6. Shades

Harry paused as he reached the stile at the foot of the mountain, remembering the great, shaggy black dog that had eagerly awaited him there on a silver-sunshiny winter day long past. The memorial procession followed the same stony path up the hillside on which Harry, Hermione and Ron had followed Padfoot, on a day that seemed so long ago. Clad in black, they walked on slowly and silently in the fading light. Each paused to select a rock and they carried these burdens up the winding path that cut into the side of the mountain. As the last burnished rays of sunshine bled from the grey-purple sky, they entered a small clearing, enclosed by a gloomy temple of dark fir trees. On entering the shrine, each black-robed figure stepped forward in turn, whispered a soft incantation, and laid their rock beside a shallow, moss-shrouded depression in the earth, forming a low mound of pale stones. Finally, Harry placed his offering on the cairn, experiencing a brief sense of reprieve in laying down a burden, before sorrow sank heavily on him once more.

They stood, encircled in profound silence for a long moment, before Dumbledore's ancient, solemn voice broke the stillness.

'Sirius Black was one of the bravest people I have ever met; a man of true courage and pure integrity. Like the star for which he was named, the brightest in the sky, he radiated the light of truth amidst the darkness of his heritage, and the times through which he lived. Even as a small boy, he rebelled against the evil he saw in the world around him, against prejudice and oppression. His every action was fuelled by his demand for justice and his abiding and powerful love for his friends. If Sirius had to die – and I do not for a moment deny that his death was a cruel tragedy – he would have wished to die thus, defiant in the face of evil, fighting as a revolutionary, avenging the death of his friends, defending the one he loved most in the world.'

'The shrine we have formed here tonight is known as an isivivane cairn. This is an ancient sanctuary where one can confess the burdens of one's heart, lay down one's sorrows, seek reconciliation with the ancestral spirits, and ask for their guidance and direction. We believe the dead we have loved never truly leave us. The presence of Sirius Black, his shadow, will abide here as we remember him tonight, and in returning to this place, those who loved him can make their peace with his spirit.'

The circle of mourners stood in silence once more, each lost in their own reverie of memories, sorrow and regret. Darkness had fallen, and cold, distant stars were scattered in the everlasting night sky. Harry wondered if the stars mourned too, as they grieved the loss of a star fallen from their midst, a bright star burned into oblivion. Eventually, Dumbledore spoke again. 'I have asked Harry, as Sirius's godson, to say a final farewell.'

The previous evening, after Dumbledore had made this request, Harry had sat on his bed for a long time, thinking of what he might say at Sirius's memorial, and had realised that he did not have the words to describe the aching, desperate sense of loss and emptiness inside him. Eventually he fell into an exhausted and troubled sleep, and woke at dawn to find a leather-bound book beside his bed, neatly labelled, 'Hermione J. Granger, Form 1A'. Opening it to the place she had marked, Harry found a poem which to him expressed the enormity of the loss he had experienced, the feeling that he could not continue to exist, that life could not go on without Sirius in it.

Murmuring 'lumos', Harry opened the book to read. Under the light of the waning moon, he could dimly make out the faces in the circle around the cairn. Dumbledore looked older and more sorrowful than Harry had ever seen him. Lupin's tired face was etched with pain, and his eyes were bright with unshed tears. Jade stood in the shadows, her grief laid bare as tears coursed unchecked down her pale cheeks, her jaw clenched as though to suppress the howl of sorrow that threatened to escape her bloodless lips.

Harry didn't realise that he was crying until he tasted the salt of desolate tears on his lips. His eyes burned, and when he opened his mouth to begin reading, no sound would come forth. Panic overwhelming him, blood pounding in his ears, he looked around desperately, and his eyes met Ginny's. Mutely, she reached out and Harry thrust the book at her. 'Please read it,' he pleaded in a hoarse whisper.

In a low, clear voice that trembled but did not break until the end, Ginny read:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

(Funeral Blues, W H Auden)

The moon was obliterated by a smoky cloud, and the shrine fell into darkness as the mourners turned to follow the stony path back down the mountain. Harry hesitated, letting the others pass ahead of him, as he wanted to linger at the cairn for a few more moments, to say goodbye alone. Once everyone had left the clearing, Harry turned back. In that instant, the cloud passed, moonlight filtered through the treetops, and he saw a dark-haired figure seated behind the earthy hollow, her arms wrapped around her knees, her head bowed, sobbing brokenheartedly. Harry walked away, leaving Jade in solitude.

Dinner that night at 12 Grimmauld Place was a dismal event. Mrs Weasley was endeavouring in her motherly way to cheer people up, but even failed to engage Hermione in a discussion about NEWT subjects. Harry was trying to eat his dinner, to avoid arousing her concern, but the food tasted like cardboard, and he felt like choking every time he tried to swallow. Ginny didn't even seem to be aware that there was a plate of food in front of her; she was staring blankly at the wall. Lupin was swigging morosely at the dregs of his wine, his plate also untouched. Fred and George looked as though they had never laughed in their lives. Jade had refused wine, and was moving food absently around her plate with her fork, her reddened eyes lowered. Tonks, whose hair was black and cropped almost to her skull, was weeping silently, tears plopping into her goblet as she sipped her wine.

The sombre silence had prevailed so long that several people jumped when Dumbledore spoke. 'Gringotts will release Sirius's last will and testament from his vault early tomorrow morning. We need to meet to witness the reading of his will, and to discuss its outcomes in terms of the future of the Order. Arthur, will you alert the members who are not with us tonight? Everyone should be present - '

Mrs Weasley glanced from Dumbledore to Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny.

'Everyone,' Dumbledore confirmed.' The terms of the Black legacy may mean that the House of Black – and its servant – will become the property of the Malfoy family, now that the last Black is deceased. The implications for the Order and each person involved are significant. The concealment of our knowledge, our sources of information and our plans could be at risk. There can be no more secrets kept from those who are loyal to the Order. We will meet tomorrow, to read Sirius's testament, and to prepare for what our future holds.'

Harry had expected to lie awake all night, reliving the vigil at the cairn, and the moment when Sirius fell through the veil, falling away from him...Yet he fell into a deep slumber almost immediately, and had a vivid dream. He was sitting on the hillside where they had walked earlier, talking to Sirius. It was a summer day, and the sun fell warm on his back. Sirius's grey eyes glinted with mischief as he laughed at something Harry had said, and he tousled Harry's messy hair, half-teasingly, half-affectionately. Then his eyes reflected concern and thoughtfulness as he listened to something Harry was telling him. Harry could not remember what they spoke about, but he knew that Sirius had been there, listening to him and talking to him, and he had the feeling that something that had been worrying him for a long time was resolved, that happiness was within his reach. He woke in the pre-dawn stillness, devastatingly disappointed, yet strangely comforted, not quite alone.

--The title Shades is borrowed from the novel by Marguerite Poland

--The poem Funeral Blues is by WH Auden