Chapter Text
Following the road incredulously in your beat-up Toyota, you peer at the map, ensuring that you are in fact going in the right direction. You are driving to Number 12 Grimmauld Place, the Black family residence, curiosity and nervousness pumping through you with each thud of your heart.
You work for the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, procuring antiques and artifacts. A few weeks ago, your office was visited by a member of the Black family, asking for the museum to send someone to comb through the manor for any pieces of worth. You happily volunteered for the job, the Black Manor being an interest of yours since you learned of its existence when you moved to the area.
Making one final turn, you are sent down a long stretch of road between a densely wooded area, the large wrought iron gate in sight at the end. The tires crunch over the rocks on the road which is obviously not frequented often by vehicles.
The gate creaks open upon your approach, the B in the center getting split by your car rolling through. You throw a sideways glance out your window, noticing that there are no intercoms or sensors to alert the owners of your arrival. The gate seemingly opened upon its own accord.
You bounce along the driveway, gasping audibly when the house comes into view.
Dark bricks, worn by years of storms, are covered in vines growing up the side of the mansion. Large glass windows line the walls above massive black oak doors. Dried red leaves litter the grounds, the bare trees scraggly and gnarled. It is rumored that the house is haunted, and you suddenly understand the root of the stories when looking at the rather spooky house.
You take a deep breath as you park your car, your stomach churning in anticipation. You grab your trunk from the back seat and march up the steps to the front door.
Three solid knocks are laid with one hand, the other gripping your luggage excessively tight. You wait a moment before the door groans open, revealing a short old man dressed in a tattered, ill-fitting black suit. His ears are unusually pointed under his wisps of white hair. He stands, hunched over, peering at you as if waiting for you to speak.
“Hello,” you begin apprehensively, “I’m Y/N Y/L/N from the Victoria and Albert Museum.”
Silently, the man nods and opens the door further, stepping aside to allow you in. You enter clunkily with your large trunk and satchel strung over your shoulder. His eyes narrow as his lips purse into a sneer.
“This way,” he commands tersely, shuffling along the tiles.
You barely register his acrid tone, too transfixed by the large entryway, complete with marble busts on pedestals and a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, dimly lighting the dark room. The air is close and cold, unwelcoming even.
Bustling after the man, you try to take in every painting lining the candle-lit halls. Green patterned paper covers the walls above the dark mahogany wood paneling that rises from the floor. Odd, moth-eaten tapestries hang from the ceiling in various corridors, depicting horrific and gruesome scenes.
You follow him up the creaking stairs, trudging along with your heavy suitcase. The old man doesn’t stop his shambling gait until he reaches a door set within the wood of the wall, the handle the only thing protruding from it.
“Your room,” he gestures impatiently to the door after unlocking it and handing you the key. “Dinner will be served at seven ‘til seven.”
Without another word or a response from you, he ambles away, disappearing around the corner. The odd time for dinner catches your attention, leaving you wondering at the reason for the peculiarly specific time.
You heave your luggage into your room, and another involuntary gasp draws your breath in sharply. The room you will be staying in is beautiful. Bookshelves line the walls around a particularly intricate mantlepiece, upon which frames of old photographs sit. Candelabras rest on the desk set in front of the window looking out over the front of the mansion.
Your brown Toyota Corolla looks out of place and junky in the regal, yet dingy estate. A soft haze of rain begins sprinkling, and you can hear the patter of the drops hitting the window. Settling into the room, you tug on a brown turtleneck, the cold air of the house seeping into your skin.
The clock reads 5:30, so you figure you have time to wander before dinner. You lock your door behind you, tentatively shuffling down the hallway. Peeking into each room, you find that most of them are unlocked and widely varying. Some rooms are crammed with books, while others are covered with portraits and paintings. One room, however, leaves your stomach uneasy, as it is lined with shelves of jars of odd creatures and skulls, the smell of something rotting permeating throughout the room.
In a small room at the bottom of the stairs, you stumble across a large black dog, curled up on the threadbare couch with a book laid out in front of it. A very odd scene, you think to yourself as you push your way further through the door.
Slowly, you approach the dog, your hand outstretched, your palm facing the painted ceiling.
“Hi,” you whisper to the dog who then nudges your hand with its snout. After a moment, it recedes from your hand and settles back on the couch with its book. Again, odd.
