In Hedda Manole's magical trunk, unopened for a decade, Sirius found what looked like an endless supply of letters and journals, written in different languages. Her journals appeared to be written in German, and from the little he could understand from the diagrams strewn across several pages, she seemed to have been a proficient witch in astronomy and alchemy - Sirius recalled several charts from his NEWT classes, however these seemed to be more advanced, tracking movements of stars he was taught were too unpredictable and unreliable. He wondered how that could have been, however, as the journals seemed to be dated from before the time of his own parents.
The letters, however, sent both to and from her, were written in a variety of languages. Listening in to hear when Magdalena would return, he started sorting through them, pushing away those written to what seemed to be family members to one pile, those he understood nothing of in another, and finally, a small pile of letters written in languages he understood. The letters written in French were boring and detailing minutiae he couldn't care less about - travels to Egypt, love affairs, political details dated back to Grindelwald's war, declined or accepted invitations to weddings or funerals, and birthday well-wishes. However, the people that Hedda had been corresponding with surprised Sirius tremendously, ranging from the inventor of most love potions in current use, to Nicholas Flamel, to various headmasters across wizarding schools the globe, and some letters had signatories that Sirius vaguely recognised from Binn's classes.
The pile of English letters was extremely small, and he found about twenty or so, most of them dated from the beginning of the century. After reading some of the senders that corresponded with Hedda in French, he was not surprised to find a letter from Dumbledore among the pile. Or rather, about a dozen letters - some were asking about her return to Britain, one surprisingly announced the death of his own great-great-grandfather and that the new Headmaster would be Dippet, some were job offers for the position of Alchemy, sent decades apart from each other - with the latest sent just a few years before Sirius himself entered Hogwarts.
It appeared that Hedda had been a professor at Hogwarts about a hundred years ago, and had avoided for some reason to return, despite Dumbledore's pleas. Because after having read through all of Dumbledore's letters that he could find, Sirius couldn't help but note the tinges of desperation seeping through his 'I beg of you's and 'please do reconsider's. Yet whatever the event was that made her leave, she would not return.
"...Who the fuck were you, Hedda?" Sirius whispered to himself, turning his head towards the corpse of Manole, as if he could answer him. "Who did you marry, old man?"
From underneath the thin, yellowed sheet, no one answered.
In the low buzzing of mosquitoes, Sirius continued reading through the letters. He wondered whether she kept copies of letters sent, because he managed to read the many responses and refusals sent to Dumbledore, as well as what seemed to be one of the last letters sent to him.
Darling Albus,
Come at once, I must see you. Come at once, to see me one last time. I know you wouldn't refuse your old, anguished professor.
I must have said no to you a hundred times, and I won't apologise for any of them - I always knew more than you when I refused you so. Don't refuse me, because I still know more.
Your friend, Hedwig
Sirius folded the cryptic letter and put it in his pocket, throwing another look towards Manole. Magdalena had left to gather whatever necessary to bury the Muggle with his requested rites, and in the meantime, he had enough time to rummage through the trunk before her return. He looked at the pile with Dumbledore's letters for another second, before taking them all and carefully folding them in half, putting them in his pocket alongside the first letter.
Underneath an almost neverending stack of newspapers, among which were several copies of the Daily Prophet, Sirius managed to find another letter in English.
A letter signed by one Tom M. Riddle.
A letter containing four paragraphs of praise towards Hedda, detailing and praising all of her achievements as if the witch hadn't been aware of it herself. Sirius skimmed over them quickly, going straight to the end and see how exactly Voldemort was involved with this person.
And there it was.
I come with many letters of recommendation attached to this one, attesting to my character as an apprentice and to my own achievements in the fields of magical and ritualistic studies, gathered from across the entire Europe. I seek advancement in my own studies from the very best, and you are among them. I have read and reread your collaborative paper on alchemical studies with Professor Dumbledore, who was my own professor at Hogwarts, and spoke very highly of you.
