Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. This is an amateur attempt.
A/N: I am so incredibly sorry that this chapter has taken so long. I think I gave people the impression that I had abandoned this story. Definitely not. I would have said something. Believe me, if I could, I would spend most of my days writing fan fiction, but it isn't to be. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed (especially to those who have reviewed). You have remained diligently patient throughout my period of rest. This chapter is dedicated to you.
On another note: Those of you who read my other stories will be happy to know that there'll be an update shortly. I am half-way through finishing chapter twenty-four of The Black Wizard now. I'd say it'll take at least a week or possibly two for me to finish it, depending on my time schedule.
Oh yes, it'll probably be better to read the last scene from the previous chapter, otherwise their might be some confusion as to the contents of this one. LoL.
Hope you enjoy.
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Chapter Thirteen: Despicable House, Despicable Spouse
October 29th, 1981. . .
"Thank you, Kreacher. I shan't be needing anything else." Antoinette, after pausing to inhale the freshly pungent aroma of pure black coffee that she'd just been handed, stared pointedly at the house elf, until, with a reverent bow, he popped out. She dismissed him and his incongruously unhouse-elfish behaviour from her thoughts almost immediately, reaching instead for the plate of cream biscuits on the little side table next to the daybed. Slender fingers wavered, undecided, over the small mound of biscuits until, with greedy zeal, they selected a round chocolate covered one.
Antoinette bit her lip, staring at the delicious chocolate sheen that covered the whole biscuit. It was glowing now, even more than usual in the yellow light of the candle lamp, which stuck out of the wall just above her head. Oh, it was so tempting! Yet she really shouldn't. Her third one today, likely not the last, but for the millionth time that week she found herself not caring.
The feeling, as she bit into the biscuit a second later, was pure bliss. Really, it was more truffle than biscuit; soft and creamy on the inside, filled with decadent naughtiness. And she had been very naughty this past week, yes indeed; at least three times a day, if not more. If anything could be said about Walburga Black's plate, it was that she kept an uncommonly lush one. Antoinette could not remember eating heartier meals her entire life, nor enjoying more rich desserts (and, being French, she was used to rich desserts). But then, the aforementioned could be attributed to the house elf, whom Antoinette was beginning to like despite his oddness — if only because she enjoyed eating his food so much.
Antoinette brushed her fingers over the plate to get rid of excess crumbs, took a sip, and began sorting through the photographs in her lap. A postal owl had delivered them five minutes prior to her little chocolate indulgence, Sirius having purchased them from Dedalus Diggle for a reasonable price. His note had been so impersonal, so . . . stiff. Unlike the photos.
Antoinette,
(he had written)
Here are Dedalus's photos from the wedding. Had to pay three Sickles for them. I thought you'd have more use for them then I could. Give them to Mother, if nothing else.
Regards,
Sirius.
Provoking her. That's what she felt like he was doing. But clearly he could not summon up enough energy to, even in his note. Yet still she felt provoked. It hurt to think about him. In both a good and bad way. He had dumped her, here, on the doorstep of the most . . . depressing house in Britain.
Antoinette, to put it delicately, disliked Grimmauld Place.
A lot.
With her mother-in-law's constant lectures on blood purity and traitor sons; the boggarts; the serpent statues; the elf heads in the corridor that, despite being gruesome and just simply horrible, were also placed alongside the main staircase so that the last thing one glimpsed before going to bed were the gaping mouths, the faces twisted in either reverence or pain at the exact moment of death (a tradition which Antoinette learned had started from a simple slashing hex wielded by her husband's Great Aunt Elladora); Walburga's spontaneous cackling and/or shrieking; Walburga insisting Antoinette call her mother; the dark artefacts — there were just too many to count — and all the rest of it.
She was intolerant of the overall gloom that permeated the house. She just could not get away from it. It seeped under door cracks and oozed inside the walls, dripping depression and madness with every breath she took. Hardly any sunlight penetrated the windows. Mostly because there were none. Well . . . that wasn't entirely true. Antoinette was sitting with her back to one now, after all. In fact she had opened it, and the curtains, and could now see a group of muggle teenagers in leather jackets and uplifted hair laughing on the footpath outside.
Antoinette sighed, and settled back in her chair. Sometimes she felt as though she was living with vampires. Well, she may as well be, if the pallor of Walburga's skin was anything to attest by. If Antoinette had not discovered the little garden just beyond the kitchen three days ago, she was certain she would have gone quite disheartened by now. For someone who had been born, raised, and lived in a large open space all her life getting deposited in these cramped accommodations with little air and even less sunlight . . . it wasn't to be born. But Antoinette was also raised to lift her nose, shut her mouth, and not complain. Sometimes life could throw unpleasantness to people, in which case they must remember life was just that: unpleasant.
The only thing Antoinette could tolerate was Kreacher, and that only because he left her alone when asked and had taken to muttering unsavoury things about her husband under his breath. Kreacher worshipped her as he did his elder mistress and, despite finding it somewhat uncomfortable on occasion, Antoinette let him.
At least Grimmauld Place was clean, for all its gloominess. But even that one small favour could not detract from the many unflattering qualities that she could even now see. For instance: a silver knife stood upright in the cabinet along the farthest wall, inlaid with a gild handle and small rubies along the circumference. Antoinette knew exactly what it was for — a dark magic ceremony. Walburga had shown it proudly to her five days before when she had first walked out of the fireplace, boasting loudly about its significance and purpose; it being used to extract the magic from out of "mudbloods", and then filtering that magic into, well . . . Antoinette had received a very clear picture just where the stolen magic would have gone. Of course, Walburga had assured her, the Black family had ceased such practises centuries ago but the ceremonial knife still stood on display for nostalgia's sake. Antoinette, who by that point had been fighting very hard not to rush to the nearest toilet and loose all her breakfast, suspected there was more than nostalgia involved as she observed the maniacal grin gracing her mother-in-law's face.
