The Inbetween – By Slytherin's Dragon
Part I(2): The Boy who Played with Fire
Thanks for your support!
/Sirius\
The once familiar, but now not-so-familiar scents of the mainland assailed Sirius' keen sensitive nose. It was blustery out, the wind carrying the strong smell of the sea to the land. The yellowish-grey of the treetop canopy stood out starkly against the blue sky. When the pair had come ashore, Sirius gave a joyous bark. He dove into the soft grass from the large rocks that jutted out from the ground next to the sea and rolled around, taking in the grass like a thirsty man finding body of freshwater in the desert.
He heard the good-natured chuckle of his partner-in-crime, and when he turned towards him, Sirius had noticed the boat was gone from sight. Gone too were the unflattering brown clothes of Azkaban's skipper, replaced by simple charcoal shirt, black trousers and a long elegant cloak the blew in the wind. The man had tied back his long hair in a simple ponytail, revealing the line of his strong jaw. The man could surely dress well, Sirius mused, but then again, his sense of fashion could've been skewed due to years of only seeing guard uniforms, the unflattering grey cloaks of the dementors, and the horrid grey jumpsuits of the other prisoners on the runway that separated the two rows of cells.
"It's been years since you've seen grass..." The man remarked more to himself than Sirius. "You're lucky London doesn't have a bloody leash law." He laughed when Sirius growled slightly at the idea of being leashed, "Come here, we are going to Apparate."
Sirius bounded over to the man, who grabbed hold of his neck, and he was unprepared for the wrenching feeling of Apparition. It had been too long. Eight damned years too long. He stumbled upon the landing, but the man had maintained his firm grip. Much to his surprise, he found himself standing behind a rather large Tesco, sandwiched between the garbage disposal and the brick wall of the building. They walked towards the entrance and into the store, as the dark-haired man mumbled to himself regarding a list of things he needed to buy. Sirius spent his time sniffing at everything, delighted with the smorgasbord of food. He watched the man buy vegetables, simple cold-cut meats, bread and even some personal items, such as a toothbrush. He watched the man fumble with British muggle money at the cash register, before they finally left.
"I am American," The man sighed as if he could read Sirius' train of thought, "It takes a while to get used to a different currency." He then said, "Let me apologize in advance to you, Padfoot – the flat's a mess, boxes everywhere and I am not a good cook."
Sirius merely wagged his tail. A messy flat sounded like heaven compared to the cramped grey Azkaban cells with the same dreary view, day in and day out. Quite frankly, he knew that Azkaban had spoiled places like beaches for him, as the crashing of waves against the rocky shore was a sound he would forever associate with the eight worst years of his life.
As they walked away towards an appropriate Apparition point – a different one this time – Sirius found himself mulling pieces of information together. Was this person I? There was an odd likeness in the man's face to someone he had seen before. One boat ride, and grocery store visit later, he was no more the wiser to solving the mystery. The man claimed he was from Massachusetts. From the cut of his clothes, Sirius knew that the man was clearly well off. The man did not appear squeamish about muggles – after all, they had just spent the past half an hour in a muggle grocery shop, and the man appeared very familiar with Muggle food items – he couldn't imagine someone like Lucius Malfoy shopping at such a place – and spoke like a Brit. But Sirius could hear the subtle Americanisms corrupting his speech, which lent credibility that the man did spend a chunk of time in America.
The familiar sensation of Apparition was felt again, and he found himself behind another large skip, which forced him to wrinkle his nose in disgust. He then watched the man grimace as he caught a full whiff of the stench of rotten organics. They were clearly in Muggle London now. A few more minutes of walking later, including up a flight of stairs, they were standing in front of a door. The man placed his palm gently on the polished wood of the door and unlocked the door with a small metallic key from his pocket.
True to the man's word, the flat was a mess and it was devoid of furnishings. Boxes were strewn all across the area that was intended to be the living room. There wasn't even a dining table, but Sirius saw that a large box had been flipped upside down, and covered with a simple green cloth. It was evident that the man had moved in very recently and hadn't quite got the time to get settled in properly. He was handed a piece of towel and he politely wiped the pads of his feet on the material before venturing any further inward.
"I suppose, you might like a shower." The man said after a moment of silence, "I've got spare clothes, and you can use my wand to resize them if you need to. And then I need to go retrieve my son from Ivan, before he decides to never agree to babysit him again."
