missing a beat
Evan Rosier gazed consideringly at his class. It was his second duelling period with the first years, and there in the large grounds that stretched into the tall trees of the Forbidden Forest, those little heads seemed far too small. Far too frail.
Far too… innocent, and all too young.
An illusion, he knew. One was never too young. And these children, well… the times they lived in weren't very promising. And yet, something in him ached when he thought of them falling into traps too big for their years.
Not on my watch.
He quirked a smile at the lot, "Hello again. We're back to another duelling session. Let's hope it's as enjoyable as the last, eh?"
There were disgruntled murmurs at the memory of running and stretching and running the one hour their first duelling class offered. Some grinned, abashed, but there were a rare few who held real smiles.
Evan made note of all those faces, planning to review the memory of the class carefully through Occlumency later. He was not going to have any stragglers in his class— that had been the first thing he'd promised himself when he'd taken the job. Even if he had to adjust his teaching style for every other student, this was one thing he would absolutely not compromise on.
"Only one lap this time, I promise," he said, eyes sparkling with laughter.
Some of them grumbled still, but stretched a little and acquiesced. The students lined up in an almost parade like fashion, and at his indication, shot off to run the lap. His eyes never strayed from them.
He felt something leaden drop in his chest as some heated words were exchanged between some of the Gryffindors and Slytherins midway through the run.
How could he fix something like this, when the enmity and spite were so deep-rooted and anything he could do to nullify it would be canceled out by their families' attitude? Sure, getting all the houses to come together for duelling had seemed a good idea, but would it really do anything?
"It was a wise choice, no matter how it may seem," The Headmaster's voice came from behind him, "combining their classes."
Evan started, and in less than a second his wand was in his hand. Pointed towards one of the most powerful wizards of the age.
"Dumbledore," Evan said, exasperated, though he didn't put his wand back in its holster, "You really ought to come with warning sparks of red."
The old wizard's eyes twinkled, "Most things in life do not come with a warning, Evan, as I'm sure you know," At Evan's souring look, he changed the subject, "I believe your students are mostly done with their round."
Evan didn't look back and check, because if he was saying it, it must be.
Instead he said, "Indeed. What was so urgent as to bring you here now?"
Dumbledore smiled a little, "Professor Flitwick is, regrettably, unable to make it for your wished demonstration."
"And I suppose you are here to fill that position," Evan said dryly, his tone belying the sudden rapid pace of his heart.
"Indeed."
Duelling with Dumbledore... old, buried memories, jumbled together in a fight for precedence. Evan clamped on them ruthlessly with Occlumency. This was no time for distractions.
His face blanked into a neutral mask, he just said, "I hope you've kept up your skill level, old man."
"I, too, am curious as to your growth, my boy."
My boy.
His shields weren't strong enough.
"I'm not your boy, Dumbledore," Evan snapped.
Dumbledore gave him a sad smile, "No, I suppose not. Not until you've forgiven both yourself and I for some things, at least."
Evan looked back at his students, most of whom had lined up a respectable distance from the two of them, in a bid to show they weren't eavesdropping, although Evan was sure they were.
Brats, he thought fondly, some of his Occlumency barriers reflexively loosening. They were going to have to cover how to eavesdrop subtly in their classes as well, it seemed.
Yes. This was what he was here to do. And no drama of the past was going to ruin it.
Keep lying to yourself, a sadistic voice in his head sang.
Evan made a half-abandoned gesture to itch his forearm before clearing his throat.
"Form a circle," he told the curious-eyed imps.
They did, everyone picking their friends and acquaintances to stand next to. Evan hid a smile.
"The person opposite you will be your duelling partner for this session," he said, ignoring the sudden exclamations, "I'll decide what to change for the next based on this time and your previous performance. Now stop talking, and go stand next to your assigned partner."
They did, with some grumbling. Evan wondered if he should stop smiling so often and adopt Minerva's more strict demeanor. There would certainly be less complaining.
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled madly. Evan suppressed the slight comfort that gave him. Perhaps he wasn't too lost, if the old man still saw something in him.
