Being in number twelve Grimmauld Place - and all the memories such a place carried with it - once again after nearly twenty years of not having stepped foot in it put Sirius Black into permanent strop-mode. As if merely being there wasn't enough to put him in the mindset of his teenaged self, the rules and restrictions placed upon him by Dumbledore and enforced by other members of the Order made him feel just as useless and helpless as he had when he was sixteen. He could almost feel the last vestiges of what little sanity he'd regained in the past two years slipping away from him, scattering off into myriad directions and him unable to follow any of them. He needed control of at least one thing in his life. The least anyone could do, he thought, was to respect that this was his house, and follow what he said regarding it. So it was with special rancour that he met Molly Weasley on the staircase between the third and fourth floors one Wednesday morning toward the end of the summer.

'Morning, Sirius,' she greeted innocuously enough.

'Morning,' he returned automatically. He then noted the bucket full of cleaning supplies she carried with her, as well as the book of household spells, and raised a brow. 'Where are you going with that, then?'

'Hmm? Oh, well, the children are tackling the first floor, the others have been done as well, or at least have a good start on them; it's just the fourth floor that needs doing, really.'

'I told you I'd handle the fourth floor.'

'Yes, well, you've not done anything to it yet, have you? I thought I'd help.'

'I'm perfectly capable of handling the fourth floor, Molly. I'm sure the kids wouldn't mind your expertise in battling the drawing room.'

Sirius could see exasperation with him, and the situation at large, beginning to cross the woman's face, and he did not doubt in the very least that his face mirrored hers. He never had been quite capable of masking his emotions to a suitable degree. One of many things his parents found to be less than desirable about him. With the patience that must have been borne of raising seven children, she ground out, 'It makes no sense for you to do it on your own. With the two of us working, I'm sure we could finish it within a day.'

'I've got the fourth floor sussed,' Sirius reiterated. 'Leave it.'

'Really, Sirius, you're being unreasonable. It's no prob -'

'God damn it, Molly! If I said I've got the fourth floor, I've got the fucking fourth floor! Now fucking leave it!' he shouted, chest heaving and face slightly red, looking every bit the murderer he was purported to be, daring her to contradict him now.

Shooting a look his way, Molly turned on her heel and began descending the staircase, muttering disparaging remarks about the master of the house under her breath as she went. Sirius was quite forcibly reminded of Kreacher.

Satisfied that she would not be returning to the upper levels of the house, at least for a day or so, Sirius started up the steps again. Though he had not been planning on it, he figured he might as well begin on the fourth floor lest Molly Weasley return with reinforcements. There were some things people were meant to do on their own, and Sirius figured going through their younger brother's things was one of them.

He entered the bedroom across the hall from his own, shaking his head at the absurdity of the sign hanging upon it. Really, even at ten, Regulus had to have known that such a thing was useless at keeping anyone or anything out. It's not like it was charmed against entry or something, but even as he was mocking the sign forbidding entry in his head, he did feel as though he were trespassing upon something sacred. Funny that he had never felt such qualms when he had been younger and living in this house and Regulus had been alive.

The tidiness and organisation of the room was just as he remembered it. Books were lined on the shelves in order, the objects on the abandoned desk still tastefully arranged, the bed neatly made with one side of the duvet turned down, as though waiting for the return of its owner that would never come. It felt like stepping into a museum, like seeing a carefully preserved artefact to Sirius. It felt tremendously foreign though it was just as he remembered it. It unsettled him.

After spelling away the dust that coated the room, he went to the desk. The first three drawers he had opened contained nothing of interest, but the contents of the bottom drawer captured his attention. At first, what the drawer held seemed reminiscent of the previous three he'd gone through, but buried at the bottom was a stack of parchments with his name and that of his brother in childish handwriting. Pulling them from the drawer, he found a drawing of two black-haired boys, one slightly taller than the other, playing with a quaffle staring up at him from the first sheaf. Even if he hadn't already known who the two boys were in the drawing, there were arrows leading to them from the words "you" and "me", and written in the clumsy scrawl of childhood beneath the figures was "to: Sirius from: Regulus". Sirius quickly flipped through the rest of the parchments, each depicting the same two boys, each capturing a moment of happiness and love, and each addressed to him from his brother. He sat for hours, studying each line of the faded parchments, each nick and accidental blob of ink upon them, tracing it all with his fingers.

Lunch was being called, and as he stood, his eyes fell across the collage hung above the desk. He found himself blaming that collage for taking everything from him, from his brother, and from the children drawn on the parchments in his hand who were so ignorant in that time of innocence of their fates.