Chapter 5
The Homecoming
And now, here I was, as summoned, standing in the early morning sunlight, gathering the nerve to go and push open the wrought iron gate and face what lay beyond.
I needn’t have bothered. As I turned from my bike and made my way along the fence the serpents that formed the lock uncoiled and the gate swung open before me.
The house was smaller than I remembered it. A bit at least. Not enough to diminish the dark oily feel that surrounded the place. The garden gate closed with a loud metallic clang and, behind me I heard the soft rustle of the property resettling itself amid the spells that hid it from all but the eyes of select Wizards. At once there came that sense of being shut in, as familiar as though it hadn’t been more than five years since I’d last been here.
I stared around the front garden. Why did all the old emotions have to surface, today of all days? I knew the mix all too well- two parts hopelessness, three parts dread, four parts fury and one part nameless longing. I didn’t want to be having them right now, but as I searched myself for other feelings, all I found was a numb, cotton wrapped disbelief.
That note my Mother had sent to me was wrong.
Had to have been.
Because there was no way…
That Regulus was…
No bloody way that he was…
I couldn’t say the word, even in the silence of my mind and have it make any sense.
Because Regulus could not be dead…
But so the note, addressed to me in my Mother’s spiky writing, had informed me.
It didn’t seem possible.
Regs and I had chased each other around this garden- past that old statue of a rearing centaur in the middle of the lawn, swerving our little-kid broomsticks right between its forelegs. We’d played Wizard’s chess on the bench along the path there. If I held my breath I could almost hear the echoes of our laughter.
It didn’t seem fair.
I was older. I learned my letters first and laboured to read out loud to him. I’d learned to play chess and snap and gob-stones first and then taught the games to him. I’d gone off to school first. I’d done… well… everything first... How could he be first to-?
No. It couldn’t be right.
Regulus was the one who knew what he wanted to do, to be. The one with a plan for his life. I disagreed with the choices he made. Hated the awe in which he held Lord Voldemort, whose love of dark Magic and spiteful, pureblood attitudes first divided our family, and were now pulling apart our whole bleeding community. I was furious enough to try, unsuccessfully, to contact him when the rumour reached me he’d joined the Dark Lord’s Death-Eaters. But, hidden deep under all that, was my reluctant envy of Regs, for his sense of purpose and direction, his pride in supporting what he’d believed, at least until lately, was a noble cause.
How could all those things have been snuffed out as quick and final as a candle flame in a random gust of wind?
It made no sense. No sense at all.
Not when I’d only just gotten that note from him, the first time he’d made contact with me since I was thrown out of the House of Black all those years ago. That note that had whispered to me from the pocket of my robes all day yesterday.
Siri…
Regs…
It had to be a mistake.
After all, nothing had come of that other note, had it? The meeting at the Leaky Cauldron that he’d suggested in it had never happened. Maybe my Mother’s words were just as empty. Maybe both notes were nothing but a cruel hoax. They could have been sent by someone else altogether, couldn’t they? If I turned now, walked through the gate and rode very fast out of Grimmauld Place, without speaking to anyone here, I could carry that idea safe away with me.
But my stubborn feet took me along the path without slowing. Up the steps to the front door with that same ugly old snake’s head knocker that I remembered. A fit of wild, treacherous laughter threatened to burst up my throat and spatter the crawly, repulsive thing. Was there a prescribed etiquette for banished people like me? Was I supposed to knock like a polite guest or open the door and walk in?
I raised a reluctant hand.
Like the gate had done before it, the door opened. Kreacher, the House Elf, glared up at me for several long, furious seconds before stepping aside.
“Young Sirius took his time getting here, didn’t he?” Kreacher addressed the question to nobody in particular before answering it himself. “Kept Kreacher’s Mistress waiting, didn’t he? Raised better than that, he was, Kreacher knows. Kreacher saw how the Mistress brought him up, right in this House! Ungrateful whelp he always was, too! And Kreacher sees how the young Master insults the poor Mistress by entering her presence in garments that no proper Wizard would put on! Clothes only a dirty Muggle would wear! But Kreacher knows that’s what comes of running with those filthy Blood Traitors young Master Sirius calls his friends, oh yes, he does.”
I drew a deep breath, held my head higher and stepped forward. “Nice to see you, too, Kreacher,” I said. Hoped the flippant words would brace me against the tide of cold dread that washed over me as I crossed the doorstep.
My Mother stood a few feet behind the House Elf, surrounded by the dimness of the front hall, close enough to have answered the door herself. She was shorter than I remembered, but no less commanding with her hard dark eyes and spring-trap jaw. She looked me over, head to foot and scowled. “So, you’ve come.”
