Mhm… mhm…

Chapter Nine – The Dead Man

As soon as he began moving into the room Harry realised that he had been very lucky earlier to not be recognised. As he and Sirius dropped into their chosen chairs, it was as though all other visitors that happened to look their way performed a collective gasp. Instinctively, Harry's hand shot to his forehead to flatten his fringe over his scar.

"You know," muttered Sirius, "that only serves to betray you sooner."

Harry slowly lowered his hand and some heat wandered across his cheeks. "Yeah, well..." he mumbled, not too eloquently.

Sirius chuckled and pushed back his hood a little so that Harry could see him better. There was a twinkle in his godfather's eyes and it made Harry's stomach turn over in a surprisingly pleasant fashion. "An old habit?" Sirius asked him.

"Too old," said Harry quietly. He expected the familiar rush of desolation and anguish that had in some way or another been attached to his name for as long as he could remember, but to his surprise it stayed away this time. Sirius' gaze held him very softly, he thought, and perhaps this was why the stares and whispers now pushing through the room towards them did not bother him as much as they ought to do.

"Ignore them," said Sirius equally quietly and gave Harry's hand a quick squeeze before releasing it again.

Harry nodded his agreement but his eyes strayed to where his hand now lay abandoned on his thigh. He suddenly felt cold and could not help but to wish that Sirius' would touch him again, wrap an arm around his shoulders perhaps, or just mess up his hair, as he had done the day before in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. It did not matter if somebody saw his scar, he dared to suggest to himself. He did not mind complete chaos. That was a price he was more than willing to pay if he knew for certain that Sirius cared for him and wanted to be near him. But as the large eyes of a tall witch with the curliest hair Harry had ever seen shamelessly bore into him strode past them, he lost some of his determination and had to reconsider his bold assertion.

The minutes dragged by and neither Harry nor Sirius said another word as the witch in the lime green robes called the visitors one by one to the counter. The room had a sterile feel to it and, try as he might, Harry failed to make out any light source; in the end he came to the conclusion that it had to be the walls themselves that gave it off.

It was not before the whispers gradually died out around them that he took notice of the awkward tension that was slowly building instead, and he shifted restlessly in his seat. The thickening silence made his skin prickle and he shivered, regretting that he had not brought a jumper. The room was now so quiet that it was easy to overhear the sometimes lengthy debates and arguments that broke out between the witch and one of the visitors, but Harry did his best not to listen. He was not very interested in others' business – all he wanted was to see Sirius' records adjusted and then Floo back home.

They waited and waited until at last:

"Sirius Black!"

Too late did Harry come to realise just what might happen when the despised and reviled name of a convicted mass murderer rang out among the assembled people. If the reaction to Harry's presence had been a kind of unforeseen surprise, the already heavy air was now stabbed with pure terror. As though they were all part of a well-choreographed dance, every witch and wizard present now began scanning the room frantically while taking a couple of precautionary steps back.

"Sirius Black?" In return, the witch behind the counter was leaning forwards, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the room was quickly filling with fear, and once again, rushed murmurs and whispers.

Some people began moving warily towards the haze of white light that was the only indication of an existing exit. A wave of rage pushed Harry to his feet at the sight. "Come on," he told Sirius who was still seated. His voice sounded strained in his own ears and it seemed to echo uncomfortably around the room.

His godfather reluctantly rose and all the modest mirth and the flash of confidence from earlier were completely erased from his features. "Harry..."

"We're going to do this," Harry told him sternly. "Come on."

He grasped Sirius' hand but practically had to drag him across the floor. The whispers wrapped around them as they walked. The idea that Harry Potter was in the company of the man that had killed his parents, and looked as though it was of his own free will, too, seemed almost too big and gloriously terrible to fully comprehend.

"His name was cleared," muttered Harry under his breath, all too well aware that in the face of Voldemort's more official return two years earlier, not many headlines concerning Sirius' innocence had made it through the raging hysteria that had been the media reports.

When they were only a few feet away from the counter a man in heavy dark robes broke free from a small knot of people that had formed near the wall. He, too, had pulled his hood over his face so that his face was well hidden. Harry saw him first in the corner of his eye, but suddenly the man was rushing towards them, and before Harry could swerve – indeed even before the idea had crossed his mind – the man drove his own weight between Harry and Sirius so brutally that their hands flew apart and Harry's wrist was twisted into a cruel angle. As a searing pain shot through it, he heard the man's hiss, sharp and clear:

"Traitor!"

