July 17, 1995
Sirius could not understand why the universe seemed hell-bent on his misery.
Number Twelve Grimmauld Place had always been stale and grim and horrid, but as a child, never had every detail of the place nettled Sirius like it did now. Perhaps the years since his escape from home had taken the edge off his memories. Or perhaps it was all the decay that had settled in after his mother died.
Either way, he had been living here for barely three weeks, and already he was losing bits of his sanity that even Azkaban hadn't managed to take.
Luckily, daily Order meetings and constant activity meant he was not alone as much as he could have been. But even Remus, who had essentially moved in, could not always be around for company. And Sirius, of course, could not leave. Once Dumbledore had placed all his enchantments on the house, he had advised Sirius to always stay within their protections.
Rationally, of course, Sirius agreed. The Ministry still ordered Dementors to Kiss him on sight, and Sirius didn't fancy losing his soul. It was only that he felt so very cramped and bored and useless, and ridiculously, he was starting to miss those days he'd spent in that cave near Hogsmeade, catching rats to feed himself. The hunting and transforming had kept his body relatively exhausted. It had been something to do, and he'd managed to keep the nightmares largely at bay.
Grimmauld Place was another story completely. With nothing to stimulate his body or brain, the memories and nightmares came crashing down with full force. During the day, any glimpse of a nick in the furniture or a spot on the rugs might conjure a nasty scene from childhood, and his mother's voice wasn't doing him any favours. But even that was nothing compared to the nights, when his conscious mind could no longer block out the nightmares steeped in guilt and despair.
Nearly every night now he saw James and Lily's lifeless forms crumbled on their floor. Heard baby Harry's escalating cries. Sometimes, he'd see other Order members, gruesomely dead or perhaps turning their wands on him when he'd been least suspecting. Sometimes, Moony's perpetually scarred face stared up at him, mischievous eyes now blank with death.
Then, other times, he'd glimpse a mass of dark curls against pale marble skin, hear hoarse screams, see another lifeless and mangled form lying at his feet and know that he had failed another person he loved. He would jerk awake in the musty darkness, sweat cold on the back of his neck, his own strangled screams still ringing in his ears.
Sirius suspected curling up to sleep in his Animagus form would help keep his mind clear, but he rather stubbornly refused to test out his theory. As much as he loved Padfoot, he was human first, damn it. He could not accept that Azkaban had taken away for good his ability to function like a normal person.
Instead, he doused himself in calming potions and alcohol, hoping to dull the edge of the nightmares. When they inevitably came, he let them shock him awake before dawn. Often, too shaken to fall back asleep, he would flop and turn in the darkness, eyes wide, waiting for morning. Not like it mattered. What good was a full night of sleep to him these days? He had nothing to do during the day.
He could clean, he supposed. And in fact, he was cleaning, though progress was currently being measured in inches by the hour, and even Sirius was not so shameless as to declare that he was trying his hardest. The truth was, he had little motivation to change the current state of anything. Even if the house were new and pristine again, every table and chair and tapestry would only stir up awful memories.
And so, restless day bled into tortured night, each melting into the next, until Sirius felt as if he spent his days staring down a long black tunnel of miserable nothingness. There was, however, one spot of light at the end of the tunnel, and Sirius had clung to it like a drowning man ever since Dumbledore had given him the vague promise.
O~O~O~O~O
"When do you reckon Dumbledore'll let Harry come stay," Sirius asked Remus, draining his cold tea and twirling his wand absently between his fingers.
They were in the Grimmauld Place kitchen, occupying the only clean chairs in a hastily cleared space before the cold hearth. The rest of the kitchens were covered in a revolting (and Slytherin green) mould that was simultaneously sticky and slimy. Performing the only scrubbing spell that seemed to work felt like pulling teeth. Naturally, Sirius had cleared a small space to sit and an even smaller space to cook, then pretended he had better things to clean.
