A.n Thanks for the excellent reviews. I am afraid you have Stephen King to blame for the long delay this time. The release of his new Dark Tower book has kept me quite busy. If you are a Stephen King fan, I highly suggest this series. At any rate, a great many thanks to all who have reviewed. Look for a review from Yours Truly shortly, individualizing thanks and answering questions from specific reviewers.
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Chapter 9
During the day, the city streets of London were a nightmare to travel. Cars forced their way from place to place, the anxious drivers behind the wheel cursing under their breaths as they fought to make their various appointments and/or deliveries. Amidst all of the auto traffic, buses with anxious residents and tourists struggled to make their way to their appointed stops to deposit the patrons to their respective work areas or to some odd museum or other popular tourist spot.
Even at night, London's various attractions lured the city's inhabitants out in droves, whether to attend a theatre function, to grab a drink at the pub down the street, or to while away the hours in a smoky and noise-filled night club, gradually or quickly losing their sobriety as pint after pint of ale or some other equally enticing alcoholic beverage was consumed.
Through the hustle and bustle of one balmy night at the beginning of August, a sleek silver Mercedes toiled its way in to the city. The occupants of the car were four in number. A man, brown hair framing a face from which two equally brown eyes shown forth was behind the wheel. A woman with somewhat bushy reddish-brown hair and bright blue eyes was seated next to him, wincing from time to time as the car hit some pothole or other obstacle in the road.
In the back seat of the car were two young teenagers. One, with somewhat frizzy brown hair and deep brown eyes, could be mistaken for nothing less than the daughter of the two in the front. Her companion, however, was obviously no relation. He had messy jet-black hair, intense green eyes, and a funny scar just below his hairline.
The two in the back had been sleeping for a while, but when the rumble of engines and angry bleeps from horns that made up the streets of London began to be heard, sleep decided it was time to move elsewhere.
"Well, we're here," the man behind the wheel said curtly, taking but a second to glance over his shoulder to send a glare at the boy before whipping his head forward again to concentrate on his driving.
"Yes, it appears so," Harry Potter replied in an eerily calm voice.
He said no more.
"Well," the older man snapped after a minute had passed with no other comments from the rear of the vehicle.
"We head to the Leaky Cauldron, of course. It is vital that we contact Professor Dumbledore or the Weasleys. We have to tell them what has happened."
"Only one problem, Harry," Hermione Granger cut in before her father could get truly irate. "We have always had an enchanted parchment to guide us to where the Leaky Cauldron is, so none of us really has an idea where to go."
Harry was briefly surprised. Having never come by Muggle car, he had never really considered the possibility that the wizarding pub would have to be shown to any Muggles. He had always assumed that once a Muggle-born student was accepted at Hogwarts, the parents of the child would be able to see the pub once provided with directions to it. Apparently, this was not the case. Harry himself had traveled with Hagrid to the pub on foot from the railway station before his first year. He had first experienced the unpleasantness of Floo powder during the second. The Night Bus had been little better, he had learned quite painfully his third year. And, he realized with a start, he had not visited the Leaky Cauldron or Diagon Alley the previous year. Instead, Mrs. Weasley had picked up all of their school supplies while Mr. Weasley had taken the rest of the family along with Harry and Hermione to the Quidditch World Cup. And what a disaster that had turned out to be..
Yet, he thought he would be able to get his charges to the appropriate location. Thus, after mulling it over a few moments, he leaned forward and told Mr. Granger so.
He was wrong.
__________
The house was old.
Actually, the house was more than old.
The house was ancient.
To Sirius, coming home was not a joyous occasion. It was not even remotely happy. As he keyed the door open, he was dimly irritated that Dumbledore had not thrown the key away or lost it after Sirius had given it in to his keeping. Before the whole nasty Secret Keeper business, that had been. Back when the Marauders were young and full of life, back before the idea of a traitor in their midst had even remotely been considered.