But that was just one vile thing that lurked in the house. Just that morning, in fact, Antoinette had been on the receiving end of a Doxy bite when she'd tried to move a curtain aside so that some fresh light could shine in. Luckily, Walburga brewed antidotes for just such emergencies.
Antoinette could not help thinking, again, as she had that morning: What an odd woman . . . But certainly no less odd than me, since I didn't do anything to get rid of the Doxies. It was true. She had not done anything. She'd been too afraid to touch anything lest Walburga decided to . . . retaliate.
Reduced to a whimpering girl, and all in the space of five days.
Urgh. Disgusting.
For the most part, though, Walburga left her alone, content with napping in her room three hours a day, visiting the Malfoys or the Lestranges twice a week, and shopping once a week. But despite all that Antoinette could not help but feel that over the long, long years Walburga had, almost literally, become part of the house itself. She had spent so much time locked within its walls that she, too, had started to exude a kind of crabby slimy darkness; her complexion, like the walls, sallow, and her disposition, like her name, black.
How else could Antoinette explain the infestation of Doxies and Boggarts and no doubt more creatures that she'd yet to stumble upon? A sane person would have hexed them away, not kept a variety of antidotes in the kitchen cupboard. It was as though Walburga wanted to surround herself with dark artefacts and gloom, so as to be looked upon with awe, terror (and, in her mind, probably jealousy) by those on the outside.
Mad.
Completely mad.
And Antoinette would never be, manually, opening a curtain again at Grimmauld Place. Ever.
Nor would she enter the hallway where the Black Family Tapestry resided. Sirius, even though he had married her, was still burnt off of it (likely vindictiveness on Walburga's part. Not that Sirius cared either way, Antoinette was sure), but her name was proudly outlined in bold. Antoinette did not care about this either. What she did care about were the elf-heads above it. They were just . . . gruesome! It was bad enough she had to put up with them when going to bed.
The only good could thing she could say about Walburga Black was that she supported Antoinette's decision for employment. Well, not so much employment as politics. She had made it very clear that she would not object if Antoinette wanted to find work at the Ministry. She thought it splendid if Antoinette were to ooze up to Millicent Bagnold, the Minister for Magic, and extract information like some leech. She often speculated, out loud and with exaggerated gestures, that it would be "positively devious" of Antoinette to get on the Minister's payroll as her personal secretary. She would even stand for Bartemius Crouch as he was also one of the leading figureheads, possibly even more so than the Minster as he had more influence and prestige these days, what with him capturing a lot of Death Eaters.
This idea appealed to Antoinette, but only because she would be finally able to work for herself. The other suggestions she was less inclined to think over and, in fact, dismissed them completely from her mind.
Antoinette could not, however, no matter how much she tried, dismiss her husband from her thoughts. She was annoyed with him now — highly annoyed — as his explanations for having to dump her at Grimmauld Place had been vague at best and hurtful at worst. Recalling the conversation, or rather argument, they'd had five days ago was very easy for her to do as she'd been stewing over it all week. Just thinking about it now caused an involuntary clenching of her left fist. Breathing deeply, she straightened her fingers and wriggled them. It would do no good to get angry now. She needed to focus. Yet despite trying not to the argument, inevitably as always, shot to the forefront of her mind . . .
It had been an ordinary, pleasant day. Her menses had lasted nearly the entire week and she had been feeling dreadful and downtrodden the whole while. But they had finally abated the day before. Sirius had gone to work every day, doing whatever it is Unspeakables do — in fact, Antoinette hardly saw him except when he came home at some horrid hour in the morning, deposited a short kiss to her sleepy lips, and promptly fell asleep with a heavy grunt of physical and mental exhaustion. And yes she saw him at breakfast, but those times were always rushed. Frequently Sirius would stride about with pieces of toast in hand and cups of tea in the other. Other times he would wave about odd pieces of parchment, muttering to himself as he looked them over. Almost always after he finished reading they would burst into flame, leaving ashes behind on the floor that Antoinette would vanish away. She could only assume the pieces of parchment had been delivered by owls, but she never knew when. Though, she had heard Sirius mumbling something very odd one morning as he strode past her on the stairs and into their room:
"Stupid . . . can't use Patronus message . . . Toni . . . find out."
Very odd indeed.
The only uninterrupted time that Antoinette had spent with Sirius happened on Wednesday last week when he had surprised her by coming home early. They'd spent the day lying in the hammock in the quiet coolness of the back garden with their hands interlinked, Antoinette relaxing despite her fear of the dog coming back and Sirius dozing on her shoulder, his breath hot and moist against her neck.
Her eyes still became teary when she remembered that moment. It had been so peaceful. None of the world's worries had touched them, at least for a little while. She had been so grateful to give Sirius a little solitude at last. He had been so busy and tired of late. Her husband had deserved it.
Of course Antoinette had changed her mind very quickly when, not two days later, he had told her to pack her belongings as she would be leaving to live with his mother. Though he'd had a good bawl first and Antoinette comforted him like an idiot, despite not knowing why. She did not blame herself completely, though. She had not known that five minutes later he would straighten up and command her to leave . . .
"What?!" she had spat in her shock, loosing all composure.
Sirius had crossed his arms, his grey eyes hard. He should have looked ridiculous to her with his tear-streaked face and stone-like gaze, but he only managed to appear even more intimidating. "I'm telling you to leave. I don't want you here anymore."
