BLACK DECLARED INNOCENT; PETTIGREW TAKEN TO AZKABAN; THE MINISTRY, FAILED?
Article by Julius Rookwood.
The name Sirius Black has been on everybody's lips for the past year, ever since his unexpected escape from Azkaban prison last July. Since June of this year, however, we have heard quite a different story. That not of Black's criminality but his innocence, the framing of him by the man once thought to be a hero, Peter Pettigrew — whose Order of Merlin has since been revoked — and the failings of the post-war Bagnold administration in enacting justice.
Yesterday, the Ministry's Courtroom was packed with people, from Wizengamot members to foreign ambassadors and public witnesses to what has already been dubbed the trial of the decade, as Black was cleared of all charges and Pettigrew — once believed dead — sentenced to life in Azkaban prison for perversion of justice, mass murder, war crimes, treason, and conspiracy to the murders of heroes Lily and James Potter, parents of the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter. The Wizengamot vote was near-unanimous, and as the trial and case is now wrapped up, the Daily Prophet can reveal its findings on the handling of justice and sentencing after the War with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
In the wake of the unexpected disappearance and believed death of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, a total of one hundred and sixty five witches and wizards were accused or suspected of collusion with the Dark wizard. Of this number, thirty-seven were eventually tried formally before the Wizengamot, and twenty-three sentenced to life in Azkaban prison. Of those twenty-three, eleven have perished within the prison walls over the space of twelve years. We will never again hear them defend themselves. For the most part, there was trust in the trials' outcomes at the end of the war, and faith in the Wizengamot's decision.
Three, however, were not given the chance to defend themselves in trial. Sirius Black was one such wizard condemned to Azkaban without proper procedure to justify the sentence. The other two wizards — named as Samuel Gulls and Levi Marrow — who were sent to Azkaban for life, died in the time since. The recent revelations about Black's innocence have raised questions about the justice system, and more particularly, its capabilities and adequacy under the leader of Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, 1977-1982. A fair trial would have prevented the travesty of Black's unjust incarceration, and may too have prevented the deaths of Gulls and Marrow. So too, might it have protected the wizarding community against the threat of Peter Pettigrew, whom it transpires has been hiding in an illegal animagus rat form, causing unknown harm to the wider community.
The Daily Prophet can also reveal that, in 1981 and 1982, there were no fewer than eight requests for a formal trial of Sirius Black, grandson of the late Lord Arcturus Black and heir to one of Britain's oldest wizarding families. All requests were denied by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, on the grounds that there was no reasonable evidence for appeal of the sentence, disregarding the fact that no evidence was heard to support Black's sentencing and subsequent incarceration in the first place. This oversight has cost the Ministry's reputation dearly already. Though in the wake of the war, the mood was undoubtedly one of a desire for justice by the public opinion, in peacetime we must ask ourselves — and the Ministry must ask itself — if we can have faith in our justice system, and if no, then how many have been allowed to fall through its cracks and been sentenced unjustly? How many more wizards such as Sirius Black, valuable contributors to the community, our heritage and society, have been locked away in Azkaban prison for no fault of their own?
Has the Ministry failed — and what price must it pay for its failures?
Aurora set down the article on the breakfast table with a long sigh. Andromeda, Ted and Dora all glanced up from their own reading, expectant.
They had been informed by owl the night before that this story was going to break in the Daily Prophet, but she had not expected it to be as damning as it was. It was almost exciting, in its way, the feeling that people were going to read, were going to be forced to reconsider their thoughts and actions, that the Ministry was likely furious but they couldn't be furious at her because they were the ones who had failed, and she had not written the article.
"Well," she said at Andromeda's expectant look, "if the Ministry don't launch an investigation into my father's unlawful imprisonment, then I think the Prophet might do it for them, and the court of public opinion will be judge."
"I'm not sure I like this," Dora said quietly, frowning. "It seems to be appealing for retrials of other Death Eaters too, or at least suggesting it."
Aurora nodded. "I know," she said, the thought sitting somewhat uncomfortably, "but I suppose, that is kind of rational. I mean, he might not be the only one who's innocent and still in Azkaban. It's wrong of us to assume he's the only exception."
Dora frowned further. "Maybe. But this is written by Julius Rookwood. Not exactly impartial, is he? His own brother's in there."
At that, Ted and Andromeda exchanged a look, one of worry. "The Ministry's always been a bit messed up," Ted said, "but I'd wager it might be even more corrupt now than it was back then. Fudge is in the pockets of rich purebloods." He took in a steady breath.
"Magical Law Enforcement isn't," Dora rebuked. "Bones wouldn't take shit from anyone. And Dumbledore's Head of the Wizengamot. Still." She scowled. "Most of those in Azkaban will be guilty, I'm sure."
"Not all though," Aurora said quietly. "I suppose we can't be sure, can we? Still they'd need more evidence for appeal. Most wouldn't really have much to suggest otherwise, and the likes of — well, some of them probably still stand by the Dark Lord. They wouldn't take the opportunity to get out if it meant renouncing him. But they'd nowhere to go. It's not as if he's coming back, is it?"
