Chapter 21

The Role of the Hero

3:32PM – July 10th, 1994 – Novak Residence, Hogsmeade Village, Aberdeenshire

Knock, knock.

"Blimey, just a second!" a voice rang from inside the house, friendly and slightly flustered.

Larka waited faithfully at the door, holding a plate of dog-shaped biscuits, and looked down at Sirius the dog. Sirius woofed in what Larka assumed to be an encouraging manner.

"Hullo," the door opened to show a plump, matronly woman, wiping her hands on her apron but missing the small spot of flour on her left cheek. "Oh!" she was taken aback by the bearish dog besides Larka, unleashed and sniffing the air for biscuit batter.

"Hullo," Larka greeted in return, and tried her best to be disarming and charming, "Mrs. Novak? I'm Larka, Larka Roxburgh. I just rented the place next door, thought I'd introduce myself—and my dog—with some biscuits."

She had been doing this all afternoon; it was essential that every one of the residents in the small neighborhood bordering Hogsmeade got used to the sight of Sirius. His size and ominous color could be alarming for some, and she needed to make sure he could roam freely without anybody thinking twice about it. This particular house was the last one, to the left of their cottage, with a door that spelled out 'Novak' in bright, yellow letters.

"Oh, you took that lovely little cottage then! We had been wondering who snatched that up; it's been empty for so long! Do come in, dear, I've been baking 'em as well. Would you like to try an oatmeal one?" the woman let them in, quite hospitable despite still being ever so slightly skirmish about the large black dog.

"Yes, I'm starting teaching at Hogwarts come September, so I got myself a place here—it's really an adorable cottage, if a bit dusty; quite a steal too!"

"I'm sure you cleaned up the place spiffily! Lots of professors buy houses here, it's really very convenient."

The genial small talk went on. She was good at small talk, Larka thought proudly, absentmindedly running her fingers through the fur at the top of Sirius's head.

The last few months had been awkward, at best. Since she still taught at the University of Brighton, she couldn't very well just up and leave, so she had stayed in their—Castor's—house in Brighton. She slept in a separate bedroom, of course, and poor Sirius had to make do with the couch, but he barely complained. Or at least he complained less than Larka had expected him to.

The day they set out for Scotland had felt like liberation day. Larka was vaguely guilty about it, but Sirius the dog was sniffing every stray pebble and she was distracted by chasing after him and making sure he wasn't run over.

She liked this though, Larka thought as she smiled at Mrs. Novak, who was warmly pouring out another cup of tea and indicating for her to eat more biscuits. She missed the exact domesticity that had buried her marriage with Castor—but the domestic scene was not the same with Sirius, was it? No, with Sirius it was like shaping a jungle compared to mowing a front lawn with Castor. Every day was an ongoing battle in the war to have him be satisfied with the domestic and not saving the world or some silly, noble goal. She hadn't succeeded yet, but maybe one day she would.

September wasn't far now, and the future looked as bright as the smile that she gave Mrs. Novak.

-.-.-.-

9:40AM – August 21st, 1994 – Barcombe Road, Brighton, East Sussex

Mabel was in a romper that was two decades old in both fashion and fit. She was clearly dressed for physical labor, and had commanded her latest boyfriend (a Texas cowboy—Larka never understood Mabel's taste in men) to make sure her two kids didn't electrocute themselves*.

Larka made sure to pick a day when Castor would not be there.

The papers were left on the table in the living room, and Larka signed them hastily. It had been a quiet and easy affair, and they didn't need a lawyer because she left everything to Castor—the house, the car, the wedding china, and so on forth. They were neither practically useful to her (Sirius's vault was larger than her parents' house, and what need did she have of a car now that she could appear anywhere with a loud crack?), nor emotionally significant. In fact, this was her apology to Castor. She knew that it wasn't enough, and it wasn't even a real apology, but she also knew that Castor would appreciate it. That's how his mind worked—all numbers and tangible effects.

The telly was left on a chess program, and Larka didn't particularly fancy the thought of listening to the droning commentary of her past life, so she turned it off. Mabel made a noise of complaint out of habit, before realizing that nothing good was on Sunday morning and she was here to help Larka pack anyway.

Larka had a surprisingly small selection of personal effects for the number of years she lived in this house. It was mostly just her closet and a few sentimental decorations—although all the cookware and clockworks was Castor's now, legally.

Mabel, the good woman, turned her back when Larka sneaked in her favorite tea mug, dependably large and in an unusually saturated Persian blue glaze. In return for this favor, Larka did not tell Mabel that the white feathers she found (and had woven into a bracelet) were not the remains from a gift from Castor, but rather the natural shedding of a snowy owl that always found her way to Sirius.

When she said goodbye to Mabel and the house, she pleaded, "Keep in touch."

