It had been a couple of days since they started cleaning the drawing-room.
Harry no longer needed to wipe the dust off his glasses as the shelves became emptier and emptier, the floor filled with large sacks of rubbish and stored heirlooms, cabinets stacked and armchairs—no longer wheezing it's own insides— moved to the far wall.
Cleaning felt like a war in this room. Everyone's hands eventually reddened from scrubbing, layered smells of fix-it potions and masking fragrances grew hard to wash off each evening. Casualties were taken when Cedric and Fred—so affected by the scents—tried to work with toothpaste under their noses while Ginny had to stop completely; a constant rate of sneezes erupting from her direction every half-second despite having a heavily bundled face.
On a separate occasion, Ron disappeared for two hours after he lifted a mat and discovered that a multitude of spiders were living underneath the 12-inch polyester and wool mesh, their spindly legs all spilling out as soon as daylight hit the abode. Harry eventually found his friend sitting in the kitchen with Sirius, who had made him several cups of tea.
While it was hard work at first, in time they soon grew satisfied to see how it paid off; the walls having returned to their olive green color and actual sunlight streaming into the room, the space clear of the strewn junk—crumpled papers, broken down furniture, rusty jewelry and tattered paintings—and it's corners free of low-hanging cobwebs.
Now it was just the finishing touches as Harry wrapped a cloth around the bottom half of his face, watching Hermione and Ginny carried in large boxes that contained numerous spray-bottles, which were filled with some sort-of black liquid.
He picked a bottle up and carefully examined it.
"It's Doxycide," someone explained and Harry looked behind to see Mrs Weasley, pointing at the long, moss green velvet curtains that were buzzing as though swarming with invisible bees. "I've never seen an infestation this bad! What has that house-elf been doing for the last ten years?!"
Hermione's face was half-concealed by a tea towel but Harry distinctly saw her throw a reproachful look at Mrs Weasley.
"Kreacher's really old, he probably couldn't manage —"
"You'd be surprised what Kreacher can manage when he wants to, Hermione," said Sirius, who had just entered the room carrying a bloodstained bag of what appeared to be dead rats.
"I've just been feeding Buckbeak," he added, in reply to Harry's enquiring look. "I keep him upstairs in my mother's bedroom. Anyway… this writing desk…"
Sirius dropped the bag onto an armchair and walked around the cabinet Mrs Weasley had moved into the corner. As he bent over the cabinet shook, quick but a little too violently for anyone to miss or ignore, even if they weren't looking.
"Well Molly, I'm pretty sure this is a Boggart," said Sirius, peering through the keyhole, "but you're right, perhaps we ought to let Mad-Eye have a shifty at it before we let it out— knowing my mother, it could be something much worse… "
"Right you are, Sirius," said Mrs Weasley.
It was rather irking to hear them talk. They both spoke in such alien, polite tones that it felt a completely new dialect of English, a language that kept their voices so light, so careful and delicate that it could've frosted several cupcakes. Harry and the others had spent enough time with this strangeness, it only made everything more obvious and all the more clear what weighed so heavily in Sirius and Mrs Weasley's heads.
But soon and thankfully, dashing the awkward air, a loud, clanging bell sounded from downstairs—followed at once by the cacophony of screams and wails.
"I keep telling them not to ring the doorbell!" said Sirius exasperatedly, hurrying out of the room. They heard him thundering down the stairs as Mrs Black's screeches echoed through the house once more:
"STAIN'S OF DISHONOUR, FILTHY HALF-BREEDS, BLOOD TRAITORS, CHILDREN OF FILTH!"
Cedric quickly shut the door much to Harry's regret—he couldn't hear any of the conversation that might've been exchanged downstairs—while Mrs Weasley very quickly ordered them about, flipping through the pages of Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests and shouting "George, move the chair there"'s and "Ginny, stay away from the curtains" and "Please Hermione, just let Crookshanks out!".
A few minutes later, they had spread out into a makeshift firing line facing the windows, Mrs Weasley slightly in front; encouraging them to be trigger-happy with their bottles of Doxycide as they sprayed the room at varying speeds.
Harry, who had been squeezing hesitantly and almost lazily, had been spraying only a few seconds when a fully-grown Doxy came soaring out of a fold in the material, shiny beetle-like wings whirring, tiny needle-sharp teeth bared, it's fairy-like body covered with thick black hair and it's four tiny fists clench with fury. Thankfully—or rather unfortunately for itself—it flew straight at Harry's nozzle and froze midair, falling with a loud thunk! to the floor and it's small body covered in the little black droplets of Doxycide spray. Careful to still be gentle, Harry plucked the Doxy from the floor and dropped it into the bucket beside his feet.
"Fred, what are you doing?" Mrs Weasley suddenly said. "Spray that at once and throw it away!"
Harry looked over and saw Fred holding a struggling Doxy in his hand. He promptly sprayed it in the face, causing it to faint, and made a show of throwing it into the bucket; but as soon as Mrs Weasley turned, he pocketed it with a wink. Beside Harry, Cedric crept up.
"They've been wanting to experiment with Doxy venom for their Skeeving Snackboxes." he said under his breath.
Spraying two more Doxy's, George came over and quietly muttered, "Skiving Snackboxes Cedric, get it right!"
"What are Skiving Snackboxes?" Harry asked, just out of the corner of his mouth.
"Range of sweets to make you ill," George whispered, keeping a wary eye on Mrs Weasley's back. "Not seriously ill, mind, just ill enough to get you out of a class when you feel like it. Fred and I have been developing them this summer. They're double-ended, color-coded chews. If you eat the orange half of the Puking Pastilles, you throw up. Moment you've been rushed out of the lesson for the hospital wing, you swallow the purple half—"
"—which restores you to full fitness, enabling you to pursue the leisure activity of your own choice during an hour that would otherwise have been devoted to unprofitable boredom.' That's what we're putting on the adverts, anyway," whispered Fred, who had edged over out of Mrs Weasley's line of vision and was no sweeping a few stray Doxy's from the floor and adding them to his pocket.
"Yeah, I'm going to have to pass on testing this time," Cedric said firmly.
"Testing?" Harry said, eyes wide.
"Alongside Fred and I, Cedric here has graciously lent us his own body for the past few days—for research purposes, of course."
"And, what have you found out?"
"Erm.. well none of us can stop puking for long enough to swallow the purple end." George admitted.
"But!" Fred said, jumping in. "The Fainting Fancies, the Nosebleed Nougat are both basically functional and more pleasant to experience than we realized."
"Plus the results are great! Mum thought we'd been duelling... "
In unison, the four boys swivelled their heads slightly to look at Mrs Weasley who was quite busy, advising Ron on how to firmly hold the bottle in his hand.
"Jokeshop's still on, then?" Harry muttered, pretending to adjust the nozzle on his spray.
"Well, we haven't had a chance to get premises yet," said Fred, dropping his voice even lower as Mrs Weasley mopped her brow with her scarf before returning to the attack, "So we're running it as a mail-order service at the moment. We put advertisements in the Daily Prophet last week."
"All thanks to your kindness, Harry," said George, "And don't fret … Mum hasn't got a clue about anything! She stopped reading the Daily Prophet, since it just kept telling lies about you two and Dumbledore."
Harry grinned. He felt strangely proud that the tournament prize money was being used in this way.
"And you, a Hogwarts Prefect and a Champion, are okay with this?" Harry asked, glancing at Cedric.
He gave a slight shrug.
"I did tell you to do whatever with the money… Besides, it's either that I can sort-of control their movements now or let them loose and be reporting about it later. I know full well, I can't stop anything this point," Cedric said, and he shook his spray bottle with a wry grin.
"Besides, the people want what the people want!" he said, but it was too loud; Mrs Weasley whipping around with a dangerous expression on her face. The four boys promptly halted in their conversation and muffled laughter as they dispersed in opposite directions.
The de-Doxying of the curtains took most of the morning.