Even looking at Andromeda and Ted's faces, though, she wasn't so sure that they believed that.
-*
The next evening, Aurora stood in her room, staring at Dora's old trunk and the many sets of robes and casual clothes she had scattered across her bed. She was going to stay with her father for two days, heading over there in the morning. For her, it felt like testing the waters, seeing if she could really co-exist with him before he tried to add Potter into the mix later in the summer. But it also, at that moment, staring at an accumulation of clothes and possessions built up over the last few years, brought her back to the summer before Hogwarts, packing her bags to leave Black Manor and live with Lucretia and Ignatius. Exceptthis time, she knew that she was not leaving, and that no one was leaving her. She had a sense — one which grounded her — that she had a family, to return to, that she wasn't going to lose them.
And that, despite the unexpected circumstances, despite her previous aversions to anything beyond the family she had always known, the values they had taught her, she did love them, greatly.
So she picked out three sets of day robes, a set of night robes, set a few pieces of jewellery in and a couple of pairs of sturdy boots, and picked up the photograph on her bedside table, of herself and Arcturus one day by the beach. She was around eight, giggling furiously; her great-grandfather looked incredibly grumpy, no doubt because she was just in the midst of splashing a bucket of water over him, but he also had that look — familiar in herself — of trying very hard not to laugh.
The expression made Aurora smile. "I hope you're happy," she told the picture quietly, though he didn't speak back. Arcturus was already spread over a multitude of portraits, but this captured expression, a memory of a moment more than it was a remnant of a person, and she could have sworn that he smiled anyway, eyes glimmering within the glass.
The next morning, she felt if possible, even more nervous than she had before the trial. That was a formality, a given and predictable result which she had felt she could rely on — could rely on the evidence and on her own abilities. Today, she was supposed to rely on herself, but not her abilities. She couldn't shake the fear that her father, upon having her stay with him, would somehow change. That he wouldn't want her, or worse, that he would decide he preferred Potter, because she didn't know how to be fun, or how to interact with him when they didn't have a common goal to discuss.
Ted, seeing her distress before the fireplace in the morning, put a gentle hand on her shoulder and ruffled her hair. "You're gonna be fine, kiddo," he told her, "just don't overthink."
"I know," she said tensely. "It just feels weird."
He chuckled. "Can't imagine it not being a bit weird, to be honest. Just let yourself have fun, okay?"
She felt that was possibly the most important part — allowing herself to experience this and to be with her father, rather than worrying, rather than thinking she didn't belong. And she knew that, when she stepped through the Floo, her father's bright grin told her what she needed to know. That he wanted to get to know her properly and that he was excited that they finally had the opportunity to salvage their relationship.
So Aurora, clutching the old trunk tightly in her hand, allowed herself to smile, and to embrace the next few days.
They were awkward at first, as he showed her to her room, to the white walls and the heavy wooden beams over the ceiling. "It's a bit... sparse right now," he admitted, "I didn't know if you'd want the walls painted or what posters you might put up. But you can do whatever you like with it. You can even paint it green."
She smirked. "And will you help me if I do?"
"I suppose I could close my eyes," he said, but winked. "Whatever you want, Rory."
She nodded. The gesture, even as small as it was, set her at ease somewhat, and stayed with her when he left her to unpack her things. It was only for a weekend, but it was still important, and she's brought extra sets of robes in the end, in the reasoning that by doing so she was reinforcing the idea that she could return again and again.
Over lunch, her father asked about her exams. "I know it's not the most exciting topic," he admitted, "but you were very worried about them and you haven't spoken much about it since."
Aurora shrugged. "Well, I had bigger things to worry about, didn't I? I did fine anyway. More than fine, actually."
He grinned. "That's my girl," he said, and Aurora felt a proud smile coming on.
She went on to explain to him her confusion over Arithmancy, mixing up curse configurations and formulae, but that she was mostly comfortable with the theory and numeracy. "Plus," she said, "it helps I know my name now. I could never get it right until I knew."
A guilty, almost pained look flashed across her father's face. "I'm sorry you didn't know—"
"It's done now," she reminded him. "I know now and that's what matters."
Even admitting annoyance that she hadn't been told, that he hadn't been there to tell her, felt too much like blaming Arcturus, Lucretia, Grandmother, and she was quick to move conversation away from it, instead telling rambling about Astronomy and how the cloud cover on the night had been truly ridiculous and should have had it called off. She was glad he didn't stop her rambling — talking, sharing her thoughts about something she was interested in, was something she often felt self-conscious about after the fact, but her father listened attentively, following her conversation.
"All this to say," her father said when she trailed off, "you mixed up Saturn and Uranus?"
"Yes! But it's worse because I should know this stuff, I was tired and I could barely bloody see. I mean, we're all named after the stars. Arcturus made me stargaze every week."
"I'm sure you'll learn for next time though," She father said, "at any rate you're a whole lot more dedicated than I was at your age. I just mucked about the first four years. But you're going to be brilliant. And technically," he pointed out, "Saturn and Uranus are planets, not stars."
"I do know that much, thank you very much."
His lips twitched in amusement. "And technically, you're not named after a star."