I nodded. Searched her face for signs that would tell me whether what I’d read in her note was true, or only a bad dream caused by last night’s lack of sleep. Was there any puffiness round her eyelids maybe, or the redness of tears on her high boned cheeks? Regs was her youngest baby, her good son, the one she called “darling”. Could she have a hollow ache inside her that matched mine? If she did, it was hidden deep. I saw no evidence of it as she gestured me toward the parlour. Maybe it was just that whatever she felt right now was nothing she wanted to share with me. Or maybe, yeah, maybe, this had all been a terrible mistake.
I held back, standing by the railing of the tall staircase that led to the floor above where Regs’s and my old rooms had been, and, before any dangerous hope took root, made myself ask the question. “Yeah. Yeah, I came. I’m… Well, I’m here. I had to know. It- it’s true then?”
“Do you think that we would have had any reason to summon you here if it wasn’t?” Without sparing me a second look, she turned and walked, head high, into the parlour. ?”
Her words were like a slap. Whether it was the impact of the truth they held, or the icy tone in which she delivered them, I wasn’t sure. Only knew they slammed hard into my gut and knocked the breath out of me as they rang in the quiet hallway.
Almost against my will, I found myself walking, rubber legged, into the fire-lit room behind her. It hadn’t changed. The glass case was still by the window, full of dark arts objects glittering and ominous in the morning sun. The gold embroidered tapestry of the Black Family Tree hung beside it. I turned away from them. Glanced instead at the bookshelves lining one wall from floor to ceiling. Then studied the big desk in the corner. Its smooth wooden surface was covered with ledgers, quills, stationery parchments and the usual scatter of framed photographs. Near its edge, black headlines screamed from this morning’s Daily Prophet.
Dark Suspicions Surround
Death or Disappearance of Wealthy Young London Wizard!
Disappearance…
All over the country the last months. Unconfirmed reports of disappearances, nothing proven. The names of strangers, discussed at Order meetings. Ominous. Frightening enough to wake a person up in the middle of the night. But only rumours. Not quite real. Speculations. Reluctant questions still seeking answers.
My own words of less than a day ago. You know as well as I do, you can’t believe every rumour you read about in the Prophet
I tried not to look at that headline, or see the photographed face to the right of it. Instead, I stared at the spot at the front of the desk where the straight-backed chair fit beneath it. When we were little, Regs liked to pull the chair out and use that space as a cave when we played dragon.
My gaze traveled across the huge Oriental rug in the centre of the room. We’d played a lot of great games of Exploding Snap in here, too. Once, when the cards exploded a little too hard, it’d cracked the window. Nori, my favourite of all the House Elves, used her Magic to repair it without our parents ever being any the wiser.
And there, across the expanse of carpet and all the memories it held, was my Father, sitting in his usual chair by the fire. When his gaze lifted to mine, I saw the grief I’d searched for in my Mother’s eyes was etched in his face. His eyes widened, lit for a moment with some emotion I couldn’t name. Joy? Gratitude? Relief? Rising to meet me, he stepped forward, touched my arm. His fingers pressed, squeezed, almost as if he were checking whether I was solid. “Welcome home, Son.”
“Hello, Father,” I raised a tentative hand to touch his shoulder, as I returned the greeting. Hadn’t he been taller than I was the last time I’d seen him? Had that grey been in his hair?
Off to his left, my Mother coughed. Sighed. Scowled. I could hear the old, impatient tap of her foot.
I looked from one parent to the other. Listened to the loud, slow ticking of the mantle clock. Felt the heat of the morning sun through the window mixing with that from the fire and pulled off my leather jacket. Made a careful ritual of folding it over my arm. Held the comfort of its weight against my chest as I waited for someone to speak.
Merlin’s beard, I didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to say Regs’s name out loud. As long as I could keep from doing that, there was a chance- maybe not a big chance, by the look in my Father’s eyes- but a chance anyway- that this wasn’t final.
I drew a breath. Heard the tremour in my voice. “What happened?”
“We’re still piecing it all together,” said my Father. He sounded tired. Exhausted. His voice was as clear and quiet as always, but he spoke in bursts and stops, as if it was hard to find and gather up words. Sitting down, he motioned me to an overstuffed chair near the desk. He didn’t wait for me to seat myself before he continued. “What we’ve been told so far is Regulus apparently wanted to have a meeting with the Dark Lord. It seems he was overheard saying he didn’t like the way some of the Death-Eaters were operating. Felt they were acting without honour and wondered if anyone had made Lord Voldemort aware of the way they used certain charms and curses to control those who opposed them-”
I shuddered. Charms and curses. As I sank into the chair, I could almost see the red flash in the darkness of the alley last night, hear Lucius’s echoing shout. “Crucio!”
