[1983]
Not for the first time, I stared at the dwindling cash in the envelope Dumbledore had given me. Only about a quarter of the original funds remained. Who knew raising a child could be so expensive? The word 'frugal' had never been a part of my vocabulary. Why would it be? Everything I ever wanted–and, frankly, many things I hadn't—were simply there. That was what it meant to be a Black.
However, even with remaining in the same tiny flat, with its modest rent, and living off the cheapest food Muggle money could buy, it was becoming apparent that I would have to do something drastic. And soon. I just wasn't sure what.
Dumbledore was the reason I was in this mess. The old codger had said to send him an owl if I needed anything, but that sounded desperate. Practically begging. Behavior wholly unbefitting a Black. Even one living in a hovel of a place in the middle of a Muggle city. Despite being at my lowest, I still had standards. But what other options did that leave?
My thoughts were interrupted by a loud, "Da!" Harry very proudly dropped a soggy, half-eaten biscuit in my lap as if it were the answer to all of life's problems. It was not. I had discovered, little by little, that children were filthy, disgusting creatures. Kreacher, on the other hand, seemed wholly unsurprised.
"Not your Da, and I don't want your biscuit. Eat it." With reluctance, I pinched the drool-infested food between two fingers and shoved it back into Harry's pudgy fist. At this point, the kid was 80% drool. The rest was all noise. It wasn't a great combination, but according to Kreacher, it was to be expected.
The boy looked at the returned biscuit as if seeing it for the first time before nodding his head determinedly. "Da!" he shouted again, followed by a string of unintelligible but clearly angry words. No, not words. That was giving him far too much credit. Sounds. Very loud, very angry sounds. This time, Harry shoved the biscuit directly into my face, which was much harder to ignore.
"No, that is your biscuit. I do not want it, thank you," I said slowly, pushing his hand away. Merlin, what had become of my life? All that studying, effort, and practice at Hogwarts, and for what? So much talent wasted on repeating the same common-sense instructions over and over again only to have them be spectacularly ignored. Both Harry and Kreacher were equally guilty in that regard.
Plus, all the late nights and limited resources meant that even my research into horcruxes had all but stalled. I read whatever books Kreacher could get his thieving hands on—gratefully and diligently—but even his abilities had already been stretched almost to the limit. Something had to give eventually. It was just a matter of time, and I had that in spades.
Despite the previous three rebuffs, Harry still waved the crumbling biscuit in front of me. I almost admired his perseverance.
"Kreacher, can't you do something about him?" I called over my shoulder into the kitchen, where I could hear the splash and slap of the House-Elf hand washing Harry's clothes in the sink.
Kreacher grunted in response. "Master insisted the half-breed learn how to share. Kreacher suggested he could do so at an orphanage, among other mongrels, but Master knows best."
I thought about scolding him for his tone, but the House-Elf was technically correct, so I let it slide. Plus, he was elbow-deep in Harry's used nappies, which seemed like punishment enough once I thought about it.
I carefully returned what little Muggle money I had left back to the hollowed out book where I stashed it and slid the book back onto our meager shelf. It would be a worry for another day. For now, I had somewhere to be.
Harry's hesitant tottling had transfigured into full-blown running at some point in the past few months. The boy was a menace, and the flat far too small to contain it. So Fridays had become park days, to spare both our sanity.
As much as I had preferred—and even become accustomed to—venturing out of the flat after dusk or just before dawn, this was apparently not normal Muggle behavior. The other tenants had begun to talk, often in guarded whispers, which I overheard on several occasions. If there was one thing I didn't need, it was to attract the attention of the Muggles around me. So with some experimentation, I settled on Friday mornings, when Muggles, by and large, seemed to have better things to do than visit the park.
"We'll be leaving now, Kreacher," I announced, grabbing Harry's coat from the peg by the door. "You may return to the manor once you've finished the clothes."
