Wings beating with a sense of purpose, the owl flew forward, propelled by the seriousness of the situation. Twelve Grimmauld Place she had been told. That's where the man would be, he had been told to stay there. Although only a bird, the fact that her master had been seemingly perturbed by something weighed on herself. She felt the urgency and flew faster than ever before. Her master was never ruffled by anything, and the fact that he had been anxious gnawed on her.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry far behind her, mountains long in the distance, she was gaining on a row of houses. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place seemed to rise out of the ground and she alighted on a windowsill. Peering in the closed window, she spotted a very dismal looking Hippogriff. It looked up and spotted her, eyes gleaming dully with the satisfaction of spotting another living creature.
Flying from window to window to spot the man she was looking for she saw halls and rooms that were empty, save for the gathering dust upon antiquities that looked as much a part of the house as the walls and floorboards. Eventually, before finding someone to open a window and take her urgent message, she found a window left ajar and for a while, the owl guessed by the leaves and dirt on the attic floor.
Methodically scanning the house, the owl ended up in the kitchen. Her target was there, at the table. From the back she could see his black hair, but not much else. His entire body was silhouetted by the fire he sat in front of. A house elf sat snickering in front of the hearth, seemingly enjoying a conversation with himself, not even glancing at the man. His long thin fingers drummed absently on the table. The owl let out a soft hoot and the man turned. Firelight flickered across his features. His greasy hair shimmering, his dark endless eyes reflecting the flames eerily with an orange-black glow unlike any other she had seen before. His eyes flicked across the bird, then to the letter. He leaned forward lazily taking the letter from her outstretched leg.
Severus Snape opened the letter addressed to himself and read it over. It was written in fragments by Albus Dumbledore's ever so slightly trembling hand. As he read, he leaned back into his chair. He smirked as he glanced at the first part. But as he gazed at one sentence, a look of horror penetrated his nearly emotionless face and he sat bolt upright. He reread the sentence over and over, thinking that every time he had not read it properly.
Sirius Black was dead.
All his life he had wished for this moment, the moment when the man he had been ridiculed by as the child he still saw in him would meet his end. Now, alone in this man's own house, alone except for the mad house elf which had agreed with Severus' thinking aloud. When he had been talking about how much he "Hated Potter," and wished that "Sirius would just fall down dead." In fact, the house elf had listened so well as to actually make his deepest desire come true. Now Severus only wanted to take it back. He collapsed into his chair with a sigh of despair, and thought aloud in front of the elf one last time, head in hands mufflilng his voice, "Oh God, I'm the murderer I always wanted to be."
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry far behind her, mountains long in the distance, she was gaining on a row of houses. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place seemed to rise out of the ground and she alighted on a windowsill. Peering in the closed window, she spotted a very dismal looking Hippogriff. It looked up and spotted her, eyes gleaming dully with the satisfaction of spotting another living creature.
Flying from window to window to spot the man she was looking for she saw halls and rooms that were empty, save for the gathering dust upon antiquities that looked as much a part of the house as the walls and floorboards. Eventually, before finding someone to open a window and take her urgent message, she found a window left ajar and for a while, the owl guessed by the leaves and dirt on the attic floor.
Methodically scanning the house, the owl ended up in the kitchen. Her target was there, at the table. From the back she could see his black hair, but not much else. His entire body was silhouetted by the fire he sat in front of. A house elf sat snickering in front of the hearth, seemingly enjoying a conversation with himself, not even glancing at the man. His long thin fingers drummed absently on the table. The owl let out a soft hoot and the man turned. Firelight flickered across his features. His greasy hair shimmering, his dark endless eyes reflecting the flames eerily with an orange-black glow unlike any other she had seen before. His eyes flicked across the bird, then to the letter. He leaned forward lazily taking the letter from her outstretched leg.
Severus Snape opened the letter addressed to himself and read it over. It was written in fragments by Albus Dumbledore's ever so slightly trembling hand. As he read, he leaned back into his chair. He smirked as he glanced at the first part. But as he gazed at one sentence, a look of horror penetrated his nearly emotionless face and he sat bolt upright. He reread the sentence over and over, thinking that every time he had not read it properly.
Sirius Black was dead.
All his life he had wished for this moment, the moment when the man he had been ridiculed by as the child he still saw in him would meet his end. Now, alone in this man's own house, alone except for the mad house elf which had agreed with Severus' thinking aloud. When he had been talking about how much he "Hated Potter," and wished that "Sirius would just fall down dead." In fact, the house elf had listened so well as to actually make his deepest desire come true. Now Severus only wanted to take it back. He collapsed into his chair with a sigh of despair, and thought aloud in front of the elf one last time, head in hands mufflilng his voice, "Oh God, I'm the murderer I always wanted to be."