I Am Still the Stray

I Am Still the Stray

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place belongs to me. Great news. I definitely do not belong to Grimmauld Place.

Even being trapped in this miserable room is better than returning there. Than acting as the host to all the members of the Order, in that house I swore I'd never set foot in again. I said they can have it as the headquarters, but I'm not going to stay there for long. The mere thought turns sitting on this windowsill on my own the whole day into luxury.

Just sitting here. I'm getting used to not jumping around. There's no need to hide in corners or run away. Search for food. Or for the rat. Nothing I need to do.

My eyes wander down the shabby alleys. I smell the rotten waste in the warm breeze. The smell of death - and of life. I can sense - yes, I can sense again and it's not the eerie unreal cold, the cold beyond numbness that drowned me... I got out two years ago. It's gone. Now, I can sense life, and hope, and freedom even in that slavery of working for a mere pittance.

But do these people sense it, who were never truly trapped and drowned and lost from life? Does that man dragging his feet against the pavement, following his long shadow, with the red of the setting sun on his back - does he sense the simple pleasure in all this? The smell of rubbish reassures you there is food, actually even abundance. Your muscles aching after work, your pace slowing down on the way back home, promise that after a good night's rest you'll have the strength for another working day.

Or even for following the alley beyond what you can see. Nobody will catch and stop you, if you leave this slavery. Choose another - better or worse, but voluntarily. Cherish every bite of bread, every chance to lay your body down in a bearably warm place. Every smile or sigh - shared with someone perhaps, voluntarily.

I'm getting used to him.

I turn and examine the empty room once again. It's like examining my mind. I got out two years ago. And still it's empty. Or maybe today I agree to see what he has gathered and saved in the corners. In the middle, too, there is something I often refuse to see. There is no table. He has placed a broad plank on two crates for a makeshift desk. I have to admit it's there, though I almost made it collapse that night I'd prefer not to think about again.

The memory of how I came to see him only a few months ago - and how I managed to stay only for one night... it haunts me. Is it because there are so few other memories of him? If I could, would I try to reach any?

What would I do with memories? Would I use them to push away these images?

There is even quite a comfortable chair next to the table. He has conjured a new chair in the morning, and it won't disappear before he's back from work.

He sat there himself, too, of course, in the gloom preceding dawn. With cold flames on his left palm, slowly turning the pages of yesterday's paper, which his hideous landlady had, of course, like every evening, out of malice forced him to beg for. Had he not read enough of the bad news, the pointless articles, the ads for jobs which don't exist for him in any case? He'd hardly had better company than the Daily Prophet last night either. But he'd put it aside and tried to talk to me.

I can't push away his intention to conjure the chair for me, too. I've refused to get up to share breakfast with him, so he soon stopped conjuring two. These days I almost manage not to sense him waking up. It's not so hard now that, with this weather, we can sleep separately, on different sides of the room. I used to watch him, but now I don't have to. The images are there in any case. The image of him having his breakfast, and the image of him sleeping.

And what he's left on this makeshift desk for me. I slide down from the windowsill and walk towards the desk, though I don't need to look. The newspaper, of course. He knows I'm fond of those.

If I haven't transformed before, I turn into Padfoot the dog at the latest when he goes down to beg for the paper. I leap halfway down the stairs after him, then growl to make him give the paper to me, and I carry it in my mouth. It's easy to remain Padfoot after I've had that excuse and even played with him. What else can he demand from me? He says: "Pads, sit down."

I approach him obediently, but I am still the stray who both yearns for and fears the touch. I curl up at his feet, and he bends down to caress my head, and he smiles. He talks to me, but for Padfoot it's quite easy not to listen. Soon he tries to make me become Sirius, the man, again. He tries talking; he tries not talking. I can sense how tired and lonely he is, and Padfoot the stray is scared. He is not going to try tears and hugs now, is he? That fear is usually enough for the man to appear finally - so as to struggle to give him at least one-word replies to all the strange questions, or to tell him again about the Triwizard Tournament.

But last night, before my fear for his expressions of emotions and vulnerability got unbearable, he gathered his strength and grinned mischievously. He grabbed my tail and threatened to bite it. He actually pressed his teeth hard on it. I wanted to get rid of my trapped tail.

