The Sins of their Father
Author's Note: Harry Potter and the rest is to J.K. Rowling.
The lines that Sirius quotes in the first scene comes from Robert Frost's poem, "Road Less Travelled". There is actually a better way of getting Sirius' point across, but 'eating the strawberries' is already taken.
Kingsley Shacklebolt was mentioned already in the second chapter, but due to my sieve-like brain, I forgot to mention that he was working at Grimmauld Place as the head groom (I've fixed it now). To my defense, there used to be a sentence with James telling Wormtail who Shacklebolt was in that same chapter. Except it got edited out and I forgot. My apologies.
*
Chapter Four: The Point of No Return
Remus' hand was already on the doorknob when Black's voice cut through the faint sounds of motor cars bleeding from the shuttered windows.
"What makes you feel alive, Lupin?"
"You're wrong," said Remus, so softly that the crackling of the fire from the hearth would have drowned the words out, except that through the course of the night the fire had died into a reddish glow of coals and ash and neither of them have bothered to build it up again. He let his hand fall down to his side.
"Yes?"
"You're wrong, it's not that." He took his gloves from the pocket of his waistcoat, clutching them in one hand and looking down at the soiled kid as if he had never seen the like before.
"What then?" There was the hissing sound of cloth against cloth from behind Remus, and he knew that Black was getting dressed although he seldom leaves his room before lunchtime. Usually he just sends for breakfast in his own chambers, as did the rest of the family.
"Many reasons," said Remus, with a suggestion of a shrug. He began to put on his gloves, although the fabric clung disgustingly to his skin, like holding someone's hand. "Think of it as a moth's attraction to light, if you will."
"Moth," said Black. The volume of his voice warned Remus that the other boy had stepped closer to where Remus was standing, although he never heard Black's footsteps on the naked floors. "Doesn't suit you at all."
"What then?" said Remus, almost playfully. Voldemort would have his hide and sell it at Knockturn Alley if he ever found out about Remus' flirtations with the heir of the Black family, but after last night, Remus doubted he could do any worse to risk the lord's anger.
"A cat perhaps." Black's fingertips were cold against the nape of Remus' neck, making him shiver. There was a pause as Black withdrew his hand. And then he was tracing the line of Remus' throat with his lips, tongue darting out to leave a wet trail towards the sensitive part hidden by the high collar of his shirt.
Remus moaned softly when he felt Black's teeth against his skin.
"Or a wolf. Something feral like that, belonging to the wild."
"A poor wolf I'd be," Remus said. "To get trapped here, wagging my tail for you."
Black laughed at the double meaning of Remus' words, which had not been intended, though no less lewd. "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—"
Remus reached out for the knob again, turning it so that he heard the lock click open although he did not pull the door open yet. "Yes?"
"I took the one less travelled by."
Remus couldn't keep from laughing, although his heart had started to beat rather painfully against his rib cage. Black's flashes of insight could be terribly accurate for someone who was supposedly uninterested in politics. But then again, he was Orion Black's son.
"And so the doll can quote pretty lines. I'm impressed."
"You'd be surprised, Lupin." Remus turned around to look up at Black. The other boy's eyes looked almost black, in the weak light of dawn, and the set of his lips made him look colder than Remus had seen him, even after the debacle about that overcooked fowl for dinner a couple of days ago.
And then Sirius grinned, ruining the effect and making Remus more wary than before. "Some toast would be appreciated. And chocolate to drink, of course."
Remus bowed. "Very good, sir."
*
Sirius waited for Lupin's footsteps to fade away before rekindling the fire with a flick of his hand. Cursing when the flames roared from the hearth in great flickering tongues, he waved his hand again to bring the fire down until it was a manageable crackling again. Wandless magic was tricky at best and was used only for spells that allowed for some inaccuracy. Not that any spell can be said to allow for inaccuracy exactly, but there was after all a marked difference between building a fire stronger than was intended and transferring half of one's body to Siberia. Better wizards can usually calculate all the variables affecting wandless magic and adjust accordingly, casting spells that include for details like stray wind velocity and upsurge in the Ether that made wandless spells so unreliable in the first place.
It wasn't ever the wand that makes a wizard, as Phineas Nigellus was fond of saying to the fresh-faced young Blacks brought to the Portrait Room to learn the Basics of the Craft from the first Patriarch himself. Wands were there as a focus, a catalyst, but never the magic itself.
