“You speak of destiny as if it was fixed.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Sirius asked, stretched out, arms spread out over his head, as if he was falling, down, down, down, yet the fingers curled in, in a posture of a careless urge for a cigarette, and the corner of his lips missed the stick of smoke he was out of.
“Written in the stars,” Sirius chuckled, pulling lips into a loop-sided grin, as if his lips was indeed pulled down by a cigarette that ought to be there, speaking of things like this. “We just acting out the play we’ve been given, static pieces, humouring some gods high above...” Sirius mumbled, the mask of constant confidence and self-assuredness locked away in the presence of Andromeda; the only relative still to be associated with, the only one he proclaimed love and loyalty to, the one that walks the same paths as he did.
“And do we honour the tragedies of Shakespeare , or what,” Sirius grinned again, as if he couldn’t help any longer to constantly reach for that mask of carelessness, of the one so unaffected by the turns of his own fate.