No Saint
Near these islands a palace
was built by a prince,
But its music and song
have departed long since
Wang Bo
o0o
It was already eight o'clock in the evening, but Professor Minerva McGonagall was nowhere near done with her work. She blankly stared at the parchment on her desk, a cup of cooled tea forgotten — all because Merlin forbade her from having a good day without troubles. Now, sitting in front of her was a difficult issue she needed to work out: whether or not the decision to re-assemble the Duelling Club had been the right one.
The Club had been the tradition of Hogwarts for many years, having nurtured and produced some of the deadliest duellists in history. It had, however, dissolved four years ago under a heinous situation. The problem had started with notorious Slytherin duellist, Bellatrix Black, who had not only pushed through too many boundaries and caused too many damages to her Club peers, but also stirred up a hostile, unsafe climate among the student body, leading to the indefinite disbandment of the Club.
But now with Black having graduated from school, and the shadow of a conflict looming over the Wizarding Britain, Minerva had decided to open the Duelling Club again last year. The idea of this was simple: students needed to be prepared. They needed to be informed with formal duelling knowledge to protect themselves in this difficult time. It would have been a perfect plan — with impeccable execution and all, which Minverva was very proud of — if only some idiots hadn't seen this as an arena to settle rivalries and behave like utter snot rags.
Mulciber. Apprehended using an illegal curse on Marlene McKinnon. McKinnon was hospitalised for two days.
James Potter and Sirius Black. Apprehended using Snail-Vomiting Hex on Mulciber. Mulciber vomited thirty-seven snails until the hex was lifted.
James Potter. Apprehended setting Dungbombs under the Slytherin’s Duelling piste.
Amycus Carrow and Severus Snape. Apprehended hexing James Potter and Sirius Black's ties to throttle their necks.
Remus Lupin. Apprehended using an unknown jinx on Amycus Carrow and Severus Snape. Two pairs of chewing gum wads shot straight into Carrow and Snape's nostrils.
Mulciber and Thorfinne Rowle. Apprehended attempting Blood Malediction Curse on Frank Longbottom.
Alice Fortescue, Sirius Black and Gideon Prewett. Apprehended physically assaulting Rowle and Mulciber. Broken noses and ribs involved.
Sirius Black. Apprehended verbally insulting a school faculty, Mr. Filch. Mr. Filch had requested taking more points from Fortescue because it is unfavourable for a female to demonstrate violence.
And the records kept piling up. With aggression escalating, Minverva's supply of detention slips began to seriously dwindle. Some students — somestudents — had already got themselves into enough troubles aside from the brawls in the reinstated Club, whose names were famously associated with exploding toilets, Dungbombs in classrooms, flooded corridors, lousy attitudes in class, and the list refused to stop there.
Of course she was thinking about Sirius Black.
Black had such a long queue of due detention that Minerva started to worry if the boy was left with enough time to study — to which if he had dedicated half the passion he had for trouble-making, he would have made an outstanding student. Yet, he seemed to not even spare the littlest care, since everything else that was going on with him — things that he tried his best to hide from people — was overwhelming. If things continued this way, with respect to the school procedure, she would have to send an owl to his mother — the person who she knew all too well was the mastermind behind Black's problems. And Minerva really didn't want to ask Horace Slughorn for another dose of Draught of Peace.
“It is unusual, seeing you reach this spectrum of fury,” Horace would sigh, waving a Draught vial in front of her face. “Now, Minerva, since I have years of experience dealing with pureblood parents — having taught Walburga Black myself, even — so if you want my piece of advice—”
“Thank you, Horace,” she would cut him off, “but this is my responsibility.” Horace would mumble something like “bloody Gryffindorian pride" , and frankly Minerva wouldn't bother to argue. She had no intention of losing to Horace, whether it was the Quidditch Cup or parents-handling calibre, even if it involved an abhorrent piece of work like Walburga Black.
“Pardon me, Professor, but your tea is cold.”
Minerva looked up from her parchment to find Remus Lupin sitting in front of her desk. He was smiling politely, tapping a finger on his knee. With a slight flick of his wand, he turned the cold tea into steaming hot chocolate.
“I hope you fancy chocolate, Professor,” he said. “It helps a lot in relieving, uhm, anxiety .”
Minerva raised an eyebrow. Remus Lupin was so much seemingly a quiet student that sometimes she forgot he was a part of that little gang.
“I didn't poison that chocolate, you know,” Lupin continued, his eyes crinkling as he smiled.
“It wasn't the possibility of you turning villain that had me lingering, Mr. Lupin,” she said flatly, “It was your quite impressive Transfiguration spellwork.”
The fact that she could smell rich dark chocolate, thoroughly replacing tea, didn't at all help in this situation, where she was supposed to reprimand the boy, not to pat his head with a “well done" attitude. The fact that he was giving her a funny smile with all eyebrows raised didn’t help an ounce either.
“So,” Minerva regained her stern composure, flicking her index finger on the parchment. “You used an unknown jinx on Mr. Carrow and Mr. Snape.” Her voice was sharp and left no room for excuses. “Am I wrong to presume that you invented the spell yourself?”
“No, Professor,” Lupin admitted with the same politeness. “The incantation is ‘Waddiwasi' ; it makes small objects fly into people's nostrils. Sometimes it comes in handy when Peeves gets a bit rowdy.”
“ ‘Waddiwasi…’ ” Minerva’s mouth twitched. Inventing spells was no small feat; its difficulty could be compared to developing a new Arithmetic formulae, with the level of intellectual and creativity it required. Such a brilliance nevertheless was used for mischief making — this boy was undoubtedly mates with James Potter and Sirius Black, even though he managed to keep a low profile much better than the other two. He was the only student Professor Binns ever memorised — at least to Minerva’s knowledge — and she had seen him and the Grey Lady conversing with each other, something generations of Ravenclaws had failed to do. Apparently his antics were much subtler than Black and Potter, but that didn't mean one should ever underestimate him.
So she decided to give Lupin an evening of detention with Severus Snape. She noticed his brow darkened in dismay, but however he detested her decision, he didn't say a word about it — another thing that made him different from Black and Potter, she concluded. Perhaps it was best to keep Black and Potter and Snape's detention separated, if she still wanted to save this world (or her sanity) from an apocalypse.
What he didn't know was that, despite herself, Minerva had written down Remus Lupin on the list of Prefect candidates for the next academic year.
