Anticipation
The ritual room at Grimmauld place was a wonderful thing, it functioned as Walburga’s study, bedroom, living room and dining room. Many a distorted nights were spent happily wasting away in her neurotic mania alongside heaps of cursed items, ancient ward scripts and bloody ritualistic practices – the real reason so many elves had perished under her dubious command. Corrosive and acrid, the stonework was saturated with generations of painstakingly drawn runic circles and the mad splashes of slit necks and arteries – all melting together with the heady smell of pure magic and ozone. Not a stone was left unetched, not a wall was left untouched from the towering bookshelves of incomprehensible and frankly sickening research from ancestors she had never had the pleasure of meeting. She thought it had its own kind of beauty, the beauty of time and descent; a perfectly preserved museum of her family’s collective spiral as they indulged in the cloying sweetness of their magic.
Of course, not everyone appreciates such exquisiteness. Sirius had fled, gaging, from the room when she first opened its ancient doors to his mind – Regulus had never spent a single second more than necessary within its chamber and even Orion – that twisted barstard – had refused to even enter it! He had been Lord Black for Merlin’s sake, what good lord feared his own history? Well, it was quite obvious that he was far from an acceptable lord, but Walburga frankly couldn’t be bothered to dive down that rabbit hole.
No. Today was a special day.
Snapping her fingers with an excitable relish, she collected petite and perfectly starched shirts from Kreacher’s spindly claws – smoothing out imaginary creases and non-existent dust before rushing through the freshly gleaming halls in search of her victim.
Arcturus paced up and down the desolate dining room, trailing spindly fingers along the ornate detailing of chairs, cutlery and porcelain and wiping away the memories of choking dust with the care of a father wiping away his child’s tears. To the intimidated eye of an outsider, he appeared immoveable, an icy steel wall that burned to touch, yet he knew that to his family he appeared to be wearing his emotions on his starched sleeves. His silver hair was meticulously tamed and combed, he wore his favourite dress robes despite it being far from their desired occasion and he had even broken out the diamond cufflinks he had received from Melania shortly before her accident, only ever worn once before. Yes, Lord Arcturus Black was nervous. For merlin’s sake even Sirius had given his stiff form a searching look upon his arrival and that boy had less social awareness than a niffler in Gringotts – even before his ‘little stint’ in Azkaban!
He was a paranoid man, he could admit that; it was the only reason this mad house had even survived the last decade – but he could count on one had the time he had been as nervous as he was now, pacing a vacant dining room and daring to imagine a future. Everything this blasted house stood for rested on the shoulders of a three-year-old, every part of his family that he had grown to love and every minute and second of his life that he had entirely spent protecting it from the ravages of time and progression would be placed in the hands of the sweet little boy who thought the height of mischief was breaking into their library and calling him ‘great-great grandad’ instead of grandfather to make him feel as ancient as he was.
He would be a liar if he said he was not worried for the boy, their legacy was different from the other families – it was far more ancient, an amalgamation of thousands of years of rituals, family magics and bloody sacrifices that had toured continents and seas – masquerading as pirates, kings and heretics alike; their blood is scattered in each of the four corners of the world. In fact, he was quite sure that the entirety of the German Schwarz and the French Blanc families were just the results of his wayward ancestors.
He pressed his fingers to his creased brow as his pacing started to accelerate, it was just that he was worried for the boy. To bear such a weight like that of an ancient and noble house from such a young age would be enough to break a person, and if he did not break - he would surely bend – would he forgive himself if the little boy in the other room grew twisted and cruel from the gravity of such pressure?
No.
He would never forgive himself. If he was going to raise an heir he will fortify his battlements with steel, build his supports sturdy and impenetrable, he will make a lord out of this boy – whether it is the last thing he will do.
Sirius had paused his idling about the ominous house to glare into the strange, blank eyes that were staring out of the sitting-room’s mirror. He tilted his head to the side; the undead creature copied him. He blinked to clear dust from aching eyes; the lifeless things blinked back in mockery. He didn’t like whatever this thing was – it was surprisingly well-groomed for what seemed to be a decomposing corpse; dulled hair was styled and shined in sculpted and freshly cut curls, bound in fancy robes laced with gold and silver, bearing formal shoes that shined brighter than the sun. But none of its poncy get-up could conceal the gaunt cheeks, soulless stare and blue, bloodless lips.
