Dear Sirius…

Dear Sirius...

Whoooosh! Like a balloon flying infinitely into space and broken from its string, a broom tilted upwards fast as a stream of jet steam into the air, closer to the clouds. On this particular broomstick resided a man, who was barely a man, euphoric with his heart soaring as much as the amazing flying machine. His forehead was scratched with a thin, yet noticeable scar, zig-zaggy and oftentimes the first or second thing strangers saw in him on arrival. The famous boy, who had only semi-defeated a man (who was hardly a man) with a name wizards dared not speak. His hair was longer (he flicked a strand of it away from his face zipped through the clear blue) and more all-over-the-place than ever before, him growing slack with his grooming as he had freer reign over his caretakers the last summer. His eyes were bright like "go"-lights; green as envy, or tallest grass.

He spiraled unnecessarily to avoid a fierce Bludger, smiling as the wind ripped through the entire length of his still-skinny frame. The sun burned into his momentarily closed eyes but it was a relief to feel it through the lids. So much cold, so much empty had happened to this man, along with the few friends up in the height of the towers with him, joining in the quiet commotion of the game.

And there was a war. A war far, far beyond the simple tactics of a bout of Quidditch. A war that didn't mean losing the chance to grab a magical flying trinket out of the air, or achieve a simple victory. A war that certainly meant life, death, torture, happiness, heart-tearing sadness, and more than that.

But now... Now, now that he was finally back in his ultimate element, now the madness was left down below him, like a different vortex; an Imperius Curse could not have worked wonders on his mind as much as the gift of flight did. Everything that had ever happened in his short life was out the window, and he had absolutely no thoughts of whether they would be returning to their owner any time soon. Freedom beyond freedom. Breathing beyond breath. Life above the paranoia of doom. Gaining the one last childish, spirited movement, splooshing gleefully into a tidal wave of joy.

The boy-man heard shouts from all around him, instructions as of what to do. They needn't have bothered- he was already in the motion of lunging forward to conquer, collect his prize. A fluttering object, like a robotic kind of insect, moved sideways and back as if a deranged, airborne crab, just above a shorter goalpost. The opposing Seeker miraculously on another side of the field, he shot forward in a tear-pulling zoom, and he made an accurate grab at the sky.

It took a few seconds for him to understand that the stands nearby had erupted as if they themselves were rockets. Slowly, he fell towards the ground to plant his feet into the dirt, but not before a man bigger than him slammed into his body, an appraising, if forceful way of mutual thanks. They had won the first game of the season! A friend with hair the hue of their house came next, beaming, and they exchanged "Good games" with each other, eyes to eyes. His sneakers eventually touched the floor and the people bustled around him, excited, congratulatory, friendly, thumping him on the back. He smiled back at them all, sometimes little grins, other times wide; but he knew what he really needed to do then, at that minute, on that win. Not for the first time since he was back from Privet Drive, he felt the distinct need to get away from the crowds, the noisy, deafening people. Deftly spotting a slot between a pair of bouncing Gryffindor Beaters, he slid his way through them and bolted out of the field, and into the boys' dormitories. Once inside the safety of the castle, he opened up his suitcase, and, after much ruffling of the papers and other random objects he pulled out a few sheets of yellow-white parchment, ink and quill.

He practically sprinted into the common room, filled with post-game adrenaline, and dipped quill sloppily into a jar of ink. The words formed automatically as if spell-cast work was about, onto the very top of the paper: Dear Sirius,-

His heart dropped farther than it ever had in his existence, straight down to his toes. He suddenly could not see the hands that lay, shaking, in front of him.

That was right. He couldn't write to Sirius anymore. Never...

He was going to reveal every nook and cranny of the match for him. Tell him all about his favorite scores that his teammates had accomplished, the way it was almost outrageously easy for him to reach the Snitch without the other Seeker knowing, how he had felt freer, more pure, than he ever had, for longer than he could remember... And even if it wasn't that important of a game and he hadn't won the House Cup or anything huge, he still hadn't written to him in such, such a long time...

The entire weight of the situation was finally drawn on top of him, heavier than any cloak. Dread and grief that he had not felt since the day he had sat by the lake last semester crashed into his fraying system like a cataclysmic force. He found himself unconsciously holding the breath in him so as not to cry out in a strangled sob and be discovered. His forehead wrinkled... As did the paper, and it crushed in his hand, which was still trembling... He crumpled like a withered Autumn leaf over the surface of the table and shook with remorse.

