Full Circle

Full Circle

Losing the star without a sky

Losing the reasons why
You're losing the calling that you've been faking
And I'm not kidding

It's damned if you don't and it's damned if you do
Be true 'cause they'll lock you up in a sad sad zoo
Oh hidy hidy hidy what cha tryin' to prove
By hidy hidy hiding you're not worth a thing

--Cat Power, "Metal Heart"

With the heavy velvet curtains drawn, it's hard to tell what time it is. Or even whether it's day or night. The clock on the bedside table says 1:53. 1:53 in the morning, or in the afternoon?

Guess it doesn't really matter either way.

The big mystery is solved when I open up the curtains. The sun is as bright as hell. I close them back up and sit on the bed. They really look like bordello curtains or something. I guess it's the lace edging that does it. I ought to change the sheets, as they're starting to look a little grey. Instead, I have a stare at the wall for a while. Thankfully, there aren't any portraits of creepy ancestors with permanent sticking charms on them. Not in my room, anyway. Just bare stone.

The kitchen is a bloody mess. Last night's dinner is all over the table: roasted chicken, potatoes, some weird broccoli thing Tonks made last week. I ought to clean up. Maybe give Buckbeak what's left of the chicken.

It's funny how much of my life can be reduced to what I "ought to" do. I ought to wash my hair, as it's starting to look as greasy as Snape's. I ought to clean up after myself. I ought to drink a little less, sleep a little more, and refrain from punting Kreacher across the parlor.

But what I really ought to do is rot away in this miserable heap of stones they call a house and keep my head down while Voldemort tap-dances on my best mate's grave.

Buckbeak is grateful for a little variety in his diet. Although I must admit that watching him crunch down those rats is rather satisfying.

Mother's lovely black Black satin sheets are covered in congealed rat blood, hippogriff saliva, and excrement of all shapes and sizes. Also satisfying. Kreacher tried to abscond with the sheets a few weeks ago--"To wash of them, Master,"--but I pitched him out of the room by his ears. Crusty git.

On the table in the foyer there's a copy of the Prophet that someone left behind. Big story on the front page about the Fudge/Umbridge crackdown on Dark Creatures. I pick it up. According to the article, it's now not only virtually impossible to employ aforesaid "Dark Creatures"--vampires, hags, werewolves et al.--but marriage between Dark Creatures and Humans is illegal. As is reproduction. Here's a choice bit: "It is the hope of the Minister for Magic that by preventing the reproduction of Dark Creatures, Britain's plague of vampire and werewolf attacks and the like will abate dramatically. Preventing these creatures from spawning offspring could, in fact, purge Wizarding Britain of all Dark Creatures after as little as one generation. One may be inclined to regard Mr. Fudge's new policy as nothing short of visionary." Percy Weasley, special assistant to the Minister of Magic. Figures. Old Percy reminds me of someone... someone I'd pay a great deal of money to forget about. I feel a strong urge to toss Buckbeak a few dead rats.

Mother snores complacently in her portrait. I'm pretty tempted to throw open her curtains and antagonize her until she passes out or gives herself another nosebleed. Maybe later. I ought to clean up.

First I reckon I ought to slop out the kitchen in case Remus should come home from his mission early. He's at some Death Eater werewolf recruitment meeting. Recon work. I must remember not to look overtly envious. If he comes back.

"Master does not need to clean, sir. Kreacher will clean."

"JESUS CHRIST!" I drop an empty bottle of Ogden's Own.

"Apologies," the little git mutters unconvincingly. "Kreacher did not mean to startle Master."

"Sure you didn't. And you needn't clean. I know you'll only run off with..." I cast about for something Kreacher hasn't yet managed to steal and I haven't yet managed to toss. "The china."

"As Master wishes." Kreacher bows and skulks out of the kitchen, looking disappointed and muttering in a carrying voice about filthy blood-traitors. Crusty git.

"Reparo," I growl, tossing the spent bottle into an over-flowing dust-bin.

The doorbell. It's still remarkable to me that people--after having been told dozens of times to the contrary--continue to ring that stupid doorbell. But then, they probably have more important matters on their mind than a mere trifle like preserving my sanity.

"Good afternoon, Sirius." It's Molly.

"Hello, Molly," I reply with as much hospitable good cheer as I can muster while trying to pull Mother's moldy curtains over her portrait as she screams expletives, insults, and invocations to the gods to strike me down.

"Let me help you with that," Molly says, grabbing the curtains and giving them a momentous tug. After a few minutes of an epic struggle the likes of which Homer would have been thrilled to recount, filled as it was with pathos, hubris, and tragic downfalls, Molly and I retire to the now spotless kitchen.

