Cherries and Curses

It was the hottest hour of the afternoon and Harry was trudging up the hillside to the manor. A thin stream of blood was running from his knee to his calf but he paid no attention to it. It was just a little accident: he fell to the ground while playing ball with the other children down at the village.

Truth to be told, Harry hadn't even wanted to leave the house that day. Since the man with one eye had given him the tapestry, he'd been barely able to take his eyes off it: for a while, his days had been spent indoors, watching the smiling faces of his parents and relatives, memorizing all the names and relations woven into the beautiful fabric. He sat on the floor for hours, contemplating it. There, at the bottom of the tapestry, for the first time in his life, he'd found a place where he could fit.

But the one-eyed man one day had walked down the stairs with a dark face. He'd planted himself between Harry and the tapestry saying that enough was enough: Harry couldn't spend all his days staring at the wall. So he shooed him out of the house, told him to go the village or something.

That was how Harry had found himself spending the summer afternoons kicking a soiled, tattered ball, playing with the local children, whose language was becoming more and more comprehensible as the days went by. And even if today he'd fallen on concrete and scraped his knee, he still had a great time. They'd carried on playing until the mid-afternoon sun had become hot enough to crack the stones and everyone had run back to their houses.

Harry had wiped the blood off his knee, with an absent mind, as he headed back to the manor, thinking about the one-eyed man and scowling.

It was unfair, really. The wizard knew so much about Harry and his family while he didn't even know the man's name! And he was sure that asking would be useless since the wizard would refuse to tell him, just like Elf had refused before him.

Harry vented his frustration by kicking the stones on the path, the cats -which always followed him around like a shadow- meowed in disapproval. It wasn't just that he wanted to know the man's name: he also wished he could give something to him, something to repay him for the tapestry…

It didn't matter what the wizard said, according to Harry the tapestry was a gift. And the most wonderful one. Harry wouldn't change it for all of Dudley's toys, nor all the toys in the world. To think that just a few months ago he hadn't even known how his mom and dad looked like... now he knew the faces of all his relatives, even the ones of those who had lived so long before him, centuries ago. It was incredible and a bit overwhelming.

But, apart from his gratitude, Harry had nothing he could give. He owned nothing, not even the clothes on his body belonged to him, they too were a gift from the one-eyed wizard.

Besides, what could he possibly give to a man who was rich enough to own a manor and had magic at his disposal? He kept on walking in a sour mood, sure now more than ever that he will never own something the wizard would consider of value.

He had just reached the garden of the manor when the man in question came out from the front door, long smoking pipe in hand, wrapped in his usual black mantle, even under the blazing sun.

He narrowed his eye at him.

"What happened?" he inquired as Harry got closer.

Harry followed the man's gaze; it was fixed on his scraped knee, the vibrant red was glimmering under the sun, making the wound seem much worse than what it was.

"It's nothing," he hurried to say as he studied the crooked line of blood with mild interest. "I fell on the ground while playing football."

He had seen worse, for sure.

The man blew a puff of smoke in the air, then took his wand from his pocket and waved it, making the cut disappear in an instant. Harry blinked at his now pristine knee, slightly baffled. He'd been here for weeks and magic was ordinary practice at the manor, but it still amazed him to see how much one could accomplish with it. When he looked up from his leg, he saw the wizard giving the cats who'd followed Harry to the village the evil eye, as if they had done something truly offending. They ran away in a haste, reaching the shadow of a distant tree.

"Football?" the man said, after a while. "How boring."

"It's not boring!" protested Harry, almost offended but also slightly worried at the thought that the wizard would found him boring. "It's fun!"

The man let out a snort.

"That's because you never tried some real sport, like Quidditch," he replied, with his everlasting air of superiority which Harry would have found annoying if not for the fact that he really liked the one-eyed man now.

"What's Quidditch?"

"What's Quidditch, he asks," sighed the man in mock exasperation. Then he looked thoughtful, before waving his wand again. From somewhere inside the manor, an old looking broom flew straight into his waiting hand.

"This is a Silver Arrow, fourteenth model" he began, rolling the broomstick in his palms and watching it with a strange fondness."Pretty old now, but still a great broom. The best one, back in the days. Good balance, great acceleration, perfect handle. Here, take it."

He gave it to Harry, who looked at it with perplexity.