“Another thing, Mr. Lupin,” Minerva set the quill aside and adopted a business-like tone. “Have you heard of or personally seen Bellatrix Black, now known as Bellatrix Lestrange?”
“I've heard of her, Professor, but only what’s been in the newspaper,” he replied evenly, but she'd noticed that his posture went slightly stiffened.
“And what do you think, Mr. Lupin, about the occurrence that took place in the Final Round of the Duelling Contest yesterday?”
Lupin’s eyes snapped up immediately. They were hazelish, faint green in the periphery and light brown in the centre, gazing at her with a sharp intensity. The colour of those eyes were unmatched — his left eye was brighter than the right, giving him a strange, unnatural appeal.
“He is nothing like her,” he said quietly. “Whoever says otherwise either is terribly ignorant or only cares about the surface. Or…” his voice dropped lower, as if testing her resolve, “Is that what you think, Professor?”
Minerva was taken aback by this directness. “How bold of you to assume!” Her thin, sharp eyebrow raised in irritation, and Lupin turned his gaze away. “No, no, Mr. Lupin… I do not ever think Mr. Black is anywhere similar to his cousin. However my opinion on this does not matter for now…”
“It does matter to us,” said Lupin.
Minerva was giving him The Glare.
“... Sorry, Professor, please do carry on.”
“You don’t get to tell me whether to carry on or not,” she scoffed. “As I said earlier, regardless of what I think, a lot of students got cold feet when they witnessed Mr. Black duelling with Everard Selwyn in the final round. Some of them were under the impression that he was the successor to Bellatrix Lestrange — you know about her reputation as a Duellist. I would like to hear from you, Mr. Lupin, as Mr. Black’s friend and whom I believe to be capable of giving an objective view, what you think might be the reason behind that impression.”
There was a sneer flickering across his face, and Minerva heard the sound of a gentle, non confrontational image of Remus Lupin in her shatter. “Successor to Bellatrix Lestrange — I forgot how dramatic these people can get. I’m rather disappointed, really; they do need to try harder.”
“... I purposely didn't ask Mr. Potter, knowing that he would fly off the handle at the sheer suggestion of any resemblance between Mr. Black and his cousin.”
Lupin gave a small laugh.
“It must be quite exhausting for you, being the Head Professor of the lot of us,” he shook his head.
Minerva held back a wry laugh. Oh, you have no idea.
“But worry not, Professor. Sirius didn't do anything out of his usual self when he duelled with Selwyn,” Lupin continued, his tone now matching her serious manner. “If anything, it was because of those overacting audiences who like to draw conspiracies based on ill observations.”
The way he spoke left little room for counter argument, as if the case had been closed.
“And what exactly did he do?” Minerva pressed on, not entirely convinced. Merlin be her witness –– she’d been Sirius Black’s Head Professor for four and a half years now, and never once had she seen ordinariness to be his style.
“You know, Professor, being hypercompetitive,” Lupin said. “He was laughing and taunting his opponent — perhaps a little carried away, when Selwyn started sweating, but that’s just how he is, isn’t he?”
Minerva wanted to point out that duellists didn’t usually laugh during a tense match, or taunt a skilled three-year senior before taking him down. But Lupin didn’t seem he would take these into consideration, anyway.
“Or,” he added, a smile on his face, “Perhaps people were just scared off by something they don’t understand, when he kept moving around like that.”
“Like what?” Minerva frowned.
“Like dancing,” Lupin replied, and Minerva half-expected to find something in his tone that betrayed a joke, but there was none. “His duelling motions were like he was merely enjoying a dance.”
The last time Minerva had seen Bellatrix Black on the duelling piste, she had been moving like a tango dancer. Forceful footwork, thick heels knocking on the floor. Passionate. Lethal.
Lupin sat back slightly on the chair, carefully observing her.
She, on her own accord, was also examining Lupin based on what she’d gathered over this conversation. It was like seeing her student under a new light.
After all this, Minerva began to realise there was more to Lupin’s complexity than she’d given him credit for. His calm acceptance of Sirius Black’s combative nature wasn’t due to ignorance nor naïvety — no, it was something more layered. He seemed to find that nature intriguing — amusing, even — and however problematic it was, it didn’t bother him in the slightest. There was a duality to him that impressed her: a human, and a wolf once a month. A solid personality under those angular and academical looks. Quiet and kind, but also firm and indifferent — with a slightly skewed view of normalcy.
“Another thing,” Lupin said after a while. He looked deep in thoughts. “I attribute that impression to the Daily Prophet article during Christmas. Which, probably, is the bigger reason.”
Minerva felt her eyebrows raise. He must be referring to the article in which members of the Black family were featured for the first time. An untimely thing, Minerva thought, especially when it occurred not long after Bellatrix Lestrange had made her appearance in the press with those rotten ideologies. She could imagine how much such an event had skewed Sirius Black’s image to student readers toward the darker side, threatening his efforts to prove that he was different from his family.
“I see,” Minerva said finally. “Thank you for the insight, Remus. Here, have a biscuit.” She indicated a tin of Ginger Newt biscuits on her desk.
Lupin blinked in confusion as she explained serenely, “In exchange for your hot chocolate.”
Tentatively, he helped himself to a piece of biscuit. Maybe she should have smiled when saying things like this, Minerva thought — and went on to give Lupin an encouraging smile, which she rarely gave to students.
“You don’t actually believe it, right, Professor?” Lupin let out his most pressing question when he was about to leave, after having consumed one-third of her Ginger Newt tin. “I mean, they’re genetically alike — cousins by blood, after all. But in every other department, my friend is not like her .”
Minerva frowned. This boy must already know something about Bellatrix Lestrange that he didn’t tell anyone. When she looked at his hands, she noticed they were clenched.
“I wasn't lying,” she said sternly, for it could be quite difficult to gain trust from this boy, “When I told Mrs. Black that her son is my student.”
“Sorry, Professor,” Lupin downturned his eyes, but good, now he was more at ease. For a brief moment, it was as if he had more to say; but, whatever it was, he eventually kept it to himself and simply bid her good evening.
He opened her office door just as Black was about to knock.
Then Minerva saw Lupin's expression undergo an abrupt change: his pupils widened, his brow lifted, his whole attention dwelled upon the dark-haired boy completely.