She would this time, really, not like with Novia and Kelso. There were some things that seemed to require far too much effort in younger days; but she now knew better.

Perhaps she would even write a letter and tenderly invite them—invite Novia to tea. It felt like she owed that much, if not to Novia then herself. (And maybe Kelso.)

-.-.-.-

0:37AM – November 23rd, 1994 – Astronomy Staff Residence, Hogwarts Castle, Aberdeenshire

The kettle whistled and Sirius stuck his head halfway into the fire.

Larka poured boiling water into the ready teacup—some things were better done without magic, and she felt that steeping tea was one of those things. As she swirled the loose leaves around with a miniature spoon, she thought on how nice it was to be able to drink tea in a warm room, with the love of her life giving probably illegal and definitely dangerous advice to his godson.

She followed the Tournament, of course—if only so that she would be able to understand Sirius's mad babbling as he paced on the wool carpet, dyed her favorite blue—but she didn't pretend to understand the necessity for such competition and drama. She supposed that unnecessary sports were a part of every civilization though, and forgave the wizardkind for their folly.

Sirius's hands were gesturing wildly as he was used to doing when he was telling a tall tale, or explaining some scheme. Larka sipped her Spring Snail tea—it had such a funny name, but it was a deep, aromatic green tea that she enjoyed, and she didn't enjoy many greens, so she bore Sirius's barking laughs when she brought back these tins with a tolerant grace that she learnt over her years. She wanted to tell Sirius that Harry couldn't see his hands on the other side of the Floo fire, but that was because she was feeling pragmatic.

It was a bit silly, wasn't it—communicating with Harry via a fire when they were within a fifteen minute walk of each other? But Sirius had insisted that he was to be on vacation in Curacao (something about blue Curacao and maintaining the Marauder mystique; nothing that Larka questioned). He gave a fabulous talk about flamingos and tropical fruits though, she had to admit; in fact she had never heard of a Buddha's hand** prior to this, and thus spent the next ten minutes trying to visualize it.

By that time, Sirius had already turned out the flame and had finished talking to Harry about dragons, and placed a small kiss on that part of her neck where the tendon connected to her shoulder.

-.-.-.-

4:07PM – December 22nd, 1994 – Postcard Teas, Marylebone, London

She lifted the glazed porcelain cup to her lips during the pause, despite that it was still too hot to drink. She tilted it just so, and let the scented steam rise into her eyes.

Neither of them had anything to say after the generic 'How have you been?', 'Oh good, and you?', 'It's been a while', and 'It has been, and isn't the weather nice?'

Larka wondered why she had ordered jasmine tea—she discovered that she didn't like it at all when she first tried it in her preteen years, drawn to it by the charming name. When it came to her turn to order, because she was so nervous at seeing Novia again, in her anxiousness she blurted out jasmine. The café was much more quaint and pricey than she was used to, but Novia had suggested it as one of her favorite spots and Larka was eager to please. Six pounds was too much for a cuppa she didn't even like, though. She gave a small sigh, and immediately regretted it—what if Novia took it the wrong way and thought that she was bored? Or if Novia thought it was her way of saying 'let's wrap things up'? They had barely started!

Novia did flicker her eyes up to Larka quickly, but she cast them down again to her own pale blue cup containing Earl Grey.

Now Earl Grey: that was a cup for all occasions—enough milk and honey, and even a blind mouse couldn't mess Earl Grey up, Larka thought wistfully.

"Do you like it?" Novia asked after she set her cup down carefully, still making a clear clinking noise though.

"What?"

"The tea, I mean, do you like the tea here?"

"Oh yes," Larka blushed. "It's quite lovely."

"I'm glad," Novia gave her a smile and they fell again into an awkward silence.

"So you live around here, eh?" she asked Novia.

"No, no," Novia shook her cascading blonde hair, as pale and beautiful as when she was a girl, "Chester and I live at his family's place, ever since, you know, his folks passed."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Larka apologized politely.

"No need," Novia waved her hand up. "It was a while ago, and Chester wasn't the closest to them anyway. No pureblood boy is!"

That was a rather unfair statement, as Larka knew that James had been very close with his parents, and had been devastated when they fell prey to the dragon pox that plagued many aging wizards. She smiled and nodded her head though, both out of social etiquette and that it warmed her heart that Novia was still so innocently judgmental after all these years.

Thirteen years, it had been—since they bade each other goodbye with an implicit good luck. Novia got on fairly well, from the gleaming smoothness of her pearl necklace and her choice of tea, though Larka didn't know much about her now. She had sent a quick note with a Hogwarts owl and the tawny owl came back with a short but welcoming reply. The notes that they had exchanged since then were quite utilitarian, only dealing with the execution of the reunion and said nothing of their lives. But apparently Novia had settled down, as unimaginable as it was back in the day. This Chester though, was worth investigating into.

