VII
Sirius waits intently, still as a statue. He’s not entirely sure he could move from the spot if he wanted to. The locket lies before him, glittering insidiously. An hour has passed since Sirius sent his patronus to alert Dumbledore of the discovery.
Mundungus has fallen asleep, oily chin to his chest, drooling onto his shirt. Kreacher is nowhere to be found, and though Sirius can’t find it in him to regret his absence, the thought of the elf makes his head spin and his heart jump strangely. Because it’s connected to the cursed locket, to Reg, Voldemort, and a cave off the Cliffs of Moher where his brother had been ripped apart.
Another hour passes, and Sirius allows himself three finger’s worth of strong scotch, and once he drains it, a couple more. It doesn’t stop his hands from shaking. They’re shaking for another reason now.
Before a third hour has passed, Dumbledore arrives. McGonagall, Moody, and Snape accompany him.
“Where is Kreacher, Sirius?” Asks Dumbledore. There’s a gentle note to his voice that Sirius can’t be bothered to question. Had the surface of the table always looked so incredibly lined? He doesn’t remember. Studying the grain of the wood seems far simpler than answering the question posed to him. He’s trying to work up the energy to answer, really, he is, but everything seems awfully far away, and it’s such a bother to drag himself back-.
“Sirius,” says Dumbledore sharply. He looks up quickly from the table, suddenly cognizant of the cold sweat on his neck. He blinks a couple of times, and shivers, trying to shake the severe heaviness from his bones, which are ringing with something like shock.
“He’s… he’s…” He taps his head, twisting his wrist as if to imply that he had misplaced a word.
“You can summon him?”
“Oh. Right,” Sirius thinks dryly.
“Right,” he says, and a moment later Kreacher appears before them, looking positively mutinous.
“Kreacher, I wonder if you might explain to me and my company what occurred between you and Regulus Black, your master, upon the acquisition of this locket? Sirius has told us some of your story, but the- ah- details were somewhat…”
Sirius recalls his state of panic when casting his patronus. Initially, he hadn’t even produced it with the intent of sending a message. He had cast it because the cold had been upon him, in the room, overtaking everything with hoarfrost and ice and death, death, death. He imagines the message it relayed, therefore, was somewhat incoherent.
“Kreacher will not speak of such things… Master Regulus’ secrets… blood traitors…”
“Kreacher will, unless he wants to receive a nice big top hat for Christmas,” Sirius drawls, but it lacks its usual edge. Kreacher glowers at him with a special intensity.
“Poor Kreacher to… Stuck with Master Sirius… Mistress dead, Master Regulus, dead… disgrace… would be better if…”
“Kreacher!” Sirius can’t help but strike the table leaving his palm stinging and his former professors looking alarmed. Snape simply looks curious, the corners of his indifferent mouth curling into something like a smirk. He’s enjoying this. Seeing Sirius come apart. Sirius wants to smack the amusement off of that sallow face.
“Right now, Kreacher. I didn’t call you down here so you could bitch about my mum.”
So Kreacher tells them.
He tells them of Regulus’ induction as a death eater.
He tells them of his first visit to the sea cave, and of the mysterious trinket Voldemort had been so keen on protecting.
He tells them of the second visit, which is somehow more horrifying than the first.
He tells them of Regulus being pulled beneath a wreathing mass of Inferi, screaming as he is disemboweled alive.
He tells them of his attempts to destroy the locket, to no avail.
And then he slinks away, muttering to himself and shaking.
It is a while before anyone speaks.
“We have been, in a strange way, fortunate,” says Dumbledore carefully.
“To have unearthed this object without great personal risk is a stroke of extreme luck. Still, it must be approached with caution. I ask those of you in this room not to share what you have heard until we can verify the validity of this story.”
McGonagall and Snape nod. Mundungus joins them, attempting to pull a very serious expression that in the end just makes him look somewhat constipated.
Sirius stares at the wall, thinking about the day Regulus painted the Black family crest above his bed, complete with ‘Toujours Pur’, the family motto. How old had his brother been then? Twelve? He wonders if he could’ve turned Regulus away from that path. He doesn’t know. He never tried.
“Harry has the right to know,” he says numbly.
“Sirius, please, not with this agai-.” Minerva begins, but he cuts her off.
“It concerns no one so much as it concerns himself. If we are correct in what we think this-“ he jabs a finger at the locket “is, then Harry will never be safe until it’s destroyed, along with however many others there might be. I’m his parent. It’s my job to ensure he’s safe, and keeping secrets from him only ever puts him in danger.”
“Sirius,” Dumbledore intreats delicately. It makes Sirius feel like such a child- a child and a fool.
“I promise you Harry will be told. But to raise a false alarm could be more dangerous than to conceal this object from Harry completely. Consider last year, in which you yourself were very nearly lost to us because of such a false al-.”
“I don’t give a shit about-.” Sirius huffs, realizing too late that he’s been trapped. There was a false alarm, and it nearly got him killed, which certainly would’ve hurt Harry. He pinches the bridge of his nose until it stings.
“Fine. Fine. How do we determine it’s… authenticity?”
