Moon River, Part One
"Moon River, wider than a mile,
I'm crossing you in style some day…
Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker,
Wherever you're going I'm going your way."
Alphard Black whistles softly to himself as he walks down Grimmauld Place, a decrepit street that betrays the demeanour of those who live in it. He pauses at a particular block of pavement between numbers eleven and thirteen, into which someone has carved the initials "TP". He puts down his guitar case and reaches into his rucksack, pulling out his wand (which he rarely uses) and bends down to trace the letters, while whispering "Tojours Pur".
When he straightens up, a black door appears in front of him, followed by a grey brick wall, adorned with several small windows. Within twenty seconds, a mansion has forced its way out from between the two neighbouring houses, like a monster out of a science-fiction novel. But for Alphard, a wizard, it's real. Too real.
He goes up the steps to the front door of "number twelve" and softly taps the silver snake-shaped doorknocker. The snake springs to life, leaping up at him, eyeing him up and down, before opening its mouth and saying, "Come in."
It's the voice of his sister Walburga, the first person he sees when the door creaks open. Behind her is his brother-in-law, Orion (who happens to be his second cousin as well) and partly hidden by the folds of her voluminous robes are his nephews, Sirius and Regulus.
"I see you chose not to Apparate," Walburga sneers by way of a greeting.
"No," he replies, as he takes a step into the gloomy corridor.
He's failed the Apparition Test three times already – enough is enough. Plenty of wizards don't bother with Apparition; brooms may be slower, but they're safer. And Alphard himself finds that muggle transport has a sort of charm to it, although he'll never admit his fondness for aeroplanes to anyone.
"Lucky you're in town for once, eh? Thank you for offering to mind the boys, Alf," Orion says, though his stony eyes betray a distinct lack of gratitude. "We should be back by midnight."
"No problem," he replies, and stoops to speak to Sirius and Regulus. "And what time should you two be in bed by?"
They blink blankly at their Uncle Alphard. Bedtime is clearly not something Walburga enforces, clear by the fact that she's pushing past them all, ready to Disapparate from her doorstep. "Oh, it doesn't matter," she says. "Ten?"
"Ten?" echoes Alphard, hardly believing his ears – his nephews are only five and six.
"Nine, then," says Orion. "Be good, won't you, boys?" They nod as their parents turn away, disappearing with a pop.
Alphard strains to remember what it's like to be five. He remembers too well what it's like to be neglected – neglected because he was the middle child, because he was in the wrong house at Hogwarts and didn't deserve the same attention as the good Slytherin boy and girl, because now, at thirty-five, he has yet to settle down in a proper, permanent place with a proper, permanent wizarding job. And sadly, there is that same aura of neglect surrounding Sirius and Regulus. Even more sadly, it doesn't surprise him, for Walburga was never the motherly type. He reckons she only had Sirius because of the pressure to produce a male heir in the Black family (Cygnus and Druella have three daughters) and Regulus was an accident.
He figures he should introduce himself.
"Hello, Sirius, hello Regulus, do you remember me?"
"No," says Sirius bluntly.
"That's all right – last time I saw you, you were barely able to talk."
"Where have you been?"
Alphard smiles at Sirius' spirit. "Oh, just travelling," he replies vaguely. "And what about you?" he asks the smaller, much quieter boy. "What were you doing before I came here?"
"Riding my broom?" he says, holding up a toy, the kind that only rises about a foot or two off the ground.
"That's a very nice broomstick," says Alphard. "Mine is really old – it's a Shooting Star."
"Oh. May I go play with mine again?" asks Regulus.
"Er – um – yeah – sure?" Alphard shrugs, not being able to find any reason why the kid shouldn't be allowed to do so – his younger brother, Cygnus, had a toy broomstick when he was only two. Regulus should be safe on his own.
Alphard fears he's not much good with kids. He's gotten roped into this because Cygnus' youngest daughter, Narcissa, whom they usually rely on to baby-sit (despite the fact that she's a child herself), is at Hogwarts this year, and they would be obligated to pay anyone who wasn't in their family. Moreover, this is the first time he's been in Britain in years, and this is a relatively quick and painless method of getting one of his obligatory family visits out of the way.
"What's that?" asks Sirius, jabbing his finger at the guitar case.
"A guitar."
Alphard's guitar is like an arm or a leg to him; he's only aware of its presence when he's not carrying it.
"What's that," repeats Sirius exasperatedly.
"Um, you make music with it."
"Show me," he says.
"All right – you show me somewhere we can sit down, and I'll show you how to play the guitar."
In the living room, Alphard sets the guitar case down before Sirius' wide eyes. It's covered with stickers – some proudly bearing the names of bands (current ones like The Beatles and old ones like Buddy Holly) and others turning the case into a passport (New Orleans, New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Barcelona, Paris, Vienna, Venezia, Sydney, Auckland, Tokyo…).
"That's a lot of stickers."
"Yeah, they basically hold my case together," Alphard says. "Here, I'll let you have one." He's been to New York twice; waving his wand, he peels off a spare and hands it to Sirius. "Keep it somewhere special – that came all the way from across the Atlantic Ocean."
"Thank you," says Sirius mechanically. "But what about the music?"
"No, I haven't forgotten, little fellow," he reassures Sirius. Alphard deftly flips the latches on the case and lifts out the large acoustic guitar. "What would you like to hear? Good old Celestina Warbeck?"
"Who's she?"
"Never mind," says Alphard. The boy's not old enough to know the difference between magical and muggle music…come to think of it, Alphard's never been able to hear any difference anyway. One particular tune has been firmly planted in his head since the moment he turned the corner and walked down Grimmauld Place. "You might like this song," he tells Sirius. "It's called Moon River and it's beautiful."
A/N: Moon River is the property of Johnny Mercer and Henry Mancini (1961). Alphard, Sirius, Regulus Black et al are the property of JK Rowling.
My deepest apologies to anyone who's reading this and Danse Macabre at the same time; I know I said I was going to update DM soon, but sometimes...fate has other plans for you.
Thank you to BonnieDoll for coming up with such groovy prompts!