"Idiots!" Sirius growls, and flings down the Daily Prophet onto the kitchen table. "Still printing this bullshit even after—"
"Sirius," Remus says, placing a hand on his arm. "Language, honestly."
"You know I'm right," Sirius grumps, but he subsides. He can't help it, though—it's infuriating. He's spent all of July trying to combat the lies being printed in the Prophet and spread by the Ministry, to no avail. Not even all the clout of the House of Black is enough to get them to back off entirely and retract their statements from just after Easter, their claims that Harry and Neville were liars or exaggerating or crazy, that Voldemort wasn't really back. It's willful blindness that'll see half the magical world dead in the coming war, because no one is going to be prepared.
They've admitted, at least, that there must be some faction of Dark wizards active, perhaps some lingering supporters of Voldemort from the last war, and so perhaps civilians should consider being a little extra mindful until they are apprehended, and blah blah blah. Useless lip service that no one who isn't already as paranoid as Alastor bloody Moody is going to take seriously.
"Papers again?" Harry says, wandering into the kitchen yawning. He looks well-rested, at least, and he's slept late for once; that's one good thing about the silence of Voldemort and his Death Eaters so far this summer. Harry has had time to recover, rest, spend some carefree time with his friends and with Sirius and Remus. He's learned how to be a teenager, sleeping in and eating everything he can lay hands on (including far too much junk food, which Sirius tries not to complain about, since his diet was also terrible at that age) and sprouting up a few good centimeters. He'd looked no small amount like a corpse when he'd first returned after his and Neville's kidnapping at Easter, and during the end of term he'd continued half-catatonic. Subdued, quiet, empty… he hadn't been Harry. But Sirius's pup has begun to come back to himself. He'd buried himself in books at first, but eventually he'd come out of his shell and returned to the lively, clever, cheerful boy that they'd had in their home last summer.
"Of course," Remus says in reply to Harry, and snags him for a hug as he goes by, ignoring the mild squirming to squeeze him and then send him on his way to put together a plate of breakfast from the eggs and toast left on the counter under a Warming Charm. "What else, these days?"
Harry shrugs. "Sometimes it's correspondence."
"True," Remus says, laughing, and reaches over to pat Sirius's cheek. "Getting grumpy in your old age, hm, Padfoot?"
"Oh, shut up," Sirius replies, rolling his eyes. "You're as old as I am. Anyway, Harry, you know they deserve every bit of ire."
"Sure," Harry says, "but shouting about it over the breakfast table isn't going to get much done."
"Nothing will, apparently!"
Honestly, it's not like Sirius isn't trying. He's given multiple statements to the papers, both by himself and in conjunction with Augusta Longbottom, tried to have injunctions issued, even considered suing for defamation—but it's really too late for the latter. Most of the magical world is too bloody stupid to change their minds about something they've read in the paper, especially if it meant that they would actually have to do something about the looming threat of war. They're all much too content to be led like sheep to the slaughter, and Sirius is running out of ideas for how the bloody hell to make anyone listen. All he has left is to try to bring the problem before the Wizengamot, and hopefully motivate the upper classes to spread the news among their own circles. The Wizengamot has an awful lot of influence when they actually choose to exercise it, and Sirius has a faint hope that at the upcoming July session will yield results that his attempt to influence the media directly has not.
Part of it, he knows, is that Lucius Malfoy has a significant portion of the Prophet in his pocket. A significant portion of the Ministry, really. Sirius functionally owns the DMLE, at least as far as politics go, but Lucius owns the Minister and the Prophet, and that's all he really needs to get whatever he wants printed—and what he wants is for the populace to be completely unprepared when he and all his porcelain-masked buddies fall upon them like a rain of death. This confusion and refusal to act on the part of the Ministry is only to Voldemort's advantage.
"Well, you'll be sure to sway them at the Wizengamot," Harry says, tucking into his eggs. With a full mouth, he continues, "They're not that stupid."
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Sirius chides absently, then flushes when Remus shoots him an amused look. "I hope you're right, Harry."
Harry swallows his mouthful, and then with all the surety and pride of youth says, "I'm right."
