Chapter Fourteen: Overheard at Easter

'It doesn't matter, it's not a problem,' Lyall said, when he came downstairs and found his son had not yet got dressed - and was instead just staring guiltily at the destroyed cage. 'We'll just have to think of something different next time.'

'But I got free - the Minister …'

'You never got past that basement door. I wouldn't be standing here if you had and we both know it. And the Minister -' he waved his wand and fixed the cage, 'need never know.'

'You can't lie for me - if she comes, if there's been another attack.'

'Yes I can,' and his voice came out snappish. 'You are innocent, Remus John Lupin, and I will not let anyone - not even the Minister for Magic - make a scapegoat of any son of mine. And if that means I have to lie to protect you then - well - your mother would expect no less of me.'

'I wish mum was here.'

'I know - come on, let's get you to bed. I need to look at those ribs. Do they hurt?'

It was a tense sort of day. Remus couldn't sleep - though he knew he would have to, if he was to heal. His ribs hurt, his scratches and bites hurt and he was thoroughly exhausted. But still he couldn't sleep. He just had the strangest, superstitious feeling that if he allowed himself to drift off, then when he awoke it would be to find the Minister at his house and himself under arrest. But if he stayed awake - staring into space and just willing the day away, then nothing would happen - nothing would change.

He read the letters from Sirius and James that always arrived the day after the moon (and realised that was no coincidence, and he was an idiot for not realising they knew about him sooner), tried the crossword and forced himself to stay awake.

'I've had an idea,' Lyall said, appearing in his doorway at about half past two. 'It was the door you see - it was a weak spot. And the wolf found it. But if I get rid of that cage and then next time, you go down to the cellar and I'll conjure the cage around you. So there won't be a door. No door - no weak spot. You'll be safe … well, apart from the damage to your ribs.' He looked sad.

'Yeah - yes, that's a - that's a good idea.' He tried to look like he meant it too, and not like his stomach was churning just at the thought of being imprisoned that way.

But Lyall wasn't fooled. 'I really am sorry, son. And I wouldn't do it if it wasn't necessary - for both of us.'

'I know - I understand. I … I know what I am.'

'You're a boy - same as any other,' his dad suddenly sounded stern. 'There's nothing wrong with you, Remus - and you mustn't get to thinking that there is. Your mother wouldn't stand for it.'

'Mum wasn't from our world - she didn't understand.'

'I think she understood just fine. She was able to see things, your mum - and she could see our world from an outsider's perspective. In many ways she could see it more clearly than we ever could. And she knew there was nothing wrong with you. That it was the world that was wrong - to treat a boy that way, a child…'

'I won't always be a child. You said last night I was nearly a man. I won't be a boy forever.'

'But none of this will ever be your fault. You will never deserve the way you get treated - and it is them that is in the wrong. Not you.'

'Well - thanks for the pep talk,' he smiled wryly. 'Not that it'll do me much good in Azkaban… has there been any word…?'

'Not yet. I'll let you know as soon as the evening edition of the paper gets here.'

Remus nodded - and went back to staring blankly at the opposite wall. The sun shifted westwards, the shadows grew longer - Remus forced himself to stay awake.

And then, when his eyelids were heavy and drooping and he didn't think he could keep himself awake a moment longer - but was still too afraid to give in to his tiredness - he heard the rapid footsteps of his father running up the stairs.

'What happened? Was it in Warrington? The attack…?' Suddenly he was wide awake again.

Lyall clutched the Evening Prophet in his hand, he was breathing rather heavily. 'I've read the whole thing cover to cover - there was no attack. No one was killed last night, not that they've found. It might be over - we might be safe.'

…

Lily sidled her way down the street - headed to the corner shop. Things were much the same in Cokeworth as she had left them back at Christmas; the layoffs hadn't happened yet but there was still talk. People were still nervous, tempers still frayed, money still short … Even without Mr. Snape being as awful as he was, Lily could still well understand why Sev would choose not to come back here.

At least the sun was shining, this time. Cokeworth was always sooty and dismal, but it was a bit less dismal in the sunshine.

