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In this chapter: Sirius brings the family together in ways nobody has anticipated, Walburga puts her foot in it, there's lots of structural engineering details to take into account, Bellatrix gets a job she won't manage to do, Sirius meets Sirius and Cygnus and Betelgeuse and a bunch of other interesting characters, and Orion is Dis… dis… displeased? Dis…assembled? Dismembered! That's the one.
This chapter is dedicated to MilyMB, thank you for your loathing! It helped loads, as you can see.
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Act Two: Sepultura Pt.I — Finding Orion
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"It's a risky proposition, Lord," Alfie says, when half an hour later, they're circling London once again. The carriage and flying horses look to anyone paying attention, like a fast-moving cloud or settling fog.
"Oh, stop it with the bloody Lord," Sirius mutters, but he's looking out the window with interest. There's a bunch of magical reporters on the street below, waiting for them to land. "Riskier still is not doing shite about it, and you know it. If I give them so much as a five-minute head-start, they'll out-think me, out-debate me and out-manoeuvre me before I can react."
That was exactly what his mother did this morning at Hogwarts. It was a bloody ambush; Sirius was shoved and frightened into the first ritual, and while he's aware that now it's either completing the Succession or copping it, he's not letting them call the shots again.
Of course, he's not entirely sure how he's going to do that, just yet— but the overwhelming shock and fear are a thing of the past, and he is amazingly… focused, sure of himself, even. The ring of the Blacks takes care of that. He's not entirely sure what else it does, but for now, he's incredibly comfortable with it.
"There's only a very slim margin this is going to work, you do realise that?" Alfie asks him nervously.
"If it doesn't, I'll not make it to next week anyway. You said yourself they must wait for me to bury Father before they bury me," Sirius answers, turning to look at him. "Which makes this a rather important week, don't you think?"
It is, Sirius has realised now his brain is actually no longer fogged by fear, his only chance to get as many hits in as possible. Come this evening, he'll be surrounded by them all day and all night; he needs to take advantage of this moment, the last bit of freedom he is allowed before he is stuck in the ultimate Snake Pit again.
Father ruled the Blacks and the Wizarding World with an iron fist, everyone is used to that — and Sirius resolved, at some point between shaking off that Imperius and leaving Mother's drawing room, that he'll give the Blacks exactly that.
They're expecting a child with a child's mind, and they're underestimating him; they won't anymore in a bit, and he has to make sure he stays a few steps ahead of them at all times. He can't waste a second; he's sure that at Blackmore End, the entire family is already plotting how to best get him out of the way and make themselves look good while at it.
No matter what they do, they'll ensure that it's not traced back to them, which, he's realised, limits what they can actually do. They can't poison him outright for fear of an enquiry, they can't just execute him. Maybe Father could, but not them. Not just yet, at any rate.
His only chance is to keep them focused on something that isn't him, and that's where he's hitting a snag. Getting that oath from Mother won't be enough, there's another hundred-odd witches and wizards who aren't bound by it, who aren't bound by anything except a flimsy line of magic until the Accession is complete and they can't go against him even if they try. Until then, though, he's fair game.
Sirius decides, if they want him dead so badly, he'll bloody make them work for it.
The Black ring helps. Where before he'd been too shocked and overwhelmed to properly think, it's not even lunchtime and he has already come to terms with the fact that, aside from advice from Alfie, he won't be able to rely on anyone's help but his own.
It also helps that he's grown up testing the limits of the myriad rules all the Blacks intuitively toe without question; he knows how far he can go without consequence, what will set them all off, how he can manipulate them to—
"They could act sooner," Alfie says, interrupting Sirius's plotting. "Make it look like an accident."
"Then we'll just have to keep our eyes open," Sirius replies matter-of-factly.
"Well, yes, but—"
"They won't be able to do anything if there's cameras all over the place," Sirius interrupts. "They're terrified of looking ridiculous in the news, of any kind of scandal. So, I'll keep them focused on a good chance for both, and work around them the rest of the time. I bet you anything you want," he adds cockily, "this will work."
"I've always liked wagers," Alfie answers, after some consideration. "Especially wagers I can easily win. What say you to one thousand Galleons?"
"You're on, old man. I do need a new broomstick."
"But what do I get if you lose?"
"The satisfaction of knowing you were right," Sirius replies flippantly, making his uncle laugh. "And my wand. But only after I'm dead, Alfie," he warns when he sees his eyes light up with undisguised greed. "Not before."
Slytherins, honestly.
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"Don't forget you're mourning your dear Papa," Alfie reminds him, as the horses canter to a halt in the packed street and Sirius is getting ready to step out of the Brougham. He looks questioningly at his uncle. "That means, you're sad he's gone."
"Right," Sirius answers, righting his robes and making sure his wand is in his pocket.
"Sad means, you don't smile like that." Alfie is clearly doubting his acting skills. "At least try to look unhappy."
"And you're mourning your beloved brother, so at least put on a poker face," Sirius retorts insolently after giving him a mischievous glance. "Thrasher, do get the bier ready, and look like you've been forced to console us all morning."
"Yes, Master!" the goblin looks almost too excited, in his perfect black-and-silver livery, as he gets everything ready.
"You still don't look sad," Alfie points out.
"I will in a second — hit me with a Conjunctivitus Curse, Alfie," Sirius instructs, and an instant later, he is wiping at his streaming eyes. Gods, this stings and itches. "Gah, could you be a bit less proficient? Alright. Let's get this show on the road."
"They want gossip, your opinions, statements. That will not change, Lord," Alfie reminds him, his hand on the handle. "It will only get worse as time wears on. So mind what you say to them, and how you say it, and for God's sake, boy. Do not throw dirt on the family."
Sirius finds this is solid gold, by way of advice.
"I'll do better than that, Alfie," he sniffles. Alfie gives him a hanky.
"I'll hold you to it, Lord."
"Oh, stop it with the lord," Sirius mutters, flashes his uncle a last grin— and steps out of the carriage to an explosion of camera flashes and confused yelling.
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It takes Sirius over twenty minutes to cross the street to the phone booth that will give him and his uncle access to the Ministry of Magic. He allows the cameras to get a good shot of his puffy-eyed face, focuses on a loss that actually makes him sad to make everything more realistic, and gives a host of statements for the jostling reporters— which, he surmises, are called "the press" because of the way they shove in on him and Alfie, who has all hands full trying to keep them both from getting squished.
For what seems like an age, camera flashes go off in his face, Recording Shells are thrust at him, and it's all, yes, he's devastated, Father's death came as a surprise, and, it's such a shock, the entire family is mourning, he can't wait to join them, and, no, he doesn't know what happened yet, but he'll tell everyone as soon as he finds out, and— oh, his favourite ice cream flavour is hot choco-nut sundae, but macadamia is a close second— and, according to the Blacks' ancient traditions, he's supposed to go identify his father's body now, and — why, he supports Puddlemere United. They've got the best Beaters, that's why, and, no, he isn't sure if the World Cup should be hosted outside of Britain this year just because there's a war on.
Then it's all, well, personally, he'd rather not have to leave the country to see England play, and wouldn't it be more motivating to hold at least the final here? And, he would love it if they all went to Blackmore End, he appreciates the support of the wider Wizarding Community at this time, and yes, Father was incredibly important to the Wizarding World and he agrees that people do have the right to know, he'll talk to their security Goblins to allow some reporters to cover the event and kindly speak to his personal assistant, Thrasher, if they're interested in being on the list.
"You absolute slithery, sneaky little Gryffindor," Alphard tells him appreciatively, once they're catching their breath in the lift. He pins the badge — "Sirius Black, Corpse Identification" — on Sirius's robes with something like admiration. "You'd have made a fair Slytherin." Which is about as much of a compliment as he could get from him.
"The Sorting Hat thought something like that too," Sirius comments, wiping at his tearing eyes. Alfie stares at him.
"It wanted to put you in Slytherin?" he asks, shocked. Sirius shakes his head.
"No, in all fairness it agreed with me that Slytherin would be just about the worst House for me. It did say it could stick me in there regardless, if I… you know, insisted hard enough, it said I could do well there."
