A thousand bells ring in my heart (how hard it is to ask for forgiveness) - Chapter 29 - Alfonsiny - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter Text

«Dear Uncle Alphard,

This Saturday will be my first Quidditch match, I'm very nervous about it. Everyone on my team has been trying really hard, of course I've been trying my best too. The broom you sent me has been a blessing, I don't think there is a faster broom than mine in the castle! Not even Greengrass's broom, the latest Nimbus, has that much speed… though I fear that may not be enough.

What if I'm not good enough, what if I end up disappointing my teammates? They have worked so hard; it would not be fair for me to ruin their hard work.

But don't worry! Rest assured that even if we don't win, I will have left everything on the field, I will not lose easily.

The castle is nice and my friends even more, did you hear that? I have made friends, they are amazing, although I'm afraid you're already getting sick of reading about them in every letter, I can't help it, I still have the feeling that I made them up, kind of like imaginary friends. But they are very real, otherwise I wouldn't be able to hug them, and Sirius says I do that a lot. Barty gives the best hugs, though he never believes me when I tell him, but it's true, maybe it's because Barty has hardly ever hugged anyone before that he tends to squeeze so hard and takes so long to let go. Barty says Mr. Crouch is not very affectionate at all, and Mrs. Crouch has become so ill that Barty would rather not risk hurting her. I think it's a bit sad, but then again, I too can't remember the last time either of my parents hugged me, I'm sure they must have at some point although Sirius disagrees with me on that.

I wish I could introduce you to my friends when you come to pick us up at the station for the winter. I really, really can't wait for that. You were right, someone did want to be my friend. A lot of someones.

I miss you so much, even though being at the castle with my friends is so much fun, I simply can't wait to go home. I like having afternoon tea with you and listening to Aunt Cass talk about her fancy acquaintances. I miss the taste of Pilly's food. I miss you all.

I love you very much,

Regulus.

P.S. Would it be too much to ask if you could send me some sweets? Dorcas doesn't know many of those, the magical ones I mean, and has been dying to taste some. »

Professor Dumbledore escorts them to his office. As the students begin to gather at the far ends of the corridor, the other professors make sure they are taken to their common rooms, safe and sound. But it is too late now, the gossip fuse has been lit, and as they make their way out of the scene of the incident, Remus knows that it is only a matter of minutes before everyone in the school hears about it, hours before the letters reach parents.

By breakfast time, the Prophet will have already made a last-minute edition to cover the Halloween spectacle at the castle.

"Easy," whispers Remus gently, securing Peter with an arm around the boy's shoulders. Peter's face has gone white with his lips pressed into an even line "Easy" he repeats again. This is the first time Peter has been confronted with such a grotesque scene; the blood on the walls and the petrified cat seems little, but for a group of students in the supposedly safest place in the world, it is an understandable shock. In their well-kept homes, with warm beds and well-dressed, what would James and Peter know of filth and evil?

So far, Remus has not been able to understand how they ended up like this. The options he shuffles through his head only become less than ideal.

He observes James. Sirius is already doing his part in trying to calm the younger boy, with a hand on James's back and gentle movements to guide the boy along the path. If this is a shock to Peter, it must be devastating to James. In James's heart there are only good intentions, sometimes it is as if that is his only purpose on earth, and when things go wrong, James is the first to blame himself.

The sobs of Filch are in the air, permeating the walls. He has not accused them of anything again, thank Merlin; if the man were to try to blame James again, Remus could cast a spell to remove his tongue. While he understands that this must be a difficult time for Filch, that certainly doesn't give him the right to take his anger out on a couple of kids who were just unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Merlin… Remus really hopes this was all a mere coincidence. He hopes that the voices James said he heard were a different event than the writing on the wall. There's enough on his plate already, he doesn't need to add such an unwelcome dessert.

He feels as if they are being led on the way to a trial. Professor McGonagall stands just behind them, steady, composed, though when Remus gives her a quick glance, he notices the tilt of her eyebrows that betrays her agitation. Remus remembers, Professor McGonagall has not always been a teacher, there was a time when she worked in the Auror department; he can see some of that now in the way the Professor seems to be adding up and calculating the events of this Halloween.

There are drops of fake blood on the frames of her glasses and on the collar of her robe. He doesn't think admitting responsibility for that prank is going to do them any good, not when real blood has been used to leave a threatening and forceful message this very night.

Not like Remus is worried that they will be blamed. Professor McGonagall knows Sirius and Remus to the core, she knows their values and convictions; she is not going to blame them for this. What worries Remus is who else is going to blame them; students are very good at twisting stories and unlike Sirius, James is not very good at withstanding public scrutiny.

James's positive features are not enough to mask the negative counterparts. And Remus knows him perfectly, almost as well as Sirius does, although the relationship between Sirius and James has always been different; more close, more complicit. But Remus has been friends with James for many years too, they slowly became family. He knows about James's insecurities, is aware of his little insistence on showing himself to be the perfect set of attributes that embody all that is good in the world. James has a high sense of morality, he desperately seeks approval and can't stand not being liked by anyone, anyone… Remus never knew how to be of help to James in overcoming that, he never had those kinds of insecurities, but he could listen and was always there for James when the fear of his self-imposed expectations consumed him.

He will get over it, sort of. James will grow out of those kinds of crippling thoughts, though he won't do it alone. If Remus remembers correctly, it was actually an irate Lily Evans who gave James a reality check and made him accept that he can't be liked by everyone, that somehow there will always be someone who disagrees with James and his opinions and actions.

He doesn't expect to leave that responsibility to Lily again, she should not have to be the one to teach James the hard truth of the world. But James is going to have to learn it sooner or later. James's mind can be very closed, he gets pigeon-holed into strong opinions that when don't fit leave him befuddled. Regulus is a good example of that. When James was confronted with the reality that had nothing to do with the nonsensical ideas he formed in his head, he short-circuited and lost his direction.

And now he seems to have developed an obsession. It's not a new thing to see; when something is not as it should be by James Potter's standards, then his attention is fixed. And if you add to that the early hormones of an upcoming teenager, then Remus wishes James the best of luck. He has no faith that James will soon realise how his interest and attention to Sirius' little brother can be interpreted, and Remus has no plans to explain it to him either… for now. Let James get over any residual negative feelings he still has against Regulus on his own first, and then they can explain to him about the other hornet's nest.

That should also give Sirius enough time to figure it out. It has been a long time since Remus has watched a soap opera from start to finish, so he is quite comfortable letting all this unfold in front of him. And Peter. Peter is also happy to let it all play out, eager to see James make a fool of himself. That's why Peter and Remus are such good friends.

It's not like Remus is not interested in what might happen to his friends. It's just that it's too much fun to cut it off. Who would have thought that James would develop a little crush on Regulus Black? That is a butterfly effect if he has never seen one. They had a troll in the castle last year, his teacher was possessed by a dark lord and that is not as surprising as watching James suffer from the clash of worlds.

If he is going to have to spend long hours figuring out how they are supposed to take down a dark lord, he would very much like to have something to distract himself with at the end of the day. James was just unlucky enough to be that distraction in Remus's humdrum life.

A sacrifice to be paid for the good of the wizarding world. James would understand.

Snapping out of his head, Remus turns his attention back to the front. Professor Slughorn walks almost in step with Headmaster Dumbledore, an admirable feat, for the Headmaster does not slow his pace one bit. He is a man on a mission, Remus realises, and right now getting to his office is the most pressing objective.

Behind Professor McGonagall, Remus thinks he remembers seeing Professor Pickerin following in their wake at Headmaster Dumbledore's request; Remus has no idea what Dumbledore hopes to achieve by bringing in the most famed monster hunter this side of the world, everyone and their grandmother knows that Alistair Pickerin is about as credible as an Erkling.