But she wasn't interested in either the weather or the economy today - today she had her 26 pence clutched tight in her fist, inside her pocket - and she was going to get her 20 filtered Silk Cut. Her career as an effortlessly cool smoker began right now.

Or - at least - right after she found someone to buy them for her. Mr. Green, in the shop, had known her her whole life; he knew where she lived and who her mum was - there was no way she could just walk into his shop and buy cigarettes from him. But she could hardly ask any other grownups either - no responsible adult would buy a thirteen year old girl cigarettes. She needed …

She came across what she was looking for - a couple of teenagers, maybe about 17, snogging on a bench. She came to a stop a couple of feet away and cleared her throat. 'Excuse me.'

They continued to snog.

She cleared her throat again. 'I said excuse me .'

The teenagers pulled apart with the squelching sound of a plunger unblocking a drain. They stared at her. The girl looked quite annoyed, though the boy (who had slicked back hair and a leather jacket and was … almost as dreamy as Bobby, now Lily looked at him) seemed quite amused by her.

'I - er - I wanted to buy some cigarettes,' Lily told him. She was gabbling and starting to blush, and he was smiling - and utterly gorgeous … and that was just making her more flustered. 'I have the money. 26 pence,' She pulled it out of her pocket and held it out. 'Only Mr. Green won't sell them to me because I'm not ol … I mean, he knows my mum. I mean…' she blushed furiously again. Why had she mentioned her mother to him? She must sound like a stupid kid. 'Anyway - I was hoping … would you mind … getting them for me? I've actually got 29 pence - I found it down the back of the sofa; you can keep the change if you buy them.'

'We were busy,' the girl said.

But the boy was grinning. 'You're a little rebel,' he said to her. She blushed again - but with pleasure. 'Alright then, kid - give us the dosh, I'll get 'em. Wait here.'

She handed over her coins - 'I want the Silk Cut. Filtered.'

'Fancy.' He disappeared around the corner, leaving his girlfriend on the bench and Lily hanging around awkwardly.

'So - er - have you been going out long?' Lily asked the girl.

'About two months.' She looked very pleased with herself.

'He's gorgeous.'

'I know.'

The boy came back, slouching around the corner with his hands in his pockets and whistling nonchalantly. 'Here you go, then, pet. Don't inhale first time or you'll be sick, understand?' He handed over the cigarettes. 'It's been a pleasure doing business with you. Look me up when you want some more.'

'I will do - thanks.' She nodded her head, feeling flustered again - and walked away.

'Cute kid,' she heard the boy say. 'Who is she?'

'Her? No one - Tuney's younger sister. Little Lily Evans.'

The boy chuckled. 'Hellraiser Evans, eh? Pretty cool for a kid.'

Lily walked on air all the way to the park.

…

She clambered up to the top of the monkey bars and sat on them, her legs dangling down, and reached in her pocket - taking out the box of matches she had swiped from the kitchen drawer (she would return it before her mum noticed it was gone). Then, with her hands trembling a little and her heart racing, she opened up the pack of cigarettes and slid one out. She put it between her lips - it felt all wrong and the tip went very soggy very quickly. But she gripped it tighter and clung on, fiddling with the matches and trying to get one to light. It took her three attempts - and the spent matchsticks lay scattered on the ground, but eventually she got one to take light and the flame to hold. She cupped her hand around it, the way she had seen people do on the television, and brought it up to her cigarette.

It began to smoke - and she had a moment of triumphant euphoria - before the acrid taste hit the back of her throat and she gagged. The bitter smell made her choke. But unperturbed she held the cigarette between her lips for a while longer - and then finally took a drag. It made her feel dizzy, her head went all light and she wobbled on top of the monkey bars. She righted herself - took another drag … and then a wave of nausea overtook her, she bent double and vomited copiously all over the ground.

The cigarette fell from between her fingers right into the pool of sick and, truthfully, she was not sorry to have lost it. Once she was done vomiting, she lay down across the bars for a while, feeling queasy. After several long and uncomfortable moments, she climbed down and made her way back home, scuffling her feet and feeling that things had not gone at all as planned.

