polaris black is not a bad person, she promises. she's got blood on her hands, sure, but she's not bad.
she doesn't do feelings, not anymore. so when james potter comes around with his smile and his eyes and his love, she is determined not to let h...
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POLARIS CANNOT SLEEP. SHES BEEN lying in bed for the past hour, trying to grasp at the dregs of dreams, but to no avail. The clock reads six, which isn't too early for her really. Deciding that there's no way in Salazar she's going to fall back asleep, she throws the covers off and gets to her feet.
The floorboards are cool under her feet, but the air is warm, bordering on too warm. Waking up this early is maybe a blessing in disguise, because at least she can have some time to herself. Her social battery is nearing full shutdown, and if she has to make more bloody small talk she just might scream.
Every move she makes she expects some sort of ache to appear, still on edge from the previous week and then her run in with Kane, but nothing comes. Her movements come as easily as they always have, and she creeps down the stairs without incident. Her breath hitches as she passes Walburga's portrait, the curtains to which pulled tightly shut, and she hovers for a second, fingertips poised over the curtain, half tempted to open it.
She pulls herself away from the painting, shaking herself roughly. That is probably the most stupid thing she could do right now because a) it would wake the whole house and b) it's Walburga's portrait. Walburga's.
Polaris pulls her dressing gown tighter around herself and moves on to the kitchen, deciding a cup of coffee would do her good. It's almost relaxing to do it the muggle way, the steady hum of the kettle filling the silent room and making it seem less... Grimmauld-y.
She detests this house almost as much as she detests Black Manor. Almost. Still, not the most pleasant place to be trapped in. Trapped, meaning against her will.
Is it really against her will though? She is choosing to stay, but it's more like she's choosing not to leave. Self preservation, because if she does leave she's bound to get arrested, and being on the run with fucked up magic does not sound like her cup of tea.
Maybe, deep down, it's because she's tired. Tired of the chase, tired of the hiding, tired of the killing. Maybe it's because she feels like she owes it to Andromeda, to Tonks, maybe even a little to Sirius, to stick around, to make up for... everything.
Whatever it is, it is certainly not for Albus Dumbledore. Her blood boils at the thought of the headmaster, so serene as he subtly blackmails her, so calm as he twists the knife of guilt.
The sound of the kettle reaching boiling point makes her start, and she nearly drops the jar of coffee granules. Fingers shaking slightly, she spoons them into the mug and pours the water in, nearly scalding herself as her hands shake.
She's losing her nerve. Her hands never shake, they're always steady as a rock, they have to be if she wants to get anything done.
The kitchen table looks far too large to sit at alone, so she hoists herself up onto the countertop, leaning against the wall. The only sound comes from the tick tock of the clock, and the occasional creak from the old furniture.
