SIRIUS BLACK was in a mood.
Truthfully, that wasn’t very surprising. Being cooped up inside your childhood home – your unhappy childhood home, the constant reminder of your uselessness and failure – was bound to cause some issues. It also wasn’t anything new; Sirius had been in a mood for about two full weeks now.
But he was in an exceptionally foul one today.
It started around noon-ish, when he realised quite suddenly that he hadn’t his dragon-hide jacket with him any more. This jacket had been given to him by James himself the very first Christmas he’d ever spent at the Potters, so you can imagine how much it meant to him. It was his everything. It had grown with him through the years both literally and figuratively, and, upon discovering it hadn’t been lost when he’d been sent to Azkaban, but returned to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, along with some of his other belongings at the time, he had been happier than he’d thought possible, considering the state of things.
And now it was gone.
His favourite jacket, the jacket that kept nightmares at bay (and he had many of those here) was gone.
So to say he was in a mood really was an understatement. He was ravenous. He hadn’t been outside in weeks. And he couldn’t have just lost it; it had been stolen.
And he knew just who had stolen it.
‘KREACHER!’
His bellowing woke up his mother’s portrait, which screeched about all he’d ever done wrong in his life (and that was a rather long list in her eyes) – but the elf appeared, the crack of his Apparition hidden by the woman’s screams.
Kreacher sneered, then bowed so low his nose touched the floor.
‘Tell me – honestly! – have you taken a jacket? My jacket? Dragon-hide, black, the one I wore yesterday. And don’t you dare lie to me!’
‘Kreacher has not taken Master’s filthy blood-traitor jacket,’ the elf said. ‘Of course not, oh, no, what would my poor mistress say –’
‘– DISGRACEFUL!’
His mother’s voice reached an earsplitting shriek and demonstrated exactly what ‘Kreacher’s poor mistress’ had to say about that.
‘This is the house of my fathers, of my fathers’ fathers!’ she went on. ‘You are nothing! You are less than a stain! I should have –’
‘Oh, SHUT UP!’ Sirius shrieked, throwing his arms up and rushing out of the dining room to silence her. ‘Just SHUT UP for once in your miserable life!’
But that only made her screech louder. ‘UNGRATEFUL! UNWORTHY! UNDESERVING BLOOD-TRAITOR SCUM!’
Kreacher, who had followed him outside, gave a slow, horrible smile, his watery eyes gleaming. ‘Mistress is right,’ he murmured. ‘She is always right. Master does not deserve fine things. Master does not deserve this house. Master does not deserve anything at all … Oh, just look at the way he treats poor Mistress …’
Sirius finally managed to shut the moth-eaten velvet curtains that covered his mother’s portrait, and turned to Kreacher with a sharp look. ‘Where is it?’ he hissed, and he barely recognised his own voice, so low and shaking with rage.
Kreacher’s large eyes still glittered. ‘Kreacher does not have it. Perhaps Master should be asking – someone else –’
Sirius grabbed the elf by his bony shoulders. ‘Who should I ask, Kreacher? Answer me, you worthless – !’
But all he could feel was the air, and he could no longer see his servant; Kreacher had Disapparated, no doubt running off to throw himself against a wall somewhere.
Ah, there it was, the pounding on the walls, the pounding on the floor, the pounding in his head. It broke with the endless silence he otherwise had to endure. A silence in which he had nothing but the horrors of his own mind, his miserable old house-elf, and the portrait of his despicable mother for company.
He needed that jacket. And he was going to find that jacket. Even if it meant tearing the whole bloody house apart.
He went up the stairs. If Kreacher hadn’t taken it (which he wasn’t entirely convinced of, but with Kreacher, one could do little more than ask) then it had to still be somewhere in the house. And since he knew he’d had it yesterday – hadn’t he? He closed his eyes. Yes. He had. He’d sat in the drawing room, staring at the tapestry, trying to come up with the best way to destroy it once and for all.
Since he knew he’d had it yesterday, in the drawing room, and not after – where had he gone afterwards? The kitchen? But he hadn’t had the jacket on any more, had he? – the drawing room was the best place to start.
He entered the drawing room and looked around. No jacket draped over a chair. No jacket thrown carelessly onto the sofa. He opened the writing desk, half-hoping it had somehow ended up shoved inside.
Nothing.
But it had to be somewhere, and so he overturned everything. He emptied the drawers, pushed the books off their shelves, got rid of the contents in the desk … he pulled the cushions off the sofa and chairs and even checked inside the dusty vases that stood atop the mantelpiece, that had once, in a very distant past, held flowers …
Still nothing.
The jacket was nowhere to be found.
He ran his hands through his hair, gripping it tightly. He squeezed his eyes shut. Think, think, think! It couldn’t just be gone. Things weren’t ever just gone. It had to be somewhere. Kreacher could have hidden it. Burnt it. Handed it over to someone else. Hadn’t he said … ?
‘Perhaps Master should be asking – someone else –’
But who would have done something like that?! Who would have stolen – ?!