Sirius had just been notified of his mother's death and of his now being the owner of the Black manner. It was also, consequently, the last thing in the world he wanted. He had left the house with nothing but unpleasant memories of the place and of its occupants. The Potter Manor in Godric's Hollow was the only place he had ever considered a home, and Sirius doubted very much if that would change now that he owned the ancestral home of his family.
With these thoughts, he had immediately sent the key to Dumbledore for safe keeping, saying that perhaps one day he would be able to enter the house again without so much bitterness. He would have given the key to one of the other Marauders, Moony perhaps, but a feeling he could not explain had pushed him to leave it with the old man instead.
Now, all these years later, Sirius was apprehensive as he led the way in to the home of his family for generations uncounted.
All of this went through his mind in a blink. The next second, he was coughing violently. The dust that arose beneath their feet as they filed in to the old foyer was thicker than he would have believed possible. The dark curtains that hung on the walls seemed to be choking in dust. The stuff continued to puff up beneath their feet as they moved further in to the house.
Sirius opened his mouth to make some snappy remark about the conditions of the place, but he never got the words out. Instead, he fell silent as a voice was heard muttering and drawing closer quickly.
"Visitors to our house, eh? Who could it be, Kreacher wonders? Yes, Kreacher wonders very much. The mistress will not be pleased that they have entered her house. Kreacher will send the slimy piles of gnome dung on their way. Yes, Mistress, he will."
And then, shambling in to view, came the owner of the voice. He was short, maybe two feet in height, wearing what appeared to be the world's oldest pair of Muggle underwear, and nothing else. The laughter at the sight died on Sirius's lips as he saw the expression on the house elf's face. It was anything but pleasant.
"Kreacher, I had no idea you were still here," Sirius greeted the elf cordially enough.
"Master Black, you have returned! Returned to poor Kreacher at last!"
Upon recognition of the master of the house, Kreacher's whole countenance underwent an amazing and complete transformation. The scowl that had dominated his features was replaced by a wide, sunny smile, and the anger that had seconds before filled the elf's watery eyes was replaced by a gleam that Sirius found he cared for not in the least. And, as he looked closer, he found that the smile on Kreacher's face did not reach his eyes. In fact, it looked rather forced.
"How I have missed you, Master Black," the elf continued, bowing so low that Sirius thought he might overbalance and do a nose dive right in to the dust. And speaking of dust ...
"Kreacher, if you have been here all this time, why is the place so dusty," he demanded rather more sharply than he had intended.
"My mistress has not ordered me to clean the place, Master," the house elf explained in a tone he clearly meant to be respectful and instead came out sounding more like contempt.
Sirius opened his mouth to tell the old elf that his mistress was dead and therefore could not give him any more orders. But he never uttered the words. Kreacher had continued speaking, but this time it was in a low, muttering voice, speaking as if he perhaps thought the people standing directly in front of him could not hear him.
"Great, the blood traitor has finally returned and expects Kreacher to stoop so low as to work for the murdering villain. Ah, Mistress, at least you can give me orders to override those of the fool and his foolish friends."
And that was all it took to snap the thin veil of control Sirius was somehow managing to hold on to. What with his worry over Harry and Hermione, his constant flight from Ministry wizards and others in the magical world who believed him a murderer, having to return to the place he considered another form of hell, and now this old and wretched house elf speaking so horribly about him and his friends, it was little wonder that his fury burst.
"STAND UP, ELF," he roared. "ANY MORE TALK LIKE THAT AND I'LL D---"
But what exactly Black would have done to the pitiful creature in front of him was drowned out by another voice.
Black, Lupin, Dumbledore, and Weasley had been standing next to a curtained off alcove that was situated next to the entrance of the vast living room. Now, as Black's thunderous voice rang out, the curtains parted as if by an invisible hand. Behind them was not an alcove, but a portrait. It was the portrait of an older woman, the look of dignity on her face only being surpassed by the glare she cast around the room.