If he was honest with himself, Sirius wished he was as dead as the thing in front of him – no matter how tortured it appeared.
James is dead. Lily is dead. Regulus is dead. Peter is dead to him. Remus isn’t speaking to him. He is back in his blasted childhood home. Little Ha-Corvus was left to fend for himself against Petunia.
Life is peachy. Well, life would be peachy if he could undo the last five years of it but in the words of the Rolling Stones “You can’t always get what you want.”
If he was any more honest with himself, he would be able to accept that the revolting creature in the looking glass was his shell, his corpse, it was what he had become. But he knew he wasn’t quite ready for that revelation, he was quite content staring at the delusional freak show sat in front of him – watching as it tilted its head from left, to right, to left to ri-
Abruptly and rather rudely, an almighty crash blasted itself into his eardrums – he jumped out of his skin like a rabbit desperate to flay itself and ripped his aching eyes away from that painful reflection to stare in the direction of the offending noise.
Now, Sirius had had the luck of not stepping in this cursed house for nearly a decade, but he knew instinctively that he was in the abandoned sitting room that was conveniently constructed next to a labyrinth-esque library – Regulus had always said it was made as an escape route for the more introverted Blacks, Sirius knew it was for the promiscuous ones wanting the perfect space for ye olde snog. But he also knew that none of the currently living Blacks would willingly spend a second of their time in that death-trap. What had once been a den of frivolous appearances and lust had, over the years, transformed into the personal horde of his great-great-great grandfather’s studies and books on magic so horrific that James had thrown up and had nightmares for a week when they had dared each other to read a volume together.
So, who or what was in there? If a doxy had got caught up in one of the more sentient volumes Sirius almost felt bad for it.
Cautiously, he exited the lonely sitting room and after checking that the coast was clear of his mother, slipped into the maze of tomes and chaotic filing. Inside, he could hear a panicked shuffling now – if the books were fighting again he would just leave them to sort it out but something could have gotten in the library from the sound of it – he swept and swung past the mismatched shelves and stacks of insane ramblings as he navigated his way through the architectural nightmare of floor-plan-defying twists and turns, closing in on this new tantalising mystery.
He was at the beating heart of the library now, keeping as safe a distance from the shelves as possible in case of a particularly enthusiastic book – he could hear groans and the grating sound of something scratching, so something had definitely infiltrated the library, great he was going to have to have a conversation with Kreacher about getting an apprentice, he was clearly getting too old for the job.
Slowing, he stealthily came to a stop just before a bend in the treacherous path, the noises were just up ahead – he heard snuffling, maybe it was just a massive rat? Heart beating with the echoes of past mysteries and excitement, he poked his head around the towering bookshelf to reveal a scene of carnage. His eyebrows raised as his brain processed the toppled bookshelf and flapping tomes furious at their sudden displacement, when his eyes landed on a figure.
A small figure, regarding the angry books with a sheepish look before turning to face him at his soft sound of exclamation.
James.
Corvus was having the time of his very short life with these strange people. Every little nook and cranny of his new home was filled to the brim with oddities and eccentricities that practically oozed the rich and thrilling aura he now associated with magic – he was beginning to think he might be becoming a ‘bloody junky’ or whatever his ex-uncle Vernon called them, but he didn’t mind. Magic was wonderful, and mother had told him that anything his ’muggles’ had told him was in her words ‘utter hogwash’ so he was happy to indulge in following the sweet scent of sorcery from one mesmerising room to another.
So far; he had played with the man-eating plants in mother’s neglected garden, found three different libraries all stuffed with sugary-sweet smelling books with images that greatly contrasted their scents, danced as best as he could with the flying cutlery in the dining room and set off roughly ten of what his grandfather called ‘wards’ that had responded with all kinds of things from fire, toxic gases and one memorable time when a jewellery box he had been attempting to pilfer tried to bite his head off.
All in all, he had been having a whale of a time. However, when Kreacher had awoken him that morning – casting him his usual suspicious glare before handing him his morning glass of milk- he had told him that mother had something ‘important’ to tell him once he was dressed and fed. Bouncing in his skin at the thought of a new surprise, he dutifully let Kreacher dress him in fine silks and smart trousers that felt like he was wearing water before he flung himself towards the kitchens and ate his poached eggs and trundled up to his grandfather’s study where he knew she would be waiting, now slightly nervous as his morning bleariness started to slowly remove its presence from his brain.
