Mr. Black

The morning of Mr. Black's release from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies dawned sunny and mild. Which, Maple found as she drew the blinds in her office, turned out to be a bad thing. The sidewalk all along the London street thronged with onlookers and reporters, all eager for their first look at the once-infamous, now-exonerated, newly-rehabilitated Sirius Black.

Someone on her team had leaked his recovery timeline, and when she found out who—no. Maple straightened her robes, clipped her name badge to her lapel, and opened the office door. Today was for Mr. Black. She would deal with the offending party tomorrow.

She found him in his room, pacing a tight circuit while Mr. Lupin talked him through last-minute arrangements. Mr. Black turned when she entered, tossed a roguish wink her way.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Clean up pretty well, huh?”

And, indeed, he did. If she hadn't personally witnessed his recovery, she'd never have guessed what he'd been through, the state he'd once been in. He was dressed for the London April day: leather jacket; fitted shirt; jeans. His grey eyes were bright and clear, his footsteps sure, and back straight. He actually resembled the twenty-three year old man he was rather than the cowed, malnourished thing that had been dropped on her six months ago.

“There is a complication with your release,” she said as he accepted his duffel from Mr. Lupin. Both young men turned to her, and she detailed what she'd seen from her window. “There are probably more in the lobby, clamoring for an exclusive. You needn't go past them. I can take you to the Floo bank instead and get you on your way.”

To her surprise, though, Mr. Black just shrugged and flung his bag over a shoulder. “Wouldn't want to disappoint my fans,” he said with a smirk. Before she could protest, he strode past her and out into the corridor.

“I really must insist,” she pressed, trailing at his heel; she was not about to let a half year's work go to waste over a column in the Prophet.

Mr. Lupin followed not far behind her, adding his own objections, but Mr. Black's pace did not slow. He strode down the hall like it was his own personal hospital and the Mungo's staff were merely borrowing it. He did not, as she had supposed—as she'd hoped—wait for a lift. Rather, he pushed open the door to the stairwell, hopped the rail (“Mr. Black!” Maple cried at the exact instant that Mr. Lupin shouted “Sirius, don't you dare!”) and dropped to the next landing.

“Keep up, then,” he quipped, and he took the next flight several steps at a time, leaving Maple and the equally-exasperated Mr. Lupin to sprint after.

By the time Maple reached the lobby level, Mr. Black had been thronged by reporters, try though security may to enforce a perimeter. Questions rang throughout the atrium, echoing off the stone as each voice clamored to be the one Mr. Black heard. A dozen flashbulbs blazed, blindingly bright.

“—lenience for Healer Abbott—”

“—Azkaban?”

“Is Minister Bagnold—”

“—Harry Potter's godfather—”

“That's enough!” Maple shoved her way through the lot, voice pitched above the ruckus. “All right, clear out! Everyone, out!”

But Mr. Black only grinned, brighter than the camera flashes. “Healer Maple Zheng, everyone,” he said, pulling her up onto the bench with him. “The miracle-worker responsible for my remarkable recovery.”

“Are you quite finished?” she murmured. She tried to nudge him off the bench, usher him away from the crowd while they stood temporarily mute.

“Not just yet. I've got one thing left to say.” Mr. Black turned away from her to face the room at large. His lips parted, stretched, though it seemed to be less a smile and more a baring of his teeth.

“Let me make myself perfectly clear. There is nothing I would not do for Harry, including my indulging you lot. I did this so you could get it out of your system. Run your articles, write your pieces, print whatever you'd like about me. But you'll leave him out of it. Or you'll answer to me.”

~ ~ ~

Remus thought Sirius's first destination would be the house, or perhaps the Ministry. Instead, he set off at a brisk pace down the London streets and didn't slow until he'd put several blocks between them and the gawkers loitering outside of Mungo's. It wasn't until Remus saw the sign of the Leaky Cauldron dead ahead that he realized exactly where Sirius was leading them: Diagon Alley.

The lunch rush had mostly broken apart by the time they entered the narrow main room of the Leaky Cauldron's pub. Tom, the barkeep, called a greeting to them as Sirius barreled through for the courtyard behind.

“We'll be back for dinner,” Remus called by way of apology and trailed Sirius out the rear door.

Here, at least, Sirius had no choice but to pause; he couldn't part the wards without a wand. Back at Mungo's, he'd done his therapy with a practice want and then one of the loaners that the hospital supplied, but the results would always be substandard compared to the work one's own could produce. He'd refused Abbott's out of hand, though it had been fairly won. Which, Remus supposed, was understandable given what that wand had done. Sirius's old wand, unfortunately, would never respond to him again.

“Well?” Sirius growled when Remus finally caught up. He paced the little cobbled area like a caged thing, gesturing sharply toward the brick that would open the way. “Let's go.”

“Pads, let's think about this a minute.”

The request earned him only a growl and an impatient glare. Sirius shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the brick wall. “Sixty seconds. Go.”

“This isn't going to be like an outing in Muggle London, you realize. Everyone in Diagon Alley is going to recognize you—”

“Fifty—”

“—so you ought to take more time to reorient yourself in the Wizarding world before you subject yourself to that.”

Sirius was unmoved. “I'll have to do it eventually. What does it matter if it's now or in a few days? Thirty seconds.”

“It matters,” Remus persisted, “because if you push yourself too hard, you'll be right back in Mungo's. Remember what Healer Zheng said. Gradual reintroduction. Diagon Alley at the height of the day isn't that. There's nothing you need so badly—”

“A wand.”

