Tale of the damned

They say that upon glancing death, one trembles.

Did I? I doubt it. I doubt the pain I felt was far that which was to come - I felt I have consumed it by far by contemplating that which has been. I doubt the soreness springing from amid my veins, the same that had entrapped my soul mercilessly, rendering it numb, was caused by fear. For even the latter, I had by now exhausted whereas I was caught in that little labyrinth of feign and deceit, of anger or lust, the same which they call my mind.

He came to me a again: by now I can distinguish their scent from a thousand, their shadows from the darkness to which all has succumbed. I am certain death itself could have chosen a better host than the seemingly drained bodies of these creatures already spawned by the night. Even the cloak they indulged in wearing bore upon it the signs of decryption. And their eyes...I had gazed to one's eyes, and had not looked aside, I had absorbed his unawareness of true beauty and tranquility whereas he fed in my need of constant guilt. What would they take? What had I to offer?

In that, I had been blessed. My true demise had come long before they could bring it upon me: and while I glanced with unease to my said "companions", all clinging to their cells and remains of sanity, I blemished within the luxury of having never known hatred more intense than in those moments. They all sought to lean onto their joy. I did so onto my anger. And still, I survived.

The door of my cell opens with the characteristic squash, as emerging through the chapel of my memories is another of their kind, as absent through my judgment as I to his. Why is it they never seem to walk but rather float? Just so to torment one's conscience, they seem to be omniscient, only appearing in those times when you feel you've no way to lower even more. Perhaps there are wider lengths still to irony, as throughout my..."confinement", I've lived to experience them fully.

I know I have been something of a task for them: the one that refused to give up and be devoured. By not submitting to my own feelings, I had become a case that to them appeared as little but a trifle: a prize for the one truly worthy to possess. So that by now, upon seeing them descend the blackened staircase, approaching with caution, I already pondered on the various methods they would use to convert me. They had had numerous attempts: what would one more be to them?

As it comes in, I raise both my hands, the symbol as yet another I would use to defy them: by that I asked for my cuffs to be removed, for yes, they have cuffed me as they would a muggle, thinking, perhaps, that deprivation of mobility to reform a wand would in any way discourage me. They seldom do, and still I try, because like that I let them know they fear, they acknowledge my power as far superior to their own...

The Dementor's eyes pierce to me in their complete void: alone I am the sole remnant to have gazed back and survived. For all I have accomplished is ruined by far before I may lower my glance : somehow, despite of my own resolve, I always concede, I look down. Time has conditioned me to great extents, and still I am unable to resist them. I shall be strengthened: my abhorrence nourishes my endurance. And one day, one blessed day, I will find it in me to resist, to counter their lack of essence with my vigor: I shall look up. But that sacred instant has yet to come, and I am faced to the weakness generated by my own mortal limits.

The cloak does not leave him, sheltering that altar of horror to which the eyes were centered as maelstroms. Do I still care? No. Do I shudder unconsciously at each turn? I beg to differ. Do I wish for it to stop and let me be? Hardly - they entertain me by far more than I believe to do so to them. And still, I wish for something. I wish... I wish I could still smile.

I wish I could be free to open my eyes and no longer succumb to the tiring misery in which I have drawn, or to the cruel reality that has overwhelmed my numb senses whereas I laid in the purest state of vulnerability. I am no longer a whole: all I had, they have stolen from me - no longer may I lift my gaze to be filled by the view of purity and serenity - what is peace to he who knows not but despair? I am but a fragment of what I was: as a butterfly, they have set me loose on a world that was still not ready to receive the gift, but instead chose to tear it by far harder than the flash it had banded to blood and bone.

They ripped off my wings.

I would have flied and experienced only the echoes of pain now filtered through the prism of my own naïve mentality, clinging to the wretched ideals of both friendship and honesty. And how was I to end...? Betrayed by neither the man nor beast, but by myself. As higher I rose, just as easily I fell, until I found myself exploring the abyss in which my mind had turned.

