Freedom Gained and Lost
Title: Freedom Gained and Lost
Rating: PG / PG-13
Length: One-Shot
Pairings: None
Era: Hogwarts (fifth year)
Summary: “Perhaps that was the story of his life, summed up in just a few, simple words: Freedom Gained and Lost. He would gain that much desired for feeling of freedom only to have it snatched from him. He would escape only to be trapped again. Someone had always trapped him, every time he had lost his freedom.”
~*~
The entire house was silent. No sounds came from the numerous portraits of ancestors long in the grave that dotted along the dusty walls. There was not even a slight rustle of clothing or a shuffling of feet from the pictures’ subjects, and at a first glance, one might even have thought that the portraits were Muggle-made. The lack of movement that they all showed pointed to such a conclusion, at the very least. But such was not the case - especially in this house. The family to which this house belonged would never have had Muggle pictures lining their corridors. They would not have allowed such an atrocity to grace the house.
Corridors and rooms were cloaked in shadows, most of the home’s candles not having been lit yet and the lights either dimmed or turned off completely. All of the doors were closed, hiding the rooms beyond from the sight of anyone passing through the halls, and the entire house appeared empty. Everything was still and silent. No one climbed or descended the stairs, and no one entered or left a room, so that not even the creaking of a step or old hinges could be heard. As a matter of fact, it did not seem like the house had had a living occupant in nearly a decade.
And such a thing was not exactly very far from the truth.
For nearly ten years, the doors to this house had remained shut to the outside world, the woman owning it having died after her husband and neither of her sons able to inherit it upon her death. A decade passed, and the house simply existed, being neither cared for nor maintained by anyone. The dust accumulated and the mould grew, while the furniture just took up space, and artefacts and books that stocked the shelves became long forgotten.
Such was the case, that is, until a little more than one month ago.
One month ago, he had returned, walking over the threshold of a house that he had sworn he would never enter again - a vow with which his family had been only too happy to agree with him. Having left it all behind him nearly two decades in the past, having never thought he would have any reason to return, the first born son of the House of Black had entered his family’s home just several weeks earlier. Never had he thought he would come back; never had he thought he would even have a semblance of reason to come back.
Twenty years ago, he had cursed these very corridors that his feet now travelled, these very walls that his eyes now perused. He had hated and despised those who had lived here with every fibre that his teenage self could feel at the time, and such feelings had not dimmed a great deal in the two decades since that time, either. He had sought freedom, then, and had thought he had found it - which, he supposed, he had … for a time. He had that freedom, lost it, and regained it … only to come back to this house and, once again, lose that freedom.
Perhaps that was the story of his life, summed up in just a few, simple words: Freedom Gained and Lost. He would gain that much desired for feeling of freedom only to have it snatched from him. He would escape only to be trapped again. Someone had always trapped him, every time he had lost his freedom. Initially, it had been his family, keeping him from freedom. Then, it had been Peter, Crouch, the Ministry, and the Dementors, putting and keeping him in Azkaban. And now … now it was Dumbledore.
“You need to stay in this house, Sirius,” said the headmaster, his blue eyes gazing intently through his half-moon spectacles at the younger, dark-haired man in front of him.
The first meeting of the Order of the Phoenix at Grimmauld Place had finally finished, and witches and wizards were already getting prepared to leave and return home. Night had already fallen, the meeting having not started until nearly seven o’clock in the evening and lasting for several hours. There had been a great deal to discuss concerning what needed to be accomplished, the things that should be worked on now. After all, they were on the brink of a war that had not raged for over a decade.
“But I can -” Sirius started to answer, but the older wizard cut him off immediately.
“No,” replied Dumbledore quietly. “I am sorry, Sirius, but it is just not safe for you to leave. In the eyes of the public, you are still a mass murderer; the Ministry’s decree from two years ago has not been overturned, either.”
“I’m not going to get caught,” said the younger man, returning the headmaster’s gaze. “I can still wander around as Padfoot; no one knows about that -”
“Voldemort will know about your Animagus form, Sirius,” interrupted Dumbledore. “Since we know that Peter has returned to him, we must also assume that he has told Voldemort everything that he knew.”
Hatred boiled up in Sirius's veins at the thought of his former friend, the one who had been like another brother to him - a part of his family - and the one who had betrayed everything that the four of them had had. The one who was a part of taking away his freedom nearly fourteen years ago. “That does not mean that everyone knows about it,” said Sirius, struggling to keep his voice calm and his temper - oh, how it wanted to burst free - restrained. “Just because Voldemort -”
“Sirius, you know well enough that if Voldemort knows, the Death Eaters will, too,” said Dumbledore. “Many of which are also well-placed in the Ministry of Magic.”
