Chapter Five
Remus Lupin was sitting at the kitchen table of the Burrow the morning of August 1st—the day of Bill and Fleur’s wedding.
He was nursing a slight hangover from too much wine and a late night spent in the Burrow’s back garden with Sirius where the pair of them had been acting as if they were nearing twenty years old rather than forty. But Remus had showered before descending the stairs that morning and was on his third cup of tea, and Sirius Black was standing behind him with a thin-toothed comb, combing through Remus’ slightly damp grey and brown hair with relaxing strokes.
Sirius combed while humming softly to himself, aware that his meticulous care of Remus’ hair was a reflection of his own way of showing care and attention. As a young lad, and as a student at Hogwarts, the Marauder’s had endlessly teased Sirius for the pain-staking amount of time he took before parties or pranks to perfect his long locks of black hair. Peter—and most of the school for that matter—had thought Sirius was vain, and maybe a bit of a nancy. They were only right on the last part. Sirius’ careful attention to his hair and his wardrobe, both as a young lad and now, were not symptoms of vanity but of his identity, and of the way he expressed self-love.
Remus knew this. Remus had always understood this. He had never called Sirius vain. Not even once, even in moments when it could have been temporarily true.
Sirius hummed and combed Moony’s hair, an act which expressed his love, and Remus tilted his head back, revealing his bare throat.
Moony being vulnerable—one way in which he revealed his love (and trust) to Sirius.
Teddy was sitting in Remus’ lap, quietly playing with his porridge and adding far too much brown sugar, although Sirius wouldn’t say anything, and he knew that Remus could smell the pile of sugar with his eyes closed and also opted not to scold the child.
The window to the kitchen was ajar, and Sirius combed while listening to the soft birdsong while Remus’ keen sense of hearing caught Molly and Madame and Monsieur Delacour’s shared words as they worked on setting up the chairs, altar, and aisle beneath the canapé.
Arthur had hurried off to work before Remus and Sirius had even woken; some urgent matter he had told Molly, though she had looked confused herself by the need for Arthur to go in to work on the day of his eldest son’s wedding.
Remus slowly tilted his head down toward his teacup as Sirius combed, and he murmured, “It’ll need to be combed again in a few hours’ time, you know,” as he sipped his tea, eyes still closed.
“I’m counting on it,” Sirius replied, his voice low.
Remus smiled.
There were footsteps on the stairs and a few moments later, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Gabrielle entered.
Remus opened his eyes but didn’t move his head as Sirius continued to comb his hair methodically while the teenagers sat themselves down at the table.
“Late night, Remus?” Ginny asked with a smirk.
Sirius barked a laugh and Remus merely smiled serenely at her before pushing the tea pot back into the center of the table and saying, “Tea?”
“Ta,” Ginny said brightly.
Hermione yawned and helped herself to the pot after Ginny, “Morning, all.”
“And ‘ow are you, Teddy?” Gabrielle asked politely.
Teddy looked up from his porridge, his hazel eyes shining, “Good!” He chirped, bouncing in Remus’ lap.
“Best let someone else have some brown sugar, eh tyke?” Sirius said.
Suddenly the kitchen brightened—as if it were noon instead of mid-morning—and a streak of light flew through the open window before resolving itself into a bright silver weasel, which stood on its hind legs beside the teapot and spoke in Arthur’s voice, “In route to the Burrow. The Minister of Magic is coming with me.”
The Patronus dissolved into the air, leaving them all blinking at the spot where it had vanished. And then everyone’s chairs scrapped back at once as they got to their feet.
Remus lifted Teddy as he rose to his feet, securing the toddler onto his hip and striding at once toward the back door, Sirius at his heels. The teenagers (and Gabrielle) were not far behind.
“Molly!” Sirius cried, but she was already standing outside the canapé beside Madame and Monsieur Delacour.
And there, walking across the yard, was Arthur, accompanied by the limping, grizzled-looking Rufus Scrimgeour. They marched across the yard toward the crowd at the canapé.
Gabrielle secured herself to her father’s side, peering at the Minister behind her father’s robes. Sirius stood at Remus’ side, glowering at the advancing man with the walking stick.
Remus could hear Sirius’ accelerated heart-rate and smell the vitriol now flooding Sirius’ bloodstream. Teddy’s heartrate too had gotten rapid, and he was holding tight to Remus’ jumper, his hazel eyes wide on the adults. Remus whispered softly by Teddy’s ear, “It’s alright, little one. Not to worry.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were frowning severely.
“Sorry to intrude,” the Minister of Magic said as he reached them all, “Especially on the day of your son’s wedding.”
