black and white (war war war), (Sirius, Regulus, Potters), PG, 6x100.
The black and white lines screamed back at him, a stark comparison that never ceased to amaze him. The obituaries called out to him, louder and louder as those faceless names slept, longer and longer, frozen in silence. Sometimes he recognized a name - an old school friend, a death eater, another lost soul hidden away in the middle of the cold, dark ocean. Most days, they were strangers, wizards he never knew, never heard of. They were a deathly chorus of short, black names. This is all you will be, all you are. A name. A goodbye. Just black ink.
--
He would wonder about their lives; had they been happy? Sad? ‘A Loving Father’, or just the blurred image constructed from a twenty-five-word limit? Just five sickles to have the whole world mourn.
Were they happy when they died? Or was it welcomed, a final release from this emptiness, this loneliness, this guilt?
James and Lily Potter. Loving parents, taken too young. They will be dearly missed. - The hardest five sickles he ever spent.
Were they happy when they died? Or did it come in a dazzling flash of green, of slytherin, of greed?
Could they even feel the end?
--
His first ever obituary was a tear-stained reminder, kept in his pocket next to spare change, to keys, to chaos in the dark. Later, in Azkaban, the short goodbye became a promise of forever, inked in black to the white skin against his heart - black and white black and white black and white. It had come quickly - caught only by the thick outline of black spread out across the page - noticed in the arrogance of youth. Regulus Black, sole heir to the Most Noble House of Black.
Then dates
- no emotion, no farewell, just cold, just harsh, just Black.
--
In amongst the chaos of war he would stalk names across pages, people he had fought, people he had killed - no, not people; death eaters, slytherins, enemy. It was always us and them; the other - always good and bad, black and white. If he would catch their name against the sea of goodbyes, he would smirk, fold the paper and carry on, but with every friend he found amongst the chaos he would be left crippled, lost. Black and white. The hypocrisy was lost on him, but most things were those days. All he knew was black and white.
--
Towards the end he reads the pages like a bible. There lies the story of everyone he has ever known, ever loved, laid out in black and white but decaying fast. Laced in blood are the names of a thousand casualties, strewn out, remembered by a name, a date, a time, a place - war, war, war. He can trace his finger over the ones he killed - they line his cell, a reminder for why he is here. He was not innocent - his hands were laced, stained black and white - a reminder of years spent filling pages with black, black, Black.
--
He has spent his whole life wandering the pages, stalking the obituaries with a passion that left him dead inside. He has read a generations worth of history, captioned off in twenty-five word snippets of goodbye, because he is sorry - so, sorry, and he doesn’t want to miss a death again. He tells himself their stories, like he knows them, but everyone he knows is long gone, old news, black and white. Mostly though he wonders, when the end comes what will his twenty-five words be.
He never did have twenty-five words. When Sirius Black died he was front-page news.
.
--
He would wonder about their lives; had they been happy? Sad? ‘A Loving Father’, or just the blurred image constructed from a twenty-five-word limit? Just five sickles to have the whole world mourn.
Were they happy when they died? Or was it welcomed, a final release from this emptiness, this loneliness, this guilt?
James and Lily Potter. Loving parents, taken too young. They will be dearly missed. - The hardest five sickles he ever spent.
Were they happy when they died? Or did it come in a dazzling flash of green, of slytherin, of greed?
Could they even feel the end?
--
His first ever obituary was a tear-stained reminder, kept in his pocket next to spare change, to keys, to chaos in the dark. Later, in Azkaban, the short goodbye became a promise of forever, inked in black to the white skin against his heart - black and white black and white black and white. It had come quickly - caught only by the thick outline of black spread out across the page - noticed in the arrogance of youth. Regulus Black, sole heir to the Most Noble House of Black.
Then dates
- no emotion, no farewell, just cold, just harsh, just Black.
--
In amongst the chaos of war he would stalk names across pages, people he had fought, people he had killed - no, not people; death eaters, slytherins, enemy. It was always us and them; the other - always good and bad, black and white. If he would catch their name against the sea of goodbyes, he would smirk, fold the paper and carry on, but with every friend he found amongst the chaos he would be left crippled, lost. Black and white. The hypocrisy was lost on him, but most things were those days. All he knew was black and white.
--
Towards the end he reads the pages like a bible. There lies the story of everyone he has ever known, ever loved, laid out in black and white but decaying fast. Laced in blood are the names of a thousand casualties, strewn out, remembered by a name, a date, a time, a place - war, war, war. He can trace his finger over the ones he killed - they line his cell, a reminder for why he is here. He was not innocent - his hands were laced, stained black and white - a reminder of years spent filling pages with black, black, Black.
--
He has spent his whole life wandering the pages, stalking the obituaries with a passion that left him dead inside. He has read a generations worth of history, captioned off in twenty-five word snippets of goodbye, because he is sorry - so, sorry, and he doesn’t want to miss a death again. He tells himself their stories, like he knows them, but everyone he knows is long gone, old news, black and white. Mostly though he wonders, when the end comes what will his twenty-five words be.
He never did have twenty-five words. When Sirius Black died he was front-page news.
.