The Second Reckoning
The world flashed by in a blaze of color and strobing lights, bleeding together at the corners of his eyelids like watercolor on a page, until the sky was nothing but a black swirl and the golden streetlamps left his eyes misty.
The young man reached out blindly until he’d found a solid surface to grasp, knuckles clenched and flushed white, labored breath dispersing into the air just as quickly as it had appeared. His grimy, black hair clung to his cheekbones, soaked through with sweat, and although the spirits swirling in his stomach warmed his bones and left him feeling like a fuzzy shell of himself, goosebumps pricked his skin as the London breeze wound its way through the streets to greet him.
Sirius was able to get one good look at his disheveled outfit before he tipped over and emptied the contents of his stomach into the rubbish bin with the grace of a baby deer first learning how to walk. When the ground had stopped spinning, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, his unsteady feet threatening to send him crashing to the pavement.
Suddenly, he remembered why it was never a good idea to apparate when he was pissed.
“Shit,” he mumbled as he toppled into the light post.
He leaned against the surface as easily as he could, eyes scanning the streets for any sign of cops, but thankfully there was no one in sight. He retrieved his wand from his back pocket, armed at his side as he slinked into the shadows of Grimmauld’s Place and slipped through the front door.
“Colloportus,” he muttered under his breath, forehead pressed against the cool surface. He waited for the familiar sound of the locks sliding into place before he kicked his shoes off and stumbled to the kitchen.
Although he’d freed his family’s house elf, Kreacher, soon after he’d taken residence in the old place, he’d still find little trinkets and tasks left around the house for him before the ancient house elf disappeared into whatever cubby hole he burrowed into at night. Tonight, he found a chilled glass of water waiting for him on the counter. Typically he’d leave it be, but this time he was thankful for Kreacher’s act and snatched the glass up greedily.
Sirius wandered aimlessly into the sitting room and collapsed onto the sofa with a groan, tossing an arm over his eyes. A forgotten Bowie record spun quietly on the table by the window, the soft echo of Rebel Rebel reverberating off the walls, mixing with the welcoming crackle of the fire burning in the fireplace. He draped his free arm over the side of the sofa, swirling the half empty glass lazily in his hand to the rhythm of the song. Worn with years of use, Sirius counted the skips in the song with a tap of his index finger against the rim of the glass.
“One,” he whispered to himself, “Two… Three…”
And when the song had ended and Candidate took its place, Sirius closed his eyes and tried not to picture a time long ago before war was nothing but a lazy threat and friendly laughter filled his ears, and skin pressed against skin, against skin…
He let his arm flop to his side, head turned until he found the wooden desk Orion Black had once inhabited, hunched over as he scribbled obsessively across endless pages of parchment. For weeks Sirius had not dared step a foot too close to that untouched corner, as if the ghost of his father would appear red faced in the reflection of the inkpot with a belt in hand and his mother’s gaunt face peering over his shoulder.
He knew it was silly to be frightened of shadows, but no matter how many spells he cast, Grimmauld’s Place never seemed to be bright enough.
It wasn’t until desperation had infested his mind and sucked the marrow from his bones that the oldest Black son gained the courage to sit at that very desk. He picked up his father’s quill as if it had never been moved, and Sirius began to write. He wrote and wrote from dawn to dusk as his father had throughout his childhood, eyes bloodshot and fingers cramping, but he did not stop until the adrenaline fled from his body and he swore that he wouldn’t be able to move for days.
But unlike the powerful Orion Black’s countless streams of business letters and contracts that flitted across his memories, Sirius’s letters remained tucked away at the bottom of his desk drawer, sealed and never to be opened.
“Come on Padfoot,” that beautiful, silky voice spoke tauntingly in his ears, “After all those nights we spent together? After all the things you told me about your childhood? About your mother? You trusted me with everything, and yet you can’t send a damn letter?”
“Kreacher,” he murmured, eyes narrowed in disdain at the familiar album cover discarded on the floor, “Turn that record off.”
He tossed his arm over his eyes with a scoff, hands itching for another drink. He could not hear Kreacher’s footsteps down the hall.
“Where’s the boy I once knew,” he continued to taunt, a hint of that beautiful smile curling around his words, tugging at the scars he’d once kissed goodbye, “What happened to the Sirius Black I loved?”
“Kreacher,” Sirius cried, volume rising, “I said turn that damn record off!”
