tearshed&blooddrops
(a sirius story)
(It's not a runaway, but an escape)
Tears mix with the dirt from his previous fall. A gash opens on his left cheek and the dirt-and-tear mixture sting his wound, blood trickling down the side of his face.
He stumbles upon a tree root, covered in snow (and hidden from view), and promptly falls over again. Too sore to get up, he lies there for a while, teeth chattering violently – dirty, crying, and bleeding. Finally, when the cold becomes unbearable, he crawls on the snow-covered earth, toward the nearest house, hoping it is the right one.
(But luck simply hasn't been on his side this whole life)
The three-story brick house seems to emit a golden glow. Sirius smells wafts of a Christmas turkey in the oven and freshly-baked gingerbread. He gazes in wonder at the red, green, and yellow Christmas lights, in which the house is lavishly adorned in, it was rather like sitting in a star explosion (he thinks Prongs had decorated the house), and he hears the gentle plinking of a piano, people chattering and laughing. It sounds of love and laughter and praise.
(The laughter rings in his ears)
He is giving off nothing – not even a shadow les on the white ground. He smells of sweat and dirt and blood (worse than skunk, his dear mother would say). He teastes blood and tears, salty and bitter and repulsive. And the little bit of a sweet, tangy flavour is at the tip of his tongue – it tastes of hope and warmth. And he is sure he looks like a wreck, a sad heap of bones on the doorstep – his fine silk dressrobes torn to rags, his eyes sunken and fearful, and a smudged face – a combination of crimson, brown, and water, his lips clenched in pain and sorrow. He smells like deceit, lies, and pretense.
(How the contrast shows itself.)
He lifts a bruised fist to knock on the polished rosewood door, and groans at the excruciating effort.
The music stops, and footsteps come running. The door creaks upon, and he hears cries of "Oh my, Harold!" "Jen – who is it – what the -?" and his favourite – "Welcome home, mate."
And for the first time in his sixteen years, he smiles. It's a real one – not the one he uses to sneer at Snivellus, not the one he uses on professors and parents, nor is it the one he uses on attractive girls.
It's a real genuine smile.
(He is home.)
Merry Christmas, Sharkie:)
Thank you, Cuba for beta-ing.
there's your smiley guy XD
and reviews would be very very nice -hinthintnudgenudge-