She laughed slightly, though it was quelled quickly. Her father was saying all the right things, but somehow this still felt unnatural. Perhaps it was only her mind that was making it feel so, though. She contemplated him for a moment, wondering, before daring herself to ask, "Why did you call me Aurora?" He blinked in surprise. "Not that there's anything wrong with the name, but it's different from everybody else's. I know Narcissa's a flower and Lucretia a bit out there too, but still. I'm curious."
Her dad frowned, and then nodded. "Well, Marlene liked the name, first of all. That was her favourite film when she was young — Sleeping Beauty, it's a Muggle animation, I don't know if you'll know about it, but it has a dragon in it."
"Aurora's the dragon?"
"No," he admitted sheepishly, "she's actually asleep for most of the film, the dragon's an evil witch."
"Lovely," she muttered, and her father laughed.
"And I liked that it was different. I looked through the family tree and couldn't find an Aurora anywhere. It seemed fitting. Everyone else is a star, but you're the dawn."
"That's incredibly cheesy," Aurora said, wrinkling her nose, thinking that she was never going to have a child so young if it meant she based her names on spite, Muggle movies, and strange sentimentalities.
"Well, we were nineteen. And I still think it suits you."
"Well, its not like I've ever had another name," she pointed out, then shrugged. "But I do like it. Still don't get the Rory part either though."
"Oh." Her father grinned, but stopped halfway, like a painful memory held the expression hostage. "That was Danny. One of Marlene's brothers. She had three brothers, see, and a sister. One brother a wizard, one sister a witch." He winced. "A lot of magic for a muggleborn family. The boys were Daniel, Kenneth, and Robert — Danny, Kenneth, Bobby. And then Marlene was Marly, and her sister was Shirley — just Shirley. Then I came along and they decided I was Siri, and we really couldn't let you go without."
Despite herself, Aurora found a small smile coming to her face, the thought that her mother's brother — her own uncle, strange a thought as that was — wanted to include her. It was still off to realise that she had had a life beyond that which she remembered, that she had once, however briefly, been a part of a very different world, and that despite her distance from it in the last twelve years, that world had indeed held people in it who loved her.
But the thought of her mother's siblings chilled her still. "How old were they?" she asked, looking at her father carefully. "When... You know."
Her father nodded in understanding. "Danny was nineteen. He'd just started Auror training. Kenneth was twenty-five, Bobby was eighteen. Shirley — Shirley was sixteen."
Sixteen. Far too young. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, not entirely certain what she was apologising for but feeling she ought to.
Her father just nodded. "Tell me about Transfiguration now, yeah? It was my favourite subject, and I know you said you liked it too. Does McGonagall still do that thing at the start of third year where she gives everyone a fright turning into a cat?"
She nodded, recalling the startled look on Draco's face when the tabby cat had leapt onto their shared desk, and laughed. "She still does it. It's pretty impressive, actually." What she didn't say was that there was a part of her very curious about becoming an Animagus too — but today was certainly not the day to bring it up. Settle in first, she decided, as her father went on to talk about his motorcycle and the repairs he'd been working on to try and make it run properly again, with all modifications intact.
-*
In two days' time, Tippy had managed to procure a very large tin of hue shifting green paint, which appeared on the doorstep at half past five in the morning, much to everyone's confusion. Her father, Aurora had come to learn, was not very much of a morning person, and so was deeply disturbed by the paint's appearance, only staying awake long enough to haul it inside and up the stairs before stifling a yawn and heading back to bed with a promise that they would put it to use later that afternoon.
Aurora found it more difficult to get back to sleep, but was well-rested enough when they headed back upstairs after brunch, and her father managed to find some large paint rollers and brushes. "Someone in the family must have been an artist at some point," he reasoned, "and they're all a bunch of hoarders, no one ever chucks anything out. Just used an engorgio, some light transformation, and voila!"
He whipped out a large paintbrush from behind his back, tossing it in the air towards her.
"Fetch," Aurora said flatly, making a move as if to toss it back at him. Her father made a show of glowering but she didn't believe it for a second.
While they got to work, her father managed to open up some more, chatting away about old Quidditch matches. He had been, to Aurora's disgust, a Puddlemere United fan, and when she expressed such disgust with a cry of, "But they're awful!" her dad flicked the brush and bright emerald green paint speckled her cheek.
For a second, she stared at him in shock, which turned quickly to a glare. Her father's eyes widened, and then, wildly, she tossed her brush towards him. It landed just as she had planned, brushing over the top of his hair before landing on the floor, covering him in emerald. She burst out laughing at the indignant look on his face, as he spluttered, "Aurora!"
"That's what you get!" she insisted, laughing as he picked the brush up from the floor. "There, you look practically Slytherin!"
"How dare you?" he mocked, feigning disgust. "That is a dastardly prank."
"It's hardly a prank," Aurora laughed. "You'll have done worse, I'm sure."
Laughing, her dad flicked the brush again, causing specks of green to land on her other side when she spun around. "Oh, we doused Snape in red and gold glitter once after a Quidditch match. He couldn't get it out either, it was brilliant."
