The Sins of their Father
Author's Note: Harry Potter and the rest is to J.K. Rowling.
The lines Remus says later on is a butchered version (people should never para-phrase poems, but let's just think that Remus was distracted at the time) of these lines by Oscar Wilde: The only way to atone for being occasionally a little overdressed is by being always absolutely overeducated.
This took (and is taking) ten million years to write. But for the sake of Regulus Black, I'm going to finish this if it's the last thing I do. If things go as planned, there are only about a couple chapters more to this before it finally ends. Until then, please bear with me.
*
Chapter 7: The Speed of Pain
Prongs,
You weren't very appreciative of my story-telling prowess. Now how about a riddle? Dead men tell no tales, but they work in mysterious ways. Would want to write more, but my work is quite pressing.
Good luck with the lovely Miss Evans.
Wormtail
*
"Potter?"
James looked up from the spoon he was wiping with a rag and some of Madam Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. "Yes?"
"You do realise that you've been polishing that same spoon for the last half hour, don't you?" said Lupin. He put down a shining silver tureen on the table with the rest of the silverware and crossed his arms. "If you have something more important to do, then I suggest that you do it now. I can take care of the polishing by myself."
Well, that would never do. James placed his spoon with the forks with a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry. There's been some trouble at home, see. My brother just up and wrote me."
"That is still no excuse to be negligent with your job," Lupin pointed out, but less coldly.
"I'm sorry," James said again, picking up another silver object at random and saw with a grimace that it was one of those trays with very ornate handles. "Don't you have family of your own, Lupin?"
Lupin shrugged. "They're dead."
"Oh," said James. "Uhm, sorry. Still, er, you must have spent a lot of good times with them, yeah?"
"You have the subtlety of a troll, did you know?" said Lupin, conversationally. "My parents died when I was young. My uncle took me in."
James opened his mouth, but Lupin went on, "He's dead, too. You could say they were not blessed in the longevity department."
I wonder why, was James's sarcastic thought. Out loud, he said, "Mine as well. I mean, my parents passed away when I was younger. Of course, by that time we were quite buried in debts and I guess my dad was a bit relieved when he went."
"I don't need to know this, Potter," said Lupin.
"Well, bugger me. You know that curiosity about one's fellows is the normal way, yeah? Not to sound like I'm boasting, but there are quite a number of birds who would give anything to be where you are right now."
"Where I am?" said Lupin, with a theatrical frown. "And why would they want to be polishing silver, Potter?"
"Don't be daft. Where you are now, you're talking to me." When you're not eating Sirius Black's arse, James added to himself. He thumped one fist against the table to emphasise his point. "Who wouldn't want to know about the fabulous minutiae of my life?"
"You've knocked a goblet over," Lupin pointed out, reaching down to retrieve said object as it rolled towards his foot. "And as for your love life, Potter, I can't say that I'm as interested in you as those females that you are talking about."
"Oh," said James. He leaned over to where Lupin was half-crouched trying to retrieve the stray goblet and, his heart carefully pounding against his rib cage, he gently brushed the spoon that he had been holding for half an hour (if Lupin was to be believed) against the pale side of the valet's neck where his livery ended in a high collar.
Lupin made a soft noise, sitting upright and looking at James with one eyebrow raised. "What are you doing?"
"N-nothing," said James. "There was a fly."
"I didn't hear anything." The other boy touched one hand against the part where the spoon had briefly been, two fingers moving absently to stroke the reddening area. James couldn't help staring, and he wondered if Lupin noticed.
"My mistake, then," James said, cheerfully. "Sorry."
"That's the fourth time you've said sorry," said Lupin.
*
Wormtail,
Do you really think this is quite the time for riddles? And don't talk to me about work. Argh. That Lupin is driving me mental. The little bugger's name suits himself, that much I can say. Complete lunatic, that one.
I think I need to talk to Miss Evans again, if you know what I mean. Think you can arrange another 'chance encounter' for us in the future?
Prongs
*
Remus rapped his knucles once against Sirius's door before opening it.