Her heart had begun to thud very hotly in her throat. "Why?" she'd asked in a soft voice.
"Because I have important things to do. Things that you can't know about."
"What about our bargain?" she'd said, thinking that had sealed the deal. She had grown very stiff when Sirius had begun smile grimly.
"Oh, you mean the one where I promised to kiss you and sleep by your side but never specified until when?" was all he'd asked, rhetorically and snidely, and that had said it all as far as Antoinette had been concerned. So she'd slapped him soundly, without a word, and gone to pack.
Five minutes later she'd glided down the stairs to the sight of Sirius sobbing silently on the sofa. That had confused her immensely, which was why she was only annoyed at him now and not furious. Clearly something had happened. Antoinette had had a vague suspicion that "the something" had a lot to do with Sirius's job and nothing whatsoever to do with Antoinette. This had calmed her somewhat, to the point where she had actually been sober enough to start concentrating on Sirius's babble as he spoke into his hands.
"I have to be firm Toni . . . uncaring . . . I won't give in . . . isn't safe for you here."
"Why?"
"It's too dangerous. T-there aren't many wards around this place. You h-have to go to Grimmauld Place. It's safer. Unplottable. No one will bother you while you're with my mother."
That still had not explained everything, but Antoinette had found it easier to forgive him. She was still annoyed with him — on occasion angry when remembering all the hurtful things he'd said — but it was a tolerant kind of annoyance, a tolerant kind of anger.
Antoinette sighed, her hand tightening over the now cool cup. She could warm it up, of course, but she felt no need for coffee now. Placing the cup on the side table, Antoinette moved to stand, plucking the photos from her lap.
She had not gotten far when the sound of the front door flying open and banging against the wall beside it shocked her back into her seat.
Her mother-in-law burst into the room a second later, cackling with delight, her robes streaming behind her and her black matronly cap untied and flopping tastelessly about her gaunt face. "Wait!" she shrieked gleefully, coming to sit beside Antoinette. "Wait until you hear the juicy bit of gossip my niece just divulged to me."
Antoinette winced as, once again, Walburga's high pitched cackle almost damaged her eardrums. "What juicy bit of gossip, Madam?" And which niece?
"The Potters!" Cackle.
"The Potters?" Antoinette queried, cool.
Walburga was so excited by this piece of news that her eyes filled with tears of glee. Antoinette felt dread at the sight. "The Dark Lord wants to kill them!" she whispered reverently, while Antoinette felt her stomach drop. "They went into hiding a few days ago, but they've a Secret Keeper. Guess who it is?"
Antoinette suddenly knew.
"Sirius!" and off her mother-in-law went, cackling again.
Although Antoinette did not know what a Secret Keeper was, she could make an educated guess. The idea filled her with horror and fear. Fear for Sirius. Fear for the Potters. She thought of her little godson . . . Her breathing suddenly became very fast.
Walburga did not notice. "That means he's gone into hiding, too. That's why he's dumped you here! And I thought he was tired of you! Ha! Well I say good riddance to him, the traitor . . ." She paused and looked Antoinette over shrewdly. "You're certain you aren't pregnant?"
Antoinette pursed her lips and nodded. Once.
"Can't the idiot do anything right?" Walburga sneered. "Well, he can't die yet until he's got you with child. A male one, preferably —"
"May I remind you," interjected Antoinette once she'd regained her composure, her voice brittle, cutting, shards of ice, "that Sirius is still my husband, and I will not allow you to speak about him that way in my presence. You may do so in your own time and in the company of those who care to listen to you. But not in front of me."
The elder Mrs Black now sat stiff, her eyes cold and cruel as she looked upon her daughter-in-law. It was more than likely she was remembering the incident with the master suite when Antoinette had first arrived. Antoinette, being the current Mrs Black, meant she now ranked above Walburga. Which meant that anything and everything belonging to Walburga that had once belonged to the previous Black women was now passed on to her, Antoinette — including the Master Bedroom. Walburga had moved her things without Antoinette having to tell her, but the French witch knew that she hadn't done it willingly and, in fact, resented Antoinette's status in the Black household. Apart from that Walburga Black did as she pleased. Antoinette allowed herself to be intimidated generally (the Doxy incident being a prime example), but matters concerning Sirius and Walburga's hatred of him she would not stand for. She had mentioned this to Walburga in countless instances over the week, every time she would start off on one of her rants against Sirius. It seemed she still had not learned.
"It amazes me that even after Sirius dumped you here like a dog to go and protect his blood traitor friends you can still speak of him as you do," was what she said now. "Your loyalty to your husband is admirable. A worthy trait for a Black to have. But in this case unfounded. It would do you better —" her voice dropped in tone, cold and hateful "— to show some loyalty to your new family instead. Sirius is nothing but a traitor."
"Sirius is my new family. You gave him to me. He is my husband and your son."
Walburga grimaced at the reminder. "A fact I wish weren't so."
"Then you would not get your grandchild. And the Black line would end."
"True," she sneered. "If only Regulus were still alive. I would have had you marry him, instead. I wonder if loyalty to your spouse would still have held then." Her mother-in-law smirked, a shrewd glint in her eye. "Somehow I think not."
She stood and swept out of the room, leaving Antoinette shaking and cold.
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October 31st, 1981 . . .
James Potter waved his wand; clouds of coloured smoke puffed into the open air from out of the tip. Harry, laughing delightedly beside him on the sofa, tried to capture it in a tight little fist.
Lily entered the room a second later. "Dinner's ready, James."
"All right, love. But I think Harry needs a nappy change first," James grinned.