"That," Phineas would smile so widely Sirius always thought he would crack the already crumbling paint used for his portrait. "That magic is you."
Sirius had no idea why they had to learn wizardry from a portrait hanging on the wall and certainly he did not relish having his cousins there with him, but that was how most purebloods have been taught magic. There were schools for the instructions of young witches and wizards, of course, but those were mostly for the Muggle-borns and halfbloods. And maybe impoverished purebloods who do not mind mixing in with such riffraff. Some families hired tutors for the instruction of their children, but Orion firmly believed in tradition and maintained that Phineas had taught all the previous generations of Blacks better than any living, breathing upstart tutor could. And so it was for long sessions and classes in the Portrait Room with Sirius and his cousins; the whole arrangement which would have been comfortable enough if not for Narcissa's complaints about the lack of pillows on her chair and Andromeda's constant mishaps with everything she touched.
Orion wasn't wrong in keeping to tradition, that much Sirius could give him and Phineas Nigellus. Lessons from the long deceased Patriarch were rigorous, with Phineas paying close attention to each one of his students and making sure that they not only learned their lessons, but learned them well. But coming of age and representing the Blacks as Orion's heir for the first time to the public, Sirius was quick to realize how he was quite ahead of his peers in the matter of education (among other things) and that having any sort of advantage was good when dealing with other people.
Which all means that wandless magic should not be any problem to Sirius Black, who had learned exactly how to accommodate magical variables before he even knew how to load a gun. And it irritated him now that one relatively sleepless night was enough to make him lose control over such a daft thing as building a fire.
It had been quite a night, of course, except that it had left Sirius distracted and it was a state he seldom relished spending on an empty stomach.
He reached out for a canister resting on the mantle of the fireplace, took a pinch of its contents and scattered it over the fire.
"Do you listen, Fletcher?" he said.
"I listen and await orders, as always," came the answer from the fire while a figure began to form and revolve within the flames themselves. A few seconds more and a large man was stepping out from the grate, moving as if to dust his shabby coat but stopping when he met Sirius' cold stare.
"Save it," said Sirius, moving back towards the wine cupboard to fetch his guest and himself some rum. "I won't have your dead cells all over the floors, if you please."
"You called?" said Mundungus Fletcher, smiling so that his yellow teeth all but shone in his swarthy face. He accepted the goblet Sirius handed him with a slight bow. "Don't mind if I do, ta, Sirius."
"Do you have anything for me, then?" said Sirius. Fletcher was more in Orion's employ than Sirius' own, so that he took liberties. Those that Sirius allowed only because finding a new informant from Fletcher's side of the wizarding world was even harder than making Walburga happy. There were limits, of course, but Fletcher was wise enough to know when to toe the line. Sirius wouldn't have trusted him if he wasn't.
"That's a negative on Cygnus Black. We have nothing on him, so he's either playing it very safe—"
"Not his style."
"Or he's never been entangled into this whole crapping business in the first place," Fletcher finished, taking a gulp from his goblet.
"And his daughters?"
"His daughters?" Fletcher's tone suggested that Sirius might be needing to visit St. Mungo's soon, but he knew enough not to say anything the like.
"Yes, Dung, Cygnus' daughters," said Sirius, spitting out Fletcher's name like the insult that it was. Sometimes he bothered to sound agreeable when speaking to the older man, but Sirius could hear his stomach grumbling and what he really wanted now was to be back in his bed buggering Lupin witless in between slices of toast and chocolate. Maybe even with. "His daughters who are all married—barring poor Andromeda, of course—to men of no little influence to the ton. Those daughters."
"I'll get at it. But you know we could always run a check on their husbands first—"
"Lucius Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange are public figures, Dung. They would be spraying dizzying amounts of rose-scented perfume all over themselves to hide the stench of shit they are wallowing in because they need to," Sirius explained, with more patience than he expected from himself. "Their wives, on the other hand, can do whatever they want and mask it as feminine whiles that the public allows—no, expects from such silly bints."
"You have it backwards, I think," said Fletcher, chewing on the idea and finding it quite foreign to his palate.