It was past midday when Mrs Weasley finally removed her protective scar, sank into a sagging armchair and sprang up again with a cry of disgust, having sat on the bag of dead rats. The curtains were no longer buzzing; they hung limp and damp from the intensive spraying. At the foot of them unconscious Doxy's lay crammed in the bucket beside a bowl of their black eggs, at which Crookshanks was now sniffing and Fred and George were shooting covetous looks.
As they crept towards the bucket, the clanging doorbell rang again.
"It's Mundungus!" Hermione cried as she peered through the window. "Oh but… why's he brought all those cauldrons?"
Everyone looked over at Mrs Weasley.
"Stay here," she said firmly, snatching up a bag of rats as Mrs Black's screeches started up again from down below. "I'll bring up some sandwiches."
"Ron wasn't he talking to you about picking up dodgy cauldron's at dinner the other night?" Hermione asked. Everyone gathered behind her and watched as Mundungus tried to heave a large sack—oddly shaped as if a bunch of dodgy cauldrons had just been stuffed inside—up the steps.
"Blimey! Mum won't like that…" Fred said, making his way over to the door. As true to his words, when he opened the door, there was an explosion of sound from downstairs.
"WE ARE NOT RUNNING A HIDEOUT FOR STOLEN GOODS!" All of them could hear exactly what Mrs Weasley was shouting at the top of her lungs.
"Ah, I so love hearing Mum shouting at someone else!" said Fred, with a satisfied smile on his face, he opened the door an inch or so to allow Mrs Weasley's voice to permeate the room better, "It makes such a nice change."
"—COMPLETELY IRRESPONSIBLE, AS IF WE HAVEN'T GOT ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT WITHOUT YOU DRAGGIN STOLEN CAULDRONS INTO THE HOUSE-"
Sirius came up the stairs with his hands up, head shaking and his expression communicating that he did not want to be involved in whatever the hell was going on downstairs.
"Why don't I replace Molly as your supervisor for the hour?" he smiled, and as he glanced behind him, his pace quickened as he abruptly shot forward.
"Close the door, close the door!" he hissed as he rushed past, and after blinking dumbly once, Fred rushed to quickly do as Sirius said, but not quick enough as one small body squeezed into the drawing-room.
As Sirius groaned behind him, Harry came closer and found that it was actually house-elf, a dirty rag wrapped around its spindly body like a loincloth, it's skin sunken and clinging to it's tiny bones like it was one fit too big. The elf's eyes and bat-like ears drooped with age but it's gaze was sharp, wary—its large and fleshy nose sniffing around like snout as it looked about the room. The elf took absolutely no notice of Harry and the rest—acting as though it could not see them—while it shuffled hunchbacked, slowly and doggedly towards the far end of the room, all while muttering under its breath in a hoarse, deep voice like a bullfrog.
"... smells like a drain and criminal to boot, but she's no better—nasty old blood traitor with her brats messing up my mistress's house, oh, my poor mistress, if she knew… If she knew the scum they've let into her house, what would she say to old Kreacher, oh, the shame of it, Mudbloods and werewolves and traitors and thieves, poor old Kreacher, what can he do…"
"Hello, Kreacher," said Fred very loudly, closing the door with a snap. The house-elf froze in his tracks. His muttering stopped while he gave a very pronounced and very unconvincing start of surprise.
"Kreacher did not see young master," he said, turning around and bowing to Fred. Still facing the carpet, he added, perfectly audible, "Nasty little brat of a blood traitor it is."
"Sorry?" said George. "Didn't catch that last bit."
"Kreacher said nothing," said the elf, with a second bow to George, adding in a clear undertone, "And there's it's twin, unnatural little beasts they are."
Harry didn't know whether to laugh or be offended.
"Kreacher." he heard Cedric's stern voice and saw him put his arm slightly out, in front of George. Kreacher paused and bowed, lower than he had before, to Cedric.
"Young master Diggory," he said. There were no additional comments as he straightened up, but he eyed the rest of them malevolently. And when he was apparently convinced that they couldn't hear, he continued to mutter.
"... and there's the Mudblood, standing there bold as brass, oh, if my mistress, knew, oh how she'd cry, and there's a new boy, Kreacher doesn't know his name. What is he doing here? Kreacher doesn't know…"
"This is Harry, Kreacher," said Hermione tentatively. "Harry Potter."
Kreacher's pale eyes widened and he muttered faster and more furiously than ever.
"The Mudblood is talking to Kreacher as though she is my friend, if Kreacher's mistress saw him in such company, oh, what would she say—"
"Don't call her a Mudblood!" said Ron and Ginny together, very angrily.
"Don't!" Hermione said, grabbing both of their arms. "He doesn't know what he's saying."
"Like hell he doesn't!" Fred said, eyeing Kreacher down. The elf stared hard right back at him.
Harry was shocked. Other than their own, he had never seen a house-elf look at someone else in the eyes, let alone openly glare right at them. There was, of course, Dobby but all the house-elves at Hogwarts seemed to be of a shy disposition; never openly interacting with the students unless they were directly in the kitchen.
"What are you doing here, Kreacher?" Cedric asked, and Harry noticed that his stern tone had disappeared, replaced by an even harsher edge. Kreacher looked towards him and once again, his eyes lowered to the floor.
"Kreacher is cleaning," he said evasively, his tiny hands grabbed at each other.
"A likely story," a voice said behind Harry. Sirius was glowering at the house-elf who suddenly flung himself into a low bow, his snout-like nose touching the ground as soon as he saw Sirius.
"Stand up straight," said Sirius impatiently. "Now, what are you up to?"
"Kreacher is cleaning," the elf repeated. "Kreacher lives to serve the Noble House of Black—"
"And it's getting blacker every day, it's filthy," said Sirius.
"Master always liked his little joke," said Krecher, bowing again and continuing in an undertone, "Master was a nasty ungrateful swine who broke his mother's heart — "
"My mother didn't have a heart, Kreacher," snapped Sirius. "She kept herself alive out of pure spite." And they continued to talk like this, a rally of Sirius's cold and curt replies and Kreacher's polite responses and under-the-breath commentary. Like a repeat of Harry's first night, everyone's head swivelled from Kreacher lamenting about Mrs Black and Sirius's sins to Sirius's consistent demands to know why he was really here.
Eventually Harry noticed that Kreacher was edging towards the far wall, where a tapestry that looked immensely old, hung in the darker corner of the room.
"Mistress will never forgive Kreacher if the tapestry was thrown out. Seven centuries it's been in the family, Kreacher must save it, Kreacher must not let Master and the blood traitor and the brats destroy it—" the elf suddenly said.
"Ah, I thought it might be that," said Sirius, casting a disdainful look at the opposite wall. "She'll have put another Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of it, I don't doubt but if I can get rid of it, I certainly will. Now, go away, Kreacher."
It seemed Kreacher did not dare disobey a direct order, nevertheless, the look he gave Sirius as he shuffled out past him was full of deepest loathing as he muttered all the way out of the room.
"—comes back from Azkaban ordering Kreacher around, oh, my poor mistress, what would she say if she saw the house name; scum living in it, her treasures thrown out," and at this Harry saw Kreacher reach into a bag of the trinkets and objects they had collected from the room, and take something out before he continued muttering. "She swore he was no son of hers and he's back, they say he's a murderer too—"
"Take whatever you're holding out of the room and I will be a murderer!" Sirius snarled, waving the door shut on the elf.
"Sirius, he's not right in the head!" Hermione pleaded. "I don't think he realizes we can hear him."
"He's been alone too long," said Sirius, he stalked up to Kreacher who stood there hunched and frozen, "taking mad orders from my mother's portrait and talking to himself, but he was always a foul little—"
"I'm sure Kreacher could have this ring right, Sirius?" Cedric suddenly said. Everyone turned to see that he was holding out something in the open palm of his hands; a ring with the Black crest as it's insignia.
