The bouncer didn't wait to check if Sirius Black was okay after throwing him to the ground. Instead, he turned his brawny back on the splayed limbed man and pulled the door of the club closed. As soon as he did, the door disappeared, and Sirius was left alone in the dark. The alleyway in which he had been removed too (per the request of other frustrated bar patrons) was quiet and still wet from the earlier rainstorm. The pools of water that had gathered in the uneven cobblestones caught the small, warm light from a distant lamp-post and refracted it, sending it scattering into the darkened windows of the closed store-fronts. At this time of year, Hogsmeade looked like a sea of stars. Not that Sirius had noticed.

It was a Saturday night, far too early for him to be this smashed. But he was, again. So he lay there, his body still aching and bleeding in the places his skin had met with the concrete.

"Beefy fucking twat" he spat, the blood from his split lip sprayed into the air, twisting briefly with the fog of his breath.

His chest rose and fell as he stared up at the dense, dark clouds that obscured the sky. The storms that had been plaguing the UK hadn't been able to stop him from completing his usual social circuit these last few days. Even though the usually packed out hotspots had seen dwindling numbers. People had been disappearing again, they were saying, and the changes in the weather weren't actually just 'weather.' At least not to the magical folk. It was a sign that somewhere in the darkest corners of the country, something had been brewing. The Muggles would report it in the years to come as a strange and inexplicable natural phenomenon; they did so even now. Their reporters had been taking to nightly television programs and the Muggles all gathered to watch them talk about the peculiar, lingering weather systems that had been responsible for street closures and shut businesses. It felt as if the world were approaching a precipice.

In the distance, the sounds of chiming bells shaken by cheerful hands sounded. Sirius, whose eyes had drifted shut for a few moments, groaned. It was Christmas next week. He had spent the last few days in a hazy state of bliss and then later - when the sobriety deigned to present itself, a state of regret. He had, however, been successful in his goal: Forget it was the holiday season and forget he was freshly broken-hearted and alone.

That was why he had stayed out, crashing in the booths of bars and on the couches of acquaintances. He couldn't bring himself to go home, to the empty apartment and all of her things. Things that still sat in the places she had left them. He couldn't go back to the unmade bed, to the closet full of the bright clothes she had collected from small vintage stores. He couldn't go back until she came to get it all. But even then, he wasn't sure he could ever look at the small, hardwooded, slightly damp, definitely not to code rooms of their apartment again.

So he wouldn't go back, he decided. He would stay there on the ice-cold ground of a back alley instead.

And he did, for a while, until the bell shakers and Christmas cretins decided to turn up his alley. It was a thorough way, he realized, to get to more of the residential areas. He knew they would pass him, and he knew they would ask him if he needed help - which he did need, but didn't want. So, under the pressure of approaching Christmas cheer, he pushed himself to his elbows, groaned, and then rose further to his feet.

He wasn't exceptionally sensible at that moment and hadn't been his entire life, but he was reasonable enough to know he shouldn't attempt to drink and apparate. So, looking over his shoulder at the cloaked and tinselled crowd, he began dragging his heavy and booze body weary toward the darkest part of the street.

Finding a nook, hidden behind a large dumpster, Sirius tucked his body out of sight - leaning up against the wall. The sound of the crowd drew closer and then dimmed as they moved past him. The small parts of conversation Sirius managed to discern through the swell of many layers of chatter were holiday-focused. Mostly:

"At Mum's house," this and, "My sisters are coming over from Ireland" that, and "Have you got all your gifts sorted?"

Sirius's shoulders had stayed tensed and hunched as they came and went and only relaxed when the very last hint of conversation carried away on the cold snap of the wind.

Sirius slid down the wall, his unstable feet in their soaked shoes had gone numb with cold. The cold stone of the building pressed into his spine in a way that was both painful and pleasant. The uncomfortability of his situation was the only thing tethering him to this moment, as his mind drifted and whirled from place to place. All he was sure of at that was that he was freezing and that the gutter above him had begun to drip chilled drops of what he hoped was only water down the back of his shirt. He reached for his neck to wipe it dry, only to find his hand connect in a drunken flail with the side of his head. He looked up, spotting the offender. A broken gutter rail, half suspended from the edge of the building. A fat, rancid drop fell, landing squarely between his eyes.

