Coffee For Two
It was a horrible day. The rain was pelting down, like bullets being shot from the bowels of the dark angry clouds, as Londoners scurried like rats, hiding beneath big black umbrellas, trying not to get caught in the coming storm.

Kreacher hobbled along the hall of the big, empty house, quirking his long, dirty ears slightly as another powerful gust of wind battered against the walls, bringing a tattered umbrella with it. He was dragging a grimy cloth behind him, leaving a clear trail behind him in the dirt and dust that had collected on the floors, just like an oversized slug.

He made his way towards the rundown reception room; the windows needed cleaning. He paused at the doorway, to survey Mistress Black’s dominium, but the sight that met his eyes made him freeze as if someone had cast an Impedimenta jinx over him.  

Mistress Black was sitting in her armchair, facing the Master’s own chair, drinking coffee, and smiling slightly, almost wistfully. But no, she was a woman of pure blood, and as such she was strong and proud, Kreacher reminded himself. People like her had no need to be wistful.

“Well, Orion, I quite agree! The state of a society that sees purebloods and muggles as equals can only be described as ridiculous!” she paused for a moment, as if waiting for an answer, and then laughed loudly. “Oh, you do make me laugh! But of course you’re right, my dear!” 

She sipped from her emerald green mug and gestured towards an identical one, sitting on the mahogany coffee table which lay between the two seats. “Drink up, or your coffee will get cold! I made it myself you know!”

She inclined her head, shaking her thick curly black hair out of her way, the corners of her lips, which had been smothered with bright red lipstick, turning up, forming a smile. “I know, we have house elves for a reason, and all that, but I wanted to make you coffee, like I always do!”

Kreacher stared at his mistress in awe; she was wearing a deep green silk dress, with her hair styled up for what seemed like the first time in years. And she had even done her make up today, her face seemed fresh.

But, as he stepped closer the illusion shattered. He noticed the lipstick that had smudged around her lips, as if she had done it in the dark, her red eyes, bloodshot from crying, the slightly manic look in her face, the way her long, unkempt nails dug into the upholstery, trying to root her, to keep her sane. And failing.

"Go on, Orion, drink up!" she glanced to the table where the mug stood, already luke warm. "Orion?"

Her fingers shook as she reached out, to touch something, to check that she was not imagining the person she saw before her.

But her fingers met only air, kept moving through it, until they met the soft, smooth velvet of the high backed, winged armchair.

Her eyes widened, as breath caught in her throat, there was something stuck in her wind pipe, obstructing the air her lungs were crying out for.

"No." She whispered, clutching at her heart, shaking her head slowly as she fell back into her seat. "No. NO!"

"ORION!" she screamed, looking around her madly, her eyes pooling with tears. "Where are you, Orion?! Don't leave me, please, please don't leave me! Regulas is dead, Sirius hates me, you're the only one left!"

But then suddenly she froze; her eyes wide and shocked, as if she had just realised something terrible. "No... I'm the only one left..."

Kreacher just stood there, shocked. He wanted to leave, no, he needed to leave. This was wrong, indecent, but his legs wouldn’t move; all he could do was watch.

Big, heavy tears where rolling down her cheeks now, leaving black rivers marring her face. She was breathing heavily, her chest shaking with repressed sobs, as she stared straight ahead, rocking backwards and forwards.

"Here I am, all alone in the place I used to live, for surely his death must have resulted in mine, the place I used to love," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. "It's dead now... The people are dead, the way of living is dead, hey even the house is dead. Slowly rotting away, like me."

"Why them? Why not me? It's not fair!" she shouted, slamming her hands down on the arms of her chair in frustration. She left them there, as if she were about to go and complain to whoever was in charge, whoever had decided that her life must go so horribly wrong.

Kreacher was scared. He had never seen his Mistress like this before, never seen her emotions change so quickly, never seen her plead, and he had certainly never ever seen her cry.

But then she seemed to realise that there was no one to go to, no one to complain to, nowhere from which to claim a refund for the mess her life had become, no one to blame. Except maybe herself. She folded in on herself then, drawing her legs up to clutch them to her chest. 

"I was adored once too, you know," she whispered, staring straight at Kreacher, who was shocked - he had thought she hadn't noticed him. Yet her eyes were glazed over, unseeing, like those of a dead person and he realised that she hadn't; she may have been looking at him, but she certainly wasn't seeing him.

So it was at that moment that Kreacher felt something for the high and mighty Mistress Black that he thought he would never feel - pity.

So, I think maybe it's a bit short - thoughts?

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