He sounds so much like James, Sirius thinks, half fondness and half despair. All that stubborn self-confidence, but in Harry it's concentrated, compacted, turned to steel which laces the kid's spine and makes him so firmly upright, so strong-willed and determined. Sirius doesn't think he's ever known someone so determined. Harry has dedicated his summer to grabbing up every bit of knowledge and strength that he can get his hands on. His Occlumency is genuinely slightly intimidating, more complicated by far than Sirius's own shielding, which is adamantine-strong but fairly straightforward. Sirius doesn't know where Harry learned to make layers and layers of branching mental pathways like he has, but he's damn good at it—Sirius is no master Legilimens, and knows that if Harry wanted to keep a secret from him, mind magic would no longer be an avenue available to him to get at it. Not, of course, that he'd ever betray Harry's privacy in that way.
And his other studies… he's only just beginning his third year, but Sirius is pretty sure that Harry is casting at a fifth year's level when it comes to Defence, and he's a damn good duelist for his age. He's doing all sorts of outside reading, too—not only in Defence, for which Sirius has furnished him with all of his own favourite texts, but also in Transfiguration as he works toward his Animagus transformation with new vigour, and Herbology, and Ancient Runes, and Potions. The latter Harry says is because Snape doesn't actually teach them anything, which Sirius could have guessed. The man's a right bastard, of course he's a terrible teacher.
It's Lily's studiousness showing, Sirius thinks, but it's also… it's just Harry. Harry's determination to be the best. In part, Sirius thinks it's that Harry knows he's going to need to be prepared if he wants to make it through this war, but he also thinks—he doesn't even know if Harry himself is aware of this—that there's a part of Harry that just wants to be better. Wants to be strong, powerful in a way that means something.
He'd grown up small, after all. He'd grown up being made small. Sirius gets that. He'd felt the same as a teenager—it's why he'd been such a bullying prat at Hogwarts. He'd turned his own anger at feeling so belittled outward, inflicted his rage and his bitterness on others, instead of turning that energy inwards like Harry does. It's healthier, the way Harry's going about his healing, or at least Sirius thinks so. Healthier for Harry's friendships, at least. And Harry is just… a better person that Sirius ever has been. He's a miracle, really; Sirius doesn't know what he did to deserve this boy, who he loves so dearly.
His heart feeling warm and full, he leans over to ruffle Harry's hair and says, "Alright, sprout?"
Harry rolls his eyes. "Of course. You?"
"I'm fine," Sirius says, stretches, and glances at the clock on the wall. It's drawing near ten, which means… "I'd better go, probably."
"Oh," Harry says. "Meeting with Dumbledore, right?" When Sirius hums in agreement, Harry adds, "Say hello for me."
"I'll send him your best."
"Me too," Remus says, and leans over to kiss the corner of Sirius's mouth softly. "You probably should go. Prove to the old man that you can be punctual, for once in your life."
"I'm very punctual!" Sirius protests, but gives Remus back his kiss, pressing his lips against that teasing smile, and then laughs at Harry's mildly grossed-out expression. He points at Harry's nose, grinning at the way Harry's eyes cross, and says, "You'll want to kiss people someday, pup, and on that day I will laugh at you for having made that face."
Harry's face flushes a little, and he just shakes his head. "Whatever, Sirius."
Sirius gets up from the table and comes around to kiss the top of Harry's head, and then he bids both Harry and Remus a final adieu and heads for the door. He has plenty of time, really; he's meeting Dumbledore not at Hogwarts, but at Grimmauld Place.
He'd offered the hopeless old townhouse to Dumbledore as a new headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix at the start of the summer, and while he hates having to visit it, he knows it was a good decision. The place had wards up to its ears, of course, and Dumbledore has placed a Fidelius charm as well. Not every member of the Order was in on the Secret, at least not just yet—one of their first tasks was the ongoing process of vetting each and every person, even those who'd fought with them in the last war. They'd started with Kingsley, Moody, and Nymphadora, whose Auror resources were making it much easier to vet the rest, not to mention keeping an eye on the situation within the Ministry; they'd also easily passed the Weasleys; Remus, of course; and Arabella Figg, who had been and still was a highly valuable pair of eyes in the muggle world. The old crowd is coming back together smoothly for the most part, and those of the next generation who've already done their growing up are sure to be good resources. Some of the past year's Hogwarts graduating class might be good allies as well, Sirius muses, and makes a mental note to bring that up with Dumbledore in their upcoming meeting.