"FILTHY TRAITOR SON OF MINE COME HOME AT LAST," the portrait of Miranda Black, Sirius's mother, shrieked at the top of her quite expansive lungs. "HOW DARE YOU BRING OTHER FILTH LIKE YOU IN TO THIS MOST NOBLE HOUSE? NEXT THING, YOU'LL INVITE IN WEREWOLVES AND MUDBLOODS AND OTHER SUCH FILTH!"
Undoubtedly, she would have continued in her charming speech had not Dumbledore intervened. Sirius moved to clap his hands over his ears to shut out the hated voice, but before he had succeeded, Dumbledore waved his wand, muttered a word, and the curtains were swept back together with stupendous force. The scowling shrieking portrait managed a surprised "eeepe" before the curtains slammed closed, and the darkness forced it back in to morose and brooding silence.
"Sirius," Remus started uncertainly.
Sirius ignored him and swept back the way he had come, heart hammering in his chest.
Stepping out through the front door, he thought that fresh air had never smelled so good. Even after escaping Azkaban with its hideous guardians he had never felt so alone, so completely and utterly deserted. Sure, he had Remus for company, but the fact that the werewolf had once believed him a traitor was a fact that Sirius did not know if he could ever completely overcome. The same thing applied for Dumbledore. As for Arthur Weasley, Sirius had only met the man once or twice before this summer, and while he liked him well enough, he would never be what Sirius could consider a really close compatriot.
Coming back here had been a mistake, he now realized. Sure, perhaps the Order could have some use for the place. He sure hoped so at any rate. However, this was not the place for him. There were too many bad memories, too many ghosts from his past still roaming its ancient halls, and too many screaming portraits and hateful house elves that were more than happy to remind him of his hated life in these walls.
He stood there listlessly for perhaps twenty minutes, listening to the sounds of loud music and yelling coming from some raucous party near by, watching the occasional car as it sped quickly past him and vanished in to the night, headed for who knew where. Finally, gritting his teeth in frustration, he forced himself to turn around and return up the short walk to number twelve, Grimmauld Place.
__________
It was no good. He was lost. They had been driving for nearly an hour through the less reputable parts of London, searching for Charing Cross Road. Mr. Granger had wanted to stop several times and get a map, but Harry had managed to convince him so far that stopping would not be a good plan. After all, he had pointed out, they had no idea if they were being followed or not. However, he did not think that these stalling tactics would work for much longer. Listening to Hermione muttering under her breath was not helping either. Nor was the fact that Mrs. Granger was beginning to groan with pain from the after effects of the Cruciatus Curse. They would need to reach their destination soon so that she could be treated.
"Try the next street on the left," Harry said, sensing Mr. Granger opening his mouth to begin another tirade. "And, if we still see no sign of the Leaky Cauldron, we'll stop and check a map."
Grumbling quietly under his breath, Scott Granger did as he was asked. The road they turned on to was one of the narrowest and dirtiest that Harry had seen so far in London. The houses appeared to be gripped by a massive hand that was slowly crushing them together. Beer cans and other bits of garbage lined the gutters giving the lane an unsettling forsaken look. This was definitely not Charing Cross Road, and there was no bar called The Leaky Cauldron anywhere in sight.
Harry opened his mouth to suggest they turn around and find a public telephone or a gas station, but the words died on his lips ere they were ever uttered.
His shout of surprise and joy was so startling to the other occupants of the car that Hermione jerked fully awake, Mrs. Granger snapped her head around to look at Harry in spite of her pain, and Mr. Granger's foot came down on the brakes so forcefully that the car skidded and slammed nose first in to the curb with enough force to rattle Harry's teeth in their sockets. Yet he took no notice of this.
He wrenched the side door open before the engine died, and as he saw the object of his happiness begin to close the door behind him, he gave another cry.
The man turned around, mouth agape, eyes widening with incredulity, before the force of the fifteen-year-old boy slammed in to him, propelling him back in to the front door of the house hard enough to cause the door to fly open and hit the wall with a resounding boom! He started to fall, but Harry caught him with a surprisingly strong grip and steadied him.