"Then why did you pick Gryff—"
"I didn't pick Gryffindor, I wanted Ravenclaw," Sirius corrects, shrugging. "Thought it would be less of a slap in their faces."
"It would have made your life easier," Alfie agrees, mystified. "But then what—"
"The Hat said I'd do well in Ravenclaw, but it wanted me in Gryffindor. We argued back and forth for ages, until I gave in because I was about to piss myself."
"Your father thought you picked Gryffindor just to spite him. Why didn't you ever tell him?"
"I can't remember, but he probably didn't ask. Now undo that Conjunctivitus Curse, Alfie, I half can't see," Sirius answers. "Remind me what I'm doing next while you're at it."
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As Alfie predicted, the Ministry is packed. There's a lingering smell of burning flesh, and Sirius recognises it instantly— it's the smell that was all up his nostrils when he got the ring. The Dog in him thinks it smells heavenly, while the rest of him believes it's high time for brunch and regrets not having had breakfast.
"This way, Lord Black," a red-robed witch tells him, offers him a hanky that smells strongly of lavender. It's nauseating, and Sirius shakes his head, already walking to the Atrium, where he can see a crowd milling about.
"The WWN and Prophet are here already. Don't speak to them until you're done," Alfie suggests, nods at Thrasher and a couple of other Goblins to stand by.
The first thing Sirius is supposed to do is find his father, but on his way to the cordoned-off area, where a bunch of little flags have been set up around two bodies covered in sheets, he gets intercepted by Barty Crouch — arguably the one wizard in the world to hate Father as much as Sirius did — who demands he identify the body first.
On the way, Sirius asks for a full report on what happened. He wants to know what really happened, not what the Purebloods want people to think. And… he basically gets the same story Alfie gave him. Father tampered with one piece of evidence too many, sent the wrong Muggleborn to his death. This one had a Curse-Breaker son who was ready to give his life for him. Sirius finds himself wondering how that works.
Alfie's guess was more than educated— and Sirius would like to know how his uncle could get what's evidently inside information before anyone else.
"It's only conjecture at this point, Lord Black," Sam Proudfoot, a middle-aged Auror tells him fairly. "It could be politically motivated, an excuse to get your father out of the way for his ah, rather traditional blood purity views."
Traditional? Sirius is tempted to snort. Father was a bloody tyrant, and his blood-purity views were the sort of thing one goes to the lavatory for. He doesn't correct the Auror, however. Instead he tries to look crushed — a partial accomplishment at best — and nods as sadly as he can manage.
"Will you find out, though?" Sirius asks. "What really happened?"
"Of course."
"Will you identify the body now?" Crouch snaps impatiently. Sirius decides he might as well and follows to the cordoned-off area.
"Which one is it?" he asks, taking care not to step on any of the little flags — or the chunks of still smoking, sizzling flesh — on the floor. Crouch lifts a sheet… and Sirius decides to go down on his knees, so his expression doesn't end up on a photograph.
Father looks quite like a Sunday roast gone terribly wrong. He smells like a Sunday Roast gone incredibly right, though.
Sirius isn't as horrified by the sight as he thought he'd be, which is a little shocking in itself— It's a disgusting sight, certainly, especially because there's about half of him on one side and the other is kind of scattered about, but he's completely disfigured and it's hard to equate towering, imposing Orion Black with what's left of him.
When he remembers that Father was here to plan how to have him killed, though, it becomes quite a bit easier to give less of a care about it. Sirius's eyes rove over the smoking robes, the clawing hands, the familiar wand that rolled to the side, and he suddenly has no trouble confirming what he's seeing and smelling, picking apart the unmistakable whiff of Father that reaches his nostrils with everything else.
"Yes, it's Orion Black, there's no doubt about it," he says, tries to keep the sudden emotion in his voice to a minimum. It's not grief.
It is pure, undiluted relief.
Father is dead, there's no doubt about that.
This means, no more days in the Library. This means, no more rods or canes or straps, no more Father and his demands, insults, punishments. Sirius stares at the corpse on the marble floor, takes it all in. And he believes it at last:
He is gone.
And there's one person he has to thank for that, lying a few feet away under another sheet. Sirius lets the sheet drop on top of his father's remains, gets to his feet. If nothing else, he'll say thank you properly.
"I want to see the other one." It's surprisingly easy to just demand things and give orders, he notes absently, as he is led to where the other body is lying, lifts the sheet to peek underneath.
The sight here is a bit more shocking than he expected — not because it's gruesome at all — compared to Father, few things could be — but because he is instantly filled with a terrible sort of sadness when he sets eyes on the Muggleborn wizard who unwittingly saved his life.
The wizard is young, dressed in cheap-looking Muggle clothes, but it's his eyes Sirius focuses on. They are open wide, his face contorted in a grimace— not of fear, but of hatred. It's a look Sirius knows full well; he's seen it in the mirror often enough. Franklin can't be older than twenty-one, probably left Hogwarts months before Sirius himself first went to school. Sirius feels terribly sorry for the bloke, and very, very grateful.
He reaches out, closes the dead wizard's eyes, places a Galleon on each. They're the ones he brought for his father, but which, given the state of him, he found no use for. He's never been taught how to pray — Blacks are above such things as religion, if anything they're gods on earth themselves and people should pray to them — but he does mumble out his thanks, and hopes to the Up There that Ernest Franklin, Jr. will find peace now. He adds an apology for his father and the suffering he caused for good measure. It is the only apology he'll make for Orion, and it's soon over.
When he replaces the sheet and gets to his feet again, he notes that the people around have gone quiet and are staring at him in a way that makes him feel a bit self-conscious. The only thing to be heard is the WWN wizard's voice, but even that sounds hushed to his ears. Sirius dusts his robes off, aware that now he must go back to his duty—
But not before Leyland Burrows, one of the WWN reporters allowed here, asks him for an interview with a few unmistakable gestures. The reporters for the Daily Prophet, too, hurry to the edge of the cordoned-off area, while Sirius waves at the Goblins to bring in the bier where they'll take Father to get reassembled in Blackmore End.
"…And here we have Sirius Black, who is kind enough to share a few thoughts with us on his father's passing. The country mourns with you, Lord Black, and we all lament your father's untimely death."
"Thank you," Sirius answers, trying to keep his voice level, though the mere thought of anyone lamenting his father's passing is ridiculous. If anything, people ought to be celebrating the death of that tyrant. "It is a terrible tragedy," he lies through his teeth, "and it is certainly a blow to the House of Black. Father will be…" Gods, but does he have to say it? "…Missed."
"There has been talk that this was a political coup as well as a horrible crime, what are your thoughts on the matter?" The microphone is thrust under his nose, and Burrows gives him an expectant look.
"Father was a prominent member of this Ministry," Sirius answers, "and as such, he was fortunate in having made a wealth of allies, but some unfortunate…" or fortunate, for him, "enemies as well. From what I was told by the Aurors, it was a revenge killing. I do not see politics behind it, just…" Sirius pauses again, biting his tongue again before he blurts out a truth and carefully measuring his words. "Just terribly misplaced justice."
"Will you support stricter sanctions against Muggleborns in our society?" comes next. Sirius does a double take. What?
"No, what does that have to do with anything?" he asks. "It was a wizard who killed him, right? Wizarding Law ought to apply."
"Do you wish to avenge your father's death?" Gods, but this dude is really out for blood. Sirius looks up at him, a bit frustrated.
"You do realise his killer is dead, right?" he replies incredulously. "There's nothing anyone can do about it, is there? Except maybe an enquiry into what really happened," he adds, when an idea forms in his mind. "So we all get our facts straight, instead of making up coups and dragging the war into it. That's something I would actually like to see."
"Do you have a statement regarding the Franklin family?" the reporter presses on.
"I'm sorry for their loss," Sirius answers truthfully. "Now excuse me, I have to deal with mine." He turns away from the reporter, wondering how they could let such a wizard hold the ear of the country at all. He's as biased as his parents, and—
Gah, he thinks, I should have hand-picked reporters, too.