And then a subtle, yet unmistakable physical interaction. If Minerva's Animagus form hadn't been a cat, she wouldn't have noticed: Black's left hand lightly brushed on Lupin's in passing — a feather-light touch that Lupin seemed to be very conscious of, shifting his arm slightly in response.
“There is a biscuit crumb on your mouth,” Black muttered. He had also changed, Minerva thought watching him turn from placid and distant to much warmer, much gentler. He reached up to Lupin’s face, flicking the crumb away with his fingers. His gaze lingered on Lupin, and something stirred in those dark eyes — something like layers of fluttering veils.
What was that? Minerva blinked several times, wondering to herself even as Lupin had gone. She’d seen the four boys of that little gang together for years; she knew the way Potter and Black were; their bond was far beyond normal friendship — a unique bond that even strangers could immediately tell as soulmates, as clear as the daylight. But between Black and Lupin… there was a mystery she didn't quite grasp. Minerva wondered what it was she’d just missed — a last stroke of midnight, an evening star faded, or a sweet melody played.
“You called for me, Minerva.”
Black was the only student who dared address her by her first name, Minerva, which could be seen as a flagrant disregard for hierarchy. Goddess of Wisdom, a first-year him had told her in front of the whole class. Would be a waste if I didn’t get to call a name like that, don’t you agree, Minerva?
And Minerva gave an exception to that, because she was trying. She'd always been trying — to make Remus Lupin feel as welcome as possible in Hogwarts, keep him away from the cruel prejudices that his lycanthropy might bring upon him. To make Sirius Black feel as homely as possible here, because––
She thought of Walburga Black, and was convinced her doing was justified.
But there were days, like today, Minerva felt like her efforts were futile. Because everytime Black returned from his family after a holiday break, he was a little more broken, piece by piece.
“Have a seat, Mr. Black.”
Black didn't comply. He simply stared at her, his glassy eyes like those of a giant doll.
“You are pitying me,” he said flatly, the impassive edge in his tone far too old for his age. “That's fine by me, anyhow, but I wish at least we could skip all the courtesies and get straight to the point.”
Minerva’s composure was unwavering. “I find it hard to communicate when our eye levels are not even,” she replied tersely. Only by this way, it seemed, could she have some degree of influence over this boy. “Have a seat.”
Black hesitated, like testing the water. Then, with the demeanour as if he was doing it because he actually wanted to, not because Minerva told him to, he walked to her.
He kept moving around like dancing.
Minerva could see what Lupin had meant by that as she watched Black striding across the room to the chair in front of her table. It vaguely reminded Minerva of the ballet dancers that she had seen in the theatre with her Muggle father, Robert, when she was still a child — all the La Sylphide, Firebird, The Dying Swan that had awakened in her a passion for dancing.
Black was as unpredictable as ever, despite Minerva’s strongest attempt for a no-nonsense conversation. As she told him about the unnerving frequency of his fallacious behaviours after the Christmas holidays, his reaction was surprisingly tame — he accepted the penalties easily and spoke with a tone of voice that had almost fooled Minerva for humility.
“... were unacceptable, Mr. Black. I believe you still remember how much of a menace you were in your third year, yet I was under the impression that you had somehow reformed, seeing that your record was much improved in the first semester. What you have done this semester, however, has proven me completely wrong…”
He simply listened to her admonition through those lazy, hooded lids, giving Minerva an undivided attention with his unflickering grey eyes. Then, out of the blue, he asked:
“Have you ever fallen in love, Minerva?”
It struck her like a bolt of lightning, enough to momentarily petrify Minerva in her place. And yet, he asked it out casually, as if he was just going through Transfiguration homework with her.
Have you ever fallen in love, Minerva? Dougal had asked her that question almost forty years ago, when the two of them were lying together against a haystack in Caithness and watching the Milky Way, with a restrained and hopeful voice that she would never forget. Ages later, it had been brought up again, that time by Albus, when he found her collapsed in an empty classroom, full of tears at the news of Dougal’s wedding to another woman — Minerva, did you fall in love?
“You'll regret asking me those questions, Mr. Black,” she tried to blink the memories away, redirecting the conversation to his rule-breaking record before things got out of hand. “Seeing how little their relevance claims in this situation…”
“Of course, of course,” Black’s face split into a sharp grin, his arms spreading in surrender. “I'm just curious about you, because the Goddess of Wisdom never loves, so I’ve heard.” He suddenly dived forward with both hands clasping to the edge of her desk, and Minerva was thunderstruck by this unhinged brashness. “But I don’t believe so. There had to be someone. What kind of love story is that? What was that person like? Who could have captured the heart of you — you, Minerva, too proud, too ambitious—”
“Enough!”
Minerva heard her own voice rumbling through the room and rattling in her ears. She knew the effect of this voice on people — even herself was afraid of it. Minerva did not have the serene yet overpowering authority that Albus wielded so effortlessly; this was how she maintained being the Deputy Headmistress of this school.
“I am not your mother, Mr. Black. You don't have to try to get a rise out of me.”
The grin fell from his face. Minerva could feel a flicker of confusion in his eyes as he wondered if her words carried a deeper meaning: was she simply saying she wasn't just some student's mother, or she wasn't like his own mother, Walburga Black, specifically? But whatever had crossed his mind, it was very short-lived; quickly, all expressions dwindled and closed off on his face, like a confederate rose wilting at dusk.
“Boring.” He sank back into the chair.
Even this attitude wouldn't fool her, either, although Minerva had to admit, anyone else might have to falter in front of it.
“Everyone could see the change, Mr. Black — even Peeves said you have been in a particularly nasty temper after the Christmas holiday, and that poltergeist is already the embodiment of disorder.” Minerva fixed him with an attentive look, voice softer. “What happened to you?”
His face convulsed. Minerva could tell he'd been asked this question many times, and it was also the question that he hated most. “Nothing happened.”
Minerva did not relent. “And Argus Filch — whatever he'd said about taking more points from Ms. Fortescue — did he deserve such severe insults you threw at him?”
Black laughed. “You didn't hear what he said to Alice.”
“Criticising a person for their narrow mind is one thing, but ridiculing them for their incapabilities — especially in such a cruel way — is an entire other thing, Mr. Black.”
Minerva took off her glasses, looking at Black's stony face with her bare eyes. He refused to meet her gaze.