He Apparates from the alley near the Doghouse to the corner of 13 Grimmauld Place's block, and wanders down the street casually, keeping an eye out for any watchers. The Fidelius, after all, doesn't entirely preclude surveillance. Narcissa knew the address of the Black family manor at one time, and could have told anyone about it prior to the Fidelius; though they would all have forgotten the exact address, they might still remember its general location, and from there be able to watch for any known members of Dumbledore's crowd coming and going. However, they haven't managed that much yet—the street is quiet, and Sirius steps unhindered onto the property, feeling the wards pass over his skin in a feeling like a shiver.
The door opens at his touch, of course; he's the Lord of the House of Black, and no one could bar this door against his entry. Within, well… it's a nightmare as always. At least the damn place is clean—and hadn't that taken all his willpower to get done. He'd avoided it for as long as he could, even after his mother finally kicked the bucket, but shortly after becoming Lord Black his sense of duty had gotten the worst of him and he and Remus and a few others had spent several weeks living in the wretched place and scrubbing it from top to bottom—and rooting out all of the various heirlooms and tomes of knowledge that the Blacks had squirrelled away over the years. No few interesting items had come of that search; most are locked away in the house now, too cursed to be sold and too valuable to be destroyed. Sirius suspects that Kreacher had hidden a few things away in his nest, but for all that he dislikes the elf, he isn't about to invade his privacy to quite that degree. He's not Lucius Malfoy, after all, to treat his bonded servant like a slave.
"Albus?" Sirius calls down the hall as he steps in and hangs his cloak on a hook.
"In the kitchen!" comes Dumbledore's voice, and Sirius follows it to find him seated at the table, considering a copy of the Prophet.
"Why are you bothering with that dreck?" Sirius asks.
Dumbledore looks up at him. "For all that it is a muggle work, I'm sure you must be familiar with The Art of War, Sirius."
"All warfare is based in deception?"
"Ah," Dumbledore says, and smiles faintly. "I had thought more of know your enemy, though I suppose your suggestion applies as well."
"And it's not like I'm not known to be of choleric temper, if we're talking about their strategy rather than ours," Sirius says, and slumps into a chair with a sigh. "It is infuriating."
"Indeed," Dumbledore says, and folds the paper, pushing it to the side. "But we will persevere, Sirius. We are still in the earliest days."
"I know," Sirius says. Of course, that only means that things will get worse and not better from here. But they have time. "How goes our hunt for allies?"
"Well," Dumbledore says. "So far as I have been able to learn, at least as of this moment, Pettigrew was the only spy in the Order. Or at least the only one I did not already know about."
"Snape?"
"Has not been summoned."
"Are you concerned he's been compromised?" Sirius asks. He wouldn't mourn if Snape bit the dust, of course, but the man is a resource, and if Voldemort suspects him they could be being fed bad information, or lose their inside man entirely.
Dumbledore tilts his head, considers, and then shakes it. "I do not believe so, no. But I have a contingency, should we lose Severus."
This is the first Sirius is hearing of it, and he frowns. "What sort of contingency? Another Death Eater switching sides?"
"Not as such." But before Sirius can ask any more questions, Dumbledore raises a hand to forestall him. "I am sorry, Sirius, but it is a delicate situation. I cannot risk my contingency, as it is the only one I have and…"
"It's someone's life," Sirius posits quietly. "Fine. I understand. But you know I would never betray them, even if they were my worst enemy. I haven't betrayed Snape."
"No, I know you would not," Dumbledore says, and then blatantly changes the subject, asking after Sirius's plans for continuing to feel out members of the Wizengamot for those who might be willing to aid the war effort. Deception, Sirius thinks to himself, but lets it slide and answers the question. There are some who he knows will be easy to bring to their side, and others who surely sympathize but whose political situations make it difficult for them to act openly; he has plans for both. But first he wants the bloody papers dealt with, and he says as much.