Sirius flinched, his stomach turning at the smell and proximity of it to his slightly agape mouth. He shifted, dragging himself a little to the left just out of the gutter's reach, and loosed a rough and drunken chuckle at the sound of a drop as it splashed, hitting the ground where he had just been.

Despite the dankness and frigid temperatures, there was something comforting in being out of sight for Sirius. It came from knowing that if someone were to look for him, they might never find him. And they had been looking; James had been sending owl after desperate owl. The letters that came with them had grown shorter and more concerned each time. Sirius responded to none; he wasn't sure when he would. James had known, after all, and had let him walk into one of the worst nights of his life unprepared. Sirius reached a shaking, bloodied hand down into the pocket of his drenched robe and withdrew a suspiciously light packet of cigarettes. He flicked the lid of the cartoon open. Empty.

"Fuck"

He crushed the already tattered cardboard in his fist, tossing it at the bin, missing by a foot or so.

"You move-moving, mate", he said to the very stationary object.

It was at that moment, his body having decidedly lost more motor function to the dropping temperature, that his head snapped back in a lolling motion, colliding with the wall - no, the door behind him.

The door he hadn't seen, that happened to be unlocked and for whatever reason - stood slightly off of the lock.

With the force of his backward falling body, the door swung open, loudly smacking the wall behind it, a sound that reverberated loudly off of the stone. So loudly that the light in one of the studio apartments across the street turned on, and someone inside of it began to make an effort at opening a window. Sirius figured it was in an attempt to catch the perpetrator that they assumed must be lurking in the shadows. Break-ins weren't uncommon around Christmas, though magical residences often had very intricate alarm spells set in place. This door, it seemed, however, did not.

Sirius watched as the person's silhouette struggled to pull back their apparently very stuck window. Then, sober enough to realize his precarious position, Sirius decided to crawl through the door and shut it as quickly and quietly as he could behind him. Sirius wasn't concerned that he might be arrested for attempted breaking and entering but that his being arrested might result in his next of kin being contacted if he did, in fact, ended up spending a night at the cells. The only number Sirius had ever listed as next of kin was currently sleeping in the warm bed of her new boyfriend. So the dark-haired and now filthy man lay flat on his stomach, unnecessarily (as there was no window through which he could be discovered) until he was sure that the sound had not prompted any further investigation.

Only then, when he had caught his breath and, to his relief, warmed a little from the heat of the room he was now in - did he sit up and take in his new surroundings.

Sirius was in the very back of what seemed to be a storeroom. Rows of shelves towered over him, and on them stood a wide array of objects. On some, there were strange, colourful plants - their branches jutting out into the open, airy space. Long vines hung from the highest places, the gently curling, delicately green lengths twisted - finding footholds between other objects. Jars containing indescribable shapes glistened in the low light; on the far wall directly opposite where Sirius had crawled inside was an entire wall of books. They stretched from the very floor to the high, vaulted ceiling. There must have been hundreds of them, each spine different from the next. There were old copies and new, huge books as thick as anything he had ever seen before and others that could fit in the palm of a small child's hand. The entire wall was a wonder; the only break in it's impressive stature was a single portrait - set right into the middle, level with the floor. It took a moment for Sirius to realize it was a door, much like the fat-lady had been a door. He could tell as much from the soft glow of light that crept through a crack near the floor. The portrait, however, was at least at this time - very empty.

The large sky light he noticed last; the clouds had to part ever so slightly first, of course. So that the light of the moon could fall gently into the room, illuminating some parts and casting others in a strange and slanting shadow.

Sirius, still spinning as he took in the other finite details of the space, didn't notice the increasing warmth of the nook at all.

He didn't notice the soft carpet lul him gently down toward it and toward sleep.

And as much as he wanted to look around, to peek into the corners of this curious room he could not bring himself to stand.

Instead succumbed to the quiet wonder of the smell of paper and soil.