Disclaimer: The characters and places of the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling and associated companies. I am making no money from this story. A Sort of Homecoming is the musical property of U2. The dream sequence was a bit Steinbeck inspired.
Author's Note: I feel I must explain to my post Book Five readers now. I began writing this thing before the almighty number five came out. I had a vague concept in mind that sort of fleshed itself out as I began to write. Obviously, any track that I found myself on became derailed somewhat in the aftermath of the last book. In being a narrative about the one character that we learned the most about in new canon, I have had to rework some things. Luckily for me (because I am lazy) I had not gotten too far in my writing that this was not possible. I am continuing with my original plan: no father as of now; single, Muggle mother; shy, introverted, unaware kid. And you're thinking, Hey! That's one-hundred and eighty degrees from the Sirius I know from canon. I'm not going to continue reading this A/U rubbish. Pleas don't. I assure you that this story will merge in the near future with canon. I promise that. Short from laying out the entire plot right here in an author's note, that's as much reassuring as I can do.
Chapter Four
A Sort of Homecoming
The city walls are all pulled downtc "The city walls are all pulled down" The dust, a smoke screen all aroundSee faces ploughed like fields that once
Gave no resistance
And we live by the side of the road
On the side of a hill
As the valley explodes
Dislocated, suffocated
The land grows weary of its own
Images came lethargically to my mind that night my mother sang me to sleep. At first those images seemed familiar, like they had been stored there in an attic chest of memory and had since begun to collect dust.
There was a street—gray, foggy and deserted. It could have been any street in any town in Ireland.
I was there.
I could see myself there; a vague dawning in me that I was looking at myself more than a recognition that you meet with everyday at the mirror.
But just as suddenly as I had been placed on an empty street, a throng of people filled all of the spaces around me, ahead of me. I had a feeling in me that suggested I was crowded and being corralled to one end of the street; but I had no idea of panic or fear or discomfort at the crowd or because of them; only the idea that they were pushing me, leading me, compelling me in a direction that it was all too right that I should be heading in.
So small was I that I would have had to reach high for my father's hand. I realized this only when I looked around a moment later and realized that I could not find him. He was not there, but I must have expected him to be, that was why I searched the crowd.
Among the colors, the cries and the crowd I, wee little boy, moved along as the crowd carried me like a torrent, feet scraping the cobbles of some well-known street. It finally emptied out into a square like a wild and feverish river whose origins lie in the melted ice of a mountain into a calm, mirror lake.
And as the water of people bubbled and surged themselves into calm, spreading out over the square, it was then I saw the angry gray background of the sky. The gallows in front of the petered crowd outlined a horrible clue as to the purpose of the crowd and that vengeful attitude. Two noosed ropes hung, swinging slightly, from the wooden crossbeam.
I was alone, and becoming frightened, shoved and compelled here and there by the water of people, closer and closer.
Maybe I tried to turn and force myself back, against the current, the way I came, against the flood-wave of people up stream, up the street. Maybe I couldn't. Maybe I wanted to stay.
The faceless wave pushed with an insistent passion, on and on, toward the swinging ropes.
A group of dark haired, dark-hatted persons climbed the steps of the hastily built wooden structure, elevating themselves above the water-crowd. At their midst were two figures.
I fought hard not to look into the condemned faces, and still, I curiously wanted to catch a glimpse, without horrible conviction that surely would follow.
One of the condemned was a man.
The other, the silhouette of a child.
Both pairs of wrists were bound unceremoniously, mercilessly.
The man—no he still had hints of childhood about him, too—was put into his noose.
I took a breath, whether to shout out an objection, or to steady my heart, I could not tell. I opened my eyes and he caught them. They squeezed at my heart, panicking me.
The eyes were gray, shaggy blond hair half-shading them.
The face was Aidan's.
The second, the child—a girl was lifted into her noose next. I could not catch her look. I was absorbed in Aidan's judgment.
Aidan blinked and whispered, "The letter, Sirius. You must understand. You cannot be angry."
When I awoke on the first occasion of that dream I was sitting upright on the train from the city. My mother was next to me, staring at me with obvious concern. It was two days since I had left Derry and my friend, Remus. That was perhaps the longest bit of sleep I'd had since then. Every time I closed my eyes, however, my sleep was interrupted by images and sounds. This time it was not of the Derry riot that I had been part of on Sunday. This was a real dream, a dream that would recur many times in my later days and years.
