It was freezing.
Sirius, naked but for a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, shoved his hands into the warmth of his armpits and glanced morosely at the portraits on the wall, envying the subjects their coats and serene, moonlit expressions. They didn’t feel the cold, didn’t have the breath to watch it turn to fog in front of their old, painted eyes.
Damn, but he wanted a smoke. Unfortunately his Marlboros were in his jacket pocket, back in the Room of Doom, and he wasn’t so sure he’d want to go retrieve them, even if he did know where he was.
He’d needed a piss, was all. Had thrown back the pink duvet, dutifully ignoring the shining little porcelain faces peppered about the room as he’d hurried across the flowered carpet to the door, and unfortunately hadn’t noted his harebrained route in his search for the loo. Any loo. A chamber pot, for Christ’s bloody sake.
Sirius had found a toilet eventually, furnished all in cherry wood and brass, three staircases, seventeen corridors, and countless doors later, down some obscure hallway, and it had been one of the best, most satisfying pisses in his life. But once he’d finished, he’d found himself turned around and utterly, utterly lost, and had been wandering aimlessly about Beauchief Hall ever since, gradually turning into an icicle.
“Stop looking so bloody pleased with yourself,” he grumbled, pointing a (cold) accusing finger at a portrait of one Lord Amalric Anglesey. “You’d be freezing your stones off too if you were here. If you ever even had any, that is.”