As a man I was still lying there, curled up at his feet. He was bent down, his face close to my backside, and he laughed. But before I managed to join in his laughter, it died and turned into embarrassing silence. Had he read confusion in my eyes first? And why? Was there a memory I had almost reached? There must have been. The game implied that we had played it before.

He finally mustered another grin. "Do you remember...?"

I interrupted him almost in panic: "Yes, I do. I know everything. I know what each of us meant to the other. I know. But I can't see it and I don't think I want to try."

"You don't want me to help you see...?"

"I'm sorry. I want to sleep."

I did not need sleep. He did.

That's what happens every night. He is exhausted and falls asleep easily. I'm relieved to sense his breathing changed, to know his eyes have closed. Now he always leaves the cold flames on the floor between us. He has realized that I can feel lost in darkness, if I wake up. Though in a moment I easily sense that this darkness is not like that...

I toss and turn on my mattress. My body has regained the memory of real comfortable beds, but I've told it not to complain. It could endure sleeping on icy cold stone, and it's actually tempted to demand compensation. But the reason I keep changing position is to make him stop thinking it means anything whether I turn my back on him or face him.

He never turns away. Until sleep overcomes him, he keeps his eyes open. He doesn't stare at me, but his gentle gaze is there, available. I don't watch him any longer, but the image can't be erased from my mind. The only warmth revealed by the dancing flames is in his eyes, in the lines of a tiny smile at the corners of his mouth. His face is still gaunt and pale.

Most of the work he's found recently has been inside. Washing dishes at Muggle restaurants. That is quite practical. After fulfilling some tasks for the Order, he can work in the evening to pay the debt on his rent. And he brings home some food straight from work almost every night. He is happy to surprise me: to bring me some modern Muggle stuff I have not even heard of. But I know that behind such a disguise, he simply rejoices in his ability to feed me. That's something I don't mind. My stomach is getting used to proper and abundant food again. My body enjoys eating. Besides, with food in my mouth I don't have to talk.

Last night the surprise was a big chunk of chocolate cake. A bit dry, but perfect with tea. I did not complain. But as I went to bed so abruptly, we did not finish it.

He's left it on the desk for me. Here's the photo album, too. The one I've refused to open another time. I retreat to the window again.

If I see them like that, there's no way to reach the original. What is the original? In any case I catch myself wishing that some day I could look at the photographs with him. If only to give him the pleasure. He has managed to keep that small album with him all these years. In that briefcase we gave to him almost as a joke. All the most valuable of what he has managed to gather in his life, he has kept secret and safe. Now he takes some of it out of the briefcase, and from the corners, and spreads it on the desk for me.

But I can't let him show me anything in such a way. If I dared ask him to tell me. If I dared listen. His words would show me. His voice.

Not his touch. I am startled by the touch. Any touch. That's how it's always been.

James punching me on the side, grabbing my arm, clinging on my back. Was it repulsion? Or was I afraid? How could I have been afraid? I was as strong as he was. And it even excited me. It was exactly what I wanted. I tackled him, and we wrestled constantly. I realized it only when I finally noticed the warm amber eyes following us incessantly, as if enchanted. What was I doing?

I clung to James. He talked about what to do with girls, and that was exactly what I wanted. You don't get to do much somewhere like Hogwarts. James talked, so as to make Evans jealous, and to make us and everyone believe he could get anyone he wanted. I did not talk that much. I hardly glanced at the girls, but to know their eyes were following me was just what I wanted. Or maybe not. I knew what to do.

The little blonde was trembling against the closet door and I pushed my tongue in between her lips. I was groping down and getting there when I heard her sobbing. The Ravenclaw head girl grabbed me and that was just what I wanted. No, I don't want to see this.

No one dared to touch me against my will. I was from the Black family and in Gryffindor against their wish. What I did was what I wanted. That's how it had always been.

Before I came to school, I wanted to play with the older boys: Rodolphus, Lucius and their friends. All from good pureblood families, of course, though not as good as the Black family. Good enough to move in the same circles with us. I had no doubts about the significance of pure blood at that time. My parents had to be respected by all the rest. But they had no right to tell me what to do - force me to dress up, to talk politely to all the disgusting visitors, or not to try those potions which made us feel high and not terribly ill. Why should they have cared now when we locked ourselves in a room during the big parties and had our own party?