He's not your mentor anymore, he reminded himself. He never was.
But he had been, really.
He shook his head slightly. Stupid complications and ruddy Tom Riddle.
The emotion was softened a little by his mental shields, but it was still strong and jagged enough to cut.
"That was terrible," he told the children bluntly, then winced internally at how he'd taken his mood out on them, "That sort of speed will have you down in an amateur fight in less than a minute."
The children frowned, but didn't protest this. It was true, mostly.
Mr. Lupin did considerably well, he noted quietly. He didn't mention it aloud, though. There was something… unnatural about the way the boy ran. His almost fluid movement could be excused by a lot of practice, yes, but something told him there was more to it. More to him.
He wasn't quite sure what though.
He didn’t ponder too much over it. There would be time later. Instead, he briefly wondered if he should just shut down empathy receptors altogether for what was to come, since getting tangled in emotions was not going to help. He pushed that idea aside. He daren't subdue emotional receptors completely in a class full of eleven-year-olds, after all. It was the height of stupidity.
Besides, if a demonstration with Dumbledore brings so many bad memories, you ought to just not do it, a voice protested.
It was silenced sharply.
I'm no coward. He's— I just… I'll show him!
With that rather eloquent thought, he said, "The Headmaster and I shall now duel to give you an idea of it. Do try and note all you can."
He turned to regard Dumbledore, who looked back at him just as serenely.
Something told Evan he wasn't the only one using Occlumency, if only in a limited way.
Something also told him it was vain to think so, and rather insidiously hopeful, too.
Doing away with the bowing to simulate a real-life fight, they readied their wands and settled into an appropriate stance. Evan had the flash of a second to wonder if Dumbledore might just have changed his style to throw him off before the assault of spells started.
Evan didn't bother dodging the first one, knowing full well by the slight waver that coursed through it in the beginning that it would turn as he would and home in. Instead, he brought his wand down in an arc and parried the spell and the next two before shooting his own. Dumbledore, still silent, conjured a glistening red shield that shattered against the spell, neutralizing it.
"Learnt that one, did you?" He said to Evan, a fond smile playing on his lips as he shot two successive spells.
Evan couldn't help but smirk as he deflected each in turn, "Like I said, you had better keep up."
The spell he'd cast against the red shield was one Dumbledore had quite bluntly refused to teach him in his student days, citing his volatility in youth.
The first thing he'd done after becoming an Occlumens was learn it.
Evan Rosier had grown a lot from what he once was, whether for better or worse, but he felt like a kid trying to play pretend in front of Dumbledore. Like he was eleven and scared, twelve and running, thirteen and accepting...
He meshed two shields together and deflected Dumbledore’s spell back at him. The man whirled around and vanished and the spell harmlessly fizzled past where he'd been. And a second later, Dumbledore was back, looking for all the world as though he'd never moved.
What in Helga's name—
Oh.
It was an opaque shield, but... dissolusioned?
Was that even possible?
Evan cast a silent ward disrupter powerful enough to make it crack.
Apparently so.
The spells continued, exchanging so fast it was hard to note who had done what. The students watched with awe and fascination as the two Professors— one a Headmaster —moved like the wind, casting and dodging and casting again.
The duel ended when Dumbledore cast a spell bright yellow in color, and it cut right through Evan's shield—
"You were having me on," Evan said quietly, frustrated.
"Was I?" Dumbledore said, eyebrows raised, "I thought you knew the spell and its counter and thus didn't bother trying until later."
Fair enough.
"So, that's an example of a duel for you," Evan told his students, "Of course, given the Headmaster and I didn't use any forbidden spells— which the enemy would not hesitate to do —real duels can often be much harder, and leave you dodging more often than shield-casting. We'll get to that in a bit. Did anyone see the duration?"
At that, everyone looked up at the clock he had spelled on the wall during their first lesson.
"Five. Minutes." He said, tilting his head to the side. There was a general surprised murmur in the class.