So, what's going to happen now, and is there any way to help Mrs Norris? If this is a schoolboy prank, even Remus should be able to bring the cat back. He has not been able to get a close look at Mrs. Norris, so jealous is Filch of protecting his cat from prying eyes, but from what little he could see before the teachers caught up with them on the scene, Mrs. Norris looked frozen.

Remus can think of various spells and potions that can produce such an effect on a living being. He knows ways to reverse some of those means… but his mind tingles with the knowledge that this is something more complicated than a misguided Halloween prank.

Where did the blood on the walls come from? If Remus dwells too long on that question, the answers cause him anguish. Even when it comes to children as violent and evil as Mulciber, Remus can't imagine that any student in the castle would harm someone to leave such a horrific message. Some older students, maybe, that kind of viciousness is more typical of an angry teenager than a co*cky child… But that kind of behaviour would have been seen before. Remus has a lot of thoughts; he just knows that this whole thing is too weird to ignore.

Reaching the Gargoyle in Dumbledore's office is an extensively short journey. Torches on the walls illuminate the gargoyle's stone, creating intimidating shadows on the creature's face. In this particular corridor there are no windows, leaving the fire to illuminate the dark walls and corners.

Professor Dumbledore stops in front of the statue, waiting until everyone is in the same place. "Midget Gems" Professor Dumbledore's voice rose and the fire in the torches shook as if a current of air was pushing it.

The Gargoyle's stone eyes flickered, the statue crawled backwards and then spun on its axis to reveal the stairwell. The stone pieces of the steps came out one after the other, snaking their way towards the ceiling. Professor Dumbledore was the first to enter, the stairs ascending effortlessly; the rest followed immediately, all in silence waiting anxiously for the security of the Headmaster's office to give them the freedom to discuss this great misunderstanding.

Remus has many memories of the Headmaster's office. The scent of tangerines emerging from the candles on the staircase walls brings Remus back to many moments in his life, some more decisive than others. He remembers, though this time he didn't get the chance to relive that moment, when he received his letter for Hogwarts and Professor Dumbledore invited the Lupins to discuss the complications and challenges of having a werewolf as a student.

Nerves and hope. The first time Remus came to this office, he nearly threw up at the gargoyle's feet on his way in and almost left in tears impossible to contain. And every occasion after that was just as memorable. Whether it was because Professor McGonagall brought them in after catching them with buckets of glitter, or because a prank got out of hand. They came here more than once as the politics of the magical world began to seep into the corridors of the castle and confrontations between students became inevitable, with James and Sirius leading the way, always in the middle of a fight with Snape and any of his then extremist friends.

Headmaster Dumbledore's office is as familiar to Remus as the hospital wing.

"Argus, please calm down," instructs Professor Dumbledore, looking for Filch to allow him to approach the cat.

Entering the office, Professor McGonagall remains near the door, leaving Professor Pickerin at a loss. The man looks nervous, his eyes darting restlessly around the room. Such a big man and such a coward, Remus thinks. Professor Pickerin was in Gryffindor, but for sure Professor McGonagall is not proud of him being an alumnus of her house.

Finally, between shuddering sobs, Filch settles Mrs Norris on Dumbledore's desk. The cat has not moved, she is an extremely realistic decorative statue. Eyes alive, it does not look as if Mrs. Norris is dead, just paralysed. Professor Dumbledore picks one of the animal's ears, inspects the fur carefully and smacks his lips with concern.

Everyone waits in silence. Remus holds his breath.

He notices movement in the corner of the desk. Fawkes is asleep on his perch with his chest rising and falling rhythmically, the phoenix looks a little older now and his feathers do not look as vibrant as Remus remembers; the bird is unfazed by the presence of the students or by Professor Slughorn standing anxiously by the perch. Remus has never seen what the death and rebirth of a phoenix is like, but from what he has read, it is an immensely tragic and beautiful act.

"Fortunately, I can say that Mrs. Norris is still with us," Dumbledore says in a strained voice, taking a step back from the desk, "Though I cannot detect the presence of any spell that would explain her condition. It is similar to petrification, but not exactly the same… Whoever did this is unlikely to have used any charms or spells."

"Could it be a potion?" asks McGonagall, hands on her chest and lips pursed in caution.

Professor Dumbledore hums "Perhaps" he says "You would know best, Horace, does it seem to you that this could be the result of a potion?"

"No" replies Slughorn "Not one that I know of, at least."

"Are there potions you don't know about?" asks Remus, unable to help but look surprised by such an implication.

Professor Slughorn smiles softly, though his hands still clench anxiously under his stomach "I appreciate your confidence in me, Mr. Lupin, though I must disappoint you. The world of potions is a vast one, even more so than that of spells and charms, it would be very arrogant of me to assume that I already know everything there is to know."

"Nevertheless, you are the best potioneer in the castle, Horace, if you don't know the potion that could have caused this, then that potion may as well not exist" mumbles Professor McGonagall, shaking her head at the sight of the poor cat "If it wasn't magic and it doesn't look like a potion either, then what was it, or did the cat petrify herself?"

"We'll have to ask the students, I'm afraid," Professor Dumbledore gave them a look behind his crescent glasses. It was not a critical or accusatory look, just curious if stern "Boys, would any of you care to begin?"

"Are we going to be in trouble?" asked James quietly, though in the tense silence of the office, he was perfectly audible. With some curiosity, Remus noticed that not even the paintings of the former Headmasters had said anything.

"Of course you will be!" spat Filch "After what you've done, you -"

"No, Mr Potter" interrupted McGonagall, cutting off Filch's furious shrieks "Unless, of course, you have done this, otherwise, we just want to hear how you found Mrs Norris, if you didn't see something else."

"Besides the threat on the wall?" snorted Sirius, though Remus could tell it wasn't a conscious question on Sirius' part.

"We didn't see anything" Remus says, deciding that it's best if he is the one to answer the professor's questions. A thought scratches at his senses, he has the energetic thought that they might need a lawyer here. Or Sirius's uncle, that's just as good an option, Mr. Black seems to be well versed in dealing with matters such as these.

"That's a very ambiguous answer, Mr. Lupin," remarks McGonagall, "Though I understand what you're getting at. Why don't we go over tonight's events then? Tell me, boys, why were you in that corridor, what were you doing that you weren't during dinner?"

Remus swallows, feeling his insides tighten. It wouldn't be an easy thing to explain, trying to do so might lead them down a hole of questions with unfavourable answers. Right now, they can only choose two paths: go with the truth or hold on to a lie. While lying to Dumbledore is no longer a conflict for Remus, it is not the same when it comes to Professor McGonagall. The entire relationship Sirius and Remus have been building with Professor McGonagall over the past year has been built on a foundation of complete honesty.

The idea of a lawyer is increasingly appealing.

"We were at Nearly Headless Nick's death anniversary party, when we heard something" says Sirius, not letting James be able to explain something that might be more incriminating "We were in the dungeons when we heard it, you can ask Nick"

"Myrtle as well" adds Peter with his voice pitched high "We spoke to Myrtle at the party, she — she can tell you as well"

Professor Dumbledore drags the chair away from the desk, taking a seat carefully "There is still a long way to be explained, boys" says the headmaster patiently "What made you go from the dungeons to the first floor — what did you hear?"

"Voices" says the only person linked to this night of confusions: James "There was a voice, and I followed it".

"We followed it" clarifies Remus, no sooner has James made that little slip up. He is not about to let James go down alone in this. Certain things only make sense in a magical school, things like flying brooms or talking armours; but not everything fantastical is equally normal. Hearing voices, voices like the ones James have been hearing, that is not something that is usual behaviour; it's weird, sometimes synonymous with something more sinister. Things like that are frowned upon, and while it's unlikely that coming clean with their professors will get James in trouble, it's certainly not going to do him any favours either.