My Mother’s shooing hand dismissed my Father’s explanation. “Rumours! Vile, baseless lies! He was framed by a vicious coward who wanted to ingratiate himself with the Dark Lord! Someone who envied Regulus his position within the Death-Eaters inner circle!” She swept to the mantle, swung round to face us. “As if Regulus would ever imagine Lord Voldemort wasn’t enough of a leader to know exactly what his followers were doing! That he could believe anything so foolish as that the Dark Lord would oppose the use of valuable tools like the cruciatus or imperius curses to stop these filthy, Muggle-loving turncloaks who are despoiling our world!”
She stared me up and down, her nose wrinkling as she took in my jacket, jeans, trainers and striped rugby shirt. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” she went on in a voice that was quieter, but not softer. “If someone pretended to embrace our cause, then tried to create distrust among its supporters by casting suspicion onto one of Lord Voldemort’s most ardent followers. Deceitful scum!”
A spy in the Death-Eaters? The idea worked its way through the cotton numbness around my mind. Faded my Mother’s voice to a rise and fall that, for a moment went a long, merciful distance away. The Death-Eaters would call someone like that a traitor while we in the Order would contend he was brave for risking himself that way. Even call him a hero maybe. Wasn’t that what the Death-Eaters would call their spy, the traitor, we suspected might be leaking our plans and secrets to the Dark Lord? How did all the lies, all the sneaking around, make our side so different than theirs?
How would Albus, or Allastor think we should deal with someone like that if we were to learn their identity?
Well, one thing was certain- they wouldn’t think of the cruciatus or imperius curses simply as valuable tools! Maybe that was the difference! And what a huge one that was! Dizzying thoughts. I shook my head. Tried to clear it. Maybe my Mother would say something more about Regs. Had to concentrate. Sort through the ranting and listen for the grief or confusion that must be at the centre of it. Watch her pace back and forth in front of the mantle, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides, fists to claws, fists to claws.
“Foul, treacherous lies! Suggesting that Regulus was ever less than loyal to the Dark Lord and his vision for making our community strong, purifying our bloodlines, restoring power to our ancient Houses and…”
I didn’t want to hear about Voldemort. “What about Regs-” I interrupted. “Is he? Is his…” I swallowed hard, resettled the leather jacket on my lap. Realized the word I was trying to avoid was “body”. “Have you seen him? Is he here?”
Why had I asked that? Did I want to see him if what they said was true? See a mask that had Regs’s features, without the person I’d known shining out from behind them? Would it be better to remember him as I knew him when we were kids? Or did I need to stand by him and find a way to say goodbye, mourn the reunion we might have had?
Merlin’s beard, this wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be. Not when last night I was planning to take him to my flat and show him where I kept the food and butter beer!
“No,” said my Father. “He’s not here. They wouldn’t give him to us. Wouldn’t let us so much as see him, let alone bring him home. Ivor Lastrange told me Lord Voldemort declared that because Regulus- well, because he died a traitor, he didn’t deserve…”
“He was no traitor!” my Mother interrupted. “Arcturus, how can you even repeat such a thing? It was a lie! A vile, vicious…”
“Nocturna, please, I know it was.” My Father’s voice was weary.
“Mother, let me get this straight,” I searched for the sense of what she said, through the cotton batting filling my head. Was she defending Regulus, or Voldemort? “Are you saying Regs was condemned based on what you believe is a lie?”
Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed into bright, angry slits as she glared at me. “What do you mean, believe? Of course it was a lie! Nevertheless, Regulus would be the first one to say that Lord Voldemort would have no choice but to do what he did!”
As her words spattered the walls, the cotton numbness tore apart, leaving a deep, wrenching void that separated the truth of this moment from my hopes of yesterday.
My hope that Regs and I would meet. Talk like we hadn’t in years. Find some of the closeness we shared when we both lived in this house. It wouldn’t have been hard, would it? We hadn’t parted in anger when I left here, had we? I could still see the look in his eyes as we stood in the hall that last morning. What passed between us had been sorrow and a kind of resigned confusion. Things that could be repaired…
Or the hope that, last night, kept finding reason after reason after reason for his not showing up, even after I’d left the Leaky Cauldron.
Even that last hope that leaped ahead of me to the window of my flat this morning, telling me, before I’d seen the writing on the message, that the owl on the sill had come from Regs, saying he was delayed last night, wanted to set up another time to meet…
Now all those hopes were beyond my reach, weren’t they?
Because all my Mother’s wild ranting meant that Regs was- really was- dead- wasn’t he? Somewhere beneath the stunned numbness, was an ache. Growing with every breath I took. Bigger than I thought possible while I was riding over here this morning! Because now there were no more ways to believe it wasn’t true.
But what my Mother was saying about his death didn’t make any sense.