"Was it another dream, love?" my mother asked.
I wanted to reply bitingly and with venomous sarcasm. She had taken to asking obvious questions that I felt too irritated to answer. I was getting the sinking feeling that my mother was becoming afraid of me. It never occurred to me at this time that she was in fear of something else—something lurking behind us.
She leaned around the seats of the train cabin. Others in business suits and travel coats were swaying in their seats with the motion of the train and otherwise paying no attention to us. I tried to look over my seat as well to see what she was looking for. The aisle was clear, as the street had been clear, as the curb outside our door had been clear. There was no one there. My mother seemed to think that there was something worse to fear in the empty corridors and streets and aisle ways than paratroopers and IRA vigilantes. She was more alert now that ever.
I remembered, staring at my own rocking reflection in the dingy glass of the railway car, that I had received a grilling like no other after stowing away in Remus' trunk and consequently getting myself hauled to a military prison. I cringed every time I said that to myself. How could I explain what I was thinking or why I did it? But she never asked why I had done it. She never interfered. And she had every right to. She only asked me if my picture had been taken inside Fort George or if any member of the press had talked to me. She kept repeating herself after I would answer dully. Always, her urgent voice was asking, "Are you sure, Sirius? Are you positive you talked to no one?"
She was nervous when I had informed her that my name was asked of me when I entered the compound. She was almost furious with me—a fury that had before remained blissfully nonexistent. And now she was watching both of our backs.
Mother spoke now, turning back to me after surveying the other passengers on the train. She clutched the paper covetously in her hand and guarded it carefully from me, as if I had not yet learned of the death of Remus' brother. As if she could spare me the details. She had remained clueless of the fact that I collected every page that said anything about Derry when she'd consigned them to the waste paper bin. "You'll be safe once you're back at school, to be sure."
"Safe from what, mum?" I asked, straining to keep my voice even. "What have I done? What did I do wrong?"
"Sirius," said mum in a whisper. "Now's not the time to be having this conversation. You can't understand what this is all about. Maybe someday—."
My mother tried to finish but her words trailed off and it sounded like an abrupt end.
"Maybe someday what?" I spat. The lady across the aisle from us began to take an interest in our conversation. Perhaps her interest only existed as far as our volume concerned her sleeping daughter whose head lolled on her lap.
Mother shot a penitent look at the other mother and turned back to me. "Lower your voice please and do be respectful, Sirius," she said properly.
I lowered my volume dutifully and continued, "Maybe someday I'll understand what happened, why he was shot while trying to help us, why Remus…" I trailed off and turned from my mother. She did not know his condition and it wasn't my place to tell her. I wanted to say something about his goodness and fairness. And for all of the bad in me there was twice the good in him. He would not have snuck out of school and nosed around in other people's business and gotten into trouble and make his mother worry the way I was worrying mine now. She would not understand that, I was sure. My next words were flinty and cold. "Maybe my father could have explained it to me." I looked away toward the window. I had wanted to wound her as she was wounding me. She was never accustomed to keeping things from me. She was always certain I could handle the truth and so I had become accustomed to having the truth. Because she was being withholding, I felt I could not be. I let her have it.
Her hand resting placating on my forearm slowly removed to her lap and moments later she turned and said hoarsely, "I'll be right back, Sirius. Don't move. I'll only be a minute."
When mother came back she had a fresh coat of lipstick on and a smile hitched to her touched up face. I felt awful that I had made her cry. But I would not budge one solitary inch. I felt betrayed by her.
There were no more words on the last leg of the journey. I walked beside her through the dusk colored streets of Hogsmeade where we had made our last train switch. I had one cold hand in my mother's warm and gloved one. I gave it an apologetic squeeze when we reached the heavy oak doors of my school; afraid that I might not have an opportunity to tell her I was sorry for quite a while.
To save me the trouble she looked down and squeezed my hand in return and murmured, "I know, Sirius."
I left her with Professor McGonagall at the bottom of the stairs and was instructed to meet my housemates at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. As I passed through the giant oak doors I turned and smiled at my mother. She returned it with a wave and a reassuring nod. She disappeared up the stairs with my Head of House and I turned quickly to see if my friends had noted my return and if so had they seen my warm interactions with mum? I was sure to be teased about the wave later. It did not matter in the slightest. I felt safer now than I had in quite a while.
