'And he's the best fuck that ever walked. He's beautiful - rich, in money and everything else; he's a rockstar to boot, trapped in the body of a fighter. And how he fought; at a state of turmoil with himself - somewhere inside his soul that only she...
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♱
'Faces made for daylight Ought to be out of the house You'd do the moon and back twice easy Just to kiss half of her mouth She's what it's all about'
If what we were thinking turned out to be the truth, it meant Pettigrew had fooled everyone these last twelve years — it meant Black might be innocent.
I'd had the map since I was eleven, but it had always been assumed the tunnel to the Shrieking Shack had closed in on itself. Only now, as Remus led me through the tunnel, did I realise just how mistaken my friends and I were.
The fear of not making it in time was overwhelming, and if we made it out alive, I'd probably ask to use Ange's inhaler. My lungs were shit. Even in these times, I'm cognisant of my mortality — I only had one chance to not fuck this up and save Harry and his friends. If I could do that, the stitch in my ribs and all the rest of it would be worth it.
A patch of dim light shone past the door and reflected the tiny dust particles from the window. I was so ready to charge in there, but Remus stopped me and whispered. One of the steps behind us creaked, and every disquieting breath I took seemed magnified — everything I did felt too loud.
If we had moved any slower, I'd have thought we were going backwards. By now, we were hiding behind the door, peering through the hinges and downtrodden panels to inside.
Harry had tackled Black to the ground, and when he did, the only sound in that room was Black whispering manically.
The place was like a picture straight from another time; paper was peeling from the walls, where mould was growing beneath, stains coated the powdery floor like patches of oil.
All the windows were boarded up as if hiding something terrible — which, after a second, I realised was probably the case.
Ron panicked and writhed about on the floor, clutching his bloody leg. He was about to point at Remus and me, but I quickly shook my head, and he quietened again.
My wand was clutched harder than ever, and an outburst of talking inside the room snapped us into action. Shoving the door aside and startling everyone but Ron, we caught sight of him.
His dark tattoos of alchemical symbols and old runes contrasted so heavily against his waxy, emaciated skin. He looked... unwell. Somewhere behind his eyes, there was that faint glimmer of youth, almost as scarce as the trace of self behind his pale eyes. Any soul inside him had been dead longer than he could even count, and he appeared to be in a stage of arrested development.