…

Sirius fiddled with the frilly collar on his dress robes and scowled darkly, very glad his friends could not see him now - all gussied up in velvet and lace and looking like a right poncy, pureblood prince. He hated to admit it to himself … but he looked like a knob . 'Proper bell end, mate,' he muttered under his breath to himself, tugging at his collar once again.

'Take that look off your face,' Walburga hissed at him, as she wafted past, champagne flute in her hand. 'We're supposed to be hosting - so look like it.'

He only deepened his scowl, and stuck two fingers up behind his mum's back. The last thing he wanted was for any of the foul gits his parents called party guests coming over and talking to him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked as sulky and unwelcoming as possible.

Over on the wall he could see the blast mark on the tapestry of the Black family tree - right between Bellatrix and Narcissa - where Andromeda used to be. He mooched over to look at his own name. It was only a matter of time before he was blasted as well. Gloomily he wondered how long it would be … He wasn't actually sure if he was dreading it, or looking forward to it.

His collar itched his neck and he fiddled with it some more - and went to swipe a canape from one of the floating trays of fancy hors d'oeuvres. If he kept an eye out for his parents, checked he was unnoticed, he might even be able to nick a glass of champagne…

He held his breath, looked around …

Once his mission was successfully completed, he surreptitiously scuttled through the crowds of guests, with his ill-gotten gains, and found a quiet spot to lurk in. It wouldn't be half bad if it wasn't for his ridiculous lacy collar itching his neck and the fact he could hear the grownups droning on in their well bred, posho voices. He made a mental note to flatten his vowels, if anyone talked to him, to sound as much like Remus as possible.

But no one seemed to want to talk to him - which was fine by him. So he just lurked and scowled and munched his salmon vol au vent.

'Yes, I met with him last week,' he overheard Evan Rosier telling Abraxas Malfoy. 'I actually stood in his presence, the Dark Lord himself.'

Sirius froze mid-munch and pricked his ears up. The likes of Rosier and Malfoy thought themselves very mighty and important indeed; he couldn't begin to imagine why toffee-nosed blokes like them would be impressed at the thought of meeting someone else - not when they were so smugly self satisfied with their own position in life. Nor could he think why they would be calling a wizard "Lord". There was no wizarding royalty or nobility. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was, after all, all talk and no title.

'What was he like? In the flesh?' Malfoy asked.

'He was everything we hoped for. I really think he might be the one to do it. To bring the old ways back.'

Sirius shuffled a bit closer, edging towards them - though he was careful not to look directly at them, not to draw attention to himself. This conversation sounded very much like the sort of things he had overheard Mulciber and Avery gobbing off to Snape about, all those months ago. About the way things were changing. It sounded like the sort of thing that was linked to all those mysterious disappearances in the paper … and to the werewolf attacks, which the Minister wanted to pin on Remus. (Speaking of the Minister - she was over in the far corner, chatting to a high ranking member of the wizengamot. Sirius spared an extra dark scowl just for her.)

'I am hoping Lucius will join up when he leaves Hogwarts,' Malfoy was saying. 'He seems keen.'

'Yes, you got a good one there. Not like some filthy little blood traitors we could mention; disgracing their family trees at such a tender, young age.'

Sirius felt both sets of eyes settle on him, and he took that as his cue to slouch off. He swiped another Vol au Vent and mooched over to the corner furthest from the Minister for Magic. He was very tempted to kick her in the shins - but, if he did that, his mother would want to know why (after she was done beating seven bells out of him) and that would only out Remus as a werewolf. If Walburga Black found out that her son (even her disgrace of a blood traitor eldest son) was sharing a dorm with a werewolf, she would kick up a stink so huge that Remus would be forced from the castle. So he kept his distance - and his feet to himself - and instead lurked behind a sickly looking Venomous Aspidistra plant, which was wilting quietly at the edge of the room. Its drooping leaves hid him quite nicely.

From here, he could hear his own father talking to Mulciber's dad. At least Mulciber himself wasn't here. Slimy git.

'Yes, yes, we're terribly proud of Regulus … he seems to be moving in the right direction.'

'Shame he's only your second son.'