“Are you saying?-” I raised my eyes to her. “It was Voldemort who condemned Regs? That it was your precious Voldemort who wanted him to be killed?”
Horrible word. Bitter taste in my mouth.
“What a ridiculous question!” she exclaimed.
Her words were no comfort to the spreading emptiness where my hopes for Regs had been. But I sagged a little in the chair as a certain relief washed through me. I’d gotten that part wrong then. Regs wasn’t killed by someone he’d admired- almost worshiped for years. Voldemort was cruel. Evil. A shatterer of dreams. His vindictive, pureblood ideals were tearing our community apart til it bled! But all the discussion in the Order as to what unspeakable lengths he’d go to, the talk of murder, the idea that he was turning on his own followers, maybe those horrors, at least, were beyond him.
The thought was hardly formed, when my Mother stepped toward me, almost spitting her words in my face. “What kind of fool did I raise you to be? The Dark Lord has to make an example of anyone who undermines his authority, doesn’t he? Whoever framed Regulus did a thorough job if they managed to fool the Dark Lord himself! And, believe me, when that person’s deceit is discovered, he’ll make certain they pay for their acts ten times worse than what Regulus had to!”
This was crazy! My Mother’s anger wasn’t directed at Voldemort or what he’d done to Regs, but at me! She was defending the Dark Lord against my accusations!
“Is that all you can talk about? What Voldemort does?” I leaped to my feet as her knife sharp words cut away the last of the cotton numbness. I wanted to grab her, shake her til her teeth rattled. See something in her eyes besides zealous rage. Maybe a reflection of the pain that was spreading through me. Maybe hear an echo in her voice of the tears tightening my throat. Before my hands could close on her shoulders, I spun away. Walked to the window, the desk, the window again, where I stood, gripping the sill and staring out at the centaur in the garden.
I drew a long, shuddering breath, but couldn’t quite keep all of the anger out of my voice. “Instead of telling me about him, why don’t you tell me about Regs? That you know how hard he tried to honour your wishes? Measure up to all your expectations?”
“Of course I knew that, you ignorant boy!” she snapped. “I shared his cause!”
“His cause?” I swung round to face her. A horrible, humourless laughter was trying to claw its way up my throat. My voice cracked as I worked to push it back down. “His cause? You shared his cause? His cause wasn’t Voldemort! It was making you proud of him! Wasted effort, wasn’t it? When he probably went to his bleeding grave never knowing whether he managed it!”
“Don’t speak to your Mother like that!” As my Father came to his feet, his rare shout whip-cracked off the walls. “Regulus did what was expected of him! Of course we were proud! We didn’t need to tell him so. He knew what he was doing. Knew that, in any battle, there are bound to be losses, painful sacrifices-”
“Martyrs!” shrieked my Mother.
“Yes, martyrs,” said my Father, his voice dropping to its usual quiet tone. I heard the crack in it, the heavy sigh. “Regulus knew his duty to Lord Voldemort and the values of this family and did it. It’s time you recognized yours!” He shook his head as his eyes traveled over my clothing. “You know, Sirius, we’ve been patient with you. Allowed you to go out on your own. Learn how to survive on your wits. To be a clever and resourceful wizard in your own right, as befits the heir of an ancient House. But an end to all this youthful rebellion is long overdue. It’s time you come home, put on some decent robes so you can take your place within Lord Voldemort’s inner circle, and, like your brother, carry out your responsibilities to the House of Black.”
Allowed? He said they allowed me to go out on my own? Like my leaving had been his idea? Like it had nothing to do with anything I might think about what it meant to live in this house or be a part of this family?
“My responsibilities? To the House of Black…?”
Was that what he’d said? Really? The mantle clock ticked, ticked, loud and slow. Loud and slow, for a long, long time as I stood in the still parlour. The air pressed in closer and closer around me, waiting for me to say something more.
I looked at my Mother. She wouldn’t want to see her darling replaced with a foolish, ignorant boy! How could she, when she was the one who’d banished me? The one who had summoned me back here with such obvious reluctance? But she stepped to my Father’s side and nodded bitter approval at his words.
There was no sound but the clock. Ticking. Ticking. Loud and slow.
“But you said I was no longer a part of this family.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” That word again, spat in my direction. “Your blood carries a debt of honour and service to this House and to those to whom it gives its loyalty. To our Liege Lord, Voldemort. That is the duty and sacrifice, the pride and privilege of families such as ours. Being young and foolish does not entitle you to walk away from that on a whim.”
Did they believe I’d left this house as an act of youthful rebellion? On a whim? Couldn’t they understand they’d asked me to make choices it wasn’t in me to make? That I hadn’t inherited their attitudes with my Father’s build or my Mother’s dark hair?