I feel its finger strapped onto my wrist, the long curves molding onto those of my sickened arm, the coldness in them matching that in my heart. The light had abandoned it, and in a time when perhaps I would have welcomed it, not even the dark chose to come to my aid. Avoided by that which I had created. I remember wishing, a few days after they had brought me in, that for a moment I would just let go and grasp the ironed bars of my cells and break free. To such extent they had driven me. I did , I recall - I grabbed the ones to my one opening, through which a dim glow, perhaps as faint as I, slipped with ease, then forcefully pushed it away. How did I manage? I am unaware, though it would seem natural for my spirit no longer craving for redemption, could have been fueled by the fury. I am, in turn, human and the rage is known to overwhelm the feeble minded. But what I rejoice on is that complete lack of self-absorption which took me to such a degree that, upon feeling the cold light bathing my closed eyes, I took a deep breath then nodded. It is how they found me, hours later: with the possibility to reach to the outside, and still craving to remain.

Why stay? The thought had encircled me for days after that specific event, and despite of their initial fears of possible plans of escape on my behalf, they let me stay there, to contemplate the own level of my guilt, to never surpass that barrier my conscience had built and to which it damned it. The thought of freedom filled my mind, before just as easily dissipating with glee. It left in me a bitter taste, it had me choke as I felt it like ashes sprained onto my throat...

I would be free. Whereas James and Lilly would never reach from amid their tomb, the one in which I had planted them. For make no mistake, the blame was mine and mine alone. I should have seen in Peter the signs, I should have smelled his fear as the hound in which I indulged myself would smell the decay that all of Pettigrew's said samples of affection and care would leave behind. But such were the trifles of love: love tied a blackened veil onto one's sight, it deafened the one it had entrapped, and as easily as it poisoned the psyche with plots of sweetness, it reduced it to a shadow of its former self.

He had been blind, and all reckless acts must be paid with an unequalled sacrifice: to him, Lily and James had been the price.

The Dementor's hands are now both tied to my joints. Why the memories, why now? Why after so many years...? Is this the newest form of torture? Perhaps I should give the Dementors just a bit more credit... The coldness has again reached my heart, holding it as a prized artifact it had best not renounce: in the qualm I have instilled, the sudden cripple of emotion is like the first drop to destroy the image of an untainted pond...

I turn my head: this time, I have no desire to look. Forgive me, James, forgive me, but not even in your name do I once more feel the strength pouring in my blood like a fire...maybe it has burned out, like your reflection which I find day by day harder to discern through the shadows...have I told you, James how when I think of you, I see the smiling picture of the boy you were? Each time younger, each time merrier. We were children, James, children until the very moment of your demise, infants in our young thoughts of a fair existence to which we had been bestowed.

Even now...

Even now I attempt to close my eyes, and find myself unable to do so. Because a part of me, a darker side I had hoped to keep as hidden as that smile I have yet to show to the world in these dire circumstances, desired the eternal solemnity and peace that death alone may offer. And still...

I have never felt this way before. Was I not one of you? I am he to which not a hundred jolts of pain thrust in my heart can discourage and neither the dread nor the memories shall have back away. I am a Marauder.

The void both empties and seals me: I become one with it, and it with me, for when it shall be gone, there will be but I. And my hatred.

The now glancing to me ...is not a Dementor.

The shape is soon not that of a turned undead, but both flesh and skin are reunited upon that pale face, composing the figure I had for long now detested and pitied all in one: the first, for what he had done, the second for not having known the same mercy on the Creator's part so to have met caring. He, as I, was unaccompanied throughout life. And we have both fought all which opposed us to gain that which we are: but I have seen the other road and followed it, whereas he had continued on the cursed path that had led him to embracing oblivion.

I have so much to say.

And still the words stuck in his my mouth, they caught not life upon his dry lips, they ceased long before they had come to existence.

Because in front of me stands Voldemort.

As all my life's worth dilemmas come back in a sickening wild rhythm, all the questions are left unanswered, all the insults and pained cries and pleas are reduced to little but shreds of my former course of existence, I have but one inquiry in which finding the answer, I hope to prevail...

Will I look down?

Silence.