"Do you want me to sweep the floor?" he asked, not minding the idea, actually, for the first time in his life he would do it gladly: at least he would be able to do something for the man.

"Sweep the floor?" the man looked simply incredulous and as if that was the last thing one should do with a broom. He also seemed slightly offended, as if Harry had just said something disrespectful. "Of course not! This is a broom, it's used to fly."

"Fly?"

The man sighed. Then he pondered in silence for a while.

"Follow me," he said, finally, as he headed towards a part of the garden cleared from trees and bushes.

Harry trotted behind him, curious and excited.

.

.

.

The boy flew like a dream.

Regulus watched him, shading his eye with his hand in the strong sun that was shining. Harry shot into the sky, lighting-quick, reaching ten, twenty, thirty feet before he plummeted down without a moment of hesitation, as nimble and fast as a hawk chasing a prey.

The first time he'd done that Regulus had almost had a heart attack: he'd quickly shot a spell to the ground to make it soft as a pillow as he expected Harry to crash in the most spectacular way. But it had been unnecessary: just a few inches from the ground, Harry had pulled himself up, with all the confidence and skill of a professional player. He'd hurtled through the air, his toes barely grazing the blades of grass.

Regulus had to stop himself from gaping.

If he hadn't known for a fact that Harry had been living with muggles since a few weeks ago, he'd have never believed this was his first time on a broom.

Harry dived again, he laughed and whirled around Regulus for a couple of times, before rolling midair in a back-flip. It was a move that had taken Regulus months to learn... the child was doing it as if he'd never done anything else all his life long.

There was a big cherry tree in the garden.

Regulus walked towards it with an idea forming in his head. He plucked some cherries from the nearest branch.

"Hey!" he shouted at Harry who was now hovering twenty feet from the ground. As the child turned to look, Regulus tossed a cherry in his direction.

Harry shot to his left and caught it, swiftly. He looked at it for a second before throwing it into his mouth and eating it with gusto. Just when he was spitting out the pit, Regulus threw another one... then another one, and another one...

It was truly impressive. The cherries were smaller and darker than a Snitch, so way harder to see and catch, and yet Harry didn't let a single one fall to the ground.

Not a single one.

James Potter had been a phenomenal player- much to Regulus' displeasure- but not even him could have been as good as Harry was at only seven.

Regulus didn't know for how long they kept on going like this, with him throwing the cherries and Harry eating them as he caught them one by one.

There was a bright feeling in his chest as he watched Harry fly on what once was his broom, laughing so much you could tell he was enjoying every second of it. Old images were resurfacing in his mind, memories he thought lost forever, old Quidditch matches he won, hours of practice under the rain and sun, all the adrenaline that came with a game. Regulus had taken Quidditch very seriously, as if crashing the enemy was a matter of life and death, and he knew that once he left school behind, the world outside would be exactly like that: there was a war going on, and losing was not an option. The thought had never soured Regulus' fun anyway. Flying had been moments of absolute joy. Moments he'd thought did not exist in him anymore.

It was only when the sun started sinking below the hills that Regulus realized he'd been spending hours throwing cherries at Harry, hours spent fooling around. He cursed himself, wondering when exactly had Harry become so damn distracting and why had Regulus let that happen anyway.

Finally, the boy landed on the grass, jumping off the broom as light as a cat. He stood in front of Reg, a bright smile splitting his face.

"That-was-amazing!"

"It certainly was," confirmed Regulus, smiling despite himself. "You are a natural talent."

Harry's cheeks -already pink because of the wind and exertion- became red as a red pepper.

"It's so easy!" he said as if to justify himself and his skill.

"It's really not," rebutted Reg, raising an eyebrow. "Though you make it look like it is."

Harry laughed and jumped on the spot as if he couldn't stand to keep his feet on the ground. Regulus stared, mildly surprised, Harry had never looked more like a child as he did in that moment: all carefree and spontenuous. Since he came to the manor he'd always been extremely self-controlled and cautious.

"You were right, this is way better than football!" he admitted, still laughing.

"Of course I'm right," he kept on studying Harry. "You'd be a hell of a Seeker."

"What's a Seeker?" asked Harry.

Regulus huffed.

"I have to take you to a Quidditch match one day," he said, before remembering he really had no time for such trifle and why would he say that in the first place?