Lily tsked good-naturedly as James handed Harry over. Watching his wife and son walk out of the room, James stretched and yawned, throwing his wand on the sofa. Despite having to go into deep hiding to prevent the Dark Lord from finding and killing them, he was perhaps the happiest he had ever felt. Learning he might die at any time (learning his family might die at any time) had really opened his eyes about life, about his loved ones. It was so hard to believe that his little Harry was part of a prophecy. He couldn't even talk yet, for Merlin's sake! Now if only Harry would hurry up and say —
The front door burst open with a thunderous, magical explosion. James was up and running through the sitting room before he could even think about it, out the doors, to the main hallway, skidded — there!
A figure shrouded in dark robes, white skin . . . There could be no one else.
James knew he was going to die. He was under no delusions; he had left his wand on the sofa. And even if he had it he couldn't hope to win. Yet he was running on pure adrenalin now. Strangely sober. As if he existed apart from the world. Nothing mattered but holding Voldemort back, to give Lily and Harry a chance to escape. Harry . . .
"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off —!"
"Avada Kedavra!"
And as James Potter stood, watching the bright green light arch towards him, he thought he finally heard the sweetest word in the world: "Dada!"
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Hours later . . .
The figure flew loudly over the roofs of the silent muggle village. If any inhabitants were to wake up and head outside at that exact moment they may have spotted a dark-haired man wearing a black dress sitting astride a flying motorcycle. If they could have seen his face, his eyes, they would have run back into their houses, scared out of their wits, for there was no lucidity in them.
The man did not care that he was breaking a hundred laws, and was about to break a hundred more. He did not care for anything — did not think of anything — except to find another man. A rat man. And . . . talk to him.
The man knew that something had gone wrong with the rat, for the rat was not in his home where he was supposed to be. The man knew that he had to get to Godric's Hollow as quickly as possible, to confirm . . .
If any muggle living in the silent village was to look up at that exact moment they may have spotted the lucidity flooding back into the figure's eyes, along with something else: a wetness that dripped off the end of his face, lost among the unforgiving wind.
Much like the man's howling cry of grief . . .
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November 1st, 1981 . . .
Antoinette awoke to a lengthy cackle, her mother-in-law bursting into her room and brandishing a late morning edition of the Daily Prophet under her nose.
"This is the third article, apparently. We missed out on the ones earlier. Narcissa sent it to me. Read it!" urged Walburga.
Apprehensive, drowsy, yet still curious as to why Walburga had disturbed her afternoon nap, Antoinette smoothed out the offered paper on her beige duvet . . . and stopped upon catching the title.
WIZARDING WORLD STILL CELEBRATING OVER DARK LORD'S DEFEAT: danger of exposure to muggles imminent!
She barely registered the bed shifting as Walburga sank down on it. "Is this real?"
"Oh quite!"
Antoinette's eyes flittered up quickly, assessing the situation, then dropped down again to hide the suspicion she knew was apparent. Something did not add up here. Why was Walburga so . . . happy about this?
"You could not have read the entire article in three seconds," she spat, loose skin quivering under her jowl. "Go on, then! And hurry up about it. I want to read it again."
Still confused, Antoinette glanced down . . .
Celebrations continue to run rampant throughout the wizarding community as of last night, when one-year-old Harry Potter defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in an almost impossible counterattack of the worst Unforgivable ever created: the Killing Curse.
No one is able to find the reason as to how a little baby has survived the destruction of the worst Dark Arts' curse in existence when grown witches and wizards have not.
Not even Harry Potter's own parents.
In one of the most chilling displays in the entire expanse of the war, You-Know-Who himself crept stealthily into the Potter's home, turned his wand on James and Lily Potter, and finally on Harry Potter, when the spell backfired, destroying the Dark Lord and a portion of the house in the process.
The-Boy-Who-Lived, as the public has now dubbed the littlest and only Potter, is rumoured to have a lighting-bolt shaped scar on his forehead as a remnant of the Killing Curse and his destruction of the Dark Lord.
The Ministry, who has up until this point remained close to stagnant on the situation, finally had something to say late this morning:
"Of course we're thrilled!" spat Bartemius Crouch, Ministry representative and Head Auror, upon being questioned. "It is a very unusual and unprecedented circumstance, but we won't look a gift horse in the mouth either. Death Eaters are still at large and it is in my opinion that they are equally as dangerous as the Dark Lord, perhaps even more so now because they have nothing left to loose. Their master is vanquished. They will get desperate. It would hardly surprise me if bodies suddenly start getting dumped on the Ministry's doorstep again. And all this celebrating . . . What happened last night was a miracle as well as a tragedy. Tragedy! People should show more respect."
The common wizard, however, would disagree:
"It is a tragedy, no one's saying it isn't," stated an anonymous source. "But we have spent eleven years living under the shadow of You-Know-Who. And now he's gone! This is a happy, happy day. I mean, don't we deserve a party?"
Some witches and wizards even opted for Halloween to be changed into Harry Potter Day but the Ministry of Magic have out-ruled them, saying that it would be disrespectful to the deceased parents of the The-Boy-Who-Lived.
"Quite frankly I'm astonished that anyone would have even dared to bring it up. Our hearts go out to little Harry Potter who, as per the wishes of his parents, is going to be placed with his only living relatives. No further questions until the press conference in half an hour," said a blustering Minister Bagnold.
Needless to say the words of the Ministry have had little to no affect on the general public as magical firework displays are still bombarding the sky in Kent, and literally thousands of owls continue to fly over the country as witches and wizards share in the happy news. Obliviators have been dispatched to take care of any intercepting muggle news reporters, though a few seemed to have slipped under their noses. Rumours of out of control owl breeding and a 'knew-clear' testing facility in Kent have been discussed heavily on the muggle news, to major response.
The Ministry, it seems, can do nothing about this.