Aurora grinned. "What did he do?"
Her father shrugged. "Can't remember. He'd cursed Hestia earlier that week though, it was the least we could do."
"You didn't curse him back?"
"Nah, Marlene did that soon as she found out. Course, we definitely did hex him again at some point."
A smirk of satisfaction wound over Aurora's face, though at the same time she had to fight to forget what had come to light in the Shrieking Shack, about the 'prank' her father had played that had almost gotten Snape killed. Still, she could hardly bring it up now.
"It was one of our tamer pranks," he admitted, "but it was also one of the funnier ones, and I suppose in hindsight, that's better."
"Well, I'd be furious if someone put Gryffindor colours on me," she said, "but seeing as it's Snape, good."
"Really?" Her father smiled, equal parts intrigued and amused.
"I hate Gryffindors as a rule," she explained, "with few exceptions. But I hate Snape because he's a bullying git and his hair's greasier than motor oil."
Her father barked out a laugh and Aurora grinned, pleased with herself. She couldn't stop smiling even as he tugged her into his side and hugged her tightly, and the warmth — dare she think, the familiarity of it — made her feel, for a moment, at home.
-*
Two weeks later, she was back again, and staring, to her confusion, at the hunk of teal metal which gleamed before her, making a sound like a growling beast. Apparently, it was the mysterious contraption called a 'motorcycle'.
"This thing is a death trap," Aurora said when she looked at it, polished and — allegedly — ready for flying to Surrey, her least anticipated destination. "And it's a Muggle death trap."
"With a few modifications."
"A few modifications which interfere with the basic distinctions between magic and Muggle technology."
"It's all perfectly safe and legal. I've already flown it four times before you arrived."
She scowled at him. Aurora had arrived at Arbrus Hill again three days ago, with the implication of staying until the Quidditch Cup — though not without visits from the Tonkses — and now it was the day before the end of the month, which just happened to be Harry Potter's birthday. Aurora supposed she could have looked up when his birthday was, but she didn't feel like she ought to know. Her father had informed her that they would be visiting Potter today, and that he would be staying with them for the next two weeks, at which point the Weasley's were going to pick him up for the Quidditch Cup. None of this was ideal. Aurora had made a point of not doing any of her homework so that she could instead wield it as an excuse to get away from her godbrother.
Her father had said he wanted to get to know them both, and wanted them to get to know each other. Aurora wanted to get to know if she could actually hex Potter into next week — or better yet, two weeks' time.
But she had already agreed, because saying no would be too much like conceding defeat to Potter, and also, it would mean conceding her father to Potter. She wanted him to back down first.
"If I fall off of this motorbike," she warned her father, "I will never forgive you or Harry Potter."
"I will never forgive myself either," her father assured her, "which is why I know you are absolutely not going to fall off. You can go in the little sidecar if you want."
Aurora eyed the cramped little space, like a hollow shell or a very large metal bowl, that hung from the side of the motorbike atop its rear wheel. "Absolutely not."
Her father grinned and passed her a helmet for the bike. "Come on, Rory. What's life without a little risk?"
"Longer."
She took the helmet nevertheless. She knew her father wouldn't take her on the motorcycle if he didn't actually think it was completely safe and he did know these things better than she did. That didn't mean she was going to enjoy the journey or the destination — though meeting Petunia Dursley again would doubtless be interesting.
Aurora hopped onto the back of the motorcycle behind her father, and it was more like a hippogriff than a broomstick. She didn't get to be in control here, and that scared her. This thing didn't respond only to magic, but to whatever fallible Muggle technology had crafted her. Her father steered it, and she had to hold on tight and hope that she didn't plummet to her death. Aurora had never understood why people were afraid of heights before, but as she flew on the back of that awful machine, she found herself gripped by terror at the thought of falling and the lack of control she had in such a situation. With the Invisibility boosters on, she felt even more nervous. Would anyone even notice if they plummeted to their deaths in the middle of a field in a Muggle town?
Though Aurora would never admit it, she was silently grateful when the motorcycle touched down just outside of Little Whinging. The invisibility booster was turned off and her father turned onto a flat Muggle road not unlike the ones in London, but full of holes, and rushed along it until they rounded a corner and roared along to the still immaculate garden of Number Four Privet Drive. The neighbours across the street stared, and Aurora immediately whipped off her helmet and took out the handmirror in her pocket. She didn't look as sick as she felt, thankfully, though she did have to comb over and fluff out her hair, trying to detangle it after that ride.
"This is the one, right?" her father asked, wrinkling his nose at the place. Honestly, Aurora thought it at least wasn't as bad a place as Muggle London. The order of the place was strange, but at least it had an order.
"It certainly is," Aurora said, grimacing as she got off the motorcycle and set the helmet on the seat. She put her handmirror in her pocket and peered at the left window, through which she could see a large man pacing on the floor, a boy who appeared to be trying to melt into a giant armchair, and the long-necked Petunia Dursley wringing her hands in front of the fireplace.
"Shall you ring the bell, or shall I?"
"There's a bell?"
"An electric one at the side of the door. See?" Aurora squinted as they made their way up the path.