"Of course, Master," came the response. His relief was nearly palpable. Not that Kreacher would ever complain—not really, anyway, despite the grumblings he was prone to make—but I knew the situation wore on him as much as anyone. Maybe more, given the indignity of it all. I feared it pained him to see how far I'd fallen from the Noble House of Black, but there wasn't much to do for it now.
Instead, I focused on the complicated ritual of getting Harry ready to go out. As always, his shoes were somehow scattered to the wind: one nudged into a random corner of the flat and the other, inexplicably, wedged underneath the couch. His jacket had so many buttons and zips that it seemed more like a medieval torture device than protection from the elements. Finally, the cap, pulled down low over his scar, just in case.
While I naturally expected Muggles to be more naive and oblivious to his identity, I wasn't about to trust them to keep our secret. Not even the Muggle world would be entirely safe for the Boy Who Lived.
The door to my flat had barely clicked shut behind us when loud footfalls echoed up the stairwell, fast approaching. So much for avoiding Muggles. I double-checked Harry's cap and pulled him closer to my chest just as someone crested the landing.
Shaggy black curls came into view first, followed by a young, unshaven face. I relaxed my grip on Harry. It was just the Muggle who had the flat across from mine. Not someone I was particularly interested in interacting with, but fairly harmless as far as Muggles were concerned. I suspected he couldn't have mustered enough brain cells to plot anything of consequence, even if he tried. He had introduced himself to me when we first moved in, but I hadn't bothered learning his name. Aside from the fact that our paths would inevitably cross due to simple proximity, I had no intention of dealing with him more than I had to.
A few more seconds passed before he glanced up and noticed me, smiling as he did. It was a tired but contented smile, one I had often worn in a previous life. A life that felt so long ago, even though it had only been a couple years.
"Early morning, eh, Friedman?" he asked, running a hand through his already mussed up hair.
"Aren't they all?" I nodded at his stained, wrinkled clothes, generously omitting the fact that he reeked of cheap alcohol. "Late night?"
"The best kind." He winked and laughed as he stopped in front of his door.
Something deep in my chest clenched painfully, stealing my breath. Had things turned out differently, had I been any other wizard my age, this would be my life. I'd be spending way too much time at the Hog's Head with Evan Rosier and Barty Crouch Junior, drinking too much Firewhiskey and making terrible decisions that I wouldn't be able to recall in the morning.
Except . . . Evan had died at the hands of Alastor Moody at the end of the First Wizarding War, and last I had read, Barty had been sentenced to life in Azkaban. Just like Sirius. And I wasn't like other wizards my age. Far from it.
As if reading my mind, Harry started to fuss and pull at my coat. I switched him to my other side and gave what I hoped was close enough to pass for an apologetic look. "Better get going," I said, inching my way to the stairs. "Someone's eager to play."
"Oh, yeah, sure. Of course." The guy waved me off as he patted his jeans down, turning out each pocket. He must have found the right one, because there was a jangle of dropped keys as I started my descent.
Just as I hit the next landing, a voice called down after me. "Hey, Friedman?"
"Hm?" Reluctantly, I stopped, forcing down my frustration. What was it about Muggles that made them think they could insert themselves into your life, whether you wanted them there or not? The Wizarding world, at least, had a proper hierarchy about it, a certain structure to society that was rigid and convenient. Muggles seemed to just do as they pleased.
"I know you're busy with the kid and stuff, but . . . Well, you're welcome to come out with me sometime. You know, if you ever, like, need a break or something."
"Yeah, okay. Thanks. I'll keep that in mind." I most certainly would not. I'd rather suffer the Cruciatus Curse than spend a social evening with any Muggle, let alone that one. It would've been the less painful of the two fates.
"No problem. See ya around." Seemingly satisfied to have said his piece, the face vanished, followed by the squeal of hinges and the click of a door closing.