"Really, now. You can't expect us to Obliviate an entire country of muggles," an irritable Ministry spokeswitch told the Prophet. "That just wouldn't be realistic. You-Know-Who is dead, finally, and I think we ought to try remembering that rather than focusing on the mistakes the public themselves made with their owls, fireworks and whatever else."
The spokeswitch also went on to add that any witch or wizard found to be in a muggle area today wearing wizarding clothes would be prosecuted, in accordance with Muggle/Wizard Relation Law 212.
The International Confederation of Wizards gathered for a press conference a little later at the British Ministry, with press representatives and Ministry delegates from dozens of intercontinental countries present. After an hour long gruelling session of Who-Know-Who related questions (see pg 3), Madam Bagnold issued this following request:
"The wizarding world has never been more in danger of exposure than it is right now. It would be sadly ironic, after the Dark Lord has finally been destroyed and many of his supporters disbanded, that we should now be exposed to the muggle world over careless and unnecessary use of magic and magical paraphernalia. I urge the wizarding public to calm down. No one is stopping you from celebrating, but do it in private for Merlin's sake! No more fireworks, no more owls, and certainly no performing magic in full view of the muggles. There just aren't enough Obliviators!"
The Minster went on to further say . . .
The parchment slid slowly from Antoinette's trembling fingers.
So. This was the reason.
Antoinette was in shock.
Lily.
She could not think.
James.
Could not move.
Harry.
Could not dare to imagine just what this must be doing to Sirius.
Oh God! . . . The room whirled back into sudden focus. The experience was jarring and she needed a moment to compose herself. Sirius! He needs me. I need to go to him. Antoinette was about to flip over the covers and do just that when she remembered . . . She could not. He was in hiding, and she would never find him. What a dreadful predicament!
Walburga's voice jolted her from her impending hyperventilation. "At least they've gone! Shame about the Potter boy, though, that he wasn't killed too. But you can't have everything."
"Mother," said Antoinette, voice soft.
Blink. "Yes?"
"Do you have any idea where Sirius might be?"
Cold black eyes blinked again before once full lips stretched in a cruel imitation of a smile. "Why? Do you miss him? Want to make sure he's all right?"
"Oui." Antoinette felt an unnatural chill envelop her. Her mother-in-law was acting entirely too satisfied for her piece of mind. Something else was going on. Something other than the Potters' deaths.
"Well I don't know where he is. But I can guess," she smirked. Then started hacking uncontrollably with harsh, cough-like laughter.
Antoinette drew back, eyes wide and breathing fractured. Walburga was quite simply mad. That's all there was too it. She was living with a mad woman. Those cold black eyes held a hint of something, a glint of insanity preceded only by that which Walburga herself construed to be rational.
This revelation did not offer Antoinette comfort, and her fingers inched slowly beneath her pillow to where she kept her wand . . .
"Oh, she asks about Sirius, does she?" said Walburga finally, calming down some. Her stare narrowed. "You are either a very stupid girl, or a very foolish one for not knowing enough about magic. Don't make that face at me like you can't understand what I'm talking about!"
Antoinette jumped.
"Secret Keeper, girl. Do you even know what that means?"
Numb, Antoinette shook her head.
Walburga's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "The role of a Secret Keeper is to conceal a piece of information inside his or her own soul, only to be divulged at his or her own discretion. . ."
The dread in Antoinette's stomach grew as she listened.
"In Sirius's case, his task was to keep the whereabouts of the Potters a secret, a task in which he spectacularly failed." Walburga's tone was getting very lilting now. "The only way in which the Dark Lord could have found the Potters was if Sirius willingly gave him the information. He was the one who betrayed the Potters to the Dark Lord. My son!"
For the first time Antoinette heard what could have been a smidgeon of pride in her mother-in-law's voice.
"Betrayed those mudblood-lovers like a good boy. They'll find out soon of course, and catch him, there's no help for that. Do you still wish to find to him now?"
Antoinette could not even register the question. Her mind had become numb, her senses hazy. The agony was bittersweet. The pain — beyond imagining. The betrayal . . . of the Potters. Of herself.
Herself.
Sirius was a Death Eater.
So good at acting, apparently, that he had even fooled his own mother until the appropriate moment. Fooled his own friends.
He was a murderer. Even worse: a man possessing of traits so despicable that in other circumstances she might have spat on him.
And she had loved him. Still loved him.
Oh. My. God.
Darkness shrouded her like a cloud, deadening her vision.
A second afterwards Antoinette Black flopped down rather ungracefully onto her pillow, leaving her mother-in-law blinking in puzzlement next to her prone figure.
xxxxxxx
The rest of that day past slowly for Antoinette who, after having been forced awake by Walburga shoving a vial of foul smelling salts under her nose, spent the time wallowing in grief and misery. And betrayal. No, she could not forget that.
The despicable swine!
Despite being miserable and betrayed, Antoinette was also furious! For half a day she paced in the little side garden, even Kreacher growing wary of her whispered mutterings and periodic little shrieks. Never had she so lost her composure. Never had she been this animated before in her life. Antoinette usually dealt with unpleasantness by keeping it inside herself. Never did she lash out physically and in such an unladylike and angry display. And she wasn't even sure what she was most furious about — that she still loved Sirius, or that he had pretended to care for her, or that he had betrayed his best friends — oooooh!
Antoinette mourned only slightly for Lily and James. She had not known them very well, after all, but the fact that she had met them, spoken to them, seemed to be enough to unleash the floodgates for a time. Such young, promising lives . . . it did not seem fair at all. No, but what she really sobbed over was Harry. Harry and Sirius. Harry, who would never know his parents, and Sirius, who would have to go to Azkaban now —
Antoinette paused in her pacing, blinked, and almost slapped herself. Was she INSANE?! She began to pace again, this time more hurriedly. Mon Dieu, why did she think of that? Why should she care that Sirius went to Azkaban? Why should that hurt her? It was more than he deserved as far as Antoinette was concerned.