"It might be more difficult than you hope," Dumbledore warns. "Most of those in the Wizengamot are allies of the Ministry, or at least unwilling to gainsay it."
"I know that," Sirius says. Honestly, for all he knows Dumbledore respects him, he has a tendency sometimes of forgetting that Sirius is no longer sixteen and an idiot. "But I have to try, don't I? What good is being Lord Black if I can't do anything?"
Dumbledore just nods solemnly. "I will support you as best I can, Sirius, but they have targeted me quite effectively as well."
"I know," Sirius repeats. "I know that this will be a challenge, but it's one I'm willing to take on—and carry into the school year if necessary."
"Thank you," Dumbledore says. "Your voice has effected positive change in the Wizengamot, Sirius, no small part because you have effected any change at all. It is, unfortunately, a staid body at the best of times, but you are young and passionate and dedicated to the improvement of this world and the defence of its most vulnerable, and I am sure you will prevail. Eventually, if not immediately."
Sirius bows his head briefly in a nod of acknowledgement, then says, "I wondered if I might take advantage of my connections in another way in this coming year. Let me know what you think of this, but, well… there was a promising crop in NEWT-level Defence this last year, and even among those in their OWL year. I don't want to be bringing anyone underage into this war, but those who are coming of age have the right to choose if they want to be involved, and they might accept information about the state of things if it came from me."
Sirius had emphasized last year how much he wanted the students to be prepared for real life. Real situations, real dangers. For those who are duped by the papers into thinking him a liar, there's little he can do, but… reaching out couldn't do any harm. He thinks in particular of the Slytherins, those who might only need someone on Dumbledore's side to reach out to them and tell them that it's alright to take a stand for what they believe is right, even if it means going against family and friends. Sirius doubts he would have been so charitable even a year ago, but Harry's Sorting into Slytherin and the many conversations they've had in this past year about his classmates and Housemates have opened Sirius's mind to the fact that the Slytherins… well, many of them are the children of terrible people, and influenced by that, but as many as wonderful people themselves—and moreover, they are still children. Children with potential to make better choices than the choices of those from which they spring. And, well, forage on the enemy. There's only gain to be had in poaching from the Dark.
Dumbledore is nodding slowly, clearly thinking it over, and then says, "That seems like a promising avenue, yes. Reach out to the students at your discretion, then, Sirius, though I agree that you should not approach anyone underage."
"Of course," Sirius says. He pauses and stretches, reaching his arms above his head, and looks around the kitchen, with its old wooden cabinets and lingering cobwebs, even after the thorough scrubbing; the place is probably enchanted to be gloomy forever. "You know, my younger self would be jumping for joy if he could know what would become of this house."
"Headquarters for a secret society?"
Sirius snorts. "Sure, but mostly that what we do here would piss off dear old mum." He shakes his head, then brushes an errant lock of hair from his face. "I was a brat."
"You suffered," Dumbledore replies, compassion in his tone. "I would never blame a child for disliking—even hating—those responsible for his suffering."
Sirius turns to peer at Dumbledore, hearing something odd in his tone, and catches the edge of a sorrowful look before it's again hidden. "You know," Sirius offers, "none of the students who choose to fight in this war will blame you for its existence. Someone has to lead the Light, and you're the best man for the job."
"Perhaps." Dumbledore laces his fingers on the table. "But I am still the one pulling many people's strings, and so they would not be in the wrong to blame me if harm comes to them."
"You're not going to let that stop you, though," Sirius says with a shrug. "So there's no point in feeling guilty about it now. We all have to do what we must to win this war, Headmaster—if reparations need to be made for the means that get us to that end, they can be made after. If we even make it out alive."
"And if I do die?" Dumbledore says, fixing Sirius with a piercing look. "If I die, no one will be able to make those reparations on my behalf. There will simply be a void, a legacy of damage done."
Sirius shrugs again and sits forward to slide his hands down onto the table, as if flattening a sheet of paper before him. "Maybe so. And I do believe that there are lines that we shouldn't cross in fighting this war, or we become no better than them. But there are also lines that we're going to have to cross, and you know it as well as I—it's not like either of us likes it, Albus. All we can do is our best to protect those who cannot or will not protect themselves. We can apologize to those we failed when it's over."