'Yes. That was a bad business last year, with the sorting. A great shame. Walburga hasn't been the same since. Well, home doesn't feel like home anymore once you've got a blood traitor in your midst. Don't know where he gets it from…'

'It can happen in the best families…' Though there was a supercilious sneer on Mr. Mulciber's face that made it all too plain that nothing of the sort would ever happen in his home. Sirius felt a sudden surge of hatred towards the pair of them. 'Still - his type will be weeded out. The Dark Lord will make the changes we all crave. Soon…'

Sirius sneezed. The leaves, hiding him from view, rustled. Orion Black frowned, reached out, and yanked Sirius from his hiding place. He gave his son a vicious shake. 'We did not bring you up to be an eavesdropper - that's a nasty, common way to behave. You should know better. You're a Black - act like one, a gentleman - not like the guttersnipes you call friends. Get away with you.'

Sirius tore himself free and stalked off.

'My my my,' he heard Mr. Mulciber say, 'where did you go wrong with that one?'

Sirius glowered at them over his shoulder, kicked the chaise longue as he walked past it and went looking for another glass of champagne.

He grabbed one and ducked behind the curtains to drink it, knowing it would be taken from him if he got spotted by an adult. And then his mum would wallop him one with her broomstick once the party was done and all their high society guests had gone home. She wasn't one for causing a scene in front of people she was trying to impress - wasn't Mrs. Black - but behind closed doors, or with people she felt were beneath her, she had no problem making her feelings known - every last, vicious, horrible one of them.

And - for some reason that Sirius didn't quite understand - his mum did seem to be trying to impress her guests today. She would always charm the Minister - no matter what horrible things she would say about Jenkins behind her back, that was just politics. But today there was a brittleness to her smile, a slightly harried expression she was trying to hide - as she chivied Sirius around and tried to get him to act like he was one of them - that told him his mum was unsure about something. She was trying too hard among her other guests. Something had shifted. The Blacks were not at the very top any more - and she was fighting for their place in a new world order… and Sirius being a blood traitor was not making things any easier for her.

Which was pretty much the only good thing about his being forced to be here. Well - that and the champagne.

The bubbles tickled his nose and the alcohol made his head go all fuzzy. He felt flushed with heat and pleasantly dizzy. It was quite nice …

'I was so sorry to hear about the terrible business with Andromeda,' a woman's snooty voice floated through the fabric of the curtains. She lowered her voice as she said "Andromeda" - as if the name was a disgusting swear word.

'Yes it was a terrible shock - my poor brother…' he heard his mother reply, though she sounded none too pleased about having this other family scandal mentioned. 'Still, she's dead to us now.'

'This is the way things have to be. To think - a bloodline as ancient as yours being polluted by a muggle.' (There was a slight smirk to her voice that told Sirius - even through the curtains - that this woman was enjoying the situation very much.) 'Well - the child can never be acknowledged.'

'No - Andromeda's bastard shall never be recognised as a Black. Nor shall it ever set foot in the house. Not as long as there is breath in my body.'

'Of course it was a great shame,' the lady said, sounding like she thought it was anything but, 'that the whole of Hogwarts had to find out…'

'Yes, well, it seems my eldest takes after his erstwhile cousin.'

Sirius tutted to himself behind the curtains. It wasn't him that had told!

'There seems to be bad blood in that generation,' the snooty lady said, sounding delighted.

Mrs. Black's reply was more than a little snippy. She sounded like she was desperately trying to keep hold of her temper. 'But at least we have Regulus. It is a great comfort to me that he knows what is proper for a wizard of his standing. He has proper pride; he doesn't associate with riff raff like the Potters - or that dreadful son of a muggle my eldest seems so fond of.'

Sirius stopped tutting and started seething. His head was still all muzzy from the champagne and the surge of anger mixed with the alcohol suddenly made him feel unusually reckless and bold - even for him.

'I sent him a howler for the disgrace he brought on us,' his mother was saying, while the blood pounded faster in his ears. 'And we barely speak to him. Filthy blood traitor that he turned out to be. But the Dark Lord can rest assured we know what is right and proper. We don't countenance disloyalty and we certainly don't tolerate muggle loving. And if that means we have to disown our own children, then we do it gladly… After all, we always know we can count on Regulus.'

