All right -- this is late in coming and I apologize, but this is the gist of what a monologue would be like. No dialogue -- little or no sense of anyone else's presence. Inner thoughts. This is Phineas, from his portrait in Grimmauld Place after hearing of Sirius' death.
Oh, hold your tongue you screeching harridan, go back to sleep. Even that little meaching dust-wretch of yours has left you here all alone, and I shan’t be long following him.
Well. It is ended then, I’m afraid. Albus is right. Damnably right, as usual.
Our name, our heritance. The name of Black -- dwindled, faded to an ember, snuffed out. And by one of the girls too, one of our own. Achh. . . could have been a better story behind that, if it had to be a witch's hand. No. . . No rhyme, no reason. All gone to the dogs. The boy gone to the dogs, yes, gone to skulking as a dog himself.
A Black dog, though, they tell me. Ha -- some sense of family left. Some sense he couldn’t shake off, more likely, much as he desired it. The Black heart will out.
And what a damnable, laughable spot I’m in, calling for the miscreant in the black heart of this hollow house . . . that obstinate, impossible boy won’t answer now and never did, to our pride, to our duty. To the untainted blood running high in our veins. . .
Ah, Merlin’s beard. . . Merlin’s fate, Merlin’s undoing. Yes, Merlin’s very tasteless joke, I would say. To be dead, or something like it, and no peace to being dead at all. Dead, and still have to see it come to this. Dead and waiting "at your service" -- Dead, and still bound to that school, to crackpot Albus and whoever comes after him when he finally takes a step too far and foots a bill too long for his purse. Gryffindor fool . . . No sense about preserving what’s worth hanging on to, including his own skin. Takes no real advice, never took much, but now . . . Wonder what use any of us are to him, in the mood he’s taken since the Potter boy’s come into it. A Potter and a Gryffindor. Old fool and a young one, and the renegade Riddle boy taking us all down . . .
Sirius was a Gryffindor. Well -- happens in the best families. Evidently in the VERY best families, even the house of Black. Toujours pur. . .
Alors, presque*, heh, heh, heh. “Master will have his little joke.”
Sirius! SIRIUS! Damn you, lad, the time to hold yourself away from us is over! Come out and LET ME SEE YOU!
Oh, damn you too, Lady Black, will you dry up and flake off that canvas for good and all!
Nothing for it. It’s here or the headmaster’s and his sodding errands. His nodding circle of laquered yea-sayers. Shouldn’t have taken the position back then. Prestige went to my head, more’s the pity. Eh – the boy’s got my place on the other side; much rest may it truly give him. I shall never see it.
* "Toujours pur . .. alors, presque" -- Forever pure . . . well, almost. "Toujours pur"is the Black family motto.
Cool monologue aramantha! :) Hope he suffers!
. . . i miss Sirius . . . 0(*