There was another incident connected with my foolish escape into Remus' troubles. Aside from the fact that the Sunday riot had been in every Muggle paper and every Muggleborn student had informed every non-Muggle student about my and Remus' involvement, I had received a letter from one I had never expected to speak to nor hear from again. This came about two months after the Derry riots, the address written on the envelope from that very city. My heart jumped and then plummeted with a sick feeling of warning. While Remus and I were dropping our books off for our midday break and lunch, the envelope caught my eye as it cast a long shadow across my pillow from the noonday sun that spilled in from the adjacent window.
"Coming then?" Remus asked behind me, standing at the door. He was in a good mood today, whereas most days he was sullen and drawn into himself.
"I'll," I said, picking up the folded paper. "I'll meet you downstairs directly," I said, following it with a lie: "From my mum." I showed him the note and he nodded without interest.
Once Remus had disappeared I shut the door behind him. Resting on the edge of his bed my eyes wandered past the envelope and I wondered at the sender and potential subject. Remus had not mentioned much about his family since January and I certainly did not press him. More to the point I had not heard Remus mention anything about his sister Margaret, yet here was a letter from her addressed to me. I reread the envelope many times over, not trusting the assumption that because it was laying on my bed that it was for me. Owls were accurate for delivering post, but not always that accurate. But it did not say Remus.
I hesitantly pulled back the flap and removed the few folded sheets. The handwriting was neat, the spacing very even. It reminded me of Remus' many assignments that he had always asked me to read over (even though they were normally flawless). His sister definitely possessed the great attention to detail and seriousness of penmanship that her brother seemed to have as a rule.
I placed the envelope next to me on Remus' bed, careful not to lose it, fearing Remus might find it later and make assumptions.
Silly, the way that the letter was addressed sent a thrilling tingle through me. It read:
Dear Sirius,
Such a typical greeting for a letter—I never stopped to analyze it in my excitement. It could have meant nothing—it most likely meant nothing.
I know that your address is the same as my brother's so it is no great difficulty that I write to you. It has been months and you will forgive me if I write to inquire after your health and happiness.
I was taken aback by the rigidly formal feel of the letter. She had, after all, leaned boldly toward me and kissed me as I sat next to her on the roof of her family's flat. It seemed ages behind me and she seemed not to be the same Margaret. But it would be unfair to ask her not to change after so much had happened.
I wish I could give better report to you, but the truth is my family is still in turmoil. We will continue to feel Aidan's loss. I am sure I am repeating many of Remus' sentiments.
I found myself with a sardonic grin on my face. Remus was a revealer of nothing. He would continue to be the warmest of my friends, but he communicated very little. We all knew of his loss. But no one would dare discuss it.
Aside from the fact that we miss him terribly we depended on him in many ways. Now that he is dead and at the hands of the government we have been compensated accordingly. So it seems in the eyes of the bureaucrats who mollify themselves by throwing money at the bereaved families. Well, all of this I say to inform you that because of the indemnity paid to my family I have been moved to a private school for girls in Belfast. Imagine, in life my brother was a hard worker to pay Remus' way through school. In death he has paid for my schooling as well and then some. I confess in a moment that I would rather live on the street and have my brother with me. So, c'est la vie! That's how things come to be.
Through the cold and civil feeling of the letter I suddenly got the feeling that she wanted something from me. I scanned the letter quickly. I was eager to know how I could be of use to the sister of one of my best friends. If I had stopped to analyze it further I would have found other motivations for helping Margaret as well. But I am still not sure I had developed those feelings for her yet.
More to the point, Sirius, you must be bored with my letter by now. The current climate in Derry stands thus: IRA vigilantes have swelled their ranks in the last month or two since the riot. Many have disappeared into their service. They have become an invisible but deadly force there. As it is, I will not be allowed by my family to visit my hometown for the Easter Break. My school will be desolate, as I fear I will be the only one staying behind. My parents plan on visiting me Easter Sunday. But, as I understand it, you also live in the city and so I invite you to come and see me as well. I have not been out of the school but I hear there's a lovely park a few blocks down. Or perhaps you could come around for tea. The short of it is that I would like to see you again, if you have no plans to the contrary. Please write to me with news of yourself and your mother.
