Prologue
September 1, 1976
02.00 a.m.
The tears that gathered in his eyes...
Waiting for him to close his eyelids...
Now lying face down on the cold marble, watching the full moon reflected on the red pool that is tangled between the marble choirs like a vine that flows beneath him.
He knows he cannot close his eyes.
But then can tears find a way to flow from his soul?
Can his soul shed tears while his shattered, broken body weeps blood?
Is it too late for everything? Can the tears that did not fall in time drown him now or wipe away the blood that has stained his soul?
If he cried now, would someone fix the hair stuck to his face?
If he cried now, would someone grab him and lift him off those cold marbles?
If he cried now, would his brother waiting outside the door come in?
If he cried now, would this night that bleeds drop by drop every second end?
If he cried now, would this night stop suffocating him?
If he cried now, would there be a morning for this night?
If he cried now, would the darkness on his left arm go away?
If he cried now, would his mother cry too ,as he saw his own eyes in hers every time?
If he cried now, would the soft footsteps and kisses of his mother, who came every night when he was little after waiting for him to fall asleep, come back?
Could he believe this just as he tried to convince himself that he wasn't dreaming every morning when he woke up? Could he believe that those soft footsteps were not on the floor of his room, but on his own blood?
Maybe they were all really dreams, dreams waiting to turn into nightmares. Nightmares with their claws ready, waiting for him to close his eyes...
Back then , if he fell asleep at night before his mother came, he wouldn't want to close his eyes again. But now , if he cried just now, could he close his eyes?
Can his face stop waiting for his mother's warm breath? Can he accept that the smell of alcohol has replaced that warm breath as she leans over his face with her wand? If he cried now, could he convince himself that his mother doesn't love him, or at least deceive himself?
There is no voice inside him that can answer these questions, these fears. That crystal voice he has always heard inside him now knows that he has lost even the shortest, simplest answers on this cold marble, in the endless screams , in the trembling beggings , in the air that filled his lungs when he was waiting to die .
Now there are voices that have replaced that crystal voice:
His brother, sitting outside the door with his back to the door, his knees drawn up to his chest, his hands wrapped around his knees, slowly banging his head on the door with slow thuds.
The ticking of the clock reaching out from the dining room.
Tick...tock...tick...tock...
The scratching sound of Kreacher's broom coming from the kitchen.
It all echoes inside him.
If he cried now, could he hear the train whistle drowning out these echoes?
If he cried now, would they leave a seat for him on the train?
If he cried now, would the train wait for him?
If he cried now, could Sirius shine again or would he fade like his last name?
Sirius Black did not cry that night.
He watched the skull with a snake coming out of its mouth drawn on his left arm.