"I don't know, Padfoot. Dumbledore hasn't given me any updates since I asked him yesterday," Remus said patiently. His cup was empty, and he peered hopefully into the teapot.
"But they should all be here for the meeting soon, and you can ask him yourself. Can you put more water on to boil?"
Sirius, being closer to the stove, complied, then went back to twirling his wand, rocking back and forth on the hind legs of his chair.
"Hmm," he mused, frowning at the ceiling. "And about Harry having that connection to Voldemort through his scar, what do you think? Was Dumbledore telling us everything?"
Remus raised an eyebrow and reached for an oat biscuit. Sirius made a subconscious grimace. He'd come to accept that Kreacher wasn't trying to poison everyone, but everything Kreacher touched seemed unappetising.
"I doubt Dumbledore has told anybody everything," said Remus. "But in regards to Harry's Voldemort connection, he seemed earnest enough. What would he have to hide from us?"
"Dumbledore assured us that Harry was perfectly safe," Sirius said, freezing his rocking and giving Remus a dark look.
"If Harry is perfectly safe, why'd he say we weren't to tell him more than he 'needs to know?' Like we have to be vague on purpose. Makes it sound like Voldy can see into his head or something."
Remus was silent for a moment.
"Sirius, I think that was what Dumbledore meant," he finally said, voice quiet.
"What?" Sirius jumped out of his chair, toppling it back, his hands braced on the rickety wood table. "And he still thinks Harry's safe? Is he off his rocker?"
"Well, maybe Voldemort doesn't know the connection's there. Or maybe, as long as Voldemort doesn't think Harry has important information, he won't bother trying to get into his head."
"How can you look so calm, Moony?" cried Sirius. "Any mind connection to a murderous madman is highly dangerous!"
Remus sighed.
"Of course it is, Padfoot, and I don't like it any more than you do, but it isn't as if there's a way for us to get rid of it. The only way is to make sure Voldemort has no incentives to get into Harry's mind. I'm sure Dumbledore knows what he's doing. Do sit down."
Sirius remained tense for another moment, then deflated. Remus was annoying this way, always so calm and right about everything. He fixed his chair and dropped back into it.
"I know, I know," he said, rubbing his temple. "I doubt even Dumbledore can fix things related to a killing curse scar." He gave a frustrated growl, but it sounded defeated. "I just…I need to keep him safe, Moony. It's the least—it's my…well, you know."
"I do, Padfoot. I do." He reached over to clap him on the shoulder, and for a second it was like Prongs was sitting in the gloomy kitchen with them.
"At least I don't have to worry about being useless in this case, if no one else can help Harry either."
"We've been over this. You're not useless, only bored." And the spell was broken.
Giving him a sideways look, Remus whispered something about "dramatics, worse than before," under his breath, then bit decisively into another biscuit. Sirius was about to defend his own honour, but then decided ignoring the comment would better drive home his point.
"Oi, those are meant for the meeting later," he said instead. "I'll have to order Kreacher to make more if we run out, and I can't stand to look at him any more today. How many have you had?"
"I'm assuming he made enough for everyone to have two," Remus shrugged, "and I've been eating both our portions." He gave Sirius an assessing look.
"Though I must say, now that I think about it, maybe I shouldn't let you pass up on things like Kreacher's biscuits. I'd have expected you to fill out more since you've stopped subsisting on rats, but you're still rather thin."
Sirius knew this only too well. His face had lost its gaunt look, but he could still clearly see a few ribs when he changed, and he certainly hadn't needed Remus to bring him bigger robes. Kreacher's cooking wasn't fantastic, but it wasn't inedible, and yet he couldn't ever seem to summon up an appetite.
It wasn't about Kreacher, really. He just couldn't seem to taste the difference between soup and salad, or cake and roast beef. Because he hadn't felt physically hungry since moving back into Grimmauld Place, meals usually consisted of spooning matter into his mouth until he grew bored. And everything he ate bored him immensely.
