Disclaimer: I don't think I need a disclaimer anymore, I'm sure you know that I'm not J.K Rowling by now.
Author's note: I am back from the big around-the-world trip and am terrified about writing Admonition again. Mostly because I know that I've changed and I don't want my writing to reflect that change otherwise it will seem fragmented and this chapter 10 will be vastly different from the 9 that came before it. But alas, there is nothing I can do about it, so please review critically. I haven't written in a long time! And I think that as I've been away I've changed the plot a little bit. Ahem …
This chapter is dedicated to Cuba for her birthday, which I missed.
Chapter 10: A Day Without Rain.
i.
Sirius walks down the cobbled footpath, memories fade and reform within his fractured mind, while his hand grasps innocent leaves on nearby bushes as he passes them by.
He does not know why he walks down this childhood lane, somewhere in the alleys behind Grimmauld Place, the almost black clouds overhead symbolise a warning, but Sirius forgets to see the meaning behind them.
As his footsteps drag him closer to his former home there seems no risk in a small visit; his parents both deceased, his brother more unhinged than dangerous.
The twisted hallways and creaking stairs paint the backdrop of his wandering mind, and slowly he pieces together a map of the old house.
Sirius loves maps, the browning folds in the paper, the lines to destinations crossing and intertwining.
He finds himself more and more regularly sitting in the light of a dripping candle, tracing the lines between Berlin and Krakow, between Bundaberg and Osaka.
He finds himself wondering how long it would take to fly to these faraway places, little castles in the dawn sky.
Somewhere he could escape to.
Remus always tells him that you can't run away until you face your demons, you have to catch hold of their malignant leather wings and strangle them in the deep black waters of your fear, suffocate them under the pillows of your desire.
So he traces the memories to his old front door, the paint is curled and fading, the brass knocker seems less formidable in its unpolished state.
He raises a hand to knock before pushing the hinged door aside in a slight flurry of unprecedented anger, the corners of his mouth curling, his hand still clasped into an irate fist.
The troll's leg umbrella stand is exactly where he remembers it, his mother's curse hangs behind a tattered curtain, and he can almost hear her distate as he walks calmly past.
He tells himself that you can't fear houses, inanimate objects inhabited by people, but yet the small black hairs on his arm shiver and stand, his heart beats fretfully in muted protest.
He fancies a strong glass of firewhisky and tells himself it's not stealing, and even if it was, why would he care? Where did all this caring come from all of a sudden?
He leaves footprints in the dust on the stairs, his hands seem to burn the unpolished wood on the banisters, his breath is caught somewhere between his lungs and the opening of his mouth.
His feet turn the corner into the drawing room and Sirius find himself looking into blue eyes under a blonde fringe.
Instinctively his wand arm rises, his feet stop their movement and square protectively beneath him, his breath begins to race, his own eyes remain steady.
"Good evening Mr. Black," Lucius announces casually, he crosses his legs and takes a sip out of his own glass of firewhisky, his lips curling around the rim of the glass.
ii.
Lily studies him through her eyelashes, so that he appears before her with small vertical lines running across his sharp face.
She blinks sleepily and folds her feet closer to herself, she likes blinking in front of him, likes how he appears and disappears and for once in her life she knows he will be there when she opens them again.
Open. Close. Open.
The world is filtered between the darkness of the night and the hazy light of the candle flame, her hand reaches instinctively for him, her fingers drum little tunes on his forearm.
Open. Close. Open.
He smiles, his crooked delicious smile and she smiles back, they grin at each other like the children they use to be; trapped in memories they yearn to create more.
He is so close now that the little hairs from his fringe touch her forehead, her hand moves to his back, her fingers tracing nonsense words like 'love' and 'lust', she can hear his breath as it falls on her throat, on her collarbone, on her cheek.
His lips brush slowly across her own and she stops blinking.
Close.
iii.
Regulus sits on the edge of his bed in his pajamas, his feet not touching the floor but swinging in the space between.
He feels complete, as if that big gaping hole in him has been filled with the crumpets and the honey, with the task and with new friendships.
Everything seems new, like the little budding flowers in the springtime, it is a new beginning, a chance to be more.
He swings his legs up onto the bed and tucks them under the blanket, folding his arms across his chest, his eyes out of focus somewhere on the vaulted ceiling.
A loud pop snaps him out of his reminiscing, he kinks his neck in the processes of spinning towards the door.
"Kreacher!"
"Master," the elf bows low, his long nose touching the floor, "Mr. Malfoy is in the drawing room."
"The drawing room, Kreacher?"
"Yes Master, at Grimmaruld Place."