[It's fairly obvious when Sirius Black figures out what his mutation is. In the middle of the street, he entirely stops paying attention to the girls in bell-bottoms and the blokes with big hair and the squashed-looking American cars and how tight and structured all the Muggles clothes. He falls sharply silent, his head turning steadily on its axis as his feet keep moving, his attention fixed, unmistakably, upon the big yellow dog leashed to the parking meter there.
His face changes a little. His fingers start to open, telegraph a reach, almost, for the little furry face, the friendly tilt of ears, the nose coming to meet his palm.
--but then he pulls back, nonchalance settling firmly into place. He looks nearly like he did as a free man, none of Azkaban's cold and hungry years having left a shadow or a tincture to his square jaw. Not here.] What've you got then? [he asks, looking up. His hand goes in his pocket.]
Real Party
[He's supposed to like a party. 'Party.'
There are any number of excuses that might suit: it's not very British, this mad knot of bodies. It certainly isn't very wizardly, the organic intensity of it, music beating through like the air itself has a heartbeat, sweating with the passion of every person contained therein. He's been to London, he's seen how dense the Ministry is, and the Quidditch games would in the greatest championships, attract turnout that was physically impossible for the arenas to hold. You know, were it not for magic.
But magic isn't real. Just as mutation is not real, and Azkaban wasn't real, and the disparate pieces of his life were not real, from the wand that chose him to the peculiar matter of thestrels. This sequence of thoughts is completely irrelevant to anything, but it's still what he thinks about as he stumbles around a table, upends himself over a recently-emptied keg and vomits inside its reverberating hull.
Five minutes later, he's well beyond the crowd. The stone is cold on his shoulder. He tries to compose himself, but they don't produce mirrors here with either magic or mechanical manufacturing processes, so his efforts are a little unbalanced. His hair smears black across his forehead; his eyes blink green.]
[OOC note: I'm quite RLed at the moment at least until Tuesday, please forgive for slowtags.]
Sirius Black | Simulations & Real (cw indications of past trauma)
[It's fairly obvious when Sirius Black figures out what his mutation is. In the middle of the street, he entirely stops paying attention to the girls in bell-bottoms and the blokes with big hair and the squashed-looking American cars and how tight and structured all the Muggles clothes. He falls sharply silent, his head turning steadily on its axis as his feet keep moving, his attention fixed, unmistakably, upon the big yellow dog leashed to the parking meter there.
His face changes a little. His fingers start to open, telegraph a reach, almost, for the little furry face, the friendly tilt of ears, the nose coming to meet his palm.
--but then he pulls back, nonchalance settling firmly into place. He looks nearly like he did as a free man, none of Azkaban's cold and hungry years having left a shadow or a tincture to his square jaw. Not here.] What've you got then? [he asks, looking up. His hand goes in his pocket.]
Real Party
[He's supposed to like a party. 'Party.'
There are any number of excuses that might suit: it's not very British, this mad knot of bodies. It certainly isn't very wizardly, the organic intensity of it, music beating through like the air itself has a heartbeat, sweating with the passion of every person contained therein. He's been to London, he's seen how dense the Ministry is, and the Quidditch games would in the greatest championships, attract turnout that was physically impossible for the arenas to hold. You know, were it not for magic.
But magic isn't real. Just as mutation is not real, and Azkaban wasn't real, and the disparate pieces of his life were not real, from the wand that chose him to the peculiar matter of thestrels. This sequence of thoughts is completely irrelevant to anything, but it's still what he thinks about as he stumbles around a table, upends himself over a recently-emptied keg and vomits inside its reverberating hull.
Five minutes later, he's well beyond the crowd. The stone is cold on his shoulder. He tries to compose himself, but they don't produce mirrors here with either magic or mechanical manufacturing processes, so his efforts are a little unbalanced. His hair smears black across his forehead; his eyes blink green.]
[OOC note: I'm quite RLed at the moment at least until Tuesday, please forgive for slowtags.]