"It doesn't look like a bell."
"It makes a noise like one. Probably." She frowned in question. "I don't really know. Marlene — your mother—"
"You don't have to remind me who she was—"
"—her house had one just like that. Course, this house doesn't quite look like hers did."
Aurora squirmed uncomfortably. She didn't want to reminisce about a woman she had never known, so she rang the bell — which did not, in fact, sound as much like a church bell as she had hoped, and instead emanated a much more shrill ringing sound — and stepped back politely, feeling a little more accomplished than she had last time. None of her friends knew about electric doorbells — except Gwen, of course, and possibly Robin.
The large, beefy man opened the door to her this time, and looked her father up and down. "So you're the delinquent godfather then, are you?"
Her father looked nonplussed. "Vernon, it's been too long." Aurora struggled to imagine them ever having met. "Might I introduce my darling daughter?"
She bit back the words don't call me darling, because the look on Vernon Dursley's face was somewhat more amusing. "Lady Aurora Black," she said for herself, enjoying the way his eyes lit and then narrowed at the title. "I believe you were expecting us?"
"You're late," he snapped, but he stepped back to let them in. The hallway wasn't so different from Gwendolyn's house, but it was bigger, with more muted floral wallpaper, and a cupboard door that looked like it had seen better days and was now bolted shut. When Vernon caught her looking at it, he was quick to move her on. "You lot got a different time zone or something?"
"Norwich, not Greenwich," her father said, throwing Aurora a wink. She rolled her eyes. "Where's Harry?"
"Sirius!"
Potter had managed to silently make his way down the stairs, even holding a trunk and an owl in its cage, and was beaming from ear to ear. Aurora pursed her lips and tried to hide her dislike of the situation as her father rushed to his godson and embraced him tightly. Vernon Dursley huffed.
"Well, I suppose you'll be on your way then. And you said you've got him for the rest of the Summer, so don't bring him back."
Her father stiffened very suddenly. He straightened, turned around, with a slightly dangerous glint in his silver eyes. Aurora recognised it.
"Actually," he said, in a cool voice that really suited her more than it did him, "I'd rather have a conversation with you and your wife for a moment."
Vernon went red very quickly. "I'd rather you got out of my house."
Potter was looking between the two men in a mixture of curious amusement and nervous fear. Like they were two wolves that might tear each other apart in a very interesting fight. Or, she thought, perhaps more accurately, two wolves, one of which might well turn on his audience.
"Vernon?" Petunia Dursley had appeared in the doorway, wearing the same awful apron she had been wearing when Aurora met her. "So it is you, then? Is that motorbike yours?"
Her father nodded proudly. "Petunia. Always a pleasure."
She sniffed loudly. "What is the issue here?"
"Oh, a few things," her father said. "Aurora, Harry, would you both wait by the bike? You might have to do a bit of a balancing act getting all that on there."
Which was precisely why bringing the bike had been a stupid idea. Aurora hadn't thought of it before, but now felt slightly vindicated.
"You heard him, boy," Vernon yelled over Aurora's shoulder, voice cracking like a whip. "Get a move on." He cracked his knuckles when he looked at Aurora's father, and she regarded him with cool disdain. It seemed to unnerve him. She liked being able to do that.
"Sirius," Potter said, because her father was staring Vernon down and he clearly didn't like the look on his face either, "it's fine, really, we can just go."
"You two go," he replied, pleasantly enough but with an underlying warning more aimed at Dursley than either of the children. "Aurora can explain to you how motorcycles work."
She bristled, because she could not in fact explain how motorcycles worked and it wasn't only because Potter was the person she was supposed to explain it to. As a matter of fact, she thought he probably understood the subject better than she did. And she hated when he did anything better than she did.
But the look from her father was insistent that they go. "Five minutes," she muttered quietly to him, "I don't trust these Muggles."
Her father grinned and made a move like he was going to ruffle her hair in the same way Dora did, but stopped himself. This was a good thing, because if he did it then it would not be nearly as endearing as the same move coming from Dora. "I can look after myself, Rory."
She tutted, and didn't respond but to cross over to Potter with a frown as the adults went into the front lounge. "Give me the owl cage," she demanded, but his snowy owl squawked loudly and Potter gave her his trunk instead. The corner of his robes stuck out the edge, as did the end of some shoelaces. "Splendid."
Aurora gestured for Potter to first, because she didn't like having him at her back, but he seemed to stop in shock the moment she closed the door.
"He actually does have a motorbike!" He turned to stare at Aurora. "You've been on a motorbike."
"Regretfully. And you're going in the sidecar, before he asks. I'm not doing it."
Potter was still staring at the bike, though Aurora didn't know what the fuss was all about. It wasn't like it was a broom. Even she didn't stare like that at a broom, she left that for Flint to do. "Will you stop gawking? I'm sure you've seen one before."
"Does this motorbike..." Potter frowned, like he thought he was about to ask a stupid question. "Does it fly?"
Aurora was rather taken aback by the question. "How did you know that?"
"I used to have dreams about it..."
That was... Weird, Aurora thought. There was no other word to describe it. "You had dreams about a motorbike?"