Better, if the professors believe that this was a fluke than a quirk of a single student. The facts remain the same either way, this is just a safety precaution for whatever lies ahead. Because Remus has a feeling, that tonight is just the start of something, and he does not want that when the climax of the story comes, someone will want to point the finger at James and the events of Halloween in the search for culprits.

If somehow this ends up in court — which, with their luck, wouldn't be surprising — Remus will go all the way with this little lie. Everyone followed the voice. They all listened it. Four are more credible than one.

Remus trusts a pitiful number of magical authorities, and yes, Dumbledore often comes into it, but Remus has been under the orders of the old headmaster long enough to know, that Dumbledore is not open with his intentions and is best kept a bit distrustful of him. He is grateful to Professor Dumbledore for allowing him a chance to pursue an education like any other child; but blind trust is something Remus is never foolish enough to give. Dumbledore's good intentions are not always harmless and when it comes to Sirius or any of his friends, no one is free from his scrutiny.

Men like Dumbledore do not have the same sentimentality to guide their decisions, and that is an admirable quality in a leader, it is one of the reasons why Dumbledore is able to amass a following; because he is a wise and just man, but justice is not pretty or sentimental, it is cold and sharp. Good men like Dumbledore do not mind sacrificing the son, they are capable of making the impossible decisions.

Dumbledore narrows his eyes, just a little, his gaze turns inquisitive "Voices" he repeats "Voice" he says more slowly "Which one was it, young men?"

"Excuse me?" asks Sirius.

"It was one voice or several voices" clarifies Dumbledore.

"I - I, no — I'm not - I'm not sure, Professor" James replied in stumbled words. "One voice, I think… Yes, just one voice" however, James's words lacked his usual assurance.

The old Headmaster swept the rest of them with scrutiny, encouraging them to say more, but for his part, Remus had little more to say. The truth lay with James, to refute or contradict him would only unmask them as the liars of the night.

"A voice, then" Dumbledore mutters "Were you able to identify the identity of this voice?"

"Not at all, Professor" Sirius denied without hesitation "If we knew, we would have told you by now."

James would have told them already. If James had the slightest idea of what might be going on, of who this mysterious voice in the castle might be, he would have already thrown out his guesses to be discussed late at night in the dormitory. So far, no such thing has happened, and that alone makes Remus feel his insides jolt, the giddiness in the pit of his stomach.

The more he thinks about the whole thing, the more he finds more and more gaps and strangeness.

"But it was very scary" James assured him "It spoke, no, more than spoke, it was as if… as if it hissed."

"Have you heard this voice before, Mr. Potter?" inquired McGonagall.

James swallowed nervously, searching with no small amount of subtlety for the figures of Sirius and Remus.

Remus nodded, barely lowering his head so as not to be seen, urging James to continue speaking as he saw fit.

"No," James affirmed, and he must have learned something from Sirius by now, for nothing in his movements or the inflection of his voice betrayed the lie, "I don't think any of us have ever heard it before."

He still has some room for improvement, Remus says to himself under his breath, James is not yet the perfect liar but it sure won't take long for him to be a very good one. The older James that Remus remembers was one, a consummate liar that is; not that James lied at every word, but he sure knew how to hide the truth when it suited him.

"Do you think this voice could be to blame for this, Albus?" asks Slughorn with his attention fixed on Mrs. Norris "For all of this" he continues, pursing his lips in concern. The implication is there: a mysterious voice, the petrified cat, the message on the wall.

The Chamber of Secrets has been opened, and if that were true, what has been released with it?

"Who knows," says Dumbledore with puzzlement "It is still too early to say…" Professor Dumbledore grows silent, sinking inside his head in deep contemplation "Boys," he calls after a few seconds "if you ever hear this voice again, I urge you, please come to see me. Don't do anything rash, tonight you seem to have been lucky, next… well, let's hope there won't be a next one."

Ah, but Remus doesn't think this is going to be the end. They are barely halfway through this mystery, and as long as James is still the apparent protagonist, strange things are just going to keep happening.

"Of course," nodded Remus, smiling serenely at the old headmaster, "You'll be the first to know."

Dumbledore looked back at him; his blue eyes hard to read.

"Right" clapped Dumbledore, the familiar paternal joviality back on his features "I imagine this has been an eventful enough evening — Argus, escort the children back to their dormitories, and if you don't mind, let me keep your lovely lady a little longer, I will take her to Poppy as soon as we are done here."

The phoenix hooted on its perch, without raising its head or opening its eyes. With little and nothing more to say, Remus wished his professors a good night and together with his friends, they hurried out of the office, old Filch at their heels with the threat of escorting them to Gryffindor tower, no detours allowed.

Horace has seen many strange things happen in the ancestral castle of Hogwarts, things that date back to his student days and have since just become part of his routine. In his years as a professor, he has witnessed a number of events, some more regrettable than others.

Not for the first time, the Chamber of Secrets has stolen the spotlight — Horace would know! As a former student of Slytherin House, Horace was once one of the many children who grew up hearing stories about the Chamber, and he will even admit that there was a time when he thought himself worthy of being able to seek out the legend. A time when Horace still believed in such things as purity of blood and the repudiation of all things non-magical; years have passed since then, old age has only taught him the error of those ways. Being a professor does not exempt him from continuing to learn, quite the contrary, the school of life is one in which he is still enrolled, and his mentors are now the children he teaches.

With each generation that passes through the stones of this castle, Horace marvels at the bright minds and prosperous futures. He learned, so long ago, that children are children, all special in their own right.

The Chamber of Secrets, however, over the years remained just as recurrent. A tale of terror for the poor Muggle-borns, a utopia for the most corrupted little minds.

Horace remembers, not with diluted regret, the dark months in which the castle was plunged. And even then, he could hear it in his students: the Chamber has been opened. In those years, there was little Horace could do to deny such rumours, it was all there after all: half-blood and Muggle-born students, the misnamed mudbloods, succumbing left and right to a mysterious evil entity. Staring at the petrified cat, Horace can't help but think of the faces of all those students, some from his own house. They were so young, he remembers, and the fear frozen on their faces so raw… the greatest relief in his entire career was to see those students recover, to deliver them straight into the arms of their parents. Not all were as lucky, unfortunately.

Myrtle.

Even now, Horace shudders when he sees the ghost of the little girl. He feels for her, he really does, he feels for her deeply. Myrtle's parents had to be obliviated, after what happened there was no possible way to let Mr. and Mrs. Warren know anything about what happened; Horace liked to think it was a merciful act, he knows it was not. Not for Myrtle and not for her parents either. Very few people remember Myrtle and her parents are not one of them, if they are even alive to begin with, unlikely, Muggles don't live that long.

The rumours eventually died under their own weight. They couldn't keep up much longer after the real perpetrator was caught.

Hagrid.

The Chamber of Secrets went back into the fabled boot when it became known that it was little — or as little as a third-year student who was also a half-giant could be — Rubeus Hagrid who was behind the unfortunate incidents. Just a naive boy who thought he could raise dangerous creatures under the bed and among the stones. Half-blood. Hufflepuff. Half-giant. Not at all what the supposed Heir of Slytherin should be.

The punishment was severe, too severe. Myrtle's death was just an excuse for the Ministry officials to wave their banners and pitchforks; just an excuse to rise up and spew vitriol, so that they could have a cause as to why the creatures could not be received at the school, or anywhere else. But to break his wand? It was more than anyone would have thought! Although, even now, almost forty years later, Horace does not think he knows what the appropriate punishment would have been. Hagrid was just a boy, his intentions were not malicious, but they took the life of a student.

