There was a candle in the east wing.
Hardly anyone went into the east wing anymore, let alone the attic. It was derelict and deserted, with old, faded silk hangings and tarnished silver frames, whose canvas had long rotted. Cobwebs spanned the old dusty corners, casting strange shadows when slivers of moonlight pass through the window glass, which was covered by layers upon layers of dust motes. The old, ancient trunks were discarded carelessly on the ground, causing the gaping floorboards to creak ominously. Pieces of old parchment with carefully inked words were scattered over the once grand beddings, their decomposition bringing about a heavy stench of failed plans and dreams.
Standing in the darkness, one could see the state of disrepair of the once grand room, and feel the overwhelming sense of loneliness; something was forgotten and abandoned.
However, there was one strange window in the very last room at the end. It was smaller than its counterparts, with the furnishings all a drab and ominous black. Whatever light that managed to reach the room was absorbed by the dark colours, swallowing any bit of hope and happiness. And yet, all the way at the back of the room, there was a tiny window, made of frosted glass, and allowing very little light to reach its occupants. But the strange about this window was that to some who saw it, there was a tiny candle, with a fragile flame that flickered endlessly.
In old family lore, this room had once belonged to a young master who had been locked up here; put away for being a Squib. But before he was sealed away and left to starve in the darkness, an old house elf had taken pity on him and enchanted the window to have a single flame. Clever as the creature was, it made sure that only the hopeless and frightened could see it, such that the cruel Master and Mistress of the house would not discover the child's only comfort.
The children loved this wing; it was an extension of the house that the adults never frequented, and hence it allowed them a certain privacy that was rare with such a large family. Besides, it was so mysterious to them; a real haunted house, where every step seemed to be watched with hundreds of invisible eyes.
Sirius loved the master bedroom, and standing in the middle of the devastation, with the scarce light casting strange shadows on his sharp features, Regulus thought he looked suitably tragic; a master of the house who had lost everything.
Andromeda loved the humble room at the end of the corridor. It was just like her; plain, simple, and quietly rebellious against the forgotten grandeur of the rest of the house.
Narcissa loved the young mistress' room; it was oddly bright with its pastel colours, and even stranger, the muted colours brought no warmth of comfort to mind. In the old wardrobe, there were fancy dresses of the best silk and beautiful tassels, made in the style of the 18th century, and there was nothing the blonde loved more than wearing those old silks and walking around with her head held high like a princess.
Bellatrix favoured the last room, the small miserable one, and Regulus thought it suited her as well as the grand bedroom did Sirius. There were unexplainable shadows in the room that seem to creep up on her, shrouding her in the darkness, bleeding the colour out of her pale skin even further, and her red lips darkening to slash of black. Regulus was drawn to her darkness, unable to escape her thrall, and yet it frightened him
And when it did, he turned to look at the unremarkable window at the end.
There was a candle in the east wing, and he could see it.