“So?” he asked, biting back the angered reply he so wanted to give the headmaster. As upset as he was feeling, a part of him knew, deep down, that Dumbledore did not deserve a harsh and angered answer. “It doesn’t matter; I can still -”
“No, Sirius,” Dumbledore answered, his voice turning a bit harsher than earlier, almost like he was reprimanding a misbehaving student. “You will stay inside this house until we can clear your name. Do you understand?”
Sirius did not respond immediately, turning away from the headmaster and running a hand through his shoulder-length black hair instead. His temper wanted to burst free, he wanted to storm, rage, in anger. They were alone in the kitchen: all of the other witches and wizards of the Order had either left the house or gone into another room. Not even Remus was present to help his friend rein in his temper.
“But -”
“You are not any good to Harry if you are caught, Sirius,” said Dumbledore perceptively, knowing immediately the argument that his former student had sought to use. “Harry needs you and getting yourself caught by either the Ministry or Voldemort will not do him any good.” He paused for a moment and placed his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Sirius,” he said, not continuing until Sirius's eyes had met his own. “Stay in the house. For Harry.”
And so the weeks had passed by, and Sirius had done as Dumbledore had ‘requested’. He had not stepped outside the door to the ancient Black Family house since entering it around a month ago. Bitter and angry though he was, a part of him had to grudgingly acknowledge that the headmaster was right: he would be no good to Harry if he was captured - by either side.
But just because the logical and reasonable part of his mind understood why Dumbledore had told him to stay in the house did not mean that Sirius completely agreed with it. Nor did it mean that he took the order lightly.
They were in the midst of a war, for Merlin’s sake. The entire Wizarding World was on the brink of a conflict between Dark and Light magic that had not raged to such a level for over a decade; they were on that brink, whether some people wanted to acknowledge it or not. Risks were taken in war, lives were put on the line, and he would be damned if he just sat around being told to do absolutely nothing.
He had grown up during this conflict, had seemed to fight it - in some degree - every day for as long as he could remember. Even when Voldemort had been defeated, even for those fourteen years of relative calm in the world at large, the war had still brewed. A person could not simply kill and vanquish an idea, a belief, by causing the present leader to fall, after all. The darkness had always been there, whether lurking quietly and unseen in the shadows, barely noticeable by anyone, or glaring bright and obvious in the form of dead bodies and shimmering green symbols in night skies.
He knew this battle well; he had spent his entire life in the midst of it, after all. First, it had been simply against his family, his blood. They represented the darkness, while his friends were the light. There was good and there was evil; as a child, it had been simpler. He grew older, leaving school, and the conflict altered, the opponents becoming far more dangerous, and shades of grey entered his perceptions that, as a child, he had no reason to consider. Suddenly, things were not just black and white. Friends - the good, the white, of his childhood - could become enemies - the evil, the black. People he had trusted turned on him, betrayed him, betrayed those he loved. And he had to battle another darkness because the conflict altered again. The darkness took the form of prison walls and soul-sucking Dementors, intent on capturing his soul and blurring the lines even more. They had taken away the light and left only the darkness behind; the white was so hard to find amidst all the black during those years.
The conflict was always changing and it, undoubtedly, would continue to do such in the years to come. It would alter in this war, just like it had in the past one, and in a future battle - Months? Years? Decades? - down the road, it would surely alter again.
But he knew that he would always fight that conflict. For as long as Sirius lived, he knew that the battle between Dark and Light would need to be fought, and he would fight it. Perhaps it was just who he was; perhaps it was just in his personality to fight. He did not really know, anymore. He no longer knew the initial reason he had decided to fight, all of those years ago, but he knew reasons that he fought now and today.
James. Lily. Remus. Harry.
He fought for them. He fought for his friends - No. They had left the mere category of ‘friends’ long ago. That term, ‘friends’, was no longer strong enough, and it had not been strong enough to define them for a long time. Years ago, they had all become something more, something greater.
They were his family, and he loved them. With every fibre of his being, he loved them and he fought for them.
And just sitting in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, doing nothing but trying to make the house liveable and escape memories that he had thought he had left behind ages ago was beginning to drive him mad. The irony of the situation did not escape the last son of the House of Black, either. To survive a dozen years surrounded by Dementors with his sanity intact to lose his mind after a few weeks in his childhood home would make for a poor story, indeed.
