CORVUS

3.

The cellar at twelve Grimmauld place was quite possibly the most interesting part of the house. It was a giant, gaping room, plain and empty and barren of suspicious looking objects and deadly little trinkets. The walls were decorated with scorched tapestries and displeasing portrait frames, which all sounded rather dull, but the most appeasing thing about the cellar at Number Twelve Grimmauld place was not the glacial temperature or the dismal décor.

Tucked in the far corner, just out of sight, was a wardrobe. It looked fairly normal, made of oak wood and with odd little shapes carved into its side, and it looked strangely well kept, considering its evident age. It was rather tall, with a large, momentous capacity, and glimmering bronze handles. Strangely antique, to have been discarded in the cellar.

Whilst the exterior was withering and well-kept, the inside was another matter. For starters, you could only open the wardrobe with a password, and even then you had to be well accustomed to secret hiding spots. Secondly, this was no ordinary wardrobe.

Six-year-old Corvus sat hunched over his school work, leaning silently against the wall opposite the door to the cellar. Every now and again he risked a glance upwards, his eyes barely skimming the dark corner to his left before he shifted his attention back down to the book in his hand. He adjusted the oil lamp besides him so that its orange flame illuminated the text he was reading, and turned his back on the wardrobe. A poignant bruise sat stilly on his brow, and his lips was cut down its middle. He cradled his right hand to his chest.

He tried to concentrate solely on his work, but it was proving to be rather difficult. He adjusted his position again, but his concentration never seemed to stick on what he should be doing. It would be his ultimate downfall one day.

Sighing loudly, he snapped his book closed. The wardrobe seemed too beckon him over, and although he knew that it would do more harm than god, he allowed himself to be tempted. He lifted the lamp up and leant against the wardrobes' left door.

"Brothers." He whispered, "Rats."

The door clicked, before it slowly slid backwards. Corvus paused at the entrance. An orange light shone from inside the wardrobe, and his eyes scanned the poster clad walls he and Regulus had once designed. He wasn't supposed to stray from his school work, and his mother would be very angry, especially if she found out about the den. His hand, which had been positioned out in front of him, as if he was to reach forward, retracted. He scanned the room, grey eyes wide with fright, and then brought his hand up to the side of his face. His fingers ghosted over the deep purple bruise on his brow, and his thumb swiped over his lip. He closed the door.

Perhaps it was cowardly. Sirius would've been ashamed. But Sirius wasn't here anymore, Corvus reminded himself, and Regulus was always out. Soon, he would be all alone. He had to stop putting himself in danger merely to appease the ghost of somebody he once knew. It would do him no good.

Sighing, he turned and went back to his book. The wardrobe stood haughtily in the corner of his eye, and he grimaced with annoyance. How on earth was he supposed to concentrate with that tarnishing his concentration? Huffing, he buried his face further into the book he was supposed to have finished by now. He couldn't do it. It was too much of a distraction.