"Sirius," Harry managed at last through an extremely dry throat. "Padfoot! What are you doing here?"
TBC
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Chapter 9
During the day, the city streets of London were a nightmare to travel. Cars forced their way from place to place, the anxious drivers behind the wheel cursing under their breaths as they fought to make their various appointments and/or deliveries. Amidst all of the auto traffic, buses with anxious residents and tourists struggled to make their way to their appointed stops to deposit the patrons to their respective work areas or to some odd museum or other popular tourist spot.
Even at night, London's various attractions lured the city's inhabitants out in droves, whether to attend a theatre function, to grab a drink at the pub down the street, or to while away the hours in a smoky and noise-filled night club, gradually or quickly losing their sobriety as pint after pint of ale or some other equally enticing alcoholic beverage was consumed.
Through the hustle and bustle of one balmy night at the beginning of August, a sleek silver Mercedes toiled its way in to the city. The occupants of the car were four in number. A man, brown hair framing a face from which two equally brown eyes shown forth was behind the wheel. A woman with somewhat bushy reddish-brown hair and bright blue eyes was seated next to him, wincing from time to time as the car hit some pothole or other obstacle in the road.
In the back seat of the car were two young teenagers. One, with somewhat frizzy brown hair and deep brown eyes, could be mistaken for nothing less than the daughter of the two in the front. Her companion, however, was obviously no relation. He had messy jet-black hair, intense green eyes, and a funny scar just below his hairline.
The two in the back had been sleeping for a while, but when the rumble of engines and angry bleeps from horns that made up the streets of London began to be heard, sleep decided it was time to move elsewhere.
"Well, we're here," the man behind the wheel said curtly, taking but a second to glance over his shoulder to send a glare at the boy before whipping his head forward again to concentrate on his driving.
"Yes, it appears so," Harry Potter replied in an eerily calm voice.
He said no more.
"Well," the older man snapped after a minute had passed with no other comments from the rear of the vehicle.
"We head to the Leaky Cauldron, of course. It is vital that we contact Professor Dumbledore or the Weasleys. We have to tell them what has happened."
"Only one problem, Harry," Hermione Granger cut in before her father could get truly irate. "We have always had an enchanted parchment to guide us to where the Leaky Cauldron is, so none of us really has an idea where to go."
Harry was briefly surprised. Having never come by Muggle car, he had never really considered the possibility that the wizarding pub would have to be shown to any Muggles. He had always assumed that once a Muggle-born student was accepted at Hogwarts, the parents of the child would be able to see the pub once provided with directions to it. Apparently, this was not the case. Harry himself had traveled with Hagrid to the pub on foot from the railway station before his first year. He had first experienced the unpleasantness of Floo powder during the second. The Night Bus had been little better, he had learned quite painfully his third year. And, he realized with a start, he had not visited the Leaky Cauldron or Diagon Alley the previous year. Instead, Mrs. Weasley had picked up all of their school supplies while Mr. Weasley had taken the rest of the family along with Harry and Hermione to the Quidditch World Cup. And what a disaster that had turned out to be..
Yet, he thought he would be able to get his charges to the appropriate location. Thus, after mulling it over a few moments, he leaned forward and told Mr. Granger so.
He was wrong.
__________
The house was old.
Actually, the house was more than old.
The house was ancient.
To Sirius, coming home was not a joyous occasion. It was not even remotely happy. As he keyed the door open, he was dimly irritated that Dumbledore had not thrown the key away or lost it after Sirius had given it in to his keeping. Before the whole nasty Secret Keeper business, that had been. Back when the Marauders were young and full of life, back before the idea of a traitor in their midst had even remotely been considered.
Sirius had just been notified of his mother's death and of his now being the owner of the Black manner. It was also, consequently, the last thing in the world he wanted. He had left the house with nothing but unpleasant memories of the place and of its occupants. The Potter Manor in Godric's Hollow was the only place he had ever considered a home, and Sirius doubted very much if that would change now that he owned the ancestral home of his family.