Who was Ivan? Sirius asked himself. Ivan didn't seem like an agent of Dumbledore. He shook his head sadly; what faith he had in the old man eroded as the years had languished by, rather like the rocks of Azkaban being eaten away by the waves of the seawater. A pawn, that's what he had been to the old man. He had been thrown into fucking Azkaban without even a trial. He understood that Wizarding Britain had wanted a bloody scapegoat for the events of that night over eight years back, but Dumbledore could have at least vouched for a trial or at the very least, seek out the truth.
He realized that the mysterious I. must be this Ivan person the man spoke of.
Deciding that he would leave the thinking for later, he walked into one of the washrooms in the flat. The man came by a few seconds later with a neat stack of clothes. When the man left to give Sirius his privacy, he immediately transformed back to his human form, glad for a return to normalcy.
He surveyed his form in the mirror critically. He looked gaunt and his cheeks were sunken in. Streaks of grey adorned his once fine dark hair. He tugged at his beard experimentally, and decided that it was best that it should go, considering that he was going to be 'on the run' from the Ministry. They'd probably be looking for a dishevelled prisoner in a jumpsuit with wild hair and a big beard. He found a new razor and a can of shaving cream – he was surprised that the man owned such things.
Beard disposed of; he stripped himself out of the loathed grey prison jumpsuit, took his shower and washed the years' worth of grime from his torso and hair. It wasn't that Azkaban didn't give showers but that the showers were timed and scarce, not to mention unpleasantly icy cold. He dried himself off with a nice fuzzy thick towel – good quality – Sirius noted with appreciation. He picked out a maroon shirt; it was as close to Gryffindor-red that was offered and quickly got dressed. It was nice to wear colour again and the shade gave him some connection to the distant past. The clothes hung on his malnourished frame. The water from his wet hair dripped onto his shirt and he sighed.
He wanted his wand back.
When he was done, he walked out of the bathroom. The man was sitting at the overturned cardboard box with a plateful of sandwiches, two glassfuls of milk and some of those delicious-looking chocolate cupcakes that they had just bought. He watched the man scrutinize him curiously. He had just realized that the man had rather intense green eyes, which his dog-vision had perceived as grey. Those eyes seemed to reveal more than the man's face, but Sirius could sense the careful set of barriers that occluded the mind. Remus had been an expert and that git of a man, Snivellus, had been too.
The raven-haired man summoned his wand with a flick of his wrist and offered it to him. With some clumsiness, he took the offered piece of wood. He dried his hair and resized his clothes after taking a few minutes to recall what the correct incantations and wand movements were. It took some effort to coax the magic from the wand, as the wand seemed to recognize him as a stranger.
Sirius smiled slightly at the man, rather happy that the man had trusted a stranger with his wand. He then quickly went back to the washroom to give his old prison-wear the good old Incendio. He vanished the ashes that remained.
"We will get you a proper wand." The man said, when Sirius returned his wand with mumbled thanks, "One without a trace. Eat, I know you are hungry."
Sirius sat down across the man, and helped himself to a sandwich – a combination of ham, cheese, tomato, and a dash of mayonnaise. Simple fare, but it was good enough for a man who had lived off prison grub. As he ate, he took closer stock of his surroundings. There were a set of painted wooden building blocks scattered on the wooden floor of the flat and another scattering of Lego over another box surface. He remembered the man saying that he had a son.
There were boxes labelled Forest – clothes, Hadrian – clothes, kitchen supplies, notebooks, gel electrophoresis equipment – whatever the hell that meant – Potions apparatus, games and more. Some of the boxes had been opened. Two lives defined by the contents of boxes, Sirius mused. He then sighed sadly; he didn't even have any possessions as of this moment. There were other strange objects scattered around that Sirius didn't recognize, but he knew that he could discern their uses later.
The man in front of him was alternating his attention between a sandwich and a stapled booklet of Muggle printed paper. The front page was visible, albeit upside down from where Sirius was sitting and the title of the paper was way beyond him, but it was the authors listed underneath that intrigued him.
The man would occasionally frown, pause to pick up a red pen with his left hand, and scribble something on the paper.
Sirius then let out an audible gasp as he put two and two together, forcing the man to look at him.
