|in_the_grass (in_the_grass) wrote in wished,|
@ 2009-11-10 23:34:00
|Entry tags:||!1997: 11, !open, severus snape|
Who: Snape and OPEN to anyone hanging about No. 12, Grimmauld Place
What: Poking through Black's old things
Where: No. 12, Grimmauld Place
The uppermost staircase ended in a shortened hall, home only to two rooms. Snape hesitated a moment - out of distaste, of course - and then gripped the handle of the door that was marked with a small, tarnished plaque: Sirius. The latch clicked easily, although the hinges resisted as he pushed the door open: he doubted anyone had visited for some time. He repressed the childish urge to hold his nose as he stepped over the threshold. The man was long dead. He could not possibly still be contaminating the place.
He gave an impatient snort as the light from his wand traveled across the walls. They were completely jumbled over with the most obnoxious variety of nonsense; magazine clippings and still, ancient-looking photographs, and school banners in red and gold. They fluttered quietly as he carefully sent a flame up into the chandelier to light the room. He wasn't certain what he was looking for, but he had felt compelled to stop in - if he was going to be stuck here, he could at least pry a little -
He froze when an unexpected movement caught his eye. One picture amidst the mess of Muggle cut-outs stood out, different: Black, Lupin, Pettigrew and Potter. With a hot jolt of hatred, he reached up to rip it off the wall. It wouldn't budge. His eyes narrowed, and he tried again, putting all the force he could muster into his arm - nothing - he grabbed at its edges and gave a little hop, pulling at it with his entire weight. The four of them looked back at him as cheerfully as ever. He pointed his wand in their direction, took a moment to savor the feeling, and muttered a satisfied little curse - which merely bounced straight back at him, forcing him to duck aside, and left a smoldering hole in the bedspread. He snarled, grabbed the cobwebbed chair from behind the desk, and spun it around to sit with his back to the blasted thing, seething.
And so it was with less than his usual finesse that he began to sift through the books and papers he found on shelves, in the desk, in a box in the wardrobe. It was all useless to him, and soon it blanketed the floor, though there was plenty more to browse.
A photograph fell out of the pile in his hands; he stooped to pick it up from the carpet, and his heart seemed to leap into his throat. He hardly dared to look at it here, but for a few moments he was unable to take his eyes off of her. How was it possible that he had never had a picture before? He knew that to keep it would be foolhardy - but, with great care, he folded it in half, tore off the portion showing Potter and his boy, and slipped the remainder safely into his pocket. Soon he was madly flipping through pages of correspondence, looking for some accompanying note or letter that would let him date it precisely.