I stood there a moment longer, roiling with indignation at the mere thought that I would have fallen so far as to keep company with that. But in the back of my mind, all I could picture was Evan, pale and drawn, laid out in a casket. I could feel the cold of Azkaban leaching into my bones, fed by the despair the Dementors reveled in. Either of those could have easily been my fate. A fate, perhaps, worse than the occasional dealings with Muggles.
...(X)...
Vivian was already there by the time Harry and I made it to the park. I could hear the triplets screaming from a block away. All thoughts of arguments and imagined slights fell away as I set Harry in their midst and each girl clambered to say hello.
"Sorry I'm late," I said as I slid onto the bench next to Vivian, then immediately regretted it. It wasn't like we had an arrangement to meet up or a standing time to be at the park. If our paths happened to cross, then that was how it was. It seemed my time amongst the Muggles had made me softer than I realized, but I had to tread lightly. Muggles were not to be underestimated.
"Are you?" Vivian slipped her bookmark into her page and laid the book she had been reading across her lap. "I hadn't noticed. Glad you could make it, in any case. The girls do so enjoy getting to see Harry." She tipped her head slightly toward the children. "And from what I can tell, Harry loves the attention."
I was pretty sure Harry lived for the attention. What would that boy do when he realized he was a hero known in every wizarding household? I shuddered to think of it.
"Play!" Harry shouted, jumping with such enthusiasm that he nearly knocked himself over, which only made him laugh harder. The triplets took off running, and Harry gave chase.
Since they seemed to be settling right into their routine, I did my best to tune them out. The park wasn't much of one—never had been, really—but it was a change from the flat. It didn't take much. Summer was taking hold, with green breaking out periodically between all the brown, brittle grass. The scent of flowers wafted on the breeze, though from where I couldn't imagine. There'd been so much rain the past couple of months but no flowers in sight. The place was peaceful, when it wasn't being overrun by Muggles.
It hadn't been more than a few minutes before a long, whining, "Graaaaan," rang out through the park. So much for being peaceful.
One of the triplets stomped her feet and rubbed furiously at her face. "Harry put his finger in my noooose!"
"It's only fair, Laura, dear, since I saw you putting your own fingers up there only an hour ago."
"Yeah, but mine aren't covered in drool."
"She's got a point," I mumbled, low enough so the children wouldn't hear. Vivian waved a hand at me, doing her best to maintain her stern composure. The gesture suggested I wasn't helping. Louder, I added, "He does that now. Mouths and ears, too. Best not to let his fingers anywhere near your face."
"You heard Reg. If you don't like it, keep your face out of reach."
Laura huffed. With a stomp, she turned back to Harry and stuck out her tongue, which the toddler found incredibly funny. So much so that he repeated it once. Twice. Three times. I stopped counting after that, when it transformed into a game. He began chasing the triplets, sticking his tongue out and blowing a raspberry at each one as he caught up to them.
Vivian shifted next to me, leaning in slightly to whisper, "I feel like I should apologize for that one. He was bound to learn it at some point, though. Certainly once he started primary."
A jolt of panic shot through my body. It was far too soon to start thinking about school already . . . right? Harry could barely form words. He couldn't even keep his fingers out of other people's noses, for Merlin's sake! I hadn't given his schooling a passing thought. Sending a wizard to consort with Muggles rather than learn magic as he should seemed cruel, but maybe . . .
"Speaking of which, you know, the girls will be going into Year 1 in a few months." Vivian sighed. "Though, for the life of me, I can't figure out how. Seems like just yesterday they were born."
"Harry will be lost without them." I had intended it as the sort of offhand politeness expected in idle conversation, but once the words were out, I realized how true they were. Even worse, something in my gut churned at the thought of no more Friday park outings with Vivian. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I would miss her, but her company wasn't unpleasant. If I was honest, it was sort of nice to talk to someone who spoke in more than one syllable every now and then. Aside from Kreacher, of course, who was never much of a conversationalist.