With love,
Your friend Margaret
I must confess that I was in excited shock. The prospect of seeing Margaret again thrilled me to where I leapt off of Remus' bed and almost left the telltale envelope lying out in the open. I wanted any of our future correspondence to be a secret from my roommates and, more to the point, her brother. The prospect of having further correspondence made me glad. Her letter had made me glad, though she seemed so lonely in it.
I read it once more and wrote a reply explaining to her very inelegantly that I was all right, aside from the harassment of one Lily Evans, an aspiring journalist who incessantly hounded Remus and me to give her the real story behind the Derry massacre. I confessed that I dodged her whenever I saw her, though Remus was quite a bit more polite. I was cautious in telling of my mother's fears. Remembering our trip on the train back to school and her constant watching over our shoulders, I decided to lie and say that we were both happy and in the best of health. With short ceremonial condolences for her brother and a promise that I would visit her on Easter Break I closed my letter with little of the affection that she had shown me.
Rereading my words I was displeased with the offhand and sometimes cold feeling communicated in them. But, pressed for time between school hours I addressed the envelope and with Margaret's opened letter I shoved it into a desk drawer and raced off to what was left of my lunch break.
It always comes as a shock to me when I catch a glimpse of the hollow face and eyes that now stare back at me from various reflective surfaces. I always feel a small lurch at the sight of myself. Azkaban was hell on earth. I hear the dogs of Fort George now, not only in my sleep, but in every waking moment as well.
But Azkaban does not steel your fond memories, it just dulls them. The hungry barking of the dogs, the shouts of the angry soldiers, the look of a betrayed friend coat those fond memories of walks through the park with Margaret, the feel of her cold fingertips on my electrified skin as she touched me for the first time that night on the rooftop. The sound of Remus' voice telling me we had all lost her finally blanketed all of the good things with a caustic layer of acrid pain that ached. Hell was my life when Margaret had left.
But before that there was my visit to her school on Easter weekend. It was a pain to get away from my mother. And she was certainly not invited to come with me. I didn't even mention that the person with whom I had a lunch date was a girl. It would have sent my mother into a tither of excited inquisition.
Leaving my mother preparing tomorrow's baked ham, I gave myself a cursory sweep in the baker's window. I was not pleased with how I had turned out, though I had taken every care to look presentable. My face had become somewhat gaunt with my stunted hours of rest each night since January. I wondered vaguely if Margaret would notice. And how much had she changed? I wasn't sure that my assessment of her in those two days I had known her was accurate enough to gage any difference, no matter how apparent it may be.
I wished I had left the tie at home. Jerking the knot loose I let it fall on either side of the buttons and decided that was how Aidan or Charlie, or anyone else cooler than me, would have rectified the situation.
Living in Belfast for most of my adolescent life I was familiar with where Margaret's school was, but like most boys I had never been past the gate. I had seen the blue plaid dresses and jumpers of its inhabitants on many occasions, always checking to see that the girl wearing the uniform was Margaret. It never was. Maybe she never got out. Still, for weeks before I was to visit her when I was home for a weekend I would never pass up the opportunity to walk this way in hopes of a clandestine meeting.
"Sirius!" came a sparkly voice as I was watching my feet instead of my progress down the sidewalk.
I looked up and it was Margaret pushing the heavy wrought iron gates apart. She ran out to meet me, her yellow skirt kicking up when her knees upset the hem. She stopped just in front of me, winded. And for a moment, neither of us knew what to do but grin.
True, I had planned this moment for two weeks, with varying degrees of subtlety ranging from a casual "How have you been?" to taking her in my arms and kissing her Humphrey Bogart style. I had not imagined this disaster.
"It's truly good to see you," Margaret said breathlessly.
I nodded with an inward cringe, all the while screaming at myself, Talk you fool!
She laughed and looked at her feet.
"I know in your letter," she continued, "you'd accepted my invitation but I still didn't expect you to come."
"Why on earth not?" I blabbed, reddening as I began to regret the surprisingly gushing sound of the question. I had imagined that I would have sounded more unconcerned and attempted to adjust my voice to reflect this preconceived persona of cool.
Margaret blushed. "Maybe you wouldn't want to after all."
"Of course I would," I answered, relieved at sounding more offhand, "you're my friend's little sister." And I looked away mentally kicking myself.