Hot breath singed the hairs on his neck and tickled his ear, so close that he was sure the boy’s pink lips could graze his skin. He whispered, “You didn’t lose your spark that easily, did you Padfoot? I never knew you to be weak.”
“I’m not weak,” he gasped, throat tight.
The boy only laughed, that beautiful, sing-song sound he adored, the one he’d chased all throughout second and third year, yearning to hear it again. “Oh Sirius, don't act so surprised. James and Lily would’ve thought the same thing.”
“Kreacher! Turn off the damn music!”
Loud bangs rapped against the front door and Sirius startled upright. The glass slipped from his hand in his sudden jolt and shattered on the floor. Sirius winced at the unpleasant sound. He waited for a moment, almost afraid to move, when the loud banging began again.
Sluggish, Sirius rose from his seat, nearly propelling into the wall as the room righted itself too fast. He drew back the heavy curtains ever so slightly, wand at the ready, and although most of the figure was obscured from view, Sirius sighed with relief when he saw a flash of a long white beard and glittering half moon spectacles.
Careful to avoid the glass, Sirius stepped into the hall. He stopped just behind the door, waiting with baited breath until he heard a soft meow coming from outside, and the tension in his chest dissipated.
“Alohomora,” he whispered to the door, waiting for the click to sound before he turned the knob and locked eyes with a familiar smiling face.
“Hello Mr. Black,” Albus Dumbledore greeted, and Sirius could have melted at the sound of his old headmaster’s calming voice.
“Dumbledore,” he sighed, relieved, and opened the door the rest of the way, “It’s nice to see you.”
McGonnagal appeared suddenly from around the corner, transfigured back into her usual form, emerald green robes shining in the lamplight and her hair pulled back into the tight bun he always remembered her wearing. But unlike the headmaster she did not smile, only said sullenly, “Hello Mr. Black. We hate to show up on such short notice.”
“Not at all.” He leaned against the doorframe heavily, and though he forced a smile on his face and spoke with the posh accent that reminded him so of his youth, he was praying they could not smell the alcohol on his breath, “What seems to be the issue?”
McGonagall glanced at her peer, but Dumbledore did not return her weary look, dreamy eyes still transfixed on Sirius. His face was suddenly grim, just as it had been on that Halloween night only months ago, and his heart seized.
“What,” he asked, face fallen, posh facade vanished, “What’s the matter?”
Dumbledore spoke as softly as a prayer. “I’m afraid we have terrible news, Sirius.”
And it wasn’t until that moment that he noticed Hagrid waiting at the bottom of the steps with a bundle of blankets wrapped in his big arms.
Sirius’s legs wobbled dangerously, and he was certain that if he was not holding so tightly to the frame that they would’ve betrayed him. Hagrid joined the two on the steps, and although the child’s face was hidden from view, Sirius did not have to get a closer look to know that his scarred godson was sleeping peacefully inside the cocoon.
“Albus, what has happened?”
The weathered man’s lips pursed. “The Dursley’s have been killed.”
Sirius’s blood ran cold, his throat suddenly dry. “What,” he managed to choke out, voice weak, “How- How could that be? But you said- You said it would be safer in the muggle world.”
“I’m afraid that there were miscalculations,” he explained gravely, “Although most of the Dark Lord’s followers have retreated after his defeat, a few that were left undetected remained. They had been watching the Dursley’s for a long time, monitoring them. It seems as though they planned one final attempt to avenge the Dark Lord, and it happened to be the Dursley’s that were their sacrifice.”
Sirius’s breath remained staggered, Dumbledore’s voice distorted, underwater. Was he drowning? Was he drowning as Regulus had? Drowning in himself like the coward he was?
“The boy,” he gasped pitifully, a hand grasped over his chest, tugging at his Queen band tee, the one that beautiful boy had gifted him in their seventh year. The stars spun and blurred. “The boy- Dudley, is he alright? Is he alive?”
This time, Dumbledore returned McGonnagal’s look. Hagrid stood between them, fat tears dripping silently down his face as he stifled ugly sobs. Dumbledore answered, “Yes, the boy is fine. We have placed him in an orphanage for now. But Sirius, I know I said that it was safer for Harry to be raised in the muggle world, but now… Well, I’m not so sure.”
Sirius could only glance down at his little godson with the face of his best friend and the eyes of the brightest girl of their age, marred with the scar of the Dark Lord’s curse. His empty stomach churned and it took everything in him not to wretch on their shoes.