You take a turn about the room, looking at the volumes of leather-bound books on the shelves.
“Beautiful,” you mumble under your breath at the sight in the candlelight.
From the couch, you swear you can hear a low whine from the dog as if it heard you.
“This house is astonishing,” you tell it as you make your way back to the couch, sitting yourself down. “I’ve always wanted to come here. Everyone says it’s haunted, but I don’t believe it. It’s old and has a history, that’s all.”
You glance down at the canine who looks to be listening intently to you.
“They say the people here are crazy. Are they?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at the black dog beside you. It almost imperceptibly nods, but you credit it to a coincidental twitch.
“I’m anxious to meet the owner. The butler was incredibly creepy. Freaky old man. I wonder if the owner is the same. You know, we’re supposed to eat dinner at six fifty-three. What an odd time.”
Abruptly, the dog hops off the couch, the book thudding on the floor at the sudden displacement. In a blink of an eye, it darts out of the room, leaving you confused and curious. From somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock clangs lowly six times, causing you to remove yourself from the small room and get ready for dinner and to meet your host.
***
Dressed in your turtleneck and trousers with a few simple gold chains around your neck, you make your way to the dining room, your watch reading 6:47. You realize that you aren’t sure which one the dining room is, so you have to poke your head in a few places to find it.
When you open the grand doors, the room is stunningly large, embellished, and cold. Dark crown molding adorns the high ceilings that give way to beautiful art on the walls, followed by ornate hardwood furniture. The long table in the center of the room is already set and served, full of exorbitant food for two.
You are alone in the room, unsure of what to do, so you sit down at one of the place settings and wait. Nervously twisting the rings on your fingers, you take note of the mid-nineteenth century candelabras on the table in front of you, as well as the imported china you are set to eat from.
At 6:53 exactly, you hear the doors being opened on the opposite side of the room. The man that struts in is handsome, incredibly so, and young. Older than you, yet younger than you had imagined, seemingly in his late thirties. He wears a tailored suit jacket, his black hair falling effortlessly around his face. The doors silently close behind him by themselves, causing your eyebrows to raise, but you quickly school yourself as he approaches.
“You must be Y/N,” he calls as he strides over to his seat at the head of the table next to yours. You make to stand up, but he waves you off, shaking your hand as he sits down. “Sirius Black. Heir and owner of the estate.”
“Thank you, sir, for calling on the museum. We are very anxious to purchase whatever you are willing to sell,” you say in a tone that rings formal, yet grateful.
“My pleasure. Now, shall we eat?” Mr. Black gestures to the food in front of you, proceeding to scoop out a spoonful of potatoes and a serving of grilled salmon from the varying dishes.
“It looks delicious,” you offer politely, nerves still present in your mind, making your stomach churn.
“Our cook is exceptional,” he replies between bites.
You are taken aback slightly by the confidence and ease with which he carries himself. Sirius Black does not reflect the crazed family that is told to run the manor, but looks can be deceiving; you know that to be true. His looks, however, are well above par, and you can’t help but sneak glances at him between sips of water and forkfuls of spinach.
“You are very gracious to let me stay here while I work, Mr. Black,” you say kindly, watching his smile as it spreads across his face.
“You are most welcome. And Sirius, please. I insist that you call me Sirius,” he implores, gesticulating with his cutlery as he speaks.
After a moment, you ask, “How long has the estate been in the family, Sirius?” ensuring that you use his name in the question.
“Generations,” he answers simply. “It was built in the early eighteenth century, but many accidents and…things have rendered the house in need of improvements. Refurbishments. So it has changed a great deal since it was first built, but it still has the same draftiness and-”
“You speak as though you don’t favor the house,” you interrupt when he begins to trail off. His eyes snap to yours and crinkle in both amusement and displeasure.
“No, I don’t,” Sirius says. “I wish I had fonder memories here.”
There is a sense of regret in his tone that makes you cast your eyes to your plate awkwardly.
“But no matter,” he says with forced joviality. “I would be happy to be of any assistance to you if you need it.”
“Thank you, sir. I look forward to beginning tomorrow,” you state honestly, looking at Sirius once more, finding his grey eyes soft and already trained on you.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he smiles.
With that, you wish him goodnight, and head in your separate directions, each with thoughts of the other.