Bundling up his courage, he knocked with his small fist against the imposing figure of the study door – ornate drawings of twisting dragons and solemn wixen blinked back at him from the onyx surface before it swung open to reveal his new family.
Mother looked up at his entrance to survey his attempt at waking up and from her lack of tutting he assumed it was passable, she cut an ominous figure lounging on one of the few seats in full mourning dress, she looked like she had jumped straight out of one of his teacher’s history books which Corvus thought was really cool.
Grandfather similarly loomed intimidatingly from behind his grand desk that was intricately as carved as the door – this time bearing bold tales of what Corvus assumed were the Blacks before him, terrific feats immortalised in the glossy shine of the dark mahogany. Grandfather moved aside several mounds of paperwork before greeting his grandson with a warm smile, deep crow’s feet creasing as the razor-sharp exterior melted away to reveal a side he had learned was rarely ever shown – it seemed like every time it happened his grandfather would suddenly thaw into a mound of homely, warm butter. It made Corvus feel very similar.
“Good morning Corvus, did you sleep well?” Corvus was still getting used to people asking this kind of question and actually meaning it, he paused to think of a truthful reply.
He nodded with a misplaced determination, “Yes, I think I was really tired out from the garden yesterday – can I go in again today?”
Grandmother suddenly perked up and levelled with a very serious glare that made him shuffle bashfully in his shiny shoes, “Merlin’s sake Corvus, you weren’t supposed to be in there the first time! I have told you that the garden is a death-trap, you were almost killed at least twelve separate times – surely you don’t want to subject yourself to that again?” His shuffling increased and he refused to meet his grandmother’s eye. She let out a soul deep sight along the lines of, “Gryffindor” before grandfather cleared his throat and took steer of the conversation once more.
The serious look was tinged with worry as it returned swiftly to his eagle eyes, “We thought it would be appropriate to let you know that your father has been released from jail.” What. “He is also living here as well, still recovering from the dementor exposure so we need him here so we can supervise you see-” Corvus tuned out. His father? His traitorous, scumbag, delinquent, lay-about, wasteful slob father? That was all he had heard of him from mother, that one? Why had she let him in the house? He was a criminal – had he forced his way in? His head whipped round to stare bug-eyed in confusion at his mother who still lay there dispassionately on the settee, okay so maybe not forced entry… was this a hostage situation? Was HE the hostage? Mabey this is why grandfather is telling him this, he suddenly realised that he was supposed to be listening to said grandfather and quickly tuned in to the tail end of the conversation.
“-but do not worry, the house is huge enough that you likely won’t run into each other – but seeing as we’ve manged to get him out in time for Samhain, we will be performing the ritual tonight so we will introduce him to you at dinner” He looked up from the long scroll he had been inspecting to give the bamboozled toddler a reassuring smile. “Is that okay?” No that is not okay. At least that is what he wanted to say but he knew that this wasn’t the kind of thing he could dispute. He thanked his grandfather for the information, hugged his grandmother who fussed over his hair and then toddled out of the office, at a loss of what to do.
His father was in this house, he could see him everywhere – lurking in corners he had thought comforting and skittering about in the shadows he had dipped in just yesterday with childish delight. Suddenly, the amazing house he had come to love had an intruder. It was enemy territory.
He practically flew to the nearest library to cocoon himself in the lulling hum of magic and spent the next few hours switching between attempting to learn complex defensive rituals to protect himself from the strange man haunting his halls or napping on the pages of colossal tomes when his brain gave out from the onslaught of knowledge it didn’t know what to do with.
It was when he was blearily awakening from one such nap when he reached out an inquisitive hand, unfurling to stand on the tips of his toes to reach for a particularly shiny book lying tantalisingly on one of the higher shelves. Only when stretching fingers brushed the fan of pages, Corvus was brutally reminded of the chaos of magic as the book rocketed off its resting place and barrelled like a bullet into the opposite case of volatile magics – all of which made their displeasure of being disturbed well known by kicking up a racket of their own.