"Well, I dare say Harry will just need to suck it up and start coming to the park on Friday evenings."
She said it so matter of factly, punctuated with a slight nod, that I couldn't help but laugh. "That so?"
Vivian nodded. "Oh, speak of the devil."
Before I could even react, a large, wet rock landed unceremoniously in my lap. "Da!" Harry shouted, clearly proud of himself.
"Where did you even . . . No, you know what? Don't pick random stuff off the ground. I'm not sure why I have to keep telling you this. Now go." Harry reached for the rock and I scooped it up, with reluctance, and held it out of reach. One side was caked in moss, making it slimy to the touch, but I did my best to ignore that fact. "You don't get this back. Go play."
Harry shouted a string of very rude sounds. Perhaps it was for the best that he couldn't quite form words yet, after all. Ungrateful child. With one more—rather sarcastic—grunt of protest, he rejoined the girls in the sandbox.
"Well, will you look at that? Seems he's learned a new word." Vivian beamed at me like we shared some big secret, which only accentuated the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
"Yeah." I sighed heavily as I leaned against the bench, resting my head on the back and staring at the sky. "Now the real trick is figuring out how to get him to stop."
"Not a fan of the word, then?"
"I'm not his dad." Even the thought stirred up memories of my own father—feelings of cold judgment, smothering expectations, and a lingering warning about the dangers of stepping out of line. That was just how fathers were meant to be: aloof, critical, and demanding. But only because they wanted the best for you. I had always regarded parenthood as something I would inevitably be forced to suffer through to provide the requisite Black heir, not out of some innate paternal desire.
Vivian hummed thoughtfully, the sound soft in the back of her throat. It was done without judgment, though I knew enough of her to recognize when she was choosing her words carefully. "No, I suppose not. But you are the person raising him."
"Yeah." For now. I chose not to voice that aloud. Some small part of me, however ridiculous it might have seemed, still held out hope that Sirius would return, that this whole thing would be some grand misunderstanding. Had I really grown so accustomed to being rescued by my big brother? But this time, Sirius wasn't just in a different town. He was in Azkaban. There was no escaping that. This time, I would need to rescue myself.
Vivian cleared her throat, dragging me back from my thoughts. She tilted her head slightly towards where the kids were building . . . something . . . out of whatever mud they could find. "Were you close with his parents?"
A laugh burst out of me before I could suppress it. I cleared my throat as Vivian shot me a concerned look before returning her gaze to the kids. "Sorry. No. No, I wasn't. Couldn't stand his father, actually."
Vivian looked at me sideways, pursing her lips. I could tell she wanted to ask . . . but she didn't. Instead, she shrugged and readjusted the book in her lap. Maybe that's why I tolerated her company so well. Unlike most Muggles, she knew when not to pry. But maybe . . . just this once . . . it couldn't hurt to talk about it.
"I wasn't, but my brother . . . My brother was." Close wasn't accurate. More like inseparable. The thought made my lip curl, purely out of habit.
"And where is he now, your brother?"
Where was Sirius? It didn't bear thinking about him rotting away in a tiny cell, becoming one with the biting cold, with every happy moment of his life drained away until he was a shell of himself, filled to the brim with sorrow and regret. No, better to remember him as a traitor than like that, even if it was the truth.
Vivian must have mistaken my silence as something else, because she hastily said, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. It isn't my business."
"No, it's fine." It wasn't, but I knew if I didn't talk about Sirius, at least once in a while, it would be like he never even existed. And despite everything, despite our falling out, my brother existed. I drummed my fingers along the side of the bench to release some of the tension building inside me. "He's just . . . Gone. It happened the same night as Harry's parents."
"That . . . must have been hard for you."
No one had ever asked whether any of this had been hard on me. I doubted anyone spared any thought for my well-being at all. Was it hard on me? I lost my life. I lost everything I thought made me who I was. Then I lost my brother. But, in the aftermath, I had gained . . . something. I couldn't quite put my finger on it yet, but it wasn't nothing.