Horace finds it curious how the events of this Halloween night have unfolded. It reminds him, of course, of those years when the creature Hagrid brought to the castle will begin to haunt the students; the circ*mstances are even similar, after so long the castle had once again opened its doors to a student in an impossible situation. Like Professor Dippet, Albus has always had his heart in the right place, in the right causes, and like Dippet, Albus has let into the castle another… difficult student. Not that Horace thinks Mr. Lupin is a problem, Mr. Lupin is a charming and highly intelligent young boy, to deprive him of a magical education would have been a crime; But, he would be lying if he said that having Mr. Lupin is not a constant risk, nothing assures Mr. Lupin that he will not be subjected to the same fate as good old Hagrid, though, if Albus will differ from his predecessor in any way, it will be in the guts and the will not to be trampled so easily, that may be Mr. Lupin's only grace if the worst comes to the worst.

Could this be a message from the old founders? Some sort of random curse, in the same way that the Defence teacher's position seems to be cursed.

"Poor thing," murmurs Minerva regretfully, letting out a small sigh as she glances over Mrs. Norris's rigid body, "Was it intentional? Or an accident?"

"More likely, a mistake" Albus pointed out "That is, of course, if the person responsible for this had more nefarious intentions than those of a simple Halloween joke."

Horace fretted "Sure it was" he said in the facsimile of a light tone "You are putting a lot of thought into this" he concluded with a short laugh.

Minerva snorted "If that's what you want to believe" she said with ridicule "Why don't we ask our expert — Mr. Pickerin, enlighten us, does this look like the work of a beast to you?"

My, Horace had surely forgotten the presence of the illustrious hunter, an impressive fact, for the broad figure of Alistair Pickerin could hardly be ignored; was it only his distracted mind, or did Mr. Pickerin have a talent or two to his credit? Hiding like that was surely a trick, perhaps they had been underestimating the man.

"Oh, well," Pickerin throat cleared, "It's safe to say that this must be just a student prank," the man let out a single boastful laugh, "Didn't we have one of those at the banquet? And before that, many students were doing the same in the halls, it's just the mood of the celebrations!" the man's eyes were ablaze with dancing, anxious flames, his gaze unsure.

"I'm afraid I'll have to agree with Professor Pickerin on this one" agreed Horace to which Minerva raised an incredulous eyebrow "It wouldn't be the first time a prank got out of hand. Although you seem to be in luck, Minerva, this time your boys may not be responsible." Horace smiled, those Minerva boys were certainly something, fearless as only Gryffindor kids can be, pranksters as any child can become, they had only been in the castle a short time and they had already made their mark, literally and figuratively.

But, even so, Horace was not going to put his galleons on those boys having any involvement in the affair, it might seem that way, but young Mr. Potter was so shocked, and Mr. Pettigrew was shaking like leaves in a storm, let alone Mr. Lupin and Mr. Black! Those two, they could almost have pointed their wands at them with the way they were positioning themselves ready to hit and run, the behaviour of a criminal or a protector, and Horace was going to lean more towards the latter.

"Let us hope you are right," Dumbledore clasped his hands under his chin, "If so, I will leave it to you to search among your students. Ask them, talk to them, even if in the end this is not the work of a student, perhaps we will find someone else who has heard of the mysterious voice or anything that might bring the slightest bit of clarity to this night of uncertainty."

He did not like the tone in Albus's voice, it was too similar to all those years ago, but there was no way this and that were the same, it had been years! What's more, they had caught the perpetrator; Hagrid wouldn't do it again, yes, the half-giant was clumsy and somewhat thoughtless, but he would never put students in this same danger a second time, not intentionally that is. Hagrid is a good man, even then he was a good boy, he wouldn't make the same mistake twice and he is not the kind of man who would seek revenge either.

But it was so similar, so similar. His mouth goes dry and nerves tingle in his hands. So similar. For Merlin's sake let it be just a coincidence, just a bad match. That and this were not the same, could not be the same, not again.

"I will, of course I will," Horace promised. If this was a prank, it was highly likely that his students were responsible, the Chamber of Secrets was a very Slytherin story after all. "I'll back off now, then" he throat cleared "The sooner I corner my kids, the less chance they have of setting themselves up for a lie."

"You hold them responsible?" asked Minerva.

Horace lowered his eyes "I admit it looks like something they might do."

"Let's not jump to conclusions either way, Horace" warned Dumbledore mildly "Don't accuse your kids so soon."

It was not to accuse them, Horace told himself, but he knew better than anyone the wiles of his snakes, the only way to get the truth out of them was going to be with a direct attack that would catch them off guard. He hoped with all his heart that it hadn't been one or more of his students tormenting the poor cat and scribbling on the walls, but these coming generations were getting bolder and bolder, bred more rigorously in magical fanaticism, and Horace didn't see them incapable of doing something like this, some of them would surely find the humour in it, like Mr. Mulciber or Mr. Avery.

"I'll know how to handle my students," Horace said, unwilling to take advice on how he was supposed to deal with his children, "Now, well, I'll be off." he looked at Minerva, expecting her to go and excuse herself along with him, but as Albus's loyal confidante, Minerva didn't move a hair, standing firmly in front of the desk; to be expected, Horace thought, real adult talk begins with his withdrawal, in another time such a thing might offend him, but at this age? Merlin, he is thankful that Albus has someone else to confide his paranoia to.

With a final nod, Horace turned and descended the four steps that raised the Headmaster's desk area. He heard the soft thud of heavier footsteps moving in retreat with him, but Horace had no intention of waiting for Professor Pickerin; as engrossing as the new defence professor's stories could be, tonight Horace was in no mood to entertain such a celebrity.

His retreat was closely followed by the portraits of the former headmasters, some of whom feigned sleep, but fooling no one, Horace knew that the paintings were always alert, listening with rapt attention. Professor Dippet's portrait gave him a tired smile as he passed. Dippet was a good man, somewhat cowardly and smarmy, but Horace could almost always rely on him to act with real care for the school. Filling Professor Dippet's shoes has not been difficult for Albus, some would say Albus has outgrown him, but as someone who works so closely with Dumbledore, Horace is more than aware of the faults in his old friend. He hopes then that Dippet knows to advise Dumbledore to let Horace handle the affairs of his house without further interference, even if Albus's intentions are always good, his execution is not always correct, and the children of Slytherin are not the same as the other children in the castle.

Back in the corridor outside the office, Horace continues on his way at a brisk pace, barely pausing with what passes for politeness to say goodbye to his now colleague, Professor Pickerin.

The night has grown long, midnight must have come and gone by now, yet Horace has a feeling that when he reaches the Common Room of his house, he will find a horde of restless children waiting for him. His snakes can be so predictable, they do not tend to behave like normal children, but they are still children, and on a tumultuous night like this they would not go to sleep without first rounding up their dear old Head of House.

Who would have had the dreadful task of cleaning the walls? Argus will not do it, it would be simply heartless to ask him to do it, the blood might as well be his precious cat's. Maybe Hagrid did it, or even Pomona, either of them have the stomach to get rid of the blood. Damage control was going to be a headache, he prays that Minerva knows how to control the media and maybe prevent the story from dawning on the headlines, and he prays even harder that his beloved students have not already run to the owlery, he has no desire to wake up to dozens of letters on his doorstep.

Horace sighs, entering the final corridor leading to the stairs. A trick that not many knew, one only had to tap the handrail columns a couple of times to make the stairs freeze, and then, with a firm instruction, ask them to rearrange themselves to get one where it was needed. He hated the feel of the stairs as they moved, and with his stomach already churning from a tense night, Horace felt as if he had drunk a stale bottle of eggnog.