"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen," the reporter exclaims in the background. "The Black's first statement and his first official act. He is perhaps, the first Black heir to not outright demand the harshest of punishments to be bestowed upon Muggleborns and Half-bloods following this crime…"
Sirius tunes the wizard out, takes the sheet off his father's body and covers it with a large silken one that has the Black crest on top, levitates everything onto the bier.
Then he spends a few moments hunting down the rest of "dear Papa".
Of course, Father just has to make it difficult.
He just had to get himself blasted to bits, didn't he, and Sirius wonders if the stack of handkerchief-sized squares of silk they have on hand will be enough for the many pieces lying around.
What if he misses one, he wonders, will Father's ghost be missing bits and bobs too? Will he even notice if some of him ends up mopped up or in the rubbish bin? Sirius earnestly debates if he's willing to find out, as he's picking up his umpteenth bit of toe, or a kneecap, or spleen.
It takes the better part of an hour to find all of him— in the end Sirius breaks protocol and just summons all of the remaining bits of Father into a last silken bag. It wouldn't be fair to give the Bastard an excuse to haunt this place, if he does end up as a ghost. Blackmore End and the attic in Grimmauld Place, those will be his options if he hasn't moved on, and Sirius decides he's alright with it, as he directs the goblins to take everything to the carriage and wipes his hands on a wet towel before giving the Prophet an interview.
It's well into the afternoon when Sirius climbs into the carriage, where Tilly the Elf gives him a quick scouring to get rid of the stink on him. Inside, Thrasher and Alfie are poring over a basin with Distance-Seeing enchantments and spying on the reporters who are still outside the carriage, hoping to get an idea of what they'll write about, but the reporters are just hoping for another statement — anything from his opinion on Celestina Warbeck's latest album, or whether he prefers blondes or brunettes, at this point— and there's a wireless blaring the saddest music ever in the corner.
Sirius rolls up his sleeves, loosens his tie, and tells Tilly to serve a late lunch. He's starving and parched and rather ready for a long soak in his bathtub at Hogwarts. Only, Merlin only knows if he'll get to have that again. Best not think about that.
"How did we do?" he asks Alfie, leaning over to read the stuff on their parchments.
"You're on every single front page today and tomorrow, the press loves you," Alfie replies, impressed. "Everyone is looking at you now, lord. The WWN's ratings look pretty good too. Audience tripled right after you prayed for the dead kid— That was a risky touch, Lord, but clever."
"I meant it. It wasn't for show."
"Then you are a better wizard than I."
"I have a lot to be grateful to him for," Sirius answers. "I want you to assign the family a stipend of a thousand Galleons every month, got it? Word it as an apology, but put it down as part of the life debt I owe the Franklins. Have one of Father's elves look after them as well. You said there's a mother and a sister?"
"Yes, Lord."
"Stop it with the lord. Make arrangements so they won't want for anything, and make sure they're left alone. It's the least I can do."
"I'll arrange it, Lor— Sirius," Alfie corrects with something like satisfaction.
"Good. Leave that then, and let's eat something. You can tell me what's next on the way."
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The next bit, apparently, involves assembling a 3-D Orion puzzle in Blackmore End, as Alfie informs him a moment later. Until the Accession, he is supposed to stay in the old palace, which Sirius isn't too stoked about; Grimmauld Place he's mapped out and explored to exhaustion, but Blackmore End is half a mystery still, as it's only ever used for funerals and deaths and such… and the Blacks don't die half as fast as Sirius would like. If they did, instead of stubbornly clinging to life like old Elladora, Sirius would know the secret passages of the place loads better.
Blackmore Hill is even worse. He has been there only twice, and even Alfie is little help in that regard.
He busies himself with the body upon arrival, while Alfie goes to announce their return — he spots the younger Blacks outside, engaged in a flying competition of some sort, which Regulus looks to be winning — and bites his lip. Not because he would like to join them, but because he's worried about Reg's future.
" Can't I leave Reg in my place?" He'd asked the instant they had taken to the air.
Alfie shook his head.
" He ticks all their boxes," Sirius pressed on. "Not to mention, he's better at Blacking than I ever will be. It's him they want, not me, you said that already."
" Believe me, they would love it. But our rules are nothing if not clear. The succession can only occur if you…"
" Croak it," Sirius finished for him. "Shit."
Sadly, he hasn't managed to figure anything out beyond, well, dying, to get out of this fix. Rituals and age-old magical bonds aside, the whole situation seems pretty final.
"Lord," Alphard yanks him from his musings. "They're ready for you."
Am I ready for them, though? Sirius wonders, plunging his hand into his pocket out of instinct to make sure his wand is still there.
"Come here," Alfie says after regarding him for a moment. "Don't tell anyone where you got these from," he adds, making a show of adjusting his robes just right. Two small spheres, no larger than marbles, are pressed into his hand.
"Um. What are they?" Sirius asks, surprised. He hadn't expected Alfie would help him beyond what they'd talked about all day.
"Dispersal Orbs. They'll take care of most harmful magic for you. Short of Unforgivable Curses, they will turn anything that touches you into something benign, as long as you have them on your person. Don't let her find them," is the answer.
"What do they d— Oh." At once, Sirius feels stronger, tingling with magic.
"Exactly." Alfie smiles at him, then reaches for Sirius's wand. "And you don't ever keep your wand in your pocket unless you want them to take it real quick. Put it in here."
There's a hidden pocket in his sleeve, who knew? Sirius nods, but suddenly his heart is going a hundred miles an hour. He is dreading this.
"Occlumency in place?"
"Yeah." Sirius can't manage more than a whisper, though.
"Feed the ring. It only takes what you give it, when you give it, Lord."
"Oh. Right." He focuses, and there it is again, that sensation, like he can take them all on single-handed. Sirius lets out a surprised little laugh, and Alfie places a hand on his shoulder.
"Once more unto the breach, my friend, once more."
"Or close the wall up with our English dead," Sirius replies, and they both chuckle as they step through the tall double doors of the Blacks' House of Death.
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It's not as bad as all that, Sirius muses an hour later, when he is directing a bunch of elves to levitate Father's bier down to the largest dungeon, where he's supposed to prepare the body for his state funeral.
Behind him, Alfie and Thrasher lead a handful of Blacks and half-Blacks to follow. Sirius told them all over a very tense High Tea — the first official meeting of the House — that it would be impossible to do it on his own, as the reassembly has to be done without magic and Orion is about three times his size. So, he'd taken advantage of an obscure rule that allowed him to recruit help and picked the queasiest, most whiny family members he could find for the task.
For starters, Sirius chose Narcissa, those little snots Vega and Phineas Pilliwickle who keep picking on Reg, Ophelia Burke, Felix Moon, and just to keep things lively, Tristram Borgin the younger, whom Sirius is still itching to get payback from, for being such a twat during his werewolf test.
"Oh, God— the smell," Borgin mutters, as they all press scent-infused hankies to their noses and mouths.
"Yeah," Sirius agrees. "Vomiting on the body is strictly forbidden, because it's a form of treason," he reminds them, trying his damnedest not to laugh. "If you feel queasy and like you'll chuck your guts up, don't hesitate to ask Slinker and Stinker here," he gestures at two rather unhappy-looking elves, "and they'll bring you a puke bucket."
He directs them to start separating innards from outards, while Thrasher sets up the magical gramophone Sirius commandeered from one of the sitting rooms, and Sirius hides his Muggle wireless underneath. A few clever Charms later — a rerun of one of last year's pranks — have them listening to Toccata and Fugue in an endlessly repeating loop, while Sirius's ears are filled with his favourite Muggle rock music.
"All right, everyone, what do you suggest?" he asks cheerfully, while Led Zeppelin blares in the background. "Should we kind of sew the bigger bits together first and then see where the smaller bits should go, or should we go by body parts and then put them all together?"
They all stare at him like he's lost his head. Inwardly, he's cackling.
"No?" he prompts again. "Well, in that case, Cissy, Vega and Ophelia can continue sorting what will go inside his abdominal cavity while Felix and you, Tristram, sort of hold his left and right halves together. I'll sew," he adds cheerfully, getting a large needle and some multicoloured string. "Just remember, don't use magic, or we'll have to start over. I'm sure if everyone gives it their best, we'll have him put together in a blinking."
