Black Night
Epilogue
Rated R
Lucius/Narcissa, Remus/Bellatrix
Sirius' first memory was from sitting at Florean Fortescue's with Andry.
He couldn't have been older than three, which left Andry near ten. She'd always been a small girl, but he knew she was strong. She'd lifted him onto a swirling red stool and bought him a milkshake, her laughter ringing in his ears like butterflies over warm wheat when he'd gotten a face full of chocolate.
He remembered sitting on that stood, dangling his small feet, curling his fingers carefully around the red plastic seat on either side of his Muggle jeans, sucking in earnest at the shake. Andry had ordered a medium but Mr. Fortescue had given them a large for the same price.
Words that had meant nothing to a three-year-old came back.
"Is he your little brother?"
A butterfly-silky-delicate laugh. "Close enough." He remembered grinning, looking up at her as she mussed his dark hair affectionately.
He felt hot emotions rise in his chest and shoved them fiercely back down. Later, he thought to himself. Later he'd go and sit at that same stool, curl his fingers around the plastic that was now a different shade of red and chipped, he would let his feet hang even though he could put them down, and he would order a chocolate shake and maybe he'd cry. He had cried in public enough times in the past month that it didn't really bother him so much anymore.
Years flashed through his mind, like still-frame photographs that Muggles took. He saw, behind darkened eyelids, Andry running towards the fire to meet him at her house, holding his hand and swinging it, and there were Bella and Narcissa, side by side, the dark, fallen-angel look without having ever fallen. He saw Andry looking terrified at the adults' table - she had been fourteen, and it was her first time dining with anyone older than Narcissa. Her parents had started to consider what men near her age from pureblood families might be suitable. Sirius, barely seven, had watched through a crack in the door, seen the way nineteen-year-old Justin Avery had studied her, and on Andry's behalf he had shivered, not understanding. Later, when she shuddered and cried, he had let her hold his hand and hug him. Another picture of Andry crying - it was Christmas break of her sixth year, and Sirius, nine years old, had hugged her and not let go, not understanding how a heart could truly be broken, much less IAndry'sI heart. Only knowing that she'd been insulted, been hurt, and that she needed him.
Despite almost seven years' difference in their age, Sirius and Andry had been close, very close. Until Sirius had met James they had been best friends, and in a one-is-silver-and-the-other's-gold sort of way, they always had been, always would be.
Except now Andry was dead.
She'd been the one he'd always owled from school, the only reason he got homesick. She'd been the other shame of the family - the other Gryffindor, the other Black who judged by heart and soul instead of blood and house, who could replace expectation with love and who could forgive and smile.
She'd been his family and his life away from Hogwarts.
Now all that was left were memories, and love, and dreams, and a broken shell, a pale cruel mimicry of Andry in life, dressed in dark silk, lying buried in a wooden box.
And a picture on his bedside table.
And a small child who would never remember what it was like to have a mother.
And Sirius wept for himself, so lost, for Andry, because she was gone, and for Nymphadora, who didn't even know what she had lost or what she had ever had, who couldn't understand why Daddy had been gone for a month and would be for a week more.
In a way, Sirius left part of himself behind in a small ice-cream shop, sitting on a stool and kicking his feet back and forth, free of his parents for the day, innocent and happy and with Andry.
Forever.
***
To Regulus Black 12 Grimmauld Place London
Regulus-
I'd like to thank you for taking care of Nymphadora while everything was happening. I don't know what could have happened to her otherwise. I'm also supposed to thank you on Ted's behalf - he still won't be back for a week, and he said he probably wouldn't write anyone. I'm watching Nymphadora and from what I hear, the two of you had a lot of fun.
I'm sorry I didn't speak to you at the funeral, if it means anything. I honestly don't know why. Maybe I was angry at you for not telling me when you found out about Narcissa and Bella. I wouldn't have believed you anyway. I didn't believe James or Remus.
If it does mean anything to you, you're still my brother and you are family - it it doesn't, I'm being sentimental without reason, you stupid bastard!
Thanks again. See you around, kid.
- Sirius
***
Nymphadora's bedtime was long past. The grandfather clock's pendulum twitched back and forth accusingly.
Sirius smiled faintly as the child came up to him and tugged at his robes. "Padfoot?" she whispered.
"Yes, pancake?"
"Mama's not coming?" There was something pleading in the small girl's voice that made Sirius melt. His eyes stung again.
"That's right," he answered softly. She'd been asking questions like this stubbornly for the past several weeks that he'd been taking care of her now - he'd managed to convince Moody to give him leave for five and a half so that Ted could go, could be on his own. But Nymphadora's voice wasn't stubborn now, it was frightened. Her lip trembled.