"It's not cursed or anything important.. just a memento for him." Cedric said nodding at the elf.
"You're sure?" Sirius said carefully, he stopped and walked over to Cedric, picking the ring up from his hand and rolling it in between his fingers.
"I checked," Cedric said. Then he angled his head, "If we appease Kreacher, then it'll be an easier time cleaning." he said quietly, taking care to speak in a low voice; even Harry, who was beside him, wasn't completely sure of what exact words he had said.
But fortunately Sirius, having heard him clearly, sighed and waved his hand in reply.
"Do whatever you want." he said, and he gave the ring back before he walked towards the tapestry, sizing it up and promptly ignoring whatever was going behind him at that moment.
Cedric smiled at Kreacher, and gestured him closer, before kneeling down to his height.
"I bet he'll let you barter and keep more stuff if you leave us and the rubbish bags alone." Cedric said, hardness still there but his voice was not unkind. "And don't worry — we won't throw anything away without first coming to you."
He held out the ring on his palm, waiting as slowly, slowly, Kreacher took the band and clutched it with both of his tiny hands; as if he was holding onto extremely valuable gem.
Kreacher looked up and stared at Cedric's soft smile, before finally nodding.
"My thanks, young master," he said and he shuffled out of the room and shut the door. There was a moment's silence that followed the click of the door. Fred then slung an arm over Cedric's neck.
"Wow! He didn't even call you traitor, filth, or scum!" he remarked, and before Harry could hear Cedric's reply, he noticed Hermione creep beside him.
"It seems that Kreacher really likes him." she whispered, "I don't know how, but a few days after they first met, Kreacher stopped talking in that... second voice, whenever he spoke with Cedric."
"It's puzzling, but leave it to charming Cedric to enchant dusty old house-elves, eh?" Ron quipped. He was promptly thwacked by Hermione's hand.
"Ron!"
"What?! He called you a mudblood!"
"Yeah, he's got a point," Harry admitted, but before Hermione could indignantly respond, the door re-opened with a frazzled Mrs Weasley now in the doorway.
"I just saw Kreacher walking off with a ring, is that—?"
"Yes Molly, Cedric thought we could let him keep some non-magical items as mementos." Sirius said turning around. "I'm not against the idea if it means he'll be less annoying in the future."
"I see, well, let's not think about that now; Mundungus is making lunch downstairs for us, come on!" and Mrs Weasley gestured everyone to come with her as she turned around, walking towards the stairs.
"Mundungus is cooking? For us ?" Ginny said, following behind her.
"As payment for us housing the cauldrons." Mrs Weasley replied, stoically. Fred, George, Ron, Harry and Hermione filtered out of the room, and as Cedric began to follow too, he felt a hand hold him back. It was Sirius.
"Are you pure-blooded by any chance?" he asked, carefully, but before Cedric could answer; Sirius seemed to think twice about it and sighed.
"Ah sorry, don't, er—don't answer that, it doesn't matter," he ran his hands through his hair. "You probably just remind him of Regulus."
"Regulus?" Cedric echoed.
"My idiot brother." Sirius said, and as his gaze swept the floor, the tone of his voice roughening; Cedric took the hint. He bid Sirius goodbye and walked out the door, without realizing that Harry was hiding beside it, propped against the wall—having heard everything.
After a moment of hesitation, he took a breath and decisively swung into the room, walking beside Sirius who stared at the ancient, sun-dulled tapestry with intent; thumb tucked underneath his chin while the side of his finger pressed to his lips in thought.
"Sirius." Harry said. Sirius jolted.
"Oh!" he said, staring at Harry, "Did you forget something?"
Harry took a breath, "Erm... sorry to ask now of all times but... I think you owed me a conversation about your family?"
Sirius's expression, which was initially appeased and open, faltered at Harry's words. He looked at the ground again with a soft but forced smile.
"Ah,"
Lily SongHarry reached out in front of him, tracing the tapestry's linework, the embroidery and cloth rough with age underneath his fingertips. It was faded and looked as though doxies had gnawed it in places; nevertheless, a golden thread still glinted brightly enough to show them a sprawling family tree dating back (as far as Harry could tell) to the Middle Ages. Large words at the very top of the tapestry read:
The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
"Toujours Pur"
And from that banner, the golden lines spread into branches that bore fruit of more names on flying banners; caricatures of each family head, of each daughter and son pandering to the tree with their sequined eyes and white-threaded skin.
Two particular banners caught Harry's eye, "You're related to the Malfoys? To the Weasley's, even!"
"The pure-blood families are all interrelated," said Sirius. "If you're only going to let your sons and daughters marry purebloods your choice is very limited, there are hardly any of us left. Molly and I are cousins by marriage and Arthur's something like my second cousin once removed. But there's no point looking for them on here—if ever a family was a bunch of 'blood traitors' it's the Weasleys."
Sirius tapped a branch labeled 'Black' and trailed down.
"I haven't looked at this for years. There's Phineas Nigellus… my great-great-grandfather, see? Least popular headmaster Hogwarts ever had… and Araminta Meliflua… cousin of my mother's… tried to force through a Ministry Bill to make Muggle-hunting legal… and dear Aunt Elladora… she started the family tradition of beheading house-elves when they got too old to carry tea trays… of course, anytime the family produced someone halfway decent they were disowned. I see Tonks isn't on here. Maybe that's why Kreacher won't take orders from her—he's supposed to do whatever anyone in the family asks him…"
"You and Tonks are related?" Harry asked, surprised.
"Oh yeah her mother, Andromeda, was my favorite cousin," said Sirius, examining the tapestry carefully. "Andromeda's not on here either, look—they must've removed her after she married Ted Tonks," he pointed to another small round burn mark between two names, Bellatrix and Narcissa.
"He was a Muggleborn you see, and our family were humiliated by their union! Her sisters however, and as you might have figured out, made lovely and respectable pure-blood marriages… Narcissa to Lucius Malfoy," Sirius said, his finger hovering at 'Malfoy', "And Bellatrix to Rodolphus Lestrange."
"Lestrange…" said Harry aloud. The name had stirred something in his memory; he knew it from somewhere, but for a moment he couldn't think where, though it gave him an odd, creeping sensation in the pit of his stomach.
"They're in Azkaban," said Sirius shortly. Harry looked at him curiously.
"Bellatrix and her husband Rodolphus came in with Barty Crouch, Junior," said Sirius in the same brusque voice. "Rodolphus's brother, Rabastan, was with them too."
And Harry remembered: He had seen Bellatrix Lestrange inside Dumbledore's Pensieve, the strange device in which thoughts and memories could be stored: a tall dark woman with heavy-lidded eyes, who had stood at her trial and proclaimed her continuing allegiance to Lord Voldemort, her pride that she had tried to find him after his downfall and her conviction that she would one day be rewarded for her loyalty.
"You never said she was your—"
"Does it matter if she's my cousin?" snapped Sirius. "As far as I'm concerned, they're not my family—she's certainly not my family. I haven't seen her since I was your age, unless you count a glimpse of her coming in to Azkaban. D'you think I'm proud of having relatives like her?"
"Sorry," said Harry quickly, "I didn't mean—I was just surprised, that's all—"
"It doesn't matter, don't apologize," Sirius mumbled at once. He crossed his arms and dug his nails underside, but Harry didn't seem offended. He didn't even notice Sirius's obvious discomfort, as eyes took to tapestry and scanned the bottom of the tree.
"Hold on… you're not on here!" he said and it roused Sirius, making him bend towards the tapestry's end.
"I used to be there," said Sirius , showing Harry. But his finger pointed at a small, round, charred hole in the tapestry, looking rather similar to the effect of someone that had pressed their cigar to the cloth with much conviction and deliberation.
For some reason the entirety of Harry's chest clenched when he saw it. It felt as if he was the who was the one who had been burned away
"Did they-.. Did they disown you?" he asked.