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Guess what? Sirius asks James hours later, watching his kith and kin bend over a bunch of never-filling buckets.
Sirius! Where the hell have you been all day?
I've been… a bit busy.
Are you alright?
Pretty much. They aren't, though. Sirius allows James to have a look at the scene, where Tamara Wilkes, Brendon Rosier and his little brother Rob, Bellatrix and Rodolphus are trying valiantly to follow instructions without throwing up.
"No, no, that's a toe—" Sirius tells Rodolphus, who is holding a charred bit and about to try and put it inside Father's ribcage. "Toes don't typically go in the chest."
What the hell did you do? James asks, amazed.
I merely provided the evening's entertainment. Father got himself blasted to bits, and I can't possibly reassemble him on my own, so… I recruited. I've made four of them sick already.
You're playing them Muggle music too?
I'm not that suicidal, Sirius replies, waving a very green Bellatrix to return to her work and nibbling on a sandwich in a way that makes her look even more sickened. I'm playing Toccata and Fugue in an endless loop for them, he informs.
James's laughter resounding in his head makes him feel loads better. He hasn't been away from Hogwarts for twenty-four hours, and already he's pining for his friend. Mind you, it would be oodles more fun if James were here, by his side. Alone, there's only so much he can do. Oh well, at least he gets to take it out on Bellatrix.
"Make sure you put his arm where it belongs, Trixie Pixie. Don't do the same Rod did and put the right arm where the left one goes, or we'll have to cut it off again and start over."
"Shut up, you," Bellatrix snaps, and Sirius smirks at her.
"I'm just saying," he responds dryly. "You're the one who's going to marry that," he points at Rod, who is now trying to attach the toe to Orion's leg. "We both know who'll be the brains of the operation."
Yeah, James chortles. It's going to be Rod. Sirius can't bite back a snicker, when Bellatrix looks a little mollified. Dude, I thought something had happened.
Something did, Sirius retorts. Father got himself blasted to bits. All the king's horses and all the king's men, you know.
I haven't been able to reach you for ages and ages.
Must be something in the house. By now, the lie rolls off automatically, even smoothly. In truth, he's been blocking James off all day. It's for the best, he's told himself that for years. James doesn't need to know the details of his family life, nobody does. If he could, Sirius wouldn't want to know any of those details, either.
You sure you're alright? That doesn't mean James doesn't pick up on stuff.
Yeah, for now. I'm aiming towards getting everyone to help, Sirius tells him. If they want that bastard buried, they'll have to get him ready for it. Aloud he adds, "Don't be so whingy, Tamara! It's just a bit of blood— you're Blacks, you're supposed to revel in this kind of stuff. So, stop your noise and get to it."
Amazingly, they obey.
It goes on all night. Sirius's initial enthusiasm dies down after three in the morning, gradually replaced by a sleepy sort of drowsiness.
By the time the only one that's left to help is Reg, Father has been semi-successfully stuffed into the opera robes Sirius saw him in last, and has been washed and assembled as best as possible. Sirius lets a very sleepy Regulus— nobody has been allowed to retire until this is done — cover Father with a shroud and shut the lid of the coffin, ready for next morning's viewings.
"He looks horrible," Reg comments, biting his lip. Sirius gives him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
"He looked worse, little brother."
"Did that horrible Mudblood really do all those things?" comes next. Sirius shrugs, ignoring the use of the term. He hadn't known they were called Muggleborns before James pointed it out, either.
"I think so, but Father did some terrible things to him too. Just remember, don't call them Mudbloods in public."
"Why?"
"It's rude."
"Mother says we should kill them all."
"Mother says a lot of things, don't take her every word to heart. She's just mad."
"Will the Mudbloods kill all of us?" Regulus asks, once more voicing something that is most likely on everyone's lips. "Uncle Cygnus said we have to be careful because they will."
"I don't think they will," Sirius answers confidently. "And if they do, I'll make sure they don't get you."
Which seems to be enough for Regulus…
"I miss Father."
… but then, Regulus has always been odd.
"You'll get over it."
Sirius drops Regulus off in his room and then goes to take a bath, and he is pleased to note that there is hardly a room he passes where there isn't sobbing, continued retching, or sleep-deprived family members trying to shake off the horrible night that was made of it.
He snickers; he hadn't ever thought he'd get one up on the entire clan in one fell swoop. Even Mother had ended up adding to the puke bucket. She was easily the most dramatic of the lot, and never mind what they say about eternal love- she hadn't managed to so much as attach his teeth where they were supposed to go.
It's been exhausting, yes, but nothing short of liberating. Whatever the retaliation for this is, Sirius believes that, at least, it was entirely worth it.
.
.
"His death only bought you time. Now it's up to you to buy yourself time, my lord. You've got a bull's eye on your head, an heir they like better ready and primed to take your place. Tread carefully." Alfie's words of advice ring in his mind as he leaves the bath a little later, but right now, it seems so difficult to achieve. He hasn't had any sleep, and it doesn't look like he'll manage to bat an eye before tonight.
Sirius is aware that the only way he can hope to get his family to lay off him is, if they are more exhausted than him. However, they get to rest today, and he needs to figure out a way to keep them too busy, too much on edge to react.
Breakfast comes in the form of a cocktail of potions, courtesy of Alfie: Alertness Ale, Energy Elixir, Wakefulness Tonic, Clarity Concoction, and Merlin knows what all else. Not having batted a lid since Sunday before the Moon, Sirius doesn't even question it and downs the stuff in a few long gulps; the mixture makes him feel like running laps around the grounds, but takes away all his appetite, which is a pity.
Sirius practises Occlumency with his uncle while going over the day's schedule, which is full of high-ranking visitors, and Sirius and Alphard sign off on the reporters who will be staying until the Successio Ritual.
Which is when another, painfully simple idea takes shape in Sirius's mind.
"Give those here," he demands, snatches the lists they have been poring over from his uncle's hands.
"Aren't there too many, Lord?" Alfie asks, when Sirius just ticks off every single reporter, photographer, and wireless journalist on the sheafs of parchment. "You are just allowing everyone who asked to come over and stay."
"Press are like diamonds," Sirius counters, stretching with satisfaction. "You can never have too many."
"But it's overkill," Alfie argues. "We agreed to allow one or two—"
"No, it's not," says Sirius obnoxiously. "It's barely enough. Let them interview whoever they wish, and give them free rein of the place."
"But Lord—"
"Stop it with the lord."
"Apologies. The Dark Artifacts in this house alone—"
Sirius grins.
"I'm absolutely certain that my hundred-odd relations will be perfectly capable of keeping the press from wandering too deep into the darker areas of the palace," he says confidently, and Alfie lets out a startled laugh; he is nothing but quick in the uptake. "That way they'll keep each other busy, and the world can see for itself the best and most glamorous side of the Ancient House of Black."
"And your dear relations won't have time to plot your demise if they're constantly being watched by the gossip squad," Alfie nods his understanding, and suddenly he's adding even more names to the list. "I think there's time to invite the knitting and cheese-charming reporters, and wasn't there this chap who does a column on winged horse racing..."
Not everyone takes the news with Alphard's good humour. When he reaches the breakfast room, Mother corners him at once. The night wasn't good on her; she is still in her bathrobe and slippers, her hair in curlers, but she still galumphs towards him with the grace of a steamroller on steroids.
"You foolish boy, what have you done?!" she snaps.
"Good morning to you too, Mother," Sirius replies nonchalantly.
"The press!" she hisses. "In our house!"
"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Mother," Sirius tells her innocently, sitting down to a hopefully not cursed meal amid the muttering and loathing stares of the Blacks around him. "This is the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, I'm sure there's nothing to be worried about. Just tell the photographers to get your best angle, every time," he advises the scandalised witches and wizards. Over at the end of the table, Ophelia Burke is already patting down her hair, as though that could erase her trollish features. "They're really good about it. And, of course, don't throw dirt on the family. Father was always reminding me about it."
The sour looks all around turn into scowls, which makes Sirius cackle. Inwardly, of course: Outwardly, he's giving them all his most innocently accomplished look ever.