With these thoughts, he had immediately sent the key to Dumbledore for safe keeping, saying that perhaps one day he would be able to enter the house again without so much bitterness. He would have given the key to one of the other Marauders, Moony perhaps, but a feeling he could not explain had pushed him to leave it with the old man instead.
Now, all these years later, Sirius was apprehensive as he led the way in to the home of his family for generations uncounted.
All of this went through his mind in a blink. The next second, he was coughing violently. The dust that arose beneath their feet as they filed in to the old foyer was thicker than he would have believed possible. The dark curtains that hung on the walls seemed to be choking in dust. The stuff continued to puff up beneath their feet as they moved further in to the house.
Sirius opened his mouth to make some snappy remark about the conditions of the place, but he never got the words out. Instead, he fell silent as a voice was heard muttering and drawing closer quickly.
"Visitors to our house, eh? Who could it be, Kreacher wonders? Yes, Kreacher wonders very much. The mistress will not be pleased that they have entered her house. Kreacher will send the slimy piles of gnome dung on their way. Yes, Mistress, he will."
And then, shambling in to view, came the owner of the voice. He was short, maybe two feet in height, wearing what appeared to be the world's oldest pair of Muggle underwear, and nothing else. The laughter at the sight died on Sirius's lips as he saw the expression on the house elf's face. It was anything but pleasant.
"Kreacher, I had no idea you were still here," Sirius greeted the elf cordially enough.
"Master Black, you have returned! Returned to poor Kreacher at last!"
Upon recognition of the master of the house, Kreacher's whole countenance underwent an amazing and complete transformation. The scowl that had dominated his features was replaced by a wide, sunny smile, and the anger that had seconds before filled the elf's watery eyes was replaced by a gleam that Sirius found he cared for not in the least. And, as he looked closer, he found that the smile on Kreacher's face did not reach his eyes. In fact, it looked rather forced.
"How I have missed you, Master Black," the elf continued, bowing so low that Sirius thought he might overbalance and do a nose dive right in to the dust. And speaking of dust ...
"Kreacher, if you have been here all this time, why is the place so dusty," he demanded rather more sharply than he had intended.
"My mistress has not ordered me to clean the place, Master," the house elf explained in a tone he clearly meant to be respectful and instead came out sounding more like contempt.
Sirius opened his mouth to tell the old elf that his mistress was dead and therefore could not give him any more orders. But he never uttered the words. Kreacher had continued speaking, but this time it was in a low, muttering voice, speaking as if he perhaps thought the people standing directly in front of him could not hear him.
"Great, the blood traitor has finally returned and expects Kreacher to stoop so low as to work for the murdering villain. Ah, Mistress, at least you can give me orders to override those of the fool and his foolish friends."
And that was all it took to snap the thin veil of control Sirius was somehow managing to hold on to. What with his worry over Harry and Hermione, his constant flight from Ministry wizards and others in the magical world who believed him a murderer, having to return to the place he considered another form of hell, and now this old and wretched house elf speaking so horribly about him and his friends, it was little wonder that his fury burst.
"STAND UP, ELF," he roared. "ANY MORE TALK LIKE THAT AND I'LL D---"
But what exactly Black would have done to the pitiful creature in front of him was drowned out by another voice.
Black, Lupin, Dumbledore, and Weasley had been standing next to a curtained off alcove that was situated next to the entrance of the vast living room. Now, as Black's thunderous voice rang out, the curtains parted as if by an invisible hand. Behind them was not an alcove, but a portrait. It was the portrait of an older woman, the look of dignity on her face only being surpassed by the glare she cast around the room.
"FILTHY TRAITOR SON OF MINE COME HOME AT LAST," the portrait of Miranda Black, Sirius's mother, shrieked at the top of her quite expansive lungs. "HOW DARE YOU BRING OTHER FILTH LIKE YOU IN TO THIS MOST NOBLE HOUSE? NEXT THING, YOU'LL INVITE IN WEREWOLVES AND MUDBLOODS AND OTHER SUCH FILTH!"