Arthur’s brow furrowed and he crossed his arms; clearing irritated that he had been called into work early that morning for this very purpose. Molly looked worried and confused.
The Minister of Magic’s eyes surveyed the group, lingering for a moment on Remus and Teddy—he scowled but said nothing—and his hawk-like eyes fixed on Harry.
“I require a word with Mr. Potter in private,” Scrimgeour declared, “Also with Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger.”
“Us?” Ron said, his eyebrows raised, “Why us?”
“I shall tell you that when we are somewhere more private,” Scrimgeour huffed, “Is there such a place?” He said, turning to Arthur.
“Yes, of course,” Arthur said at once, though his brow was still furrowed, “the sitting room, I reckon.”
“You can lead the way,” Scrimgeour said to Ron, “There will be no need for Arthur or Harry’s…care-takers…to accompany us. Congratulations on the…unique…wedding are in order, I see,” the Minister added, his sharp eyes narrowing in on Sirius’ and Remus’ wedding bands.
Sirius smiled wickedly, “Thank you, Minister. And for failing to amend the legal loophole which made it possible under Ministry of Magic law.”
Scrimgeour bristled, his nostrils flaring, “Ah yes. Well…non-human breeds being what they are…most would have thought such a union would never be envisioned for a Wizard.”
Sirius growled low in his chest, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
“Then I pray you no longer suffer from that same lack of enlightenment,” Remus said coolly, “considering the example before you.”
Scrimgeour sniffed, his eyes narrowing still further, before he turned away, following Ron toward the house, Hermione and Harry walking slowly behind him. As Harry passed by Sirius, he placed a steadying hand on Sirius’ arm and gave Remus a nod—Harry’s green eyes were sharp behind his glasses, and he wore an expression of combined weariness and anger as he continued after the Minister.
As he watched the three teenagers and the Minister of Magic enter the Burrow, Sirius felt a soft bit of tearing—like a rope that tied him to Harry had been frayed slightly. His eyes darted to look at Arthur and Molly, who wore expressions of weary resignation.
Harry’s got to fight his own battles, Sirius told himself, But while Harry may not always need me, he’ll always have me. He’ll always have us.
Remus stepped closer to put a hand on the small of Sirius’ back, “The Minister’s no threat to Harry or us,” Remus said quietly.
Sirius turned to look at him, the fierceness in his dark eyes giving way to tenderness. He lifted a hand to ruffle Teddy’s turquoise curls, “Yes, but even so—I myself pray that old bigots’ got a plan. The Ministry ought to be pulling its own weight in this fight for once.”
Remus smiled wanly, “I fear that the bureaucracy is far too heavy, Sirius.”
Inside the Burrow, Scrimgeour had seated himself in an armchair while Harry, Ron, and Hermione squeezed themselves side-by-side on the sofa.
“I have some questions for the three of you,” Scrimgeour told the trio, “and I think it will be best if we do it individually. If you two—” he pointed at Harry and Hermione—“can wait upstairs, I will start with Ronald.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” Harry said while Hermione nodded vigorously in agreement, “you can speak to us together, or not at all.”
Scrimgeour gave Harry a long, frigid look before saying, “Very well then. Together. I am here because of Albus Dumbledore’s will.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione blinked and looked at one another in surprise.
“Ah. You were not aware that Dumbledore had left you anything?”
“A-all of us?” Ron stammered, “Me and Hermione too?”
“Yes, all of—”
But Harry interrupted, “Dumbledore died over a month ago. Why has it taken this long to give us what he left us?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Hermione said, “They wanted to examine whatever he’s left us. You had no right to do that!” She added, turning to glare at the Minister.
“I had every right,” Scrimgeour growled, “The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry the power to confiscate the contents of a will—”
“That law was created to stop Wizards from passing on Dark artifacts,” Hermione interjected, “and the Ministry is supposed to have powerful evidence that the deceased’s possessions are illegal before seizing them! Are you telling me you though that Dumbledore was trying to pass us something cursed?”
“Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law, Miss Granger?” The Minister asked, narrowing his hawk-like eyes.
“I’m hoping to do some good in the world,” Hermione declared, “Perhaps a career amending Magical Law would be a nice fit then.”
Scrimgeour appraised her for a long moment and then seemed to decide she did not merit a response. He reached inside his cloak and withdrew a drawstring pouch. From it, he removed a scroll of parchment which he unrolled and read aloud.
“The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore…to Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the hope that he will remember me when he uses it.”
