lunation (lunation) wrote,
lunation
lunation

drabble: "study" [remus&grimmauld place, 1998]


You turn on the lamp for company, even though that doesn't make any sense. 

The soft orange light that seeps across your desk and all the documents strewn about it somehow helps - takes the mystery out of the big room, makes you feel less alone. There are unmoving portraits to keep you company, you remind yourself, eyes straining to see in the distance because you've been re-writing court transcripts from shorthand all evening and have scarcely looked up. And there is a grotesque stuffed pheasant, you also note, that might as well be your buddy - you've both been here for ages and seem to be molting at the same rate. There are quills, too, with ruddy feathers and blunt nibs in little containers near your knuckles. You pointedly remove your hands from the desk and place them in your lap, reclining slightly in the high-backed leather chair; you should really scoot back from the desk to further the statement that your work is finished for the time being, but you fear running over some priceless paper you might've dropped - that, or you might flatten a mouse.

The house has been deloused (demoused, deDoxy-ed) recently, and yet you still find creepy crawlies from time to time. Every other day, it seems, some little bugger will tumble out from a curtain or scuttle under the stairwells. You've learned not to flinch, because Grimmauld belongs more to its beasties than it does to you, despite what fresh paperwork might say. It belongs to the blackened portraits and fraying tapestries depicting ancient, lopsided battles, and to the shredded portrait - that one that lorded over them all for so long - no longer housing the blasted woman. The silence and stale smell of the place isn't yours to change, and so you and the mausoleum keep your peace this way by stubbornly keeping to your old routines; you tread lightly and its stairs creak back a thank-you.
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