“You are among the brightest students I've ever taught, Mr. Black,” she said after a pause, and saw a flash of shock crossing his face. “You are talented and quick-witted; you are very much loved by your friends. You have all the power of mocking the foolishness and weakness and unpopularity of a person like Mr. Filch — and in a way that it couldn't be more creative and uncanny, perhaps a bit too formidable for a boy of your age. I couldn't help but wonder — when I get much older, crankier, and less capable than I am now… will you say things like that about me too, Sirius?”
“What— no!” His head turned so abruptly that it could break the neck, his eyes wide with horror. “How can I, Minerva — how will I ever be able to do that to you — you of all people,” His voice was getting smaller and smaller. “You called me your student, in front of my Mother…”
The last sentence was like a painful tug at Minerva’s chest, and she was surprised to find she was able to despise Walburga Black even more than she already did. But she told herself not to give in to the anger just yet.
“They’re not worthwhile, Sirius,” her mouth pressed taut into a thin line. “Just because you can doesn't mean you do .”
His face was now very pale, but it was no longer the same blank, antipathetic mask he wore before.
“Oh, because I was being so similar to my family, wasn’t I?” He tried for indifference, but failed spectacularly. “Sirius Black is nothing but a Gryffindor black sheep. Don’t let him fool you. Let’s lay him bare in the newspaper so that the world can see who he truly is and pick him apart!” He sounded fed up to the back teeth. “I’m tired of playing nice, Minerva. I’m sorry that what I did saddened you, and I shall refrain from doing it to anyone again. But don’t expect me to feel sorry for Filch.”
As he spoke, he twisted the corner of his shirt restlessly between his fingers.
“Very well, then,” Minerva said flatly. “I would like you to know that, under any circumstances, your detention is unavoidable.”
“I never shirk a single detention, as long as you don’t bring it up with my family.” Something that looked almost like panic flitting through his face. He looked much like the child that he was. Minerva could feel a terrible shadow behind his words, one that he didn’t want to let anyone know.
Speaking of which…
“Can you take off your gloves, Mr. Black?”
Black made a resentful noise, like an angry cat. Minerva almost forgot how proud the boy was, for from the unpleasant encounters with Walburga Black, it was clear he was raised in an environment of forced masculinity, which had zero tolerance for displays of weakness.
But that vile thing was not condoned in this school, and definitely not in Minerva’s office. Now she wanted to make him understand that it is a pride to be capable of seeking help when in need.
When the gloves were finally removed, Minerva’s heart sank at the sight she saw.
It took her long and long minutes to regain her normal breaths. Perhaps because Minerva herself couldn't be a mother, she harboured spite for anyone who was a parent but chose to mistreat their own child.
“Murtlap Essence,” she said after giving him a vial taken from her private cabinet. When he opened his mouth to argue, she cut him off. “Not the normal one. It’s the similar type used on your friend Mr. Lupin after the Full. Reserved for cuts inflicted by Dark Magic –– though not all can be healed.”
She watched Black take the vial wordlessly and empty it into a bowl she’d presented on the desk for him, soaking his bad hand in it. The smooth process suggested that he’d done this before –– perhaps helping Lupin with his lycanthropic injuries.
“You should report to the authorities about this. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement could help you.”
“The Department of Magical Law Enforcement?” Black slowly repeated, “Wasn’t that where you worked for two years before Hogwarts?”
Sometimes, she forgot that Black was more perceptive than he appeared.
“I thought you left that place,” he continued with a joyless smile, “because you realised it wasn’t the people that it protected, but the central government? Because that government was actually a self-serving bunch of pureblood oligarchs, including my own family?”
The boy observed her severe expressions through his hooded eyes, his bare hand lying curled in the bowl with a closing wound. There was an odd look in his gaze — one that was strangely mixed with being touched and perpetual wondering.
“You told me to seek help when I needed it,” Black finally said, “But this is not something you can help me with,” he stretched out his cursed hand, studying his fingers. “In fact, nobody can. You already did all that you could.”
o0o
The moment James Potter closed his Charms textbook, Remus instantly sensed it — that louder than usual, deliberate “thud" usually signalled a serious conversation.
“What did Narcissa Black tell you, Moony, in all the times you two met?”
A very typical James's way to tackle an issue — straightforward, no preamble, no beating around the bush. It might sound like an accusation to other people, but Remus knew him well enough to understand his intent. James was having his glasses pushed up his nose bridge, eyes focused and still, like what he did when he was trying to detect the Golden Snitch.
Remus put the screwdriver and Marlene's Muggle watch down. A couple of more tweaks and the watch would run normally again, but for now it could wait. In fact, he was a bit surprised James hadn't asked him this earlier; there had been moments when the question seemed to be on the tip of James’s tongue, but he respected Remus's privacy too much to pry. Perhaps his recent tension with Sirius and the worry for his friend had led him to this.
“You’re not asking why I brought it up?”
Remus gave him a funny look — the kind of look people give to the person they trust, but sometimes that person is a bit thick in the head.
“Sorry, go on,” James replied with a sheepish grin.
And he briefly told James from the beginning of their first encounters. He skipped a few details that he thought better to keep them undiscovered –– her childhood affection for Sirius, the Black family’s lullaby or their dance at the December Ball –– but the rest of it, he laid out clearly enough for James to get the big picture.
“Thinking of a happy memory?” James frowned when he recounted how he and Narcissa managed to unlock Andromeda’s keepsake segment. “Is it really that simple?”
“Simple? Never casted a Patronus Charm, did you? Anyway, simple things are usually hard to predict. If it weren't for an old painting that accidentally mentioned seeing her do it, I would never have figured it out.” And that was another thing that should be kept as a secret — the portrait of Vega Black.
James raised an eyebrow. “So what is it, then? What was in Andromeda’s keepsake?”
Remus glanced at James; his attention had gone past the original concern and bordered very close on curiosity. He was probably imagining all the twisted Dark objects, like the Hand of Glory or a staring glass eye, and Remus felt almost sorry to disillusion him.
“She kept a crumpled flower that would reduce to dust if you touched it. And a love letter from a wizard named Ted Tonks.”