"It's all for Father, isn't it," he adds, as if that should be enough for them to jump on the bandwagon. "I want to make sure he gets a proper sendoff. It should be a blast, shouldn't it, and if you look at it, it's also your chance to shine, representing the family in these dark times. The world will be watching, so make sure they see what you want it to see: the Wizarding World's Finest in their finest hour."
The murmurs that surround him become intrigued. Some of them, especially the older generation Blacks he doesn't usually spend any time around, begin to sound less furious and more confused. Others seem to think he honestly didn't mean anything by it, being the stupid little boy that he is, and a handful even appear to agree that Father's burial should be national news, and what better way to assert their collective status than this?
"Precisely, cousin Effie," Sirius agrees with a spindly witch in a flowery gown. "Asserting our status as a national treasure is important too, I didn't think you'd be against it— this is history in the making." Sirius gives them all his most guileless smile. It doesn't fool his mother, maybe, but even Regulus gives him a sleepy smile and a nod.
"I'll be off," he says a little later, wiping his mouth. "Lots to do. Remember, everyone, give the world your best," he adds to them all, gives them his most encouraging smile. "Inspire. Stir the commoners' imaginations. Be Blacks — shine like the stars you are."
That shuts everyone up, and Sirius has the hardest time not bursting out laughing, as he goes to fetch Father and get his vault ready.
.
.
The first day of viewings leaves much to be desired.
"There are dark days ahead." Alphard's stare is intense as he checks Sirius's robes over before he welcomes their most important visitors.
"Fitting, for the Blacks," Sirius quips, but Alfie isn't in the mood.
"This is no time for jokes, my Lord. Not with them, at any rate." Privately, Sirius thinks it's never time for jokes with that lot. He wishes he could change that.
Then again, Alfie has been in a rotten mood since he overheard Sirius's early morning statement to the press. He's still cross at him over it, but Sirius can't bring himself to care; he promised not to heap dirt on the family, but he never said anything about keeping them from heaping dirt on themselves, and Father quite literally dug himself a grave.
"Okay, fine," he says aloud. "I'll behave."
And, to his own surprise, he does. They all do, from the tiniest Burkes to Bellatrix and Narcissa and her cronies, everyone is the most picture-perfect, sad member of an elegantly mourning family. Witch Weekly, so he hears, is doing a special edition dedicated to the event that has everyone in a tiz.
There is plenty of stuff to put on the papers; the wide expanse of carefully-manicured lawn between the old palace and the mausoleum is full of pavilions with refreshments; an ongoing garden party for those who aren't in the mood of facing the gloomy atmosphere in Blackmore Hill, the mausoleum for the dead that houses every Black since the founding of the House.
The hill is as dark and daunting as Sirius remembers, with its narrow passages and vaulted ceilings; this hasn't changed in the two years since he was here last. The air is stale and cold and humid, and even the torches that flare up when he walks past fail to bring any real light into the place. It's any Dark Wizard's perfect resting place.
The Black Mausoleum isn't just bare corridors and stone doors, however; someone — Sirius can't imagine who, but he's sure it was a Slytherin — evidently thought this could be a brilliant reading nook, because the entire place is decorated in vintage Black Deco. The walls are lined with shelves and trunks and benches and parlours, even fireplaces that haven't been lit in a thousand years. Some of the shelves hold books — he glimpses A Guide to Controlling Demons, The Translation of the Voynich Manuscript— Annotated, by P.W.C. Black, Dark Forces and How to Make Them Work For You, and many other, disturbingly similar titles.
This, Sirius is aware, is where they keep the more dangerous stuff. Stuff even the likes of his parents don't want to risk keeping at home. Sirius hadn't seen most of the shelves or their contents before, and looking around, he notices the journalists, and even other Blacks, don't give the things a second glance. Maybe there's Befuddlement Charms in place, as well. He wouldn't put it past his loving family; the Blacks have turned wrapping riddles in mysteries into an art form.
The artwork catches his eye; there's cursed paintings here, depicting ancient rituals and sacrifices and equally nasty things— one even shows three kittens playing with a ball of string; another, shows a sunny Victorian seaside resort, with amazingly life-like people trying to get his attention from what looks like a veranda, shouting soundlessly and waving their striped umbrellas and straw hats at him. There are throttling statues, icons, bottles of potions that are covered in cobwebs and look hundreds of years old, even a creepy-looking doll whose button eyes follow him as he walks down the tunnel, all the way to the far end where a new vault has been hewn into the living rock.
Father's vault is completely bare when he first arrives, levitating the shining bier behind him. There is just a raised hewn stone coffin where the body will go, the vaulted ceiling, and some empty brackets for torches.
According to Alfie, he's supposed to decorate the place for the public viewing, and Sirius decides, since he's dead already, Father shouldn't mind it overmuch if he just doesn't add anything at all.
Sirius lights a handful of torches, directs some elves to arrange the flowers, and allows the press a glimpse before anyone else. He even thoughtfully provides them with buckets, because even if Betelgeuse tried to put some make-up on to make Father look a bit more human, now he looks like everyone's worst nightmare.
"Shouldn't this be closed casket?" asks Anthony Oglethorpe a couple of hours later, wiping his mouth with shaking hands after making liberal use of the bucket. Slinker takes the wet towel from him and tosses it in the basket behind him, which is already overflowing. The elves placed extraction charms and scent-masking spells which helps, but the sight of the corpse is enough to make anyone queasy.
"Sorry, no," Sirius shakes his head, grimacing. "There's an ancient rule that insists that everyone who comes here bear witness to the fact that The Black is, in fact, quite dead. Of course, we discourage the presence of small children," he adds thoughtfully. "I mean, we did our best, as a collective, to make him a bit easier on the eyes, mostly because so many people are here to see him and pay their respects."
And it seems like everyone wants to see him, as well. The morning brings in all sorts of personalities, mostly Ministry and Wizengamot, but there are also Quidditch players, socialites, aristocrats and magical artists. It's a never-ending line of people, and it would probably be more fun if Sirius were allowed to leave the stinking and cold vault.
He is supposed to personally greet every single witch or wizard coming to give him their condolences, and it's incredibly exhausting, dull work. Not to mention, it's downright depressing after a few hours — some of his relations spend a while down here, but they get to leave after a handful of minutes and he's supposed to stay all day. Sirius figures it's their revenge for making them help with the corpse, and though he hates every second of it, he sucks it up.
.
.
"The press loves you, despite your big mouth," Alfie tells Sirius, as he is leaving the bath yet again — he feels like he can't get the stench of carcass off him at all — and Sirius gives up on buttoning his shirt to peer over his uncle's shoulder.
They have commandeered a parlour adjacent to Sirius's bedroom and turned it into their version of a news room; various wireless stations are being monitored by a handful of elves, and Thrasher's job is to intercept every new piece of news before anyone else gets to see it.
"They're singing songs of praise for your position regarding Muggles and Muggleborns — I never thought I'd say it, but you just got the entire wizarding community wrapped around your little finger." Alfie shakes his head, half in disbelief. "It'll make it that much harder for your dear old Mum to do anything about it. I hope your plan provides for their retaliation."
"Er. Sure," Sirius answers, swallowing dryly. He hasn't been able to think of anything all morning, but he can't bring himself to admit it.
The really difficult bit is facing his family: The Blacks are grumpy and sleep-deprived when he joins them for lunch, and more than one bleary glare makes its way towards him— nobody says anything, though, and Sirius was right in thinking they'd all be too exhausted to do much if he made the press stick around, but he is also well aware he didn't make any friends today.
The only highlight to his day is James's voice erupting in his mind the instant he lets his block down.
They're calling you the most level-headed Black in creation, Sirius.
Proof they're clever and-
Proof they're blind as bats.
Keep that article, Sirius advises, snickering. I'll need it the next time someone calls me an idiot.
You are an idiot. James sounds uncharacteristically gentle. You are setting the MLE on your dead father, they already want to kill you and you keep needling them.
Who cares? He's dead. Besides, I have a plan.
Do you.
It's a plan so cunning, you could put a tail on it and call it a weasel.
Oh, man.