Sirius had tumbled backwards at the assault but quickly regained his footing. He spun around and for a blurry second Harry saw only the swirl of dark fabric before the man dodged any hand that would stop him and made a run for the exit. In the blink of an eye, he was gone.

For a moment nothing happened. Harry stood cradling his aching wrist with his thoughts tumbling over themselves in his head in their hurry to make sense of what had just happened. It was not until he had remembered to breathe again that he realised that Sirius had not moved an inch either. Confused, he looked up at his godfather. Used as he had been to Sirius' impulsive nature and – on occasion admittedly reckless behaviour – he guessed he would have expected him to race off to confront their attacker. But his godfather stood quite still, staring at the white mist without a single trace of anger or indignation to be found in his face.

No one else had moved either. Harry swallowed. These people showed no sign of wanting to help either party. He looked again at his godfather. "Sirius?"

It was like watching a statue awaken. Sirius slowly shook his head and let out a sigh, his shoulders dropping as it left him. "I shouldn't be surprised..." he mumbled. Then there was a flash of life in his grey eyes and he turned to Harry. "Are you OK?"

"Well..." He grimaced as he tried to flex his fingers. "I guess it kind of hurts..."

Sirius' brow furrowed as he prodded Harry's wrist with gentle fingers. "Let's go... we can come back another day..."

"No," Harry cut across him. "No, we can fix this later... Or Hermione can, I think." Deliberately he turned from Sirius, only to keenly feel the loss of connection as his godfather's fingers slid off his skin. Pulling himself together, he strode over to the counter where the witch in her green robes sat staring at them both. "Um... we're here to change Mr Black's records. His status..."

Her smile was somewhat unsteady. "Oh, yes, of course..." She glanced around the room where people had begun whispering again, making no effort to hide their pointing and nodding at Sirius. "My apologies, Mr Potter..." with a casual wave of her hand she indicated the scar on his forehead and thus explained why she knew him by name, "emotions tend to run a little high around here." The more she talked, the more businesslike she became.

Harry chose not to answer this. Only a week ago he would have charged after their attacker without second thought but he was so sick and tired of fighting that he preferred his current, rather unbalanced, state. Sirius was still a few paces behind him and Harry turned to beckon him closer. Very grudgingly, Sirius complied.

The young witch's eyes narrowed as she beheld the man that a few years back, before the return of Voldemort, had been the most feared man in Britain. "Mr Black, then, I presume." It was more of a statement than a question.

Sirius' hood had fallen back completely now and his tangle of ink black locks fell around his gaunt face. "Yes," he said simply.

She nodded curtly and with a flick of her wand, a high stack of parchments replaced another before her. "Sirius Black..." she repeated slowly, scanning the topmost one, "who is dead, yes?"

"Right, well..." Harry threw a cautionary glance at his godfather whose expression was unreadable. "He isn't really. That's why we're here. To show you he... isn't."

"According to our records, Mr Potter," the witch said, "Mr Sirius Black, eldest son of Orion and Walburga Black, is indeed deceased."

"Well, yes. But he is alive now." Harry felt a stir of heat in his cheeks. "He's been Returned."

"Returned?" the witch echoed him questioningly. "How do you mean returned?" She eyed them both, disbelief clearly written across her face.

"To life," said Harry. He nodded at Sirius. "He's right here, as you can see."

The witch's brown eyes – disturbingly reminiscent of Ginny's – fastened on Sirius. "Yes, Mr Black. One would recognise you anywhere from those posters the Ministry distributed after your breakout of Azkaban."

Sirius grunted something undecipherable in response. Harry did not know whether or not to feel affronted on his behalf but decided to look on the bright side of things. He produced a smile for the witch. "So, as you see, he's alive and it would be great if–"

"I'm sorry, Mr Potter," she cut across with a smile of her own, a polite one Harry did not very much like, "Mr Black is, according to our records, dead."

"What?" He could feel Sirius shift beside him. "But he isn't dead, he's right here!"

"Yes, so it appears," she said gently, almost as though she were speaking with a small child. "But no one can return from the dead."

Harry gaped at her. "But he wasn't truly dead! This is what this whole place is about – readjusting dead people's records, isn't it?"

"People who have been presumed dead, Mr Potter," she corrected him with another smile, this one bordering on indulgent. "Mr Black did truly pass away in the Death Chamber in the Department of Mysteries," she said calmly, "and is still, as far as I can tell, dead."