"You – you are a Malfoy!" Sirius looked absolutely stunned.
The man looked extremely amused as he put the paper back down on the floor, "I was going to tell you, Lord Black, but you beat me to it."
Sirius shook his head frantically and with great horror, "Don't call me that – that's what they used to call my dear old father. The name is Sirius."
"Forest – it's nice to meet you in person. Your dog-form is rather charming." The man named Forest grinned.
Sirius couldn't help exclaiming, "But you don't behave like a Malfoy... no pompous air, no disdain of Muggles – you-you rescued a bloody Gryffindor for Merlin's sake!" Old prejudices were hard to let die, even if one had spent the past years staring at a grey wall.
Forest erupted into fits of laughter. It took a lot of effort for Sirius to make out Forest's next sentences, "I was Abraxas' bastard, you see. I went to school in America, since I looked too much like my father, to prevent any big scandal. He visited whenever he could and let me keep the family name. Being the bastard, I was free to pursue any interests that I may have, with none of the burdens that his legitimate son had." Forest suddenly got up from his cross-legged position on the floor and looked towards a clock on the wall. "I've got to go get my son. Be back soon." He grabbed his cupcake and strode out.
Sirius looked dazedly around the room as his brain tried to uptake Forest's words; he felt like he had just stumbled into a wall – did he just have dinner with a Malfoy over a cardboard box for a table?
He shrugged, before picking up the empty plate and glasses, and brought them to the nearby sink for washing. He might as well do something for the man who helped him out of that hellhole. Doing the dishes would be a step in the right direction.
Oh, how Prongs would tease him, if he knew that old Padfoot was doing the dishes voluntarily. He blinked rapidly, partially cursing the wave of nostalgia that his brain was inflicting upon him, but he was glad that Forest was out of the flat to see him in such a state.
Azkaban wasn't exactly the kind of environment where one could properly grieve for one's best friends.
/Hannah\
"We will go flying tomorrow, Hannah," Her father promised her, after picking her up and swinging her around, "I don't pick my workdays, and I really do wish your mom and I spent more time with you."
She smiled sadly when her dad put her back down. She hated being alone at home. It had been a novelty that wore off quickly. She looked up at her father who was tall, had hawkish facial features and short brown hair that stuck out at strategic angles, giving him a rakish look. He had always claimed that behind every good hairstyle, there was a comfortable pillow. He knew a lot about everything and spent what little time he had with her teaching her everything from mounting a broomstick properly to recognizing constellations in the night sky. He had told her that flying was in her blood. She knew that he worked as a physicist, working on future broom models for Nimbus but she really wished that he didn't have to work at all.
"I have to go now. Be good." He kissed her on the cheek and was gone in a blink of an eye. She knew that her father had disapparated. That was how adult wizards and witches got from place to place; he had told her when she had been younger.
'Dr. Richard Abbott', Hannah mused over her father's name. Doctor, because he had a PhD in some sort of physics from some fancy muggle university not in England. She had forgotten what kind physics, and which university her dad had gone to. Maybe somewhere in Germany, she thought. And that he loved to fly – be it brooms or airplanes. She knew that he was a wizard and he had told her that he would teach her how to use a wand someday. You could do anything with magic. He had said, and that the phrase the sky is the limit was really nonsense. There is no limit. You can go beyond the expanding confines of space, if you so damned pleased!
Her mother had never been a big fan of her father's swearing, but her father had just chuckled and said that it was better relieving emotion through a nice morpheme or two, instead of pulling out a wand, or even a gun. Her father always used such difficult vocabulary and as a result Hannah knew way more words than someone of the same age. It was a blessing and a curse, but she had learned early on in school to keep her knowledge to herself and her test papers, and to try to stick to using simple words with her peers. She knew she wasn't brilliant like her father, but she had worked hard for what she knew.
Hannah still remembered days when she held an ordinary stick of wood, and ran around her old house, yelling things like Stupefy, Incendio and Avada Kedavra directed at imaginary Dark Lords and fantastical creatures, with the appropriate wand movements too, except for the latter. Her father had seen her that day, and had given her a stern talking to for the pretend usage of Avada Kedavra. That, love, is not something that I want to hear cross your lips ever. This curse is not evil because it kills, no – there are numerous spells I can list to you that can do it just as effectively but it's the price you ultimately pay. The expression on her father's face had been downright horrifying, and it looked as if he was another man altogether in that time.