Mr. and Mrs. Black had not cared before. When a respectable guest of theirs had returned from upstairs looking more gratified than after the usual dessert. When their son had hidden on the windowsill behind the thick curtains. To sit there huddled against the frozen windowpane. Wondering what had happened to him, or trying not to think about it. They did not ask, or find out and tell him, too. I had to learn more by myself, and those older boys were kind enough to help me.

No, I don't want to see that.

I can't stand sitting on this windowsill either. Or should I stay? This window is open to the warm evening breeze. The wood and metal of the frame still radiate the heat of the day. I stroke it cautiously, then leave it, approach the desk, which is admittedly there. I sit down on the chair, which he conjured for me, too.

Will he come to stay with me at Grimmauld Place? Am I going to stay there? I can't believe this. What did I expect from Dumbledore? Now he appeals to my loyalty to the Order. The Order of the Phoenix needs the place as the headquarters, and he implied that this is the only thing I can do to contribute in the war. Why does it have to be? I could just go and bite Malfoy, or any Death Eater. And let them kill me then. Rather than return to Grimmauld Place.

Or maybe I can do it just to irritate my family. Why did they let it pass to me? Must have been a trick to avoid some taxes. They thought I'd never be back. They'll be mad to know that I really took it in my possession. And that they can't even find it because of the Fidelius Charm. That I brought some friends they despised. Even a werewolf. He must come. But to be locked in there... Well, it won't last. We'll catch the rat and everyone will know. We'll win the war and I'll be set free soon. Or I'll break free.

For him, it'll be good to get out of here. To stop getting deeper and deeper into debt for his rent. He must move to live at the headquarters. So we'll switch roles. They're making arrangements to get money out of my vault at Gringotts. Great news again. I'm actually rich. I still have the right to my gold. And that's plain ridiculous. I have no right to my soul, but my rights to my property are secured.

And he'll stay with me. Is that ridiculous, too? He'd be there for me, but in me there is... nothing.

I have what he's spread out for me. He's started leaving books on this desk, too. As if I ever enjoyed reading novels to pass my time. This one looks familiar. I remember he used to read parts of this aloud to us at school. He's marked a page here, towards the end of the thick volume.

"I mean plain ordinary rest, and sleep, and waking up to a morning's work in a garden."

Now I can hear his voice.

"Sirius," is all he says.

I stand up abruptly, glance at him. He's entered the room and he walks to me reaching out his hand. "May I?"

Thrusting the book to his hand, I turn to go back to sit on the windowsill. But he follows me and sits down at the other end of the large window, almost facing me. He lifts the book so that he catches the last light of evening to help him read.

"Still, I wonder if we shall ever be put into songs or tales. We're in one, of course; but I mean: put into words, you know, told by the fireside..."

Now, with my eyes closed, I can almost see his face.

I sit on the floor, so close to the fireplace that the bright flames almost burn my bare arms, poking at the wood and embers with a coal rake. Because of the heat I've rolled up the sleeves of my robes, and I admire the muscles in my arms, the hairs that shine in the warm flickering light. I spare hardly a glance at the two boys beside me on the hearthrug. The blond head and the black one. Even James has closed his eyes, relaxed, perhaps half asleep.

The two heroes in the story are alone and in a tight spot. I can hear in his voice that he is moved by their suffering, eager to share something wonderful with us, and scared that we will ruin it by yawning, if not laughing. I turn to look at him. Now I can see his face.

I can see all of him. He is sprawled in an armchair, with his feet dangling over the armrest. His bare feet, the thin ankles, and the slender white arms, and his hands holding the heavy book - the only parts showing of his frail, tormented body. The hair on his forehead shines golden in the warm light, and his beautiful face looks flushed with engagement in the story and with the chance to share it with us.

"You shouldn't make fun. I was serious."

Here I am about to say something, but I close my mouth. He stops for a moment and I move my stare from the scar on his left arm. This is when our eyes meet. His intent gaze tells me to keep quiet, reassures me that the last words were in the book, too. We share a grin, a cheerful but respectful one. He continues reading. I move slightly to escape the heat. And by the time he reaches the end of the scene and the two heroes are still alone, I'm leaning against his chair and I continue to stare up at his face.

"Lay your head in my lap."

After those words he closes the book, and I do as he's asked me to.

The End.