Sirius's right hand, at some point, had slipped from his pocket and now flexed and relaxed at his hip. “I need,” he said, balling his fingers into a tight fist, “a wand. I've had one since I could walk, even before I got my letter. I feel like I'm missing my arm.”

“You'll stop tearing along like you're about to murder someone?” Remus asked, and Sirius winced. “The last thing you need is for that reputation to stick.”

Sirius grumbled something that sounded like agreement, so Remus gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Then let's get you a new arm.”

With the tap of Remus's wand, the bricks parted, and the entryway to Diagon Alley yawned open before them. The main thoroughfare was as crowded as ever, a jumble of color and noise. Sirius, however, closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath. When he let it out in a rush, it seemed all his nerves went with it, and he set off down the street, such an easy confidence in his stride that it was as though he'd never left.

They made a quick stop at Gringotts to pick up a few Galleons, and then it was off to Ollivanders. The shopfront was just as Remus remembered it from purchasing his own wand—narrow and quite shabby, to be truthful. It was impossible to tell from the peeling gilt and the fine layer of dust over the glass panes that every wixen's treasure could be found within. The air itself crackled with the scent of magic, both the sour notes of an ill match and the bright citrus-like ones of a true-struck pairing.

A small bell chimed as they entered, and Ollivander himself emerged from deep within the stacks of wand-boxes. “Ah,” he said, his pale eyes easily the brightest things in the dingy shop. “Sirius Black. Mahogany, heartstring of a Hungarian Horntail. Unyielding. By all accounts, it served you well until the last. I did wonder when you would be by to find its replacement.”

He set immediately to his measurements, the tape flying hither and thither. As he worked, he inquired after Remus's wand—cypress, unicorn hair, kept in good repair, I hope—and then disappeared back into the labyrinth of shelves.

“I took the liberty of preparing a few candidates,” he said, returning from the depths of the shop with a short stack of boxes. He deposited them on a low table and opened the first. “A similar make to your first—the wood came from the same limb.”

Ollivander held the wand out, but Sirius's fingertips had barely brushed the wooden handle before it was whisked away again with a dismissive, “No, not that—try this one—”

Remus had to wonder, as Ollivander set the discarded wand aside and opened the next box, if the older man could also discern the scents left by various kinds of magic. Other than the sudden stink of turned milk, there'd been nothing Remus had noticed to indicate it was an ill-suited match.

The wand-fitting continued until Ollivander had exhausted the seven or eight wands he'd brought to start with, each rejected as quickly as the first. He produced a few bottles of pumpkin juice from a drawer of his worktable, cooled them with a flip of his wand, bid Sirius and Remus help themselves, and trundled off to gather more.

“I think he's gotten even nuttier since last I saw him,” Sirius muttered, twisting the cap off his bottle. “I wouldn't have thought it possible.”

“He is the best at what he does,” Remus said, “so I think it's worth indulging a few... eccentricities.”

Sirius gave a noncommittal shrug and sipped his pumpkin juice. Before long, Ollivander returned with the next crop of wands.

“This one, I think,” Ollivander said triumphantly, holding up a slim, pale silvery pink wand. “Ten and a half inches, unicorn tail hair, dogwood.”

It was hard to say who had the less dignified response; Remus merely choked on his pumpkin juice, but Sirius's sprayed in an impressive arc before they both collapsed in helpless laughter.

“None of that, now,” Ollivander chided, but he only succeeded in making them laugh harder. “The wood color may be a bit unusual, and the wand itself a touch mischievous, but it can be well-trained with a steady hand.”

Between peals of laughter, Sirius fixed Remus with a look that dared him to say what—or who—else may be mischievous and requiring a bit of training.

“All right—all right—”

Though largely unsuccessful, Sirius tried to wipe the grin off his face, at least until Ollivander said the word 'dogwood' again, and then a sporfle forced itself out. He did manage to get himself together enough to touch the wand-hilt, and the by-now-profoundly-unamused Ollivander set it aside.

“Perhaps no more—” he started, but he noticed the snickers building again and said instead, “—a different wood. Yes.”

After a few more failed attempts, Ollivander produced a keen, geometrically-carved wand. The blade of the wand was pale, but the hilt had a reddish tone to the wood.

“Here's a fierce one,” he said, holding it out for Sirius to examine. The handle itself was almost triangular in the grip, the hilt hooked slightly across the first knuckle like the guard of a dagger, and the wand-blade narrowed nearly to a point. “A duelist's wand, if ever I made one. Twelve and a quarter inches, red cedar and fir, phoenix feather for the core.”

This one slid into Sirius's palm as if made for it, and Remus breathed deep as a sweet perfume like honeysuckle and orange bloomed in the shop. Sirius stared at it, transfixed, and then gave a small nod.

“This one,” he said, though he didn't need to; Ollivander was already preparing a small satchel with a care kit, the wand-box, and an adaptable sheath for wrist or hip.

“Do you feel better now?” Remus asked.

They stood basking in the late-afternoon sun outside the shop after Sirius had paid for his purchases. Sirius hardly seemed to hear him—his attention kept straying back to the fine wand at his side, his fingertips finding the wood again and again as if sure it had vanished at some point in the last twelve seconds.

“Padfoot.”

Now Sirius looked up. “I'm good now, Moony,” he said. “Let's go home.”