'Bloody Regulus,' Sirius said from his hiding place. But he spoke loudly - too loudly. The two glasses of champagne meant he couldn't quite regulate his volume, and he spoke over the sound of the roaring in his ears. And worse - the string quartet finished playing just then, sending the whole room into quiet just as he spoke.

'Bloody bloody Regulus bowel movements Black.' It was only then that he noticed the silence. You could hear a pin drop.

And then a hand reached around the drapes and he found himself being hoiked out from behind the curtains and stood, blinking, in the middle of the room. His mother's face was livid as she stared down at him - all red, and her eyes were bulging. 'Go to your room,' she hissed at him from between gritted teeth, trying to use her body to block him and his bad behaviour from the rest of her guests.

But he didn't feel much like being blocked from view. She didn't want a scene - and suddenly causing a scene seemed like the best idea he had ever had. 'Fine, I'm going,' he said loudly, making sure his voice carried to every corner. 'I didn't want to be here in the first place with your slimy, evil git friends.'

Walburga seemed to swell up, looking like she was about to explode - and, just like him, she lost complete control of her temper. She slapped him - a stinging, resounding smack across his cheek, which left a bright, red hand print. 'How dare you!'

'Because I hate you!' His expression was no less furious than hers. No less murderous. The blood was ringing in his ears, his face hurt - he could feel all the eyes in the room on him - and he didn't care at all; at that exact moment, he didn't care about anything.

'And it wasn't me who told Rita Skeeter about Andromeda,' he announced to the room at large. He caught sight of Regulus standing near their father, also ponced up in velvet and lace and not even looking embarrassed about it. The sad little snot. His face was pale and frightened, his eyes large, and the sight of his sudden fear gave Sirius a rush of vindictive pleasure. 'It was Regulus,' he told everyone. 'She overheard him talking about it and wrote every last thing he said down in her newspaper for all the riff raff and mudbloods to read. And to laugh at. And to look down on us for.'

He glanced at his mother, his expression full of spite. 'So much for your pride in your poncy pureblood prince! He's the one that blabbed the family secrets!'

She slapped him again. 'You filthy liar! Get out! Kreacher!'

There was a loud cracking sound, and the house elf appeared - bowing low to the carpet.

'Take Master Sirius to his room and lock him in . Do not leave him his wand.'

She gave Sirius a look that told him this was just the beginning of his suffering, and that he was going to pay later for making a scene in front of her high society friends.

He returned her look - matching her, loathing for loathing - and then, feeling he had nothing to lose anyway, turned and spat right at the Minister for Magic. There was an intake of shocked breath and horrified murmurings. 'That's for Remus,' he said - and then he stormed from the drawing room, Kreacher chasing after him.

'Of course the Dark Lord need not fear there are any other blood traitors in the family,' he heard his mother say. Her voice was strained - she sounded almost hysterical. 'As you can see - as you can tell him - we do not tolerate such things. He shall be punished - you can tell the Dark Lord that…'

And he heard his father leading the Minister away from the crowds - out of earshot from what Walburga was saying - and murmuring his deepest apologies. And then the door slammed shut, and he could hear no more.

…

Locked in his bedroom, once again, he kicked the furniture some more, yelled every swear word he knew and punched his pillow until it exploded - and feathers cascaded down around him like snow.

Then he took some deep breaths - swore some more - and took his copy of Ponce's Peerage down from the shelf. (He didn't choose to keep it in his room himself, but no matter where around the house he tried to lose it - it somehow always found its way back. Whenever he returned from school, there it was - on his bookshelf - waiting for him.) He rifled through the pages, shuddering in embarrassed anger at his own entry on page 394, quickly turning away from it and reading the other names.

He checked every page with an entry on it from this century - and even went all the way back to half way through the last, just to be sure. But he didn't find what he was looking for - though that did not come as a surprise. He knew he had been right. There were no wizarding Lords. And if there ever had been - then one had not been born since at least 1850. So - whoever this "Dark Lord" that had everyone wetting their knickers was - he was not a proper "Lord" at all.