Undoubtedly, she would have continued in her charming speech had not Dumbledore intervened. Sirius moved to clap his hands over his ears to shut out the hated voice, but before he had succeeded, Dumbledore waved his wand, muttered a word, and the curtains were swept back together with stupendous force. The scowling shrieking portrait managed a surprised "eeepe" before the curtains slammed closed, and the darkness forced it back in to morose and brooding silence.
"Sirius," Remus started uncertainly.
Sirius ignored him and swept back the way he had come, heart hammering in his chest.
Stepping out through the front door, he thought that fresh air had never smelled so good. Even after escaping Azkaban with its hideous guardians he had never felt so alone, so completely and utterly deserted. Sure, he had Remus for company, but the fact that the werewolf had once believed him a traitor was a fact that Sirius did not know if he could ever completely overcome. The same thing applied for Dumbledore. As for Arthur Weasley, Sirius had only met the man once or twice before this summer, and while he liked him well enough, he would never be what Sirius could consider a really close compatriot.
Coming back here had been a mistake, he now realized. Sure, perhaps the Order could have some use for the place. He sure hoped so at any rate. However, this was not the place for him. There were too many bad memories, too many ghosts from his past still roaming its ancient halls, and too many screaming portraits and hateful house elves that were more than happy to remind him of his hated life in these walls.
He stood there listlessly for perhaps twenty minutes, listening to the sounds of loud music and yelling coming from some raucous party near by, watching the occasional car as it sped quickly past him and vanished in to the night, headed for who knew where. Finally, gritting his teeth in frustration, he forced himself to turn around and return up the short walk to number twelve, Grimmauld Place.
__________
It was no good. He was lost. They had been driving for nearly an hour through the less reputable parts of London, searching for Charing Cross Road. Mr. Granger had wanted to stop several times and get a map, but Harry had managed to convince him so far that stopping would not be a good plan. After all, he had pointed out, they had no idea if they were being followed or not. However, he did not think that these stalling tactics would work for much longer. Listening to Hermione muttering under her breath was not helping either. Nor was the fact that Mrs. Granger was beginning to groan with pain from the after effects of the Cruciatus Curse. They would need to reach their destination soon so that she could be treated.
"Try the next street on the left," Harry said, sensing Mr. Granger opening his mouth to begin another tirade. "And, if we still see no sign of the Leaky Cauldron, we'll stop and check a map."
Grumbling quietly under his breath, Scott Granger did as he was asked. The road they turned on to was one of the narrowest and dirtiest that Harry had seen so far in London. The houses appeared to be gripped by a massive hand that was slowly crushing them together. Beer cans and other bits of garbage lined the gutters giving the lane an unsettling forsaken look. This was definitely not Charing Cross Road, and there was no bar called The Leaky Cauldron anywhere in sight.
Harry opened his mouth to suggest they turn around and find a public telephone or a gas station, but the words died on his lips ere they were ever uttered.
His shout of surprise and joy was so startling to the other occupants of the car that Hermione jerked fully awake, Mrs. Granger snapped her head around to look at Harry in spite of her pain, and Mr. Granger's foot came down on the brakes so forcefully that the car skidded and slammed nose first in to the curb with enough force to rattle Harry's teeth in their sockets. Yet he took no notice of this.
He wrenched the side door open before the engine died, and as he saw the object of his happiness begin to close the door behind him, he gave another cry.
The man turned around, mouth agape, eyes widening with incredulity, before the force of the fifteen-year-old boy slammed in to him, propelling him back in to the front door of the house hard enough to cause the door to fly open and hit the wall with a resounding boom! He started to fall, but Harry caught him with a surprisingly strong grip and steadied him.
"Sirius," Harry managed at last through an extremely dry throat. "Padfoot! What are you doing here?"
TBC