He had gone on and explained something about souls in detail in a calmer manner, but Hannah had been too young to understand most of what he had said. She had never received such a stern talking to before, nor since. She also remembered asking him at the end, why then, did people use that unforgivable, and he had replied, I don't know dear, but the best answer is fear. She had felt a chill travel through her body and her father had hugged her closer to his chest.
A ring of the doorbell soon brought her out of reveries and eagerly she went to answer it. She smiled when she saw her neighbour, Harry, and she opened the door for him. They had conversed earlier this week, and Harry said that he could probably show up on Saturday.
"Hello, Harry, I am so glad you could come. Father just left..." She said, looking at her friend's too baggy clothes. She remembered seeing the nice new well-fitted clothes that Harry's cousin Dudley wore, and she felt a pang of sadness within. Sometimes, the world was so damned unfair.
"The Dursleys just left for the zoo." Harry said tonelessly, just as she shut the front door behind him, and relocked it.
She reacted, "And they didn't take you? That's so horribly unfair!" She then sighed, knowing that exclaiming such things was of no help. Words couldn't make things better. They certainly didn't. Her father saying that he wished he could spend more time with her certainly didn't help her at all.
"Trust me, Hannah, it's best if I didn't."
"Your relatives seem so horrid."
Harry shrugged, so Hannah decided to tactfully change the topic, seeing that it wasn't something that Harry wanted to discuss, "Let's go to my room then. I want to show you some drawings I did."
Her room was painted sky-blue and was inhabited by good solid furniture that her father had claimed was 'Hannah-proofed' for her apparently wilder toddler days. The covers of her bed, her curtains and other objects in her room followed the dark brown wood and blue theme. Her father's old battered Ravenclaw banner was strung across the wall with windows, overlooking Privet Drive; it was a memento that her father had kept from his old days and had given to her when she had expressed a liking for it. A simple collection of toys were kept in a plastic bucket in the corner of her room and a stuffed turtle, teddy bear and wolf guarded her sea-themed bed sheets and pillow.
She was currently into sketching creatures, both real and figments of the imagination. She had aimed for realism, and the best fruits of her labour were currently framed in wood that matched the rest of the furnishings. She showed Harry sketches of a sea turtle, a sleeping serpent dragon derived from Chinese myth, a lobster before her mother had cooked it for dinner amongst others. Harry looked over each work with meticulous care and silence; his solemn green eyes seemed to fixate on certain characteristics of her work for seemingly long periods of time.
"They look like they might just escape from the confines of the frames," Harry finally offered.
Hannah replied rather carelessly, "Sometimes, they are real."
"Are they?" Harry mused, his green eyes gleamed.
"Yeah, sometimes – if I think hard enough," Hannah said. She placed her finger on her pencil sketch of a sparrowhawk and swiped at its beak. There appeared to be a barely perceptible shimmer – a flicker of light – on the medium, and suddenly the small bird of prey leapt out of the page, wings outspread and flapping, still in its pencil colouration and followed her finger. She had done this before, while drawing, and hadn't thought of the significance of it, until now. It was normal play for her.
When she realized exactly what she was doing, she let the magic dissipate and she panicked. "Harry! Pretend you didn't see that! Bloody Merlin, my father –"
"My Aunt would call you a freak." Harry said dryly.
Hannah was startled out of her panic by Harry's words. They surprisingly hurt, but she rebounded. "But I am not a freak." She said defiantly, "Magic is real –"
"I know." Harry interrupted quietly, so quietly that Hannah almost missed it, "I didn't say you were. I can do it too."
"That was stupid." Hannah shook her head after a long minute of awkward silence. "Sometimes, I forget. My father told me not to show my magic to anyone..." And then a sudden flash of inspiration struck. Her father had explained to her that there were magical folk who hated muggles, so why couldn't the reverse be true? "Your relatives are horrid to you because you are one of us."
"One of us?" Harry looked somewhat perplexed.
"A wizard. I am a witch, of course." Hannah stated simply, "My father is one; my mom is a muggle."
"A what?"
"It's what wizards and witches call non-magical folk." Hannah explained, but Harry's attention seemed to be elsewhere, his eyes fixated on the sparrowhawk that she had made come alive with her juvenile display of magic.