With her wand, she tapped the topmost parchment in the huge pile beside her. Immediately, the parchments rearranged themselves so that a new one appeared on top. She held it up for Harry to see. "Right here, Mr Potter, at the very bottom of the page it says 'Status: deceased'. And, as you can plainly see, it is followed by the exact time and place of the unfortunate event."

"But...?" Harry stared at her disbelievingly. "He – Sirius – is standing right here! He's alive!" He gestured wildly with his good hand at his godfather who made a small noise of acquiescence.

The witch's smile had now turned somewhat strained. "That may be so," she said slowly, emphasising every syllable, "but as we all know, death is not something from which you can return whenever you please. Now, Mr Potter, I have other–"

"No!" Harry cried. "Don't you see he's alive? He's not dead!"

"Harry, it doesn't matter..." Sirius laid a hand on his arm but Harry shook it off.

"Yes it does!" Harry spun to face him. Why wasn't Sirius fighting back? Fighting for his right to exist? "You're here! You're not trapped behind the Veil any longer. Say something, tell her!"

His godfather's eyes were filled to the brim with dejection and he looked pale. Defeated. "It's no use," he mumbled. "They won't listen..."

Behind them the murmuring was mounting to a new level. Harry chose to ignore it. "Listen," he told the witch, "Sirius is alive. He left me everything when he, um... when everyone thought he was dead, but now he should have it all back." He could hear his own voice rising at her indifference.

"Mr Potter." she began tersely. "The very fact that all Mr Black's worldly possessions," she checked the piece of parchment she had held up for Harry's scrutiny, "were transferred to you, as was his stipulated will, only proves that he, indeed, died."

"You only thought he died!" cried Harry, banging his fist on the counter and making her jump.

"Mr Potter! I must insist that–"

"We all thought he died but he didn't!" Harry almost shouted, not caring whom he frightened. "I don't want the house and the money! It all belongs to Sirius!"

"Mr Black is dead." Her gaze had turned steely. "I'm sorry, but there is nothing we can do for you."

"Harry..." Sirius tried to coax him away from the counter. "Let's go."

"We're not leaving!" Harry welcomed the rage; suddenly it was as though he had someone to blame for all the horrible things that had happened, for all the death and pain he had seen since Sirius fell through the Veil. "The house and the money and the house-elf–"

"The house-elf?" she interjected and there was a calculating gleam in her brown eyes. All previous likeness to Ginny was gone in an instant. "Tell me, Mr Potter, which one of you does said house-elf obey?"

Harry silently cursed his own stupidity. He should never have mentioned Kreacher. "Well, he recognises me as his master but that's only because–"

"He recognises you," she cut across smoothly, and with a small smile of triumph. "Thus you are the legitimate owner of the Black residence, the Black family fortune and the house-elf... Kreacher, yes? This would not be so if Sirius Black were not, in fact, dead."

Stunned, Harry could only stare at her. "But..."

"Come on, Harry," said Sirius softly.

With a firm grip on Harry's shoulder Sirius led him away from the counter and through the ogling crowd. Harry could feel curious gazes burning into his back and the eager murmuring spun around them faster and faster. For the first time in years he wanted to break free from Sirius only to scream endlessly at the witch until she saw reason but his godfather was surprisingly strong and Harry was unceremoniously dragged towards the exit. A heartbeat later, he was shoved into the empty corridor beyond. Immediately, Harry rounded on Sirius, shaking off his hand and glowering.

"Why didn't you say something?" he demanded. "Why did you just let her sit there and tell us you're dead?"

Sirius sighed and he shook his head, long, dark tresses falling around his face. "It wouldn't have mattered. She wouldn't have listened." His voice acquired a streak of bitterness. "Twelve years in Azkaban... or eternal death, they don't care what happens to me, Harry."

"But they should!" Harry banged his fist against the wall, earning himself a displeased mutter from it. "You're a person, just like anybody else!"

"I'm not... Not really..." Sirius dragged a hand over his face. "Let's leave."

Harry could not stand the defeat that radiated off his godfather. "You can't just give up! Don't you want a real life? To be respected?"

At his last word, Sirius' grey eyes shot to his face and there was a dangerous flash in them. Snarling, much like he might do in his dog form, Sirius took a few steps towards him. "Respected?" he hissed. "You think I don't want to be respected?"

For a frantic heartbeat, Harry hesitated. He had seen Sirius angry before and only last night a portion of it had inexplicably been directed at him for the very first time, and he had hated it. Still, it was some kind of reaction he was after. "It certainly didn't look like it in there," he dared.