"No," said Sirius, placing his goblet onto a table without drinking from it. He didn't quite trust his stomach yet. "Listen, men are allowed their mistresses, they are allowed a scandal or two, and they might even be political ones. But those are the minor things. Something of the same scale as this societal reform that Voldemort wants, well neither Lucius nor Rodolphus can very well get caught in the middle in case it fails, can they? No, because they need to maintain their positions in that very same society they want to change."
"On the other hand, their wives would be free to do so," said Fletcher, catching on. "Malfoy's been pretty vocal on his support of Voldemort, however."
"Cocks crow," said Sirius, dismissively. "That doesn't mean they bring about the rising of the sun. Ignore Lucius for now. Cygnus and his immediate family are our problem."
"All right."
"And Lupin?"
"Mostly clear," said Fletcher. He hesitated. "None of the blokes downtown know of him, actually, seemed like he went by the name of Romulus before he got into your employ."
Sirius frowned at that. Slughorn's records said nothing of such. "And his real name?"
"Oh, the files you gave me were flush. He is Remus Lupin, except that when he needs to do business downtown he goes by that other name. It's mostly shady transactions—no Dark magics involved, just potions and ingredients that would cost more bought from a licensed shop, that sort of business."
"And his family?" And why, thought Sirius, would Lupin bother to change his name for such trivialities?
"None that we know of. Both his parents died in 'sixty-eight and left him to the care of one uncle." Fletcher pointed to Sirius' goblet with another smile. Sirius nodded him on, waiting until the older man had downed half of the rum before speaking.
"And this uncle has a name?"
"Tom Riddle," said Fletcher. "Gone to his reward a couple of years ago. Lupin worked a while as a tutor for the Greybacks before getting admitted to Grimmauld Place."
"Rough crowd," was Sirius' comment. The Greybacks were one of those bloodline anomalies that not even Walburga can quite segregate as pure, half or Mudblood entirely. The family was too old to be entirely of Muggle origins, but neither did they have much by way of money or power. Sirius barely knew them. The Blacks would have nothing to do with people like that. He remembered the scars on Lupin's body and figured he had found out the reason behind them, whatever the boy said otherwise.
"And, er, Sirius?" Fletcher stopped, hesitating yet again. Sirius wondered what had gotten the usually tactless man squirming now.
"Yes?"
"His mother was Muggleborn," said Fletcher, hurriedly. "That wasn't in the records, but I checked. The Ministry files backed up what you gave me, but some er, documents say different. He's a halfblood, that boy."
Sirius nodded. He had expected as much. "Is that all?"
Fletcher shrugged. He was looking at Sirius closely, as if trying to gauge his reaction regarding the apparent unsuitability of his new lover (that is, if one's own valet can be said to be suitable at all), but if Fletcher had been expecting Sirius to be surprised—and maybe even annoyed—well, Fletcher would have to live with his disappointment.
"And Potter?"
"No mysteries to that one." Fletcher chuckled. "All his records are pretty much as they should be. He's close to Dumbledore, though. Now that's a man you might want to watch out for. Pretty much the figurehead to those in opposition to Voldemort, you know. Probably wants to keep an eye on your household, see which way Orion bends."
"All the luck to him," said Sirius, with a smile that barely escaped being a smirk and only because of the general comeliness of his features. "Thanks very much, Dung."
Fletcher looked closely at the goblet he was still holding. "Is this real silver?"
"Of course," said Sirius.
"You think the coat of arms would come off?"
"Probably. Walburga would raise hell, you know."
"And Orion?"
"Oh," said Sirius, smiling again. "Orion would remember."
Fletcher sighed, placing the goblet back on the table. "Good day, then, Sirius."
"Good day, Dung."
*
Wormtail,
In a hurry, write only a bit: Black is buggering Lupin. Or he did last night, anyway. Heard them at it all last night and this morning, actually, randy bastards. Don't know what Lupin's playing at and he's as close about himself as a girl with her private bits, the little buggering ponce.
My love is in utter despair. Flowers not best course of action.
What now?
Prongs
*
To say that James Potter was not having a good day was to give the English language barely a whit of its due. But then again, James had always preferred to use short and explosive words that drove the point across without too much fuss. It had to do with his line of work. For one, the crowd one sees hanging about in Knockturn Alley could hardly be expected to use flowery language in conducting their businesses. For another, James Potter hated wasting time on long speeches.
