GOOD DOG || Sirius Black

(Twenty One: Eccedentesiast)

Eccedentesiast- a person who fakes a smile.

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Alex Fawley's home was not what you would expect. 

A large house, sort of modern-ish, on the outskirts of Nottingham. If you've every heard of red-brick houses, perhaps you can imagine what I mean when I say green-brick. Maybe the wizarding architect had been confused, or maybe he was simply in-keeping with the oddish trend of magical architecture. The fact remains that each of the bricks retained a slightly emerald tinge, as if dropped in a vat of some kind of weak food colouring. A short drive led to the front of the building, where the large windows stared wide-eyed out at the world from inside their black-and-white, plastic frames. 

Four or five decently sized bedrooms lay inside, of which three were only ever in use. A modern dining area, a marble-surfaced kitchen, and a squishy-chaired living room. Everything you'd expect from that one house that your friend has that you're always secretly jealous of, but wouldn't trade for a moment for your own rather more humble hideout. 

Alex's parents had taken the news of their daughter's 'disease' better than she'd expected, which was probably a result of Dumbledore dropping in before the holidays were over and giving them a quick rundown. Even Micah looked relieved at this reaction. Their parents were the guilting type. 

Mr 'call-me-Mike' Fawley was an illustrator for kids books. The wizarding printing presses were in short supply, and children's stories were often pushed down the roster. This had inevitably led to the man's receding hair line and the constant companion cup of coffee that was a marker of his presence in a room. His eyes were the kind that crinkled at the edges before he smiled, like he was anticipating a joke before it happened. 

Mrs 'just-Helen' Fawley, by contrast, held a Very Important Position, managing Extremely Vital Things at the Ministry of Magic. Alex doubted whether anyone in their family would be able to say conclusively what it was that her mother actually did as a job, other than the fact that it made her tired and strained-looking a lot of the time, and she paid most of the bills to allow for her husband's more vocational career path. 

Alex and Micah's bedrooms were on opposite sides of the house, and so 'Family Meetings' were signalled with the assistance of the mostly broken foghorn Alex's dad had bought at a car-boot sale because 'It looked pretty cool.'  The distinctive noise that this peculiarly annoying instrument produced was slightly akin to a seal's trademarked bark as it flopped clumsily down the beach like a worn out tire.

Alex, when she heard this noise on the morning of Christmas Eve, had her head buried deeply in the screen of her laptop, headphones thudding away to the pumping beat. She closed her eyes for a slow count of five before slipping the headphones off and shutting the laptop with a little too much aggression. 

Her feet pounded on the stairs, soft socks failing to insulate her heavy steps. Micah made eye contact with her and grinned as he emerged from the opposite staircase, flicking his head habitually to clear his loose hair from his eyes. She returned the smile, following him into the warmly illuminated living room and falling into 'her' end of the sofa, fitted to the crease of her body. 

Her dad, spectacles balanced precariously on his nose, and 'World's Best Dad' mug in hand, was in the armchair opposite, ready with a nod of 'oh yes I do in fact own a daughter who occasionally emerges from her room'. Her mum, ever the lead in her smart business dress and worn out expression, was positioned by the window. Alex watched as Micah flopped down onto the floor, leaning his back against the glass coffee table.

"Okay, team." Helen Fawley began, eyes making their searching rounds around the assembled squad of family members, "We're going to have guests over tonight."