The castle has been sealed in silence, Horace is not worried about finding students in the corridors, he knows there are none. When things like this happen, his colleagues are more than ready to act accordingly, escorting students back to their rooms and standing guard at the doors, while the paintings make the rounds of the corridors, guiding lost students back to their housemates. Hadn't something like this happened last Halloween? Now that was a headache! Parents were outspoken in expressing their displeasure with the troll in the castle.

He comes out of his musings as he enters the darkness of the dungeons. Relief begins to wash over him, say what you will about his precious dungeons, but the shadows and dim lights bring him more comfort than the dancing candles that illuminate every inch of the upper floors. The atmosphere in the dungeons has become familiar, one of the many reasons he has refused Albus's constant invitations to take one of the castle's spare rooms.

Standing in front of the wall connecting the dungeons to the Slytherin common room, with a chandelier barely dispelling the darkness, Horace is greeted by Mopsus Vablatsky, the elderly Divination professor, so elderly, in fact, that the date for his retirement has already begun to run.

"Ah, Professor Vlablatsky" greets Horace trying to regain some of his jubilant mood, though there is no point in doing so, Professor Vlablatsky may be blind, but that does not mean he is easy to evade; the talents of a branch as mysterious as Divination have only known to flourish in the old wizard, where natural sight has been deprived, the world of susceptibilities has gifted him with a completely different pair of eyes "Thank you very much for looking after my children."

Vlablatsky leans his head, the milky whites of his eyes seeming to penetrate Slughorn's skin "Horace" he says in a raspy voice "I feel you are agitated" short and thin, Professor Vlablatsky shuffles his feet laboriously, stopping at a barely comfortable distance in front of Slughorn "You should stop thinking so much" he advises, brushing past Slughorn down the corridor "It won't do your students any good to see you like this."

There is sweat forming on his temples, agitation bubbling under Slughorn's flesh "Of course, of course," he says with some nervousness "Have a good night, Professor Vlablatsky."

Professor Vlablatsky grunts a reply, but it is unintelligible. He sinks into the shadows, his dark robes becoming one with the gloom that licks the contours of the corridor; now that's a man who knows about theatre, Horace reminds himself, no one has ever carried that air of mysticism like Professor Vlablatsky, and no one ever will. Everyone's time in the castle cannot last forever, Professor Vlablatsky, who has been on the faculty even longer than Horace has been alive, is approaching the moment of saying his last goodbye to the students and the Caledonian stones, it is just a natural cycle that only ghosts seem to be the exception, although one cannot speak of a full-fledged exception, when ghosts no longer have time, detained in the moment, more thing than people.

Maybe it is time for me to retire too; Horace mused, revelling in the interesting taste of retirement. It was not the first time such a thought had crossed his mind, before, long before, such an idea was very appealing, but he always restrained himself, he would stop at the last step of the Headmaster's office and turn away altogether; unlike what the position of Defence Master might imply, the professor's position at Hogwarts is usually a lifelong assignment. It is an honour. Not just anyone — or not just anyone should — can be a professor at Hogwarts, it is a position of high honour, a very selective one.

A wizard's honour is of the utmost importance.

His thoughts turn cold as he looks at the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room. An archway of stone rises from the floor, the body of a snake bending in a perfect undulation, until it hovers above the top edge of a doorway; the movement is hypnotic, the body of the snake is made of polished, chalky stone, but shines as if it were marble and moves as if it were a real snake, Horace never tires of seeing this magic at work.

"Liquid Luck," he said, waiting patiently for the door to unlock. Passwords are a Head of House decision, and being too tempting to pass up, Horace leans towards his subject's own set of words.

The door is somewhat narrow, barely allowing more than two students through at a time; Horace continues his way through.

He has always despised confrontations. They set his heart racing and make his palms sweat. He thought of his students, oh how much Dumbledore didn't know them! His children… savage would be an apt word to describe them, like snakes that have never known the wretchedness of captivity, but the cruelty of man. And Horace is going to have to face more than ten of those kids…

Steady. No trembling. Hands behind the back. Straight to the point.

Horace repeated to himself several times: Steady. No trembling. Hands behind the back. Straight to the point.

A special mantra to prepare himself.

With his eyes glued to the stone floor of the dungeons, Horace began to hear the small voices of his students echoing down the corridors. The Slytherin House rooms were the largest of the four houses at Hogwarts; having the entirety of the dungeons and the basem*nt of the Castle at their disposal, they had the luxury of wide, long spaces, which he was grateful for, for upon reaching the main room of the Common Room, Horace almost lost his breath at the sight of all his students gathered together, with not much distance between them. He is aware of his many students, yet he does not remember ever having the pleasure of seeing them all like this: gathered together in unity.

The students fall mute, the silence expands one by one, until there is no more noise than the hissing sound of the wind passing over their heads and between the stones of the roof.

"A little late to be awake, you kids" Horace mockingly admonished "Classes still await you tomorrow, or in a few hours more likely."

Watching his students more closely, Horace noticed that not all of his students were so awake. Many of the younger ones were nodding or dozing against the furniture, some even curled up on the carpet in the centre of the room, slowly waking up with the help of their classmates.

Horace sighed "I'll make this quick so we can all go to bed" he said "Children" he called sternly "Please, we're in confidence, just tell me, which one of you did it?"

If betrayal were a role, his little students would be competing to perform it. From wide eyes to dramatic gasps, his children were openly shocked, or as open as children who put on stone masks for the day to day can be.

"Professor," almost growled Hazel Harrington, his seventh-year prefect and wonderful orator, "You can't really believe that any of us would have anything to do with this," she defended.

But Horace… in fact Horace might actually believe that his students could have something to do with this. It is very noble of Hazel to stand up for her fellow housemates, but inexperience can be a killer; Miss Harrington has less time in the magical world than any of her first-year pureblood classmates, and as far as Horace knows, Hazel has been known to benefit from having arrived in a generation where Slytherin house received more muggleborns and half-bloods in the last seven years.

"That depends. Not that I'm saying any of you did it, just that, well, if one of you did it, I'm not saying that you did it, just a possibility, if any of you did it I would like to know," Horace replied, beginning to feel the uncomfortable hammering in his chest increase "Please, children, just… I'm going to close my eyes and count to three, and if the responsible one is in this room, step forward and say me . Now… one… two… three…"

The seconds count down slowly, his heart is so agitated that in a single second three heartbeats come in. As he opens his eyes again, Horace begins to reconsider the idea of retirement with even greater urgency. His wild snakes have an obvious weakness, as children who always strive for perfection, disappointment can be a deadly blow. The voices of his older students begin to rise, one over the other presenting their defences and excuses: that one was at dinner when it all happened, that another spent the night in the nursery, that the Chamber of Secrets is too childish a story.

His younger students, on the other hand, huddle together and watch him suspiciously. The youngest children, who have only known the satisfaction of pride and success, have the saddest eyes in the world.

"Professor" sitting at the front of the crowd cries Lena Travers, a little girl with dark pigtails and to whom the eleven years had come too late "Professor" cries again, getting to her feet and running at full speed towards Slughorn. Lena hangs onto his robe, smearing snot and tears alike. "I swear to you that we didn't do it!" she exclaims, her voice stringy.

Other children, just as small, follow Miss Travers' example and approach to tackle him, hugging Horace in desperation. They are small snakes constricting his limbs.

"It wasn't us; it wasn't us" they cry one after another, more snot and less words.

Horace barely manages not to wrinkle his nose in disgust; as a professor he has been the handkerchief to more children than he can remember, but the slimy feeling clinging to clothes and skin is hard to bear.

"There, there" Horace hushes, patting the heads he can reach "I apologise" he says "I see now it wasn't you."