"I'm lucky, in some ways, that these girls are my grandchildren," Vivian continued. "Being related can make some things easier. But you don't have to share blood with someone to be a family."
Is that what James Potter had been to my brother? Family? But I had been his family, before Sirius turned his back on us. Had I really been so bad at it that I needed replacing?
But then, that was just Sirius. I got left behind so often, was so used to him abandoning me time and time again, that it's a wonder I ever recognized his face. And he'd done it again, hadn't he? The worst part was that this time, I wasn't the only one he'd turned his back on. I glanced across the park at Harry as he laughed maniacally at something Mindy had done. He appeared none the wiser about what he'd lost. Lucky him.
"While we're on the subject. You're doing a great job with Harry, dear, and I don't want to imply otherwise, but . . . Well, feel free to tell me to mind my own business and I won't be offended, not a whit. My late husband, God rest his soul, always said I had a bad habit of sticking my nose where it doesn't belong. But I always say that if you're struggling, there's no shame in asking for help. None at all."
"Struggling?"
"I just mean that I've noticed Harry's clothes are a bit …"
"Old?" I glanced over at Harry, in my hand-me-downs. Which were Sirius' hand-me-downs. In fact, I had no idea which Black they were originally intended for, though the fashion felt distinctly last century. I hadn't given it any thought when we first moved in among Muggles, as focused as I was on trying to avoid them at all costs, but he did stick out.
"Well-loved is what I meant." Vivian reached over and patted my hand lightly before returning hers to her lap. "There's nothing wrong with that, of course, and hand-me-downs are a blessing. All I'm saying is that if you were in a bit of a bind, I happen to know someone who's hiring. Great bloke. Good place to work, too. If it's something you might be interested in, I can put in a good word for you."
A bolt of anger flashed through me. How dare a Muggle suggest a Black need . . . but no, that wasn't right. The rage dissipated as quickly as it'd come. I would always be a Black. Regardless of where I went, there was no escaping it. But that meant nothing here, among Muggles. Here, I was just some young father with hardly a few pounds to his name. A name that wasn't even mine to begin with. Friedman. Except I didn't feel very free.
"Why . . . would you do that? You hardly know me." The other shoe would fall. It always did. No one did anything without the expectation of something in return. Sooner or later, the bill would come due. I was sure of it.
"That may be so, but everyone deserves a chance, at the very least. Now, don't mistake what this is. If you blow your interview or slack off or stop showing up for work, I can't save you. All I'm doing is giving you a chance to prove yourself. If, that is, you even want it."
Was that what I wanted? A chance to prove myself? And to whom? A Muggle?
To yourself, a small voice inside of me said, barely a whisper. To prove that Sirius' faith in me wasn't misplaced. To show that my almost-death meant something and that this new life I was given could actually matter. That I was still a Slytherin at heart—ambitious and cunning—and that I could thrive in even the most precarious situations. That I was worth saving in the first place.
"Anyway, here's the number. No need to do anything with it, if you don't want to." Vivian slid a glossy card into my hand, with a number scrawled on the back in pen.
"Okay," I found myself saying before I could stop myself, "I'll think about it."
...(X)...
For what must have been the thousandth time, I turned the business card in my hand over, flashing between the colorful, cheery side that proclaimed "Moe's" in fancy font and the hastily scribbled name and number on the back. Which was not Moe but rather Andrew. That wasn't the part that gave me pause, though. At least, not anymore. I'd spun the card so many times that it had almost begun to make sense, in a convoluted way, that I should call Andrew at Moe's for a job. Assuming, of course, that's what I wanted.
My eyes scanned the sparsely furnished flat, noting the bare pantries and the lack of any real toys. Then there was the matter of Harry's clothes, which even I could tell weren't doing him any favors among Muggles. Whatever bit of cash was left in the envelope wouldn't stretch much farther, and I had already resolved not to approach Dumbledore for more. I didn't need the old man's help; not when I attended Hogwarts, and certainly not now.