"Well, I was about your age when I ran away from home, " said Sirius. He looked over at Harry's eyes. They were wide, staring very blatantly at the hole, his hands clutching at the hem of his hoodie. It made Sirius soften. "I'd had enough, and I didn't want to give that pleasure," he said, but gently, as if it was just another piece of history; another family story to the tapestry.
"Where did you go?" asked Harry, staring at him.
"Your dad's place," said Sirius. "Your grandparents were really good about it; they sort of adopted me as a second son. I camped out at your dad's during the school holidays, and then when I was seventeen, I got a place of my own, my Uncle Alphard had left me a decent bit of gold—he's been wiped off here too, that's probably why—anyway, after that I looked after myself. I was always welcome at Mr. and Mrs. Potter's for Sunday lunch, though."
"But… why did you…?"
"Leave?" Sirius smiled bitterly and ran a hand through his long hair.
"Because I hated the whole lot of them: my parents with their pure-blood mania, convinced that being a Black made you practically royal… They used to pander to me, hold me up as their prodigal son, trying to feed me their ideals since I was a child—but my idiot brother! He was soft enough to believe them… that's him." Sirius jabbed a finger at the very bottom of the tree, at the name 'Regulus Black'. A date of death (some fifteen years previously) followed the date of birth.
"He was younger than me," said Sirius, "and a much better son as I was constantly reminded. Quiet and obedient. Very unlike his rebellious older brother. "
"But he died," said Harry. He found it hard to swallow.
"Yeah," said Sirius. He shook his head and sighed, "Stupid idiot… he went off to join the Death Eaters."
"The Death Eaters! So he—… Did your parents...?"
"No, no, but believe me, they thought Voldemort had the right idea and were all for the purification of the Wizarding race, getting rid of Muggle-borns and having purebloods in charge. They weren't alone either, there were quite a few people, before Voldemort showed his true colors, who thought he had the right idea about things… They got cold feet when they saw what he was prepared to do to get power, though. But I bet my parents thought Regulus was a right little hero for joining up, at first."
"Was he killed by an Auror?" Harry asked tentatively.
"Oh no," said Sirius. "No, he was murdered by Voldemort. Or on Voldemort's orders, more likely, I doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort in person.
"What?!"
"From what I found out, he had gotten in far but then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out and, well—you don't just hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It's a lifetime of service or death."
Harry stared at Sirius. There was something sardonic and bitter curdling his mouth, as if what he had recalled was stupid, almost trivial; but Harry could tell otherwise, in fact, he knew better.
"I can't really picture what it was like… living with your family," he said, and Sirius gave a small and sad chuckle.
"Harry, I would not want for you to be able to." he said. But Harry shook his head.
Sirius's composure was fragile. Delicately carved into his demeanor, like a reflex of some sort that—after talking to Cedric—Harry was all too familiar with. His eyebrows were knitted, not in anger or disgust; but frustration. Eyes staring hard but crumpled, words mocking but more than enough of a testament to a pain that Harry could only imagine.
"I know how it feels though." he said, quietly. "Being so different from the people that you live with… having them dislike... you."
Sirius turned his head, a new light dawned on his face.
"That's right," he whispered. "You do."
"I know that it can be…" and Harry sighed, "..hard and difficult to explain so I don't need you to if you don't want to but—"
"No! No, I'm sorry. I've been rather appalling today, haven't I?" Sirius laughed, nervous. He suddenly reached for Harry's hem-clutched hand and carefully pried his fingers away, holding them and then placing his own palm on top before he gave a large sigh; an exhalation that squeezed the lungs behind his chest, that deflated his shoulders and turned him solemn, thoughtful.
"My past… I do not wish to dwell on it, and I do not wish for you to know details about how my family treated me—you can absolutely guess of course, but you do not deserve such information." Sirius said. "I will, however, answer as many questions that I can, instead of being a tour guide for my lineage."
Harry grinned at his joke, "Is it really okay?"
"Yes. I did promise you a conversation. And besides—" Sirius said, the glint back in his eye, "Talking about myself used to be one of my favourite past times."
"Alright!" Harry said, laughing, distilling the room as he held firmly onto Sirius's hand.
"Okay." Sirius said and while he smiled to the floor, he took a deep breath.
"Fire away." Harry looked up at the top of the tapestry, and followed the lines that lead to 'Walburga & Orion Black'.
"Well first, when did you know?" he asked. "That it was all codswallop, everything your parents were saying?"
Sirius gave a wry laugh, "Starting in the deep end eh?"
"Oh erm-"
"Don't worry, it's quite alright. But well.. let's see." Sirius took a moment before a cynical, but almost strangely fond smile reached his face.
"I think I always hated it, Harry, but if there was a moment… It'd have to be the first day I came back to this house—after spending that entire first term in the Gryffindor tower."
"Really?"
"Well, that moment with the Sorting itself had confirmed everything that I've been conflicted over for years. I was so surprised when I didn't get a Howler the next morning that I became used to it, not hearing a single thing from my parents all that time — I had hoped that maybe they weren't so angry — but I was wrong. When I came back…" Sirius let out a shaky sigh, "I knew that I could never get along with my family, not if I wanted to be myself."
"What happened?"
"As soon as I stepped through the door, my mother grabbed my arm and dragged me into my room, locking me in for some time; telling Kreacher that he was only to bring up bread and water until I started 'behaving like a proper Black,'" Sirius paused, "I don't think she even looked at me."
"That's terrible!" Harry said, aghast.
"It didn't last long." Sirius said, reassuring him. "But that certainly set the tone for the next few years. Despite me being a Gryffindor, Mother was intent on trying to change my mind, saying that Dumbledore and the Sorting Hat had made some a grievous mistake—No son of hers would deviate from bloodline tradition."
"I suppose you didn't like that."
Sirius lips curled into a familiar smirk.
"Well I certainly did my best to rebel against it. It was tiring, you see, because before that, they were always so proud of me; always saying how much I meant to them." Sirius gave a bitter bark of laughter before he shook his head. "Course, what really mattered was who they thought I could be. They never really loved me… So I got back at them, as much as I could before I ran away—I started voluntarily staying in my room and stopped eating or going to the main family events that sprinkled throughout the year. I made sure to wear and own all sorts of Muggle things in my room and—" he turned suddenly to Harry and for the second time since he had arrived—the first being when he first saw Harry—Sirius's face warmed, and his grin stretched, fond.
"I would always ask your mother to get me things." he said, hands rapt with a new animation. "Like those automatic quills? The plastic ones, where you can just press a button and, voila!"
"Pens?" Harry asked, incredulously. Sirius clapped his hands.
"Yes! Pens! Wonderful things, I drove my family half-mad by just clicking and oh, I could never forget when Lily brought me those tapes. The amount of songs and movies I played at ridiculous hours!" Sirius grinned, his eyes at the ceiling, reminiscent. "I collected posters, clothes and accessories, records, tapes and all sorts of Muggle inventions—put a Permanent Sticking Charm on them whenever I left for school. And when I ran away, I brought it all with me— everything. Moony was interested in Muggle things as well you see, especially the music, we'd always listen to something different in the evening…"
"Moony… Did you mean Lupin?"
"Ah yes," Sirius coughed into his hand, embarrassed. "Sorry, the nicknames we gave each other at Hogwarts are.. very stuck, even now."
"Did Lupin live with you? After you left my Dad's?"
Sirius looked up from his hand. He was caught a little off-guard, but there was something a little more undecipherable there, something Harry couldn't quite read.
"He did." said Sirius and he opened and closed his mouth several times, as if trying to figure out what to say. "Of course it was after we left school, but… yes. For a time, we rented out this dinky flat on the outskirts of London, a bit before you were just born."
"Dinky?"
"It was a cheap apartment, so it was cramped and a little shoddy—we never had a proper warm bath but," Sirius's eyes gleamed, "It was cosy… a home,"
Harry blinked, "I didn't know you two were so close."
Sirius paused, but then he smiled again. Still undecipherable.