"That's why your drawings are so real." He said, with the satisfaction of someone who had just solved a puzzle, "They are real."
"And that I had years of art lessons," Hannah added, "They don't teach you how to draw that way, unfortunately."
"Hm... I can't imagine why not..." Harry mused. "It would make art class in school so much more fun."
Hannah laughed.
/Sirius\
Several days later, Sirius found himself sitting on the hard wooden floor with the devil incarnate; the soul of the devil inhabited the body of a cute blond six year old, with Forest's green eyes. Between him and the boy sat a pile of plastic coloured sticks. He picked up a black plastic stick and carefully flicked a few off the pile, before 'accidentally' nudging several sticks by accident. The goal was to pick up as many sticks as possible with a stick without touching against other sticks during the process.
"Oh no, Uncle Darius, you touch the green-blue-yellow sticks!" The little boy exclaimed, "My turn, my turn!"
"I did?" Sirius looked at the sticks with feigned wide-eyed innocence. He sighed inwardly at his new moniker. Forest and him had decided that it was best that he picked out a new name and afterwards, Sirius had introduced himself to the boy as his long lost Uncle Darius. It had taken him over an hour to find a name that he didn't hate. He found it was amazing how quickly things changed, from sitting in a cell in Azkaban, to playing pick-up sticks with a mini-Malfoy."I don't think I did!"
"Uh huh – you did!" Hadrian insisted and immediately snatched the black stick from Sirius' loose grip with a deft move. The little boy shifted his attention to the haphazardly scattered plastic sticks, just as Sirius collected the bunch of sticks that he had gathered the previous round. With surprising dexterity for someone his age, Hadrian flicked sticks with ease, before brushing against a green stick, but he claimed the stick anyways.
"Somebody cheated, somebody cheated," Sirius began chanting in a sing-song manner.
Hadrian took one look at Sirius, fixing a puppy-dog look upon his newfound Uncle, but Sirius continued his chant. Sirius had been on the giving-end of that look in his youth, and he wasn't going to fall for it anytime soon. Seeing that his old shenanigans weren't going to cut it, the little boy turned his attention to the sticks and suddenly grabbed the entire pile. He ran off shouting and dropping sticks in his haste, "I won! I won!"
Sighing again, Sirius got up from his position on the ground, and went after the rambunctious Hadrian, who was deriving way too much fun out of this at his expense. He managed to corner the little boy who had ran into his room, which only comprised of a mattress and a hastily transfigured night stand to hold the clothes that Forest had given to him. "Ten thousand thundering typhoons!" He roared at the boy, who had started to giggle loudly – taking that phrase from a Tintin comic book that he and Hadrian had been looking through the previous day – "Do you know what I do with cheaters?"
"Do you – eat little boys – for dinner – Captain?" Hadrian stammered through his nervous laughter.
"No," Sirius let his expression turn grave, "I have a special punishment for cheaters – I tickle them." He started tickling the little monster, who flailed, squealed and pleaded for mercy simultaneously.
"Well, I see you two are enjoying yourselves."
Both Sirius and Hadrian turned around with the boy still in hysterics. Sirius looked at the rather stern-looking Forest who had his arms folded against his chest. He then allowed his gaze to drop, following the trail of colourful pick-up sticks that led beyond the doorway into the living room.
It was Hadrian who regained his powers of speech first, "He ticked me!"
"But he cheated." Sirius pointed accusingly as Hadrian glared at him.
Forest looked like he was beginning to have a migraine. He disengaged one arm to rub at his temple. "Hadrian, what did I tell you about cheating? And Sirius, go get dressed – we are going to go get your wand today."
In short order, he was walking on all fours again in the streets of Muggle London while keeping his tail away from the ever roaming hands of Hadrian, who took pleasure in jumping in every puddle regardless of size which resulted in the saturation of the lower half of his father's cloak before they had even reached the Leaky Cauldron. He also looked wearily at each passerby, as if expecting someone to recognize him, but no one did. This was the first time he had gone out since he had arrived at Forest's flat and he found it incredibly disorienting; he had forgotten how busy London could be on a nice sunny-cloudy Saturday.