"You called?" he said, eyeing the boy's reflection on the gilt-edged mirror that dominated the far side of Sirius's chambers.
"Thank you for waiting for my permission to enter the room," said Sirius, catching Remus's eye in said mirror and throwing him a dark look.
"You called for me," said Remus. "I knocked."
"Do you think I let you get away with too many things?" said Sirius, idly. He untied the strings to his dressing gown, letting it fall down the floors with a sigh of a sound. "I need to get ready for dinner in half an hour."
"That's your prerogative," said Remus. He stepped closer to where the other boy was standing, gathering the discarded gown into his slightly shaking arms. "And it amuses you that it is so."
"Hm?" Sirius gave him a creamy smile.
"You like having the power of death over people," said Remus, softly.
"Who doesn't?" Sirius shrugged. "Those who say they don't, they never had enough to know what the feeling is really like."
"You're beautiful," said Remus. "You can get away with anything."
"And to what do I owe this analysis of my character?" Sirius's tone was airy, but he frowning, stepping closer and seeming to tower over Remus although there was only half a head's difference between their heights. "What's up?"
Remus felt the boy's hands on his before he realised that he had clutched the dressing gown tightly against his own body. He pulled away as gently as he could, and Sirius allowed him to do so without protest. "Nothing."
Sirius started to say something else, but changed his mind and went back to examining his reflection in the mirror instead. "What do you think about the blue waistcoat?"
"I think red is more your colour." Remus folded Sirius's dressing gown carefully before placing it on the back of a chair. "Sirius."
"Hm?" Sirius paused, as if hesitating. Remus knew this for the act that it was; he found it hard to imagine Sirius being unsure about anything. Angry, disinterested, fashionably bored, yes. But never unsure, because he was Orion's heir, and losing his confidence in front of anyone--even a lowly valet--would be like walking unarmed across a country of Red Caps. "You're unravelling, Remus."
Tell me something I don't know about, Remus thought. Aloud, he said, "When did you start calling me by my name?"
Sirius tilted his head to one side, considering this. "I don't remember. When we first fucked, maybe? Does it matter? You call me by my name."
Remus did not answer, leaving Sirius to continue admiring his own reflection in order to look in the closets for the red waiscoat.
"Don't you think it's too early for that shade of red?" Sirius called over his shoulder.
"The only way to make up for being overdressed is by being over-educated."
Sirius laughed softly. "You've just murdered Oscar Wilde there, did you know?"
"He's a self-centred little faggot," said Remus. "When he's not being a genius."
Sirius snorted. "There's still some time before dinner."
It took Remus several seconds to pick up on what Sirius had said, and he was glad that he had his back turned to the other boy as he felt his cheeks grow warm. "No there isn't. Do you know how many buttons there are on that shirt?"
Sirius's answer was not verbal, and Remus felt himself being pushed against the closet with more force than he thought was necessary. He sighed, closing his eyes. The roughness of Sirius's calloused fingers, his faintly sweet spit and warm breath, the sibilant breathlessness every time he said Remus's name; Remus savoured everything. He wanted it to hurt, because hurt leaves behind an impression, something he can remember, later on.
He reckoned he might as well enjoy himself, seeing as how it was their last time together.
*
Prongs you STUPID GIT.
*
James gave out a hissing breath of pain, fingers scrabbling against the pocket of his jacket where he had secreted the half of the two-way parchment that he shared with Wormtail. He fished it out gingerly, expecting the thing to burst into flames like an ignored Howler the moment he examined it closely. What he saw instead were four words, in a shaky handwriting that James could read upside down and which he only recognised as Wormtail's after several seconds' worth of inspection.
"Prongs you stupid git," James mouthed the words with a frown. Wormtail had called him worse names, that didn't disturb him at all. But James had to wonder at the Heating spell that Wormtail thought necessary to accompany his message with. Obviously, Wormtail wanted to catch James's attention badly enough to risk casting a spell on the parchment that could be traced to its source by a powerful wizard. And knowing Wormtail, who was cautious to the point of cowardice, James knew the young man would not dare risk his neck like that unless he had no other choice but to do so. James could hardly think that calling himself a git warranted such risk-taking, no matter the word's accuracy. So what did Wormtail want?