Mundungus Fletcher.
There was no-one else who could have done it. It had to be Dung. And he had probably sold it by now.
Panic and fury and despair all set in at the same time, and he had to sit down so he wouldn’t lose his footing.
Gone. The jacket was gone.
He clenched his fists as fury won out over the other two and blurred his vision.
Mundungus fucking Fletcher.
Of course it was him. That thieving, rat-faced coward. How many times had he been warned not to touch things in this house!? How many times had he been caught stuffing bits of silverware and other trinkets into his filthy coat!? Not that he cared about him taking some of those things off his hands, but now look what came of it! Now look what he’d done! Look what he’d taken because he considered everything here to be a free-for-all! He’d taken the only thing in this godforsaken house that actually meant something!
He shot to his feet again. He needed to find Dung. He needed to get his jacket back. He needed to –
What? Find the bastard and hex him into next week? Run away and risk everything for that low-life?
He turned around and gave the chair a hard kick. The pain did not subdue his anger; if anything, it intensified: he hated this house, he hated the Order for letting Dung anywhere near it, he hated that he was stuck here, useless and alone, whilst that filthy thief walked free with his jacket.
The jacket James had given him.
James.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his closed eyes as despair took over. He sat back down and let the tears fall freely. It wasn’t just a jacket; it was James wrapping an arm around him and saying: ‘You’re one of us now, mate.’ It was the warmth of Christmas at the Potters’, the feeling of having a family, a real, proper family, for the first time in his life. It was every stupid, reckless thing they had done together, every late-night adventure, every whispered conversation about dreams and futures …
He was exhausted. He hadn’t felt it before, but it came crashing down upon him now. Complete and utter exhaustion, too great for the panic, or fury, or even despair to hold.
And for a long moment, he just sat there, staring blankly at the wreckage in the drawing room. The empty shelves, the scattered books, the upended cushions.
It was a mess.
He was a mess.
So he stared some more, letting his gaze roam across the mess, all motivation to do something gone – until something caught his eye; there, beneath the desk, amidst the desk’s contents, half-hidden beneath an open book, was a flash of silver.
Yes, he could see it clearly now, as he crept closer. It was a small, rectangular box. Dulled with age, but undoubtedly silver. A miracle Dung hadn’t taken it yet.
He brushed some dust off it and saw something engraved on the lid: the Black family crest. (Of course. What else could it be in this wretched house?)
He picked it up. The box was heavier than it looked, and the hinges were stiff with disuse. He dug his fingers into the edge of the lid and pulled – pulled – pulled until it, with a sudden snap, gave way.
There was parchment inside, and he barely hesitated before taking it out. What did it matter if it was cursed? He’d deal with that later if he had to, but for now, he just had to know what it said –
His breath hitched. He recognised that handwriting, even though he hadn’t seen it since … Well, not since that final letter, the one he’d tossed right into the fire at the Potters, without even reading what they’d had to say …
And now …
Sirius, my dear son,
He nearly dropped the parchment in shock. He had dropped it, in fact. It had fallen down and landed on the desk, the text staring up at him. And, for a moment, it was as if he was sixteen again, standing in this very room, his mother’s voice ringing in his ears, drumming along to the beat of his heart, telling him how much of a disgrace he was to ‘the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black’.
He clenched his jaw and forced himself to read all it had to say.
Sirius, my dear son,
If you are reading this, that means you have been led back home at last. You will understand in time, I hope, that blood is thicker than the foolish whims of youth. You are a Black. This house is yours. And if you look hard enough, you will see that it has never stopped waiting for you.
We have never stopped waiting for you.
That was all.
There wasn’t even a signature.
There was no need for one, though. He could recognise this handwriting anywhere. Her voice had echoed in his mind as he read that letter, and now she still wouldn’t leave. He could almost hear her whispering in his ear, though he could not make out what she would say. The existence of the letter was too surreal, didn’t fit with the screeching portrait downstairs, nor the memories he had of her …
He swallowed hard and turned his attention back to the silver box, curiosity and confusion both coursing through his veins. There were other things where the letter had been: a tiny, dulled, once-silver rattle; a figurine of Merlin, no bigger than his thumb; a photograph –
A pang shot through him as he took a closer look at the photograph, unable to help himself, because there, in an armchair he knew to be a deep shade of green, before the crackling fire, in this very room, sat a young woman that could only be his mother, for her face was precisely how he remembered it, more beautiful than her portrait downstairs and not yet wrought with anger and despair.
She was smiling.
He didn’t think he had ever seen her smile like this, yet there she was, smiling down at the young, black-haired boy on her lap, who was wriggling impatiently, gripping a blanket with both hands and attempting to drape it over his face. His chubby fingers clutched at the fabric, pulling it down only to peek up at his mother with wide eyes before giggling and hiding again.
The boy’s mother – his mother – adjusted her grip, one arm wrapped securely around his waist to keep him from falling off. Her mouth moved, her eyes twinkled in amusement, but Sirius could not hear what she said.
And for the first time in his life, this saddened him.
