The question has been brought up on whether or not Sirius would refer to God or not, as I've had him do before in this little tale of mine. I postulate thus: magic has been in existence since the dawn of time. The novels make reference to Egypt, and the wizards responsible for their curses, any number of thousands of years in the past.
As an enthusiastic amateur in the realm of Egyptology, I hope that I am in a position to say that the Egyptians would have attributed their skill in magic to their gods; religion has evolved with humankind, as have its methods. I think it is rather safe to say that, like the Egyptians, witches and wizards in Greece, Rome, and other prominent civilizations would have thought of magic as a blessing from the gods.
This is all to say that I don't think it's an either/or thing here. I think there are plenty of witches and wizards who follow a religion; it's human nature to attribute the governing of the world and the universe to a deity, or deities.
Whether Sirius believes in religion is another question entirely.
And one I'm not quite prepared to answer just yet.
In any case, this chapter marks the beginning of a new phase in "Butterflies and Hurricanes." If the opening chapters with Sirius at Grimmauld Place comprised Part One, and his first days as a parent Part Two, then this chapter begins Part Three.
Let's see what happens, shall we?
One.
The days became weeks, and the weeks became months. The months became years. The wizarding world entered a new age of prosperity, and the times of the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters slowly, so slowly, faded into a state of dreams and history.
Peter Pettigrew regained consciousness, but his mind was addled and he could hardly string together a full sentence. He had never fully recovered from whatever hell into which he'd been transported by the Cruciatus Curse, and became a permanent fixture of Hogwarts as little more than a companion to the house elves.
For a long time, it seemed like Frank and Alice Longbottom would follow in Peter's shuffling, aimless footsteps; unfit to care for their son, Neville was sent to live with his grandmother for a number of years. But progress was made, slow and sure, and the once-illustrious Aurors eventually rose out of the shadow of their shared horror, and were able to resume their lives, though they both transferred to more...suitable Ministry posts. After a time, they were even able to resume their duties as parents, though they often employed the assistance of strong, stern Augusta.
One by one, the Weasley children began their careers as students at Hogwarts.
Sirius Black, accompanied by his constant companion Remus Lupin, grew accustomed to his role as a parent; Remus Lupin, accompanied by his constant test of patience Sirius Black, grew accustomed to his role as a referee.
They became drifters, never staying in one place for long, always keeping watch for any conceivable threat to their young charge; young Harry Potter, too consumed with the Sisyphean tasks of learning to read and write, paid so little attention to what his guardians were doing on a given day that he probably thought their paranoid wanderings were simply a part of life. Likely enough, if he'd been confronted with the idea of living in one place for years at a time, Harry would have been mystified.
One particularly warm summer day, Remus sat in the Longbottoms' kitchen with a glass of ice water at his right hand and a newspaper in his left. He was freshly washed, his shoulder-length hair shaggy and dripping, having just come in from a morning of yard-work. He could hear Sirius, who had taken over, cursing through the window—not real curses, of course; Augusta would not have tolerated it. Transparently secular shouts of "Your mother is a classy lady!" that were clearly directed at no one sounded once every two minutes or so. Remus covered his mouth with his free hand, snickering.
"Whatcha laughin', Unca Remus?"
Remus glanced over the edge of his paper to see Harry, his glasses sitting askew on the edge of his little nose as he stared up at him. He was dressed in a simple grey robe, and he was holding a spelling book in both hands.
"Oh, I hope you have a lovely evening!" Sirius shouted after a particularly teeth-rattling crash.
"Why's Dad yelling?"
"Uncle Sirius," Remus corrected automatically. "You know how he feels about you calling him 'Dad.'" Although, he couldn't help smiling a little. "Don't worry about it. He's having some…ah…difficulties."
"Diffa-huh?"
"Trouble."
"Oh."
"In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth!"
"That's a new one," Remus murmured, setting down his paper. "Go back to your work, Harry. I'll go see if Uncle Sirius needs some help." Harry grinned and nodded, then ran back through the doorway into the front room. "Unca Remus says he's having diffa-whatsies," he reported solemnly.