I pretended not to notice how crestfallen she looked at this pronouncement. I didn't not plan to say that at all.
"So," she said finally, recovering somewhat, "where do you want to go?"
I looked up at the sky. Wherever we decided to go it should be an indoors place. The clouds looked a heavy leaden color. I shrugged my shoulders and looked away.
She turned up the street attempting to hide a look of frustration that had no doubt crept into her features at my apparent disinterest. "There's a nice café on the corner there. At least I heard it was nice. Some of the older girls get day passes. We're allowed out on the weekends, but I don't go out much. I mean, I don't get invited to go places with the other girls." She turned red as she apparently didn't intend to let that information slip. "I mean, my friends are the type who would rather study than go out."
"So why don't you just go out on your own?" I asked trying to stop her embarrassed babbling.
"My parents won't let me."
We fell into stride together and into silence as well.
"I know what you mean," I replied finally.
"Huh?" Margaret asked reaching to pull up a knee sock. Apparently I had interrupted some internal conversation of hers.
"I don't get to go out much when I'm home," I clarified.
"Oh," Margaret said nodding. "Still angry with you, is she?"
I thought about my answer to this for a half a block. Margaret looked at her shoes, afraid she had touched a nerve.
"Not angry," I answered slowly. "She was just worried. It's just been me and her all this time and All we have is each other. We tell each everything." I stopped and looked away from Margaret. "Well, we used to, that is."
At this, her head jerked up and she looked hard at me–at the side of my face as I looked determinedly ahead of us.
"What's changed?" she asked.
I heaved a great sigh. I guess I had walked into this. And I wasn't as unwilling to tell her about it as I was with James or Peter or Remus. She looked at me with concern and not judgement. She had been through the same things as I had, I reminded my self–more or less the same things. "She's scared."
"Of what?" she asked flatly.
"I don't know," I answered truthfully. "She's always looking around us when we're out, looking behind us. At night she checks three different times to make sure the front door to our flat is locked."
Margaret raised her eyebrows and looked at me significantly. "Is she afraid that you'll be charged? You're only twelve, they couldn't..."
"Thirteen," I corrected her absently.
"Oh yes," she said nodding once. "Remus told me. February. Happy birthday–late." She grinned cutely, but I, absorbed in my story, ignored her.
She pointed at the open air café on the corner two blocks from her school. I hoped we wouldn't be long. The weather was slowly becoming threatening. In the back of my mind I was thinking I would be ashamed to make my mother worry if I were caught in this. Well, she was probably worrying anyway.
"Two teas, please," Margaret ordered with a sweet smile and I gave a faltering smile of my own as to convince the waiter that tea was what I really wanted. I didn't, in fact want anything. Evenly, Margaret turned to me and said, "I didn't see much about you in the papers, apart from a mention of being the youngest arrested."
"That's it, though," I sighed, leaning back and pushing the front two legs of my chair off the floor. "She questioned me for two days about any reporters that I may have talked to, any cameras I had accidentally walked in front of, or anything like that. It's genuinely bizarre." I shrugged as the waiter came back with a small teapot and two cups on a tray. With one hand on the back of my chair he pushed the front two legs back to the floor and with the other deposited our order upon the table. I frowned at him.
"Why don't you just ask her about it?" Margaret shrugged and poured herself some tea.
I shrugged myself in answer. "She won't say. So I just try not to make her go off."
"Frustrating situation," she said finally, blowing distractedly.
I nodded and turned my head to watch the people passing on the street. I could feel her eyes on me, my ears felt hot. A dog walker passed and I tried to convince her that I was absorbed in the scene but suddenly she played her cards.
"Do you want to know why I asked you here?" she said evenly, sipping her tea.
"For the pleasure of my company, I s'pose," I said casually. I did want to know, though.
"I know you were the last person to see my brother alive," she said without feeling or ceremony.
The two front legs of my chair hit the floor again and I hadn't realized my mouth was agape.
"Close your mouth," she said with a smile, setting her teacup down. "I was on the rooftop, of course."
"Why didn't you say anything before?" I asked, feeling angry and ambushed.
"Was it such a dirty secret?" she replied with her eyebrows raised. I was beginning to dislike the coolness with which she approached a subject that had haunted me for three months now. "Have some tea," she added, as if to nettle me just a bit more.
"I don't want any," I said with clenched teeth.