The Minister took from the pouch an object that resembled something like a silver cigarette lighter. Scrimgeour passed the Deluminator to Ron, who took it, looking stunned.
Scrimgeour squinted at Ron a moment before turning back to the Will.
“To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of ‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard,’ in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive.”
Scrimgeour reached into the pouch once more and pulled out a small book. Hermione took it from him without a word. Harry looked down and saw the title of the book was in runes; he had never learned to read them, although both Hermione and Remus could. As Harry looked at the symbols, a tear splashed onto the runes on the cover and Ron put his arm around Hermione’s shoulders.
“To Harry James Potter, I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.”
Scrimgeour pulled out the walnut-sized golden ball and stared at Harry, “A Snitch would be a very good hiding place for a small object, would it not?” The Minister said slowly.
Harry blinked, “What d’you mean?”
Hermione huffed, “Snitches have flesh memories, Harry. With all the Quidditch books and magazines you read…” she rolled her eyes.
“A Snitch is not touched even by its Maker until it is first caught,” The Minister said, “It carries an enchantment by which it can identify the first human to lay hands upon it, in case of a disputed capture. This Snitch will remember your touch, Potter. It occurs to me that Dumbledore, who had prodigious magical skill, whatever his faults, might have enchanted this Snitch so that it will open only for you. Take it.”
Harry met Scrimgeour’s yellow eyes as he held out his hand. The Minister leaned forward and placed the Snitch, slowly and deliberately, in Harry’s palm.
Nothing happened.
“That was dramatic,” Harry said.
Ron and Hermione laughed.
Scrimgeour frowned, the lines in his face becoming more severe and his eyes flashing as he said, “Dumbledore left you a second bequest, Potter.”
“Oh?” Harry said, eyebrows rising.
“The sword of Godric Gryffindor,” Scrimgeour said, “but that sword was not Dumbledore’s to give away. Why do you think—?”
“Dumbledore wanted to give me the sword?” Harry said, shrugging, “Maybe he thought it would look nice on my wall.”
“This is not a joke, Potter!” The Minister snapped, “Was it because Dumbledore believed that only the sword of Godric Gryffindor could defeat the Heir of Slytherin?”
“Interesting theory,” Harry said, “Has anyone ever tried sticking a sword in Voldemort? Maybe the Ministry should put some people onto that, instead of wasting their time stripping down Delimuninators, covering up breakouts from Azkaban, and harboring supremacy complexes! Is this what you’ve been doing, Minister, shut up in your office, trying to break open a Snitch? People are dying, going missing, putting their lives on the line for their loved ones, for what’s right, while you—”
“YOU GO TOO FAR!” Scrimgeour shouted, leaping to his feet and pulling out his wand, “You may wear that scar like a crown, Potter, but it is not up to a seventeen-year-old boy to tell me how to do my job! It’s time you learned some respect!”
“It’s time you earned it,” Harry said smoothly as he smiled widely. The sitting room was now heavy with humidity and the cloying earthy sweet scents of pine and rain showers on a hot day.
Another voice said, “And I believe it is time, Minister, that you understand what real power is.”
Hermione and Ron’s bulging eyes—glued to the Minister of Magic, who was still pointing his wand at Harry’s chest—snapped to the entranceway.
Remus and Sirius stood shoulder-to-shoulder, bathed in the golden-grey glow of Remus’ radiating magic that wafted into the air around them, mixing with the summer sunshine now streaming in from the windows.
Remus was staring quite soberly at the Minister, his hands in his pockets. His jaw was tight, flexing in his lined and scarred face, and his brown eyes were carefully guarded as he appraised Scrimgeour. Sirius, however, looked like thunder—the magic and the words may come from Remus, but the storm would be delivered by Sirius.
“Real power?!” Scrimgeour said, his eyes flashing over Remus and Sirius and back to Harry, “You lot fancy yourselves more powerful than the Ministry! You seem to think that the Ministry does not desire what you—what Dumbledore—desired,” His eyes stayed focused on Harry as he insisted, “We ought to be working together!”
“Afraid that’s where you’re wrong, Minister,” Sirius growled, “What we and Harry stand for and what the Ministry stands for does not align. Afraid ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ scheme just won’t cut it here. But you’re not wrong about the first part…”
Harry grinned, “Don’t you remember, Minister?” He raised his right fist toward the Minister of Magic and displayed the white scars—I must not tell lies.
“We don’t approve of your methods, or your policies, but that message really did sink in,” Harry said, “We do not tell lies.”
Remus smiled softly, his brown eyes molten, “Indeed. Now, Minister, if you will please get the fuck out of this house.”