But, regardless, he had remained in the house, obeying the ‘requests’ of the headmaster … each and every time that the older wizard thought he needed to remind him.
“Stay at home, Sirius,” said Dumbledore quietly, seemingly as a way of farewell before departing the Order’s headquarters for the night at the conclusion of yet another meeting. Once again, the headmaster had chosen to tell his former student the order when the kitchen was nearly empty, the Weasleys and Remus the only other occupants of the room. It was almost as if he expected Sirius to make some sort of scene or do or say something that the others did not need to hear.
Sirius snorted inwardly at the thought. If he had wanted to argue publicly with Dumbledore, then he would have done so after one of the first six times he had received the reminder to remain in the house. He had not really bothered after that initial time. Now, he knew doing so was just pointless - though, if it made it to ten times, he might just make another scene. Who knew? It might even help to release some of the anger he was already feeling from being in the house so long.
He bit back the reply that his temper so richly wanted to unleash and settled for a begrudging nod. But he knew that Dumbledore was not fooled. No, Sirius knew that the wise leader of the Order of the Phoenix understood the words that Sirius had barely refrained himself from saying; he knew that he did not actually have to say the reply for Dumbledore to see his emotions and thoughts on the ‘request’.
Dumbledore knew that he hated it, that he wanted nothing more than to leave - if only for a moment. But it did not matter. The headmaster still gave him the order not to leave, and Sirius still obeyed.
“Keep yourself safe … for Harry.”
So he stayed in the house, and he dwelled in rooms that he had not entered for years and remembered memories that he thought he had escaped long ago. He fought off the darkness of his past with each day, and he struggled to keep the constantly loosening grip on his temper as the time wore on. He bit his tongue when he wanted to argue with Dumbledore, he relaxed the grip on his wand when he wanted to do nothing more than curse Snape for his snide comments.
He remained, locked up and trapped, inside the house. But people had imprisoned him for years, for nearly all of his life. In one way or another, he would find himself trapped. And he hated it every single time.
He hated feeling trapped, though such had been the story of his life.
Freedom Gained.
Freedom Lost.
He would gain it … only to lose it again.
~*~
There's another.
~Megan
Rating: PG / PG-13
Length: One-Shot
Pairings: None
Era: Hogwarts (fifth year)
Summary: “Perhaps that was the story of his life, summed up in just a few, simple words: Freedom Gained and Lost. He would gain that much desired for feeling of freedom only to have it snatched from him. He would escape only to be trapped again. Someone had always trapped him, every time he had lost his freedom.”
~*~
The entire house was silent. No sounds came from the numerous portraits of ancestors long in the grave that dotted along the dusty walls. There was not even a slight rustle of clothing or a shuffling of feet from the pictures’ subjects, and at a first glance, one might even have thought that the portraits were Muggle-made. The lack of movement that they all showed pointed to such a conclusion, at the very least. But such was not the case - especially in this house. The family to which this house belonged would never have had Muggle pictures lining their corridors. They would not have allowed such an atrocity to grace the house.
Corridors and rooms were cloaked in shadows, most of the home’s candles not having been lit yet and the lights either dimmed or turned off completely. All of the doors were closed, hiding the rooms beyond from the sight of anyone passing through the halls, and the entire house appeared empty. Everything was still and silent. No one climbed or descended the stairs, and no one entered or left a room, so that not even the creaking of a step or old hinges could be heard. As a matter of fact, it did not seem like the house had had a living occupant in nearly a decade.
And such a thing was not exactly very far from the truth.
For nearly ten years, the doors to this house had remained shut to the outside world, the woman owning it having died after her husband and neither of her sons able to inherit it upon her death. A decade passed, and the house simply existed, being neither cared for nor maintained by anyone. The dust accumulated and the mould grew, while the furniture just took up space, and artefacts and books that stocked the shelves became long forgotten.
Such was the case, that is, until a little more than one month ago.
One month ago, he had returned, walking over the threshold of a house that he had sworn he would never enter again - a vow with which his family had been only too happy to agree with him. Having left it all behind him nearly two decades in the past, having never thought he would have any reason to return, the first born son of the House of Black had entered his family’s home just several weeks earlier. Never had he thought he would come back; never had he thought he would even have a semblance of reason to come back.