"I think . . .," I finally said aloud, hesitant to voice my concern and make it real, "I need to get a job, Kreacher."
"Master? Out amongst those Muggles?" The House-Elf spat out the final word like the filthy thing it was. As if even the taste of it was an unpleasantness to be suffered through.
"I don't see that I have any other choice. We're low on funds." I barked out a bitter laugh at the realization. "Imagine that, a Black being reduced to poverty."
The trouble was that I could imagine it, all too easily, because I wasn't the first. Someone else had trod this path before me, and as always, I was left following in his footsteps.
Warmth flooded my cheeks as I recalled how quick I was to insult Sirius' apartment. Despite the fact that nothing I said was technically untrue, time had brought me a slightly different perspective. Money meant something else when your parents weren't there to give it to you as readily as you could spend it.
"Master could always move back with his own kind. Someplace small like Godric's Hollow." The House-Elf's tone had turned to begging, bordering on groveling. "Kreacher could raid the Black vault again. Get Master more funds. Master could be around wizards again."
"No," I snapped, perhaps harsher than I had meant to. Kreacher recoiled at the tone as if he had been slapped. Knowing what I did about the House-Elf, slapping him might even have been the kinder option. "Thank you, Kreacher, but no," I continued in a gentler tone. I had to remember not to take my frustrations out on him. Without Kreacher, I would have no one. "We can't risk someone recognizing Harry. Not yet, anyone. There will be a time, eventually, when he is old enough to rejoin wizardkind, and I look forward to it as much as you do. But not yet."
"Kreacher could bring the Potter brat down to the river and take care of things, like in the old days," Kreacher grumbled under his breath.
Unbidden, a flash of darkness floated to the surface of my memory. The chill of cold water pressing in on me, flooding my mouth. The burn of oxygen-deprived lungs. The numbing realization that life ends not with a reel of one's most cherished memories but in a withering, creeping darkness. I shuddered at the recollection.
"No more of that, Kreacher. I know this isn't what either of us wanted, but there's no going back now. Might as well do our best to make the most of it."
Kreacher grunted and muttered something I couldn't quite make out. With a POP, he vanished, off to wherever it was he went when he tired of us. Even a House-Elf had more freedom than I did. The thought was downright depressing.
"I think I hurt his feelings, Harry," I whispered, passing him the toy car he had rolled in my direction. In response, he stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry, which made him laugh so hard that he fell over and rolled onto his back. "That's the spirit."
I held the business card up in front of my face, committing the number to memory. It couldn't be helped. I knew betraying Lord Voldemort would have unpleasant consequences. This wasn't quite what I'd had in mind at the time, sure, but the fact remained nonetheless. This was the road I had chosen when I stole the locket, and I supposed I would need to see it through.
"Up," a small voice insisted, and I lowered the card to find large, green eyes staring at me with a look of utter determination. Since I didn't respond properly the first time, Harry declared again, "Up!" only with more attitude. The demand was punctuated by the raising of his arms and the clenching and unclenching of his little fists, as if I wouldn't know what he meant by the word alone.
With a sigh, I tucked the business card back into my pocket and pulled him into my lap. My life, such as it was, had been reduced to tip-toeing around the feelings of a surly House-Elf and taking orders from a toddler.
"Listen, kid." I bounced Harry on my knee to get his attention, and he stared at me as if he were listening. "I'm not your dad, and I need you to know that. But I am the closest thing you've got to one. And no matter what else happens, I won't turn my back on you. I swear it. So . . . I suppose . . . you can call me whatever you want."
Harry giggled and clapped his hands like he understood, which gave me the slightest bit of hope. Until he jammed a drool-soaked finger right up my left nostril. Because the child was a menace.