Author: shyangell & MorningDawn
DISCLAIMER: All the fictional characters appearing in this fanfiction story are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's; and they are being used with the only purpose of personal entertainment.
This story has been FINALLY revised. THIS CHAPTER IS NEWLY BETAED and reformatted.
Crosswords & Crossroads
Sirius Black likes doing the crosswords of the Sunday Prophet. He has many valid reasons for this. For starters it makes for a pastime that allows him to go unnoticed at home. He likes the challenge. Sirius is always a one for challenges, instead of making him desist, a challenge makes him try even harder. He keeps the ones he can't solve to ask Uncle Alphard next time he sees him.
Now he saves them to solve in History of Magic, they are so much better than falling asleep and getting a crick in the neck. He caresses his chin with his pheasant quill and looks at row number two:
(2) Be preoccupied with something (6 letters)
Well, that's easy. He thinks and he writes in red ink: Obsess.
"Psst, Black." someone hisses to his left. "Remus, what's he doing, can you see?"
Talking about being obsessed. Can Potter not stick his nose into his own business? He should not want to pry if he's so blind he can't see. First-year Sirius Black is having a very bad day, but apparently it keeps getting worse, and it is only first hour in the morning.
"What are you doing?" asks Lupin, who happens to be in between. "You are doing the crosswords?"
He sounds surprised and curious but at least it is not Potter.
"It is not as if he has anything to say." he says looking at Professor Binns in the front of the classroom, and gesturing loosely with his quill.
"Really? The crosswords?" scoffs Potter. "How much of a looser must one be to do the crosswords? My grandfather does the crosswords!"
He is too weary of this to think a proper insult for Potter.
"Really nice thing to say about your grandfather, Potter." he drawls at him.
Potter only gets very, very, red.
One week later Potter has forgotten all about the crosswords, Sirius doesn't feel like hexing his glasses off at every minute, and they are friends.
Sirius Black is profoundly bored, and in Grimmauld Place there is nothing else to do. Doing the crosswords is the kind of thing he does in History of Magic and Ancient Runes. Not the kind of thing he'd like to be doing over the summer holidays, when you are supposed to be having a good time.
Don't misunderstand him. Crosswords are fun, when you can do nothing else. Which is like, right now.
He is supposed to be down with a migraine. At least that's what his mother believes. Right now she'd believe anything that'd relieve her from Sirius' company as long as he isn't enjoying it. And the last thing Sirius wants is to be attending another stupid tea party. He's had enough of those this summer to last him the rest of his life.
So instead he holes in his room and keeps quiet, and here is where the crosswords come in handy, to keep boredom away. In the half light, legs slung over the arm of the armchair by the window of his bedroom he solves word puzzles.
(10) A state or condition markedly different from the norm (10 letters)
A noun. Difference? No… Aberration. That's it.
What is an aberration is this crazy match-making his parents are throwing him into. He sighs because he doesn't think he'll be able to avoid as many parties as he'd like. He wished more than ever his family were like James'.
He'll have to steal the prophet tomorrow at the rate he's going, because he's finished the entire stack of newspapers that have been archived in the library, and he has managed to finished every other one he has pilfered away already.
There is a creak at the door. Sirius stuffs the paper and quill between two books in the bookshelf behind the settee, and lets himself go limp. His face looks truly ill. An ugly little head peeks around the door.
"Mistress says Master Sirius should be coming down to dinner."
He doesn't know it, because he hasn't planned it, but in one week he'll not be living in Grimmauld Place anymore. In one week time he will wear the heir's ring on a chain around his neck instead of his ring finger. He'll be living with the Potters; a round charred hole on the tapestry will have erased his name.
Sirius Black is about to be very, very disagreeable. He knows he hasn't babysat before, but he's not a complete ignorant with children.
"It's alright Lily." he tells her friend for the thousandth time. "It'll be only on Fridays anyway."
James does the evening shift in the Auror Department, which is all well and fine as Lily has the morning shift in St Mungo, but Fridays are a nasty business because they both have the evening shift.
"It is not the first time I see a baby," he tells her. "calm down, trust me."
He tells her lowering the crossword puzzle to the sofa to convey some seriousness. She instead looks at him doubtfully, but he must have said something right because she calms down a bit.
He holds his hands out to her and she passes him Harry, who is not asleep and doesn't fuss, and instead burrows himself against Sirius' neck.
"Go and don't worry, we'll manage." he repeats
When the door clicks behind her he carries Harry back to his crib and settles him in. He sits down on the chair Lily uses beside it, and picks up the crosswords again.