"Say," Larka asked, suddenly struck by a thought, "you wouldn't happen to mean the Chester who was a year above us?"

Novia beamed at Larka's memory, "Why, that's exactly him! I didn't think you would remember him!"

Oh but she did, if only a fuzzy image of dark hair and a rounded, square face. She remembered him because at some point there was some scandal—or what teenage girls called scandal—concerning him and some Slytherin-sympathizing girl who shared a room with Remus's girlfriend at the time. It was a very convoluted business, but Larka paid attention to it both out of obligation to get along with Remus's girlfriend, and that the scandal girl had expressed an interest in Sirius prior to this. Naturally, she needed to guard her own.

(Goodness, she could remember a childish feud between classmates nearly two decades ago, but couldn't remember to order herself a good tea? She was going mad, absolutely mad.)

"I do remember him, barely," Larka admitted; she never particularly like Chester, not because of his associations with scandal girl Nott, but because she thought him a bit of a bore. But Larka would never be so mean as to say that to anyone. "But tell me about how it happened!" If it was one thing that women loved, it was talking about romance—the only thing to trump that was their own romance.

"It's a silly story, one of those that I would have stuck my nose up at when we were young," Novia got a faraway look in her eyes. "But we met at St. Mungo's this one time, right around the end of that awful, ruddy war. Kelso got hurt and I was called in as the contact, and when I was filling out the usual forms when he came out the operating room and it turned out he was the assistant Healer. Can you imagine that!"

Larka wondered when this happened and why she wasn't told about it***.

"In any case," Novia continued with her romance, "Kelso was out cold for the next couple of hours, so I waited for her, and Chester asked if I wanted coffee with him on his break, and I said yes, and we got along so finely that I left with his number and Kelso with a superbly set shoulder. The rest, as they say, is history."

"That's a story to tell the grandkids! I'm so happy for you!"

"And you?" Novia asked naturally, "You a wife of any lucky bloke yet?"

"Well," Larka didn't see the need to lie, but she also didn't have the energy to deal with the treading-broken-glass sympathy that came along with being divorced. "No, not yet."

"Oh," Novia's face fell a little, and Larka was glad for her white lie, "Well one day, perhaps, if you want."

"One day," Larka promised herself and Sirius.

"Ah! And before you can bring it up, yes, there was that huge commotion with that Nott girl," Novia kindly took to gossiping again, before the silence could get awkward. "He told me all about their engagement and subsequent breakup, and how his mum sent him Howlers for a month—but thankfully to his room in private, but Merlin his roommates wanted to murder him!"

"Right, the Nott girl, she married into Greengrass, right?"

"Yes, very prettily done," Novia's tone betrayed her childhood unfriendly disposition towards women who made marriage their life goal. "We laughed about the whole affair, of course, but I do remind him of his madness once in a while!"

If Novia hadn't upturned her entire personality, Larka would bet fifty pounds—that was, five sickles that Novia never let him rest a day without reminding him of it, and Chester Fawley was on a lifelong quest of atonement in his wife's eyes. She would have preached about the importance of compromising in a relationship, but she caught herself. They weren't like how they were in the old days anymore, and besides, Novia was evidently happily married and Larka was divorced and living with a fugitive on the run who ruined her life when he got thrown into prison—she wasn't one to give relationship advice.

"I'm sure once in a while," Larka did allow herself to tease though. "Speaking of old acquaintances at Hogwarts, guess where I'm working now?"

There was no greater icebreaker than reminiscing about when they were all a bunch of kids, so the rest of the reunion went by swiftly and delightfully.

By the end of the day, Larka settled a drunken Novia into the arms of Chester Fawley (for of course tea turned into a round at the pub before heading home for a late dinner). She decided that it was a fine if brisk night for a stroll, and the Christmas pines that she could see through foggy windows were a jolly sight, so she ambled leisurely through London streets with her guardian dog until her ears got too cold.

-.-.-.-

9:14AM – March 11th, 1995 – First Floor Corridors, Hogwarts, Aberdeenshire

Coming up from the kitchen quarters, Larka felt quite pleased with herself. The elves were, as always, extremely understanding and accommodating, and promised her to pack only half of what they would have prepared and use oil and salt very sparingly.

The moment that Sirius began his argument of going alone this Saturday, Larka knew that he had told Harry to bring lots of unhealthy food. She knew him too well. She also knew Hogwarts life too well, and that Harry didn't have any other source beyond the house elves to acquire extra food outside of meal hours.