Would it be a whim walking out on a Mother who found the reputation of her family more important than the people born into it? Who could defend the murder of her child as the justifiable result of a mistake? Or a Father who, despite his obvious sorrow, was actually proud he’d sacrificed his son in service to Voldemort? Couldn’t they see how the casual cruelty the Dark Lord inspired was the reason I’d left? Like watching my Mother fly Nori about as if she was an object? Or my Father discussing Tonks like she was a dirty little family secret while she stood in this room not ten feet from him?
No. They hadn’t seen it then, wouldn’t see it now. Even when that cruelty had caused Regulus’s death.
In the stillness, I could almost feel a touch on my sleeve. Hear Lily’s words of yesterday afternoon. “You had a line you wouldn’t or couldn’t cross. One that made you walk away.”
No, it wasn’t youthful rebellion. Or a whim. Hadn’t been then. Wouldn’t be now.
Because I could see it as clear as if it was drawn in a black slash across the carpet between us.
How did my parents think I was supposed to settle into this room, embrace the dark magic that was the proud legacy of this place? Slip into the jagged gap where Regs had been until- what? Just days? Hours ago? Replace him as if he was one more pawn to be moved about on a chessboard?
I’d seen so much sadness in my Father’s eyes when I came in. Sadness for the bright child who liked to play dragon’s cave under the desk behind me, the eager kid who loved a good fierce game of Wizard’s Chess and could beat anyone in the house at it before he went off to school. There may have been some comfort in sharing our memories. In managing a few shaky laughs as we recalled how he got the suit of armour in the hall to march in place and later taught it to tap dance. Maybe shed a few hot tears together for the hopeful dreamer who tried out for the Slytherin Quidditch team four separate times and never made more than alternate? How could he set them aside, cover the wounds with a stony mask and talk, so soon, of duty? Speak of responsibility to this stupid House rather than of the love we shared for someone who gave his life for it? It wasn’t right! Wasn’t fair! Fury squirmed deep within the aching void in my gut.
That sense came again, a whisper light touch on my arm. Lily’s words which I’d only half understood yesterday.
“Not everybody has that line, Sirius! Or they get so caught up in looking at all the promises Voldemort dangles in front of them they eventually lose track of where they drew it. That’s especially true for his closest supporters.”
There was something steadying in her words. The shivers in my gut eased a bit. “Is that all you can think of?” I asked, stunned to find it was sadness, not a shout that cracked my voice.
My sorrow for Regs, I could understand. But along with it, mixed in with my anger, there was an ache of sorrow for my parents as well. Mixed with a weary sort of pity for how Lord Voldemort’s lies and promises had almost completely numbed them to the injustice of losing their son.
Neither of them spoke.
The clock ticked.
I hugged my jacket closer to my chest. Heard that sorrowing bewilderment in my words. “After five years without a word, you summon me here to say my brother is dead. Instead of talking about what he meant to all of us, what you want to tell me is I can fill his place in the Death-Eaters.”
“It was what Regulus would have wanted,” began my Father. “You could carry on his work for our family’s place in Lord Voldemort’s court-”
“No, Father,” I shifted the jacket on my arm. Took a step backward, putting distance between us. “I can’t- won’t- do that. I don’t see how it honours him, giving service to the bloody murderer who ordered his death.”
My Mother took a step toward me. “I told you what happened! You owe a blood debt to this family.”
“That’s not what you said when you banished me from it.” I gestured to the gold embroidered tapestry of the family tree near the window beside me, then pointed to a scorched, empty spot next to Regulus’s name. “You can’t have it both ways. You talk about honouring Regs, when what you want is another follower named Black for Lord Voldemort. Well, forget that. You were right before. I’m not part of this House.”
Shrugging into my jacket, I turned and strode toward the hallway door. There was none of the defiance that had marked my last departure from this place. Only that jagged, empty ache of sorrow. And an instant when I felt an uneasy prickle across my back. Had my Mother drawn her wand? Would she lift me off my feet like she had done so often years ago? To maybe fly me out of her presence? I didn’t look back to find out.
As I passed the desk, my sleeve caught the edge of the nearest photograph. It toppled to the floor, face down. In a soft tinkling of crystal, the frame shattered, scattering bright sparkles across the carpet and over the tops of my shoes. I made no move to gather the pieces. My Mother would want the House Elves to tend to that anyway. But, more by force of habit than anything else, I bent to pick up the picture itself, flipped it over and prepared to set it on the desk.
I bit back a groan. “Oh, Merlin’s Beard, Regs!”
From the centre of it, he grinned up at me, brandished the Quidditch broom that had been his pride and joy, then gave me a jaunty wave.
I remembered the day that picture was taken. We’d been sitting in the garden, doing broomstick repairs, him working on his Meteor, me on my Shooting Star. Talking about having a match after lunch. First one in all the years since we’d been sorted into different Houses at school. It would be kind of fun, wouldn’t it, if only the rain held off?