“So-” He cleared his throat, wiped his clammy hands on his pants, “So what does this mean?”
“It means,” McGonagall spoke up in her clipped Scottish accent, but her voice did not seem as strong as it once had, “That we believe that Grimmauld’s Place, with the right protection, might be the safest place for Harry for the time being.”
Sirius’s eyes widened. “Me? You mean- You think I should rai-aise Harry?”
“For now,” Dumbledore nodded, “We will take small steps for now. I do not know if this will be permanent, but quite honestly my boy, I couldn’t think of anyone else that would be right to take care of James Potter’s son.”
Yes there is, he thought, there is one person.
He was nodding before he could stop himself. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Dumbledore smiled warmly and Sirius’s eyes pricked. “Very well. Rubeus, if you will.”
Hesitantly, Hagrid handed the blanket bundle over to him with the gentle touch Sirius had not known a half giant could possess. He sniffed loudly and blubbered, “Take care o’ the little tike for me.”
Sirius forced the best smile he could manage. “I will. Thank you, Hagrid.”
“We best be on our way,” Dumbledore declared as Hagrid descended the steps sullenly. McGonnagal offered a reassuring smile and nodded her approval at Sirius before following behind the gameskeeper. Dumbledore turned back to Sirius. “I am sure you are going to do a lovely job with Harry, Sirius.”
Sirius swallowed back the bile threatening to rise. “Thank you.”
Dumbledore winked at him and began to walk away, before he turned back around. “And Sirius.”
Sirius stopped halfway through the door, back still pressed against the frame, the only thing keeping him from shattering in front of his trusted colleague. “Yes sir?”
“I believe you left this behind,” he said, and revealed in his hands Sirius’s worn leather jacket.
Sirius blinked, then looked down at himself. He hadn’t realized that he’d left it behind. He situated Harry into the crook of his arm and let Dumbledore hand it to him. Sirius stared at the thing, suddenly wishing nothing more than to be able to bury his head in the ground. “Oh. Thank you, sir.”
Dumbledore winked at him, eyes sparkling. “Take care. I’ll be in touch soon.”
And in a whisk of light the three were gone, and although Sirius now had baby Harry in his arms, he’d never felt so alone.
Sirius mustered the strength to get back inside, hooking the door around his foot and yanking it closed. He tossed his jacket on the stair railing and he swished his wand, mumbling the locking spell once more.
Sirius headed back into the living room and stopped when he found the glass still on the floor. “Shit,” he mumbled.
He looked around himself, ready to place Harry down, but he quickly rid himself of the thought, in fear of bumping the baby’s head or tripping in his drunken state. He whisper-shouted, making sure that Harry remained asleep, “Kreacher, I need your help.”
But Kreacher did not come out and he had no idea where to look for the house elf, yet Diamond Dogs belted from the record player in the corner and Sirius sighed frustratedly. “You can flip a record but you can’t help me clean up this glass?”
But he knew that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t like the house elf liked him much, and after all, he’d freed Kreacher. He could do whatever he pleased.
“Oh Padfoot, really? Blame the poor house elf. You’re the one that’s drunk off your arse on a Wednesday night,” the voice returned, “And now you have a baby, James and Lily’s son might I add, and you are a mess. You’re a fuck up.”
“I’m not,” he spat, eyes darting around like a wild animal, back pinned to the desk, cornered. Drowning, drowning, drowning. “I’m not a fuck up.”
“Yes you are,” a new voice hissed harshly in his ear, sharp as the swing of his arching belt. Instantly, Sirius’s blood ran cold. “You are a disgrace to the Black name, and you will never be a son to me. To think that you have claimed my house as your own, thrown your family portraits out, covered the family tree, is the act of a coward. You are nothing but a filthy blood traitor and that’s all you ever will be!”
Sirius stumbled backward and fell into the sofa. He gasped as his back made hard contact with the cushion and he clutched Harry to his chest as if his life depended on it, too scared to move. Breath heaving and head pounding, Sirius searched the room for anything to help him until finally his eyes landed on the only device he'd brought with him from the muggle world.
He picked up the phone and dialed the only number he could think of, leg bouncing anxiously. He picked up after three rings. Voice gravelly, the boy said into the receiver, “Hello?”