So she let herself be convinced by Sirius to stay behind when he sneaked into Hogsmeade to meet his godson and his little companions, and took matters into her own hands. Of course, she wouldn't deny Sirius of his treat—she had been denying him grease and fat since his body was still recovering from years of neglect and malnutrition, and one must regain weight very carefully and scientifically. He had been rather good about it, or as good as Sirius got when it came to orders, even implicit ones. No, she would let him gorge a little on chicken wings and pastries, but with a limit. She would also let him have his illusion of breaking free of her regime; allow him his little escapade into boyish rebellion, because she liked his boyish rebellion. It was certainly better than nightmares and moping.

Hogwarts wasn't easy on Sirius—he saw it as confinement too much, and the invading memories of the happy years of his life were painful. Hogwarts walls peeled with memory, and while the Dementors stole most of the happy ones, Hogwarts gave them back, which was a torture in its own kind, as Sirius saw so clearly what he had and would never have again.

It was easier for her, of course. Despite her long periods of agonizing and self-ostracism (or perhaps because of it), it was painfully clear once she stood next to Sirius that she was the untainted one.

-.-.-.-

6:50PM – June 19st, 1995 – Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts Castle, Aberdeenshire

"I refuse to live through the first War again," she said with her back straight and eyes steely, "I refuse to stay at home and know nothing."

The cat, as the saying went, was out of the bag. The Dark Lord was back, unequivocally—she wasn't foolish enough to doubt Dumbledore, even if Harry seemed a little hysterical. Besides, her place was with Sirius, wherever he stood, she had decided long ago. It just didn't seem fair, what all of them were asking from Sirius, having barely shaken off the first layer of Azkaban. Sirius was eager to fulfill his role though, although unhappy about going back to that place, and so she was here fighting to fulfill her role.

"While your spirit is admirable," Dumbledore—Albus said, his calm voice grating Larka's nerves even more, "it's highly inadvisable since even at Hogwarts, your Defense Against—"

"This is not school anymore," Larka interrupted him with a gush of brashness, "and there are many things to do beyond rushing heedlessly into battle!" Larka was mortified that she broke off Albus Dumbledore, the man who many saw as the pillar of the once-again crumbling world, but held her ground, not even lowering her chin a fragment of an inch.

She wasn't a hero, and for most of her adult life she had been lying about even the very fabric of her being. The others had heroism in them—she could see it in Sirius, in Remus, even in Severus Snape and the little bushy-haired Hermione. Their eyes spoke of conviction, if nothing else. But her? All she ever wanted was a warm home with Sirius.

But if a hero he wanted to be, then a heroine she had to learn to be, because damn it if she was hiding in the corner again. She would stand by him, and strive for whatever he strove for.

The Headmaster looked at her as if he finally saw her standing in front of him. He had not known Larka to interrupt anybody in her seven years at Hogwarts, and it did not seem like she gained a temper afterwards either. "If you feel so strongly," he finally decided, "then you may join Sirius in the upkeep of 12 Grimmauld Place as our headquarters."

"Thank you, Albus," she nodded appreciatively and calmly, feeling for the first time grown up enough to call the Headmaster by his first name, and Larka suddenly understood why he insisted on the first-name basis for everybody.

* Mabel Harper had absolutely no faith in her children—they exhibited a hereditary tendency for destructive curiosity. Their late father had died when he was assembling one of his sculptural pieces—Mabel called them avant-garde to be nice—and electrocuted himself with one of the wires. If death could be comic, that would be the one instance for it. Even Mabel must have thought so, for during labor she laughed at the thought and the resulting contraction of her stomach muscles delivered Penelope. Pan had worse luck, for Mabel had turned to crying (high hormone levels) and Pan could barely crawl out. The twins showed an early fascination with sharp edges, tall heights, and electric sockets. If one would call Larka overtly anxious, then at least she was not unduly so when she babysat these twins.

** Sirius Altair Black had never technically seen a Buddha's hand—it was one of those embellished stories in which he took others' experiences and turned it into his own. In fact, if he were ever inclined to accumulate fame as well as notoriety, he would give Gilderoy Lockhart a good run for his money. He had eaten a purple mangosteen though, in his defense; he just thought that mangosteen sounded less epic and also had an inkling suspicion that the bloke who gave it to him made the name up. Really, mangosteen?

*** It would have eased Larka Janet Roxburgh's mind to know that the reason Kelso Dorcas Meadowes didn't call her along with Novia Fawley (then still Brooks) was because the Order Members were all instructed to keep the connections between each other to a minimum. So it was really a traceable association with Sirius Black that Kelso was avoiding, and the omission did not, in any sense, reflect on her friendship with Larka. This tidbit, however, would forever be lost in history, as Larka was not one to complain about her worries or hurts, and so Sirius never had the chance to explain the probable cause. And, of course, Kelso was in no position to tell anything being dead and all.