The students sigh, the tears are running out. His prefects step forward, dodging the crowd, and approach to detach the children from their cherished and weary teacher.

So it seems that it hadn't been his students… Horace would have preferred it if it had been, to be honest. He is fond of his students, every one of them, even if they were not under his house, he was fond of them all in one way or another. But the students in his house, they were the ones he was always going to care for a little more. Albus thought that accusing his students in such a direct way was cruel, Horace thought of it more as a way of caring for them. If his students were not honest with him, Horace was not going to be able to defend them.

He sighed. He went back to examining his students. He didn't think anyone was missing, the quick count in his head seemed accurate. Nor did his students seem to be hiding anything, though the green tint that lit the room gave the impression that they were, but that was Slytherin, always cautious. He hoped that a direct confrontation would give him straight answers, and if that didn't work, the apparent disappointment would surely make them talk.

He sought out what he had initially thought were the most likely offenders. In one of the armchairs, secluded but not far away, Mr. Mulciber and Mr. Avery congregated with the rest of their friends, neither of whom showed any sign of remorse or guilt. If the offender was among his students, it was not going to be revealed tonight, but with this open confrontation Horace has already sown the small sliver of doubt, if his students once trusted the innocence of their peers, they too may now question, watch, observe; if something like this happens again, Horace is confident that his students will tell on each other, always to save their own skins.

Sirius's senses are on alert; every little sound and slight movement attracts his attention, whether it is the rushing of the wind or the waving of torches. The whispering of the paintings is almost as hard to ignore. With every step, Sirius is sure that a dark wizard is going to emerge from within the walls and slit their throats. Filch's dark presence does little to dissuade him from these thoughts.

Argus Filch. If ever Sirius claimed to feel sorry for the man, such a thought is not going to stop him from pushing the man through the space created by the movement of the stairs. Filch oozes disgust and resentment, and Sirius's instincts tell him that, if he does not push Filch first, then the man will.

The man is tense, his hunched shoulders look stiff, and the movement of his hands denotes his pent-up fury. In what sensible mind can anyone send the man off with the children who have supposedly frozen his cat? That is like begging Filch and his notorious bloody temper to harm them.

"Move on" Filch orders him slowly, slurring the word with thick hatred "Or I'll make you move on" he punctuates, nudging Sirius' shoulder so that he immerses into the corridor.

Remus nods at him to hurry up, and Sirius takes the last step off the stairs with Filch grumbling behind. It's not in Sirius's plans to commit murder before bed, hiding a body in the castle would surely not be as easy as it sounds, even if Sirius can think of more than one classroom where Filch's remains are unlikely to be found until at least the next century.

Gryffindor tower is not that far away anymore, it's just a matter of turning the next corner to enter the corridor with the painting of the Fat Lady at the end. With her face drawn in annoyance, lips twisted and eyebrows only slightly furrowed, the Fat Lady did not seem to be having the best night, if Sirius had to guess, surely Professor McGonagall must have charged her with the tedious task of guarding the entrance with greater rigour and to stop the students from leaving until further notice.

"Password," demanded the Fat Lady, patting her pompous dress with annoyance. The Victorian style is pleasing to the eye, though in Sirius's opinion, the cut of the dress and the hairstyle did little to flatter the Lady.

"Nightingale," replied Remus, with Peter and James at his back.

The Lady raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms, and let her frame open to reveal the tunnel to the Tower. His patience waning, Filch shoved Sirius by the shoulder again. Patience, Sirius told himself, patience; when the real culprit is caught, Sirius will be the first to cheer Filch in his anger.

The boys slouched down, walking one behind the other in a line so that they could pass safely through the tunnel. Filch stayed behind, the painting of the Fat Lady back in place.

On the other side, things did not look so rosy. Many students were still not asleep, of course not, they seemed to have been waiting for Sirius and his friends to return, which did not surprise Sirius in the slightest. And any joy Sirius might have derived from seeing the fake bloodstains spoil more than one student, vanished in the face of the distrust with which they were greeted.

"Ignore them" Sirius whispered, moving closer to James and Peter so that they were the only ones his words reached.

James bit the inside of his cheeks "I can see now why you don't like the attention" he said.

"Can't say I'm glad you do" Sirius snorted.

When Sirius took a step forward, fully intending to make room among his housemates to reach the stairs to the dorms, he was greeted with shudders and pale faces; as Sirius took the step, his housemates took one back.

Sirius frowned.

"Look who's back!" two orange heads peered over the upper balcony "Fabian, our children have come home!"

"They're back?" exclaimed Fabian, covering his mouth as if he had just received shocking news "Oh, my children. They're back from the war!" the teenager undid the knot of his tie and waved it as if it were a medieval handkerchief.

A war is what I'm going to unleash here if they don't let me get to my dormitory in the next twenty seconds.

"Look," Sirius held up his hands in a peace sign, "I really don't feel like explaining myself tonight. You want answers? Ask McGonagall, but bear in mind that they wouldn't have let us back in if we had actually been guilty of anything" and where's the courage? Sirius wanted to challenge, as he watched his companions stare, but not speak; glaring, but silent.

Sirius made room for himself, pushing his housemates aside to clear a path to the stairs. In the corner of the Common Room he noticed how the younger students, a jumbled mix of first, second and third years, were hiding. The faces of the younger ones betrayed their fear — what had they heard so far, what explanation had the older students given them, had they gathered them in front of the fire to hear the dark story of the Chamber of Secrets? From Lily's deathly pale face and Mary's trembling eyes, that seemed to be the case; the fake blood covering the uniforms gave the children a macabre touch, brought back memories to Sirius of surviving children after a Death Eater attack.

"Good luck with the stains," Sirius heard Remus say still at the front of the mob, "I would try using toves slime."

In the end, his absence at dinner had done more harm than good. There is no way his other classmates could have overlooked his absence, and unlike McGonagall and Dumbledore, his classmates don't have Sirius and his friends' version of events. In their eyes, their absence is synonymous with guilt, and with all that must have already been said in their absence, Sirius' reputation as a dark wizard on the rise must only have been solidified; the Chamber of Secrets is just the icing on the cake. They could not look more guilty, in conclusion.

When the sun rose, another day of prying eyes and scandalous whispers awaited them, but before even thinking about a new day, Sirius still had to manage to get a letter to his uncle before the newspaper reached the quaint village of Épinoît. Things with his uncle were already like a restless honeycomb, and all this new trouble was like beating the honeycomb with a nailed bat. Sirius can already imagine his uncle; the man will have to start dyeing his hair if he wants to preserve his looks.

The atmosphere in the Great Hall is no different from other days this term. The sound of chatter mingles with the glasses and mugs, and no matter how much Sirius wants to make himself oblivious to it, he finds that the same sense of annoyance is building up under his gut waiting to explode. If the rest of the semester is going to be exactly the same — and it looks like it will — Sirius can't promise the integrity of the Great Hall and the students.

The newspaper doesn't help much either, though it certainly doesn't feed his nerves as he had hoped. They didn't even make it to the headlines this time, which, of course, is only good news, though Sirius's ego childishly resents it, his airs of desperation already made to the idea of returning to the front of the papers and magazines, not being there, as the main star, is disconcerting. No such luck this time.

They are still on the front page, at least. The caption goes like this:

«A HALLOWEEN OF TERROR: Chamber of Secrets or Vandals? »

"Hundreds of frightened students, no serious victims.

During the celebrations of the notorious Halloween feast at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, an unprecedented event has ignited fear among students. What was initially thought to be a harmless Halloween prank appears to have spiralled out of control, resulting in a helpless and innocent cat being attacked.

Some students say the situation has been traumatic to say the least and many parents have already contacted their trusted reporter to express their displeasure.