"Now, contrary to what many of you will be thinking, that's a long time to last against a wizard as powerful as your Headmaster. This, you need to understand. You don't go around thinking you can defeat wizards with ten times your experience and magical power. That's sheer hubris. I could not have lasted against him for long, and there will be wizards more powerful than you in a fight and you, too, cannot hope to win by sheer magical stamina then. You put up a strong front, you trick, and you escape, helping others if needed. Self-defense does not always mean you win a fight. It means you defend what you intended to and get away. It means you fulfill your initial objective."
A dry smile crossed his lips, "That said, the Headmaster used some nifty tricks in the duel as well, and so can your opponent. What are a few you noted?"
The class blinked as one, still a little stunned. Evan waited patiently until a hand shot up in the air.
Sirius Black.
"There was one time where Headmaster Dumbledore shot two spells back to back but the second spell reached you faster than the first, sir?"
Evan inclined his head with a more genuine smile, "Indeed. Can anyone guess how I foresaw that?"
Several hands shot up in the air, mostly ravenclaws.
"Yes, Mr. Lupin?"
"It was a different green," seeing his raised eyebrows, the boy elaborated, "He would cast the same spell successively several times in the duel, sir, so I supposed he expected to play off this one as the same as its previous, as well, to make you think it would reach you at the same speed. But it was a slightly different green, a different, faster spell."
Evan's eyebrows went nowhere but up. He had not expected a student to be able to answer it correctly, only asked it, really, to get them thinking. It requires very acute observation to notice something like that when you weren't expecting it. And when you haven’t seen many duels. He looked at the other hands still in the air, and quietly noted how Aanya Kashyap nodded slightly in agreement and pulled her hand back down.
It was quite possible she would know, given the emphasis on duelling in Indian prep schools. But it said something, that she'd managed to learn that trick there while everything blew up in her face.
The others spoke unsurely of some other slightly off characteristics of the spell, not realising they were mirrored in the first, too. Evan gently explained each doubt, until there were no more hands.
"Very well," He turned to an appraising Dumbledore, "I thank the Headmaster for his aid. I'm sure he has more pressing matters to attend to now."
Dumbledore only smiled at the dismissal, and Evan's hand clenched at his own rudeness. But there was only so much he could take of seeing Albus Dumbledore.
You really shouldn’t have taken the job then.
It’s not like it was actually my choice.
As Dumbledore’s form moved towards the castle, Evan taught his students the sleeping spell. It was harmless, and the easiest duelling spell for first-years to learn. Though only a handful could successfully cast the spell, Evan was pleased to note that by the end of the period, everyone had the wand movement down to an art. He asked them to practice their inflection while incanting it as homework, and said that he expected them to have mastered it by next class.
“Ask your peers if you’re having any difficulty,” he told them, “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. If you’re still not getting it, then my door is always… well, not open, exactly, but welcome.”
There were some chuckles at that.
“Good work,” he said, offering them all a smile that went all the way up to his eyes.
That disarmed them, though he didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if he didn’t smile.
The class dispersed, though a certain student dallied after a word with Mr. Lupin. Miss Kashyap.
“Sir,” she greeted, “You said you’d give me the time for our lessons after class.”
He inclined his head. Originally, he had hoped to have her first lesson before this class, to try and prevent any possible accidents while she learned a new spell, but something had… come up. Thankfully, displaying proper responsibility, the girl had practised both the incantation and wand movement separately, trying hard not to cast the spell.
“I did. How does 8 pm today sound to you? Or do you need the full hour for dinner?”
Aanya shook her head, “No, I’ll be done in half an hour. 8 pm works. See you, sir.”
“See you, Miss Kashyap.”
As he herded the fourth years to the duelling room for the next period, Evan reflected that he’d have to skip dinner.
***
Peter stared at the matron.
“Why?” He said, “Just why are you so insistent on this?! It’s my life!”
He didn’t remember ever shouting like this in his life. But this was so not her business. How was it his fault something went wrong and now they knew? How was it his fault his Grandmother was an idiot?
