ink - sirius black

downpour and extended palms

February 15, 1977
9:18 pm
Queenie's Apartment

Sirius Black was no stranger to running.

He had climbed up dozens of flights of stairs with his black leather bag full of quills, ink pots, and textbooks barely hanging onto his shoulder as he tried to get to McGonagall's class on time after being late all week so he wouldn't get into another detention that would keep him from a party.

There was the elated, breathless sensation of sprinting away from angry professors at full speed with the other Marauders laughing around him after a particularly risky prank, their smiles filling up their faces more than the air in their lungs.

Not a single month went by where the full moon at the Shrieking Shack was completely peaceful and uneventful without any close calls, and Sirius had mastered the art of climbing up the rickety stairs as either Padfoot or himself.

Peter and him had an action so practiced that it was practically religion at this point since their first year to race to the Great Hall whenever there were waffles for breakfast, trying to get to the syrup first before the other used it all.

A much less desirable but still very practiced action was when he had to sprint up the elegant stairs or across the carpeted and dark wooden floors of Grimmauld Place to run away from his cruel, angry parents with tears running down his face and hands violently shaking.

But even then, he never had a reason as important as Anneliese to move this fast before.

His hand gripped the wooden banister tightly, helping pull himself up even more quickly towards her as the green stairs seemed to go on for far too long.

At last, he finally reached the door with the brass handle Goldstein had said was hers when instructing Dumbledore. Sirius frantically turned the knob and shook the metal several times, but to no avail.

Not even bothering to glance and see if there were any muggles around, Black pulled out his wand.

"Alohomora," he muttered, having no remorse as he swung the door open so hard that the white painted, dull edge made a dent in the smooth wallpaper it collided with.

Dumbledore was calmly sitting on a plush pink velvet sofa, knitting a yellow scarf and humming to himself slightly.

Sirius swelled with rage.

"What the fuck did you say to her?" he asked, not giving a fuck himself about the less tasteful language he used in front of the headmaster. "What the hell is wrong with you? I thought that we were here to help her, not whatever bullshit-"

"I only told her the truth," Dumbledore replied calmly. "I know it is hard to hear sometimes, but some things are necessary to keep the good in a person alive."

"Yes I agree with that, but you said help her by doing so, and look what happened!" Sirius shouted again, arms thrown out in front of him with anger. "Not that we were here to-"

"No, Mr. Black, not we," Dumbledore cut him off. "I am simply allowing you to travel with me. This is only my job to do, you are just here in case she wants to see you."

He really shouldn't have said that.

"ARE YOU MAD?" Black yelled back. "YOU'RE THE ONE WHO TOLD ME THAT MY JOB WAS TO HELP HER WITH THIS, AND NOW YOU'RE WHAT, REVOKING MY PRIVILEGES OF BEING A GOOD PERSON?"

"You already failed at your job, Mr. Black," Dumbledore replied strictly. "You completely ignored her struggle and were too overcome by drama to help her as I asked of you. I thought that you would push that aside, but I now realize that was too much to ask of you. It is only reasonable that I then take matters into my own hands when I should have never trusted a teenager in the first place."