“Moony,” Sirius slurred helplessly, the familiar nickname tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop himself, “Moony, it’s me.”
There was a rustling end on the other line. “Sirius,” Remus asked in a much more clear voice, “Are you drunk?”
As if to only emphasize his shame, he hiccupped, “Yes. Look, I need yer help, okay?”
Remus sighed. “Sirius, I’m sorry, I told you that I needed-“
“It’s about Harry.”
There was a long, long pause where no one spoke, only the werewolf’s heavy breaths on the other end to signal that he was there. Then there was another fit of rustling, as if he were rummaging through drawers.
“I’m on my way.”
Too transfixed in the sleeping face of his godchild, scared that if he moved a muscle he might stir him, Sirius did not hear the front door unlock only moments later.
“Padfoot?”
Sirius called, his voice wobbling dangerously, his throat filled with sand, “I’m here!”
Remus appeared in the doorway, a hand on the frame, his hair disheveled and face unshaven, clothes rumpled, as if he had simply hung up the phone and apparated there. He wore loose fitting trousers and a faded red sweater that was stretched in the arms and stitched in gold embroidery. It had been a gift from James’s mother, Euphemia, for his fifteenth birthday. Sirius remembered the old thing fondly from fifth year, the one with the unraveling string that he loved to twirl around his finger when Remus’s head was buried in a book.
When their eyes met, a sob tore from his throat, his vision blurring with tears that he couldn’t hold back any longer. As if sensing the need for comfort, baby Harry cooed and latched his tiny hand around Sirius’s thumb, then fell back asleep without a care. The fight left his body as easily as it had on the day of the Potter’s reckoning, and Sirius crumbled all over again.
“Hi Moony,” he sobbed, “I’m sorry.”
Remus’s eyes softened. “Oh, Sirius. What’s happened to you?”
He did not know. He really did not know.
Remus did not go to him first, but slipped into the kitchen without a word. He returned with a dustpan and broom and he swept up the glass without a complaint. Moony, who never complained. Moony, who always came running to clean up his mess.
Stupid Moony. Stupid, stupid Moony.
When he had finished with the task, he took Harry out of Sirus’s arms, cradling the boy with the care Sirius had always craved. In his peripheral vision, Orion Black watched him from his desk chair, papers in one hand, belt in the other, and Sirius shattered all over again.
The cushion sank next to him, and suddenly Remus was beside him, a worried expression etched across his countenance, wrinkling the scar on his forehead. “Your parents never got rid of your bassinet,” he said with the gentleness of a dove, “I found it upstairs. Harry’s asleep in your room now. I figure he’ll sleep for a while. Must’ve been worn out after…” He trailed off.
“I’m sorry,” he blubbered, “I’m so sorry, Remus. You said you needed space, you said- And I- I fucked it up. I shouldn’t have called. You can go now.”
“I’m not leaving.”
Sirius raised his head, sniffling. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “You’re not?”
Remus shook his head. “No. But I am not staying for you, Sirius. I am staying for Harry.”
Months ago that comment would’ve crushed him, but now as he sat across from the boy he’d pined for all his childhood, he didn’t care. He just wanted Remus to stay for a little while longer. All he ever wanted nowadays was Remus.
“How am I going to do this,” he whispered shakily, fat tears making fresh tracks down his cheeks and into his lap, “Oh Merlin, I can’t- I can’t raise him- I don’t know how. I’m not James, Moony.”
“And neither am I,” Remus clarified, serious, “And you’re not supposed to be. You’re supposed to be his godfather, not his father.”
“I’ve never-” He hiccuped. “I don’t know how to be a god-godfather either. My father-”
“I’m going to help you,” Remus interjected, “We’ll figure it out. Together. Like James and Lily would’ve wanted.”
Sirius looked up at the sweet man, with his stubbled chin and beautiful scars and honey brown eyes, and the world fell away. “I miss them, Moony. I miss them so much.”
Remus tucked Sirius to his chest and he crumbled into his friend’s thin frame, wrapping his arms around his waist and holding on like he would drift away if he didn’t. Sirius erupted into ugly, gut wrenching sobs that wracked his chest and hurt to breathe, but no matter how much he tried to stop he could not find the strength.
“I know, Padfoot.” The werewolf ran a hand comfortingly through his hair just as he used to. Sirius let him. “I know. I miss them too.”
Stupid Padfoot. Stupid, stupid Padfoot.