The sky was cloudy grey with a black tinge, if only you concentrated on it enough. A thunderstorm raged in London, spitting out lightning and once again taking people's last nerve.
A businessman runs into one of the nearest cafes holding his suitcase over his head to seek shelter. A black taxi hails a red bus and a mother of two hurries across the street with her children in tow.
A little girl watches this chaos from the window and notices a young man in a red telephone box. He is wearing a simple suit in a colour just a little brighter than the sky. She finds the light blue cape that he is wearing on his shoulders and half-covering his back strange.
"What kind of confused figure is that, this isn't the 1860s. Who wears a cape these days?"
She decides to ignore the rain bouncing against the window and continue watching the phone box. Bored, she looks down at him rummaging in his trouser pockets.
'Maybe I should offer him a rain poncho.
The thought of going out in this weather, however, passed as quickly as it came.
The gusts of wind picked up and it whistled in the distance, the young man's eyes caught a newspaper.
'The Daily telegraph 6th August. 1993'
'Maastricht Treaty: Britain hesitates on EU integration' - Report on the debate and decisions regarding the EU Treaty.
Economy: 'Unemployment figures rise to record high' - Article on the current unemployment figures and economic challenges.
Culture: "New James Bond film 'GoldenEye' unveiled: First images!" - Announcement and images from the upcoming James Bond film.
Sport: "Premier League: Arsenal beat Manchester United in thrilling derby" - Report on a major football match in the Premier League.
The weather for this week Monday-Sunday rain with an average of 13 degrees celsius'
With a teasing snort, he speaks to himself.
"England as I always imagined it. A paradise for rain fams"
...
"Ahh, I've got you there." He pulls an arm-length umbrella out of his trouser pocket.
The girl looks wide-eyed as he pulls an umbrella out of his tiny trouser pocket. She rubs her eyes as he walks out of the phone box with this umbrella.
"Mum, come here quickly!"
The girl shouts and runs off.
"Grimmauld Place 10, 11, 13 and 14."
With a laugh, he grabs his wand between houses 11 and 13, just as he is about to wave his wand and say "Revelio." and a door appeared in front of him.
Raven-black, worn wood, seen more than the boy's eyes. The nameplate and the door knob gleamed golden, even in this weather.
'Black.
He disappears into the rain without further ado and pulls the door open with force, stepping over the threshold just before it flies shut with a flash of lightning. With a wand in his hand, the curly-haired boy slowly strolls across a tattered burgundy carpet.
"Hello... Anyone home?"
When he doesn't hear a word, he walks slowly through the corridor with alarmed senses, carefully inspecting his surroundings. On the walls are paintings of people who are now part of the story.
One of the paintings shows a man with a moustache standing at attention in front of a large castle, trying to keep still and not move. For some inexplicable reason, the young man develops a basic aversion.
"Phineas Nigellus Black huh? I know that name from somewhere." He says as he sees a dedication at the bottom right.
This is followed by a number of other such paintings, but from different periods, including drawings.
"Hmm, that doesn't make much sense." He remarks at the sight of the dilapidated state of the house. Cracks in the walls and ceiling, the wallpaper half torn off and completely discoloured in places, damp stains and dust on everything without exception, except for one painting. The painting, by the stairs, is large and powerful but covered by a black sheet.
"I wonder who is hiding under this-"
Just as his hand hits the sheet, a voice fills the room, a voice as nagging as poison, someone asks.
"You're looking for something special?"
"I found it."
Opposite the young man with bright grey eyes stands a small person with a hunched back, grey skin and nothing more than a coat of paint that appears to have once been white. Covered in scars, it wrinkles its brute hooked nose.
"You are Kreacher."
"And you a mud-blooded meddler who presumes to smuggle himself into the manor of your betters.
I will take him away, mistress."
Escape Kreacher, the last part obviously not directed at his opposite.
"Mudblood, is it?"
Pointing his wand at the figure with huge ears, he continues.
"I'd like a tour of the house..." When he realises that the threat has no effect, his voice takes on a detective-like tone. "I suppose you don't mind losing your life, but what about her?" The wand moves from the eleven to the painting.
"With a little fire... Incend-."
The elf looked grim as the boy was about to say the formula, but his face softened. With a clap, kreacher disappeared from the spot and appeared next to the boy on the other side, standing in front of the cloth with his arms outstretched.
"Stop it, stop it, stop it!"
"Kreacher obeys. Just don't harm the mistress."
The eleven actually obeys. Reluctantly and spitting curses, but he obeys.
'A kitchen with nothing that could be called food, the silver cutlery is precious and the china is scratched if not shattered.
A library whose books lie partly torn on the floor, a fallen bookshelf lies there, slowly but surely gathering dust.
Only the parlour, a reception room for wealthy families, is in order, a tapestry with the emblem of the family on which there is not a speck of lint or dust. A French saying is immortalised on the emblem.'
"Toujours Pur."
'Always pure.
"Where does this room lead?" Not waiting for his mate, he walks towards the open door.
"A family tree?" The curly-haired man asks curiously, recognising some of the faces from the paintings in the corridor. All four walls are immortalised with faces spanning generations and generations.
Euphorically, he follows the life lines with his hands, his curiosity particularly gripping him when he recognises famous people he knew.
"Of course, Phineas Nigellus Black. Click click click." The young man snaps his fingers, a sound that excites Kreacher, as you can see from his face.
"The Hated Headmaster of Hogwarts, isn't he, Kreacher?"
Without waiting for an answer, his hands move on.
"Orion and Walburga Black, she's your mistress, isn't she?" The human asks the elf, who grumbles in agreement.
"They had two sons." The name is written under a brand where a face used to be. "Sirius Black the third and the second son Regulus Arcturus Black second of his name."
"Why was the picture of him burnt, surely it wasn't an accident, he's not the only one."
"A traitor who gets involved with freaks. Not worthy to be part of the honourable and ancient house black." The halfling enjoys insulting Sirius but fears the reaction when his opponent reaches into his pocket.
"Don't be afraid, I'm sure you've had your experience with him and I can't exactly be called a fan of his either."
Instead of a magic wand, it is a cloth that he wipes over the pictures of the two brothers. However, he doesn't fail to notice the much better preservation of Regulus' picture compared to that of Sirius.
Kreacher was puzzled by the young man's statement and his endeavours, but now felt less hostile towards him.
"Hmm?" Came from the boy and he noticed a line emanating from Sirius, covered in black dust, revealing a new portrait of a boy.
"Julius Sirius Black." The whisper was no more than a drop in the storm.
...
The elf watches as the person in front of him turns round and the young face with sharp features looks almost identical to the one in the picture.
"I had always doubted it."
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That's the end of the chapter. Thanks for reading. Feedback and powerstones are more than welcome.