Sighing dramatically and accepting my slightly ironic offer of tea and biscuits, Molly now begins to shoot off her mouth about how dreadful it is to have "the children" off at school.

"I just feel so hopeless, with them in that woman's clutches," Molly says, sipping at her tea. "Goodness only knows what kind of tripe she's filling their heads with. I hear she's being absolutely malicious with dear Harry... and Arthur off all day long either at the office or guarding that filthy corridor. I'm absolutely at my wit's end."

I open my mouth, then shut it. Best not to alienate the only people who ever come round to see me. But it's pretty bloody rich for Molly Weasley to complain about being bored or isolated or whatever the hell her problem is.

"Is Remus back yet?" Molly asks, jerking me out of my head.

"No."

"I hope he's alright," she says uncertainly.

"They're Dark Creatures, Molly. He's a Dark Creature." I add under my breath, "Apparently."

"I guess so," she answers, frowning.

"He can fend for himself, trust me." I don't know quite what else to say. I hope that last bit didn't come out too aggressive. There's nothing much else to talk about. I'm wondering why exactly Molly decided to stop by.

"The place looks lovely," Molly comments, running her hand over the pitted surface of the table.

"Thank you," I say automatically. The truth is, the place is a shit-hole, despite the continual efforts of several adults imbued with supernatural powers to make it somewhat habitable.

Molly, it seems, is thinking along similar lines. "You know, it may not be so cozy as one would like, but it's not all bad. Plenty of room to spread out."

I can't muster a response beyond a monosyllabic affirmative.

"I mean, you could practically fit the whole Order in here if you wanted. I know Remus is grateful that you've room for him to live here. How horrible that Umbridge woman's new anti-Werewolf policies are! Did you read today's paper? It must be humiliating for poor Remus. Although I must say, I only knew and thought of werewolves what everyone else told me until I met him. People are very, very misinformed about his kind, and isn't it a shame? He's such a charming man..."

Molly continues with her monologue on werewolf rights while I have a look at the walls of the kitchen. There are subtle differences between these and the ones in my room. For one thing, the grain of the stone is going in a different direction. The stone itself is of a darker shade. Maybe it's the same stone, but from a different vein. Or mine. Then, it could just be stained darker from centuries of grease spattering up from the stove. And the smoke, we mustn't forget. Although, house-elves in centuries past must have had some handy cleansing charms to take care of that. The Blacks would certainly not allow stains on their precious Venetian slate. Or whatever the hell it is. Different mine then. Or vein.

Sometimes, I really just want to end it all.

"You really ought to cut your hair, Sirius. I think Bill's taken your example to an extreme. His is nearly down to his elbows now," Molly hyperbolizes, holding her hand against her own plump elbows. Just when I start to regret never having settled down with a Nice Girl, I get a friendly little reminder in the form of one Molly Weasley that perhaps being a single man is more--

"Next thing, Harry's going to grow his hair out," Molly says, munching idly on a biscuit. She laughs, apparently imagining Harry's already recalcitrant hair being grown to an obscene length. I ought to offer Molly more tea. Christ.

"Would you like some more tea, Molly?"

"Oh, no thank you Sirius. I actually ought to head off... I'm on duty soon," Molly says, glancing at her watch.

The house is eerily quiet once she leaves. It's 5:32.

"So bloody early," I comment to the empty house.

Mother snorts in her sleep, the curtains quivering menacingly.

I take a shower, playing my favorite game. The game is: turn the water as hot as you can stand it, then, quickly as possible, turn it as cold as you can. Repeat until you're bored out of your skull/suffering from severe hypothermia. I used to be quite good at my game, but I must have lost it when I was in Azkaban. Can't stand the extremes nearly so well as I used to.

After sitting on my bed for a while in my towel, I muster motivation enough to dress. I reward myself with a cigarette. Molly would probably had a fit if she knew I smoked in the house--despite the fact, of course, that it's my house. I usually blame the smell on Dung. I want to visit Buckbeak, but he doesn't like cigarette smoke either. I think it must irritate his eyes.

So I have a smoke in the kitchen, where the tea and biscuits are still lying around. I wonder what the point is of cleaning up if things are just going to go on getting dirty all over again.

It's then that I decide not to have dinner, because I'll have to clean up only to get the kitchen dirty again. And then clean up once more. I'd rather go hungry; it's not like I'm not used to it, in any case. Going hungry, that is.

I think I might write Harry. But I can't think of anything normal to write that wouldn't be construed as a desperate cry for help. So I leave it.

It's already 10:20.

I decide to have another look at the stone wall for a bit.

"Haven't you had any dinner?"