When the picture had been taken, we’d both been in it.
But the rains had come. The match never happened. A week later I’d been banished from the family as well as from the photograph.
Now, there he sat in the picture all alone, a bottle of broomstick polish on the bench beside him. Proud son of the House of Black, with no idea of what his future held. Smiling in the summer sun, every hair in place as usual, not a rumple or wrinkle in his deep red robes. Amazing how much he’d always favored the colour red. Wore it a lot when we were growing up.
Bloody hell!
Red.
I could hear James’s voice across a booth at The Digs talking about the unknown person we’d gone to meet. “It was in the note. They’re supposed to be wearing red…”
Regs grinned up at me and those red robes glowed bright in the morning green garden.
I felt the sting of tears.
Could that mean that our contact…
Was to have been Regulus?
Of course, he wouldn’t have known I was one of the people who’d be at The Digs.
But he’d wanted to meet me at the Leaky Cauldron first, hadn’t he? To talk about what he needed to do. Whether in Wizard’s robes then or a Muggle shirt later, he must have thought of that colour as a bridge to clearer, simpler times. Like when we were kids. Like when he still called me Siri. As he had at the top of his note.
His dark eyes looked up from the photograph at me as the words that I’d read just yesterday echoed through my mind.
I’m probably already in way too far over my head to back away from what this has become. But I’m convinced it’s what I must attempt to do. I have some ideas that might, just might undo some of the damage that’s been done in our community…
With a gentle fingertip, I traced the line of his cheekbone, touched the hand circling the broomstick.
Oh, Regs, you idiot! I told him silently. You poor, daft, kind-hearted, lonely little idiot, you gave so much to our parents and they never deserved it. They could never see how much you loved them. How much you were willing to give to have them love you like you thought they loved me. It was my title they loved, Regs. Son and Heir of this stupid, sad sick House! And in the end, neither you nor I could stomach what living up to that position meant!
His grin blurred. His image shook in my hand.
What had driven him to turn from Voldemort and his Death-Eaters? To walk away from this House? I might never know the details, but for Regulus too, there must have been a line he wouldn’t cross.
The weight of my parents’ gazes pressed into my back. What would they say if I spun round and shouted at them that, in the end, Regs had been no more a follower of their precious Dark Lord than I was?
I blinked away the unshed tears. Shook my head.
There was no point. They had no reason to believe me and more reason than ever to believe in Voldemort and his cause. While they could do that, even if they no longer had a son, there would be the thought of a fallen hero they could cling to, grieve for. What good would it do, ripping that away from them, when I was finding at least a bit of comfort in that idea myself?
My fingers tightened around the photograph of my brother.
So much I wished I could ask him. What had he had in mind that might undo some of the damage Voldemort had done? Would I ever know? Was it something he was planning to ask my help with last night? Something we might do together? Or something he had already done and wanted me to know about? To share with others who opposed Voldemort? Had he left a note somewhere? Or a hint of some kind to explain what it had been?
In a kinder world, there’d be a guarantee I’d find out some day.
A kinder world…
James and I had toasted to that over bitter Muggle beer at The Digs, only last night. A world where people thought more like his parents and less like mine. The kind of world we wanted for his and Lily’s baby.
My Godchild.
I drew a deep, shuddering breath. After what I said, my parents wouldn’t want me to stay, any more than I wanted to. Or could. But they’d want, expect, me to put the photograph back where I found it.
I didn’t. Carrying it away with me was the closest I could come to helping Regs make his escape from the dark heritage of this House and the hunger of Lord Voldemort that had long ago consumed our parents.
Instead, I slipped it into the inside breast pocket of my jacket, next to my heart as I strode into the hallway.
Almost soundless, the front door swung wide, releasing Regs and me into the morning light. As I crossed the garden, the centaur we’d chased each other round and the bench where we’d once played chess on summer afternoons, blurred with another bout of unshed tears. I kept walking. Fast. Wouldn’t look at that centaur. Wouldn’t look at that bench. Wouldn’t let the tears fall. Not here. Not in this place where the most honourable part of my brother would never be recognized, where his bravest act would never be acknowledged.
Let my parents grieve the obedient child who once played here. Mourn the schoolboy who tried so hard to do all that was expected of him. My greatest sorrow was for the courageous young Wizard who had come of age and given his life to walk a path that was all his own.
Dimly, I watched the tall wrought-iron gate open, then listened as it clanged shut behind me. There was a low, rustling sound and a moment later the house had vanished, leaving me standing alone and shaking in the street beside my motorbike. I bowed my head, my hands clenching tight round the handlebars. I saw their brilliant, sun-washed silver breaking up as, at last, the hot tears ran down my cheeks.