And so it happened that while there were several other words accurate enough to describe James' current state of mind and spirit that morning, he reckoned none of them would be quite as eloquent or satisfying as "shit".
"Shit," he repeated, for good measure, loving the sibilant sound that started that one syllable and clearly enunciating the 'tuh' that ended it.
"What's wrong with you?" said Shacklebolt, who was nursing a cup of coffee next to James on the kitchen table. Mirroring the habits of their betters, there was no set time for meals among the servants as well, although that was pretty much a given considering that any one of the Blacks could require their services at any given point in time. Those in the Blacks' employ knew to eat whenever they could before they are called upon again, taking portions from the large pots of stew or soup Bones the cook kept simmering by the back of the stove and a pie or two from the pantry.
One thing that James could say about the Blacks was that they didn't stint on anything and there was always plenty to eat whenever a bloke felt peckish. On the other hand, James thought that the Orion Black's partiality to coffee laced with chicories was decidedly suspicious for someone born and hailed in London, and the fact that the other servants seem to have picked the habit up as well didn't make him any happier.
James placed his slice of toast back on the plate and shrugged.
"Got much sleep at all last night?" the older man went on. "You look like death warmed over."
Trust Shacklebolt to be utterly lacking in creativity regarding his similes. James reached out for the jar of marmalade even though it was closer to the older man.
"Does Black make a habit of sleeping with every valet that comes his way?" he said, indirectly answering Shacklebolt's question while trying to do some investigating of his own. He was still waiting for Wormtail to give him more information on Lupin, but that didn't mean James couldn't work on the other side of the link, as it were.
Shacklebolt laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Not that I know of. This is the first time, though I can't very well say anyone was surprised about the current turn of events. Barring the Blacks themselves, that is."
"How do you figure?" said James, spreading a liberal amount of marmalade on his toast. "Lupin's no beauty, as I see it. Not a bad looking bloke, I suppose, but not what you'd call striking, is he?"
"That he certainly isn't," agreed Shacklebolt. "Yet it's obvious enough that young Black wanted him since the day he got here. Has to do with the fact that Lupin always acts so imperturbable, you see, so Sirius thinks of it as a challenge."
"Get a rise out of the Ice Queen," said James. "Sounds like Black, anyway."
"Exactly."
"He's not a bad bloke, all in all?"
"Who, Sirius?" Shacklebolt waited for James' quick nod. "No," he dragged the syllable out. "Not in the same way as the others are, anyway. There's not much harm in the boy, really. He doesn't even engage in the same intrigues that the Master Orion is all known for."
No, thought James. Not that you'd know of it, anyway. Aloud, he said, "Sounds like he's not exactly the Master Orion's ideal son."
"They get along well enough. Sirius takes care of his own side of the business, from what I've heard. You know how it with these families: they can be as cruel as suits their purpose, keeping their real faces from showing to the public. I say, even lock secrets up behind—" Shacklebolt stopped, tilting his head to one side as if he was listening for something that James couldn't hear. "I think Slughorn's calling. I'll be seeing you, then, Potter."
James nodded, watching Shacklebolt as the older man drained the last of the coffee in his cup before leaving the table.
James hadn't heard Slughorn at all, and he doubted the head butler would be needing anything from the groom so early in the morning. Most of the ton wouldn't even be stirring from their beds at this time of the day, much less need their horses hitched to the carriage. So Shacklebolt had probably said something he shouldn't have and is skivving off the conversation in a less than subtle manner. James sat back on his chair, pouring more tea into his cup. It wasn't such a wasted morning after all.
He was starting to feel a bit better, considering that he stayed up all the night before keeping an eye on Black and Lupin to make sure that the latter wouldn't try anything weird while the daft young master was otherwise occupied. He supposed neither of the concerned party would be thrilled to know that James had been spying on their private affairs, but Dumbledore wouldn't be too happy either if Lupin happened to be Voldemort's man after all and got to Black first.
Not being able to look at Lupin in the eye ever again was probably a small price to pay for all this, all things considered.
*
Prongs,
Think about whispering words of love to the sire. But only if it seems that you have no chance at all with young Black. We don't know what Lupin wants with him, after all. Could be he's in it for the money. Or the shag.
Still catching up with my reading, but I'll be able to tell you a good story soon.
And stop wanking to what you've seen, pervert.
Wormtail