Ye of little faith, Sirius responds. I'll get this sorted, just you wait. That he only has a vague notion as to how he'll sort this out, Sirius doesn't say. So far, the oath he bullied from Mother is pretty much his only safeguard; he hopes the rest won't dare to do anything unless she tells them to, and now she can't.
.
.
Dinner comes with twelve courses and a side of revenge.
By now, Sirius is yearning for his bed and quite ready to bypass the meal altogether — but a new development shatters his plans for a restful night.
"We shall now select the Night Guard," Mother announces as they're all sitting down, and he should have spotted the evil glint in her eye sooner, but he missed it completely. "Tonight, our dear late Orion will be honoured by Bellatrix and Narcissa Black, Aquila Black, Ursus Bonham-Black, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, and, of course, my very own son, Sirius Black."
"What?" Sirius blurts out before he can help himself. "I already spent all day down there, why don't you pick someo—"
"Your dear late father would have wanted it this way," Mother interrupts him in her sweetest voice. "I'm sure you won't mind heading the Night Guard tonight. It's part of your obligations, after all, and you've done so well fulfilling them already. Orion would be ever so proud."
And isn't that the biggest lie that has been told all day. Sirius would know, he's spent over eighteen hours lying to people about how much he misses his dad.
A hundred faces stare at him, their expressions ranging from expectant to downright threatening. Sirius shrugs casually, but inwardly he is dreading having to spend the night surrounded by arguably the meanest of the lot.
Mother scored a point there, and when Sirius excuses himself from the table to go get ready, the dining room is buzzing with lively conversation; the Blacks are in a celebratory mood.
"You'll need this," Thrasher tells him when he gets to his room, undoing his black bowtie with a frustrated yank. "Master Alphard said to take it." Sirius stares at the wakefulness potions the goblin is pointing at and nods. Moments later, he is wearing another set of dark robes, Dispersal Orbs in his sleeve with his wand, and as wired as he felt in the morning.
A flash of dread grips him regardless, when he spots the witches and wizards whom he's supposed to spend the night with.
"Come on, little cousin," Bellatrix croons at him, "don't dawdle."
Dawdle? He's tempted to run away as fast as he can. Narcissa giggles next to her, and the way the rest join in makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention: Whatever they have planned, it's got nothing to do with guarding a rotting carcass all night.
They march him towards the ancient hill, looking more like an execution squad than anything, and Sirius dearly hopes the Dispersal Orbs work. He can't hope to do much against them when they're surrounding him like this, the air is already crackling with magic— even the Dog in him is ready to run.
Fair fights have never been their thing, what was he expecting?
" Remember to feed the ring. It only takes what you give it, when you give it."
It takes a moment's focus— but although his fear is suddenly gone, the sense of impending doom isn't. Sirius mentally runs through a list of spells he could use, tries to get his bearings as they are brought even closer together in the tunnels.
The first spell comes as they're crossing a reading parlour a little ways away from Father's vault. It flares up in tandem with the torches, and Sirius barely has time to dodge it; it rips a hole through his robes.
"Slashing Curse first thing, and you miss? At three feet?" He gives Aquila a mocking smirk. "You're getting better."
"You think you're so clever, aren't you? What with the press and your innocent little baby face," Bellatrix snaps back. Then she laughs. "Oh little cousin, you have heaps to learn about being a Black, and we are here to educate you."
"You couldn't educate a Flobberworm if you were teaching it to eat lettuce," Sirius mocks her in return, but that's where the banter ends: Spells start flying, and moments later Sirius finds out — the Dispersal Orbs do work. There's no way he can dodge everything, and while he does get sent flying a few times, the hexes and curses fail to have the intended effect.
"Mind the face," Narcissa reminds them, as someone— Rabastan, probably — decides to throw a settee at him. Sirius scrambles away from that, retaliates with three Stunners in quick succession, and Ursus goes down, face-first. "We're not supposed to leave any visible marks, you guys!"
"Tell him to stay still, then!" Rodolphus shouts, and Sirius laughs despite himself.
"Stay still yourself," he yells, already tearing off down a side tunnel. The torches light up everywhere he goes, and soon he can see them following him, Bellatrix's laughter echoing off the stone walls.
"There's nowhere for you to run, little cousin!" she cackles, and Sirius inwardly curses. She's right. It's not the first time they've ganged up on him, after all; he is nothing if not aware of what will follow.
That doesn't mean he'll take it lying down.
His Blasting Curse is deflected by a shield, but he follows up with a quick "Prosterno!", which is much more effective. The Slamming Hex hits its mark and throws Bellatrix against the rest. Just like ten-pin bowling.
"Get back here, you little shit!" Aquila shouts. He doesn't sound so cocky now.
"I think not," Sirius shouts back, but his brain can't come up with anything clever to add; he is too busy scrambling down the tunnels as fast as he can, takes a right turn into another parlour—
"Decerpo!" comes an instant before he's yanked backwards and slammed to the ground so hard, his wand flies out of his hand and out of sight.
Crap, he thinks, but there's no time to summon it back into his hand before, "CRUCIO!" reaches his ears. The next instant, his world is taken over by red-hot pain and he's done for.
"Not so mouthy anymore, are you, widdle Sirius?" Bellatrix's grin is wide and a bit crazed when she lifts the curse. Sirius is twitching, his teeth gritted so hard his jaw has locked. Then there are hands all over him, searching his pockets, but find nothing they could use at all. "And now you've even lost your wand. Tsk tsk, that was a silly move, baby cousin."
"What do we do with him now?" Ursus asks at a mutter.
"We take him where he's supposed to be," Narcissa says primly, examining his face and declaring herself satisfied with it. "He's got to guard uncle Orion, doesn't he? I'm not doing that, do you know how long it took me to get the stench out of my hair?"
"Well, let's get to it," Rodolphus prompts, holding his bleeding nose. "I don't want to stay down here any longer."
"Fine, fine, you all go back. We'll take him," Bellatrix mutters impatiently, and then someone grabs the back of his robes and starts dragging him along the stone floor.
"Ugh. By Morgana, it stinks," marks their arrival, and a moment later, the stench of death is all around them.
"Still smells better than you," Sirius slurs out, vaguely aware it's just him, Bellatrix and Rabastan now. Not that he could hope to do anything about it; he is still all jerking limbs, everything hurts, and his head is swimming.
Sirius is suddenly propelled into the vault, comes to a halt against the stone coffin in a heap. The torches he brought in this morning flare up, bathing everything in a dancing yellow light.
"Make sure nothing happens to dear uncle Orion," Rabastan adds gleefully, turning away.
"Yeah, yeah…" Sirius mutters, shaking his head to clear it. "You know, if you wanted me to watch him, you could've just asked."
"You're such a Gryffindor, little cousin," Bellatrix tells him, grinning. "Let's see if you feel the same way in the morning."
And then a heavy stone slab starts sliding across the entrance.
Sirius didn't expect this one, at all.
"What— hey! Stop!" He scrambles to his feet, but the stone door is sealed so completely, even Bellatrix's laugh is abruptly cut off. "Let me out!" Sirius shouts, now plunged in complete darkness. Banging on the slab is useless, but he does it anyway. "Let me out! Let me out!"
"Shut up, boy," says a harsh voice somewhere behind him. Sirius freezes, his yell sticks in his throat. That sounded just like—
He whips around, frantically trying to pierce the darkness, but there's nothing. Nothing but the overwhelming smell of death… and a faint bluish glow coming from the stone coffin.
"Father?" Sirius asks. It comes an octave higher than he'd have liked, but then, his head is still spinning and the rest of him is already beginning to seize up.
"Shut up, boy!" Yep. It's Father. Sirius wishes himself out of here rather desperately now.
"You shut up," says another voice. This one sounds younger and clearly comes from the far end of the vault, over to the left, where a silvery ghost lights up the darkness. "He's just scared."
Oy.
"I'm not scared— I'm just— just—"
"It's all right," the ghost says. "I had to do this too, when I was alive, and I was scared. Nothing wrong with that."
"That was like a million years ago," says a third voice. It sounds like a little girl. Sirius takes a steadying breath. It's just ghosts, and ghosts he doesn't mind much at all.
"Did your father stink to high heavens too?" he asks, leaning on the coffin for support.