The silence that followed this revelation was thick with James’s dubiety. Who could have imagined that Andromeda — the second Black mistress, The Chained Lady, obscured by mysteries and fragmented by different contradicting traits depending on from whose stories she was cited — would keep such simple, humanly objects as her dearest treasures? And yet at the same time, it wasn't illogical at all — both Andromeda and Narcissa’s keepsakes related to someone they loved. After all the inconclusive information he heard about Andromeda from Sirius, Narcissa, and Vega, only when Remus saw the letter with the withered flower, was he able to put her pieces together into a picture and perceive her as a flesh-and-blood person that really existed.
You are a beautiful love story I couldn't stop reading, said the letter. The Polaris star in my sky, the midsummer night’s dream I will never wake up from, like those ancient astronomers who gazed up to the constellations and saw mythologies in their dreams. You, and you only, Andromeda… You are a Baroness, while I am but a commoner… But the moment you took my hands and looked at me like I'm Perseus, I felt invincible…
But what truly made Andromeda alive was the margin-full of her annotations, written in a spidery style like Sirius’s.
Words, words, just words, she wrote, or are they?You are moved because of my doomed fate, or do you truly love me? Either way, I know I could never give you the love you deserve — unless I become a person of my own free will… I have spent days and days, looking out my window, to the broad blue sky where you belong… But I'm not there yet…
“How did Narcissa react, then?” James's voice cut through Remus’s thoughts, “When you showed her Andromeda's keepsake?”
Remus was quiet for a while.
“How do you know I showed it to her?” He slowly said. James looked mildly offended.
“Oh, come on, Moony, I'm not that thick!” he protested. “You might've not said it, but isn't it obvious that you feel sympathy for Narcissa Black? You are always drawn to the least comfortable things possible, from humans to non-human beings — Narcissa, the Grey Lady, Professor Binns, and, what — the ruddy Kraken!”
Remus opened his mouth to argue, but James didn’t let him. “Don’t lie, Lupin. You were so enamoured by that monster –– talking about it as though it were just a dolphin swimming around and high-fiving with sailors –– and now you’re trying to tell me you don’t fancy yourself Newt Scamander reincarnated––”
“Focus, Potter,” Remus interrupted him. “I hardly believe the discussion of my hobby will take us anywhere, and I do not feel sympathy for Narcissa Black.”
“Alright, Kraken aside, how do you explain all these? All the lengths you have gone to help Narcissa? Certainly not for the sake of inter-House comradeship?”
“James, I am no Saint,” Remus reminded him, “My motive is entirely selfish.”
“How so?”
“I did it,” he said, still in his usual manner, as if he was just making comments about the weather today, “because I’m interested in her. I enjoy watching a glass-domed princess dealing with ruthless realities, from the point of view of a spectator. I never get emotionally involved.”
James rightened his askew glasses, his mouth parting. He looked like expecting Remus to laugh it off and say “Ha! Fooled you, idiot.” The expectation diminished with every passing second.
“And because,” Remus pretended not to notice his friend's incredulity, “Because she is his family. Sirius's family.”
Perhaps this was the one added up to Remus's cluttering piles of antics — always magnetised by people from the House of Black, consciously or unconsciously. If James had a question, or a hundred, he didn't voice them out. Instead his mouth closed, and opened, and closed again. Like a goldfish.
“You asked me how Narcissa reacted to her estranged sister's keepsake,” Remus continued, watching James make a huge effort to refocus. “Disillusionment, is what I would describe it. I had to snap the box shut and hide it behind me to prevent her from tearing the letter apart. Even then she still chased for it after me. The way she cursed, James — she is undoubtedly Walburga Black's niece and cherry-picked daughter-in-law.” James let out a revolted yelp at the title. “She must have harboured some hopes, clinging onto the slightest chance that Andromeda, as a lovestruck witch, might have been coerced into leaving because of her love.”
If this had been true, it wouldn't change anything, but he reckoned at least Narcissa could hate her sister less. “But that letter has completely destroyed that.”
After Andromeda's secret was revealed, it became undeniable that Narcissa had been left by her sister because of nothing but her own will. Love could explain a change of heart and thus was easier to sympathise, but this — this left no room for excuses. The youngest Black mistress must have realised Edward Tonks the Muggleborn wasn't her enemy — but her own sister's strong desire to break out from the family and everything they stood for. All along, love hadn't been the end goal of Andromeda's runaway –– it was her pursuit of freedom. She wasn’t just The Chained Lady, waiting for a hero to come and rescue her, but an independent woman who played the central role in shaping her own destiny.
Then, it must have been a heavy blow to Narcissa, having grown up with her sister for years only to find out at the end she barely even knew her. Remus felt an absence of sympathy towards most things about Narcissa Black, but this, he thought, he could sympathise.
She used to come here and talk to me, very often. A wonderful, striking girl… But lonely. Yes, very lonely.
“He felt so too.”
Remus blinked, a little off guard. “Come again?”
“Sirius. He was also hurt by Andromeda’s departure,” said James in a tone of resignation. “And I know he felt guilty about that, thinking he should have cheered for his beloved cousin for finally getting away from that Noble and Most Ancient madhouse. But he wasn't exactly a cheerful twat as he wanted to be, instead only a poor, guilt-stricken, ickle Sirius.”
Then he pulled a face that looked more like Severus Snape suffering insomnia rather than his own best friend. This perhaps was a childish get-back at their argument a few days ago, which ended up with Sirius storming out of their dorm and not returning at night. And yet, despite everything, no one could ever understand Sirius Black the same way James Potter did.
“Did I mention the part where Regulus Black showed up and told his cousin to forget all about Andromeda?”
James's brows instantly shot up. “Regulus Black? Was he stalking you two?”
“‘Stalking’ is a strong word.” He ignored James’s suspicious scoff. “He just materialised out of nowhere and went straight to Narcissa, comforting her… Except that it didn't really sound comforting. More like manipulation."
“I think that little bugger really wants to make his brother’s marriage work,” said James with a wrinkled forehead as he ran a hand through his hair. “Honestly, I have no good feelings about him… Not just because everytime he looks at me, it is like I’m an ant being burnt under a magnifying glass, no. He’s always playing the perfect student, keeping a low profile, never getting caught for any misdeed — and yet all his House fellows seem to have a high opinion of him, even the stinky slimeballs like Snivellus and Mulciber…”
“James, are you sure you aren’t just being paranoid?”
The corners of James’s mouth were pulled tight. He pulled his glasses up to his forehead, eyes downturned.
“I’m just worried about Sirius,” he said honestly.
