs of his eyelids. The cracks continued as they made their way home, and Sirius's smile didn't fade until they stepped back into the dark silence of No. 12, Grimmauld Place.
Awww. Not as angsty as it could've been, I guess. Anyway, hope you enjoyed! Have a lovely Bonfire Night.
Actually … is it only this country that celebrates Guy Fawkes night? I didn't even realise that. Well, enjoy it, even if you don't know it!