"Shut up, boy." Sirius turns towards Father's voice, which is coming out of the stone coffin. He gasps. The corpse is glowing, shining, he looks like a translucent blue kaleidoscope.
"You're turning into a ghost?" Sirius asks, less scared and more curious now.
"Shut up, boy." When he speaks, the translucent outline moves, but it's all out of shape, like a sculpture made of ice cubes that's constantly falling apart.
"Is this normal?" Sirius asks nobody in particular. Suddenly, the darkness in the chamber is lit up by a handful of silvery ghosts floating in through the walls. There's one who looks a bit like the Bloody Baron, whose plumed hat grazes the ceiling as he floats forward to poke at Orion's silvery outline. A glowing bit of cheek falls off.
"Hacked to bits?" the ghost asks in a lofty drawl. Sirius recognises him from a painting.
"Hacked and blasted and burnt," Sirius informs, and the ghosts around him nod. "You're Cygnus III," he says.
"Yes, and you're Sirius II," is the response. "But you look… odd." Sirius gives a start as a see-through, icy cold hand goes through his chest.
"Well, I'm not dead," Sirius points out, and the ghosts go, "ooh."
"What are you doing all alone in a sealed vault then?" asks a witch in an elegant gown, peering down at him.
"My cousins tossed me in here," he confesses grudgingly. "They closed the vault."
"The disgrace," says another ghost, this one is fat and grubby. "Doing this to a child? How old are you? Eight? Seven?"
"I just turned fourteen," Sirius replies with a scowl. The little girl laughs somewhere nearby.
"You're rather small for fourteen, aren't you?" asks Cygnus III, peering down at him.
"I haven't had my growth spurt yet," Sirius shoots back defensively. Honestly, it's not as though it's his fault.
"Oh, leave him alone," the witch — Delphina IV, died in 1872 — tells them all sternly, then smiles at him in a way Sirius finds most unsettling. "You're no shorter than Arcturus was at your age, and he grew to six foot five," she tells him kindly. It's such an impossible notion, that Blacks can be kind, that Sirius has to do a double take. He can't help feeling a little mollified by her words, though.
"What was that racket all about, then?" Phineas Black — not the headmaster one, the other one — wants to know next.
"Just my cousins," Sirius mutters. "They wanted me to watch him on my own."
"I hope you didn't break anything," says Delphina. "I so like my paintings."
"And they better not have broken any of my potions," Cygnus grouses. "Barging in here like they own the place, wrecking everything. I am tempted to give them a talking-to."
"Talking-to? I'm tempted to go and yank them from their beds and toss them into the moat," Phineas corrects. "They smashed my favourite reading chair."
"I'd like to see that," Sirius comments, still amazed that they aren't yelling or scowling at him. "But I don't know if they broke anything else."
"Well, boy, go and check."
"The vault's sealed off." And is it him, or is the air getting rather thick? Can he even cast an extraction charm, or an air-freshening spell without his wand? He tries, but all he manages are some sparks from his fingers.
"Magic-resistant," the little girl's voice informs. It's the one ghost he's yet to see, and when he turns, he spots a very familiar-looking boy standing next to him. Sirius looks at his namesake, who fixes him with a bright smile. "So we don't get turned into Inferi or anything."
"Makes sense," Sirius comments, but he can't help feeling crestfallen. "They forgot to add in any vents, though."
"You can still get out," Cygnus III tells him haughtily. "I designed this place against accidentally trapping any of my descendants, after…" he nods his head towards yet another ghost, "my younger brother died in here while keeping vigil." Arcturus V scowls.
"I barely had time to try on the ring," he mutters, gives Sirius's right hand a longing look. "I would have made a great leader of the House. Instead, Phineas Nigellus got the job."
"Will you all shut up?" Orion's voice makes Sirius flinch involuntarily. He had forgotten all about Father, his present predicament, and the increasingly noticeable lack of air, but it all comes back to him now.
"You shut up, boy," Arcturus VII, Sirius's grandfather, snaps. "And leave him alone. He is but a child."
Oy!
"He's a disgrace," Father mutters, and now Sirius finds himself backing away, dreading the wrath of generations of Black ghosts. Suddenly he realises why they locked him up here. "He's nothing but a little Muggle-loving fool."
"He's no such thing!" Delphina snaps, and suddenly she's whacking into the stone coffin with a see-through umbrella. Translucent bits fly out of it, and Father's voice turns into a bit of a ghostly moan.
"Why, he is the spitting image of the Founder of our House," she adds huffily, now floating around Sirius and Sirius and giving them both a reassuring smile. "Orion was always a little obsessed," she tells Sirius. "He wanted everything just so, it had to be perfect — but sadly my great-grandson seems to have forgotten that all Blacks are born perfect, it's the parents' job to keep them that way."
"Besides, only a true disgrace gets himself killed like you did," Arcturus VII mutters, glaring at the contents of the coffin, but all the answer he gets is another moan. Sirius can't help but recognise the tone, the unforgiving stare and the threat in his grandfather's voice; they are the same that he's grown up hearing, and he suddenly wishes he could just leave this place. "We might enjoy the Dark Arts, but we never broke the laws just to get a petty point across. Not where anyone would notice, at any rate," he adds conspiratorially to Sirius, who gives him a wide-eyed stare. "This one is a fine lad, Orion— a genius, no less."
"Huuuuh?" moans Orion.
"Say what, now?" Sirius blurts out before he can help himself, but it goes ignored. Arcturus is on a bit of a diatribe.
"By bringing the press over, demanding an enquiry into your shady doings, he is saving the rest of the Blacks from scrutiny—"
"I am?" Sirius asks. He hadn't thought that far ahead. All he wanted was to keep everyone busy…
"Why, of course, little lord." Arcturus gives him a satisfied look. "You might have thought it was just yourself you were helping, but this branches out so well. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement will, of course, find the evidence your idiot father neglected to conceal. He left everything right in his office and it will be found, no matter what anyone does, there's no chance of destroying it on such short notice."
Father lets out a moan that sounds more like a string of curses than anything else. Arcturus gives the stone coffin a dirty look.
"Orion was so cocksure he didn't even bother to mask his doings, and more will come to light than just this mistrial. By keeping the Ministry focused on those enquiries, you have bought the rest of the family time to hide their own skeletons. By bringing the press, you are showing there's nothing to hide, here, where everything is hidden in plain sight. And I saw what those reporters said about you, they adore you. Genius, I tell you. The House should be thanking you, not trying to curse you."
"Of course," Sirius replies tonelessly, heart hammering. The air feels a bit like trying to breathe through soup.
"You see, Orion, your son can set this House to rights, he can steer it away from the path towards becoming just another drab and ordinary magical bloodline. Under your nearsighted leadership, it has come undone, become a nest of ignominy and filth, not the noble beacon of the Magical Arts we fostered and sought to uphold. We have been watching."
The sound coming from the coffin is an unmistakable squeak.
They have been watching? And how much have they seen? Sirius holds his breath. How much have they said? How much will they say?
Oh… Gods.
He's starting to think like a Slytherin.
Sirius suddenly needs to sit down; his legs feel like they're made of rubber, and he feels shivery and weak. He slides down the wall he'd backed up against, realises he's running out of air.
"Are you feeling okay?" asks Delphina, peering in on him. Sirius shakes his head dizzily.
"Can't… breathe," he mumbles.
"Oh, you poor dear," is the answer. Delphina cocks her head to the side, revealing a long gash on her throat. "Don't worry, it'll be over soon, and then you won't need to breathe anymore. You'll feel much better," she assures him encouragingly, then glides over to where Arcturus is still telling Father off.
"They're all a bit," Sirius I taps the side of his head, crouching next to him. "But they're mostly kind, and they like you, lord Black."
"How can you tell?" Sirius asks, trying not to gasp with every breath.
"They didn't strangle you with your own robes, did they? They did that to one of the Polluxes, but he was a bit iffy. Come, lord Black. I shall show you the opening."
Sirius dizzily follows his namesake to the left of the sealed slab — the ghost Sirius carelessly kicks the shimmering ghostly bits of his father out of the way as he goes— and wonders how it is that the dead are actually nicer than their living counterparts. All his life, he's been nothing but intimidated by his overbearing family, where kindness of any sort is frowned upon. How can they be nicer in death than in life?
