Wind blew across the windowsill, rattling the old blinds. The house creaked and seemed to sway dangerously, like it was one good push from crashing to the ground.
One particular room in this house, if it could even be called that anymore, was old, worn, and covered in a thick layer of dust. The room had a bed in it, the covers torn and stained with blood. On that bed sat a boy, perhaps 15 years of age, with dirty blonde hair and only wearing a ratty pair of trousers.
"Moony?" A questioning voice wandered into the room. The boy, still slightly confused, couldn't directly identify the voice. All he knew was that it sounded familiar. Comforting, almost.
He didn't answer though. He wasn't sure if he tried to speak that anything would come out.
The owner of the voice took his lack of answer as permission to enter. His black hair drifted into his face, but, for the first time ever, he didn't really care what his hair was doing.
The blonde boy quickly found himself embraced, platitudes whispered in his ear. Padfoot was here. Everything was okay. He was alright as long as the dark teenager was here to guide him through it. He let himself lean into the others' arms, relaxing and letting himself drift off to Padfoot rubbing circles into his back.