I swing around at the voice abruptly breaking into my admittedly disturbing interior monologue about the stone walls.

Remus. For Merlin's sake, why does everyone have to scare the hell out of me all day?

"You're back early," I comment helpfully.

"Yes, it didn't take so long as I expected," Remus says, sitting down and waving his hand at the pack of cigarettes I offer him. It's kind of a joke between us. I like to offer them as often as I can. He's never had one in his life. He reckons his life'll be plenty short enough without sucking down 836 different sorts of poisons in one neat cylindrical package. But I always offer anyway.

Ha ha.

"Read the Prophet?" I ask.

Remus suddenly looks even older and more tired than usual. "Yes, it came out the morning of the Death Eaters' meeting with the Dark Creatures they're trying to recruit."

"How convenient," I observe.

"Very," Remus says, pouring himself some Ogden's Own. I debate whether or not to comment on the hypocrisy implicit on Remus's consumption of alcohol and his universal rejection of tobacco products. But that one's gotten old after about twenty years.

"Malfoy, do you reckon?" I ask.

"Probably. Or someone he paid off, I shouldn't wonder." Remus sighs and throws back a shot. Somehow he doesn't look so old when doing so. Maybe it's just me remembering the way he used to look when he drank.

When we all drank.

"That little edict's got to be a bit upsetting, Moony. Are you--"

"Am I what? Going to walk round the Ministry with a little sign, protesting? Send letters to the Daily Prophet that the editor would sooner eat than publish? Do me a favor."

It's not often that Remus gets this upset. It's hard for me to think of anything remotely comforting to say. But he's my mate--the only mate I've got--so I had better bloody well say something.

"Listen, Moony, Fudge'll be out of office so soon that bloody idiotic policy of his probably won't even be implemented."

"Do you have any idea how unpopular it would be for any subsequent Minister to remove that act? About ninety percent of the wizarding population actually thinks Fudge has the right idea, not allowing us to..." Remus pauses to swallow another shot, "Breed."

"Well, that's a bit of a steep estimation," I answer bracingly.

"It was in the late edition, they did a survey," Remus mutters.

Oh.

"Well, Fudge practically owns the Prophet, they must be inflated figures. At least a bit."

Remus shrugs in that way he has. The shrug where he's simultaneously pretending that everything's fine but desperately hoping you'll ask what's wrong.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Molly came to me earlier today. She said she'd visited you. Said you worried her."

"Is my hair grown too long then?"

"She said you just stared at the wall for about forty minutes while she was trying to talk to you. She said that you only said about eight words the entire afternoon."

"That's a bit strong, isn't it?" I ask indignantly. What gives that stupid cow the right to go mouthing off about what a nutter I am to Remus, who, God knows, has enough problems without worrying about the state of my mental health? "And anyway, she was completely monopolizing the conversation. I'm surprised I managed to get eight whole words in edgewise."

Remus stares. I hate when he does that. He has one of those really intense glares that makes you feel like a naughty seven year old being told off by a particularly strict father.

"Do I need to worry about you, Sirius?" he finally asks.

"No," I answer a bit too emphatically to be entirely convincing. "Look Remus, I've just got a bit of cabin-fever. I'll be fine. I've had much worse, trust me," I add with a smile which serves to make Remus look even more concerned.

"Trust is the basis of every meaningful relationship," I inform him sternly, brandishing the bottle of firewhiskey for effect.

"If you're sure you're alright..."

"I am," I say. One of those weird moments where you can hear yourself talking.

"Alright. I'm off to bed. I haven't had a kip in days," Remus says, washing out his glass with the flick of his wand. I want to argue with him, make him keep me company.

But that would be immature. He hasn't slept in days.

There aren't any windows in the kitchen, so I might've spent all night in there with old Ogden and not known it. But as I climb the stairs, I see that the windows on the ground floor are still dark. The grandfather clock reads 12:36. I've always reckoned that time passes in here at half the rate it does in the outside world. It used to drive me barking mad as a kid. Regulus and I always talked about making an experiment out of it, leaving a watch outdoors and seeing if it matched the clock inside after a day or two.

We never did, though.

Still, I ought to sleep. It used to be that, after enough whiskey, I could sleep for hours and hours of dreamless, death-like sleep. But now drinking only makes me toss and turn. Getting old is endlessly humiliating.

I take some more rats up to Buckbeak instead. His wing muscles are beginning to atrophy.

"You and me both," I mutter.

I go back to my room. I decide to try and force myself to sleep.

I try, and--shockingly--fail. I reward myself another cigarette. I put it out on the foul bordello curtains, which curl up defensively in response and sort of squeal. Weird.

Take another look at the clock. It's 1:53.