@delirivms [ regulus ]
It had been less of a sinking feeling, and more of an abrupt freefall, as the description of the book they were seeking had crystallised into sudden familiarity. It had been James who’d noticed first -- caught the bleak, defeated look on Sirius’ face -- and tipped his head in a question.
Sirius’ I know where it is had been low-energy, at best, and he’d been forced to repeat himself before everyone present at the meeting had heard him.
And then, of course, had followed all the arguments about how should go -- his friends valiantly attempting to spare him, James insisting he could go, Peter confident he could go rat and make it in, but in the end -- well, his family were never exactly welcoming. There’d been precisely one person in the room who would be guaranteed to make it through all the various wards and enchantments and hateful touches that his parents had added over the years.
So here he is. Standing across the street with his hands jammed in his pockets and a scowl sketched darkly across his features. He hasn’t been inside the house since -- well, since the summer of his sixth year. Since he ran away.
There’s no one home. Of that, he’s almost entirely certain; he’ll have to avoid Kreacher, but he spent years of his life doing that. He knows a few tricks.
“C’mon, Black,” he mutters to himself under his breath. “What, you scared?”
It’s enough to get his feet moving, to carry him across the street, the house muscling itself between its neighbours, jostling for space. He pauses again on the doorstep, and curses under his breath. Quicker he gets in, quicker he can get out. End of.
The place hasn’t changed. The decor is still ghastly, a gothic monument to prejudice and outdated tradition. He does his best to squash down the bitter bile of his feelings, of memories clawing over him. His mother’s voice, his father’s disapproval, his brother’s resentment. No time for that now; he’ll get drunk about it later.
He’s in front of the library door when he hears the front door swing open. No time to hide, except by pushing himself through the door and into the library, which he does -- not quite fast enough to close the door behind him before whoever’s just entered will see it swing closed.
He takes the only alternative, and throws himself into one of the dusty armchairs. Lounging, like he belongs here.
After all, hate it though he may -- he sort of does.