He chucked the book across the room, ripped off his dress robes and dumped them on the floor in a messy pile and then crawled into bed - waiting for the party to be over and for his mum to come and deal with him.

…

She didn't hit him, in the end. In the end, she was so choked up with rage - just at the mere sight of him - that she couldn't even speak. So she locked him in his bedroom and kept him locked in there for the rest of the week, until it was time to return to school.

He was only given the barest smidge to eat and a glass of water a day (though Remus and James sent flasks of pumpkin juice and plenty of snacks, unbeknown to her). And he wasn't even allowed out to the bathroom - though he banged and pounded on the door at first, begging and crying to be allowed to go. But he was ignored, except for by Regulus - who gloated at him through the locked door - and Kreacher was sent in once a day to vanish the mess.

…

Once he was recovered from the moon, the rest of the holiday passed quietly enough for Remus. It was Hope's Anniversary just before he was due to return to school - and he and his father flew their brooms down to Pontypridd and the parkland where they had scattered her ashes. They had a picnic there, just like she had used to when she was a girl, and then they had dropped into his Grandma Howell's for a visit.

Other than that, they had stayed home and checked the paper every day. But no mauled body had been found. Not in Warrington and not anywhere. As the days slid by and they moved further away from the full moon, they had started to hope that perhaps there really had been no attacks this month.

Mable Grable certainly seemed to think the attacks had stopped due to all her articles in the Daily Prophet.

Muggles say the quill is mightier than the sword - and today we can celebrate that it is indeed mightier than the wand.

She wrote.

A sustained war of words, an unflinching refusal to back down, an insistence of speaking truth to both power and perpetrators, has now resulted in an end to the violence that has plagued us since August. Knowing they could not go unnoticed, that the whole wizarding world would be turned against them by the writings of my irrepressible, unsuppressable quill, the savage werewolves have finally backed down and admitted defeat.

This is a day of victory for us all - but most of all a victory for the English language, and the way it can be used to change hearts and minds; to accuse and to comfort; to set forth our ideals, castigate and shame the guilty and protect the innocent.

This truly is a red letter day for the Daily Prophet.

Meanwhile, Minister for Magic, Eugenia Jenkins, was convinced that it was the threats of her harsh measures that had made the werewolves sit up and take notice.

"Though known for its savagery, the werewolf is - at heart - a coward, and will put self preservation above all else - even its own ravening blood lust. The change in laws to allow us to execute beasts who use their condition as an excuse to butcher the innocent (or imprison them indefinitely if not yet of age) has frightened them into compliance. We shall see no more attacks - they are too afraid of the consequences. You may rest assured that the Ministry has preserved law and order and ensured your ongoing safety. As we have always done - and as we will always do. You can put your trust in the Ministry of Magic.'

She announced over the WWN, one evening, in a live broadcast.

For himself, Remus did not care why the attacks had stopped, or who took credit for stopping them (though he did not fail to notice Jenkins' sly dig aimed solely at him). He was just glad nobody else had died, and relieved that he may no longer be under suspicion (or at least that nothing could be pinned on him - Jenkins had clearly nailed her colours to the mast on who she wanted to blame, but now - by her own admission - there was nothing more for which she could blame him, and so he was safe).

He hadn't quite realised just how much his fear of being made a scapegoat and expelled (or worse!) had been weighing down on him until a week had gone by - no body was found - and he dared to believe that maybe it really was all over. Suddenly he felt so light and free that he was almost surprised he didn't just float away.

He slept better, he healed quicker and - although he was quietly at home and not with his boisterous friends - he still felt like he was happier and had laughed more than he had since he was first accused.

He wasn't an idiot; he knew things would never be good for him, that hatred and suspicion was something he would just have to get used to and that - no matter what Sirius promised - his life would be a hard and lonely one. But, for now at least, he was just happy to be in the clear. To have nothing more to worry about than his homework, and to be facing his next transformation with nothing but the usual trepidation over the pain.

And - as he packed his things ready to return to Hogwarts, at the end of the holidays - he found himself cheerfully thinking that this must be what it felt like to be a normal boy.