As if on cue, the ink from Wormtail's message began to run across the parchment to form a small rectangle. Words appeared to fill in the enclosed space, and James recognised the letters to be of a typeface usually employed in newspaper articles. Barely noticing the shaking of his hands as he brought the parchment closer to his face, James read:
continued from page 1:
after what happened during the Gringotts Valley of the Kings project. Some speculation as to the connexion between these two events have been voiced by sources who wish to be left unnamed.
"Of course it has something to do with Lupin's death. When have you ever heard of a werewolf attack right in the centre of the city? I don't know why they didn't kill the poor boy as well. Oh, of course he was innocent, but then again, so was Lupin and his wife."
"I told him again and again that going against Voldemort was not going to do him good, but did he listen? And who's going to take care of their little son now?"
As to that question, the minds of the public was laid at rest when Tom Riddle, Lupin's cousin and next of kin, presented himself to the Wizengamot as the legal guardian of Lupin's son. Riddle, a reclusive bachelor who lives in the town of Hogsmeade, was only too happy to adopt…
Werewolf attack, thought James. And Riddle. Was that what Wormtail whinging on about? He tried to remember what his colleague had said in his last message. It had been something about riddles and dead men. Lupin had said earlier that his adoptive uncle was dead. Needless to say, Wormtail wanted to tell James something about the late Tom Riddle. 'Work in mysterious ways', Wormtail had said as well. How did that figure with the whole scenario?
But the ink on the parchment was behaving oddly again. The edges of the rectangle softened and curved into an oval shape, and across the space inside this oval, spidery handwriting spelled out:
Tom Marvolo Riddle
died this 31 October 1965
the only surviving descendant of his noble family
his passing is mourned greatly by his friends.
There was a hazy photograph that James ignored. He was thinking of only one thing: John Lupin died in 1968.
*
Wormtail took a deep breath and dipped the tip of his quill in the ink bottle again. His hand was trembling badly enough that he missed the mouth of the bottle twice. Cursing softly, he began to write. The final clue, the information that Prongs needed to know, or Sirius Black would surely die and the pair of them, Wormtail and Prongs, would have failed. Wormtail knew that the blame would--should--be his alone. He had known, even before he had arranged Prongs's meeting with Lily Evans, that Remus Lupin was a werewolf. He was good at hunting down information, after all. That was why Dumbledore had paired him with Prongs, who was good at playing in the field. They made a brilliant team.
He never told Prongs half of what he knew. He tried, of course, but he knew they were watching him, and he knew they were getting suspicious.
Now, Wormtail was afraid. He suspected that Prongs had confronted Lupin somehow, in order to ascertain whether the latter was indeed a Dark creature or not. If this was true, then Lupin knew that it would not be long before word about his real nature gets out. He would act quickly. Wormtail has to act more quickly still.
'Tom Marvolo Riddle,' he wrote on the two-way parchment. And then, 'i aM loRd voldemorT'.
He wondered if he should write more, but before he could decide, he heard a loud crash coming from outside his room. This was followed by footsteps. Slow, even, unhurried. They knew where he was, and they can take their time. Wormtail took his wand from the table and pointed it at the two-way parchment. The ink still glistened, wet and black. Wormtail focused on this, hoping that Prongs would manage to fit the pieces of information together, trying not think of what was going to happen next.
The footsteps were getting louder. Wormtail tapped his wand against the parchment, setting it on fire. The other half, the one with Prongs, would burn as well. They would not be able to trace the message to its recipient. Wormtail had made sure of that.
And then he raised his wand and performed his last spell: "Expecto Patronum," he said, sending the small, silvery rat to Dumbledore.
*
"What the fuck."
James felt his knees wobble. He chose not to let them embarrass themselves and sat down the nearest bench. He did not know how long he could have stared at Wormtail's most recent message, and he would never find out because it chose to burst into flames at that particular moment.
"Fuck!" James repeated, dropping the lot and licking at his fingers.