The boy giggled again, peeking out from under the blanket, his little legs kicking the air in excitement. He flopped backwards dramatically and rested against his mother’s chest.
She looked to her side, and Sirius’ heart leapt; a man stepped into view. He said something, looking from the woman to the boy, then broke out into a smile. He reached down and ruffled his son’s already messy black curls. The boy wriggled even more, attempting to stand, bracing his tiny hands against his mother’s shoulders as he pushed himself up.
The blanket fell to the floor as the boy wobbled and lost his balance. His mother gasped and reached for his legs; his father swooped him off her lap just before he fell. The child screamed in delight and raised his hands towards his mother, and his father handed him over. She set him back down upon her lap and the blanket was given back. Then it all started again: she smiled down at him, and the boy wriggled and tried to stand up …
And Sirius watched them, over and over again, careful not to disturb them, careful not to let them know they were being watched. He didn’t want them to change. He needed them to be like this forever.
Because he knew this boy. Intimately. He was this boy. But the parents … Though they resembled his own in appearance, they didn’t in behaviour. He didn’t remember them ever looking at him like that. And yet … here was the proof. They had been a family once, in a very distant past. He couldn’t have been more than a year old when this was taken …
He let out a shaky breath and finally dared lift it up, causing the boy to fall from his mother’s lap. He watched as his father tended to the now-crying child, whilst his mother glared at him in fury, as if threatening to hurt him from where she sat, on the other end of the camera, some thirty-five years ago.
He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. That was more like the mother he knew.
Her furious glare ebbed away moments after he set the photograph down upon the parchment; the young boy was giggling again, trying to balance on her lap, the same as he’d done before. Her lips curled and the twinkle returned to her eyes. She was smiling again. At her son. At him.
And he sighed, pressing his fingers into his temples.
Where had it all gone wrong?
He looked back at the box, suddenly filled with the desire to know more, to see more, to find more. He put his hand in again and it brushed against something cold and solid. He pulled at it and out came a rectangular tin, small enough to fit in his hand easily. He pried it open.
Inside were tiny, broken crayons, worn down to little nubs. He held them in his hands, each one, the red, the blue, the green, the yellow … gold, they’d called it …
Images flashed through his mind, of himself and his brother, lying on the floor of the drawing room, colouring. Regulus always stealing the ‘gold’ crayon, Sirius pretending not to notice …
Why had she kept this? Why had she kept any of this?!
He reached into the box again, hoping to find an answer.
Something leathery. A string. He pulled it out, and – Merlin, he knew this so well – at the end of the string hung a tiny, jagged tooth. He’d lost this when he was six. He remembered losing it, crying about it. His father had told him to stop snivelling, to be a man, a Black. His mother had barely looked at him.
He didn’t get it. He didn’t understand. His parents had always been so against sentimentality.
None of this made any sense.
And so his hand went in again. Because even though it made no sense, all he wanted was to see what else was in there.
His fingers brushed against something soft this time. Fabric. A small blanket. He turned it over in his hands and ran his finger along the delicate stitching in the shape of the Canis Major constellation. He recognised it from the photograph. This was the blanket the boy had been playing with. The blanket he had played with so often. The blanket he had slept with and taken everywhere until he had been deemed ‘too old’ for it …
He lifted it to his face and inhaled deeply. The scent that washed over him was intimately familiar to him. It was the smell of home. Of safety. Of a time before everything became so complicated, a time before he knew the ins and outs of pure-blood supremacy and the politics that came along with it, a time before before his parents’ smiles faded, before bedtime stories and songs were replaced by expectations … a time before love became conditional …
He lay down on the floor, beneath the desk, curled up with his blanket draped over his face, taking in the scent with every breath, as if it could send him back to those long-lost days of his youth. He closed his eyes and let the memories press into him from all sides, and so he lay, hour upon hour, until the world grew dark and night fell over the city.
The front door opened and closed again, and he could make out muffled voices growing louder, louder –
‘FILTH!’ his mother roared suddenly, her voice clearly audible all the way upstairs. ‘FREAKS! MUTANTS! MUDBLOODS AND HALF-BREEDS, SCUM OF THE EARTH … !’
An uneasy feeling grew in the pit of his stomach as his mother’s portrait downstairs screamed and screamed louder and louder, waking up his other ancestors until he could no longer make out a distinctive voice through all the yelling and hatred for him and the company he kept.
He sighed. Yes, he supposed he should go downstairs to help shut them up, shouldn’t he? He reluctantly plucked the blanket off his face and crawled out from under the desk. It felt strange to be here in the dark, blanket in hand, his mother’s screeches in the background. It was … oddly familiar, yet felt distant all the same, as if he was looking into another person’s life.
He shook his head. The screaming continued, louder and louder still. He moved over to the door and cast one last look at the silver box, the parchment, the tooth, the crayons, the photograph … He cast one last look at the blanket in his hand, then tossed it aside. He closed the door with a definitive click behind his back as he left.
Sometimes it was best to keep the past in the past.