“I need to talk to your grandmother, young man,” Pompfrey said incredulously, “Or do you not want to get better?”
“I’m fine—” Peter winced at the obvious lie and changed tracks, voice levelling a little, “You talking to her is not going to help, Madam Pomfrey. It’ll just make things worse. She’s very stubborn.”
“But that’s awful,” she said hoarsely, “It’s your life, child.”
“Exactly,” Peter said tiredly, “Please leave it, Madam Pomfrey.”
She shook her head, “She’s your guardian! She had better do her job and approve the potion.”
Peter’s dull headache spiked, so he sat back down on his bed and took a deep breath.
Madam Pomfrey had done a few diagnostics and claimed Peter was affected by something called Mordecai’s Malison. It meant he couldn’t channel magic properly, because the attraction that kept his magic glued together was faulty and thus couldn’t be directed without sheer exertion. And having your magical core scattered every time you tried to cast a spell also mutilated your physical body, so there was that.
That wasn’t the worst of it— there was a cure.
It was genetic, which meant his Grandmother had to have— should have —known about it, but instead she had always brushed his concerns and troubles aside.
That wasn’t the worst of it either.
How could she not approve it—?
The cure was a potion, and you needed your guardian's consent to have it. Which he didn’t.
He’d wished he could scream when he’d gotten the response to his letter. But he hadn’t, because this was expected, really.
He knew she didn’t care for him, but, but—
He’d hoped she wouldn't just… just stand by and watch him die.
Peter thought he could understand her reasoning, if he tried really, really hard, because the potion required siren blood. Heavily regulated, almost illegal to own siren blood. Apparently he’d survived this long because his own siren blood had given him some immunity. But to get hands on the potion, well… it could be said that there was no quiet way to do it.
And his dear Grandmother certainly wouldn’t want to drag the Pettigrew family name through the dirt, now would she?
He could see why she’d said no, really, when he recalled what he’d read in the past few days of those affected by Mordecai’s Mallison. They were thought of as weak, as faulty, as unworthy.
Defects.
The bigots were the only ones who thought so, true. But when Britain had blood discrimination so prevalent, well… who would fight against the bias for one. rare. disease?
Not Grandmother, Peter thought, dejection squirming in his gut.
And without her permission, he was a goner.
No, not really a goner, he amended, I mean, I could just quit magic for good and live as a muggle.
His magic was able to stay contained so long as he didn't actually use it.
But the idea seemed unbearable, though he knew he would seriously consider it if it came to his life.
Or if it hurts that badly every time, he thought hollowly.
No magic? No Hogwarts?
And then he realised.
This wouldn't work for his Grandmother either. She wasn't going to help him settle there, or let him take help from another. She wasn't going to let him do it.
No, it was far better to have the Pettigrew Heir die quietly. Or fend off the ailment miraculously somehow, without the cure, like a worthy man ought. It would be like her to not consider that it was impossible.
No no no, she couldn’t be that cruel hearted, surely. She just… she just…
The sickening feeling crawling up his throat told him this was denial. Desperate, pathetic denial.
"Peter, next month you'll be going to Hogwarts, and you need to understand— this needs to stop."
That’s what she’d said. And how was this supposed to stop if she didn’t give him the cure, exactly?
“You were supposed to be the perfect Heir, bringing back our status to what it once was— except you turned out disappointment after disappointment. First, magic didn't manifest in you properly— you're a weakling, and then you didn't inherit your father's looks or charm, nor even your mother's voice,” her voice had grown sharper, “And I don't care how you do it, young man, but you will not show the world the mess you are, you hear me? Put on a good mask, keep the mystery about you thick if need be, but show no one that you lack what your predecessors bore like a crown. Our line will fade away, or worse, be held in disgrace if this continues, and I shall not have it! Not because of someone like you!”
Suddenly those words seemed very different than they once had. Peter felt angry, he wanted to break something—
The bedside table’s wood shattered and the panel placed over the frame fell to the ground and cracked.