"We w-.. are, yes. It went downhill for a bit, when I was framed for murder and such but now… erm .." Sirius shook his head and then waved his hand , "Anyway! Do you- do you have any more questions?"
Harry swallowed.
He had many, really.
He wanted to ask what he was like at school, how it felt to be the first ones to form the new Order. He wanted to ask about Peter Pettigrew, wanted know about the Marauders and how they became Animagi, how they created the map, and what his father and mother were like. And finally, there was this nagging within Harry, a sense of tugging that felt like Sirius was holding back on Lupin—like there was some kind of boundary that Harry had yet to touch on.
But while there was so much to ask Sirius, so much to unravel and understand and to see; for now…
"I have one."
"Alright," Sirius said. He crossed his arms, eager.
"You don't have to answer if you don't want to." said Harry, hesitantly.
Sirius tilted his head, "I know." he said, intrigued. Harry paused a moment, rethinking about whether he should say it, his tongue caught between his teeth for good measure.
"Did you love your brother, Regulus?" he asked.
Sirius's body slowly straightened in quiet revelation, his eyebrow arched and eyes darting as he tried to process the question in his head, "What made you…?"
"You just react so differently to his name." Harry hurriedly explained. "I was wondering whether you had a soft spot for him before he—... you know."
"Well I did. Of course I did, everyone did! He was… a people pleaser before he became such a bigot—a quiet bigot, mind you but still a purebred, brainwashed bigot." Sirius said and he threw his hand up. "Hell, even before that, he was trying to please all the other bigots! I hated it."
"But?" Harry asked. Sirius sighed.
He was sighing a lot today.
"But it was harder to hate Regulus despite it all. I knew that he just wanted to make our parents happy—there was more pressure on him when I showed my 'true' colors," Sirius shook his head. "Suddenly he was expected to succeed the Black name, he was expected to inherit everything which meant he had to be perfect… the perfect, little pureblood son."
Harry nodded "Were you protective?"
"Very. But eventually he stopped needing it, he… he became friends with more like-minded people, you see, people that Mother and Father approved of; narrow-minded and stupid gits, but powerful ones at the very least, people whose name held weight in our world. Bred to be just like their parents stuck in their own pureblood fantasies," Sirius looked like he was about to spit on the floor,. "I knew he didn't like it or them very much, but he thought it was where he belonged. And when I left, well... he stuck himself firmly, in... their world."
"It's not your fault," Harry said suddenly. It felt like he was being pricked, as he watched Sirius blame himself; the bittersweet smile, the shake of his head all pricking and binding Harry to a new surge of something that flowed, sad and frustrated in his chest.
"I should've been more persistent," Sirius said.
"But you had to leave!"
Sirius chuckled.
"That was always what Remus and James would say. And even now, I still try to convince myself that but," Sirius traced the tapestry's embroidered outline of Regulus Black. He thumbed the threaded cheek and sighed, small, once more. "When you get older, you become less and less certain."
"Aren't you overthinking it? It wasn't your fault for running away! All the things your parents did... they basically made you!"
"Did they? I was able to bear with their treatment for five years… maybe if I stuck around, one more could've made the difference."
"But you're your own person Sirius," said Harry helplessly, "You had things that you needed as well, and you're much more than the guiding buff for your brother's moral compass!"
Sirius paused, face blank for one second before suddenly, it creased—as if his eyes and his smile were laced with something old and kind. Harry suddenly realized how many years Azkaban had put onto Sirius's face, and how many more must've been etched, like tally marks, onto his own soul. He saw how the frown lines and gauntness had formed in his face which—while full-cheeked and less obvious in bruise or tear—still hung, haggard and worn. A mark of the trauma, of the experiences that Sirius had the misfortune to endure.
Harry knew that no matter what he said, Sirius's mind would be set on the way he saw this part of his life. The guilt. The anguish. Did Sirius twinge whenever he laughed in his flat with Lupin? Imagining where Regulus would've been at the same moment, wondering if he deserved to even be happy when he had left his brother to the cold luxury of a deadly world and even more deadly people? Did Sirius ever fight Death Eaters and hesitate, wondering whether it was his own brother underneath the hood? Did he take a breath each time they unmasked someone they captured, injured or even killed? Did he pray or thank some higher power in his head when he made sure that Regulus was never ever one of the Order's victims?
Harry did not know what Sirius was feeling, he did not know what trials Sirius suffered or endured, but he could imagine it. He knew what it felt to have the presence of a person burned into the back of your mind, to have the feeling course through your bloodstream with the same kind of fire and raze every single time. In the way Harry knew he hated Voldemort, Sirius knew that he loved Regulus; without question. Barred only by the lines of fate and circumstance, of choice and influence that ran far beyond his own control. Because-
"You're right Harry," Sirius said. "You're absolutely right, no doubt that if I had stayed, perhaps I would've been worse off…" And Harry swallowed, because he knew what sort of words would be said next. He knew what slept underneath Sirius's seeming agreement.
"But?" he still asked.
And Sirius smiled again. Stubborn, proud. Sad.
"I was his older brother. And I don't know if you can understand, or if many other siblings have the same feelings but; for Regulus and I… what we had was an unspoken oath. My parent's beliefs and convictions made it necessary."
Sirius then dropped his voice, mild in tone.
Gentle.
"Like my duty to you, the Order, and to R—my friends; it was less of an obligation and more of a commitment," Sirius smiled, recalling the childish memories of playing Knights and Dragons, hiding under blanket-bunkers and dining table trenches; "The commitment I had to my brother… that will be the one that I will always regret not taking seriously," Sirius said, and he let go of the tapestry and stood up straight, looking ahead.
Abruptly, he squeezed Harry's hand,
"Please don't feel bad on my behalf," he said. And Harry didn't realize it, but there were a stream of tears that ran down his cheeks, the gaping pain of his chest now ripped open to full exposure, pricking behind his eyes as he wept, silent. He could see how the sadness pooled in the crescent of Sirius's eyes, and he watched how that confident back and swagger, hunched over the tapestry; decimated and blighted by regret.
Harry had always been familiar with pain. It was an old friend. Something that lingered and slept in the crevices of his mind.
But this was different.
It was coppered in an older mold, a proof that suffering can never really be more than just suffering; that it doesn't necessitate strength or growth in the bodies that it affects—it can stay and squirm and play dead but in the end it lay just plain, unkiltered and simple, pain.
To an extent, Harry knew it could change someone. In the way his scar etched onto his forehead, it was something so presently forgettable in his life that he often could not fully appreciate or understand, the absolute barbarity of a raw and aged hurt; something that drowned your conscience like another layer of skin, a thick hide that broke into spikes from the inside, only scabbing so it could break and bleed again and again and again and again.
He turned to Sirius, who stood beside him, ever so strong… and remembered the shell he was two years ago. A wispy husk of the young man he was before, empty of romanticism, grandiosity and reckless; full of a youth gone bad, of a venture that had staled.
Here he was, clutching Harry's hand. His face strained, and in the small catches of whatever heart he poured out; soul, strained. Here was Sirius. Someone who stood straight and became taller than he would ever usually feel, just so he could tell the torment that racked inside, to shove off.
And this thought, this sight, this moment; burned into Harry's heart, rolling and broiling, seeping in cracks and webbing into something ravenous; digging itself a crater until finally,
"Sirius? I'm glad to have you," Harry said, voice firm but bent under emotion, "In whatever shape or form, or circumstance. No matter how you may have clawed your way through— I am glad that you are here."
He took a quick breath and wiped at his face, eyes hurting and his heart hurting and everything hurting after hearing everything that could be confessed but, once again—Sirius smiled at him, the purest sort of joy that Harry had ever seen, before he felt himself be pulled into his arms; Sirius's right hand reaching up and stroking the back of his hair, while he held the rest of Harry tight—his godfather unable to know any other way to explain what love, what happiness ran through his heart, stroked by the gentle and shaky whisper of Harry's honesty.