I have travelled to Cairo extensively, to all places you named, as per your recommendation to all wizards who wish to pursue alchemy in 'An Uncensored History of 19th Century Alchemists'. I have done everything, and I am ready to pursue my next advancement through your tutelage.
If you are to hire me as an apprentice, I would bring advancements to the field that most can only dream of. The uncensored history of 20th century alchemists has not been written yet, but when it will, my name will be there.
With nostrils flared, Sirius rummaged through all the pieces of paper he had already removed, the letters in his pocket, and lifted all the books, journals and clippings left in the trunk, until its insides were empty and sprawled across the floor and Hedda's tomb.
Uneasy on his feet, he got up, and with the letter from a young Voldemort in his hand, he raised his wand towards the piles of letters, and magically tried to find any other letter from Tom, or any reply towards him. Yet all the papers from the trunk laid motionless in front of him.
Unless… - unless the cryptic letter to Dumbledore, the mystery of 'I know more than you do' was related to that. There was no spell, after all, to find out someone's intentions behind their written words, especially not when they were dead.
With a flick of his wand, Sirius gathered all of Hedda's written belongings, and made them arrange themselves neatly in his leather bag, leaving the empty trunk wide open in the middle of the house.
By the time Magdalena came back, the young wizards and witches who entertained him last night had started gathering once again, and the sun was close to setting. He himself had smoked almost an entire pack, sat on the same tree stump for hours on end, one cigarette after the other, unsure of his next moves. He would have to pay a visit to Dumbledore, or rather ask him to come and see him.
He wondered how much Dumbledore knew about this Hedda - did he know there had been a Muggle locked with her tomb, who simply refused to die? A Muggle that survived without food or drink, kept alive by his own sheer will and determination?
Oh, if there was ever a person, wizard or Muggle, who'd understand what I'd been through, it would have been you, crazy old man.
He watched Magdalena sit down next to him, and ask him for a cigarette, for one of her own cigarettes. He pulled one from the packet, and lit it for her, before handing it to her. She was awfully quiet, and for the first time, at least that he could remember, he spoke first, as the wizards below them sat down to eat in the valley below.
"I wasn't sure whether you would come back."
Perhaps he should have fucked one of the witches in the valley instead. At least then, he wouldn't have to overcome this tense moment with Magdalena, right when he had discovered such
"I wasn't sure either." she responded, avoiding his gaze.
"How did you figure it out?"
"Just because I don't remember a thing, doesn't mean I couldn't feel the aftermath in the morning. You haven't been with a woman in a long time, Sirius Black, I don't expect you to remember the minutiae." She appeared amused by the situation, and Sirius wondered if she was deflecting her true feelings about the convoluted situation through the apparent amusement. "Look- don't turn your eyes now after what you've done, look."
Sirius did not particularly want to be reminded of that night, but he acquiesced and looked at her undo the top buttons of her robe, and reveal a slight mark above her left breast. He only vaguely remembered pressing his open mouth against her body, but he remembered she also pushed and pulled at him and must have had her own fault in this mark - but before he opened his mouth to remind her of this, he remembered she would have no idea.
"I didn't rape you, Lena. Let that be clear. We were both drunk. I made a mistake. I wanted to erase it. If I could have instead turned back time for the both of us, I would have."
"I suppose." Magdalena murmured, in a dry and aloof tone. "May I speak candidly?"
"Please." He did not want to continue anymore, and felt content listening. As she spoke, he let himself slowly fall back onto the grass, looking at the stars above as she started her critique of him - a critique he wondered how long stewed within her.
"You're too insecure in yourself to take advantage of someone else's - pleasure for the sake of pleasure is not something in your books. I don't know you before Azkaban, but the Sirius Black in front of me would rather deny himself the pleasure than indulge, because I saw the way you looked at me that time, in my bathroom. And I felt how you pulled your hand from me, as if I seared you, the morning after the Cup.
You are too cowardly to indulge.