And in a second he was shrieking in agony.
He thought he could recognize it now, the sensation of his magic burning as it pushed its way through him, trying to find an outlet. It made him want to recoil, but it wasn’t anywhere he could escape from, it was him, it was him, and he couldn't esca—
Pomfrey was at his side instantly, first casting some spell that seemed to almost force his body to relax for a moment and then coaxing some potion— Dreamless Sleep, he thought the label read —down his throat.
And then it all dimmed black.
Brief moments of his consciousness surfacing caught the white hospital wing walls and a hand brushing the hair off his forehead, whispering small, comforting nothings.
“This is not done, Peter,” he heard someone— Pomfrey? —whisper to herself as he drifted once more into a stupor.
He had the distinct feeling the anger in her voice wasn’t directed at him, but that only made him more scared.
After all, an angry nurse meant an angry grandmother.
And Peter was tired.
so so tired—
***
“Oh, Peter,” Alice said, eyes dim with worry.
Madam Pomfrey came over, “It’s almost curfew, child. I have to draw up the hospital wing wards now.”
Alice looked at her blankly for a second, “What? Oh, yes, I’ll get going. Thanks for the reminder, Healer Pomfrey.”
“Just Madam’s fine, dear…” Pomfrey said tiredly, though James saw a smile flit over her face, illuminating it with something warm.
James didn’t know why it came as a surprise. It wasn’t as though he thought the stern woman cold, but she had certainly seemed… formidable, in her manner. A force to be reckoned with. But now, in the van light of the dulled lamps by the beds of resting patients, she just looked worn. Worried.
“Can I help?” he blurted, then turned red. He hoped it wouldn’t be visible in the dim lighting.
Pomfrey’s eyebrows rose in slight surprise, another one of those brief emotions flickering in her eyes, “There’s no need, Mr. Potter. Harvey over there helps well enough.”
That puzzled James until he noticed a boy a few beds down— as though with supernatural hearing —smiling at them and waving.
James smiled back and raised his hand in greeting.
Alice only looked at him vaguely before her eyes were drawn back to Peter. She squeezed his hand again, like she had been doing for a while, mumbling that it would be the last time.
James didn’t say anything to that, only felt his eyes, too, draw towards the other boy, searching for something, though he didn’t know what and he doubted he would get it anyway.
But despite knowing this, as he watched Peter lying on the bed still and silent as ever, James’ lips twisted something bitter.
“Rest up well,” he said to him, though there was no way Peter could hear him right now.
They left the hospital wing without ceremony, and trekked up the first staircase that seemed in the right direction.
“You okay?” he asked Alice when they’d been quiet for too long. Something about the silence in the long, dark corridor they were now in was disquieting.
Alice seemed inclined to agree, at least, since she said, “Yes. I just… he was so nice to me, y’know? Even when he didn’t have any business doing it. He— I— he literally walked into a compartment with my hostile siblings to rescue me when he didn’t even know me. And now… well, who knows what’s happened to him?”
James absorbed this information, “He’ll be fine,” he said finally, “I’m sure he would have been moved to St. Mungo’s if anything really serious happened. And you heard what Madam Pomfrey said— he was just under Dreamless Sleep, not actually unconscious.”
But somehow the words seemed hollow, so he added, “But I understand. Still, don’t you think he’d have liked you to be enjoying your time here even when he wasn’t there? From what I gather, that was rather the point.”
A smile crossed her face, “I guess.”
Perhaps it was this that James' eyes had searched for in Peter. Reassurance.
“So,” said James as they came to a crossroad.
“So,” Alice echoed, taking in the different routes.
“They should really give us a map of this place,” James said with some amusement, “Do you know the way to the den?”
James had christened it the official nickname for the common room, until he realised it already existed.
Alice shook her head ruefully, “I thought I did, but the corridors seemed to have shifted.”
“I guess we’ll just have to wing it,” James said, grinning a bit.
“You are such a Gryffindor, Potter.”
“You talk as if you’re not, Alice.” James said, still grinning cheekily.
