(no subject)
He’s just a brush through the main hallway and a pause at a doorway, nothing more interesting than a mild billow of fabric in a draught or the light of a lit lamp on a head of black hair. When he passes a room filled with people he quickens his pace, doing all he can to step quietly and move fast, and when he comes to more deserted hallways he pauses, checking over his shoulder.
“Damned Floo network,” he mutters under his breath, his voice monotonous and almost inaudible. “I said Spurinna House.”
He weaves his way back through the house again, the way he came; and if you’re looking, you might see him go by, a young man in wizarding robes (lime green under a long black cloak, pinned at the front; he’s fresh from work) with a head full of black hair brushed away from his cynical half-closed eyes and a mouth fixed in a straight line.
Or you might not. That’s what he’d prefer.
Typist: This is Ophiuchus Lestrange, Bellatrix and Rodolphus’ oldest son. He’s a bit antisocial as you can tell.
“Damned Floo network,” he mutters under his breath, his voice monotonous and almost inaudible. “I said Spurinna House.”
He weaves his way back through the house again, the way he came; and if you’re looking, you might see him go by, a young man in wizarding robes (lime green under a long black cloak, pinned at the front; he’s fresh from work) with a head full of black hair brushed away from his cynical half-closed eyes and a mouth fixed in a straight line.
Or you might not. That’s what he’d prefer.
Typist: This is Ophiuchus Lestrange, Bellatrix and Rodolphus’ oldest son. He’s a bit antisocial as you can tell.