Dumbledore lets out a long, slow sigh, and slumps back slightly in his chair, looking for a few moments very much his age. He's an old man, Sirius thinks, looking at him. Old and tired, with the weight of half a society or more resting on his shoulders. He's wise and powerful, and there's certainly no one better to replace him, but… it's clear that Dumbledore's commitment to the greater good weighs on him, at least at times. If anything, though, that makes Sirius feel more confident in his faith in the Headmaster's leadership; the man has a heart and a conscience, and will follow them both whenever possible, even to the detriment of himself.
Maybe everything will be alright. Sirius is a reluctant optimist, but things are not so very dire yet. They have an opportunity to make this right before it all goes too wrong, no matter what Dumbledore may think about the cost of their means. Yes, war has a cost; it always does, and this one will too. But if they are smart, and quick, and savvy… maybe, just maybe, all will turn out for the better, and the magical world will be saved.
"The Wizengamot is a pack of irredeemable pricks with their heads stuffed so far up their arses that they're breathing shite, which maybe explains why they spew so much of it, and they don't deserve a single fucking thing we're doing to try to save this bloody bedamned world!" Sirius shouts, and slams the door behind himself for good measure.
"Language!" Remus shouts from the den, sounding genuinely somewhat scandalized.
Sirius can't bring himself to care. He nearly tears his robe as he wrenches it off his shoulders, and does in fact wrench his shoulder slightly, which only stokes the flame of anger burning in his gut. He stomps into the den and finds a wide-eyed Harry and a narrow-eyed Remus there waiting for him. As soon as he appears, Remus says, "You're certainly in a mood. I take it the session didn't go well?"
"They don't listen!" Sirius says, his voice still raised. "They don't care! There's no bloody way to explain to that horde of misbegotten idiots that they should care about other people and have some damned respect instead of dragging in whoever they bloody well want to their stupid games in order to pander to their selfish whims! They have no respect, no regard for the things that really matter, and at this point I'm well ready to let Voldemort can have the bloody lot of them! See if I fucking care!"
"Sirius," Remus says, his voice harsh now, and Sirius looks up and realizes that Harry has cringed back into the corner of the couch, his book held up like a shield between himself and his godfather. It's enough to make Sirius wilt.
"Sorry, Harry," Sirius says. The effort to gentle his tone scrapes his throat raw, but the whole point of this is that Harry matters the most, more than anything else. No good terrifying him, is it? "Sorry, I—"
"It's alright," Harry says hurriedly. He lowers his book. "You're just mad, it's okay."
"I'm not mad at you, I promise," Sirius says. He scrubs a hand through his hair, dislodging the tie, and has to stoop to scoop it up. When he's upright again, some of the rage has subsided, and he tries to blow the last of it out on a hard breath.
"I know," Harry says quietly. "It's okay, really. What happened?"
"It didn't go well," Sirius says, and comes to sit in his armchair, flopping down into the comfortable plush piece of furniture, worn to the shape of his body over the years he's owned it. It's so ugly, but it's so damn comfortable that he can practically feel the stress draining from him.
"No—kidding," Remus sighs, with a pause that indicates that he almost said no shit. He always did echo Sirius's speech patterns easily. "That doesn't tell us what happened, Sirius."
"Sorry." Sirius scrubs his hands over his face, his elbow braced on his knees, and then consciously forces himself to relax and sit back; when he looks up, he's glad he's done it, because he can see the anxiety in Harry's posture. They've had about three cumulative months of living together, and Harry trusts him, but that's not enough to cancel out eleven years of living with an abusive sack of shit like Vernon Dursley. Harry still hasn't talked about it, but in their Occlumency lessons Sirius has seen a few memories—Vernon had frequently been angry, and used his size and body language to frighten his small nephew. No wonder Sirius's frustration puts his godson on edge. Damn it. "They just… won't do a damn thing to stop the papers."
"Why not?" Harry demands, immediately incensed. "They're lying!"
"I know," Sirius says. "And I'd guess most of the Wizengamot knows that too. Unfortunately, I haven't got any actual proof that Voldemort has returned other than your and Neville's word, and the Wizengamot as a body is much more concerned with keeping up the status quo than they are with actually preparing anyone for the war."