Through the blur, there came the dark suggestion of motion. I recognized it as a silent shadow closing in from behind me and instant before a hand grasped my shoulder.
“Sirius?”
I raised my head. Turned. Blinked through tears at the dark haired figure standing close beside me. Felt the flood of relief even before the surprise took over. “James?”
“Thought you might be here,” his voice was quiet . “I saw the Prophet this morning.”
“The… the Prophet?” It took a moment before the word made any sense to me. Before I remembered the tall black words shouting from the desk in the parlour. Death or Disappearance… How hard I’d tried not to look at them, not to believe them, not to see the face of the handsome, dark-eyed wizard in the picture beside them. How I’d tried to block them out with yesterday’s words. You know as well as I do, you can’t believe every rumour you read about in the Prophet
James nodded. “Yeah, it was in the headlines.”
“Oh, man, James, they got it right this time! It was true! The contact we were to meet last night? It was Regs!...”
James nodded. His grasp tightened, warm and strong on my shoulder, saying more about comfort than any word could have done It rested there, still and steady as the horror poured out in an aching torrent of words.
“I could scarcely believe it when I realized…! Wouldn’t have if I hadn’t gotten his note. When I lived here, Regs was always such a little fool when it came to parroting every word our parents said about their loyalty to the Dark Lord. Never questioned any of it, just said how wonderful he was, how great his ideals were. And he could be thoughtless. Do unkind things, talk like an arrogant, stuck up idiot sometimes. But he was being ignorant, like our Father chose to be. Not trying to be cruel like our Mother could. He’d’ve liked to have a bit of prestige yeah, but under that, it was approval he wanted! To be more than just the second son of an old family. I don’t know what turned him against Voldemort and his lot. But someone figured it out that he had. Tipped somebody else off and now… Well, like you said, you saw the Prophet! All the rumours these last months? The deaths? The disappearances? They’re true, James, they’re all true!”
Still, James remained silent. Just stood close beside me with his hand on my shoulder. It remained there as, bit by bit, I felt my tears and shaking slow, then stop.
When, a while after that, he spoke again, his voice was unhurried, almost casual. “You think you’re ready to drive this thing?” He quirked an eyebrow at my bike.
I realized I was still holding on to the handlebars. I drew a deep, shuddering breath. Shrugged. Nodded. Almost laughed. Let go. “Yeah, I can do that. Wouldn’t want to leave it sitting here, after all. Kreachor might take it into his head to go for a joy ride.”
James smiled a little. “Okay, mate, come on then, let’s get you home.”
“Home?” I asked. “You want to come back to my place?”
My little upstairs flat off Diagon Alley would’ve been a warm and inviting place to bring Regs last night. Now, with my Mother’s note lying stark and horrible in the middle of the kitchen table, I couldn’t see it as being anything but cold and desolate.
“Don’t be daft,” said James. “You’re coming home to us. To our place.”
I glanced back at the wrought iron gate, then at James. Found myself echoing his words like I was trying to understand the meaning of them. “Home? To your place?”
“Yeah, our place. You know, the place with the rose bush where you tether your bike? Lily insisted I bring you. For the next several days at least. You need family around you at a time like this.”
“Family?” I echoed again.
James drew back so he could look at me, then gave my shoulder a little shake. “You’re my son’s Godfather, aren’t you? In my book, that makes you family. Right?”
I drew a deep shaky breath. Felt the aching sorrow swell in my throat, then ease a bit as another wave of relief swept over me. Hadn’t realized how much I dreaded facing the silence of an empty flat. How much I’d wanted, needed, to be with someone this morning. Even if it was my parents. Now, instead of Grimmauld Place, I could go to a warm and accepting place that would, at least for a little while, be home. To spend time with people, who, for much, much longer, were going to be my family.
Not of blood, but, even better, my family of choice.
I nodded at James. “Yeah, right. Okay, let’s go home then.”
I turned. Got onto my bike and, a moment later, felt James swing himself up onto the seat behind me. We eased away from the kerb as I set the motor sound to purring. The noise drowned out any talk that might have passed between us, but the words forming themselves within my mind were strong and clear. Full of resolve. More resolve, more direction, than any I’d found since leaving school. More purpose than I’d known since the long ago night James and I decided to become annimagi to keep Remus company at the times of the full moon.
They felt sure. Strong. Right. Not the words of a restless young searcher now, but the vows of a Wizard who, like his brother before him, had at last come of age.
I will do all I can to stop Voldemort and his followers from coming to power in our world, whatever the cost. I will do whatever might be asked of me to help put an end to his cruelty and madness. I’ll get that shop like I planned, but in addition, I’m going to talk to Allastor Moody. Get trained in what it means to be a proper spy for the Order of the Phoenix. Do more than hope for that kinder world. I want to be one of those who helps to make it.