He gathered her up and pulled her onto his lap, and she leaned back, resting her head near his shouder. Her eyes had closed, and Sirius bent his head above hers in time to see them flutter open and flicker from her natural dark green to a pale blue. "What about Daddy?" she whispered, and Sirius felt his heart break. For the first time, he felt a surge of anger towards Ted - how could he leave his daughter, at a time like this? He hugged her, fighting tears viciously, and kissed the top of her head. She looked up at him.
"Daddy will come back," he whispered.
"Will IyouI go away?"
"I'll go home," Sirius answered, feeling a pang in his heart - home? where was home? - but then, "but I'll visit you a lot, pancake."
She closed her eyes again and this time she relaxed. Sirius brought a hand up to stroke her hair, which had settled for baby-fine locks of fire.
He felt his mouth form words, sweet and gentle, and very slow, as if the slightly less accusing pendulum had hypnotized him. He knew that this voice was the same one he used when he whispered her prayers every night - his Andry voice, he had begun to subconciously call it. Sometimes, he would have to choke back tears to let the words come out, but this time it was easier, as if it were right, or as if he was not the person speaking.
"Hush little baby don't say a word," he murmered, closing his eyes. He could feel her tiny heart beating rhythmically, like steady drums, and both of them were breathing in and out quietly. The clock ticked and tocked.
"Mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird." She'll buy it from God himself if she has to, and send it down to you. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
"And if that mocking bird won't sing," but he knew it would, God's own mocking bird. Tick. Tock. It will sing the sweetest tune you ever heard, the sweetest you'll ever hear, like honey and sugar, like bees on the flowers, a song of life and death and dusk and dawn.
"Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring." Shining like the sun, perfect and flawless, catching even the tiniest sparkle of light and holding it for you. Tick/tock.
"And if that diamond ring won't shine. . ."
But it would. Sirius didn't continue the low murmer of song. He was watching the child on his lap. Yes, she was asleep - he let her stay there, holding her, and slept himself, so that as night was cracked by a pale throad of light, he missed watching the stars that hinted the existance of the Andromeda galaxy glitter like diamonds before winking slowly out. He missed the song of the mockingbird that perched in the open window, singing the song of the dawn and dusk.
Sirius' first memory was from sitting at Florean Fortescue's with Andry.
He couldn't have been older than three, which left Andry near ten. She'd always been a small girl, but he knew she was strong. She'd lifted him onto a swirling red stool and bought him a milkshake, her laughter ringing in his ears like butterflies over warm wheat when he'd gotten a face full of chocolate.
He remembered sitting on that stood, dangling his small feet, curling his fingers carefully around the red plastic seat on either side of his Muggle jeans, sucking in earnest at the shake. Andry had ordered a medium but Mr. Fortescue had given them a large for the same price.
Words that had meant nothing to a three-year-old came back.
"Is he your little brother?"
A butterfly-silky-delicate laugh. "Close enough." He remembered grinning, looking up at her as she mussed his dark hair affectionately.
He felt hot emotions rise in his chest and shoved them fiercely back down. Later, he thought to himself. Later he'd go and sit at that same stool, curl his fingers around the plastic that was now a different shade of red and chipped, he would let his feet hang even though he could put them down, and he would order a chocolate shake and maybe he'd cry. He had cried in public enough times in the past month that it didn't really bother him so much anymore.
Years flashed through his mind, like still-frame photographs that Muggles took. He saw, behind darkened eyelids, Andry running towards the fire to meet him at her house, holding his hand and swinging it, and there were Bella and Narcissa, side by side, the dark, fallen-angel look without having ever fallen. He saw Andry looking terrified at the adults' table - she had been fourteen, and it was her first time dining with anyone older than Narcissa. Her parents had started to consider what men near her age from pureblood families might be suitable. Sirius, barely seven, had watched through a crack in the door, seen the way nineteen-year-old Justin Avery had studied her, and on Andry's behalf he had shivered, not understanding. Later, when she shuddered and cried, he had let her hold his hand and hug him. Another picture of Andry crying - it was Christmas break of her sixth year, and Sirius, nine years old, had hugged her and not let go, not understanding how a heart could truly be broken, much less IAndry'sI heart. Only knowing that she'd been insulted, been hurt, and that she needed him.
Despite almost seven years' difference in their age, Sirius and Andry had been close, very close. Until Sirius had met James they had been best friends, and in a one-is-silver-and-the-other's-gold sort of way, they always had been, always would be.
