-JK Rowling, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
The wind was bitingly cold as the dark-haired young man made his way down the street, whistling above his head while he dug his hands deeper into his pockets.
Sirius huffed out a cloudy breath into the frosty air, flicking some of his hair out of his face.
His eyelashes had snowflakes in them; or something sort-like. It hadn't quite snowed yet, not properly, but it was getting there.
Everything about the grey skies and heavy clouds screamed November, as did the empty street and the fading, dead leaves on the sidewalk. Sirius felt like November- weary and waiting.
He'd narrowly escaped three Death Eaters about eight hours before reaching this particular street, covering his lithe young form in bruises and wounds and aches.
Even now, after getting away, his eyes flickered about with an edginess that never really went away.
Sirius hadn't quite expected life to get so dangerous so quickly.
They'd been out of Hogwarts for little over two years, and already a number of their good friends were gone forever, murdered or killed in combat.
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