They entered into the dim interior of the Leaky, which was packed for the usual lunch rush. Wizards and witches were dressed in a variety of styles, from the standard robes to horrible combinations of Muggle attire, sat chatting away about the latest gossip while sipping at their drinks. He heard his name mentioned no more than thrice, in hushed tones of awe and fear as people speculated on the method that he had used to escape from Azkaban. Were these the tones that people used to talk about Voldemort back in the day? He mused to himself. He didn't remember. It had been too long. He recognized Tom, who was hovering around the bar, who looked the same as ever. They exited at the back and Sirius watched Forest summon his wand from his left sleeve. Some sort of a holster. The man tapped out the familiar sequence of bricks, and the gateway to Magical London parted way to let them through.
He was surprised that Forest took the route to the more notorious Knockturn Alley, but the man soon stopped at a rather dismal looking store that gave every impression of not being open. Forest simply reached for the doorknob and opened the dusty door. The inside was much more pleasant than the exterior had been; the wooden maple floor gleamed, curios from all around the world sat on well-crafted shelves illuminated by ornate torches attached to the wall, rugs made of fur and oriental weave were strategically placed on the floor and paintings and even hand-woven tapestries adorned the stone walls. Sirius admired two large curved blades which crossed each other; they hung on an empty space of wall. They both had Russian names inscribed on their matte surfaces.
"You may transform back, Darius," Forest said, while keeping a firm grip on his son's hand. Hadrian was straining wildly to get at the knickknacks that were everywhere. "You are amongst friends."
"This isn't really a store." Sirius observed when he was human again.
Forest smiled, "Well, Ivan does sell wands, but that's the only official activity that goes on here. I am going to take Hadrian to get some ice cream from Fortescue's, since little kids have big ears and even bigger mouths. Go through the wall there," Forest pointed at the back, where a large tapestry depicting a battle between seafaring men hung, "And go up the stairs. I will be back when the meeting is over."
Nodding his thanks, Sirius made his way across the room, as Forest and his son headed back to the outside world. He still didn't know who Ivan was, but it looked like today was the day where that particular question would be answered. He walked through the wall, just as Forest had said, and found himself in another room, where wands sat in boxes lined with expensive looking fabrics on shelves, and a staircase lead up to the second floor.
He heard muffled voices, just as he mounted the stairs. When he reached the landing, he followed the sounds and finally knocked upon the door which concealed the origin of the voices. When the door opened, he was led inside by a brown haired man, whose hair stuck up as messily as Prongs' hair had.
"Welcome Lord Black, we've been expecting you."
Sirius found himself looking at an oriental looking man who had spoken with a strong Russian accent. His long hair was tied back with a red ribbon and strange looking black silk robes with red edging covered his torso. A quaint stone-looking teapot sat in front of him, adorned with a similar red ribbon and golden characters that Sirius could not recognize painted on the side. He took the seat facing away from the door he had entered, and his mysterious greeter pushed a saucer bearing a steaming teacup full of tea across the table which he accepted. He took a sip. It was strong, but filled his body with a warmth he hadn't felt since pre-Azkaban.
"Lord Black, it is a pleasure to see you again."
Sirius turned his head abruptly to the new speaker. He was astounded to see a goblin sitting beside him, dressed like a Muggle, with a crisp, well-pressed white shirt and a solid blue tie. His large pointed ears pointed through neat short blond hair. He was even more dumbfounded to realize that the goblin was the only one out of the three men sitting with him that he knew.
"Hurst..." He replied simply, and then curiously, "What brings the Head Goblin of Gringotts here, to a wand shop?"
Hurst laughed delightedly as if Sirius had made a funny joke, just as the oriental man spoke. "We are here for a very interesting and perhaps, rather vexing problem."
"Ivan means," The brown haired man interjected. So that's Ivan. Sirius mused. The man who cared to find the truth. "We are here to talk about –"
"Harry Potter – the boy-who-lived." Hurst finished, determined to have the finishing word.
"My godson..." Sirius hadn't been expecting this to be what the meeting was centered on. "Where and how has he been all these years?" He said rather wistfully. The few days that he had spent with Hadrian had made him realize how many moments, big and small, that he had missed in his own godson's growing up.
"Not well..." The brown haired man answered gravely. "Living with those miserable excuses of –"
Sirius felt the muscles in his dominant hand clench and unclench. His instincts were telling him that all was not well. No... Please tell me anywhere but them... not after all we've told Dumbledore...