At least now James sounded less aggressive than he had been in his last argument with Sirius, which had ended with none of them conceding to each other. Remus wasn’t interested in standing between their lover's spats, but sometimes shits happened against his will.
“You are the only-child who always gets mollycoddled by mummy and daddy, aren’t you, Potter? Is that why you don't understand boundaries? Have fun sticking your nose into everyone else's business?”
“If that's what you deduced from that big brain of yours, Black, then fuck you—”
“That’s quite enough! I'd watch my mouth if I were you, Sirius. And James — sit down. Unless you want to make good on your words and have a go at him, in which case I will sprinkle the bed with rose petals and charitably back off.”
The entire Hogwarts student body had always looked at James Potter as this big Quidditch hero — too popular, too flamboyant, and so, highly intimidating. He never did much to dispel this impression, which downright rigged his true personality. Little did people know how utterly irrational he could be whenever it came to Sirius Black.
“After seeing the way he’s been after the winter hols, never have I wanted to tear down the entire House of Black more,” James muttered darkly. “But he’s making a mistake, too! He’s shutting himself out from us, doesn’t even tell us what happened over the holidays… Will that selfish bastard ever stop being so excruciatingly stubborn?”
He heaved a heavy sigh, ruffling his hair until it became so messy that it was no longer Quidditch-hero stylistic.
“Your birthday is in one week, Moony,” he said suddenly as Remus picked up Marlene’s watch and continued working on it. A warm colour crept on Remus's ears, but he didn't say anything.
o0o
The dorm today was unusually Marauders-free. Peter had finally holed up in the library to finish his backlog of homework, and James was out practising Quidditch. Sirius was also absent most of the day. Remus hoped he was practising with James, because that would mean he and James had called a ceasefire. Which, as Peter had put it, could actually save this world from escalating into another Cold War.
But Remus knew better than keeping his hope up too high. Perhaps the bastard was simply having detention with Professor McGonagall — again.
By the time Sirius came back, around nine o’clock, the dorm was still empty except for Remus. Waking up from a head-aching nap, through his bed curtains Remus heard the heavy sounds Sirius made as he trudged to his own bed gracelessly. He reeked of weird Potions ingredients, and the distinctive metallic smell of overused copper cauldron. His usual bergamot scent was almost unrecognisable.
Remus tried to drift back to sleep, but with every passing second Sirius silently spent in this room he found it harder to do so. Because silence was loud — especially Sirius’s silence. Everything about him was impossible to ignore. And his temperament was a fickle thing. A moment ago he might have been singing, and yet the moment after he could close himself off like a hermit crab and retreat into a gnomic reticence.
“Suis-je meilleure, suis-je pire qu'une poupée de salon?
Je vois la vie en rose bonbon
Poupée de cire, poupée de son…”
Remus recalled that night, after Lily's birthday party back in February, when he'd found Sirius hiding in their wardrobe, drunk, dishevelled, and particularly vocal. “Again?” He ducked his head into the wardrobe, pushing the hung shirts away. “What did you just sing? What does that mean?”
“Try to understand me!” Sirius had laughed back at him. He grabbed Remus by the collar to lift himself upright, his breath smelling of Firewhisky. “Mary used to say it was so charismatic of me to sing in French. Do you like it, too?”
Remus had smiled brightly. “I don’t speak a fucking word of French, Sirius.”
Sirrius’s face had nonetheless beamed with delight, and oh he had a lovely smile. He only slipped French at his highest of spirit, so for the whole evening, Remus had had to endure unstoppable talks in an entire alien language. He enjoyed him like this –– all joyous and laughing, sitting on Remus’s own bed where he would talk loudly and reach the portable gramophone to start a record, eyes gleaming.
But at the same night, when Sirius had sobered up a bit, he had again fallen into a tomb-like silence that no one was able to shake him from.
Now, in the quiet dorm room, the sound of a Frog Chocolate wrapper being torn open pulled Remus from his thoughts. He sighed.
“Sirius,” he sat up and pulled back his bed curtains. “What did I say about my chocolate?”
Sirius froze, clearly startled to find him still awake. “You said don't steal your chocolate or you will skin me alive,” he replied, popping the piece of almond chocolate into his mouth anyway.
The correct answer did not make him any less skinnable. Remus drew out his wand, but instead of sending a hex in Sirius's way, he casted a Warm Air Charm towards him. It landed on him like an invisible thick fur coat.
“You look cold,” Remus said simply.
“I hate being treated like a damsel in distress, you know.”
Remus didn’t mind this fractious manner. “Fragile.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, your sense of masculinity is bloody fragile, if that was already enough to make you feel like a damsel,” Remus's voice was even. There was neither humour nor mockery in it, but simply a keen observation.
Sirius didn’t seem angry or offended. Instead, he let out a small chuckle.
“You enjoy calling me out too much,” he shook his head, soft wisps of hair swaying around his temples. “Like you were Mr. Knightley and I were, what, Emma Woodhouse?” A smart move from his part, for right when being criticised for fragile masculinity, he instantly compared himself to a female figure. But rather than Emma Woodhouse, Remus privately thought that his friend, with that fair skin and dark hair and arresting features, was more like the male version of Scarlet O'Hara.
A moment later, he found Sirius sprawling across the bed, propping himself on his elbows as he began writing.
“A letter to Mr. and Mrs. Potter?”
Sirius paused. Apart from the Marauders, James’s parents were the only people to whom Sirius sent his letters. Remus had never seen him write to his own family, except the first year when he would owl Regulus every week. The habit had stopped not long since.
“A reply to my Uncle Alphard,” said Sirius after an odd silence. “Remember the one I told you who spends most of his life in a vampirish castle in Transylvania? That's him.”
“And what does this Alphard want from you?”
“Nothing.” Another pause. “He said he’ll be coming back to England for my betrothal.”
Remus couldn’t help but notice the subtle change from “the betrothal" to “my betrothal".
Silently, he draped his own woollen shirt over his shoulders, tying the sleeves into a knot, and then slipped onto the floor next to Sirius's bed. As Remus folded his legs on the cold floor, his back resting against the softness of the bedsheet, he could hear the scratching sound of the quill flying across the parchment and the rhythm of Sirius's shallow breaths. Remus listened to that rhythm and found himself intrigued by the way it felt like butterflies hovering around his own chest.
“I used to call her Andromèdes .”