"I'm Heir Black," Harry says, incredulously. "And Neville is Boy-Who-Lived! Why isn't our word good enough?"
"If you were saying things they liked, it would be," Sirius says, "or if you were… different from who you are. Unfortunately, Neville's been kept out of the public eye for most of his life—which is to Augusta's credit, in my opinion, but obviously others don't feel that way. And it means that for all that he has the title, he doesn't have much reputation beyond what came from the actual event. As for you… you're still relatively unknown in political society, Harry. You came out of nowhere, and you're not my blood heir, which unfortunately loses you some clout."
"And you spent a lot of political capital forcing me into the position," Harry says sourly. "Right."
Sirius gives a half-shrug. "That and… I'm not exactly a typical Lord Black. I've managed to hold onto my position, but I've really only begun re-consolidating power. In another year, maybe what I said would go, but I'm not in that position now. Particularly not when I've got powerful enemies on the Wizengamot—Lucius Malfoy first and foremost, but Lords Flint and Nott, too, and of course their entire body of vassal Families and allied Houses, some of whom are quite powerful. And the Neutrals don't want to believe it's true, either."
"Ugh," Harry says, emphatic. Only a few minutes ago, he'd been using his book as a shield; now he looks like he wants to throw it. "So what do we do?"
"Well, we have… one potential avenue," Sirius offers, a little hesitant. He does not, by all the small gods, want to even mention this, because he knows what Harry's going to say. But he also knows that Harry would never forgive him if there was something he could do to help and Sirius prevented him. "It was… suggested at the session that they might better believe the story if the Wizengamot heard the tale of Voldemort's resurrection from the horse's mouth, as it were."
Harry looks up, startled, and meet's Sirius's eyes. Round and green and unobscured by the clean lenses of his glasses, his gaze is so much like Lily's—right down to that razor sharp spark of intelligent realization, calculation… and then resolve. "They want me to speak?" Harry asks, though it's only half a question—he knows.
"Yes," Sirius says reluctantly.
"So I'll go," Harry says.
Sirius holds up a hand to put pause to that, meets Remus's eyes for a moment. Lily's bloody stubbornness, too, and both of them know it, but… well, Sirius can at least try. "You don't have to do that," he says.
"I want to," Harry insists. "We need to get this straight. People need to be ready, don't they?"
"Of course," Sirius says. "Of course they do. But you don't need to—"
"I apparently do," Harry says, firm, forthright; he always is. More straightforward than any Slytherin Sirius has ever met, honestly—but then, Reg had been that way a bit, hadn't he? Learned it from Sirius more than their parents, but Regulus had always been unyielding and unabashed about his pursuits. Quieter, maybe, than Sirius was, more careful… but just as bullheaded when the moment came, charging forward toward whatever it was he wanted and never apologizing.
What is it about today, Sirius thinks, that has him remembering, thinking back? Maybe it's just the mounting pressure of everything, the frustration and the fear… and his desperation to protect this boy looking back at him now. This boy who wants to protect them, too, in whatever way he can. Well, Sirius really can't begrudge him, can he?
"Alright," Sirius says, sighs, really. "But we're going to do a lot of preparation for this, alright? I know Easter is still difficult for you to talk about, and they're going to grill you."
"Will Neville be there?" Harry asks quietly.
"I don't know," Sirius says. "I'm going to guess not—Augusta is unlikely to allow him to speak or be spoken to, even if he is there."
"She's not doing him any favours," Harry mutters, probably not meaning to be heard, so Sirius doesn't comment. He agrees, but anyone who tries to tell Augusta Longbottom she's doing something wrong is a bloody idiot. She'll learn. Sirius just hopes it won't be Neville's death that teaches her. There's a pause, and then Harry continues, at a more normal volume, "Will it work?"
Sirius exchanges another look with Remus, and it's Remus who answers this time. "Impossible to know," he says, with that kindness in his voice, that softness that Sirius has never quite had. He's got too many scars, too many jagged edges. But Remus has always had compassion enough for the both of them. "All we can do is try."