Mischief Managed

The figure wandered among the stone
Pausing, gazing, moving on
For on each stone was marked a tomb
And on each tomb, a daughter or son

He turned his star-cast eyes to ground
To hide the pain that gathered there
But, drop by drop, the pain fell down.
To water soil trodden bare

Here by choice, he was alone
A not-so-innocent life to mourn
And with a shudder felt to the bone
He stopped by a grave that most would scorn

Named for a star and the color of night
The name on the grave indicated one
Who was very brave, had gone down with a fight
A fight that the rest have yet to have won

With a start, the figure realized
That, by the grave, there was another
One who, too, had been ostracized
And whose father had been much like a brother

Hair like the ocean on a starless eve
Face gaunt and pale, in awful suffering
Emerald pools behind glass to perceive
Salty tracks down his cheeks, pain unerring

The two beside the grave were there to mourn
And, though neither said a word, they knew
That the other's pain would mingle with their own
And heal each other, sadness few

"Sirius Black," the tombstone read
But it didn't stop there, for along the edge
In handwritten script, a few words said,
"Padfoot. Mischief managed."
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A/N: just a little poem that came to me at four in the morning. d'you like
it? let me know!!