"What's wrong?" She sat up a little straighter and surveyed me. "Don't be angry with me. I haven't told anyone."
"I don't want Remus to know."
"He'll find out eventually," she shrugged.
"Yeah, if you tell him eventually," I answered heatedly.
"My, you're really bothered." She shook her head and lifted her tea to her lips again. "Have some tea," she repeated when she had lowered her cup.
"I don't want any fucking tea," I had said, sounding like Peter and probably imitating him a little.
She lowered her chin, a look of admonishing sternness on her face. "I just thought you would want to know. It's not something I hold against you."
"Well thank you," I said crossly, folding my arms in front of me. "The weather's starting to turn. I'll see you later," a said standing. "Happy holiday." I threw some coins on the table and pretended not to notice that she was offended and hurt.
But she caught up to me in the park. I turned around finally, not able to ignore her pleas for me to stop. I felt something inside of me catch as I watched her running toward me, her blond hair whipping her face as the wind turned gusty.
"Please stop!" she said once more catching me up. She bent and attempted to catch her breath.
"I have stopped," I said coldly.
As if on cue I felt the first drops of the afternoon showers we were accustomed to in the spring. I looked up and cursed under my breath as they began to spatter my cheeks.
"I'll make it quick then," Margaret said, obviously unhappy. She launched into her explanation though she had barely recovered from her sprint. "It hurts. I didn't expect it to hurt this much. But I just wanted to know what had happened down there. I mean, while I was on the roof watching." She was looking at me expectantly, hungrily. The rain had splashed her cheeks, but her eyes were red as well and I suspected that tears were beginning to mingle with the rain.
"They were shooting at people on the rooftops. They could have mistaken you for an IRA sniper."
"They were there too," Margaret sniffled and shrugged, folding her hands in front of her and endeavoring to hide a shiver. "My school's just up here," she indicated the tall gray building, dominating behind the stand of trees that bordered the other end of the park. "We could at least dry off." She looked at me hopefully and I tried to find a way to say no.
"Yeah, alright," I gave in softly. She took my hand and lead me through the dripping pines and oaks.
I can smile with fondness now. But I was terrified to be alone with her then.
"My roommates have all gone home for Easter Holiday," she stated as if to reassure her self while at the same time assuring me.
Pushing the door open she turned with a half smile at me. I put one foot over the threshold of her room. There were three beds, all of them made but one.
I felt like smuggled goods. I stepped back out of the room.
"What's wrong?" I heard spoken sweetly in my ear.
"Nothing," I answered.
"No one's here."
"I," I swallowed hard, "I can see that."
There are dry towels in the bathroom. She said, closing the door behind us.
I tried no to look nervous. I nodded and strode purposefully into the center of the room. There was a bay window in front of me, velvet curtains and a gunmetal sky hung on the wall.
Behind me Margaret rung out her hair and kicked off her shoes. She saw me staring and smiled, sitting on the carpet and pulling off a knee sock. There was nothing that suggested a planned impropriety about this scene. She nodded toward the bathroom.
With heated cheeks I turned and shut the door behind me, heaving a great sigh of relief, suddenly grateful for being out of her sight.
I jumped when a knock on the door startled me.
"Sirius," called Margaret from the other side of the door.
"Yeah," I called back when I had regained my self composure.
"There's a robe on the door," she suggested.
I looked at my wet jeans and shirt. Throwing off the tie I unbuttoned the garment sticking to my chest, my undershirt was damp underneath too. But I was resolved. I didn't want a situation on my hands that being half-naked in front of Margaret could escalate into. I settled for a middle ground and took my shoes and socks off. Grabbing a towel I rubbed at my dripping hair and pronounced myself dry.
When I opened the bathroom door everything was quiet and dim.
"Margaret?" I called softly. I looked but didn't see her.
"Over here," I heard her say. She was sitting on the cushions in front of the bay window in a robe, pulling on some heavy socks. "The rain will stop some time, hopefully," she added with a shy smile.
I looked at my bare feet. "Good, because I can't stay too long."
"I'm sorry about earlier," Margaret intoned hastily, picking at a fingernail. "I get that way sometimes. I don't know why."
"No," I said. "It's okay, really." I tried to sound cheerful and ended up sounding as nervous in front of her as I felt.
She grinned thankfully and made my stomach flip uneasily.