A loud "POP" made them both jump.

Kreacher had just appeared in the middle of the garden.

"MASTER REG-!" he shouted, before quickly clasping his mouth with his hands.

Regulus' eyes widened at his elf's slip-up. What the hell?

"Reg!" echoed Harry, whirling around to look at him. "Is that your name?"

"No," replied Regulus, dryly. 'Reg' was a muggle name, for Salazar's sake.

But it was no use: Harry was now watching him with a huge, triumphant smile, green eyes glimmering at him as if he'd just discovered all of Regulus' secrets.

"Master..."

Regulus swung his attention back to his elf and felt himself freeze. Kreacher looked on the verge of a panic attack, frightened eyes bulging out of his face. Fear shot through Regulus. Something terrible must have happened.

.

.

.

His mother was kneeling on the floor of her bedroom, eyes rolled back into her skull, blood running in rivers from her ears and nose. She had a thick, ancient book in her hands and was chanting something intelligible under her breath.

Regulus ran to her, heart in his throat. He tried to rip the book from her hands, but it was as if fingers and pages had been stitched together.

He grabbed his wand.

"Separo!" he shouted; the spell hurled the book into the air. It went crashing against the wall, pages fluttering all around.

The moment the book left his mother's grip, she fell back against the floorboards. A horrid blackness started to cover her skin, spreading rapidly across her hands. Regulus felt his blood run cold.

Damn it, damn it all!

He uttered every healing spell he'd ever read and known, mind reeling, until that dreadful blackness- which had already reached his mother's elbows- ceased its course and the blood stopped pooling on the floor.

He sat back on his haunches, brows drenched with sweat, heart pounding so hard his chest almost hurt. He raised a hand to his mother's face. She was unconscious but still breathing, pale as death and with blood lines intertwining on her face like dark graffiti. White hair disheveled, streaked with blood-red.

Regulus picked her up and laid her on the bed, staggering like a drunken man in his walk. Then he quickly crossed the room and, with extreme caution, he scooped the book off the floor... finding out that, of course, it was a book of black magic, and of course it was filled with dark curses of the worst kind.

"Oh, mother, what have you done?" he mumbled, as he flipped through the worn-out pages of the tome. The more he read the more he realized how grave the situation was.

His mother had tried to meddle with incredibly complex magic and lost control, turning whatever curse she was casting against herself.

He felt as if an abyss had opened beneath his feet.

There was no solution this time, wasn't it?

He threw the book against the wall and went back to his mother. Kreacher had followed him here and was now bathing her face with a soaked rag, trembling from head to foot like he had a fever.

"Kreacher, what the hell happened here?" he asked, keeping his fright and anger in check.

The elf started bawling.

"Oh, my poor Mistress!" he cried, desperate. "My poor, poor Mistress!"

He kept on wailing until, as quick as lightning he dropped the rag, grabbed a silver candle-holder from the bedside table, and proceeded to slam it on his head with unrestrained violence.

Regulus seized his arm.

"Stop with this nonsense, immediately!" he hissed through his teeth.

Kreacher tried to wiggle out of his grip, but without success.

"Kreacher is a bad elf!" he said amid sobs, fixing his big eyes on Regulus' face. "Mistress Walburga got hurt while Kreacher was here, Kreacher didn't pay enough attention to Mistress!"

"It's not your fault," Regulus uttered, his grip loosening a little.

"Kreacher was supposed to take care of poor Mistress Walburga! She's so terribly ill! Krecher failed at his duties!"

"I said, it's not your fault!" snapped Regulus. "You didn't put that dark book in her hands..."

But Kreacher shook his head, anguished.

"Kreacher knew she would curse her... Mistress kept on saying that she would-"

"Curse her?" interrupted Regulus. "What are you talking about?"

His elf didn't offer any answer. Instead, he shut his eyes and mouth and kept on shaking his head as if to say no! no! he didn't want to.

Regulus let him go and picked up the book for a second time. Something new caught his attention: a picture of a woman, half-hidden among the pages, all covered in blood. As he cleaned it with his thumb he recognized her immediately: dark hair, moon-faced, big eyes and a gentle smile that was exactly the same as Harry's.

And everything became clear.

"Mother tried to curse Euphemia Potter, didn't she?" he asked in a barely audible whisper.