Twenty years ago, he had cursed these very corridors that his feet now travelled, these very walls that his eyes now perused. He had hated and despised those who had lived here with every fibre that his teenage self could feel at the time, and such feelings had not dimmed a great deal in the two decades since that time, either. He had sought freedom, then, and had thought he had found it - which, he supposed, he had … for a time. He had that freedom, lost it, and regained it … only to come back to this house and, once again, lose that freedom.
Perhaps that was the story of his life, summed up in just a few, simple words: Freedom Gained and Lost. He would gain that much desired for feeling of freedom only to have it snatched from him. He would escape only to be trapped again. Someone had always trapped him, every time he had lost his freedom. Initially, it had been his family, keeping him from freedom. Then, it had been Peter, Crouch, the Ministry, and the Dementors, putting and keeping him in Azkaban. And now … now it was Dumbledore.
“You need to stay in this house, Sirius,” said the headmaster, his blue eyes gazing intently through his half-moon spectacles at the younger, dark-haired man in front of him.
The first meeting of the Order of the Phoenix at Grimmauld Place had finally finished, and witches and wizards were already getting prepared to leave and return home. Night had already fallen, the meeting having not started until nearly seven o’clock in the evening and lasting for several hours. There had been a great deal to discuss concerning what needed to be accomplished, the things that should be worked on now. After all, they were on the brink of a war that had not raged for over a decade.
“But I can -” Sirius started to answer, but the older wizard cut him off immediately.
“No,” replied Dumbledore quietly. “I am sorry, Sirius, but it is just not safe for you to leave. In the eyes of the public, you are still a mass murderer; the Ministry’s decree from two years ago has not been overturned, either.”
“I’m not going to get caught,” said the younger man, returning the headmaster’s gaze. “I can still wander around as Padfoot; no one knows about that -”
“Voldemort will know about your Animagus form, Sirius,” interrupted Dumbledore. “Since we know that Peter has returned to him, we must also assume that he has told Voldemort everything that he knew.”
Hatred boiled up in Sirius's veins at the thought of his former friend, the one who had been like another brother to him - a part of his family - and the one who had betrayed everything that the four of them had had. The one who was a part of taking away his freedom nearly fourteen years ago. “That does not mean that everyone knows about it,” said Sirius, struggling to keep his voice calm and his temper - oh, how it wanted to burst free - restrained. “Just because Voldemort -”
“Sirius, you know well enough that if Voldemort knows, the Death Eaters will, too,” said Dumbledore. “Many of which are also well-placed in the Ministry of Magic.”
“So?” he asked, biting back the angered reply he so wanted to give the headmaster. As upset as he was feeling, a part of him knew, deep down, that Dumbledore did not deserve a harsh and angered answer. “It doesn’t matter; I can still -”
“No, Sirius,” Dumbledore answered, his voice turning a bit harsher than earlier, almost like he was reprimanding a misbehaving student. “You will stay inside this house until we can clear your name. Do you understand?”
Sirius did not respond immediately, turning away from the headmaster and running a hand through his shoulder-length black hair instead. His temper wanted to burst free, he wanted to storm, rage, in anger. They were alone in the kitchen: all of the other witches and wizards of the Order had either left the house or gone into another room. Not even Remus was present to help his friend rein in his temper.
“But -”
“You are not any good to Harry if you are caught, Sirius,” said Dumbledore perceptively, knowing immediately the argument that his former student had sought to use. “Harry needs you and getting yourself caught by either the Ministry or Voldemort will not do him any good.” He paused for a moment and placed his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Sirius,” he said, not continuing until Sirius's eyes had met his own. “Stay in the house. For Harry.”
And so the weeks had passed by, and Sirius had done as Dumbledore had ‘requested’. He had not stepped outside the door to the ancient Black Family house since entering it around a month ago. Bitter and angry though he was, a part of him had to grudgingly acknowledge that the headmaster was right: he would be no good to Harry if he was captured - by either side.
But just because the logical and reasonable part of his mind understood why Dumbledore had told him to stay in the house did not mean that Sirius completely agreed with it. Nor did it mean that he took the order lightly.
They were in the midst of a war, for Merlin’s sake. The entire Wizarding World was on the brink of a conflict between Dark and Light magic that had not raged to such a level for over a decade; they were on that brink, whether some people wanted to acknowledge it or not. Risks were taken in war, lives were put on the line, and he would be damned if he just sat around being told to do absolutely nothing.