She drew a great breath as if to launch into a long and complicated speech, but faltered and let the breath out, pursing her lips as she blew out in a deflated sort of way. She started anew but didn't look at me. "It's like that night on the roof when I kissed you."
"Like what?" I asked, not following.
"I wanted you to think I had kissed a lot of boys. I try to sound offhand and flippant sometimes... sometimes when I'm nervous."
"Oh," I said lamely. "So, how many boys have you kissed," I asked taking a nervous step toward her.
"Just you, Sirius."
"I'm sorry," I replied with a dumb shrug.
Margaret actually laughed. She dissolved into loud giggles that I was sure attracted the attention of anyone left in the dormitories. "You're sweet," she said finally covering her mouth to stop the laughter.
I nodded, disappointed. I don't know what I had wanted her to think I was, but sweet wasn't the first thing I would have thought of. To rectify the deteriorating scene I moved toward her further, coming to stand directly in front of her, against her. I felt her gasp in surprise as much as I had heard her.
Thinking of how Aidan had bent under the street lamp that night to kiss his girl I slid one hand around Margaret's waist and squeezed her to me. I took a steadying breath and kissed her.
And why had I been astonished when I felt her react, kissing me back? She moved a hand up to my neck, fingers entwining themselves in my damp hair. Margaret lifted her chin and pressed my lips against her neck and we both shivered.
My other hand went to her face and pushed her wet and tangled hair from her face. The smell of her skin was sweet and hinted of spring rain, it encouraged me to explore other regions of her face, neck and collar bone.
When her hands came up to my shoulders and pushed my wet shirt from them I knew that this was the one moment given to us in which either one of us could call this off. But now neither of us wanted to.
For just one brief moment my hands seemed tied up as she struggled to pull the wet garment off of me. I pressed against her ever more earnestly as if to touch her with my lips if I could not do so with my hands. It would be absolute agony if I were denied this pleasure.
Margaret sighed a little in frustration and I left my pursuit of the graceful line of her neck for just a moment to help her with the sleeves of my shirt. As I struggled her hands were like electricity when they touched the bare skin just under my ribs, pulling my undershirt up over my head. I gasped, feeling a shock surge through me and my thoughts seemed to be singly bent on being as close to her as I could.
My fingers fought quickly and stubbornly with the tie on her robes.
She distractedly hopped on one leg and with one hand tried pulling her sock from her suspended foot, and simultaneously endeavoring to keep her lips locked to mine.
But when she abandoned the sock and went to my belt instead, my head became clear of the humid fog that had trapped my thoughts and froze them until now. In a panicked realization of how far I had let this go I grabbed both of her wrists roughly.
Her eyes snapped open and she stared at me. "Sirius, what's wrong?"
"We can't do this," I said quickly dropping her hands which fell like dead weights to her sides. Mine conversely flew to my belt and I fastened it again. Looking up at her I shook my hair from my eyes and said clumsily, "I want to, Margaret. But think about this. We're both too–we're not–not like this, I mean," I faltered, throwing my hands up in defeat.
"Oh," she said darkly, retying her robe and retrieving her discarded sock, "I see. I'm back to being your friends naive little sister. What was I when your hands were all over me?"
"You were...way too young," I answered feebly. I paced the floor quickly and sat with my head in my hands on the edge of her unmade bed.
She turned and followed me, heated by the indignity of my charge. "I'm only a year younger than you!" she shouted.
"I'm sorry," I answered hastily, holding out a hand to her. She stepped closer, her hands still folded angrily across her chest but she let me put my arms around her anyway. My head buried against her stomach and her fingers combing pleasantly through my hair seemed to calm us both and we remained this way for innumerable minutes. "That's not why you brought me here, is it?" I asked finally, an alarming scenario playing out in my head.
"No," she answered with a chuckle. I could feel her laughter with my forehead resting against her. "I was eventually going to get you to tell me about Aidan." Her fingers ran down my neck and then back into my hair. I shivered and looked up at her. She was grinning. "After I had my way with you," she finished.
I shook my head reprovingly. "Who talks like that?"
"I've been in a private school all my life. Don't you think I've got enough rebellious energy pent up?"
"Well your not going to use any of that repressed rebellion on me," I answered, pulling her down next to me on the bed. "What do you want me to tell you about Aidan?"