Dumbledore hesitates, peering at him over his half-moon spectacles.
“Severus will remain here and examine the artifact, whilst Minerva relieves Professor Sprout and keeps an eye on the school- do bring Mr. Fletcher to Arabella’s on the way to dry out if you would. I myself will investigate the cave. However,” he adds when Minerva looks horror-struck “I will not attempt to retrieve its treasure. I shall visit as a passive observer only to see if I cannot lend credence to all we have heard tonight.”
Sirius feels loathing rise in his throat at the thought of entertaining Snape, and his cheeks are flushed with anger.
“And what would you like me to do? I actually can do some things without burning the place down, you know,” he asks Dumbledore scathingly.
“Sirius, while I admire that you, like James, have always been a man of action, I must remind you that what we have learned has come as a shock to you most of all. I would, therefore, like you to rest.”
He feels an almighty heat creep up the back of his neck, worsening when Snape smiles smugly.
“Rest? Like I haven’t been doing fuck all else for months? Albus, you’ve got to be joking! You can’t just keep me here in this fucking place. I’ll go to the cave. I can actually leave here, can’t I? I mean, you aren’t going to stop me?”
He knows he sounds half mad, half petulant, but the blood rushing in Sirius’ ears feels good, and it goads him to hostility.
“James didn’t like being locked up either, I’ll have you remember.” It’s a low blow, but it does the trick. Dumbledore stops looking at him like he’s about to fall to pieces. Instead he’s fixing Sirius with a hard, searching look. Then he looks at Minerva, who nods. Their ability to wordlessly communicate is somewhat impressive, but mostly terrifying.
“Mr. Black, I don’t seriously think you would risk yourself, Harry’s only guardian, for a quest as foolish as proving your masculinity,” She begins sharply.
“That being said, if you are all too eager to assist the Order tonight, you may aid Professor Snape in analyzing the locket. Otherwise, I am sure Molly will return upon the hour, and you can assist her with renovations.”
It stings Sirius’ pride badly, and it takes him a minute or two to recover and realize how thoroughly he’s fucked himself over. By then, Minerva, Mundungus, and Dumbledore have gone, leaving him with nothing to look at but Severus Snape’s greasy little smirk.
“Don’t say a fucking word,” he growls.
The other imperiously draws his wand, a look of triumph on his face, and lifts the locket into the air, where it revolves slowly.
“Draw your wand, Black.”
“Excuse me?” Sirius counters angrily, jaw clenching.
Snape rolls his eyes.
“Please, I don’t wish to duel you. I simply require your assistance- that is, unless-“ he pauses, glancing from the scotch glass to Sirius’ visibly shaking hands “you aren’t feeling up to the task. I’m sure you could wait and assist Molly with the- ah- housework.”
Sirius can’t help but take the bait. He draws his wand more fiercely than intended, but it stays firmly in his grasp. Small mercies.
He keeps the locket afloat while Snape charms and examines and prizes at the it with spell after spell, most of which, Sirius is ashamed to admit, are completely foreign to him. He wonders if he ever knew them, or if Snape simply knows much more than he does. Either is plausible, but he hopes bitterly for the former. Best in his year at Hogwarts, and what had that amounted to, really?
They stay this way for perhaps twenty minutes in an ugly silence before Snape chuckles softly.
“Something you’d like to share?” Sirius snaps dryly.
“Oh, simply reminiscing on our Hogwarts years, you understand- I know how dear all of those boyhood memories are to you. Full of all your righteous deeds and popularity trophies.”
“How flattering it is to know you think of me, and all our school-aged silliness,” Sirius snarks, rolling his eyes. He won’t allow himself to be goaded. Snapes’s eyes flash dangerously. He snorts, and it’s rife with condescension that makes Sirius’ stomach squirm and his teeth buzz.
“If only that arrogant little boy could see what you are now, perhaps he wouldn’t have done all of the silly. Little. Things. He did then.”
“Yeah? And what is it that I am now, Snivs?”
“Hmmm a useless drunk, hiding out in his mother’s house, perhaps? I suppose it’s at least one step down from being the insufferable playground bully you once were- though I must admit, at the time I thought you could sink no lower.”
The locket hits the table with a heavy thud, it’s large golden surface rocking back and forth like a beetle stuck on its back.
“That’s right,” Sirius snarls, up off his feet and just inches from Snape’s considerable nose.
“I thought you were a slimy, bigoted little git, so I took the piss. Couldn’t exactly hang my mum upside-down from a tree for being a hateful pig, could I? So you’d have to do.”
Snape glares at the other with utter disdain.
“And you considered murdering me the necessary balm for the burn of your poor, sad childhood, yes I know the story of pitiful little Sirius Black, our downtrodden hero.”
“I am NOT some-.” Sirius begins viciously, but Snape will not be deterred. His black eyes glitter with unconcealed hatred.
“We both know you didn’t do it because I was a Slytherin who tossed around the word ‘mudblood’ from time to time, don’t we?” He asks with a condescending and cold smile.
“But I think you don’t even know why you did it.”
