1.6 | ❝It doesn't matter. People under the grave are mere memories.❞
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THE YOUNG BLACK rubbed the sore spot located at the crook of his neck, leaning his elbows on the table with his sharp features representing mild discomfort.
Siruis Black had attacked the Gryffindor dormitory, the torn portrait of the fat lady was evidence and her words of confirmation further added to it. And Dumbledore, not wanting to take any chances had all the students sleep in main hall on the uncomfortable stone ground. With his neck being uncomfortably stiff and crooked: maybe it was due to his terrible positioning when he was asleep, or because of the stone ground, or maybe because it was cold at night.
"How do you reckon the got in?" Theo asked as he spread the jam evenly over his piece of toast, his concentration solely on his breakfast but his words didn't betray any form of disinterest.
Daphne, who was applying some black nail polish spoke up, "He can't apparate in here. So he must has snuck past the teachers. But let's be honest here some teacher likely let him in; my money is on Professor Lupin, two years in a row we have had a teacher who tried something against Potter."
The eldest of the three hummed in response. In all honesty Daphne's prediction could be true, but Elysian was fairly confident that the new defence against dark arts teacher wasn't some henious genocidal bastard in disguise. But even then there was some odd feeling of cryptic and haunted silence around the man. The sorrow in his eyes, smile, the lines of stress etched over his face. It was all something you would see in a man damaged by the world.