That night she slept not a wink. Instead she gorged herself on all the chocolates Kreacher could find, tuning into wizarding wireless when the chocolates satisfied her no longer. But after a half hour of listening to reports of You-Know-Who's death and just how, precisely, he had accomplished the Potter murders — popular theories included the all common killing curse to everything as ridiculous as singing them to death — Antoinette could not stomach anymore, and blasted her late Father-in-law's wireless with a well-placed Reducto.
At that exact second Walburga banged into the room, shrieked, then ducked as bits of radio hurtled past her head, out the door, to thwunk into the wall opposite like little tiny arrows.
"What in Merlin's Beard . . ." she began, straightening her nightcap.
Antoinette covered her mouth in horror. "Pardon moi, Madame. I did not know you would be there."
But Walburga surprised her by flapping a negligent hand. "Never mind that now, girl. I have some important information that could not wait until the morning: they've captured Sirius!"
"What?"
Walburt nodded at Antoinette's shocked face. "Not even half an hour ago, Narcissa told me. She wrote me a letter, see, but that's not the worst part."
"That she wrote you a letter?" Antoinette said, her mind still blank.
"No, you stupid girl!" Walburga sneered, two red blotches visible on her cheekbones. "I mean that the Ministry is after you now."
Antoinette stared, uncomprehending.
Walburga tsked impatiently. "They are after you! Likely because the buffoons think you have some information regarding other Death Eaters."
"But why would I —"
"You're Sirius's wife; that is why! Use some common sense."
Antoinette sat slowly in the seat before her vanity. This, to happen now, on top of everything else . . . She looked up at her mother-in-law, eyes glistening with the sting of impending tears. "But how can Narcissa be privy to the Ministry's doings? Perhaps she was wrong, oui?"
"You stupid, foolish girl!" Walburga loomed over her, spit flying from her mouth. "Do you know nothing about anything? It is not Narcissa who is privy but her husband! Does nothing penetrate that impeccably beautiful skull of yours?!"
"But I did nothing. I am innocent. They cannot —"
"Oh yes they very much can. It's that Bartemius Crouch — he's obsessed with finding Death Eaters and doesn't care how he goes about doing it and who he . . . damages . . . in the process. He as rigid as they come: old blood to the bone. Reputation is the only thing that matters to him. You, my dear, he shan't care one jot about."
Tears stained her cheeks. "But what do I do?" she sobbed.
Walburga stared at her coldly. "Grow some backbone, child, and cease that relentless leaking! They cannot reach you here. This house is unplottable."
"Am I to spend the rest of my life in hiding?" Her voice seemed a trembling whisper and Antoinette hated herself for it.
"You can hand yourself in when the furore dies down. They will be less inclined to torture you then."
Her hand flew to her throat. "Torture?"
"Oh, yes," Walburga smirked at Antoinette's trembling. "They're not above that, you know. Only they call it 'questioning' to make themselves seem more humane."
"Barbarians," she choked out. "This whole country is full of barbarians. As are you, as is your son!"
A completely revolting giggle resonated through the room and Antoinette shrank down at the sound, and at the crazed glint in the eyes of the woman before her. "Funny you should mention that, you know, because you will really begin to believe it after hearing what I have to tell you."
Her heart thudded so fast and hard that Antoinette thought, for one insane moment, that she was having a heart attack. "What do you have to tell me?"
"Do you think they caught Sirius because he was negligent? Oh no, my son is far too wily for those Ministry fools." Walburga's voice: a reverent whisper in the still room. "They caught him because he went mad with revenge. The Potter boy had killed the Dark Lord, and Sirius wanted to know how. Do you know what he did?"
Antoinette could not believe the enjoyment this woman was experiencing now. "No."
"He killed the Potters' friend, that Pettigrew boy, and twelve muggles as well. Blew the whole street up with a killing curse rivalling any Dark Lord's."
Antoinette choked on a sob.
Walburga nodded as though she had said something agreeable. "Yes, exactly. There was a lot of sobbing, a lot of tears, a lot of dead bodies. Dead muggles. Bits everywhere. Buildings demolished. Sirius laughing. They carted him straight to Azkaban, where he is already probably going mad. But I couldn't be prouder of him. For once in his life he followed family tradition. Think about that, Antoinette: Tradition! You would do well to follow his example."
Antoinette had already collapsed into the chair and did not even see Walburga leave the room. She felt like she was trapped in her own mind, unable to believe the horrors, the atrocities, that Sirius was capable of. The love she felt for him shrivelled right then, and she let it die. Antoinette could never love a mass murderer, a betrayer . . . she was disgusted with herself for ever entertaining the feeling to begin with. Well, no more! Today she had learned a hard lesson, one that she would keep in her heart for the rest of her life to remind her.
Better to never trust anyone.
Better to be alone than to be betrayed.
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The only window sat so high up that only by standing on someone else's shoulders, and if that someone were to stand on another person's shoulders, would he see the sky. The fact that there was no one else in the room was beside the point. He would not have even noticed the window at all but for the lack of something to concentrate on — anything to take his mind off of the ever-present Dementors.
He had already screamed a couple of times — or it could have been more, he wasn't entirely sure how much time had past since he'd been thrown in his little cell. All he knew was that it had to be more than a couple of weeks at least. Keeping track of the days consisted of him being lucid enough to do so, and half the time he felt exactly the opposite. That he couldn't see the sky, and that it always looked like night anyway, made it even harder to tell the passing of days.