If Sirius just resist the temptation to do something rash for two minutes, Molly will be back it’ll be over. He’ll be the good boy that he’s supposed to be, for her sake, for Harry’s sake. He rolls his eyes again and takes Snape’s bait.
“Well, I’m sure you’re going to tell me, so get on with it,” Sirius spits, trying his best to look disinterested.
Snape relishes the opportunity.
“I don’t think it even occurred to you back then that all your rage, all your pomp- you never escaped their legacy, did you, Black? You were too self-righteous, too arrogant to see your behavior for what it was.”
Sirius’ breath quickens and he forces down the rage that threatens to bubble up in his throat. “Two minutes,” he thinks, straining for composure.
“I’ve met quite a few of you Blacks, and you’re all the same. You’re so desperate to prove your own superiority. But you’re the only interesting one, Sirius, because you, you actually believe that you’re better than the rest of them. You think you’re the tame mutt that won’t kill the rabbits. But you always hurt people.”
“Well, you fucking earned it-.” Sirius starts, but Snape raises an imperious hand to silence him.
“Who do you suppose you hurt more that night with your little game beneath the Womping Willow? Me? Or Remus Lupin?”
Sirius feels the familiar red-hot shame creep from his stomach to the back of his ears, burning almost unbearably.
“What goes on between Remus and I is none of your fucking business,” he says. He tries to keep his voice cold and dismissive, but it shakes with the heat of his anger. This has always been his problem. The rage, the ceaseless agitation. It makes him feel like maybe, just maybe, Severus has a point. And that makes him angrier than anything.
“Yes well, too true, and I’m glad for it,” Snape says with a note of snide humor. “From what I understand, what you and Lupin get up to together is abominable even by muggle standards.”
Sirius’ fists clench and he steps forward with every intention of bloodying Snape’s massive nose when he feels the sharp point of Snape’s wand at his throat. He had redrawn it from his robes before Sirius could even blink. So he had been expecting a fight. Sirius curses his own predictability.
“Ah. Ah. Ah, Sirius,” Snape says very softly. “Always so quick to violence.” He clicks his tongue. “Just desperate to make a murderer of yourself. You might earn your stint in Azkaban if you’re not careful.”
Sirius feels his throat run dry and his heart lurches against his rib cage. All the sudden, the wand at his throat feels less like petty child’s play and more like a legitimate threat.
“Tell me, how would you like to receive a kiss from something less agreeable than your half-breed boyfriend?”
Sirius is sure Snape would be unconscious already if not for the wand aimed so critically at his own jugular, but even as he thinks it, he can tell his arms are paralyzed with fear at his sides.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he rasps. Even to himself, he sounds terrified.
“I’m innocent.”
Snape arches an imperious eyebrow.
“Are you though?” He’s not smiling anymore. His gaze is positively murderous. Sirius can see that this goes far beyond childhood pranks. This is a grudge far more real than he imagined.
“You see, I was there the night Peter announced his news. It was a meeting night, after all. When Pettigrew told us what he had convinced you to do, do you know what we did next?”
He pauses maliciously. Sirius can tell he wants this to hurt.
“We made a toast- to Sirius Black. The wayward son who finally ended up doing his family proud; Every bit living up to his family name, after all. So their deaths- her. Death?” Severus pauses, smiling cruelly through wild tears. “You have only yourself to thank.”
Sirius isn’t sure what happens next. He forgets the stab of the wand against his throat. His senses are completely obscured by an emotion too horrible and powerful to name. He blinks and Snape is on the floor, dazed, with blood seeping from a cut on his forehead. Sirius doesn’t wait for him to recover. He drops to his knees and feels his own hands wrap around Snape’s neck, as if of their own volition, tighter and tighter. Someone is screaming incoherently, and it occurs to Sirius vaguely that it might be himself. He squeezes Snape’s throat as is his own life depends on it, and with a terrible, wonderful thrill of relief, he realizes how wrong Snape is. He’s not a killer. In fact, he hates how this feels. He’s not enjoying hurting someone else at all! Yet he can’t stop, even as he watches the veins bulge in Snape’s brow, watches the sallow face turn from pink to red to violet.
WHAM!
Sirius doesn’t know which way is up. His ears are ringing horribly and there’s an incredibly warm tingling sensation on the left side of his face. Before he can lift his hand to the spot, another blow comes, destroying his comprehension of the space before him and… oh, this hurts! Another. What is happening again? Another. He bites his tongue, hard. Again. Something crunches sickeningly. “That’s probably not a good sign,” he thinks, and opens his mouth to laugh, but it’s full of blood. Crack! Something impossibly solid comes down on his collar bone. That couldn’t be a fist. A boot, maybe? It comes down again with another crack. Definitely a boot.
A wheezing sound like the cry of a keening animal fills the air. Another crack. Sirius doesn’t want to think anymore. He just wants the pain to stop. It hurts so badly and heneedsittostopohgodpleasemakeitstopithurtsithurrsheneeds-.
“Severus!” Someone bellows, miles and miles and miles away.
A couple more strange, slow seconds pass before the blows subside and things go mercifully, blissfully dark.