It didn't happen like he thought it would. It wasn't loud, nor dramatic. He didn't start fires and dance on the ashes. He didn't go out with a roar of a lion, but instead scurried away, quiet as a mouse.
Nothing spectacular nor significant had happened. No heart-felt argument between him and his mother. No snide comment from his brother. Just his evening meal, the occasional scrapping of cutlery on plates breaking the heavy silence, the continual tick of the grandfather clock. He'd be the first to leave the table, as was usual, being more dismissed than excused.
Escaping to his room, he let the door shut by its self instead of slamming it. And there, still fully clothed, he lay on top of his sheets. The sheets he constantly had to charm back red after coming back, washed from the house elves, their original green.
He had no idea how long he lay there. He hadn't drawn the curtain so when day became night the moonlight steamed through the windows, making the visible wall between his poster look more white than grey. He stared at the wall without seeing, sometimes his head buzzing with thoughts, other times it was empty. He contemplated moving, but how could he with this weight pushing him down?
He felt tired. He'd felt tired for a long time now. Not the satisfying tried after a long days hard work, the kind where you can curl up, warm and comfortable and slowly drift to sleep. No, the kind which felt like he had swam across the whole Black Lake in January, the kind of tired you felt in you bones. To tired to even fall asleep.
His eyes drifted downwards, past the sparsely clad muggle women and shiny bikes. His eyes rested on his rucksack which sat upon a chair. It was wide open and the half filled content spilled over the zip. He slipped out of bed and walked towards it. His feet felt like lead.
With both hands he zipped the bag shut. He packed it a week ago after worse than normal argument with his mother, which was started by his brother winding him up. That's how he'd imagined he'd leave. He stormed upstairs, his curses louder than the stomp of his feet and slam of door. Heavy handed his stuffed the bag with clothes, giving no rational though to what he was packing, all the while grumbling of life's indecencies.
He imagined his departure would be full of sparks and fireworks. Would send his mother finally over the edge into madness. Would make his father feel a flicker of emotion, what ever that maybe. Would make Regulus see his mistake.
He didn't know why he didn't leave that night. But he was leaving tonight. Slipping the bag over one should he made his was out of his room, not bothering to look back, not bothering to see his nameplate one last time.
Hidden in the shadows he made his way through the halls and stairways of Grimmauld Place, avoiding the loud fall boards. And in the dead of night he slipped out the door.
He neither paused nor looked back at his childhood home as he walked away, didn't stop to see it the surrounding house swallow it up.
He simply walked away, quiet as a mouse.