Harry stands up on wobbly legs and peeks at him from above the railing, and gurgles to get his attention.
"So… the fourth largest of Jupiter's satellites; covered with a smooth shell of frozen water. It's got six letters."
Harry gurgles and falls flat on his bottom.
"It is Europe, if you must know." he tells his godson.
Harry looks at him interestedly, as every time he talks to him, it really doesn't matter what he says. He tickles the baby's ear with his feathered quill. The baby gurgles happily.
In one week the Potters will go into hiding and the world will almost spin off its axis. Things are crazy now but they are about to be twice as much. But neither of them knows, and they are happy for now.
Sirius black is cold and hungry and has an itch in the back of his skull but this is otherwise normal considering the state of his dank cell. He is wet in his own cold sweat and feels quite dizzy, but that is also normal.
He hears the resounding clang of doors opening and closing, of latches coming off, the noise raises over the moaning and groaning of the place, or the people inside the place. Sirius can hear voices… but he doesn't think he's going mad anymore than he already is. But there is no howling, no screeching, no hoarse screaming. These voices are almost too real to be real if that makes sense.
Interestingly enough the dementors seem to go away, he can tangibly feel their retreat. It rather feels like the anguish wanes slowly only to be replaced by a deep bottomless pit of nothing.
His hearing is sharp; unusually so. He spends too much time as a dog and the sharp senses of his animal form don't quite fade anymore when he's human. In a way it is a blessing and a curse, because he can tell when someone's coming, but that only reveals that no-one ever does come down here. His cell is at the end of the corridor, and can't see well from there, so hearing is the only warning he's got of anything. And there are footsteps coming over.
In another time, another place he might've raised to receive a visitor. Now he doesn't even feel any tingle of hope anymore, which is right, as this way the Dementors can't take it away from him.
Instead he only rises when a loud bang against his cell and a yell order him to do so.
"Black! Get up!" they shout at him. "The Minister is here."
And even then he only does so very slowly, condescendingly even, placing calmly one foot after the other on the floor. His father should have been proud. He lazily sweeps his eyes over the mismatched group of ministry officials and lies back against the wall just to be contrary. He is getting a bit sick of being stared at.
"Fancy seeing you here Minister." he drawls at the short plump figure with an horrid lime-green bowler hat¸ and even he is a bit startled by the croaking quality of his own voice.
"Black." he squeaks. And Sirius is sure his normal voice can't be that high-pitched. "It-it's been a long ti-time."
Sirius smirks, but when it would've been charming sometime back in time, now it is merely a disquieting pull of lips and a flash of teeth over a gaunt face. Their unease tells him everything he has to know about how he looks, and how little effort he needs to do to push their buttons.
"I wouldn't know." he hears his voice, and it is rough and patched from disuse; he sounds like he'd survived an attempted strangling. "Anytime here is too long a time."
He peers through half-lidded lashes at the diminutive minister. Who in his right mind would make Cornelius Fudge Minister of Magic, considering he was an official known for his levels of incompetence? The two aurors look stonily at him from their position at the back of the group, their tunics blood-red. The tall black one that he can't see quite well doesn't even flinch. The other though is the one who mutters:
"Nothing better than you deserve." but to Sirius it carries through as if he had shouted.
He could feel anguish or plain anger, but instead there is resignation only.
"How long have I been here, by the by." he asks again. His slanted grin widens, and the group as a whole flinches; his nonchalance, undoubtedly grating at their nerves.
"Uh…" Minister Fudge twitches like mad and keeps looking at the corridor door from the corner of his eyes. He sputters when he answers. "I'll never understand… why you people want to know… twelve years."
"Ah. It does explain the feeling of being millenary." he tells them. Truth be told he could stop playing with them, but he won't. If this is the only human company he can have, he'll take the distraction. If Flimsy Fudge's presence keeps the dementors at bay, he'll milk it for all it's worth.
Fudge keeps looking back at his two goons worriedly, as if Sirius had the energy to force the door and jump at him. It wouldn't be a bad idea if he weren't so very tired.
"Didn't think you'd be… uhm... that talkative after all this ti-time." Fudge squeaks, and starts fidgeting with a newspaper.
"You never do." Sirius says, leaning into the bars. "So convinced your perfect Ministry is infallible… is Corcksaw still around?"
"No-no." he says, changing the Prophet from one hand to the other. "He went into-to early… retirement!"
