The Caged Bird Sings of Freedom

A/N The title of this story is from the poem "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" by Maya Angelou. Her poems are beautiful, and all credit for that goes to her. And of course, all the characters in this story belong to the wonderful J.K Rowling. Enjoy :)

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom. 

The Black Manor was most often a peaceful dwelling. It was large, and spacious. It’s many rooms were airy and high-ceilinged, so even the high-pitched wails of the Black’s two-year-old daughter could not be heard by the villagers outside the manor’s walls. However, today the Manor was anything but peaceful.

In a large spare bedroom on the second floor of the house, a pretty young woman lay on crisp white bed sheets that would soon be stained with blood. Her long, shimmering blonde hair dripped with sweat, caught against the plump pillows she rested on. Her face was flushed crimson, and frustrated tears leaked from her honey brown eyes. Her moans of pain were loud and frequent, as she struggled to push the tiny being inside her out of her womb, and into the world.

Around her, three Healers fussed and fretted. The youngest one, who had wispy brown hair twisted up into a bun, took the pregnant woman’s hand, whilst the others urged her to push. Immediately, the woman dropped the Healer’s hand, as if it was as hot as coals.

            “Mrs. Black, dear, please. You must let us help you!” exclaimed the young Healer.

            “I’m fine, I can do this without your filthy hand to cling onto!” spat Mrs. Black, her breaths coming in short gasps.

            The Healers exchanged looks of worried exasperation.

            “Don’t worry, madam,” said one. “We’ve contacted Mr. Black. He’s on his way.”

Outside the spare bedroom, a little girl sat at the top of the staircase, her short legs barely reaching the step below her. She screamed and cried, her chubby pink fists flailing, her little feet in their laced up black boots stomping up and down. She didn’t turn at the sound of running footsteps along the carpeted hallway behind her, and cried harder still as soft hands lifted her up and hugged her against their chest.

            “There there, pumpkin, don’t cry now,” said the young woman who was holding the child. She was small and stout, and her dark brown hair was tied up in a neat bun at the back of her head. She had warm brown eyes, and her front teeth were crooked. She wore navy blue robes over a shabby grey dress and black stockings.

            “Oh Bella, dear,” she said, smoothing her small hand over the little girl’s short black curls. “Please don’t fret so; Abby’s got you safe and sound.”

            Despite Abby’s soothing voice, the little girl continued to cry. At only two years old, she was not a fluent speaker, but words were discernible through her tears.

            “Mama…want milk…want teddy…down, DOWN!” she cried, squirming and flailing in Abby’s arms. Abby held on tight, and began to walk up and down the length of the corridor, doing her best to ignore the cries of pain coming from behind the bedroom door.