"Are these affectionate words just another ploy to get me to answer more questions?" he teased.
"—not the time for jokes!" Harry croaked in reply, and Sirius shook with laughter.
"Sorry, I'm sorry" he said but Harry noticed that his voice, too, was... wonky, in a muffled sort of way. It made him pull back from the hug and stare at his godfather,
"Are you crying?" he asked, incredulously.
"No, I've just got something in my eyes is all." Sirius said but then he sniffed, and Harry saw that his eyes were going red and beginning to brim to the edge. Sirius began to look around him with mock annoyance.
"I thought you cleaned this room! All this dust getting into people's eyes—bloody awful job you've done!" he huffed. Eventually, they broke into a fit of giggles unable to resist this strange and tearful mix of something between dry and genuine laughter, as if they didn't have quite the energy to do either wholeheartedly.
When they settled down, they returned to a silent embrace until eventually, time passed and Sirius pulled away; but not before, placing his hands on Harry's shoulders. The mirth gone, but still a light in present in his gaze, his dark eyes looking up, down, and then square in the face.
"Don't worry, Harry. That mistake of duty with Regulus… it will not happen a second time," he said. But Harry only shook his head, he took Sirius's hand and tried very hard to muster as much conviction in his voice as he could.
"Sirius, your only duty is to yourself, please. If you really want to do something, then… be better to yourself," Harry scratched his head, bashful but indignant. "You deserve that much, I know that Lupin and even my dad, would agree—wouldn't you think so?"
Sirius looked at Harry. He looked and felt his heart lift, unseized. Felt it rest on its side, full, as he swelled and smiled and swelled.
The dust that had settled onto his bones fell away. And the age that he felt tightening his face and words began to cease, his head singing and filling with a song that once echoed in castle hallways; one of sunlight and green leaves, of sneaking bread-rolls and biscuits out of the kitchen while James tried to hide his Head Boy badge from the house-elves. One that reminded him of how many books he had poured over in the library, turning the pages of old tomes while Remus knitted in the seat beside him. And one that made him acutely recall the sensation of an itchy, wool rug - how it felt underneath when he lay eagle-spread on the Common Room floor, Lily sitting up beside him, humming melodies and tunes .. while the rest of Marauders dozed off in the armchairs.
In that moment of silence, Harry watched as for the umpteenth time today (he could hardly keep count) Sirius had the most pleasantly surprised expression on his face. A tender and small, closed smile—as if he was trying not to do it—lighting up his face.
He turned to Harry.
"Did I ever tell you how alike, you and your mother are?" he asked. Harry shook his head.
"Is it my eyes?"
"No," Sirius said, and he placed his palm against Harry's chest,
"It's your heart."
The Hearing (I)Over the next few days Harry found himself spending more and more time with Sirius, the both of them cleaning out his old bedroom and sifting through an assortment of leftover and forgotten Muggle books and tapes, among the other things that Sirius had hidden underneath a loose floorboard. Even outside of cleaning, after supper, the both of them often sat by the fireplace and Sirius would recall fondly, old memories from the edges of his mind; Hogwart pranks, his recurring tea-time detentions with McGonagall and finally, the initial chaos that he, Remus and Harry's father went through as amateur Animagi.
"-I didn't know quite yet how to change back, you see, so when I transformed in a rush, ears—or maybe a tail—would stick out of my human body for at least an hour afterwards."
"Really?!"
"Yes, good thing my hair was black so no one ever noticed the fur. Though, maybe they always assumed I had brewed a bad potion!" Sirius laughed.
Harry was overjoyed to know little details, like his mother's charm with the professors, his father's strange morning ritual—kissing every item of his uniform before all of his Quidditch games—and Remus being the inadvertent mastermind behind most of their weekly schemes. It made Sirius happy too, his hands unable to still out of sheer radiant excitement, his eyes lit up as well, always that little bit of laughter dancing behind the stories he'd throw out.
At times, it would become a bit odd; a thick, sort of silence falling upon Sirius mid-story or at the end, just a brief pause, a hesitant dip in his usual vigor before he continued telling the epic tale. Harry always knew that it happened whenever Peter Pettigrew came into the picture. And he had nearly forgotten that the man was one of his parents' and Sirius's closest friends.
Sirius never really mentioned Peter Pettigrew directly. He'd always catch himself before the first syllable ever left his lips, and his brow would twitch whenever he remembered about the parts Peter played in their monthly heists. At times it almost seemed like Sirius wanted ask Harry about the graveyard, probably having heard from Dumbledore or Lupin that their old friend was there that night, carrying Voldemort himself in his own arms. But whether out of respect or a certain apprehension, Sirius soon steered clear of the topic. Similarly, Harry decided not to push it as well.
Instead he turned his mind to the cleaning; grinding in a routine of early rise, dusty days and late nights, while every now and then, a visitor would disrupt their usual and peaceful normality. Snape flitted in and out of the house several times more, though to Harry's relief they never came face-to-face; he also caught sight of his Transfiguration teacher, Professor McGonagall, looking very odd in a Muggle dress and coat, though she also seemed too busy to linger. Moody had yet to drop in, at least for long enough to deal with the boggart still rattling around in the drawing-room, but Tonks joined them for a memorable afternoon in which they found a murderous old ghoul lurking in an upstairs toilet, and Lupin, who was staying in the house with Sirius but who left it for long periods to do mysterious work for the Order, helped them repair a grandfather clock that had developed the unpleasant habit of shooting heavy bolts at passersby.
—
"Pads, why does it-"
"Bellatrix thought it would be a funny prank, and Mother seemed to agree."
"Ah,"
—
While Harry and the others' attempted to eavesdrop and attack each visitor with their insurmountable questions, they gleaned only brief glimpses and snatches of conversation before the ever-vigilant Mrs Weasley soon called them back to their tasks. Surprisingly, however, the small snatches didn't bother Harry as much as it used to.
While at the Dursleys, he could speculate and daydream about what fun or secret adventure Ron and Hermione could've been having but here he was firmly in the same boat as them; involved but to an extent, all of them — the Weasley's, Hermione, Cedric and Harry — barred from any real information except for the scraps and tidbits they pry from here and there.
And despite the fact that he was still sleeping badly, still having dreams about corridors and locked doors that made his scar prickle, Harry was managing to have fun for the first time all summer. As long as he was busy, he was happy and with Sirius's stories, alongside Ron, Hermione and Cedric's company; he was more than, to be honest.
It was almost unsettling how relaxed he felt during the day, how much easier it was to wake up each morning knowing that Ron would be in the same room, that Hermione would be downstairs reading the paper at the table during breakfast, and that Cedric would be there to smile at him, soft and bright as always.
When the action abated, however, whenever he dropped his guard, or lay exhausted in bed watching blurred shadows move across the ceiling, the thought of the looming Ministry hearing returned to him. Fear jabbed at his insides like needles as he wondered what was going to happen to him if he was expelled. The idea was so terrible that he did not dare voice it aloud , not even to Ron and Hermione, who, though he often saw them whispering together and casting anxious looks in his direction, followed his lead in not mentioning it. He didn't even mention it to Sirius—though the latter had been trying to hint at it in their most-recent conversations—too afraid of ruining the joyfulness that Sirius had revisited in the last few weeks.
Harry tried with all his might to swallow the fear up, bury it with the cleaning and the chamomile tea and Sirius's fireplace stories but… sometimes he could not prevent his imagination showing him a faceless Ministry official who was snapping his wand in two and ordering him back to the Dursleys' .
In his mind, Harry had decided that he would not go. He was determined on that. He would come back here to Grimmauld Place and live with Sirius.
But while that thought eased him for a while, a sudden brick dropped in his stomach when Mrs. Weasley turned to him during dinner on Wednesday evening and said quietly, "I've ironed your best clothes for tomorrow morning, Harry, and I want you to wash your hair tonight too. A good first impression can work wonders."