Remus wasn't sure what to expect as he stepped out into the yard; such that he was both confused and perfectly at ease, at the same precise moment, when he found the man flat on his back, covered in gardening tools.
"Found a…fascinating little gnome," Sirius spat, staring up at the sky.
"I see," Remus said. "A religious gnome?"
"Obviously." Sirius took the arm that was offered him, and pulled himself up. "Gets the slip on me again, I think I'll take a more…feral approach. My name's not Padfoot for nothing."
"Go and help Harry with his spelling," Remus said, hitching up his sleeves. "I'll find it."
"Oh, but Remus, you just got all dolled up and pretty. What will your date say if you show up covered in dust and weeds?"
Remus, tracing a thumb along a prominent scar that ran down his left cheek, raised a sardonic eyebrow. "I'm going to see Professor Dumbledore about some honest work for a change. I think he'll forgive my rudeness."
Sirius brushed off his pants. "Have it your way."
"Besides, I'll probably be helping Hagrid. This is valuable experience."
Sirius patted his friend's shoulder as he passed. "Keep telling yourself that. But until you break something…or a few somethings…it won't count for much. I don't think I want to know the sort of hellspawn Hagrid would need help with."
Remus waved dismissively, though he went slightly pale.
Two.
Frank stepped into the room gingerly; he still harbored a limp.
Some days, he would simply stare off into space for hours at a time, lost in some private nightmare. He seemed himself today, though, and Sirius was glad for it. He sat down on the couch, and Neville promptly climbed up onto his lap. Sirius, his legs sprawled out in front of him as he sat on the floor, picked up the book Harry had just abandoned and looked at it. "Not sure moving pictures are the best way to keep a kid focused on homework," he muttered idly. "Don't know why we can't ever be satisfied with words."
"We're just like Muggles that way," Frank said, almost dreamily. Sirius glanced up at him; Neville was perched on his father's knee, which was bouncing in tune with some rhythm which only Frank could hear. "What did they do when they discovered electricity? Started using it for everything. Whoever worked out how to spark life into pictures must have thought the same way."
Sirius frowned. "Still. This is no better than 'educational television.'"
"Perhaps it's there to ensure we pay attention," Frank offered, ignoring the reference, "instead of just setting them down in front of the book and expecting it to teach for us."
Frank and Alice had considered it the height of their accomplishments when they'd graduated to Father and Mother to Neville; there was something about the way Frank said "we," and "us," that sent a shock of warmth through Sirius's body. It was like he was part of some secret organization, charged with pivotally important work; in a way, he was. It was that idea that kept Sirius dedicated to the project of being a godfather past any other endeavor he'd ever pursued.
It was also what kept him awake some nights, wondering if he wasn't doing it entirely wrong.
Sighing, Sirius pulled himself and walked over to the corner of the room, where he retrieved a bag. Returning to his previous spot with it, he sat back down and began rummaging through it. Harry stopped staring at the carpet as his godfather began pulling out different books, books whose covers did not move. Sirius would give each one a cursory glance before setting it aside, surprisingly carefully considering his usual attitude toward inanimate objects. "They can't feel it, right?" he was wont to say, invariably after he'd just thrown something at a wall.
Frank glanced down at the volumes his companion was sifting through. "Tolkien…Lovecraft…Stoker, Doyle…what are those, Sirius?"
"Muggle authors," Sirius muttered offhandedly, scowling.
"Bit of light reading, is it?" Frank asked.
"There's a prejudice around our kind," Sirius said, "and it dictates anything made by Muggles is automatically inferior. As though magic makes us more intelligent, more creative, more worthwhile. More…worth living." He scowled over his shoulder at the retired auror. "Know who that sounds like to me? My parents. My cousins. All the lofty, high-seeking aristocrats with barely enough collective sense to work a doorbell."
"So this is a protest?"