Hundreds of times, thousands, over and over he told himself to stop, stop it, stop weakening under the pressure. Stop letting it affect him like that. Get rid of it all now. Any of those awful, painful feelings, memories... Dispose of it. It didn't matter anymore. There was nothing he could do now. Sirius was gone. Don't do it. Don't cry. Don't....

It was too much, too much for him to stand at one time. He couldn't believe that the spot that once filled a certain Animagus Sirius Black, his Godfather, his first real parental-esque figure, had disintegrated from life. At first, it hadn't seemed possible to him, then it did, and then it didn't, and now... He was just back to when he had stormed up Dumbledore's office the previous semester. He was back...

He hid his face from imaginary view, tugging at his black hair. He was falling, falling... falling... and all the while, throughout his departure with normality that he treasured, a portion of him never wanted to reach the ground.... And yet another needed desperately to hit the rock-hard surface with a force. Just like with flying.... No. He never wanted to leave the pitch.

Then why was he letting himself go now?

His piece of paper was wet, stained...

He heard footsteps, dangerously close by. "Harry?" It was unmistakably Ron's voice. He came closer, to where his beaten friend sat. "There you are, Harry, the guys're all going to the kitchens to snag us a couple pastries, we thought that you'd-" He stopped upon seeing the appearance of Harry, shabby, red, stubbornly tearstained, and hunched over. He seemed to be at a loss for words at what he saw. "Harry, what..."

He came closer to him; Harry felt like running, getting away from Ron, leaving the world altogether, becoming invisible... He lifted his heavy head. "It's nothing," he muttered croakily. "It's just..."

He somehow did not need to finish the sentence. Ron crossed his arms, in a more nonchalant way than he felt. "Sirius, right?"

Harry snorted. "How'd you know?" he said half-sarcastically, half-marveling. How would Ron know? The Quidditch match had nothing whatsoever to do with old Padfoot.

Ron sat down in another armchair, Harry's favorite. For a moment, he looked as if he did not have the proper words are his at his advantage. And then, Ron spoke: "I remember... when dad almost died- blimey,

he's practically like your dad now, isn't he? - last year... I felt just the same way. The same way as you do now. I know... You'll probably be thinking that I don't have any clue as to how you feel. I mean, how could I know? But I do. I felt like crying, you know." He held Harry's reluctant gaze seriously. "That night. I honestly did. I felt like sobbing and crying out and just bawling, right there, in that room in Grimmauld place, and in front of everyone. I mean, you know... there was a huge chance that Dad was going to kick it, what else could I do? Hold it all in?" He sighed. "I guess that's exactly what I did, right? Stupid... Daft. I mean, it would have made me look bloody horrible, but that shouldn't have mattered- he was my dad. I should have let it out if I really needed to, never mind all the other people in the room." He might have put his arm on Harry's shoulder then, but he did not. Having sensed this, Harry felt grateful. He didn't think that he would have been able to stand that much sentiment, least not in one sitting.

Ron scratched the back of his ear distractedly. "It's a good thing that you're... getting it out now, Harry. Because, well, you know what happens when it all gets bottled up for too long, eh?" He grinned at him knowingly. To his great surprise, Harry found himself smiling feebly in return.

"I just wish... that I could still write a letter to him, but I know there's no way. Mental, huh?"

His counterpart looked thoughtful. "Nah, I wouldn't say so. There are plenty of times that I wish I could still talk to him in the fire too, ya'know. And who's to say that you can't still say something to him now and again, anyway?"

"How do you mean?"

His face became solemn. "If you believe in afterlife and all of that." He got up from where he sat and surveyed the room, as if he was making sure that there wasn't anything he would have needed for snack hunting in there. "We'll be down in the kitchens, alright? You can come if you want to. See you." And then he left.

Harry felt changed by his abrupt departure. That would have had to been one of the deepest things Ron had ever let himself say, least of all to him. Mind still on what he had told him, he smeared away the wetness on his cheeks on the back of his robe's sleeve. Maybe he should go with the boys to get some food. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do. Not like, say, writing a letter...

On the off chance that Sirius was actually up there and listening to what he had to say, peeking through the planets to see how he was, Harry tilted his head to the ceiling and said under his breath, "'Bye, Sirius." And he left the dormitory to join the others.

And the newborn note lay still on the table, the words still etched in its flesh....