"Hhm… lucky you. He was practically illiterate." Sirius sneers.
Fudge only looks at him, like a deer caught in the headlights, looking for all as if he's going to piss himself.
"Is that The Prophet?" he asks maybe too keenly.
"Ye-yes." stutters the Minister.
"Can I have a look?" he asks, and his eyes glitter in the middle of his face, like torches in the dark. Fudge hesitates." It is the crosswords, you know? I miss them."
"Here." Fudge squeaks, and throws the newspaper at him.
Sirius looks at the last page.
"To instantaneously vanish from a location, 9 letters." he reads aloud. "This is easier than I remember."
"Re-really?"
"Yeah, any dimwit should know it's meant to be disappear." he drawls, and the Minister is visibly nervous, and impatient to leave.
When the Minister leaves, the cold dread seeps back in, inch by inch until his body trebles and convulses under the dementor's clutch. He stares at the newspaper fixedly, and mentally solves the crosswords because focusing helps him keep them away.
Four letters; death, destruction or any very bad situation that cannot be avoided.
Doom.
The Ministry could not take the credit for stopping Vodemort. But they could claim to have brought down his right hand man when they imprisoned Sirius. They would never suspect the truth because it was all so convenient. And that is why he's here.
That does not quite explain why he's still here.
But then there is the picture, right in the middle of the front page of the Prophet, a happy family waving hello, and a rat sitting on the younger boy's shoulder. And then all he can think about is diving for Peter's throat once he finds him.
So many people died and disappeared during the year Peter spied for Voldemort. And little Peter is still there, alive and breathing and free.
They'd known there was an unknown traitor in their midst, but felt it had to be a very strong wizard. Sirius fills that description. Peter does not. Besides, they think he is dead, murdered by Sirius, obviously.
Sirius has always hated the Ministry, and by now he can't distinguish whether he's trembling from rage and indignation, or because of the more mundane reason that the wet walls of his cell are starting to make a number on his joints. Everything because of desperate politics and the need to feel like something was being done. Because people, weak mindless laidback people, needed to believe that they were getting somewhere and making progress in destroying Voldemort's ranks.
It is doom when you lose all ability to overturn your own circumstances; and it is doom when there is no sleep to be had over a matter more than a decade old. Sirius doesn't scheme and doesn't plan, because he never consciously does so; but he loses sleep over it. Like a fire, the flames of his newfound clues burn bright and give him strength were there was none to be found. He almost cannot feel the cold that's tormented him every damn day for twelve years.
He cannot know, because it is impossible, or was impossible before he existed inside the depressing halls of Azkaban; but in a matter of days his lock won't click back in the evening, and he won't eat his evening bread. He'll leave his cell, and like a ghost he'll breathe through Azkaban's corridors towards the exit. And nobody will stop him. He'll reach the rocks by the sea, and the ocean will be the only thing between him and freedom. He'll swim across them, and later, much later he'll be washed ashore by the lazy waves, far away from here. And he will be free again.
But for now, he sleeps. He turns and tosses in his cot, feverish and tormented by his nightmarish dreams once more. But this time he isn't the one without a way out. Peter is.
Grimmauld place is a recurrently depressing place. No matter how many years pass or how much the place itself changes, Sirius will always feel as I there was a hippogriff sitting on top of his chest. There is no way around it.
And of course he had to be imprisoned in it. He sometimes wonders whatever he did to so royally piss Fortune. Because she really has never given him the time of day. And if home imprisonment wasn't bad enough to begin with, then having Regulus with him is certainly an even worse punishment. Of course, in moments when his bad mood lessens a little he might even recognize that being completely alone might not be better either because then he wouldn't have anyone to vent onto when things get too much.
With Regulus around he can throw a fit when he feels like it and someone is actually forced to listen. It makes him feel far less powerless than this whole situation would otherwise.
But he is moody nonetheless, and when he jabs his quill down to jot down the last answer to the crossword form yesterday he is close to ripping the paper; which is not half as satisfying as he would've hoped.
He folds the newspaper back and throws it away almost to the other end of the very long, very deserted kitchen table. He scowls and glares at today's newspaper, laying there right beside a cold cup of tea he has no intention of drinking, Remus dropped it by this morning, along with a quick rejoinder about his poor temper and chamomile tea. Which it's just asking for revenge of some kind, and proves he's a sucker for punishment. Because Sirius has a lot of time in his hands and very little on which he entertain his mind. Which is why he does the crossword.