Kreacher was in a flood of tears, unable to confirm Regulus' suspicions. But it wasn't necessary: all the answers Regulus needed were right in front of him. His mother had been swearing to take her revenge on Mrs. Potter for more than ten years now... and lately, as her mind became more and more deteriorated, she'd been screaming it at least twice a day. Besides, "A true Black doesn't play around when it comes to revenge" had been one of the first lessons Regulus had ever received from his mother. One he'd learned very well.

Except, when it came to Euphemia Potter it wasn't really about revenge: it was about jealousy and possessiveness, and the fact that Sirius had disowned Walburga way before she did, even before he started considering Mrs. Potter his mother. That infamous summer, when Sirius had decided he had enough of his family and ran away, Walburga had felt it was truly outrageous that the Potters had taken him in, instead of sending him back to his rightful parents. To her, the Potters had stolen her son and it mattered little that it was Sirius who run to them in the first place.

She'd been carrying a mad hatred in her bosom and brooding thoughts of revenge ever since.

Regulus had not taken her mother seriously whenever she screamed about making Euphemia Potter pay, the reason being Walburga's lack of mental stability and the obvious fact there was no Euphemia Potter to take revenge on. Now he was paying the consequences.

"Is...M- Mistress g-going... t-to... re-recover?" asked Kreacher, voice and face terribly broken.

Regulus stared at his mother: she looked strangely peaceful as she laid on her bed, even if a tremor was passing all over her body. He cast some other healing spells until the quivering stopped completely.

He couldn't lie to himself, and even less to Kreacher. It was unlikely his mother was going to survive this. The curse would devour her all eventually. Even if he stared feeding her unicorn blood on a daily basis, he would only delay the inevitable.

She's going to die. No matter what I do.

The thought stuck in his heart like a nail.

"She has three weeks to live... at best," he uttered, trying to swallow in a dry throat.

Kreacher was overcome by a burst of weeping.

"Listen," said Regulus as he kept him in place, hands firm on his shoulders, seeing that Kreacher was reaching for the candle-holder once again, "an elf is a master's responsibility, not the other way around. You're not to be blamed for what happened."

Kreacher had no fault: he'd been bending over backward to take care of both Walburga and Harry. Regulus had asked so much of him and his elf had done everything without complaint. No, if there was someone to be blamed, that would be Regulus...

He felt his guts twist with guilt as he realized how true that was.

Since he stole Harry, he'd barely paid any attention to his mother... The fact he spent the whole afternoon playing with him, like he was a bloody child himself, was proof of that. His mother went from being his first priority to some vague worry in the back of his mind.

And this was the result.

In his defense, he could only say that he had not expected Walburga to do something so extreme. Or rather, it didn't make much sense to him she would wait so long to take her revenge. After all, Euphemia Potter had been dead for almost eight years now. If Walburga had truly wished to curse her, why not act sooner, when her enemy was still alive?

Unless, she did try this before.

The thought crackled through him like a lightning.

Bloody hell, what if she tried this before?

No, Euphemia and her husband had died of Dragon Pox. That was a fact... But what if it had been Walburga to curse them with the sickness?

Had mother thrown black magic at them? Made them ill?

The possibility had never occurred to him, but the more he pondered on it, the more it slithered into him like ice down his collar. It was convincing, almost logical.

Except, he doubted Walburga had the power to pull something like this off. She would have died, if she tried. These type of curses were extremely dangerous and complex, the proof was lying on a bed right in front of him, still covered in blood.

And yet, he remembered her lessons: a true Black would crawl his way out of the tomb for revenge. A true Black would do anything.

She could have done this. Or, at least, she could have tried this before.

What if she succeeded the first time around?

He sat on the bed at his mother's side. Kreacher was still crying, still blaming himself-Regulus guessed- despite what he told him. An odor of rotten apples hung over everything. That was how curses smelt sometimes: sticky, decaying. It was a smell that reminded him of the war more than anything, more than blood.

She probably cursed them.

He decided, right then and there, to never look into the matter.

What was the point, anyway? The Potters were dead and Walburga had sealed her faith, doomed herself. It would change nothing but only prove Regulus his mother was capable of murder. Which was something he'd known his whole life.

Well, there was another thing… he definitely didn't want to find out whether it was his mother's fault if Harry had no magical relatives left alive.