"Is that how you think of me?" growled Sirius, taking another step. "You think I'm weak?"

Harry lifted his chin in defiance. He opened his mouth to counter, but any reply he had intended to make was wiped from his mind as Sirius lunged for him, pushed him hard against the wall and pressed their mouths together with such force that all air was driven out of his lungs. Not a single thought had time to race across Harry's mind as Sirius forced his lips to part and drove his tongue past them. Harry's world exploded. He stood as though frozen in time as Sirius devoured him and forced every fibre in Harry's body into a state of shock.

It was over before he knew it. Sirius pulled back just as harshly as he had thrown himself at him and reeled backwards. His eyes were wide and wild, and he stared at Harry for a maddening moment before he took off down the short corridor, his robes billowing behind him.

Struck witless, Harry did not know if he were breathing. He could not feel the floor beneath his feet, could hear nothing except for the blood that was pounding in his ears. He shuddered, suddenly chilled to the bone. Too late he heard himself call out, a perfect mess of panic, fear and disbelief lacing his voice, "Sirius!"

But Sirius had thrown himself through the water screen and was gone.

An amused snigger sifted out towards him. "My, my!"

The walls were spinning around him but Harry could at last focus on the only spot of colour in the raging sea of white that held him trapped.

The little wizard in his painting had slid off his chair and was now positively bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Surprised you, did he, eh?" In a fit of delight, he clapped his hands. "Such tempers, such tempers!"

It took another moment or two for Harry's head to clear enough for him to understand normal speech. "What?"

The wizard rolled his eyes, but the smile that followed was bright as the sun. "All bewildered are we, Mr Um-Potter? Upon my honour – upon my honour! – never have I seen–"

"I have to find him."

"I beg your par–" Nonplussed, the wizard blinked at him before he caught on. "Ah! Yes, indeed! Indeed you do!" He applauded this too. "Off you go, Mr Um-Potter, off you go!"

Harry spared him a doubtful glance but he took the encouragement to heart. The curtain of moving water was only a few feet away and he burst through it with the only intention of catching up with Sirius before this turned out to be only a dream or a cruel twist of unknown magic. However, as soon as he was on the other side, he was forced to slow down since the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was still teeming with workers and visitors. He pushed past them, muttering excuses and apologies as he went, his jumbled thoughts and heartbeat racing each other. Once or twice he stepped on somebody's robes and was properly scolded. He kept his head down and offered more excuses before finally squeezing into a lift that many long minutes later deposited him in the Atrium.

There was only place to which Sirius would run, Harry was quite sure of it. His godfather was not likely to remain at the Ministry for any longer than absolutely necessary and since he was still considered dead, and by a majority of the British population, a deranged criminal that did not think twice before he uttered the Killing Curse, it was not likely that he would take refuge in any public place. No, Harry had to Floo back to Grimmauld Place as soon as he possibly could.

In the Atrium a sort of organised chaos reigned. Someone had dropped a bucketful of owl droppings on the floor and a cleaner was half-heartedly flicking his wand at them to convince them to return to it. Memos flapped eagerly through the air, obscuring Harry's view as he pressed through the throng to reach the gilded fireplaces.

He was halfway there when one voice rose above all the others: "Oi! He's over there! It's Harry Potter!"

Harry's heart dropped like a stone in his breast and it seemed in the moment of complete silence that followed, that he could still feel the pressure of Sirius' lips against his own, and a single, painful throb shook him – as though he were one giant, aching heart.

"It's Harry Potter!"

"Harry Potter!"

It was a chorus that would never end. He tried to slide between two chatting and vividly gesturing witches but someone seized his arm and he was hauled backwards into an open space that had quickly formed behind him.

"Harry Potter!" The man that had caught him was dressed in sombre grey robes and sported a neatly trimmed moustache. He was beaming. "Just the man we were talking about!"

Harry's abused wrist was complaining loudly at the treatment and he bit his lip to keep from groaning aloud at the pain. He made to pull back his arm, but the man released him even before he had properly begun and congenially patted his shoulder instead.

"What a coincidence," the man mused, clearly content with his quarry. Then the glee faded from his face and he grew grim and austere. There was a cold edge to his next words, "Now perhaps you have a case," he said harshly over his shoulder.

Harry followed his gaze and his jaw dropped. Behind the man in the grey robes two figures huddled, both tall and pale, and both crowned with white blond hair. Narcissa and Draco Malfoy bore the looks of the emaciated, and they were both staring at the scene before them with wide eyes.

TBC