"Oi!" said a low, rumbling voice from the far side of the stables. "Are you building a bonfire there, Potter? You do know the place is covered with dry hay, don't you?"
"Accident, Shacklebolt," James called back. "I've put it out now."
He put his fingers to his mouth and thought furiously. 'Tom Marvolo Riddle… I am Lord Voldemort'. What in the name of Wormtail's arse did that mean? James chewed absently on the tip of his forefinger. Riddle was announced dead in 1965, and he had the gall to adopt Lupin's son in front of the Wizengamot three years afterwards. But maybe that wasn't Riddle at all, but someone impersonating him? Was Voldemort impersonating Riddle? Was that what Wormtail's obtuse allusion meant?
James sat up. He remembered how the second sentence had been written. Three letters that should not have been in upper case: M, R and T. Riddle's initials. A name that was an anagram of his old name. Riddle had to die in order for Voldemort to be born, but the self-styled lord was still Tom Riddle in the Ministry records.
Which meant that it was actually Voldemort who adopted Remus Lupin, fifteen years ago. Lupin was Voldemort's man, the one Voldemort had sent to kill Sirius Black.
*
Sirius did not need to be a Divination expert to know that the family dinner would be a horrible affair. Family events usually were. Not even his cousin Bellatrix's cutting wit (usually aimed at Sirius's direction) managed to relieve the tedium of smiling, being polite, and trying to appear as if his thoughts were anywhere but in bed, getting drunk on Ogden's Finest. And so it was with a happy sigh that he waved goodbye at the back of everyone's heads as they Floo-ed back to their own homes and he was free to return to his rooms.
Where Remus was waiting for him with a gun.
"Really," Sirius drawled. He was more than a little drunk already from the Muggle wine that Lucius Malfoy had brought over for dinner, and his eyes watered while he tried to focus on the slim metal cylinder of the barrel that Remus was pointing in the general direction of Sirius's heart.
"I have thought about poison," said Remus.
"Oh no," said Sirius. "That would ruin my complexion. As will asphyxiation."
"I know," said Remus, sweetly. "I think we both agree that we should keep your pretty face as intact as possible. So. One bullet to the heart. That would be nice and simple, would it not?"
Sirius shrugged. "Don't you think I'll fight back?"
"Do you want to?"
Sirius thought about it. Remus had served as his valet for around one month. The span of time was too long, in Sirius's opinion, for a carefully planned assassination attempt. Not that he was complaining, but to be perfectly frank, Sirius had expected Remus to act long before he did. Now, Sirius realised that during his prolonged proximity with Remus, the boy had noticed something about Sirius that most people of his acquaintance ignored or missed entirely.
"No," Sirius finally admitted. "Why should I?"
"I'm sorry, Sirius," said Remus.
Sirius considered closing his eyes. But then he decided that he would really prefer to die while looking at Remus, who was not a bad sight to die to, really. When he heard the gun go off, Sirius thought, Remus, you look terrified.
*
James heard the gunshot even from the stables.
"What was that?" said Shacklebolt, running for the doors. James followed the head groom, his heart thumping loudly against his rib cage with the combined forces of exertion, adrenalin and sheer dread. It was pitch dark outside the stables, and Shacklebolt was only a tall shadow in front of him. They were only several paces from the back door to the main building when James saw something at the corner of his eyes that made him stop so suddenly he almost fell on his face. Shacklebolt barely paid him notice. The head groom had already opened the door and was running into the house. James could hear the shouts, the high-pitched questions.
"What was that?" and then Orion's voice, "Where is Sirius?"
Even though his instincts were screaming at him to follow Shacklebolt into the house and find out what has happened, James stepped back and approached the yew that grew between the house and the stables. Silvery light was tangled among the yew's branches, easily visible in the darkness. As James approached, the light began to take form. James had seen this happen once before, when Dumbledore had called to assign him to this particular mission. This way of communication was tricky at best, because the spell was easy to trace, and it was possible for other people to overhear the verbal message. But of course, James didn't have the two-way parchment any more.
The phoenix Patronus opened its mouth, and Dumbledore's voice called out, "Wormtail has fallen. Stay where you are."