Alice had to smile at that, “I guess we’re both reckless idiots, then. Which way?”
“You choose.”
“Scared, Potter? What, that spooky one to the right doesn’t call to you?”
“I was thinking we’d flip a galleon.”
“A galleon has two sides.”
“Er, two galleons then?”
Alice raised an eyebrow, and they both stared at each other for a moment before the slight tension burst, leaving them laughing, clutching at their stomachs.
In the embrace of the castle walls, they laughed until it hurt, and just when they were gaining their equilibrium, they were set off once more because the joke wasn’t even that funny, and here they were gasping for breath like idiots in the sheer nerves that getting lost in Hogwarts at night with curfew looming over them inspired.
“Let’s avoid the spooky corridor, for a start,” Alice managed finally.
“You’re no fun,” James said facetiously, because really, he had no interest in exploring that route tonight.
“As if you’re any keener,” Alice said dryly, “Let’s just go left. It leans closer to our original direction, I think.”
“You think,” James repeated, drawing quotation marks in the air with his hand, “Infamous last words.”
“Quit being dramatic,” Alice admonished, “We haven’t gotten to that part quite yet.”
“You never know, Alice. There could be a monster right around the corner—”
“Hush, don’t jinx it!”
***
"Your mother," Orion Black said quietly, "was only doing what she thought best for you, Sirius. Her methods are a bit… harsh, I agree, but they are what she has been taught and learnt from in her own childhood. They are what she thinks is right."
Sirius swallowed the burning lump in his throat, willing himself to try and understand.
"Now, since you'll be going off to Hogwarts soon, without us to watch over you, you'll need to be prepared in case the memory surfaces and you… panic." Orion's voice grew stern, "Not that it is called for, you understand?"
His throat was very dry, "Yes, Father."
Orion nodded, "What do you know of Occlumency, boy?"
Sirius twiddled with his pillowcase, more than a little perturbed. His father had made it seem so innocuous, his 'help'. But Reg's reaction had said otherwise.
It didn't seem to be a big deal to Sirius, who honestly liked the sensation of numbness against fear. Who enjoyed the sensation of remembering his parents and not quivering.
There was something wrong though, if it had Regulus Black accepting him going to Albus Dumbledore. It wasn't as though Regulus hated the man, but he had always been wary of him, particularly because of the retribution they would receive for any association with him.
Then again, Sirius was already a Gryffindor. Perhaps Regulus thought the punishments couldn't get any worse than that fact had made them.
Sirius was certain he was wrong, but well, he wouldn't be the one to make him worry more, now would he?
The dormitory door opened, and Sirius looked up briefly to take in his roommate, Kingsley Shacklebolt, setting his book bag on his bed and reorganizing it for the next day.
Nodding once in greeting, he went back to fidgeting with his pillowcase.
Shacklebolt was an alright bloke. Studied well, talked politely, and mostly minded his own business. Sirius could appreciate that, even if it wasn't his cup of tea. Besides, it made life for him much easier.
Strangely, the year had seen only three Gryffindors sorted. Him, James, and Shacklebolt. Sirius didn’t know whether he ought to be pleased or disappointed. He chose the former.
For a while only companionable silence filled the air, and Sirius could see Shacklebolt's surprise. Usually his greeting would be a lot more… wild-and-woolly.
It was, surprisingly, he who broke the quiet.
"It's ten p.m." he said.
Sirius stared at him, "and?"
"Where's Potter?"
Sirius jolted in surprise and looked around the room. But although James' bed was rumpled enough to make anyone think he had been sleeping in it, the boy in question wasn't anywhere in sight.
"Um, maybe he's with a teacher?" Sirius said with some doubt. No teacher would have held him back so late, unless he was serving detention. Maybe he was serving detention.
"He put those dungbombs he hides under his bed in action already?" Shacklbolt asked dryly, reading his line of thought.
Sirius grinned, not-so-subtly kicking something under his own bed in further in the dark, "Dungbombs? What dungbombs?"