"Not a motorbike. This one. I dreamt I was on a flying motorbike, and it was night..." He screwed up his face like was concentrating. "It looked just like this."
"My father has had it since he was a teenager." Somehow, though, she couldn't imagine him having taken his infant godson out on a joyride on it in the middle of the night. "But that is odd. Are you sure it's the same one? It's a strange thing to remember."
Potter gave her an almost suspicious look, but didn't so much as try to accuse her of any nefarious deeds as he settled his owl in its cage in the sidecar. Aurora tutted and took it out again, sliding the trunk into the bottom so that the cage could rest more securely on top of it. The silence was stifling so she tried to make conversation. Be nice, she reminded herself.
"What's your owl's name?"
"Hedwig," Potter said, then frowned like he had surprised himself by replying.
Aurora bit back a laugh. "She is rather gorgeous. She doesn't mind cats, does she?"
"Not really." Potter shrugged. "She likes to eat mice, too."
"She and Stella will get on wonderfully."
"Your cat?" Aurora nodded and Potter did the same, swaying on the ball of his feet. "Cool."
They dropped into silence again. Potter leaned against the motorbike, too casual, and Aurora stood up straight with her arms folded. This was, at least, civil. Not speaking was better than arguing, even though a silent Potter was unnerving and full of nervous energy. He tapped his foot on the ground, ran his hands through his hair, and Aurora frowned at the door of Number Four as if by doing so she could compel it to open and her father to come out.
A Muggle woman came walking by with a little boy clinging to her hand. She gave Potter a disparaging look, glared at Aurora and the motorbike, and muttered something about teenagers. Aurora flicked her hair over her shoulder and watched the woman walk down the street until she disappeared around a corner and her father opened the door, looking rather angry. The door slammed behind him.
"Never liked that Petunia," he muttered, as he went to grab his helmet and gestured for Aurora and Potter to do the same. "The two of you ought to fit on the back alright, but if not, you can rock-paper-scissors for the sidecar."
"We already have," Aurora said smoothly, jumping on behind him, "Potter lost."
She could practically feel him rolling his eyes, but to her annoyance, he did manage to fit on the back. They were both still relatively small for their ages, and Potter abnormally skinny. She thought she ought to let Tippy know about that when they got back to Arbrus Hill.
The motorcycle was now speeding at length along Privet Drive, and her father drove them back the way they had come, because he admitted he had no idea how else to get out of the network of houses that all looked and felt the same. Then they were in the sky, heading back, and Aurora got the sense that everything was changing beneath her gaze.
-*
She spent the afternoon in her room, doing her summer homework. It was clear that her father wanted to catch up with Potter, and while the latter likely wouldn't outright say she was unwelcome in their conversation — at least, not in front of her father — she wasn't an idiot, and didn't really care for the details of Potter's life anyway.
She worked through the Ancient Runes slower than she would at Hogwarts. At most, it would take her two hours to complete the lot, but she needed plenty of excuses to hand for the rest of the summer, and possibly for tomorrow too. Maybe her father would take Potter to Diagon Alley for ice cream or something on their own and she wouldn't have to worry about the optics of her being with them, and wouldn't have to worry about forcing herself to get along with him.
So she took breaks often, glancing at the supplementary books and syllabaries she had to compare every possible definition of runes which she already understood in context. It was curious to find Runes that could mean both hot and cold, and Runes that could mean anything from yew tree to death to evil to lust. She assumed, in the last case, that the mountain troll in question had not caused the lust of Deirdre the Damned but more likely her death — and having heard the tale of Dierdre the Damned when she was a child, that probably helped. Aurora had just turned over the page when there was a knock at her door.
She closed her eyes and hoped it was not Potter.
"Yes?"
"Black — Aurora?"
It was Potter. Fantastic. "What do you want?"
"Your dad says dinner's almost ready. And, um, I'm to say that the holidays aren't for homework anyway."
Maybe not for Gryffindors who didn't care about grades or what anyone thought of them and as such generally succumbed to stupidity as quickly as Dierdre the Damned had succumbed to death when faced with a troll. "But uh, that's what your dad says. Not what I say. I mean, Hermione'd kill me if I said that, and I know better."
"Open the door," she instructed, turning around, and he did so, looking around. It was strange, she thought — he looked at her room the way Draco did, which was to say, with a certain level of early adolescent discomfort that it was a girl's room, and he was unused to being in such restricted territory. She doubted either boy would appreciate the comparison.
"I'm not going to hex you," she said, and it didn't seem to put him at ease. "Tell my father I'll be downstairs in five minutes, and that for some people, the holidays are about a chance to catch up on anything they might have missed while chasing after their classmate's rat animagus on behalf of their estranged convict father for the better part of last term."
Potter looked almost like he was going to laugh, but soon thought better of it. "Sure. See you, Black."
He closed the door behind him. Aurora closed her books neatly around their bookmarks, bound her homework parchment and stowed everything away. Then she put her head down on the desk for five minutes so that she could gather herself before going to dinner. She knew that if she continued to think the worst of the situation, she was likely to exacerbate it anyway. This would be fine. She would have her own moments with her father, and she wouldn't hesitate to tell Potter to shove off if she didn't want him hanging around her.