And I will honour my family of choice. Give it all the care, the loyalty and honour it has shown me today. Above all, I will protect James and Lily’s child, my Godchild, with all the wisdom, all the strength and all the love that is in me.
I brought the bike round an a sweeping arc and spelled the motor sound up to its loudest, bravest roar. James’s arms tightened around my waist as, together, we sped out of Grimmauld Place.
It’s a weird thing about having that sense of purpose, Harry.
For all the pain that surrounded my discovery of it, for me, finding mine was a wonderful, healing thing. For you, I sometimes think it’s been rather more of a burden.
The circumstances around my brother’s death asked me what I might choose to do to honour his memory. Asked. Insistently, maybe, but they asked. Old Voldemort never thrust himself directly into my life issuing challenge after challenge that demanded my attention, demanded an answer, the way he has done with you.
More important is that when I decided on the direction my life would take, it came to me while I had a friend close at my side. (Okay, okay, so it was while I had a friend close at my back clinging tight round my waist so he wouldn’t topple off my bike.) The point is that I knew I had someone to share it with. After what happened to Cedric last year, I think you’re trying to step a little distance away from all of us who most love you. Maybe in hopes of protecting us. Problem is, it leaves you to carry all the weight of how to deal with old Snake-Eyes all on your own.
I know I said hold to your purpose. That doesn’t mean you should try to shoulder it alone. I think what you did this year, forming your Defense Against the Dark Arts group is a great thing, especially with all the risks you faced from Professor Umbridge. But this may feel like an even bigger risk. Try to trust the training you gave your friends. Let them stand close with you again. Carry some of the weight of fighting the Dark Lord. Share in the risks as well as the triumphs. That is what gives the heart, the courage to carry on, to any important cause. Your friends not only want to stand with you, give you their help and protection, they need to. Because they are your friends. Because they love you. The same as I do.
That is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to write to you. Certainly one of the most brutally honest. Because I believe that the risks are more real every minute now. All that sizzling tension, that storm-gathering prickle that’s filled the air can’t go on indefinitely. Voldemort is bound to make his move soon. Weeks from now? Maybe, but I don’t think anyone in the Order believes so. Days more likely. Maybe even hours.
Merlin’s Beard, I hope I am wrong. I hope it’s only the effects of being in this decrepit old house too long that I’m feeling. That I’m reading way too much into the comments that have been made at our meetings of late. Hope in a fortnight or so, when your summer term is over and the question looming largest is how soon you can leave the Dursleys, I can look back at all my wild ramblings and laugh. Only thing I hope for more than that is the opportunity for us to sit down over some tea or a butter beer and talk.
Good thing this school year is coming to an end and I can give you this tin soon. It’s almost too full to hold much more now. Mostly with all these letters and a few old articles I saved from the Prophet over the last couple of years. My will’s in here, too. Not being morbid. Albus asked all of us to have one drawn up last summer. There are Magical objects that must be safeguarded, as well as places like this property and others where Order members can go when they need to lie low for a while, that must not fall into the wrong hands if something should happen to any of us. Seemed sensible storing it here as I’ve named you as my heir. Bet you’ll be thrilled to read that I’ve left you Grimmauld Place, right? Especially when you remember we still haven’t found a way to undo the permanent sticking spell on the back of my Mother’s portrait! There’s also an old letter I brought from the cave with me last year. Don’t remember right now what it is. Don’t recognize the handwriting. Probably should look at it sometime.
Not right now, though. I’ve been sitting so long at this table that I feel like I’ve almost undergone a petrifying charm. Think I’m going to get up and go feed Buckbeak his breakfast. Then take myself outside where I can work the kinks out de-gnoming the garden for a couple of hours. It’ll give me something to do besides wonder, wonder, wonder if I’m letting my imagination get the best of me where old Snake-Eyes is concerned. Besides, the place is crawling with the funny little creatures. Maybe they’re refugees from the Weasleys. Molly is always saying how busy she’s been shooing scores of them away from The Burrow. It’ll get me away from Kreacher for a while, too. He’s been in rare form the last day or so, laughing and prattling to himself and going into the front hallway to rant to my Mother’s portrait.
But best of all, it’ll help me pass the time til I hear how your O W L examinations have gone. History of Magic this afternoon, isn’t it? Right. Of course it is. They always gave that one last when your Dad, Remus and I were at school.
Sirius the great Divinationist predicts that the past is in your future. Ha ha.
Well, Buckbeak, breakfast and the gnomes are calling.
Looking forward to seeing you more than I can say. Keep it in mind, what I said about bringing your friends close round you.
All the love in the world and between the stars,
Your Godfather,
Sirius