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Changelings::PrologueHe wants out of Islington. It's too dark in the nighttime, when even the candles in his father's study have gone out, and his mother has finally been tempted to bed. He hopes she won't wake up at the sound of his footsteps to roam the halls of Grimmauld Place, raving and shouting, spittle on her lips.
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There is a window on the end of the hall after Regulus's room. Its drapes are almost too heavy and ancient for a seven-year-old to claw away from the window, but Sirius is stubborn. He'll own this house someday, won't he? He should be able to do what he likes with the furniture.
The cobwebs which have stitched the curtains together rip apart in perfect silence. Sirius reaches for the rusting latch, encrusted with an onyx, and forces it open. Flakes of rust float upwards and pepper his waxy skin. All Blacks look the same, except for a few of his cousins. Dark hair, pale skin, gray eyes spinning with inbred madness.
Even at seven, Sirius knows he would run forever if it meant he could escap