"An aunt and uncle he had the misfortune to have. I've bought the house next door to the Dursleys..." The man stated, "Seem like rather ordinary muggles, until one peered deeper. Dumbledore hid Harry well... Very few magical folk are aware that the bright Lily Evans had a muggle sister. We only got on the right track two years ago. Rather irritating that he had been hidden right underneath our own noses."
Remus... you knew. Sirius found himself incredibly disappointed. But then you've always respected Albus' wishes, didn't you? Never questioned him – the greatest-wizard of all time. He shook his head.
"So Richard, what have you discovered since buying 2 Privet Drive?" Ivan asked.
Richard looked rather thoughtfully for a few seconds, before taking a sip of his own tea. "Very weak wards around the house – blood wards tied to Harry – usually a good source of protection, but only if both parties feel familial affection for each other. An interesting choice of protection, but I must say, an oversight. Apart from that, surprisingly, no other magical barriers I could detect – believe me, I've gotten into the house myself when the Dursleys were out. Considering how weak those flimsy things are, easy to remove."
"And how about Harry, himself?" Sirius found himself asking as calmly as he could, despite the fury that he felt building up.
"Very difficult to say, Lord Black," Richard looked gravely at Sirius. "Neglect and abuse are always hard cases. He has appeared to make friends with my daughter, which I am glad. And Sirius, I know your godson's situation angers you, but rest assured, we are doing all we can. It hasn't been easy, and we must make sure that everything we do is properly done, and behind the shadows."
Sirius sighed – feeling somewhat calmer after Richard's words, but he found himself wondering why his godson was the subject of such interest to these people. He had become a lot more cynical during his reflections in Azkaban. The system had screwed him. It wasn't like the Ministry could do worse to him – lock him back into Azkaban? He'd just escape again or drown trying. And the Dementor's kiss? Anything was better than rotting in Azkaban for a lifetime – the blasted dementors were already beginning to suck out his life while he sat caged in the grey damned cell. But now, he wanted to find his godson. And he seriously wished that everyone would stop calling him Lord Black. It was to put it mildly, irritating.
"You might not trust us, Lord Black," Ivan mused, looking at Sirius carefully with his obsidian eyes, "But I understand. You've been wronged. You are angry. And you wonder what our motives are. All perfectly rational. It's true, we are interested in the bigger picture; we'd be stupid not to –"
Sirius laughed suddenly, glad that Ivan did understand him somewhat. And then he said, "So which side are you on?"
It was Richard who answered, "We aren't on any particular political side. There's been some very strange activity and events that have occurred in Wizarding Europe as a whole, and we have people, goblins and our other friends looking into what is going on. We have questions that need to be answered... For instance, why did Dumbledore not look for the truth eight years ago? For a wizard of his position and calibre – it wasn't a difficult game, as Ivan would tell you."
Hurst looked pointedly at the clock, "We better cut the tangents, because I will be due at Gringotts within the next hour. So, I was looking through James' affairs rather recently, and I found this." The goblin retrieved a sealed envelope towards Sirius, who looked rather baffled. "Open it. It's the Potters' will. Dumbledore requested it not to be executed until Harry was of age but now since you are here and certain laws dictate –"
"I was a witness." Sirius said solemnly, vaguely remembering that grim day where his two best friends who had loved each other composed their will together. Lily had been crying, James had his arm around her shoulders and was doing his best to not cry himself while baby Harry had been sleeping peacefully upstairs, completely oblivious. That had been after the prophecy had been read, and they had gone into hiding. He ripped it open and fished out the almost decade-old parchment. He knew what it said without needing to read it. "They wished for Harry to go to me after their death. They left everything to Harry."
"And since Gringotts is completely divorced from the British Ministry," Hurst said, as he fished in his coat pocket for a silver knife. Sirius picked up the knife from the table, not really listening to Hurst since he knew the pertinent law. He knew that Gringotts Law and British Wizarding Law were two separate things, and that he knew that he had the legal right to execute the contents of the will, since James had named him as such. He flattened out the parchment that bore the words writ long ago, ink that had lasted beyond their writers, and with a single drop of his blood, they blazed white hot.
A little birdie told me that reviews led to greater output.