And if there was a torch in Azkaban it was kept well hidden.
In the couple of weeks that he had been here Sirius had not seen a single living soul, had not even seen the Dementors when they unlocked his heavy cell door and brought food, because he refused to look at their vileness. Sometimes they lingered; on this or that side of the door. Every time was torture, for he never could remember himself or much of anything afterwards.
The cold; it was constant. His heart felt like a thin layer of frostbite surrounded it. It froze his blood, seeped into the very marrow of his bones.
Like the distant screams.
Sirius was a high security prisoner, and there weren't a lot of other prisoners near him. No others that had committed crimes on the level he'd been charged with. No others distinguished enough to be separated from their Death Eater friends — yet. There would be, Sirius knew, others like him. Other murderers . . . only he wasn't a murderer. He was a killer, he fully admitted that to himself, but he was an accidental one.
James. Lily. His fault. All his fault. Dead now for over two wee—
He lay in a well.
That's what it felt like to him, at least. Boxed in. Sirius had only enough room to lie down in any direction. The ceiling was high but the walls were narrow. No cot to sleep on, and only a bucket to empty his bowels. This the Dementors, too, exchanged once a week or every other for a clean one . . . A fleeting something past through Sirius's head, then, a knowledge of something; like he should be remembering something. Hmm, no matter. It could hardly be important.
What could ever be important to him anymore?
Anything and all that he had ever known or loved was beyond his reach now: Lily and James.
Remus.
Harry . . .
Antoinette.
He sat up quickly, groaning at the ache in his joints. By Merlin, he had forgotten all about her! His wife, and he had forgotten her! He wondered if she hated him. If, like the rest of the wizarding world, she despised him completely.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. YES. YES. YES. YEEESSSS!
He laughed; a short, deep bark in the grimy cell that echoed through the prison, mingling with other laughs. Other screams.
Merlin, he was mad.
Or getting there at any rate.
At least he was sane enough to realise he was going mad. But was that a sign of madness, or sanity?
He giggled.
Too much! It was too much. It looked like it was time to change back into Padfoot. He could not stand it anymore.
The transformation was swift and painless and Sirius felt instant relief flooding his limbs, holding back some of the cold. Reason trickled back in, also, and Sirius was so pathetically grateful that he started crying. Silent tears that made the fur on his face damp.
Ah, bliss.
The Dementor that had been lingering outside his door glided away now that it could soak up minimal nourishment, content in the knowledge that the prisoner in the cell was loosing his mind.
Sirius gasped in relief. The pain in his head, brought on with the cold of the Dementors, subsided greatly. He could finally think. Could finally feel something other than despair.
I wonder what day it is.
He absently scratched at his ear, back paw becoming blurrier with every second. That was bliss too, for Sirius now owned nits — or some sort of bug. Whatever bug had made its home in his hair was itchy. The sweet sort of itchy that only got sweeter the more you scratched, but was bad for you because of potential infections, oozy pus, or bleeding. Luck was with him because he had yet to acquire any of the above, though he was sure that blood was inevitable sooner or later if kept going at it.
Whimpering softly, he forced his paw to stop.
It was agony and relief all at once.
Groaning, he placed his heavy head on his large paws and settled in to sleep for the day. It would be healthier for him — mentally — to stay as a dog and not change into human form at all. But he always became nervous when the Dementors unlocked his door and brought him food every day, paranoid that they would somehow sense him as Padfoot. He was also paranoid about the families that visited prisoners every now and then, that they would peer into his cell through the little four bar window at the top of his door and see a dog.
He could not afford to be found out now.
He was innocent and he hadn't had a trial. The Ministry would note this injustice sooner or later and offer him one. Thus, he had to maintain his sanity. For his sake. For Harry's sake. For the sake of the rat he would hunt down when they pardoned him.
And they would pardon him. The truth would become known. Remus would vouch for him. Bathilda would vouch for him. The Order would. Dumbledore wou —
Dumbledore.
A forgotten thought, realisation, tugged at his memory.
My God.
He transformed back with a pop and began pacing as much as he was able.
Dumbledore wouldn't vouch for him! Dumbledore would sooner see him rot in here than vouch for him. James and Lily had told Dumbledore that Sirius was their Secret Keeper, and Sirius had actually encouraged that lie.
Dumbledore would never vouch for him because he had, what he believed, to be actual proof of Sirius's guilt from out of the mouths of the Potters themselves. A quick Pensieve memory to anyone who was dumb enough to question him would offer all the evidential proof the wizengamot needed. If only . . . if only Sirius could somehow get Dumbledore to hear him out he was positive the headmaster would believe him. He gave lots of people second chances, even first chances; always thought good of almost everyone. Remus and Hagrid were living proof of his tendency towards benevolence and generosity . . . but all this depended on Sirius actually being allowed to speak to Dumbledore in the first place.
And therein lay his problem.
No one — no one! — would ever let him anywhere near Albus Dumbledore, so it was all fruitless. And if Dumbledore didn't vouch for him . . . He halted suddenly, realisation dawning.
None of them would.
Dumbledore's word was law to every sentient creature in the wizarding world who were able to think for themselves. If Dumbledore said that Sirius Black was guilty than he was bloody well guilty thank you very much.
Oh God, oh Merlin, oh Merlin's great bloody balls tied up in a sack!
I'm never going to leave. I'm stuck here forever.
Until I die.
Whatever hope Sirius had had left faded. Despair settled in its place instead, the growing dread and unhappiness almost more than he could stand.
Back to the wall, he slid slowly down, bottom plonking on the grimy stone floor.