"Stop being a coward about it," she muttered to herself when she passed her mirror, and then headed downstairs.
Tippy had set everything up beautifully for the occasion, which only made Aurora more annoyed. Still, she was determined to retain her elegance as she pulled out a chair for herself and sat down, crossing her ankles and laying a napkin on her lap. Her father raised his eyebrows, seemingly amused — she didn't usually eat dinner like this anymore, unless it was a formal meal. The routine of it, the practice and the movement, were reassuring.
Potter gave her a confused look from across the table and tried to replicate her movement, but nearly knocked over a water jug instead.
"Shall we eat?" her father said briskly to spare his godson's embarrassment, and dug in before Aurora could even answer.
With a sigh, she started eating too, holding herself perfectly. Potter, she noticed, had no such issues, and positively devoured his meal before Tippy appeared and presented him with seconds. The dinner was stilted, full of questions from her father and rather awkward answers from herself and Potter. Neither of them wanted to make small talk around the other. Neither knew how.
When they were finished though, they all went through to the lounge, where Potter did indeed lounge. Aurora sat, still posed, on the edge of an armchair next to a table with a book about sorcery in the writing of Homer, facing him. Her father coughed on the couch, seeming just as uncomfortable as they both were. Aurora picked up her book and continued reading from where she had left off.
It took at least a quarter of an hour before Potter started to ask her father about Lily and James Potter. Aurora pretended not to listen — she wouldn't have liked to discuss her mother with Potter in the room, but he had started the conversation and she felt it would be less polite to leave — but it was strange to overhear the conversation anyway. Potter just wanted to know more and more and more and she couldn't fault him for that. She had wanted answers, too, about her own mother, but there was a certain urgency to his tone when he asked her father about it, like he had to get every question in sooner rather than later, lest he be told to stop asking.
Aurora listened to a tale that had apparently involved several dung bombs, water balloons, and the Gryffindor girls' dormitories. Both Lily Evans and Mary MacDonald had been furious, but Marlene McKinnon had seemingly worked out something was up beforehand, and she had laughed and laughed and given Sirius a high five once the common room had started to clear out. Another story involved the Quidditch trials in their parents' fifth year, when James had almost lost his Chaser position because he'd been distracted by Lily sitting in the stands and had flown into a goalhoop.
"Honestly," her father had said, "I don't know what I'd have done if neither of you two turned out to like Quidditch. It's in your blood." Aurora didn't like that they were being grouped together, and it was evident that Potter didn't, either.
"I didn't realise my dad was a Chaser," Potter said, "I thought he'd have been a Seeker, but I guess I just thought that 'cause I am too."
Her father nodded. "Don't get me wrong, he was a brilliant flyer, but I daresay his eyesight was even worse than yours. He also liked to say that Seekers were all glory-chasers, but you should have seen him doing five victory laps after he scored a goal, or him playing with a Snitch during class to show off."
Potter grinned. "You played, didn't you?"
"Aurora's mother and I both did." Aurora felt she ought to glance up at the sound of her own name, without appearing too intrusive. "Fifth year happened to be the year we made the team together — Lily was in the stands because she was cheering for Marlene. We were both Beaters, although I'd gone out for Seeker. McGonagall said she hoped it would help us both get out some of our emotions." Aurora thought it felt weird to imagine that her mother had emotions, even though it was only natural that she would have. Her mother was dead. Maybe that made it all the more important that she listened to the rare snippet of her life. "We'd always gotten along well. Better than any of the other girls had gotten along with me and the boys. Marlene thought we were idiots, but she also said she thought we were hilarious idiots, and that softened the blow. She always said I was her favourite, even before we really got to know each other so well from being on the team."
All of a sudden, Aurora really didn't want her father to continue the story. This was her family, not Potter's, and he had no right to listen in when she was only just hearing such things.
"Tell him the story you told me," she said abruptly, "the other day, about when you charmed McGonagall's robes pink."
Her father beamed at the memory. Potter didn't seem perturbed by the change in subject, but he did sneak a few glances at Aurora when he thought she was stuck in her book again. She hid her scowl in the pages and wished she could turn men into pigs.
The breakfast conversation was also stuck on the subject of parents, though this time it was Potter's parents, and Aurora didn't mind that so much. She had arrived five minutes late on purpose, waiting for Potter to stomp past her door before she followed downstairs, and he and her father were already discussing Potter's first birthday party. There was an air of sadness in her father's eyes, though. Her mother had been killed in August, after all. Killed for a prophecy that had only affected her because Harry Potter, idiot that he was, had been born on the thirty-first of July.
Neither of them said such things aloud. Aurora didn't say anything aloud at first, hoping that her silence would help her out of any unfortunate situations. As it was, her father had seemed to work out her unease in this environment, and kept the conversation away from her mother as much as he could. He had, however, bought a very large chocolate cake for Potter's birthday, which they were both happy to take in place of a nutritious breakfast. Only after she had had sufficient toast, eggs, milk, and some banana and strawberries did Aurora indulge in cake — far more gracefully than either of them, she noted.