The Chamber of Secrets is a famed story, one that many of us have read about, no doubt the message that the anonymous pranksters have plastered on the castle walls has sparked childlike fear in more than one.

It seems that this year is proving anything but easy for Headmaster Dumbledore, perhaps being the guardian of our younger generation is a much greater challenge than estimated for the one who triumphed over Gellert Grindelwald a lifetime ago.

At times like these, even in the most innocent of jokes, we have to rethink: how efficient have the mighty Dumbledore's policies been within the castle? Dumbledore's attempts to procure a place of equality between Muggle and magical go back to the days when Dumbledore was little more than a professor, and we all know those yesterdays are a long way off. Has there really been any success? Or is this Halloween business — a Muggle holiday I should make clear — only evidence the savagery we have stealthily allowed to creep into our community?"

— Rita Skeeter

Sirius actually frowns after finishing the note, there is nothing that is particularly new from Rita Skeeter's words, in fact, Sirius would feel that something had gone terribly wrong if Rita Skeeter was not looking for an opportunity to mess with Dumbledore. An unscrupulous reporter without restraint, a coward nonetheless; Sirius is unsure if there are many people who would label Skeeter a coward, he knows that the woman has the reputation of a bold reporter, but Sirius can smell Skeeter's fear slipping from her words. She picks on Dumbledore, and any powerful man, as long as she knows that those men will never do anything so low as forcibly silencing her. She speaks ill of Dumbledore, but such an attitude never extended to Voldemort, because Skeeter knew better — or knows better? knew better? Time has become confusing for Sirius, sometimes he thinks in the past for things that are future and talks about the present as if it were alien to him.

He bets Minnie must have cashed in a favour or two to secure such a lukewarm note. His uncle Alphard is not the only one with relationships and connections, Minnie and the other professors have their playbooks too; they have taught more than half of the current ministry and media workers, they know the children who hide behind them and understand the adults who now walk around.

It is not Skeeter's note, however, that has Sirius' nerves on edge. It is the headline, the headline of the day. It is, by all accounts, harmless, just another day in the magical world and the international magical community, yet Sirius reads the headline with suspicion and squints at the picture in between the words.

«Get your coats ready and your boots on! »

"On a cool day, with a rare window into the autumn sunshine, the Department of International Magic Cooperation has bid an enthusiastic farewell to its negotiating brigade in order to engage in a new trade treaty with our not-so-distant German neighbour.

The Minister has made clear his enthusiasm for opening up new trade channels and has sent the brigade off with high praise. As leader of the negotiations the illustrious wizard Abraxas Malfoy has been appointed, let us hope that Mr. Malfoy can bring some of the prosperity his family seems to enjoy.

To read more of the aims these negotiations seek to achieve, turn to page eighteen; to read about the last banquet held in the Malfoy Family Gardens, turn to page fifteen."

Nothing out of the ordinary, Sirius tells himself. Things like this happen every day, wizards of power and wealth meeting with other wizards of power and wealth to discuss the problems of the marginalised, to weep over the injustice of the world, and to convince themselves of the nobility of their actions. But Sirius is suspicious, suspicious of anything with the Malfoy name on it and suspicious of the intentions behind it; something tells him that Abraxas Malfoy has not gone to Germany to solely discuss tariffs and fees.

He runs his fingers over the photograph of Abraxas Malfoy with the Minister to his left and other wizards and witches behind them; they shake hands, like successful and satisfied little men, all just politics for the cameras with tight-lipped smiles. The newsprint brings an uncomfortable sensation to his fingers, it feels porous, dusty, he can almost feel the ink coming off and staying on his fingers; there is nothing on them. He thinks, analyses, ponders, it's not something he used to do, not about this sort of thing or about much really. Sirius Black couldn't care less what was going on around him, if it's not his problem then it's not his problem, but it's not the same now as it was yesterday. Every step he takes, every corridor he walks down, Sirius listens and thinks, he thinks his uncle would be pleased with that, he has taken it from him.

Just for a brief second the thought crosses his mind; how bad would it be for his puny body to dip into a bottle of whiskey?

"I feel like you're getting lost in there more often than not," Remus's hand manages to slip between Sirius', holding him gently. Sirius startles, not sure if it's Remus's concerned tone that has pulled him back into the dining room or if it's the feel of Remus's hand in his. This Remus's hands are different, small, still somewhat thin-boned, as if Sirius can feel the agility in them hidden beneath the scar tissue; those are Remus's hands, though Sirius had grown accustomed to holding a thicker, less soft pair, but even among the most wretched children there is still some softness and elasticity, and while there is not the same security, there is comfort in that hint of youth still clinging to bone and muscle.

Sirius takes a breath, lowers the newspaper, and concentrates on the drop that falls down the glass of juice. The air in the dining room suffocates him, the high ceilings a small cage; he wishes, more than ever, that he could be back home, sitting under a tree with the cool breeze blowing off the lake and a bowl of strawberries and tangerines to nibble on.

"How are they doing?" he asks, nodding in the direction of James and Peter. So far, those two have not said much, it's as if Mrs. Norris has chewed their tongues out before she was turned to stone.

Remus squeezes his hand, the gesture conveying more of his concern than his words "They will be fine" he says "Before you know it you will have them back to their shenanigans, looking for answers where it is best not to find them."

He does not like the way James looks lost, his hands perpetually still as if for the first time the energy in his body has been consumed; it is a disturbing sight, and Sirius worries for them. The voices that only James can hear now seem more real, Sirius can give them tone and colour, even if he himself has never heard them; so far it has been voices, Sirius does not think he is prepared if that scales to images, figures just as illusory but real.

As for Peter, that is something Sirius is more prepared to deal with. Fear and wonder are his bread and butter, and he finds himself nodding at Remus. Yes, when the initial uncertainty dissipates, Peter will be the first to ask the uncomfortable questions.

Sirius averts his gaze from them, from the childish show of emotion they do not know how to hide. He looks almost across the room for some sign of his brother. He knows Regulus is fine, if only because in his sleepless burst of early morning Sirius was able to do more than send letters to his uncle. Today, then, he is not worried about Regulus, not in that way; though there are mornings where Sirius's dreams have plagued him with bloody, devastating flashes and searching for his brother becomes the cure for his discomfort; if only because he knows he would be crossing any boundaries of privacy, Sirius sometimes entertains the idea of putting a tracking spell on his brother, just for his own peace of mind.

They have been given a wide berth at the end of the Gryffindor table, no one seems willing to look them directly in the eye, though their voices are just as piercing. The distance between Sirius and his other castle mates is not enough to stifle the most accusatory and theoretical words. There is something different about this morning, the tone of the students towards Sirius has changed, no longer spoken in rumour as much as truth, there is no longer that mysticism behind the comments, instead, the certain truth begins to set in. It is no longer perhaps Sirius is mad, but Sirius has lost his mind as a proven and tangible fact. The change is not so funny now.

Although, if it is for James… Sirius turns his attention back to James; dark hair dishevelled and gold wire glasses, eyes lost in the oatmeal with raisins and shallow breathing… If it is for James, Sirius doesn't mind playing the madman of the castle.

"Did we do the right thing?" asks James, his lips pale and his eyes dark "I don't want you to get in trouble for lying to the teachers" he confesses without letting his voice get louder than the whispering at the table.

Sirius tries to smile encouragingly "I don't know" he says, because that is the truth. "We can't know until we see what else is going to happen. And it wasn't a lie at all, was it? Just… a change of facts."

James shakes his head "That's lying, to me it is" he says "Maybe I should have told everything as it was to the teachers, maybe and they'll have a better idea of this voice in the walls!"

