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Summary
The dining room at Grimmauld Place had always felt claustrophobic to Sirius, but tonight was particularly so.
Shadows clung to the high walls, curling in the corners like whispered threats. He could picture his long-dead Mother hiding in the darkness, waiting to cause him pain. Sirius sat hunched forward in a creaky chair, fingers drumming a furious rhythm against the old wood of the table. Across from him, James leaned back with his arms crossed, doing a poor job of pretending not to be tense. Remus sat between them, at one head of the table, hands clasped, stillness disguising the storm behind his amber eyes. Professor Walsh, ever serene, poured tea like they weren’t waiting for a bloody Death Eater to walk through the door.
“I still don’t like it,” Sirius muttered, loud enough to break the silence. “Calling a meeting like this. No details, no heads-up. At Grimmauld of all fucking places. Just, 'show up, be quiet, and trust the headmaster.'"
“You’re not the only one.” James kicked lightly at the table leg. “Since when does Dumbledore give us anything more than the bare minimum?”
“The Order has become more compartmentalized for a reason. Security. No one knows the full picture.”