Almost immediately, Harry felt the room stiffen. He could visibly hear the conversation between Cedric, Hermione and Ginny fade away while Fred, George and Ron stopped eating (the latter choking slightly on his chops) and look over at him. Trying very hard to stay composed and to keep eating though his mouth was dry, Harry simply nodded and blinked in a rapid and very uncomposed fashion.
"How am I getting there?" he asked Mrs. Weasley.
"Arthur's taking you to work with him," said Mrs. Weasley gently. Mr. Weasley smiled encouragingly at Harry across the table.
"You can wait in my office until it's time for the hearing," he said. Harry looked over at Sirius, but before he could ask the question, Mrs. Weasley had answered it.
"Professor Dumbledore doesn't think it's a good idea for Sirius to go with you, and I must say I—"
"— think he's quite right," said Sirius through clenched teeth. Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips.
"When did Dumbledore tell you that?" Harry said, staring at Sirius.
"He came last night, when you were in bed," said Mr. Weasley. Sirius stabbed moodily at a potato with his fork. Harry dropped his own eyes to his plate. The thought that Dumbledore had been in the house on the eve of his hearing and not asked to see him made him feel, if that were possible, even worse.
Cedric stared at Harry, trying to gage what he was feeling, show some solidarity through one shared look. But Harry was too busy trying to sift through his own thoughts to even look back, not even realizing that Cedric's eyes had rested on him the entire dinner.
When the clock ticked half-past five the next morning Harry woke with an abrupt start, as if somebody had yelled in his ear. For a few moments he lay immobile as the prospect of the hearing filled every tiny particle of his brain, then, unable to bear it, he leapt out of bed and put on his glasses. Mrs. Weasley had laid out his freshly laundered jeans and T-shirt at the foot of his bed. Harry scrambled into them. The blank picture on the wall sniggered.
He looked in the bed beside him to see that Ron was fast asleep, mouth agape and eyes fluttering ever so often as he curled his arms around his blankets. Harry watched, not knowing whether he should let him sleep or whether he should wake him. Maybe Ron would weaken the tightness in his stomach? Or maybe he would make it worse... Ron never meant to, but his anxieties about the hearing were as plain as day and equally as comparable to Harry's, if not more—it had showed on his face all week.
So, vying that letting Ron sleep would be the most peaceful option, Harry decided to walk away and quietly closed the door behind him as he stepped into the second-floor landing.
"Hello," A voice suddenly said. Harry turned to his right and found Cedric sitting on the stairs that lead to the next floor, body leaning against the wall.
Harry stepped forward with a curious smile, "You're up early,"
"Yeah," Cedric said, yawning as he stood up, "—you going to the kitchen?"
As he roused, there was a slight ache in his shift and a sigh.
He seemed tired.
"Er-"
For a split second, Harry wanted to ask why Cedric was there and up so early. He had obviously been sitting on the steps for a while—not an hour but maybe half—and his eyes were droopy, a half-awake stumble in his walk. Yet as Cedric passed, lavender incense fleeting in the air behind him, a swift thought came to Harry's mind that maybe, maybe;
Cedric had woken up early just for him.
He played around with the idea, while Cedric looked back from the second step down,
"You coming?" he asked, voice a little coarse like it grinded closer to the bottom of his throat.
"Yes," Harry replied and as he walked forward, he felt some of the stress built up in his stomach dull down. It was only a few seconds before Harry realized that Cedric was still looking at him intently and as they made their way, his quiet morning-voice trickled out again.
"You're looking better than I thought you would..." he mumbled.
"What?"
"I just.. I'm glad that you can still smile… even for today."
Harry suddenly realized that there was a small smile, barely there, but still unconsciously brightening up what would otherwise be a very grim expression on his face. He shrugged in response.
As they descended downstairs, Cedric trying rub the sleep from his eyes and Harry with that wisp of a smile on his lips, another sound pricked their ears; they could just make out someone's voice drifting from the dimly-lit kitchen.
"If you ... serious… exposed!"
"I know! But… first time... Ministry… must be scared!"
As they walked closer, Harry could differentiate the voices, piecing together what sounded like an argument broiling between Sirius and Lupin.
"Dumbledore said-" Lupin started.
"I don't care what Dumbledore said! I want to be there for Harry!" Sirius replied,
"Sirius, he's right there are great stakes and dangers if you even go outside, let alone if you escort him!" said Mrs Weasley's softer voice. She broke into the conversation but seemed to be trying to stay hushed.
"I'm not saying that I escort him, Arthur can do that just fine! I just want to accompany—"
"You'd still going outside!" Lupin interrupted,
"Yes, as a dog."
"Voldemort—" and Mrs Weasley flinched at the name— "...knows that you're an Animagus! We won't know where or when Death Eaters walk among us, not outside of this house!"
"I can handle myself!"
By now Harry and Cedric had reached the kitchen door, but they hid beside the frame, unable to find the right time to walk in while the argument seemed to grow even more heated; Sirius insisting and stubborn, and Lupin visibly frustrated with him. In the middle of the two, Mrs Weasley made erratic moves to try and control their volumes and tones, which continued to grow only louder and snappier by the word.
"I am not doubting your skills."
"Well, it doesn't sound like it, Moony."
"There are just too many things we can't control—"
"Like what?"
"I don't know! Maybe you'll expose yourself, maybe the Ministry will catch on!"
"A fat lot of maybes there! Maybe I should go find out for myself and confirm your suspicions!"
"I swear to Merlin—would you just listen to yourself?! You sound like a child!"
"And you sound like an old man!"
Their voices grew louder and angrier, ringing back and forth again and again while Mrs Weasley made meek noises and stuttered in whatever conversational gap she could. Eventually overcome by curiosity, Harry and Cedric poked their heads through the door just in time as Lupin, his face a furious shade of red, split like lightning from his usual gentle persona and slammed his hand against the dining table.
"SIRIUS, I WILL NOT LOSE YOU A SECOND TIME!" he snarled. And so thunderous was Lupin, so seethingly did his voice whip the air, eyes flaming and fierce that suddenly behind Sirius; a cabinet of plates broke and shattered, exploding as if someone had keenly aimed at it with a hammer.
Harry and Cedric jumped at the noise while Mrs Weasley made a frightful cry, Sirius ducking away from splintered wood that groaned as it crumbled; as if it was put under a sudden and immense amount of stress; the glass and porcelain shards cascading off the wall.
At once, the fire in Lupin's eyes doused as he panted, a bead of sweat slipping down his face, he began to realize what exactly he had just done.
"I didn't mean for—! Oh Molly, I'm so sorry." Lupin said, and when he raised his trembling hands—which had been curled fists and held, strict at his side—only then, did Harry, and perhaps the rest of the room suddenly realize how misshapen they looked; their appearance slightly dark as if he had dipped them into the mud, his fingers elongated, nails winding into sharp, claws.
Startled, Sirius stared Lupin with wide eyes, shock fogging his face. Mrs Weasley slapped her palm across her mouth.
Lupin's started to breathe shallowly, "I-I-I… I need to—" he winced as he hid his hands underneath his armpits, and began to try frantically escape out of the room. Sirius tried to grab hold of Lupin's arm,
"Remus—"
But as soon as he reached out, Lupin slapped his hand away and unwittingly dragged his claws through the skin of his forearm in the process. Sirius yelped in sudden pain while Lupin's face went white with horror.
"Sirius, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" he said, reaching out toward him but Sirius instinctively flinched away.
"It's fine, its fine, just—... Moony?" He stared as Lupin backed away, his head shaking, eyes darting towards the floor.
"I need to go… I need to go ."
"No… Hang on, I'm sorry! That was just-"
"Don't follow me, Pads," Lupin said and he unsteadily stepped through the kitchen door, passing Harry and Cedric without a care as he stumbled down the dark hallway.