He had grown up during this conflict, had seemed to fight it - in some degree - every day for as long as he could remember. Even when Voldemort had been defeated, even for those fourteen years of relative calm in the world at large, the war had still brewed. A person could not simply kill and vanquish an idea, a belief, by causing the present leader to fall, after all. The darkness had always been there, whether lurking quietly and unseen in the shadows, barely noticeable by anyone, or glaring bright and obvious in the form of dead bodies and shimmering green symbols in night skies.
He knew this battle well; he had spent his entire life in the midst of it, after all. First, it had been simply against his family, his blood. They represented the darkness, while his friends were the light. There was good and there was evil; as a child, it had been simpler. He grew older, leaving school, and the conflict altered, the opponents becoming far more dangerous, and shades of grey entered his perceptions that, as a child, he had no reason to consider. Suddenly, things were not just black and white. Friends - the good, the white, of his childhood - could become enemies - the evil, the black. People he had trusted turned on him, betrayed him, betrayed those he loved. And he had to battle another darkness because the conflict altered again. The darkness took the form of prison walls and soul-sucking Dementors, intent on capturing his soul and blurring the lines even more. They had taken away the light and left only the darkness behind; the white was so hard to find amidst all the black during those years.
The conflict was always changing and it, undoubtedly, would continue to do such in the years to come. It would alter in this war, just like it had in the past one, and in a future battle - Months? Years? Decades? - down the road, it would surely alter again.
But he knew that he would always fight that conflict. For as long as Sirius lived, he knew that the battle between Dark and Light would need to be fought, and he would fight it. Perhaps it was just who he was; perhaps it was just in his personality to fight. He did not really know, anymore. He no longer knew the initial reason he had decided to fight, all of those years ago, but he knew reasons that he fought now and today.
James. Lily. Remus. Harry.
He fought for them. He fought for his friends - No. They had left the mere category of ‘friends’ long ago. That term, ‘friends’, was no longer strong enough, and it had not been strong enough to define them for a long time. Years ago, they had all become something more, something greater.
They were his family, and he loved them. With every fibre of his being, he loved them and he fought for them.
And just sitting in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, doing nothing but trying to make the house liveable and escape memories that he had thought he had left behind ages ago was beginning to drive him mad. The irony of the situation did not escape the last son of the House of Black, either. To survive a dozen years surrounded by Dementors with his sanity intact to lose his mind after a few weeks in his childhood home would make for a poor story, indeed.
But, regardless, he had remained in the house, obeying the ‘requests’ of the headmaster … each and every time that the older wizard thought he needed to remind him.
“Stay at home, Sirius,” said Dumbledore quietly, seemingly as a way of farewell before departing the Order’s headquarters for the night at the conclusion of yet another meeting. Once again, the headmaster had chosen to tell his former student the order when the kitchen was nearly empty, the Weasleys and Remus the only other occupants of the room. It was almost as if he expected Sirius to make some sort of scene or do or say something that the others did not need to hear.
Sirius snorted inwardly at the thought. If he had wanted to argue publicly with Dumbledore, then he would have done so after one of the first six times he had received the reminder to remain in the house. He had not really bothered after that initial time. Now, he knew doing so was just pointless - though, if it made it to ten times, he might just make another scene. Who knew? It might even help to release some of the anger he was already feeling from being in the house so long.
He bit back the reply that his temper so richly wanted to unleash and settled for a begrudging nod. But he knew that Dumbledore was not fooled. No, Sirius knew that the wise leader of the Order of the Phoenix understood the words that Sirius had barely refrained himself from saying; he knew that he did not actually have to say the reply for Dumbledore to see his emotions and thoughts on the ‘request’.
Dumbledore knew that he hated it, that he wanted nothing more than to leave - if only for a moment. But it did not matter. The headmaster still gave him the order not to leave, and Sirius still obeyed.
“Keep yourself safe … for Harry.”
So he stayed in the house, and he dwelled in rooms that he had not entered for years and remembered memories that he thought he had escaped long ago. He fought off the darkness of his past with each day, and he struggled to keep the constantly loosening grip on his temper as the time wore on. He bit his tongue when he wanted to argue with Dumbledore, he relaxed the grip on his wand when he wanted to do nothing more than curse Snape for his snide comments.
He remained, locked up and trapped, inside the house. But people had imprisoned him for years, for nearly all of his life. In one way or another, he would find himself trapped. And he hated it every single time.
He hated feeling trapped, though such had been the story of his life.
Freedom Gained.
Freedom Lost.
He would gain it … only to lose it again.
~*~
There's another.
~Megan