Corvus watched the performance with a bemused expression on his tiny face as the clashing and smashing of paper on parchment slowly ceased as the books tired themselves out – eventually dropping to his feet like dead flies once their energy subsided. Staring simply at the mess laying before him, he almost didn’t hear the breathy gasp which quickly huddled itself away behind the now crooked shelves.
Whipping around to check for any more misbehaving books, Corvus was instead met with the sight of wide silver eyes and a trembling lip hiding inside grandfather’s shrunken robes and a mass of dark but lifeless ringlets. For a hot second, nothing but a staring contest was shared between the two – curiosity versus elation, then fear versus despair as their separate revelations seeped into their faces.
Corvus was staring at a criminal. Sirius was staring at a memory.
Consciousness however, came much quicker to Corvus than the ex-convict – and the fear lancing through his stomach was doing nothing to help him remember a single one of the many gruesome rituals he had prepared for this very moment. Instead, he gave another futile, cursory glance at the surrounding mess before slowly retreating into the piles of books looming behind him like a nervous soldier witnessing war for the first time.
To see a toddler fleeing at the sight of you must have been what shook his father out of his spiralling stupor, for a scratchy rumbling echoed around the rubble of the library as he awkwardly cleared his hoarse throat before jerkily lowering himself to the height of the almost-four-year-old with the grace of a wooden doll.
Cautious sea-glass eyes regarded his sunken structure and the pitiful pleas practically radiating off of his being, he didn’t look much like the rabid crook he had imagined him to be. There was no madness in his eyes, no wild beard and no hands still coated in the blood of his family.
“So-Sorry for scaring you – Corvus right? It’s okay I’m not going to hurt you, don’t worry-”
And he certainly didn’t sound like the callous cackling he had been hearing in his mind’s ear – spurring on his mad, senseless attempt at research. He sounded kind, harmless, trusting, nervous.
Weird. Did murderers feel nervous? It was his first-time meeting one, so he wasn’t too sure. He poked his head out from behind his fort of knowledge to observe this example with a sense of morbid wonder that over-ruled the damning fear that had been boiling in his stomach for the whole day. Curiosity would indeed kill this cat, now he just felt disappointed in himself as he once again met sorrowful eyes now softened with a clumsy, anxious smile.
“My names Sirius, I was friends with your parents?” He looked up at the toddler for approval before continuing to nervously chuckle and stumble through sentences, “Though I suppose I’m also kind of your dad as well-”.
“You killed my parents.” There he said it. And he watched as the man crumpled inwards like tissue paper – why? That was all he had heard about him from grandfather’s newspapers, so why was he acting like he had pulled the world from beneath his feet? Surely you would know if you murdered people or not, did he sleepwalk during it or something?
He was talking again, panicked and with a voice that sounded like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. “No- no didn’t you hear? I never did that- I would never do that to James, your father -” He took a deep, steadying breath “You have to understand H-Corvus that it was a confusing time – ok? I was just lost in the confusion.”
They met eyes again, Corvus was faced with his silver eyes that looked like a full cup of water – threatening to spill – and though he didn’t understand exactly what the man was saying, he understood enough – and his shoulders sagged in relief as the tension that had been spurring him to action the entire day melted out of his being.
He wasn’t in danger. Not anymore.
That entire day, he had felt like he was back at the Dursleys. Even without knowing it, he had slipped subconsciously back into that defensive mindset – spending every minute of everyday high-strung like a rubber band forever waiting to snap, in fear of that constant threat, that lurking danger that slunk around in the suds of improperly washed dishes and the sickly scent of dying begonias.
He was free. He was safe.
“It’s quite late – are you hungry? Dinner should be ready soon; I can walk you to the dining room- if you want to – don’t want you being eaten by books now do we-”
This man wasn’t the Dursleys; he was nervous chuckles, unsure movements and tired, but shiny eyes. This man was his father, and Corvus found it was suddenly easy now to think of him like that.
Suddenly broken out of his rambling, Sirius would look down to see a little hand clutching onto the crushed velvet draping off of his skeleton – and glimmering emerald eyes staring expectantly up into his own. And the two would trundle to the dining room together as the older man tried to explain the role of a beater to the refection of himself visible in them.
And by morning, their eyes would be matching.