The word holds so much more importance to it than to first meet the eye. It implies peace - the peace that I much craved for. It means balance, yet another of my goals, the one thing that would drive all the unwanted unease experienced even when among my so-called allies...

This is not the silence of the light-hearted, but the same as that prior to a storm: the infinite quiet to be followed by a full outburst of sound and light, merged into a chaotic balm to both body and mind.

To say that all which I am now lays shattered is to not even begin to fully comprehend the deepness of the misery in which I have sunk. I look, and my eye refuse to permit such an image be bond to my orbits...but...how is it the rest do not fall pray to a similar dread?

By now more than half a dozen of Dementors have passed aside my cell, all engaged in that irritating float that would always awake me from my reverie. How so? Understandable: they appear as part of cruel nightmares, and still, they decline to fade - much like shadows, they are a greater part of reality than my feeble mind is willing to accept. And still, none of them had stopped to inspect the inert figure, the drained shelter of a just an as broken spirit, kneed towards one of their ilk.

Could they not distinguish the deadly features from underneath the cloak, the hood now spread upon the back of he who I held no reluctance upon calling a monster?

I fear that should I even wish to rise, I will be unable to do so. My feet no longer possess the ability to serve their master properly: at first little but a smooth ache to have then, in a matter of instants subjugated the last fortress I cherished, my own pitiful body, in the form of pure agony. But what keeps me in greater terror still, is that, perhaps, I yearn not to rise...

The eyes are now overwhelming, the unusual sparkle they share as that of both living and dead, shine menacingly. As he rests a hand upon my shoulder, the cold seems to pour from his every pore in my weakened corpse, and despite of it, I somewhat welcome that said gesture of comprehension. To my own horror, I find I am quite pleased with the refreshing sensation of at least having kept my sanity if not either pride or past glory: he is truly here.

I see his lips moving, the grimace he has been wearing widening, I can discern the patterns of his almost trembling mouth, but I hear nothing. As though sound as the much-desired freedom I am unaware on whether to claim has not prevailed to reach me. Until, as the grandiose storm stripping the sky only after the oppressive tranquility, the voice saturates my every receptor of sensations to which I have not been rendered immune:

"Sirius Black..."

He speaks my name with both disgust and delight, and for once I may comprehend what the mouse undergoes while entrapped by the rattle snake...the same vibes that are sure to obliterate my destiny enchant me beyond doubt. Perhaps I would break free were it not for the echo of what I am not sure I have as much heard rather than...felt. Through the turmoil waged in my mind, that mere mentioning strikes me as a dagger thrust to my heart: from those lips, it feels tainted.

With what I make out as last of my strengths, I turn my head from his direction, hoping, praying for the innuendo and untold promise of sufferance and decryption to disappear, just as easily as their creator has chosen to show. And not so much to my surprise, they do not. Instead, it feels as though it multiplies, it fills my every motion and breath: each second passes with the lighting of that which has been, each moment is nothing more than a reminder of his presence. I smirk - how irony fouls my deeds in such instants, sometimes astonishes me as well - then glance back up. For a moment, the blue meets the white that had gone through a swift metamorphosis to a dilated red, and just as abrupt, their encounter ends, with his wry remark:

"Work that madman's lost stare to those foolish enough to believe it...I know you of all will not have lost complete control, Sirius...true...so many days it has been since you have had the sun's light mold onto your skin or faced the true meaning of peace..."

It was the same voice I have dreamt each night just before waking in bed sheets covered by my own sweat, my shouts stealing the nights of their habitual beauty. The same voice I have learned to hate with all my powers, the generator of my every emotion of abhorrence...and while I desire to strap both hands onto his neck and spring tightly, to end with his wretched existence once and for all, I know I am not the one meant to overcome the evil he represents: firstly, he is not in fact present. He cannot be, despite his materialization...because he is dead.

