Slowly withering

Is the Big Bad Wolf and Mass Murderer metaphor valid?

Half lying on a window sill, Sirius shivers in the cool of the night when a light breeze brushes his bare ankles. He draws on his cigarette, inhales and releases the smoke from his lungs as he gazes at the constellations in the clear May sky. Thoughts spiral through his mind, but Sirius' weary mind lets them flow gently like a whispering stream deep into his consciousness.

He got used to the extraneous noises like one got used to the droning of a waterfall; they became familiar to him, almost reassuring to a certain extent. They keep him company. In fact, they are his only friends in his solitude. If Sirius were to describe their relationship, he would say they are old friends who, despite time and events, are still there. Always, and even if sometimes they are distant and confused, they keep coming back and lick little by little the vestiges of his reason.

One day, Sirius knows they will come and rip the last pieces of his consciousness out of him, and finally, finally, Sirius will be able to close his eyes to let go.

He hates himself for looking forward to it.

But he will fight until the last moment because it would be too easy to give in, to forget, while Remus lives with the consequences of his mistakes. When he's forced to live in fear, forced to beat the gruelling anticipation that his secret will be revealed to everyone. Sirius knows what that kind of life is like, and he's truly sorry for twisting Remus' life into a mirror image of his own. No, Sirius definitely doesn't deserve rest, so he'll have to take it upon himself and assume it.

Sirius closes his eyes for a moment and sighs. He stubs out his cigarette butt on the grey stone ledge before throwing it out, watching it disappear in the darkness below. He readjusts, straightens his spine, and grimaces at the cold that had seeped into his bones. Then, he frowns.

Seeing the stone tainted by the ashes of his cigarette suddenly makes him uncomfortable, and he tries to make the black stain disappear by wiping it with his sleeve. The only thing it does is spread the dirt even more, although it becomes fainter, and it taints the immaculate white cuff of his shirt. Frustrated, Sirius almost feels like crying now. Tears prick at his eyes, but it’s a burn he will not give into.

The moon is high in the sky, and the others are probably already asleep. It would be easy for him to slip silently into the dormitory, lay down on his bed, and leave before dawn. The idea of sleeping cocooned in the warm blankets of the dormitory, between the thick carmine velvet curtains, is enticing. But he can't figure it out, not tonight.

Sirius rummages through his stuff before pulling out a green apple and biting into it. His empty stomach welcomes this offering with greed and gurgles with pleasure. Each bite sinks heavily into his stomach, and Sirius suddenly feels exhaustion stabbing him in the back. He casts a Tempus and sees that it is well past midnight. Despite his desire to stay here, sitting near the stars, Sirius gets up to find his shelter.

He discovered it by chance while looking for a place to sleep a few weeks beforehand. His previous spot—an abandoned little reserve that smelled awfully musty—had been discovered by Filch and had earned him a week of detention in addition to those assigned to him following the Accident. Sirius didn't care; he wasn't within hours at this point, and there are far worse things than extra hours helping Professor Sprout repot carnivorous flowers directly imported from Pakistan; their bites healed quickly.

Strange as it may seem, Sirius has somehow taken a liking to these evenings spent in the botanical greenhouses. Well, firstly, on the few occasions when Professor Sprout was not available, he had to spend them with Filch, which, as you can imagine, was no picnic. But also, she usually just gave him directions and let him work at his own pace, minding his own business and doing her independent studies in the small room at the back. In this way, Sirius could lose himself in manual labour, where he no longer had to think for a few hours, and finally feel useful. Not irreplaceable, of course, but useful. And that was more than he could ask for. It was soothing in a way, as he rediscovered that almost calm feeling he had when tending the meadowsweet and other varieties his uncle grew in his little medicinal garden.