"Not really hungry," he said, wrinkling his nose. Then, not wanting to worry Remus, he added, "Maybe when the Weasleys move in I'll be inclined to eat more. I've heard Molly Weasley's a great cook."
To his satisfaction, Remus seemed to perk up at the thought, but at the same time they both glanced around the rotting excuse for a kitchen, covered in green slime like a rock at low tide.
"Maybe we should, uh…"
Sirius heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Yeah, but the kettle's boiled. Let's just have one more cup of tea first. For courage."
O~O~O~O~O
It was two hours before Sirius heard a faint pop of Apparition coming through the high windows that opened just below the front door. He and Remus both took a breath, bracing themselves for when the Order member inevitably rang the doorbell and woke up that accursed portrait, but to their surprise, they heard only the soft click of the front door.
"Must be Dumbledore or Moody," said Remus. The faint footsteps sounded like more than one person.
"You'd better go up before they think something nasty's happened to us," said Sirius, handing him the tray of oat biscuits. "I'll be right up with the tea when the kettle's boiled." The Order had been meeting in the Black family's formal dining room, which, perhaps to preserve the china, had been the one with the fewest dangerous magical remnants. The herd of pixies that had taken up residence in the fussy chandelier could make a nuisance of themselves, but they were of the Shropshire variety, and generally harmless.
As Remus climbed the stairs, Sirius surveyed the progress they'd made. Two more chairs were fit for human occupation, and they'd cleared an extra four square-feet of space around the stove. It had taken them over a hundred recantations of the specified scourging spell, and Sirius was certain this would be how he died. Muttering a fungus-blasting charm as his brain slowly turned to porridge.
"Clang!"
The sudden crash and clatter of what had to be Remus' biscuit tray sounded above his head, and Sirius stopped dead, his primal instincts alert for danger. Now he heard voices, but they weren't loud enough for make anything out. Didn't sound like an altercation, but surely Remus was not so clumsy that he'd dropped the tray for no reason.
Still panicked, heart racing, Sirius grabbed his wand and raced up the stairs two at a time, not wanting to Apparate into the middle of something unexpected.
He heard Remus through the floorboards, though his voice seemed…off. Shocked, a bit blithering, and frightened?
Then Dumbledore was speaking, his voice low and placating.
"…assured she truly is…only she and I knew about…yes, Remus, it would seem…"
Sirius opened the door, head turning to locate where Remus' voice was coming from. It had been Dumbledore coming in, and they were in the dining room after all. It seemed he'd had no cause for concern. Of course. Blasted nerves. Remus must have tripped or something. All that scrubbing from before. Sirius' instincts had been on high alert for the past two years, and now any sort of sudden sound made him jumpy.
Briskly, trying to regain some of his dignity, he strode down the hall to the open dining room door. Suddenly, another voice slipped into the conversation.
A woman's voice, chocolatey smooth. An unmistakeable voice. Her voice. Sirius froze.
Klara Hesse Montagu stood in the middle of his decaying dining room. Tall, elegant, dark curls falling about her waist. For some moments, Sirius was certain this was some new twisted dream his mind had seen fit to taunt him with.
Klara, who was supposed to be safe in Austria. Klara, who was supposed not to be Klara at all. His Klara. In this house? In London? But that must mean the memory charm...
She was smiling that same quiet smile, her lips forming words his mind refused to process. For so long, he had hoped to dream of her, but Azkaban had dulled every memory of her he'd held. Not so now. Every curve of her cheek and lift of her lip was crisp and vivid and real.
She reached out her slender hands and squeezed Remus' in that warm way only she could muster, and his brain struggled to make sense.
As he stood gawking, his mind stuck, his heart pounding, Klara seemed to sense his gaze. She looked up. She, too, froze. Her eyes near crashed into his, and he felt the breath whoosh from his chest, as if her single look had been a physical blow. He dug his fingers into the doorframe. The air hung heavy and still around them, muting sound, stealing breath. Then, she spoke.