❝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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{two.}
FOR A MOMENT, Sirius Black rethinks his decisions, his actions, rethinks the weight underneath his armpit and the sot covering his coat, the faint scent of shaving cream and the long strands of hair brushing across his heated neck. But the words have already been uttered, and there is no room for self-doubt whilst using the infamous Floo Network. In the ashen heat he stands in, Sirius manages to compose his thoughts and posture and nerves.
Slowly—but surely—the raging emerald fire recedes from his vision, and Sirius' heart lodges in his throat. He takes the first step out of the fireplace, head ducked down as to not hit its massive frame. His lowered gaze readjusts to the darkness and meets the olive hardwood of the large room before him, and the green hue of it makes his stomach turn. When next his eyes level with his new surroundings, Sirius is sure that his words had been as clear as crystal and as true as steel.
"Bloody Hell," he breathes out in begrudging wonder, having expected and completely unanticipated the sight before him.
Sirius recalls his sixteen-year-old, self-resilient and rebellious as ever, the trunk of his belongings hitting his calves and thumping down the stairs of 12 Grimmauld Place. It had been a dark evening, then; the gloomy walls of his childhood home darkening even further with the absence of its usual occupants. Sirius, thinking better than to cause a theatrical scene, had chosen a rain-drenched night to exit his first prison. He remembers reaching the end of the staircase down to his freedom, but a certain thought had halted his fast steps. He had paused, looked inside the strangely-lit drawing room, and had entered. The tapestry of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had felt bitter and rough against his fingertips, and his unburnt image jagged and rugged and insignificant. He had stared at his own name, had traced his gaze across the scattered branches for what felt like an eternity, but the candlelight behind him had finally called for his attention. When he turned, he had been greeted with the half-painted image of his mother, so real and pragmatic that Sirius' grip on his trunk had slackened in mild fright.
Her paintings were living and breathing and pulsing with life and vigor and static—even then.
Now, Sirius can't help the scoff that escapes his lips in disbelief. Amelia Gaunt has built herself an empire of linseed oil and varnish.
There isn't a single patch of wallpaper visible amidst the thick, secured canvases, all signed with that loopy, elegant handwriting he had grown so familiar with during the decades. Paintings, rows and columns of them, stare him down, and Sirius feels as if he is the one who is hanging on the wall—a mere decoration, made for viewing and scrutiny and exhibition. He is like an ant underneath a magnifying glass, and Sirius' resolve cracks. His damaged mind starts to race at just how irritating and stupid and revolting he finds this situation, how nauseous and anxious and sick he feels by being this close to the Gaunt girl who continuously keeps plaguing his life, unintentionally or otherwise.
