Hello. My name is Charlie, short for Charlotte. This is the prologue for my Sirius/OC story that I started years ago and I still haven't quite finished, although I'm very close. Reading the prologue again made me gag a little bit from the insane outpouring of angst but this story does have it's merits. Anyway, it's mostly written and ready to go provided somebody is willing to read. Peace out.

Disclaimer: I don't own squat.

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Doll on a Music Box

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Prologue

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When I was little my most treasured possession was a mahogany music box. It lived on my bedside table near the fireplace so that the wood was always slightly warm to touch. Every night I had a special ritual. I'd lift the lid and let it fall back so that it gently strained against its brass hinges. And there she'd be.

The porcelain girl with cherry red lips and painted pink cheeks the colour of strawberry candyfloss. She had perfectly moulded blonde tendrils that shined brilliantly under the flames of the nearby fire. She was more than merely pretty. She was perfect. I wished desperately on every star that graced the midnight canvas outside my window that I could look just like her, that I could be her. She wore a ballerina dress of soft chiffon that floated around with her as she rotated, the same pink hue as her cheeks.

It always bothered me how the pink of her dress clashed so violently with the box's blood red velvet lining. It didn't seem right that a colour that soft could be drowning in a colour that dark. But the doll didn't seem to mind as she kept on dancing. I think that's what I envied about the elegant ballerina most of all. Nothing seemed to harm her in her own little world.

I'd spend a good few minutes winding the box up with my tiny fingers and let the sweet melody lull me to sleep. It's hard to hug a music box. Every night my dad would try to wrench the box from my sleeping arms and replace it with a teddy bear. And that was how the ritual went.

Now I'm curled up on my bed at Hogwarts, my chin resting in the crevice between my knees as I cuddle my legs tightly. The music box, brought to me on the wind by an owl, is sitting in a mess of shredded wrapping paper at the tips of my bare toes. The note that came with it reads:

Hello my tiny dancer! Look what I found when I was cleaning out the attic. Remember this old thing? I can't believe I'm willingly giving this ruddy box back to you; I used to have panic attacks worrying you'd poke an eye out with it. No using it as a pillow! How is my rascal of a witch faring? Please write to your mother she's worried sick about you. Don't think you can avoid our wrath simply by not writing to us every time you get into trouble. Your mother requests that you please refrain from breaking, stealing, blowing up or setting fire to anything (or anyone) at Hogwarts this year. Being the more realistic parent I request that you refrain from doing these things at least till the end of this week. We love you Lottie, troublesome as you are.

Sincerely, the most patient father in the world.

A reluctant smile escapes my lips. Dad has always had a knack for making me smile, even at the most inappropriate times. In First Year he made me giggle while reciting 'An Ode to Solemnity' in front of a sea of pretentiously stuffy parents. And he says I'm a trouble maker. I flip the lid open as I've done so many times before. Inside the box is yet another scrap of parchment written in Dad's playful scrawl:

P.S: Remember that time you wept all night because you didn't look like her? She looks like you now, don't you think? Your wish has been granted Buttercup!

Instantly my heart feels heavy as I trace the floral pattern that scars the wood. The chest is cold without a fire to watch over it. Have you ever loved a fairytale when you were young and then returned to it in older years only to find that the magic's gone? That's the burden of the wisdom that comes with age, when you see things for what they really are you can't dwell in the fantasy anymore. Without the warm flames of my childhood gently caressing and hiding her flaws, I can see the truth of the doll on the music box.

She's not smiling.

Her painted face is chipped and her eyes are heavy with sadness. Her shiny hair is synthetic. I twist the rusty key at the back and the stale melody echoes out of tune. The tiny dancer spins slowly, her limbs eternally bent into an impossible position. With each rotation she glimpses the mirror embedded in the lid, reflecting the world outside the confines of the box.

She's not looking at herself, pretty as she maybe. She's stealing glances at the world beyond the velvet ocean, the world she yearns to be part of. What form of torture exists, worse than being taunted by what you can't have every time you turn around? What form of torture exists, worse than having to dance when your legs ache and you can't dance any longer? The torture the doll must feel of knowing that she dances alone and she always will.

There are people in this world born with roaming spirits, destined to always walk alone. He's one of those people. And as I sit her drowning in my bed's wine red velvet curtains I realise that I'm one of those people too. I fall asleep to the haunting melody, not minding that the sharp corner of the music box is digging into my cheek. So the ritual begins again.

We're both trapped the doll and I. Maybe he is too. But while he chooses to walk alone, I choose to dance alone. Even if it breaks my aching limbs I'll keep on twirling with a painted on smile as if I haven't a care in the world. Sometimes pretending is better than accepting the alternative.

Yes, dad. She looks like me. Now I weep because of it.