Sirius Black (fleasaremurder) wrote in parabolical, @ 2008-09-13 22:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | james potter, lily (evans) potter, sirius black |
Who: Sirius Black, Lily Potter, and James Potter
What: New Arrival in LA
Where: Random LA alleyway, to their apartment.
When: Late afternoon
Rating: PG
Status: thread ; COMPLETE
No time. No time, no ground. No time, no ground, no sight, tra la la, la la.
Three hundred fifty-eight thousand, nine hundred and eighteen bottles of butterbeer on the wall, three hundred fifty-eight thousand, nine hundred and eighteen bottles of butterbeer! If one of those bottles should hapen to fall, three hundred fifty-eight thousand, nine hundred and seveneen bottles of butterbeer on the wall!
Oh, look. His hand. It was floating by again. Sirius waggled his fingers at it. He couldn't feel it, but he saw the fingers move. Had he done that, or was his hand waving back at him? Hmm. Did it matter? Helloooo hand!
There had to be better things to do than float around in smoky grey nothingness. He felt sure there were. There were... things. He could try to remember them, but every time something got to close, it started to scurry away again. Like a ra--
(not the R word, don't say the R word)
no. Like a mouse. Scurrying like a mouse, getting into the walls, and running running running until... until...
Three hundred fifty-eight thousand, nine hundred and seventeen bottles of butterbeer on the wall, three hundred fifty-eight thousand, nine hundred and seventeen bottles of butterbeer!
until the mouse scurried into a pot, and you had to pick up the pot and turn it over and...
(Pot?)
NO, no. You turn IT over and then
(pot over?)
and THEN, are you still listening to me?
(Pot...er?)
POTTER!
JamesLilyHarryHARRY
lefthimlefthimlefthimalone!
Bright light. Blinding. How long had it been since he had seen the light? Far, far too long, as the rays burned his eyes even through his eyelids, through the hands he was pressing against his face. Hands? Yes, his hands, his own hands, that he was feeling now, feeling his face against his fingers, and his fingers against his face. Feeling sharp - ow! - sharp twinges of -ow!- pain as he was squirming. He was laying on something. Something hard. Something that - ow! - was making his limbs unhappy. Unhappy? Uncomfortable.
Too much, there was too much. Hardly before the thought had been finished, he was changing. It was easier this way. The brain was so much simpler. Where there had so formerly been a wretched, pale and thin man, there was now a large black dog, paws pushed over his eyes, whimpering pathetically at the brightness of the sun.