Shacklebolt shook his head, "If you're going to start pranking too, please spare the room. Some of us live here."
Sirius' nose wrinkled reflexively at the thought.
"Do not worry," he said solemnly, "You'll be safe… from the stench, anyway."
He wasn't going to waste the precious few bombs James had given him pranking their dorm. No, no, he had much better ideas for them.
"All I could ask for," Shacklebolt said, dipping his quill in ink and scratching away at some parchment.
Right. They had homework.
After the gruelling battle of tugging his pillow back inside its cover, Sirius grabbed his Herbology textbook and writing materials and joined Kinsley at the single table in the room. One plus of having fewer dorm mates was that all three of them had individual beds. Sirius had whooped when he'd seen that, though honestly he just wanted an excuse to whoop. The cheer of his sorting in Gryffindor hadn't dimmed in the slightest then.
Half an hour passed. Sirius dusted the drying sand off his parchment and looked for James again, but the boy was nowhere to be seen.
"Think we should ask a Prefect once?" Sirius said, because he knew Shacklebolt would not appreciate the other idea Sirius was entertaining: look for James himself.
Shacklebolt nodded, "One of them studies in the common room about this time."
Sirius did not ask how he knew that so surely, only nodded and climbed down the stairs to the common room…
…and slammed right into James.
"Ouch."
"Yes, siriusly, ouch."
Sirius looked down at him with a relieved smile, "What were you doing out so late?"
James shuddered, "Got lost. Merlin, but the castle is downright creepy at night."
Shacklebolt looked at him curiously, "How long were you lost?"
James shrugged, "Only half an hour or so. Could have been worse, I suppose. I was thankfully spared detention."
Shacklebolt inclined his head, and Sirius snapped his finger in front of his mouth when he began to yawn.
"Let's get back to the dorm."
As James cosied up in his bed and Shacklebolt winded up his homework, Sirius sat with his night lamp on. He claimed it was to help Shacklebolt without bothering James with the alternative, almost clinical white light emanating from the roof, but the truth had it that he was scared no light would mean he would fall asleep, and his dreams would not be forgiving.
The pretence couldn't last for long. Shacklebolt, too, settled in, and asked him to shut down the light. Without thinking, Sirius reached forward and pulled the lamp cord, leaving them in darkness.
With nothing else to focus on, he was left only to hear his harsh breaths.
He reached over after a second of hesitation and pulled his blanket over himself. Hogwarts had provided the traditional red blankets for Gryffindor students, and he had used them on the first day, leery of using his own from home because of the memories that might come with it. But he used it now, in all its shimmering glory: soft, warm and heavy silver wool with stars that sparkled strangely. It had come from the most unexpected source, in the worst of times: Kreacher.
Sirius remembered that time with crystal clarity. Or at least, this bit of it:
He'd crossed a line again, refusing the Avery Heiress a dance despite his mother's public insistence. And no matter how much he wanted to, how much he hated himself for the defeat, he could never muster up that courage again.
No food, minimal water, and sleeping out in the garden with the spiders and snakes for three days had fixed him right, in his mother's words.
And it was there, shivering in the cold, that Kreacher had come with bread and juice. Water and a blanket.
The edibles had been from Regulus. And the blanket—
"For the cold," Kreacher sniffed, before apparating back inside the house with a crack.
Later, once it was all over, he thanked Regulus for the food and cover. Regulus shook his head, mostly ashamed he had taken so long, a fact rather exacerbated when the two realised it was Kreacher who sent the blanket of his own volition to help.
But Kreacher never mentioned it, only treating Sirius with the same coldness as before. It didn't take long for Sirius to return it the same— it was hard not to, with the elf's cutting remarks in support of his mother, but Sirius didn’t forget. He couldn't forget.
The blanket was as soft (and clean, despite never being washed) as it was the day it had been given to him— which made Sirius suspect that it was enchanted with house-elf magic —and just as comforting.
And maybe, Sirius thought, just maybe, that would be enough to keep the monsters at bay.