The monotonous scratching of Sirius's quill became slower.
“It's the French way of calling Andromeda.”
Remus blinked from surprise. This was the first time — the first time in years — Sirius mentioned his estranged cousin, and it came so unexpectedly that it was almost a fragile thing.
“She had a nickname for me, too.”
Remus wondered what kind of nickname could be made out of “Sirius”, but in a million years he wouldn’t expected it to be––
“ Sisi , she used to call me.”
“ ... Mate, that’s what they called a queen of Austria.”
Sirius laughed then. It wasn't like his usual bark-like laughter, but it was close enough nonetheless. Remus didn’t see it, as he was facing outward, but he could feel it at a dangerous proximity — the warm, soft breaths that trailed along Sirius’s laughter, brushing against the skin of his neck.
“Those were the days I would call her Andromèdes, Andromèdes! And she would always reply with a playful whistle — two high notes, one low note — and oh god, I would recognise that whistle everywhere. Hell, I was a clingy little brat,” he said with a small smile. “I would sometimes ask her out of possessiveness, you will be with me forever, right, Andromèdes? — and she would fondly reassure me, I always will, Sisi .”
Then, the laughter faded, like a too-good-to-be-true dream vanishing the moment one tried to hold onto it longer.
“Until one day, I asked her that same stupid question, but she didn't reply with the same fondness.” The warmth in his voice was reduced to a void. “ I always will, Sisi, she still said,” he mocked her voice in an irritated, shrill tone, “But she suddenly sounded strange and weary.
“And when I looked into her eyes, wow, I had to take a step back… Because of the resentment I saw in her.”
The silence that followed was short but blood-curdling.
“Towards me, Remus,” Sirius said, with a maddeningly calm voice. “A resentment towards me . That woman drove me crazy like that.”
He still didn't look at Sirius, face turning outward, because he knew once he looked back, he wouldn't be able to turn away.
“Hang me if I ever wanted her to feel that way.” Now it was like Andromeda’s resentment was seeping into Sirius himself. “I never wanted to be an obligation that held her back to this family. I know I'm an possessive twat, but I would have never, never…”
The sounds of him writing had stopped before either of them realised.
“Sometimes I ask myself, could it have been something to do with Bellatrix?” His tone was cold and careless; it chilled Remus.
“I still remember the way Andromeda tensed up everytime Bellatrix appeared; even Narcissa usually has to coil in front of that vile woman. Has Andromeda ever hated me, because I reminded her of Bellatrix?” Remus opened his mouth to protest, but Sirius cut in. “There's no use denying it — I'm well aware of the resemblance between me and Bellatrix, a fact that people never get bored of reminding me.”
The other boy took in a long breath, and when he breathed out, another confession came after. “But I would never know what she really thought of me, would I? Because yesterday, when they sent me a letter about Andromeda––”
A brief silence. A precipice of a storm.
“They said they couldn't find her and Edward Tonks anywhere.”
This revelation came so unexpectedly, but at the same time it made all the sense. The sudden outpour after three years of burying the pent-up frustration deep inside, because of a single letter announcing a futile endeavour. Of course, how could it have been any way else for Sirius, who had both the affordability and the stubbornness to do this? “You hired detectives to search for her.”
“And un-hired them just today,” said Sirius vehemently. “Told them I’ve stopped looking for her, thank you and take your money. I’m tired of being a little dog wagging my tail after her.” His voice was hardening, each bitter word bleeding out like toxins from an incurable illness. He was no longer quiet, but suddenly sprung into life, passion and wrath flowing from him with the torrential force of a broken dam. “If she doesn’t want to see me — good. Go . And never look back, not even once. Not even when I just want to help her and her husband with everything I can — the length I would go to keep her happy and safe, if she simply just let me! But all of that matters as much as a doormat to the great and proud Andromeda Black Tonks, so it seems. Who needs an annoying brat of a cousin, once they’ve found their freedom? And it’s not like I need her, either, just so she knows — I don’t need her! ”
The parchment flew from the bed, almost cutting across Remus’s cheek as it fluttered to the floor. Dark ink splattered all over it in grimy streaks, like the tea leaves shape of an Omen.
“You know what, I'm so full of Thestral shit,” said Sirius without breathing. He barked a laugh at his own joke. “Saying all these tough words while knowing––if I was about to hear her whistle again, I would run after it blindly anyway.”
Unable to ignore any longer, Remus finally turned to look at his friend. Sirius was hunched over, shoulders above his ears, trembling. His hand clasped tightly on his forehead, his eyes wide and unseeing as they stared blankly down at the ink-stained bedsheet.
“And then… and then Dorothy came along,” Sirius let out another humourless laugh that left an icy chill in its wake. “That woman came along, and everything was like a cruel fucking joke.”
There was a thumping noise in Remus’s head. After all this time, picking bits and pieces from their conversations, finally…
There is this person… I think I might like her, Remus.
Sometimes it feels like all the women who’d appeared in my life all end up hating my guts. Mother, my cousins, Dorothy…
You must’ve been shedding happy tears when she toyed you like a pathetic little lapdog!
Deep in his own introspect, Sirius didn’t notice his friend’s surprise, or the torrents of thoughts that were flooding him. Instead, he simply asked Remus. “You remember I once told you how I hated flatterers? That everyone in my family has been corrupted by all those arse-licking sycophants?”
“Yes, and I also remember telling you it was what happened to all the powerful families with strong orbits.”
“Well, I told Dorothy exactly that, the first day she came to work as a housemaid for my family.” There was a ruthless quality to his tone. “She’d proved that she was different. She didn’t seem impressed by pureblood nobility, neither fearing me nor wheedling me like other housemaids. That was how Dorothy gained my trust.
“Not only that, she was the only person ever I opened up to about my feelings upon Andromeda’s departure. She seemed… sympathetic. Pretending to understand me, comforting me… All of a sudden, it was like having an echo of Andromeda in my life again. I made a fool of myself in her company, trusted her with more secrets than I should trust. I had no idea it was all lies — she was just using me to get revenge on my father.”
Sirius's father, Orion Black, the House of Black's patriarch. Remus had heard some rumours about this man, including that he had Imperiused the Queen of Britain or he was a Metamorphmagus, but since there were so many ambiguities about him, Remus wasn't sure any of those was true. Even Sirius had once admitted he didn't know much about his old man.
