#delirivms

It had been less of a sinking feeling, and more of an abrupt freefall, as the description of the book they were seeking had crystallised into sudden familiarity. It had been James who’d noticed first -- caught the bleak, defeated look on Sirius’ face -- and tipped his head in a question.

Sirius’ I know where it is had been low-energy, at best, and he’d been forced to repeat himself before everyone present at the meeting had heard him.

And then, of course, had followed all the arguments about how should go -- his friends valiantly attempting to spare him, James insisting he could go, Peter confident he could go rat and make it in, but in the end -- well, his family were never exactly welcoming. There’d been precisely one person in the room who would be guaranteed to make it through all the various wards and enchantments and hateful touches that his parents had added over the years.

So here he is. Standing across the street with his hands jammed in his pockets and a scowl sketched darkly across his features. He hasn’t been inside the house since -- well, since the summer of his sixth year. Since he ran away.

There’s no one home. Of that, he’s almost entirely certain; he’ll have to avoid Kreacher, but he spent years of his life doing that. He knows a few tricks.

“C’mon, Black,” he mutters to himself under his breath. “What, you scared?”

It’s enough to get his feet moving, to carry him across the street, the house muscling itself between its neighbours, jostling for space. He pauses again on the doorstep, and curses under his breath. Quicker he gets in, quicker he can get out. End of.

The place hasn’t changed. The decor is still ghastly, a gothic monument to prejudice and outdated tradition. He does his best to squash down the bitter bile of his feelings, of memories clawing over him. His mother’s voice, his father’s disapproval, his brother’s resentment. No time for that now; he’ll get drunk about it later.

He’s in front of the library door when he hears the front door swing open. No time to hide, except by pushing himself through the door and into the library, which he does -- not quite fast enough to close the door behind him before whoever’s just entered will see it swing closed.

He takes the only alternative, and throws himself into one of the dusty armchairs. Lounging, like he belongs here.

It isn’t planned; they’re adults now, and no longer confined to the castle walls that foisted interaction upon them. Their families no longer dine in the same establishments together, though that isn’t even a definite, having attended a DINNER PARTY or two hosted with the Blacks where she’s seen Narcissa, a sparkling butterfly of a presence, fluttering from person to person. With all the politicking one might expect out of a pureblooded family such as her own, they’ve raised her to be the kind of weapon that they always expected out of the brunette, one who’s presence was meant to incite the kind of chill within others that the Black name was meant to inspire.

Marlene was simply out on a break from work -- her skirt perfectly pinned, as one leg crossed itself over in casual ease over the other, a cigarette within her hands, smoking away, chin propped upon the end of one open palm, turning the pages of the Daily Prophet, all but a trash tell-all by now rather than the kind of HARD HITTING NEWS that the wizarding world needed by now. A cup of coffee steams above it all, black as night, sweet as sin, though she can smell Narcissa long before she sees her. Like opium and sandlewood and power, dark and addicting, her head lifting upwards just in time to see as she waltzes through the doors as if she owns the whole fucking place.

               Here comes trouble.

“Cissy--” her voice raises before she can help herself, old habits, that tug of who they used to be still there somewhere, swirling within her. The programming that all pureblooded families input into their children, the one that has them viewing themselves above, beyond, the world and its SILLY RULES, and perhaps the atmosphere of fear that chokes London now, beneath the thumb of a man who prefers he not be named, lest he be whispered into existence. She looks beautiful, but that’s par for the course with Narcissa; that’s what she’s been bred and raised for. To be beautiful, to be dangerous. And here she is, inviting a snake unto her table. Ah, Marlene. You never learn.

           “ You don’t look like the elves I’ve encountered. ” Not that Anji felt as if ANYTHING here would look even closely like the things she’d encountered. The sense of falling had slammed into her, and she’d tumbled, but there had been no end to the descent. 

          Until there had been. Among pine and its needles, driving into her palms, her knees. Until she realized that the portal she’d entered through --- not much different than the ones she’d swaggered through several times before --- had, in fact, been wholly different. 

          For this place was not like where she’d come from. This wasn’t Skyrim. And the male before her, differing from her like night and day, different from those she’d known as ELVES all the same. 

                                 ❝ ENJOYING A NIGHT OUT, ARE WE?  ❞   Raunchy for a reaper’s approach, you might say — but where there is darkness, Thanatos always lingers.  ❝  Still as beautiful as the legends claim. I don’t even see the point in this modern wave of lunar song tributes. They’ll never do you justice.  ❞