ALULA (VOL. 3)
Time to put things into perspective- into order.
When a war has begun there's no waiting for children to group up. Alula Nova Black knows this too well. The last thing needed is a government who are corrupt in thinking everything is o...
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the prophecy p.1
{1996}
Dumbledore's Office
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Alula's feet hit solid ground. Her knees buckled a little and the golden wizard's head fell with a resounding clunk to the floor. She looked around and saw that she and Harry had arrived in Dumbledore's office.
Everything seemed to have repaired itself during the Headmaster's absence. The delicate silver instruments stood once more on the spindle-legged tables, puffing and whirring serenely. The portraits of the headmasters and headmistresses were snoozing in their frames, heads lolling back in armchairs or against the edge of the; picture. Alula looked through the window. There was a cool line of pale green along the horizon: dawn was approaching.
The silence and the stillness, broken only by the occasional grunt or snuffle of a sleeping portrait, was unbearable to her. If her surroundings could have reflected the feelings inside her, the pictures would have been screaming in pain. She walked around the quiet, beautiful office, breathing quickly, trying not to think. But he had to think . . . there was no escape . . .
Alula slumped into a worn armchair and put her head in her hands. As if turning on a tap, tears began streaming from her sore eyes.
"Alula, I... I am so sorry." Harry said.
It was his fault Sirius had died; it was all his fault. If he, Harry, had not been stupid enough to fall for Voldemort's trick if he had not been so convinced that what he had seen in his dream was real if he had only opened his mind to the possibility that Voldemort was, as Hermione had said, banking on Harry's love of playing the hero . . .
It was unbearable, he would not think about it, he could not stand it . . . there was a terrible hollow inside him he did not want to feel or examine, a dark hole where Sirius had been, where Sirius had vanished; he did not want to have that great, silent space, he could not stand it. He had let Alula down and the guilt was enough to consume.
A picture behind him gave a particularly loud grunting snore, and a cool voice said, 'Ah . . . Harry Potter . . .'
Phineas Nigellus gave a long yawn, stretching his arms as he surveyed Harry out of shrewd, narrow eyes.
'And Alula Black... What brings you here in the early hours of the morning?' said Phineas eventually. 'This office is supposed to be barred to all but the rightful Headmaster. Or has Dumbledore sent you here? Oh, don't tell me . . .' He gave another shuddering yawn. 'Another message for my worthless great-great-grandson?'
Alula looked up quickly at the portrait of her great-great-great-grandfather. She could not speak. Phineas Nigellus did not know that Sirius was dead, but she could not tell him. To say it aloud would be to make it final, absolute, irretrievable.