Sirius the ghost shows Sirius how to pry out one of the stones to reveal a hidden lever deep in the wall, and it hisses open. Stale, cold, humid and delicious air rushes in, and instantly, he feels better.
Delphina gives him a bit of a disappointed look as the torches flicker to life.
"We'll try again later," she promises, gliding past him into the suddenly crowded corridor, and Sirius can see that this mausoleum of the dead has come alive; ghosts are everywhere, chatting amongst themselves, perusing the shelves, taking out the many artifacts and books, looking at the cursed paintings…
Whoa. is all that his brain provides for several long moments. He blames it on the lack of oxygen.
"Come, lord Black," says Sirius the ghost cheerfully, "I shall be your guide tonight."
"So you all… uh, you're not alive, but…" Gods, he's so confused.
"We dwell here whenever we feel like it, but we always come for a Succession," Sirius tells him, floating down a corridor that lights up as he walks along with him. "Most of us haunt different places, but we all like Blackmore End best. There's ever so much entertainment here."
And suddenly Sirius realises why all those things are stacked here. It's not just dangerous dark stuff that needs to be kept out of the way— it's for the dead to use and keep busy with.
"Don't you move on?" he asks, following the ghost Sirius down a tunnel that leads to a corridor.
"Some of us cannae, not while Blackmore Hill stands. Others come back only for the Succession, like your lord grandfather. He has moved on, but we are honour-bound to aid the heir to the House in any way we can. And a death, a birth, those always call us back."
"And you?"
"I come and go," is the blithe answer. "I do what I want, when I want, and no-one can stop me."
Sirius decides he likes Sirius.
The rest of the night doesn't maybe fly by, but it is definitely made more bearable by the company. The ghosts of his many ancestors are friendly and eager to share all sorts of stories; it helps him ignore the Cruciatus cramps and the bitter predawn cold, which turns the whole network of tunnels into a freezer and eats up his Heating Charms as though the place itself is starved for life.
Sirius the ghost gives him a tour of the tunnels and vaults in the mausoleum, all the way to the more ancient bits, which seem to be held up by sheer magic, and shows him some of the rarer magical items kept in the hill; he keeps Excalibur and Clarent in his toy box, and the legendary swords aren't even the wickedest things in here.
Delphina seems to have gotten over Sirius's decision to continue breathing for the time being and decides to tell him about her love for Black Dog Castle, her childhood home and favourite haunt, and grandfather Arcturus — who seems to have finished telling Father off — even advises him on how to get revenge on his "plotting, treasonous cousins".
"You are The Black now, lad," he tells him. "Show them they will not get away with this sort of behaviour. They must respect you or fear you. Preferably both, but if you have to pick, choose fear."
That sounds good in theory, but. Has he even seen the size of them?
"There's just too many of them, sir," Sirius replies, stifling a yawn as he lights a fireplace in the parlour he and his cousins trashed earlier. "I can't ever get a hit in if they're all together."
"Maybe it's better if you don't face all of them at once, then," says Arcturus. "You'd have to be a very good duellist to take them all on, and your clodpole of a father definitely neglected that part of your education. But you don't need to be a better duellist to get even," he adds conspiratorially, a mischievous glint in his silver eyes. "Just pick them off one by one," he says, as though it is obvious. "When they least expect it."
"I'll do that," Sirius promises, smiling a little. It's mind-blowing; these are the only decent Blacks he's met, and they are all dead.
The best bit, though, is the map.
As a reward for fixing his favourite reading chair, Phineas shows Sirius a magical map of Blackmore End, and instantly, he is in love. Whenever he squints at a section, it enlarges and shows him what's going on in there, as though he is standing there himself. It is a masterpiece.
"I built the palace around the ancient country house," Phineas explains proudly, while an awe-struck Sirius looks over the parchment, already searching for hidden passages, and Cygnus II, III and IV argue with Phineas whenever he gets something wrong— they expanded the palace themselves, and added a network of tunnels that, "lies forgotten, because there are so few Blacks interested in exploration. After one of them decided to keep them secret, the rest just forgot!"
"Preposterous!" Phineas agrees vehemently.
That exploring any Black house is often hazardous to the extreme, Sirius doesn't bother pointing out. Instead, his eyes fix on two very familiar figures walking down a corridor.
Bellatrix is, apparently, having a late-night snifter with Mother in the drawing room.
"Is there any way I can hear what they're saying?" he asks Phineas, who stops short mid-argument with Cygnus II ("I built a perfect master bathroom, and you just had to go and cover it with those ugly snake tiles"), and smiles widely at him.
"Why, yes, there is indeed!" he exclaims proudly. "Focus on the room, and think, "I want to be a fly on that wall". Then you'll hear everything they're saying."
Sirius does, and it's a very strange sensation — like plunging into icy jelly. Suddenly he's not a foot away from them.
"… a better way to get rid of him?" Bellatrix sounds pouty. "He broke Rodolphus's nose, stunned Ursus, and threw me against the others. I applaud the idea of keeping him from sleeping, but there must be a safer way to get it done. Narcissa doesn't want to help anymore, and Rodolphus is so angry," she complains.
Mother nods heavily at her, then shrugs her shoulders and draws her shawl tighter around herself.
"It was the only thing I could think of," she admits miserably.
"There are so many fun things we could do instead," Bellatrix suggests eagerly. "There is so much that can be done, oh Auntie, I am just bursting with ideas—"
"I cannot do anything, the little fool made me swear an oath," Mother sniffles.
"What kind of oath?"
"An Unbreakable Vow. Not to harm him or my darling Regulus, by hand, word, or wand. As if I ever would." Mother's expression is sour. "I cannot break it, for fear of tearing my soul apart, of losing my sanity." She makes even that sound overdramatic, but it still makes Sirius's blood run cold. "However, he is still too young to govern himself. He must be educated according to his station, disciplined, before he turns out worse than your Mudblood-loving sister."
Bellatrix is smirking.
"Well, I haven't sworn any oaths," she says petulantly, "and before the Accession, there is no risk in educating him a little further, is there? Dear Auntie, you won't have to do anything, anything at all," she declares grandiosely. "I swear, by my blood as Black, that I shall help you educate, discipline, or better yet, dispose of Sirius Black, the worthless heir."
"Could you do that?" Mother asks, with undisguised hope.
"Give me your hands, and I shall swear it, to you."
"Well, if it's an accident," Mother muses, "I wouldn't have anything to do with it."
"We both know how reckless he is, always in trouble, always trying daring stunts. Did I tell you? He jumps off the Astronomy tower every morning, at school. Nobody would be surprised if something went wrong."
"Give me your oath then, Bellatrix Black. And may Circe hold you to it."
Their hands suddenly lock, magic fills the air, creating a bond of chains around them both. Sirius watches, aghast, as Bellatrix promises to be Mother's hands and words and all sorts of things besides, and that she will kill him and make it look like an accident, something that won't possibly be traced back to the Blacks, much less to Mother…
The golden chains of magic begin to move faster, begin to glow—
And then Mother starts to scream.
Sirius drops the map with a gasp, stares at it in horror. Around him, the ghosts are watching, smirking at him.
"Well?" Arcturus prompts.
"They're going to kill me," Sirius replies blankly. "I thought I'd gone around that."
Raucous laughter meets his words.
"They'll always want to kill you, boy," Cygnus VI corrects, his head in his hands. "It's basically in the job description." Assenting mutters fill the room, and only now Sirius realises how many of them died violent deaths... at the hands of other Blacks.
"The real question is," Arcturus rumbles, "what will you do about it?"
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TBC, soon. In the meantime, remember to drop us a line or two and share your thoughts about this. Any feedback is very much appreciated, it really, really helps!
Up next: Lots going on: Sirius does stuff, Bellatrix does stuff, James does stuff, and it's all generally… stuffy. Until it gets impossibly worse. Regulus lands himself in trouble, nobody is getting much sleep if any, and Walburga's sweater begins to unravel like nobody's business. Also, Orion is finally buried, in a sense.