“One day, I caught Dorothy attempting to put poison into my father’s goblet,” Sirius tried for an unbothered tone, but failed. “I did some research later, when I was made to do paperwork for him. It turns out her real name is Darya, not Dorothy. Her father was imprisoned nine years ago and died there shortly later — all thanks to my dear Dad. Didn’t know the old man was an international villain,” he added caustically. “Just imagine, an English scion realising he’s been fooled by a Belarusian assassin disguised as a maid — yeah, this story would sell.”
Remus couldn’t help but remember a nine-year-old boy who had set his own father’s library on fire. “What did she do with you, when you caught her in the act?” He began slowly, and suddenly realised he dreaded the answer.
Sirius’s eyes fluttered close.
“She tried to silence me about the murder attempt.”
“What did she do?” Remus’s expression remained impassive, but something began to crack under it. His tone came out as more commanding than he'd intended. When Sirius shook his head, he pressed on. “Sirius, what did she do?”
“She robbed me of my self-respect, if that’s what you want to hear!”
His voice was hoarser and thinner than ever. Remus instantly stopped breathing.
“She pulled me to my bedroom, pressing my hand on her bare chest, removing my clothes all over, and her mouth was everywhere… For the first time, I didn't recognise Dorothy. I was dead confused about that whole thing, but afterwards she hugged me and assured me I was a good sport, that Andromeda would finally come back to me if I kept being good like this… She told me…”
His blazing eyes looked straight at his friend, burning away the last shred of sanity within Remus.
“She told me that she lovedme.”
Remus swallowed thickly. It tasted like iron. Like blood.
“For a long time, whenever someone said they loved me, all I wanted was to sock them in the face. Even James.”
His speech began to sound muddled, his chest rising and falling. A dry cough broke out of his throat, and he started coughing sorely.
"Fucking hell–– Here, have some water." Remus filled the glass on his nighstand and shoved it to Sirius's mouth. He heard somewhere that strong emotions could trigger asthma, which was a very shitty thing, for strong emotions were something Sirius couldn't live without. "And calm down, for heaven's sake. Take your breath steadily –– there, that's right."
It took a while for Sirius to regained his normal breathing. Remus watched his friend, a pinch between his brow.
"Do you want to continue? You really don't have to do it, you know. We can talk about it another time."
"No, I want to let it all out, for once, if... if you want to listen."
Remus gave him a reassuring nod, "I do." The truth was, part of him would rather hear the Banshee's scream than listening to this. His nails dug hard enough against his palms to draw out blood, and even then he didn’t register the pain. But he needed to be here for Sirius, and this was essential.
“The worst part of it all was my mother," Sirius titled his head down, speaking in a lower volume. He sounded rather tired. "At some point, the door sprung open and she stepped in... My mother, she... only cared about how disgraceful it was to have her own son fumbling with a servant. In her mind, there's no such thing as a man being used by a woman –– what happened was just a stupid, thoughtless tryst spurred by boyhood curiosity. Dorothy was sacked, but she could have been tortured or killed had they found out she was trying to murder my father. So I never told them a single thing.”
He listened to Sirius’s breaths until they blended into one with the cold anger in him — an anger that froze with pure savage, and with an overwhelming sense of possession that he’d never known he could muster yet was unable to ignore. All of this didn’t even have anything to do with his wolf instinct — Remus had abandoned blaming his every dark fervour on the wolf long ago. No, this was something purely human.
“You were thirteen,” he said quietly, “Merlin, you were thirteen .”
“Yeah, well,” Sirius suddenly huffed a laugh. He then pulled a dead straight face. “It does sound like a ripe old age.”
The moment later, Remus had already had his friend wrapped closely in his arms. At first, he did it so tentatively, for the Black pride in Sirius detested being the recipient of solace. But then the Black pride did not make a single protest, the Black pride did not roll over and bite him with fangs, so he decided to close his arms around the Black pride a little tighter. Sirius’s body felt like it was on fire — slightly trembling, with a radiant, searing heat that licked all over Remus’s clothes and left nothing but a destructive sensation.
He is sick, Remus realised, not just coughing, he is sick. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than his friend’s fever to become his, too.
Sirius’s mouth parted as his eyes fluttered open to meet Remus’s, and Remus was struck with a poignant reminder how young his face looked. All the signs of abundant youth were right here, once he’d stripped the façade down: the smoothness of his flat, damp forehead, the lovely shape of his lips that tautened into a half-pout, the way his head bent with a dreamy movement — almost woeful — when Remus placed a hand against his aflame cheek to test the temperature. This boy was almost the same age as him, and yet… Wasn’t he to be betrothed soon? Wasn’t his time running out, already? Hanging onto this moment of his friend in his embrace, Remus knew that in no time, the clock would strike. Everything felt so strange and new — terrifying, even — with Sirius being this close and still to him, not skidding around like a loose cannon — but he chose to ignore this mythical feeling for now, just for now.
“Sickness caused by long exposure to dangerous Potions making,” Madam Pomfrey mumbled inaudibly to herself, pacing in the hospital wing. “What in Asclepius’s name do they think they’re teaching students…?”
None of these words clocked into Remus, as his whole mind now was being occupied by one single thing in the world. In the darkness of the hospital wing, Sirius's presence felt like the burn mark of a cigarette on his heart. He leaned over his friend, and when he saw a small smile on his lips, Remus felt relieved — Sirius hadn't looked so at ease in a long time.
Let her go, he wanted to tell his friend the same thing he'd told the crestfallen Narcissa. It's time to let Andromeda go.
“Hey Moony, do you want to hear some truth?”
The question slipped out into the night through a curtained wing, in that low, thrilling voice of his that compel people to lean closer to hear. Remus caught it like a firefly and smiled. “Yeah?”
“You are also fragile,” Sirius smirked, and Remus felt his eyebrows shoot up. “You never let people know about the sentimental books you read or how gentle you actually are, all because you're too afraid of being seen as sissified. Well, did I just hit the nail on the head?”
Remus: “...”
He just wanted to hit one of his sissified books on Sirius's stupid head.
o0o
Some time later, Remus found out the French song Sirius had hummed after Lily's birthday. It struck him strange that Sirius knew a Muggle song that Remus didn't know.
Am I better, am I worse than a fashion doll?
I see life through bright rosy-tinted glasses
Wax doll, sawdust doll