"Ask me, Muggles are the creative ones. Here we've gone and hidden ourselves away from them, and do they miss a step? Imagine what our lives would be like, if tomorrow magic didn't work. None of it. Poof. Gone. We'd go right damn mental, is what we'd do. There are thousands, millions, billions of people in the world who do that every day, not even batting an eyelash. And somehow that makes us the superior species."
Frank looked intrigued, and more than a little impressed.
Sirius finally found what he was looking for. "Aha!" It was an oversized but thin volume, with a conspicuously stationary picture of a boy and girl with letters and numbers floating about their heads, titled "Numbers and Letters: Our First Friends."
He took the book Harry was holding and replaced it with his own. "Take a look at that, Harry. Might be more your speed."
"Mug-book!" Harry cried, ecstatic. He turned to Frank and Neville. "Look! Unca Sirius gave me mug-book!"
"Indeed, he did," Frank said, smiling. "And what is the mug-book called, Harry?"
The excitable boy set about parsing out the title of his new prize, looking studious.
"It's what he calls any book that doesn't move," Sirius said, when Frank looked at him next. "He's…interested in Muggles. I'm trying to encourage it."
"Did you ever take Muggle Studies in school?"
Sirius scoffed. "Walked out the first day. What that old bat called 'a wizarding perspective on Muggle society' turned out a thinly-veiled list of reasons Muggles are idiots. Much more interested in what Muggles think of us, truth be told." He picked up a thick volume, the one marked as being written by Tolkien. "Like I said: creative. You'd be surprised how close they get, considering they don't believe in us."
Frank cocked his head curiously. "Interesting." He seemed to be filing something away in his mind for later consideration. Sirius cracked open his book and began to read. Harry shuffled up close to his godfather and mimicked his posture and expression.
The rest of the world ceased to exist for them.
Three.
Kafell is watching, and he looks engaged. Studious.
"You see, mon père?" he asks slowly. "You see that my plan has merit, don't you?" He stands, downs a bottle of smoking alcohol in one pull, and begins to pace about the dust-strewn study. "No, no, don't answer yet. Do not put words to your doubts yet."
The mirage shimmers, quakes and shivers. The boy and his guardians leave the safety and companionship of friends and embark on another journey. They have no destination, nor have they ever. They are content with this. Kafell is content with this. The question of motive, of merit, remains in the air.
"Consider," Kafell says, eyes gleaming with excitement, "the elements at work here. The extra pieces are already in play. He's already doing the leg-work for us. More than that, he's happy to do it. All we have to do, you and I, is…keep things under the radar, so to speak. Let things unfold as they will, without…ah…interruption."
How does he intend to do such a thing? How does he hope to escape notice?
"Allow that to be my concern. Do you think I've learned nothing? I have made it my life's work," here he clears his throat, as though sharing some private joke, "to be inconspicuous. Or haven't you noticed? Now, listen closely, my dearest patriarch: if we are to put this game of mine into motion, we must ensure the security of our investment."
Kafell often speaks in what humankind would call riddles. To the Mind, he is most unbearably frank. He has no sense of tact, and to many he has a vision that is far too narrow. But Kafell listens to no one's orchestrations but his own; within his person is a symphony of self-importance, and it is this that drives him on a path that none of his kind have ever gone before.
It is this that makes him arrogant.
And what makes him brilliant.
"Now then…what say we introduce ourselves to Master Black?"
mon père = "my father" in French.
The various books in Sirius's possession are not some random collection of authors; they are authors that I, personally, have read or am reading. I am slowly but surely gathering together a "classics library," as it were, and no such library would be complete without the folks that Sirius reads.
He was said to be exceedingly clever in his days at school; I take that to mean that when he finds a subject that interests him, he is most studious. Such that he doesn't trust established teaching methods, finding them inadequate. One of those subjects seems to be Muggles.
Lastly, the rather...odd exclamation during Sirius's escapades as a yard-boy is the first sentence of the book of Genesis in the King James Bible. Just for the sake of completeness, you understand.