"You...are nothing but a-"

"....fragment of your imagination?" he had cut me off before I had a chance to continue, and I simply nod, invulnerable to his unsheltered sarcasm. Instead, he does so as well, the wicked smile not leaving him for a moment, intensifying as he leans his head to his back, eyes both closed now, influenced by spasms of laughter:

"You think I have been destroyed through all planes by such a petty charm? Perhaps you truly have gone mad...but alas, let me spare you the trouble..." he shakes his head, the hood now rising to cover him...Which is not in true him, because...because, with a thud, the body of a true Dementor falls to the ground, the folds of its darkened clothing spread to the just as blackened pavement. I gaze to the underling with disgust, having already come to realize that which had occurred: the Dementor had fulfilled his part and now faced what all subjects to Voldemort were to expect - annihilation in its most shameful form, as a prisoner, as it is what it would undoubtedly be when found. Though I doubt he will be found. If the shadow that Voldemort has become still holds as much power as to protect himself from those he had once cherished as an extension of himself but that had now joined the ministry of Magic, then he surely controls as much of his former self as to make the remains of his temporary host untraceable.

A smile flourishes on my lips, as not even I may resist the irony of the situation: he had done what he had been commanded to do, and now the Dementor awaited death. The bitter paradox struck me as unfair yet somewhat to have been anticipated - who but a Dementor to lay its fate in Voldemort's hands? And who other than it to die due to proving a minor impediment to the plans of the same it had adored?

I let the silence pass between us before shaking unevenly, causing his hand to fall from where it had been set, my unexpected gesture of supposed irritation coming to his great amusement:

"So you see, Sirius.... There are those who are still loyal..."

"And shall be rewarded for such allegiance with their demise, unless I am mistaken....all for the privilege to have proved a worthy minion..." I do not let his unfeigned certainty reduce me to that which I in truth am: the ghost of a sorcerer, deprived of even the symbol of my former splendor, my wand, and with it - my control. The feeling is that of frustration: to be unable to do a thing to stop the turn of events, to be little but a spectator to a certain death of which even a creature as fetid as a Dementor is unworthy...although the full blow is not mine to experience, I cannot help but think I am the true target. By managing to once more damage the innocent, he has aimed and fired to my as well. And despite of all the years to have passed...it hurts just as bad.

"But they too have found peace. May you claim the same...?"

The endless sensation of nausea I feel stuck in my throat engulfs me; I begin to wish I had within my reach a black whole to absorb him, or, better still, myself, to be lost and never be seen, to depart in the eternal void and loose contact whereas pleasured by the abyss. I desire redemption. But instead of it, I receive only the cold blow caused by my hands as I cup both onto my pale face, murmuring slightly:

"Why have you come?" the question itself is pointless, but I dare not ask more, despite of my eagerness to do so. May God forgive me, I too am human, and to be faced to the whole truth would in my current state prove intolerable. He looks to the side momentarily, then his transparent figure emerges as even darker whereas he replies understatedly:

"My request is simple...the one to revive me shall arise, I am to bestow that gift to he who I see fit...it has been foretold...and for reasons we both now acknowledged," his eyes narrowed to little but an engrossing reddish line, as he locks his gaze onto me with care, "I choose you..."

He once more shakes his head, the devious smile he bears striking his natural frown. I have never had the time to contemplate such a detail, but were it not for the sinful mind, his would be the pure-featured face of a saint. How he had turned is to me little but a wander...what could fate have robbed a man that could have had it all? I had once known...or rather, almost come to be acquainted with... I state with the firmness I had fought hard to offer myself throughout the endless days:

"I am nothing like you, Voldemort."

"Black...do not deceive yourself. You are a greater part of me that you choose to accept; it is only the illusion of a greater goal that which keeps you from joining your true ally..."

I look up, and the ceiling's also black marble seems to me omnipresent. His words flow around me as they had periodically within my fantasies. Sometimes, I was told I had spent days in turn in delirium, with neither fever of illness to which I had submitted. I, in turn, had no true memory of what my body had suffered, but remembered only the soothing whisper.

"You and I, Sirius Black, are bonded by ties neither man nor god may break..."

I could not respond, because just as those last words reached the still sentient part of my mind, the panic grew until it consumed me from the within, until I was no longer a man, not even the vestiges of one, but a slithering sketch of fear...

Because just as all cursed nightmares, mine had started with those first days at Hogwarts...