At least until Dumbledore finally drops by and relays whatever terribly urgent message is like he said he would.
But it's early yet and Sirius reaches for the paper, making a silent vow that if Remus makes another smart-mouth comment about it he'll eat it.
(7 letters) To change something for the better.
Ah, Improve, There is always something to improve. Another thing is that you may not have the means to do so. And then there are some things that are just a lost cause. Sirius prides himself of knowing when he encounters one, For example he never fools himself into believing Azkaban didn't change him, or that Regulus will ever be straightforward about anything at all. Neither does he believe there is a chance in hell to significantly improve Grimmauld place. It simply never changes for the better.
But of course he's always had a fatalistic streak that plays a nice counterbalance with the shining balls of optimistic energy he somehow ends surrounded by.
A loud thump is heard overhead and a muffled curse. He waits unnecessarily for yells, screeches and loud wails to cut through the silent house. But none of that happens. The he remembers they removed Mrs Black from the wall two days ago. Another thump and the noise of something smashing against the floor makes him look upwards.
Sirius snorts at the absurd notion that whatever is causing this ruckus will have the stone ceiling falling over his head. The very thought of it is laughable, nonetheless the reaction was quite instinctive.
No, nothing of that will happen unless Regulus is playing with something truly dangerous in the blue room, and will manage to carve a direct route to the kitchen trough ancient stone. Although by the amount of noise he is making he might achieve it.
Sirius slams the newspaper down on the table and throws away the self-inking quill he found earlier lying about. He releases and exaggerated sigh and drags himself out the kitchen and up the basement stairs.
Then, turning left, he braces himself to do some shouting of his own.
He knows it not. But Regulus' mishappened attempt to get rid of a recently discovered ghoul is one of the last battles of that kind that will happen in Grimmauld Place. It's early June, and the school year is drawing to a close. Maybe he should have expected it given how Harry hasn't yet landed himself in trouble big enough. But in a week's time the world will tremble before the name of Voldemort. Full-out tidings of war. But much better is that he'll be free to worry about everyone else, without having them worry about him. At least in theory. And he will walk out of the Ministry through the front door a free man, and walk to his house and open the door calmly. And nobody will stop him.
They've been at this for almost two years already. Maybe not as long but sometimes he loses count. It's early November, and the Ministry's fallen. Which clearly has not helped improve an already dismal situation. Dumbledore couldn't have chosen a worst time to get himself killed. And he isn't talking of Snape.
Of course Snape is at fault, he always is. But that doesn't mean he's blind and didn't see the terribly charred hand that only time he reported in person to him. He didn't say anything. Maybe he should have.
He's in Paris. This side of the Chanel he's safer, for now. Which doesn't make him feel any better about the whole situation. Harry is still missing, with only his two barely-of-age friends for company, back in England, looking for horcruxes. And he can do nothing.
Once he gets face to face with Harry he'll yell to his heart's content about sneaking to do something that dangerous on his own. It is not as if Sirius didn't already know. They told him how to get one. But Harry had to go on a fit of teenager dramatics and not accept help. He wants to believe he will see Harry again; he has to.
In reality Harry was with only his two barely-of-age friends, because now Ronald Weasley finally turned up alone at Bill Weasley's house, and they still don't know where his godson is. He is not the best of godfathers, but he wonders if James was aware of what he really was asking of him when he asked Sirius to fill the position.
He sips out of a mug of hot coffee and dislodges himself from the windowsill he was resting against. This house they use here in Paris is big enough that he cannot hear Regulus move around. Regulus has been with him every step of the way these two interminable years. They have done their job, and kept the order connected to resources, information and strategy intelligence with their work in the continent. But the world is still going to hell.
Sirius glances behind him at the map stretched over the stone wall, the little moving red dots and the faces of people of interest either him or Regulus have stuck beside it as they come to their attention. In a prominent position Dolohov sneers at him from his paper frame. Beside them also stuck to the wall there were also the most important pieces of paper trail they had on some suspicious transactions and a couple of intercepted letters.
Now that he's out of the safe house almost all the time, Regulus has finally gone and stamped little pieces of Newspaper on the wall too. Sirius thinks it is a waste of space, but Regulus keeps insisting it gives them perspective. He's also taken to marking bits and pieces in red ink.
"Never a waste to know how much of what we know is too much." he'd said.
Which makes sense were it not for the fact that half the news are not in English, and those never have any kind of news that relate to them. What they don't tell can be useful, but he lets Regulus to tear his eyebrows out over them if he wishes.