"How did it happen?" she asked, laying her head against my bare shoulder.
I drew my arm around her and took a deep breath. "I thought you were watching from the roof," I said vaguely, stalling to adjust my thoughts.
"Yes, but tell me what you saw," she said standing and moving to the head of her bed pulling the covers down and climbing in, as if preparing for a bedtime story.
"It was my fault," I said, standing rigidly next to her.
"Why would you say that?" she asked, adjusting a pillow. She moved over finally, holding up the covers invitingly for me to climb in next to her. "Don't be a prude, you must be cold."
"I'll leave a puddle," I said, indicating my still wet jeans. Convenient excuse, I appreciated it.
"You're being silly. I won't seduce you or anything," said Margaret exasperated.
I gave up finally and climbed in beside her, allowing her to draw the covers up to my shoulders. She propped herself up on one elbow staring at me. "Continue," she commanded.
"You're a strange one," I breathed, folding my hands and placing them under my head.
"Now that's the pot calling the kettle black," she said unenthusiastically.
"Well," I said finally, "I got lost. The gas had made my head funny and I didn't know where I was."
Margaret nodded. "I found you at Glenfada Park, just as you had ducked into the alleyway. Then I saw my brother."
I turned my head sideways to look at her while she spoke. When she finished I turned my eyes back to the blank ceiling. This seemed to help me think.
"He had jumped the chainlink with the Red Cross girl."
"Ebhlin," Margaret added helpfully. The rain against the window was making everything lethargically dull and dreary. She was wonderfully warm next to me. I felt a heavy weight settle behind my eyes.
She seemed to feel the same way. Her head fell slowly from her hand and rested on my chest so that all I could see was a mass of blond curls. As her hand came lightly to stay on the underside of my upper arm she amused herself by rubbing her thumb along the skin there.
"Yes, Ebhlin," I agreed. Yawning, I continued. I recounted everything up until Fort George, finally being released and subsequently Catherine finding me on the bridge. "And that's all that happened." I ended.
I had thought she was asleep but I finally heard a faint, "Thank you."
All throughout our town various scenes like this one may have been unfolding at the same moment. Others were discovering what kind of overwhelming solace there was in finding that one person who understands every inner-working of your mind. That person for me had been Margaret and in that brief afternoon and evening we had been together I had been my happiest self I would ever know. I missed that person now. Losing her was losing that part of me, that contentedness, happiness and wholeness.
True, perhaps great scenes of injustice and malice were also weaving themselves into the tapestry of lives in the city of Belfast that night. But none of it could touch either of us and therefore did not exist while we slept in each other's arms.
She awoke when the sun broke through the gray clouds midmorning. I had been awake for sometime before that, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders with each breath. I was glad that we had not taken things to the point that we might regret them. I was not regretting in the least the night that we had spent together.
"I'm hungry," she said finally. She sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. "Do you want me to bring us something from the kitchen?"
I shook my head. Pushing the covers off of me, all of my willpower was invested in moving away from her and collecting my strewn shirt and shoes. "No, my mum will be frantic. I've got to go."
Margaret nodded slowly. "I'll make sure it's safe for you to go." She pushed herself out of the bed and went to the door. Her hand came back through seconds later and beckoned me forward. I finished tying my laces and followed her.
At the gate I finally had to leave her.
I pushed it open, not looking in her direction, but down the street the way I had come yesterday.
I walked a couple of paces before something tugged inside of me, something warning. Turning, I saw her standing against the gate staring after me. Her face lighted with a smile and she waved.
I answered her wave and turned again to walk down the street. That same warning feeling came again and forced me to turn, striding the few steps, I rushed to her and kissed her once more, briefly and then finally walked the block and turned the corner. My gut was telling me I would not see her again for quite a while.
Just as I was climbing the steps past O'Roark's bakery and to my flat I felt that Margaret made things make sense for me. The past three months, the scenes from the riot eating at me, the lost sleep and the disturbing dreams had faded. I realized that I'd had a full night's uninterrupted sleep for the first time since January.
My smile and my weightless giddy feeling dissolved when I pushed the door to our flat open and saw my mum standing there in a rage, the front room disheveled and smashed as if she had taken a crowbar to the place. A letter was in her hand and her face was flushed and stained from crying. It was the start of a series of events that would cause my world to fall spectacularly to pieces.