Last night-... From what I remember, I remember you dancing, and I remember you drinking, and I remember you losing your worries there, absorbed - and I was the same. No, rather-... I don't know what you must have thought of yourself, but I thought in those moments that you were handsome like that, and free, finally free, oh so free, and we were both free, and I know the drink must have gotten to my head and blood, because- well… What happened happened, did it not?
But I now also know that you are too cowardly to face the consequences of your pleasure."
She paused for a moment, and Sirius looked up, towards her back. He could not bear her remembering his body pressed against hers, the desperation in his movements as his hands gripped onto her.
"I did not want you to remember me like that."
"Could you ever bear for me to remember?"
Sirius raised himself back up, and looked down onto the feasting wizards below, shoulder to shoulder with Lena.
"Could you?" She asked again, and he felt her thigh against his own. They may have been next to each other, but he felt their souls were hundreds of miles away, floating further and further on diverging paths.
"I don't know." he finally responded, pressing his thighs against hers. He remembered the voracity and hunger he had last night for another human being, and wondered if, after all of this would be finished, if he could ever return to be the Sirius he once was. Who was not anguished by his desires, but rather prided himself in them. "Perhaps, when we return to Britain, it would be better for our roads to separate." he said, and to his surprise, Magdalena nodded. For a second, he wanted to take his thought back, but he did not.
They decided not to wait for the morning to start the burial rituals, and walked together towards the river, to start the ritual. By the time they arrived, the sky was covered by clouds, and they could barely see each other. Which fit Sirius well, as they had to remove their clothes and purify in the river before changing to the white linens Lena had bought.
He could barely see himself, and as for Lena, he only saw the white of her eyes, and the gleam of her teeth as she entered the cold water and must have grimaced. He dipped himself down to his shoulders in the cold, refreshing water, closing his eyes. The waves, first unwelcoming and frozen, hitting his flesh like ice pellets, now were tenderly caressing his features, the water welcoming in its grasp. He took a seat onto a polished, flat rock underneath the water, and lowered himself until he was almost floating with the waves, holding himself in place with one hand grasped around the root of an acacia tree.
"I hope he thinks of me." he finally said, breaking the silence between them. He watched Magdalena turn, and added. "Peter." As he spoke, the clouds started dissipating once again, and the moon was once again full and white above them, ghastly lighting the trees and their features.
"I hope he knows I have made it a mission to hunt him, for what he did. To James, to Lily, to Harry - hell, to those dozen Muggles he killed just to frame me. Just because he knew, he knew he could never duel me.
I need to make my twelve years in Azkaban count for something." He raised himself back up, and looked at Magdalena's moonlit figure. "Do me one final favour, before we return. I beg of you, Lena."
"What is it?"
"That ritual Mina did for me, to see, to talk to the living, or dead, or whoever I wanted to. To the best of your ability, can you replicate it for me? I need to- try to talk to someone. To figure something."
"I suppose I can try."
His mind seemed cleared now - whether it was the purification ritual, the water itself, the stillness of the forest which allowed him to gather his thoughts, or simply the time to reflect on Hedda's letters without wondering whether Magdalena would return, he felt rejuvenated, he knew what he wanted to do next. He had a plan.
Sirius raised himself from the water as Magdalena washed her face, still appearing to ponder what she had agreed to. He was now in front of her, covered only by the cold water, and tried everything in his being not to cower and hide the scarred, thin, waxy body before her eyes, and let her look at him, confusion turning to a pleasant smile on her face.
Why would I fear a memory? What a ridiculous thought of a drunk man. Others should fear me, not myself. And they will, indeed they will.
And to prove it to himself, to conquer his own fears, he placed his hands over Magdalena's cheeks. Closing his eyes, he leaned in and pressed his lips against hers, allowing what he staunchly refused the previous night, despite her not knowing it. They were both cold and wet, and touching her now was different to the feeling of shame he felt over how his skin felt against hers - dry, calloused, repugnant. He instead focused on his own breathing, and the Sirius Black that broke off and stepped back decided that he was different this time.
He refused to deny his humanity.