#caniicula

@caniicula

Alice stomped through the front door of Order Headquarters and straight to the grubby parlor where she knew Sirius Black liked to sulk sit when his friends had things to do and he didn’t. Sure enough, Sirius was there, and a quick but sharp glance around the room proved that he was there alone (no one trained by Alastor Moody could fail to assess a room’s potential threats in a glance, not if they wanted to pass his training in one piece), just as Alice had hoped.

She shoved her cloak back -- having been in too much of a hurry to take it off -- and took the thick red file folder from its less-than-subtle-yet-effective hiding spot clamped against her ribs under her injured arm and threw it toward Sirius. It hit the scratched end-table next to him and skidded forward a few inches, stopping perilously close to the saucer of his tea cup (gone cold more than an hour ago, if Alice was any judge), the long black string that tied it closed flopping forward like a dead snake across the fading varnish.

“There it is,” Alice announced, staring down hard at Sirius as if he were somehow at fault for all this -- although for once, he wasn’t. “Everything I could dig out of the Ministry’s files on werewolves outside the registry and unattributed lycanthopic incidents.”

She flopped unceremoniously into the chair next to his, the grace her mother had once worked so hard to instill in her lost for the moment to injury and weariness, and drew her wand to tap the cold kettle on the hearth. She needed tea desperately, and would settle for now for whatever swill Sirius was drinking in lieu of making the effort of fetching herself a better blend (oh, how she missed having house-elves around! but their presence was far too risky at headquarters, everyone agreed -- or enough of them agreed that the rest, like Alice, who had insisted that no house-elf worth the name would betray its masters even in a war, had been out-voted). At least heating tea-water was something she could do with her off-hand, without worrying that she was going to botch the spell.

“Get your arse up, Sirius!” Alice snapped. She had her wand held loosely in her hand, her eyes darting around the dingy alley for signs of threat, her nerves humming with tension as she readied for another fight. “I’m not carrying you,” she added harshly. “It’s your fault we’re in this mess -- you and you’re ‘it’ll be fine, Alice, it’s Muggle London, what’s the worst that can happen? It’s not like there’ll be Death Eaters hanging out at the local mutter-sickle shoppe...’”

He hadn’t been wrong, but he hadn’t exactly been right either; perhaps it was just that two pure-bloods out on the town in the middle of a rundown Muggle neighborhood weren’t exactly inconspicuous, or perhaps someone had followed them from the Leaky Cauldron -- it hardly mattered. The important thing was that they had been ambushed, but not well enough to be dead.

(Alice wasn’t sure about the Death Eater whom Sirius had hit in the face with that nasty-looking jinx; she tried not to think about him, tried not to wonder if he was someone she knew. The taller one had grabbed the wizard before he hit the ground and Apparated them both away anyway, so he would probably he fine. She told herself not to care; that command worked as well as it ever did.)

Sirius was on the ground moaning, or swearing, or both; Alice couldn’t really tell. Her ears were still ringing from the Reducto Curse that had nearly taken her head off and had instead blasted a good portion of brick wall into smithereens right in her face. Her cheeks stung and her hair was filled with pulverized debris, but it was the ringing in her ears that really upset her; anyone might be sneaking up on them right now and Alice wouldn’t hear them coming.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” she grumbled, her nervous gaze roaming the bits of broken brick and blood that had scattered across the grease-stained asphalt. How had Sirius made it sound so appealing, going to gawk at “the ridiculous contraptions that Muggles have invented to take the place of brooms -- no I’m not talking about cars, Alice, I’m talking about motorcycles! They’re totally different, I can’t believe you’ve never seen one, come on, we’ll go right now and I’ll show you...”

“Idiot,” Alice snarled, and she wasn’t sure if she was talking to herself or to Sirius; maybe to both of them. “If you don’t stand up right now, I’m leaving without you,” she warned him, firming her grip on her wand.

She didn’t, though. She knelt down and flung one of his arms over her shoulder, checked to make sure his wand was still in his hand (trying not to let herself be mildly impressed to note that it was), grabbed hold of his wrist tightly, and taken them both back to headquarters to be healed. Alice would never have really left him behind, harsh words to the contrary; she wasn’t good at leaving people.

         “You fuck off.” 

Strange, isn’t it, how funerals bring people together? Generally, Petunia didn’t believe any of that trite bullshit. Vernon’s funeral had only brought his family together against her, presenting a united front against this upstart bitch who had married their darling Vernon and couldn’t seem to give a straight answer about what had really happened that night the Evans house had been broken into. Her parents’ funeral hadn’t proved much better, the wake after the ceremony devolving into a gathering of magical people come to give Lily their condolences as she sobbed like a professional mourner. 

Escaping outside was supposed to bring her away from all of Lily’s friends; in hindsight, perhaps she’d still been successful after all. Sirius had seemed equally annoyed or at least disaffected by the whole spectacle, and had been kind enough to give her a smoke. Not that Petunia really smoked. But hey, her parents’ funeral was as good a time as any to start. 

–– "Don't worry about Regulus –               he's just being overly dramatic about a skinned knee,    and Narcissa will set him right in a heartbeat."

meme — accepting

send me on my way — rusted root 

     Rain pelted the window, but Harry hardly      heard it, even with his scar pressed up     against the cold glass.

     It was late on Saturday morning, and as     such, the dormitory was completely empty     but for himself, perched on the windowsill.     He couldn’t face going down into the     common room. Not yet. Hermione was      probably going to wonder where he was,     but she wasn’t who he needed right now.     He didn’t think even Ron could cheer him     up, but the way things were going, that didn’t      seem likely anyway.

     He wanted — or perhaps needed — Sirius.     If only he could reach out a hand, through     the glass, and find him. On any other day,     Harry would have been upset that Sirius had     risked everything to come back. Today, though,     he just wished he knew exactly how close     he really was. The First Task was drawing     nearer, and Harry knew now that he did not      want to be around when the day came.

     Maybe he’d be able to go on the run with      Sirius. It would be easy — if he escaped the     grounds without being noticed he’d     be gone, on his way. If he ran, though, he     felt like he might never stop. But he’d be     with Sirius. All he needed was a push to     send him in the right direction.

     And everyone would remember him as     the Boy Who Ran Away.