He was innocent; but that didn't matter anymore than it mattered that Pettigrew was alive, because Sirius was in Azkaban.
And he was never getting out.
xxx
Having come to this despairing realisation, Sirius, wallowing in dungeon filth, started to sob. Great hacking sobs that sounded as if he were choking, as if he would never be able to breathe again. And he tried to stop himself, he really did, but he was literally, physically, unable to and that just made him sob even more.
It was just so unfair. Why? How could this have happened to him? How could it have gone so wrong so quickly? Why hadn't he known about Peter? Why had he automatically assumed something else?
"Remus," he choked out. "Remus, I'm so sorry, my friend."
For thinking the worst of you.
But Remus wasn't his friend now. Sirius had no friends. Not anymore.
Before Sirius could start sobbing again at the fresh wave of despair that intruded, the lock on his door clicked open, the latched rattled.
He sat up, on guard.
This was odd. The Dementors had given him food that morning already and weren't likely to come into his cell again until tomorrow.
The door swung open and a woman entered.
Sirius was shocked. Not because of her gender, but because she was human. No humans came to Azkaban unless they were prisoners, visitors, or . . .
Sirius first saw the heeled foot that was concealed quickly by the swinging of magenta robes. The tip of her wand was cast in a bright Lumos and he cried out as the bright light met his eyes. Who is it? Who is it?!
"Black," said a familiar voice.
"Minister," Sirius greeted, shocked. What in the world . . .?
"I'm here for my annual visit, Black, to make sure that everything is as it should be, that I perform my duty. Normally I don't enter occupied cells, but I thought I'd make an exception for the man who betrayed his best friends to the Dark Lord, who murdered thirteen people with a single curse and blew up an entire muggle street. It's funny; you don't look all that dangerous. Rather pathetic actually."
The silence was almost suffocating but Sirius let the Minister have her little moment. It wasn't like he cared; he knew what people thought of him now and had had a long time to get used to it.
"I'm here to personally supervise your photography session, Black. I'd thought I'd make the effort, seeing as how you're so distinguished nowadays."
Only then did Sirius notice the two men standing behind the Minister, one of whom carted a raised platform with a box on top: a camera. "Photography session?" he queried.
"Every prisoner must get their photo taken, as a matter of Ministry record."
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Madam," said Sirius, voice deep, "but you've been misinformed. I've had my photo taken when I was first dumped in this charming little cell."
"I know," she sneered, "but by ordinance of the wizengamot any prisoner must be photographed annually for security purposes — if, in the unlikely event one of you were to escape, we will have a recent picture of the felon."
But all Sirius could think to say was, "Annually?" very softly.
She blinked. "That is what I just said."
"But, but that's impossible," Sirius tried to get up and the Minister and her two companions jumped back, startled, wands pointing straight at him.
"Don't move, Black!"
Sirius froze. "I wasn't aware that I'd done so. And I've only been here for a few weeks. Why is the Ministry back so soon?"
Their wands lowered until Sirius could see their smirks. "You really believe that, don't you? How wonderful. Gentlemen?"
His heart thudded in his temples, and Sirius did not even notice when the two men came into the cramped cell, held him upright, and the flash of light that followed. He knew nothing except that word: annually.
Had he been in Azkaban for a year? It looked as though . . . yes. Yes. He'd been so out of it that his days of lucidity only added up to about two weeks.
He felt like crying all over again.
No more, no more, damn the consequences. He would now have to remain as Padfoot all the time . . .
"We also must monitor your health," the Minister's voice penetrated his daze. "If you're suffering from an illness we shall cure you. We wouldn't wand you to die when your sentence clearly states life in Azkaban where you're supposed to suffer greatly for your transgressions."
"Sentence?" Sirius snarled. "I wasn't aware that I'd even had a trial let alone a sentencing."
Madam Bagnold scoffed, flapping a hand. "As if there would be any doubt of your guilt. Even your wife believes you guilty, and she ought to know shouldn't she?"
Sirius had become very, very still, gaze focused on the Minster. "Toni? What does —?" He sat up again, revelling in their startled jumps, but grunting when an invisible force pushed him to the ground. "If you lot tortured her like you did me . . . If you used the Imperius Curse on her . . ." he warned.
"You'll what? Spit?" The Minister laughed. "Don't be ridiculous, Black, we only question Death Eaters in that fashion, and only if we think they are withholding information. Although, what good did it do us when you fought off the effects using your dark magic. Your Lord taught you well."
"You better not have touched a single hair on her —"
"Mrs Black is going to work for me soon, you know. Lovely girl. Had a hard time finding her after your arrest. We wanted her in for questioning —"
"She had nothing to do with —!"
"Yes, yes, we know all that! In fact, we were rather charmed by her. I offered her a job on the spot after she turned herself in last month. That's how long we've been looking for her, but Grimmauld Place is unplottable. I don't think she even knew that we were looking for her until the very end — at which point she came straight to the Ministry. Very honour-oriented girl you're married to. Pity her piety didn't pass onto you."
Sirius said nothing.
He let the Minister gloat, let her companions snigger at her words, at his misfortune. Nothing registered except Antoinette's fate.
She thought him guilty. She hated him. Well, it wasn't as though he hadn't thought it before. But it was different to actually know something was true than to think something was true.
His heart hurt. He loved her.
And she despised him.
"I doubt I shall meet you again, Black. So," the Minister smiled, "have a good life in Azkaban. Think positive."
They all three laughed as they left his cell.
Sirius didn't care. He cared about nothing. Their words meant nothing. He was innocent. The Dementors could never take that away from him. They hadn't been able to in the year he'd spent here already, and they never would.
He had that, at least, in a world where he didn't exist anymore.
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