"Wait, listen to me!" Sirius yelled, racing after him, not noticing Harry and Cedric either as his footsteps pounded heavy against the wooden floor; his arms hurriedly flinging the door open with a sharp BAM! as Mrs Black's screams started up behind him.
It was five-thirty in the morning, every street-facing window was curtained off, shrouding the pavement below in utter darkness. Only the dim streetlamp glow remained, and in this light, Sirius could narrowly make out Remus's retreating back.
"Sirius!" Harry called from the doorway, he clutched at his ears while Cedric and a surprised-but grateful-Mrs Weasley tried to pull back Mrs Black's curtain with all their might. But Sirius didn't seem to hear anything from behind, running at full-speed and all too focused on what he could see right in front of him.
"Remus, wait! Just stop for one second! We need to—" and then Sirius came to an abrupt halt, interrupted as his nose collided into Lupin's back.
For a second they stood still there, only a second, but it felt like a rather quick eternity. A little mist drifted from Sirius's nostril, London's morning cold still brutal even in the summer. Lupin was letting out the same mist, still panting, though to Sirius it sounded more as if he was gasping for air; a small panic attack wrecking Lupin's mind and body, shock registering into his reflexes.
"I didn't mean to— you know... I— you hurt me suddenly and I was just surprised that's all, I didn't—!" and for the second time Sirius was interrupted. But it wasn't as abrupt, he let himself fade away, realizing that Lupin wasn't really listening in this moment; the way his back stiffened, the way he planted his legs into the road, it was all very very wrong.
"Please… please just leave me alone," he said, still not turning around.
Something icy suddenly shot through Sirius's veins, but as soon as he came to his senses, lurching forward with a "WAIT!"
CRACK!
Lupin was gone.
And after a brief moment of stunned silence, Sirius realized that his arms had lunged for empty air.
A couple of meters behind him, Harry held his breath and watched as Sirius stared out into the now vacant street of Grimmauld Place. Suddenly Mrs Weasley's voice erupted, shrill and panicked, as she came up from behind.
"Where did Remus go?!"
"H-he apparated—" Harry began but Mrs Weasley had already run forward.
"You have to go after him, Sirius!" She said, clutching his shoulder, "He can't go out like that!"
But Sirius stood still, not responding, only staring out to the cars that rested by the kerb. He cradled his bleeding arm and just stared, despondent, eyes blinking rapidly.
"Sirius?" said Harry, who walked towards them.
His godfather looked up with a face lit with small surprise, "Oh Harry..." he said as if he had just noticed him, speaking in a voice barely heard.
For a second, something flashed in Harry's mind, a snippet of a memory when Sirius was only a year or so out of Azkaban; his dirty uniform hanging off his spindly body, face haggard and bleak, a harsh yellowed smile yellow and empty, black eyes that stared from the scruff of his tatty hair.
He looked terrible in that memory. Absolutely god awful. Harry wanted for him to never look that way, ever again. But for some reason… the sight in front of him now, was somehow worse.
The Sirius that stood right there, dressed in his fine and clean suit, face full and body well-fed and cared for; this Sirius was more of a distressing sight than how Sirius looked the first time he had appeared in Harry's life. It took him aback, it made him freeze like he had never done so before, as if moving would crack all the veins in his body. And when he touched Sirius's uninjured arm, eyebrows knitting and voice lumped in his throat, Harry could only ask,
"Sirius…why are you crying?"
And at this, Mrs Weasley stopped talking as she had been the last couple of minutes, turning her head and then staring while Sirius brought his fingers to his face and blinked in sudden realization. The tears dropped from his crestfallen face, sliding down his cheeks so passively, it was as if they were never meant to be there in the first place; if you took them away, it would just look like normal Sirius minus the sagged shoulders and the line of vision that had returned to the floor. If you took the tears away, it would've just been normal Sirius, standing in the middle of the street, minus the fact that he could only gape dumbly, not knowing what to say or do next; his mouth crumpling as a torrent of emotion crashed into him.
"Molly, he can't be alone, you know that. Not right now, not like… that." Sirius finally said, his voice barely stable, eyes still blinking rapidly.
"I know, I know. We can go right now if you'd like, it's nearly full-moon so he can't have gone far—"
"No, no. You heard him. I can't go."
Mrs Weasley stopped, "Sirius,"
"Please, please. I won't ask for anything else today, I promise, just…" and Sirius suddenly stumbled forward as if he lost strength in his legs, Harry catching him right before he hit the ground, "If something happens, I—!"
Mrs Weasley sighed, an ache in her heart.
"Oh dear..." she said, carefully holding his arm. But still Sirius didn't seem to budge from his stiff shock.
"We'll find him," said voice behind Harry, it was Cedric's. "Mrs Weasley and I will go, and we'll bring him back—she's right after all, he can't have gone very far."
"Okay," Sirius said, his composure relaxing slightly, "Alright."
"Let's get him inside first." Mrs Weasley said, and she slung an arm around Sirius's waist, going back inside and shutting the door firmly behind; ignoring Mrs Black's muffled wails and violence from behind her curtain.
After they settled Sirius in an armchair—Mrs Weasley having left to scrounge around for a bandage roll in the houses many drawers—Cedric tapped Harry's shoulder and pulled him away to the kitchen.
"How are you planning on tracking Lupin?" Harry said as soon as they were out of earshot, "He could be anywhere in the country by now!"
"As far as I know the only place he can get a Wolfsbane potion is here from Snape, so, I'm sure he's still around London at least,"
"Are you sure that he's not in werewolf form right now ?" Harry said, concerned.
"I don't think he is. The full moon's still a week away—" Mrs Weasley suddenly burst in, arm full of bandage rolls. Harry and Cedric turned toward the kitchen sink.
"—I think he may only be very sensitive right now." Cedric said, muttering under his breath.
"Sensitive?"
"When you're a lycanthrope, your senses get really heightened before you transform. You hear, smell, see and taste better, so it can get really… overwhelming."
"But what's that got to do with his.. hands?" Harry asked but Cedric sighed, only shaking his head.
"In fifth-year when he taught us about werewolves, Lupin said that strange and random things can happen during the pre-transformation period. No one's ever recorded the effects so there's only so much we know..."
"And, this is outside of the things we know."
"Yep."
Harry sighed. Cedric touched his arm, concerned.
"Are you worried about him?" He looked pointedly at Sirius, who seemed to be getting unsatisfactory medical attention from Mrs Weasley.
"I'm worried about Lupin but I've never seen Sirius like that," Harry said, hesitantly. Cedric nodded.
"Yeah... I think would cry too though, if I was in his shoes."
"Really?" Harry tilted his head, "I was so surprised! I knew that they're close but I didn't think they were that close."
"Yeah I was surprised too, but it kinda makes sense," Cedric crossed his arms. "I always had a feeling, especially the other day, when Sirius asked me to move some stuff from his room—it was a bit of a shock to see Lupin's suits and stuff hanging in his closet-"
"—Wait what?"
"What?"
Harry raised his eyebrows.
"Lupin's suits? Cedric, what are you talking about?"
In an instant, Cedric's expression morphed from slight confusion to a sudden revelation, as his mouth dropped to an "Oh shi—"
"—Cedric! Let's go, we mustn't waste time!" Mrs Weasley interrupted. She had given up on bandaging Sirius and stood by the kitchen door, holding out a coat—probably Mr Weasley's from the pattern—ready to go.
Cedric looked between her and Harry.
"I thought you knew, I thought—" His hands suddenly dove into his hair as he scratched his head in slight frustration. Backing toward Mrs Weasley he pointed at Harry, "Ask Sirius later, okay?"
"...What?"
"Just… just talk to Sirius yeah? I'm sure he'll explain if you ask... I-I'll see you soon!"
What?!
Harry didn't even time think before a flurry of hurried steps pounded against Grimmauld's wooden floor once again, the slam of a door echoing from the hallway. And then he was finally left alone with Sirius, a new multitude of questions to ask.