Walpurgis Night Greetings!
The second floor hallway at number 12, Grimmauld Place holds an inexplicable lure for guests. Silence might coax you up there, away from the dim firelight and coldly clinking glasses in the rooms downstairs; silence which falls like a series of heavy velvet curtains to dull not only the sound of the world outside, but the sense of it, too, so that as you move further along the darkened hallway, the colours of the world as you remember it become drab, sepia tinted. Draughts play about the flames of the guttering candles; send shadows skittering off at odd angles to appear unexpectedly, like the shifting figures which line the walls in their formal portraits.
The last door is closed, but not locked. Its cut glass doorknob catches the shifting light. Of course, you open it. There was never a chance that you might leave it untouched. The room beyond is cold, despite the fire burning beneath the grand mantel, and the air smells of dust and damp plaster. Faded chinoiserie birds flit from branch to painted branch on the walls, shedding flakes of paint and opening their beaks dumbly. A high shelf circling the room is lined with glass cases and bell jars, host to a hundred stuffed birds which look on just as silent, their little glass eyes limned with dust, their spread wings motionless.
By the window, which shows dusk lingering in the drab hollows of the dead garden, a dressing table is laden with glass perfume bottles, spilled cosmetics, and threads of blonde tobacco scattered over lace from the bowl of a long-stemmed pipe. A small pensieve casts silver light onto the dull surface of the mirror.
Behind you, the door closes with a quiet click. Perhaps you might stay a while.
From now until the 15th May, posts can be made to the community in the form of pensieve memories. Posting format is the same as usual, questions can be asked here. Enjoy!
The last door is closed, but not locked. Its cut glass doorknob catches the shifting light. Of course, you open it. There was never a chance that you might leave it untouched. The room beyond is cold, despite the fire burning beneath the grand mantel, and the air smells of dust and damp plaster. Faded chinoiserie birds flit from branch to painted branch on the walls, shedding flakes of paint and opening their beaks dumbly. A high shelf circling the room is lined with glass cases and bell jars, host to a hundred stuffed birds which look on just as silent, their little glass eyes limned with dust, their spread wings motionless.
By the window, which shows dusk lingering in the drab hollows of the dead garden, a dressing table is laden with glass perfume bottles, spilled cosmetics, and threads of blonde tobacco scattered over lace from the bowl of a long-stemmed pipe. A small pensieve casts silver light onto the dull surface of the mirror.
Behind you, the door closes with a quiet click. Perhaps you might stay a while.
From now until the 15th May, posts can be made to the community in the form of pensieve memories. Posting format is the same as usual, questions can be asked here. Enjoy!