She didn't take interest in Potter's opening of his birthday presents, though he seemed happy enough with his lot. Apparently, her father had agreed that he could have Weasley and Granger over in the afternoon, and she made to make herself scarce immediately.
Already, she wondered if she should go back to the Tonkses and never return to Arbrus Hill again. But that was overreacting and making a scene as well as admitting defeat. She was making this more miserable for herself than it needed to be, and that was no good to either Aurora or her father. So she smiled throughout Potter's talk about Granger and Weasley's summer letters, and what the twins got up to in their free time, and explained that Granger didn't like flying at all but Weasley would probably want a go on his Firebolt and a race around the massive garden, if there was a free broom. Aurora did not offer the Slytherin team Nimbus 2001, not least because she didn't entirely trust that Weasley wouldn't tamper with it. Also, she could hear Marcus Flint berating her for letting a Gryffindor anywhere near team property even as she resolved not to.
The morning was spent on her own broomstick instead, then running laps around the garden once it was stowed away, and then running through ballet exercises in the old ballroom, where she had more room than she had in years, and the piano played itself. There was nothing like a grande jeté to work out emotions that words and thoughts couldn't express, and the wooden flooring was perfect for turning again and again, seeing how long she could do it without losing her balance.
When the Floo went downstairs and voices filled the lounge, she retreated to her bedroom for some light barre work and homework. No one disturbed her until half past three, when her father knocked on the door, saying — and it didn't entirely sound like he was joking, so Aurora felt slightly guilty about having been absent for so many hours — that he thought he'd better check she wasn't dead. When she confirmed that she was very much alive, he asked if that meant he could come in or if she was going to throw a book at him for interrupting her homework.
Her reply was that he should probably make sure the three Gryffindor teenagers downstairs weren't going to make anything explode, and he came in anyway.
"You know you can join them," he told her, and she scoffed.
"Would you have let Uncle Regulus join a party of you and your school friends?" His silence was reply enough. "It doesn't bother me that I'm not welcome with them, if that's what you're worrying about. I couldn't care less. I wouldn't want Pott — Harry to hang about if I had any of my friends over, and I doubt he would want to anyway."
"I know." Her father came to rest against the windowsill. He still moved like there was an aching chills in his bones. He still picked the angle that best hid the darkness beneath his eyes. "I know you're not as comfortable with the arrangement as Harry's making himself. That wasn't a criticism," he said when she opened her mouth to retort that Harry Potter made himself comfortable wherever he bloody well pleased, whether in her house or in her common room. "Perhaps I shouldn't have brought up your mum last night. That's private, isn't it?"
"He would have known her, too. And I don't care."
Her father looked like he'd suffered a blow at the words. Aurora didn't know what to do to mitigate that, but she also knew it hadn't been the right way to word what she was thinking, so she said, "Not that I don't care about her. But it isn't like I have any claim to privacy over her life. I just don't want to have to be in the room with him when you talk about it. He looked like he expected me to react and I didn't. I didn't know how to react. It's not that I don't care about her life, I don't want you to think that. But I don't need to know about her like Potter needs to know about his parents. I'd still rather that I didn't have to have that sort of conversation in front of him. You can talk about her, but don't — don't expect me to share anything about how I feel about it. Because I really just don't know how to feel about it."
She flicked the feather at the end of her quill, repeatedly, until he broke the silence, "Your feelings are private, not the memories themselves. Is that it?"
Aurora was surprised by the way he managed to sum up what she struggled with. "Yes. Not that I know what my feelings are."
He didn't tell her that she didn't have to have any feelings about it, or that whatever feelings she had would be okay. She was glad. Aurora knew that he wanted her to want to know about her mother, and she didn't not want to know about her mother. But she didn't like people acting like she had to, or assuming she wanted to hear or be compared to her, talked about like she was a souvenir of a dead woman. She especially didn't want to have to think about such things when feelings seemed to come so naturally to Potter.
When she didn't elaborate any more on her thoughts, her father asked in a careful, restrained sort of voice, "What do you want to do?"
She tutted. "I want to do my homework."
She was glad he refrained from making any other comments about whether or not holidays were for homework. "Tomorrow, or the day after that. I told you I wanted to get to know you better, and I do. Whatever you want to do together, whatever makes you the most happy or comfortable — that's what we'll do."
Aurora wasn't sure what that might be. She appreciated the gesture all the same. It was selfish to want him to herself, but she didn't particularly care.
"I'll get back to you on that," she said. "Nothing involving the motorcycle. Maybe — I'd like if you could show me some of that music you brought. The Muggle records. I — I do like dancing."
Her father beamed. "You are going to love ABBA."
"Am I?"
"Possibly not, but it'll be brilliant if you do. I was more a Queen man myself."
"I have no idea what that means."
"You will." He grinned and tentatively, tried to hug her. She let him. "You're still my priority, Aurora. I'm here for you, and because of you."
"I can look after myself—"
"I know you can, sweetheart. I just want you to know that I love you." He ruffled her hair gently then patted her shoulder. "Nothing's going to ever change that. I promise."