Except now Andry was dead.
She'd been the one he'd always owled from school, the only reason he got homesick. She'd been the other shame of the family - the other Gryffindor, the other Black who judged by heart and soul instead of blood and house, who could replace expectation with love and who could forgive and smile.
She'd been his family and his life away from Hogwarts.
Now all that was left were memories, and love, and dreams, and a broken shell, a pale cruel mimicry of Andry in life, dressed in dark silk, lying buried in a wooden box.
And a picture on his bedside table.
And a small child who would never remember what it was like to have a mother.
And Sirius wept for himself, so lost, for Andry, because she was gone, and for Nymphadora, who didn't even know what she had lost or what she had ever had, who couldn't understand why Daddy had been gone for a month and would be for a week more.
In a way, Sirius left part of himself behind in a small ice-cream shop, sitting on a stool and kicking his feet back and forth, free of his parents for the day, innocent and happy and with Andry.
Forever.
***
To Regulus Black 12 Grimmauld Place London
Regulus-
I'd like to thank you for taking care of Nymphadora while everything was happening. I don't know what could have happened to her otherwise. I'm also supposed to thank you on Ted's behalf - he still won't be back for a week, and he said he probably wouldn't write anyone. I'm watching Nymphadora and from what I hear, the two of you had a lot of fun.
I'm sorry I didn't speak to you at the funeral, if it means anything. I honestly don't know why. Maybe I was angry at you for not telling me when you found out about Narcissa and Bella. I wouldn't have believed you anyway. I didn't believe James or Remus.
If it does mean anything to you, you're still my brother and you are family - it it doesn't, I'm being sentimental without reason, you stupid bastard!
Thanks again. See you around, kid.
- Sirius
***
Nymphadora's bedtime was long past. The grandfather clock's pendulum twitched back and forth accusingly.
Sirius smiled faintly as the child came up to him and tugged at his robes. "Padfoot?" she whispered.
"Yes, pancake?"
"Mama's not coming?" There was something pleading in the small girl's voice that made Sirius melt. His eyes stung again.
"That's right," he answered softly. She'd been asking questions like this stubbornly for the past several weeks that he'd been taking care of her now - he'd managed to convince Moody to give him leave for five and a half so that Ted could go, could be on his own. But Nymphadora's voice wasn't stubborn now, it was frightened. Her lip trembled.
He gathered her up and pulled her onto his lap, and she leaned back, resting her head near his shouder. Her eyes had closed, and Sirius bent his head above hers in time to see them flutter open and flicker from her natural dark green to a pale blue. "What about Daddy?" she whispered, and Sirius felt his heart break. For the first time, he felt a surge of anger towards Ted - how could he leave his daughter, at a time like this? He hugged her, fighting tears viciously, and kissed the top of her head. She looked up at him.
"Daddy will come back," he whispered.
"Will IyouI go away?"
"I'll go home," Sirius answered, feeling a pang in his heart - home? where was home? - but then, "but I'll visit you a lot, pancake."
She closed her eyes again and this time she relaxed. Sirius brought a hand up to stroke her hair, which had settled for baby-fine locks of fire.
He felt his mouth form words, sweet and gentle, and very slow, as if the slightly less accusing pendulum had hypnotized him. He knew that this voice was the same one he used when he whispered her prayers every night - his Andry voice, he had begun to subconciously call it. Sometimes, he would have to choke back tears to let the words come out, but this time it was easier, as if it were right, or as if he was not the person speaking.
"Hush little baby don't say a word," he murmered, closing his eyes. He could feel her tiny heart beating rhythmically, like steady drums, and both of them were breathing in and out quietly. The clock ticked and tocked.
"Mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird." She'll buy it from God himself if she has to, and send it down to you. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
"And if that mocking bird won't sing," but he knew it would, God's own mocking bird. Tick. Tock. It will sing the sweetest tune you ever heard, the sweetest you'll ever hear, like honey and sugar, like bees on the flowers, a song of life and death and dusk and dawn.
"Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring." Shining like the sun, perfect and flawless, catching even the tiniest sparkle of light and holding it for you. Tick/tock.
"And if that diamond ring won't shine. . ."
But it would. Sirius didn't continue the low murmer of song. He was watching the child on his lap. Yes, she was asleep - he let her stay there, holding her, and slept himself, so that as night was cracked by a pale throad of light, he missed watching the stars that hinted the existance of the Andromeda galaxy glitter like diamonds before winking slowly out. He missed the song of the mockingbird that perched in the open window, singing the song of the dawn and dusk.
