❝She can feel it stirring in the air once more; that suffocating concoction of fear and terror and panic, and she hates it.❞
Amelia has lived through one war, now another one is sprouting from the fresh soils of the one once deemed the last. Her nam...
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{one.}
SIRIUS ORION BLACK has learned to expect both nothing, everything and all in between with what concerns Albus Dumbledore from a fairly young age. Still, his absurd requests never fail to baffle him to the extent of annoyed anger and thinly-veiled snark at his inappropriate timing with their current predicament. What he had hoped to be a mission briefing or something of its kin turned out to be an art exhibition, and Sirius' half-awake, caffeine-lacking mind can't take it.
"What are your thoughts on this piece?" Dumbledore tentatively places his hand on the largest canvas, and Sirius cannot contain the puzzled, annoyed pinch between his brows as he steps towards the painting.
It is a great piece, he'll admit. The painting portrays a slight, young girl; short hair curled, chubby hands clinging to the pages of a book, tone cold and grey and eerie. He watches the small girl squeeze at the paper and becomes mesmerized by the realism of the overall work. Yet he still feels like he's missing a bigger picture, a smaller detail of importance. His equally grey eyes mirror the silver of the ornamental frame, and his gaze locks on the bottom corner, for it was peculiar for enchanted portraits to possess signatures of any kind.
His fingers caress the loopy writing, trace the name etched onto the canvas, and Sirius knows, knows what Dumbledore wants from him even without him uttering a single syllable.
"Amelia Gaunt?" Sirius rolls out the name, and it stings his tongue like a bee who had been buzzing in his mouth for the duration of his visit and had finally struck. Suddenly, he is all too aware of his purpose, why it was him and not Remus who had been at the receiving end of the letter dropped onto his friend's dinner table that very morning.
Sirius feels a hand creeping up his shoulder, and the reassuring squeeze does nothing to calm his nerves. If anything, it makes his ire spike up further. He swats at the intrusive limb, taking three steps to the side to distance himself from his old, plotting Headmaster.
"What do you want from her, Dumbledore?" His words drip with venom, but Sirius figures it comes with the memory of the biggest serpent he had the displeasure of meeting. He still recalls her upturned nose and soothing voice, golden locks and intertwined hands, and he hates it.
Hates her.
"It isn't a question of want, Sirius, it's of need. We need her for Harry's sake." That made Sirius pause in his childish rage, for he had not expected this to be about Harry, of all people, with Amelia Gaunt concerned.
Dumbledore, seeing that he finally has Black's attention, moves to his open drawer. He carefully draws out a small, black book, damaged by water and venom and fangs. Sirius' brows rise up as he comes closer, his anger momentarily forgotten as he remembers the tales surrounding this particular diary. Once he is close enough, he tentatively brushes his fingers across the leather before withdrawing, as if the mere touch of the artifact burned him, his essence and soul.
