Prologue
To me, she was like one of those snapshots of authors you see on the back of a novel's cover: I had an entire respect for her, yet she didn't seam real or alive. Pictures of her were hanging all around the house – dad never bothered to take them off-, but beside that, there was nothing I knew about her. She was his past and I was his present, and if I knew dad enough well, he always hated talking about his past. He was never one of those people who would get nostalgic; to him nostalgia was nothing else but a dark shadow that eclipsed his life. But then again, if he hated the past so ardently why wouldn't he just get rid of her pictures? There was no way he could love her – he never showed any kind of such feeling when her name was purposely slipped into conversation, and then, what was Sirius Black still clinging on?
As a young girl I've always been attracted to mysteries, and thanks to my father, who, unlike the rest of his family was a Muggle-loving person, I got the chance to read every book ever to be written in English that involved a mystery. I was in love with secrets and riddles, they seemed fascinating to me, and the fact that dad knew all the secret passageways of Hogwarts, made my respect for him grow faster. I was a fan of solving riddles, and when I reached the age of sixteen I was able to see the faintest of details. Of course dad would tell you I'm either mad as a hatter, or just a female incarnation of Sherlock Holmes. Either way it is wrong, for I am not that mad and I am very sure no human on this earth could be able to handle all the characteristics Sherlock carries around with him. But that is beside the point, because this story isn't about myself, I'm just the narrator, this story is much more than it seems. So, I was saying I was in love with mysteries, and the one I loved most was the relationship my dad had with the woman called Marlene. She is indeed the woman who gave birth to me, but she's been part of my life for far too much of a short time to be able to consider her a 'mother'.
As I said before, dad was never talking about her. She just vanished one night and I never heard of her again – none of us did. If I'd be idiotic in any way, I'd swallow this lie, but I am sure he knows what happened to her – whatever it did happen, after all. Every each of my attempts to understand the mystery that is my own mother, failed dramatically. I'm not sure where he's going with this, or why he's making such a big deal of it. There are many theories: that he is ashamed of the relationship he had had with Marlene McKinnon, that he had no feelings for her whatsoever and he just tricked her, and there's a morbid one, which says dad would have killed her. You know what I think of these doltish assumptions? Lies. None of them is true. I know my father, and I have learned how to read through him, whatever he is hiding, it's much more than that – and no, he didn't slaughter her or whatever the neighbour states.
After eighteen years of trying to find out the slightest information about the mysterious Marlene McKinnon, I had lost my hope, and that is where I'd gone wrong. There were other things I calculated wrong, like the date, but I'd rather not talk about my mistakes, for I can assure you they are enough.
He'd come late that night, and he looked more miserable than I have ever seen him. It was a November 2nd, I shall always remember that day. I was dressed in my horribly looking, pink nightgown when I heard him enter the house – it's not as if he didn't wake up the entire neighbourhood once he slammed the door the way he did. Never had he been one for subtlety, but this time he had crossed the line. Irritated, I left my room in a hurry to see dad lying on our sofa. His clothes needed a wash and so did his face. A thick smell of alcohol floated in the air around and I instantly looked down at him. If I hadn't seen hs pale lips move, I'd say I've gone mad, but he wasn't as asleep as I pictured him to be. He looked up at me, those shadowy grey eyes I am so familiar with pierced me, and then, out of a sudden he laughed bitterly. "He's drunk", I told myself, as I forced a faint smile on my face. I've never seen him drunk before. Yeah, I know what you're going to say: "Sirius Black? Hmpf, that boy was drunk from the breaking of the dawn until late at midnight.", but he's not a boy any more now, is he? No one understands how much he matured, he matured for me, so as to be sure he can take care of his only child, and how could I not respect that? I've never seen him drunk, probably because he never wanted to show me this kind of a dad, the one who make mistakes and is pierced by flaws.
He looked up at me, reaching for my hand. I stretched mine, taking his. His hands were as cold as ice and as I approached him, I saw something I probably shall never see again. His face was wet. I excluded the idea of crying – dad was never crying and why even would he cry for? But just as if he would read my mind, a name escaped his lips, and it seemed to carry so much tenderness, I couldn't even comprehend it: "Marlene."