"Corvus Black loved him, but he could never have him - for there wasn't a soul purer then Charlie Weasleys', and Corvus' soul was darker then the night itself."
Charlie Weasley x oc
Very, very gay.
WOLFSTAR :)
The Harry Potter Universe does belong t...
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Corvus stood in the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror. It was closer to the morning than it was dusk, and his eyes were heavy with sleep. He groaned and leant his head against the cool metal surface, breathing in deeply through his nose; maybe, if he had stuck with magic, he wouldn't have had this problem.
His eyes flickered to the cheap plastic hairbrush on the sink, and then back up to his mirrored self, observing the matted birds nest that rested despondently by his ears. He sighed once again, debating with himself whether or not it was worth it; on the one hand, it would certainly make him feel a little better, and it might even motivate him to get further things done, like washing his face or cooking a decent breakfast, but he just didn't have the energy. He stood, staring, for a little longer, before he reached forward and wrapped his nimble fingers around the hairbrushes base. He brought it up to his eye line, paused, and then lowered it again. He placed it back down on the chipped ceramic surface, his heart sinking.
Merlin, he was so tired. His skin was pale and his finger nail bitten down to raw little stubs of flesh, sore and throbbing and angry. He was decked out in the same jumper he always wore, though it was desperately begging to be washed, and his hands and feet were uncomfortably sweaty. He sniffled slightly, fumbling with the door knob in a desperate attempt to escape the sheer disappointment his failure had presented him, and flung open the door.
Perhaps he really ought to get out, but the distance between him and the street below was a magnitude he was unwilling to tackle, and besides, it was far too cold to go wandering. His bed was so warm, so enticing, and sleep was just so welcoming. . .
He stood in the bathroom doorway, gazing fixatedly at the ground. He had slept all day, he wasn't tired, he couldn't be. But he had to be – his eyes were drooping and his limbs were strained and his mind was exhausted. He was a type of tired that he couldn't sleep of, but sleep was the only thing he seemed to be able to do. It was draining.
The warm sheets welcomed him like a family home decked out in snow. He sank delightfully into his covers, his figure curled up like a child's, and buried his face into the soft fabric of his pillow. It smelt vaguely of coffee and rose petals, and the familiar fragrance wrapped its arms around him and tugged him further into its loving embrace. Corvus basked in it.
He lay, surrounded by an abundance of pillows and blankets, and closed his eyes. He would soon have to move out of this flat; he had no money, no muggle money, that is, and everything he had inherited was locked up in gringotts - a place filled with far too much nostalgia to ever revisit. He had no job, no income, but he refused to dwell much on the thought.
The Blacks had numerous manors and estates he could live on, but he had only one that he himself had inherited directly, and that was Grimmauld.
He shivered slightly at the thought. He loathed that house and the memories that hid themselves in the shadows, hated how one glance or scent or fabric could bring him crashing down, smashing him to pieces. He would die before he ever set foot back in that house, he was sure that a part of him would be dead the second he even stepped over the threshold, but what other option did he have?