He goes next room and find Regulus sorting rolls of parchment with a diligence formerly unknown. Beside him a head full of golden red curls is bowed over them too.
His lips tighten. It is not that Sirius regrets taking the girl, more of a woman really, with them after their intrusion in the Ministry of Magic a few months ago. She's a muggleborn, he couldn't very well leave her there.
That doesn't mean he's comfortable with having her sort through Order business. Not that he thinks Regulus is stupid, he knows he's not. And he hasn't let her contact anyone. Maybe the problem is that Regulus is far too comfortable with her. Maybe it is that she used to work at the Ministry.
She's not that young, but she is certainly naïve and scared out of her mind. Sirius lost the will to deal with this kind of things a while back. She's also too polite and too shy. But she knows her way through muggle ID's and knows her share of administrative paperwork that she can help take a peek to what they get their hands on.
Even so, Sirius keeps telling Regulus he should get her some false papers and sent her into hiding someplace in rural France and tell her to act muggle for a while. Like they have done with every other muggleborn they've gotten out of Britain in the same period of time.
Regulus has done none of that. Instead every time Sirius is finished with his trips back to England, from his surveillances strewn halfway across the country, of whatever needs to be done; she's still there. Like this time.
Regulus should really get rid of her. It wouldn't do for both of them to die and leave her locked up in a house for the rest of her life. It could happen. Maybe she wouldn't die of inanition because Ziggy would feed her, he notes casting his eyes over the remains of breakfast the little she-elf served them. But she wouldn't be able to leave either.
Sirius tugs at a corner of a folded newspaper on the old desk, and he flips it open. He shakes his head at the holes of cutout news, and stops before the almost-completed crosswords. He scowls.
"It's frauduleux." he says suddenly and pointing at the fifth vertical row, which has Regulus looking at him. "Dishonest, illegal, and intended to deceive… it's frauduleux."
Regulus shakes his head, and says:
"Whatever."
The he returns to his admittedly fraudulent endeavors, and Sirius just looks at him. Why it is that Regulus never listens, he'll never know.
Next time he comes back, though, Michelle, or whatever's her name will be gone. It'll take months of toil, and losses, and more grief, and this war will finally come to an end too. That is beyond his wildest dreams, he won't even be able to imagine what comes next. And he'll see her again; they both will see her again. And in the end she won't be afraid of him.
It's Sunday morning and the Sunday Prophet is laid over the breakfast table while Sirius lazily sips his tea. It is a slow morning, and he's alone in the dining room.
The crossword is open in front of him, a friendly harmless challenge he enjoys on lazy Sunday mornings.
(7 letters) Not hoping for change or improvement. Everything inside.
He flips the eagle-feather quill between his fingers and considers the answer. Quick light running steps can be heard on the corridor. He puts the quill down and the door opens and shuts with a little more force than necessary. A small warm thing slams into his side giggling and tugging at his shirt.
Sirius looks down on the dark little hair snuggled against his chest, and the small upturned nose digging into his ribs. His hand goes down in a caress.
"Hi!" she says. The white childlike dress is askew and her braids are coming undone, but with the big smile on her face it still makes a pretty picture. She gets on tiptoes and peeks over the table to look what he's doing. She seems to lose any interest once she finds out.
"Good morning Cassie." he says, and he prevents her from grabbing the quill. "You shouldn't run around like that, you'll crash into something."
She pouts prettily, but when he grabs her she squeaks and laughs easily.
"You should let your mother fix you up again." he tells her, lightly tugging one of her braids. "She won't be too happy."
To his amusement the little girl squeaks and struggles for him to let go, and when she can takes up running and like a blur is gone through the other door like Voldemort was after her. One of her braids ribbons gets caught in the doorframe.
He chuckles and shakes his head. His eyes fall on the unsealed letter on top of the mantelpiece. It is from Regulus, well technically from Regulus and his wife, but she never quite directly writes to him. Maybe after all this years she's still reluctant to do so for some strange reason. It was only meant as a congratulations and well-wishes. But still Regulus still manages to land a tirade about Narcissa that makes up the contents of half the missive. He's lucky that Cassie cannot yet read very well.
He turns his attention back to his crossword puzzle and for a moment hesitates.
Content.
He writes it down.
Then it occurs to him that it is true. Trust him to find hidden meanings in a crossword puzzle from the Sunday Prophet. He is content, even if he'd have never asked for what he has if he'd been asked. But you don't always get what you want, sometimes you get what you need.
END