"Or maybe you'll get expelled from the castle" muses Peter "Hearing voices that no one else can hear is not a good sign, you know that James…" the boy looked up, looking determined "It's better this way" he says "You would have done the same for any of us… Just, don't run off like that again mate, Remus nearly died!"

"No, I didn't" denied Remus with a scowl on his face.

"Yes, you did!" accused Peter "Your face turned red, and you were breathing like this: hrrrf, hrrrf, snerk. I thought you were going to faint!"

Sirius laughed "Very good acting, Petey-pot" he praised with a big grin, he always enjoyed a good laugh at Remus's expense, even better when the instigator was Peter Pettigrew himself who rarely used to cross that line to cook his friends.

"Sorry, Remus," apologised James, though he still grinned and laughed with the same sparkling chuckle as Sirius. With no small amount of affection, Sirius let his smirk thin the corners of his mouth in a gesture of tenderness; James, good old James, with his soft spot for Remus, Sirius was never going to boast that he was James' favourite friend — though he was James' best! — For in James's heart that place was dedicated to Remus for whom James always held his gentler side. "I promise. No more following invisible voices."

Remus snorted with an eyebrow raised in disbelief "Even you don't believe that, Potter."

Ears red and eyes amusedly embarrassed, James denied nothing and just took a sip of his grape juice. James's smiles were the sun, shining rays that brought hope and lightness; a bath of those radiant reflections could cure the evil inside anyone. That's James Potter, steady as the dawn and hopeful as the drizzle after a drought.

It's a good thing none of the students heard the voices, Sirius considered with the smell of breakfast and the warmth of friendship surrounding him. He did not hold out hope that this little detail would remain a secret for much longer, but he was glad that the other young residents of the castle did not have a reason to torment James with anything more than sharp eyes and voracious whispers. For James, the only attention he should ever receive was from the applause in the stands on the Quidditch pitch and the flashing cameras; the jeers and insults were for Sirius whose titanium exterior could never flinch from saltwater scratches; the hatred for his family had always been there, it had only made them tougher. Like weeds, the rabble's ill-wishes only give them strength, fire in their trails.

The cruel stories they made up about his family only served to create the myth of their greatness.

Sirius wishes he could say he was proud of it.

Sirius's favourite tree is the apple tree. There is no particular reason, except that Sirius remembers the pair of apple trees on his grandfather's estate; the apple blossoms were there whenever Sirius visited France in the spring, the sweet smell of the petals tickling his nose. Like many of Sirius's memories, it is faded, worn like old footage from which only glimpses of clarity remain.

Sirius thinks of it now, of the apple tree by the stream, with the blossoms slowly turning to fruit for autumn. He remembers, just a touch dusty and stale, the taste of his grandmother's pies, made with the fresh apples from the garden. He is not even that fond of apples, Sirius muses, but that is not the point, not the reason. There are many things Sirius prefers to ignore when it comes to his family, like the taste of his grandmother's pies, or the warmth of his cousins sleeping together in Grimmauld drawing room; he prefers to leave it behind, hidden in an old shoebox where it can gain dust and age without ever being completely lost.

He has more memories like that of his family, not always painful and not always the fuel of his nightmares. There was a time when the Black family was more than duty and pride, when they meant something deeper than a name, sour as wild apples but sweet enough to share.

It is not uncommon for Sirius to think of such things between classes, Professor Binns's lessons in particular bringing the most curious of memories to the forefront of his mind.

He doesn't like Binns's class, the tone is dull and the stories unentertaining, though they have the oddly hypnotic effect of plunging Sirius deep into the depths of his head and his memories… during lessons, Sirius often remembers many things, too many; memories so distant that they seem unfocused, voices stuck. He listens to Binns talk about the history of the third giant revolution, and Sirius is reminded of Aunt Cass's voice; she always had a gift for acting, with graceful hands for storytelling and charming. Aunt Cass, many yesterdays ago, used to gather the children around a campfire under the cover of night, sit them with her on the grass and tell them stories, some were horror, about old creatures and shadowy wizards, others were love stories, the most tragic, painful and imperfect love stories. For all her irreverent exterior, even Aunt Cass was capable of harbouring something like romantic love in her, even if Sirius has never known of a partner of his aunt's that lasted longer than a toss of sheets; remembering those nights of stories, Sirius wonders if they were less tales and more anecdotes.

They are among the few memories Sirius has decided to leave alone, making no more effort than to leave them there to swim. Before, Sirius might have sought to return those memories to the forgotten drawer, now they only bring him some peace; not everything in his childhood was so horrible, not everything was suffering, his life is more than pain and punishment, his existence is not just a perpetual cramp. Sirius thinks it's therapeutic, he no longer… he no longer strives to find any trace of misery in his life. He sees his life for what it is, and his family for what they were, the truth of being imperfect humans, broken many generations ago.

It is not absolution; it is only a reminder of better times. The filth under their skin, the filth in their veins had a chance to be a garden.

His exile away from home forced him to search for all the monsters that would validate his abdication. There is nothing to look for now, no. He is back home, back with his family, and he can't look for monsters when he has become one again.

As Professor Binns's voice dropped to a muffled tone, Sirius basked in the knowledge that the end of the class was near, the echoes of his aunt's voice seeping away like sand through his fingers, the pseudo-hypnotism coming to an end.

Binns's silence gave way to a tremulous, high-pitched voice:

"Professor."

Sirius, with his chin resting on his hand, barely turned his neck to peer behind him at the little voice; matching the tremor in it, Sirius noticed Lily with her hair loose over her shoulders, straight as silk and red as sunset, it was unusual to see Lily Evans with her locks out of a plait or a ponytail, and Sirius worried if perhaps Lily had been able to sleep a wink in the night, for her complexion looked like sour milk and her eyes were reddened at the corners.

Professor Binns stopped his pacing at the front of the class, unaccustomed to being interrupted or spoken to by students.

"Professor," Lily called again, her voice sharper now. Lily's voice knew to guide the ghost's attention straight to her and her place next to Marlene.

"Do you have any questions about the class, Miss Ellis?" asked Binns acidly, tilting his face down slightly and letting his glasses drag down the bridge of his nose. Sirius rolled his eyes, at least Binns had got the letter of the surname right, though how Binns had been able to mistake Evans for Ellis only Merlin would know.

"It's… it's not an academic question, Professor," Lily clarified, her trembling hands playing with a little chain around her neck, a silver metal necklace and a single glittering stone "It's about…" Lily held back, glancing nervously at her classmates and receiving a sharp nod from Marlene "About the Chamber of Secrets, Professor, could you tell us about it?"

Sleepiness and sullenness departed from Sirius, who watched the same thing happen to other of the children in the room who had been supplied with a sleeping pill by Binns's lesson.

"You must have confused my class, Miss Eaton," said Binns with a bored drawl, "This is the history of magic, not mythology or folklore. We study reality, not fantasy."

Binns shook his head, as if jaded, but Lily did not relent; tenacity swirled in his eyes like a gale of leaves.

"But Professor," Lily continued, not wanting to be dismissed by the professor just like that, "Don't legends always have a bit of reality in them?" even with her pale face and unsure voice, Lily was still an unquenchable fire.

At this point, there wasn't anyone in the room who wasn't already back to their senses. A class with the Hufflepuffs always loomed as a peaceful time, though now peace was only an extinct concept, for all attention was on Binns who had probably never had such an attentive and wild audience as now. Trust Lily Evans to stir the sea.

"That may be true" conceded Binns, looking more alive than ever, drawn to the fire like a moth "However, such a thing as the Chamber of Secrets is just nonsense, with no feet or head to give it merit."

"I consider it would still be worth it if you told us about it" pursued Lily "For us who are not so well versed in those sorts of stories."

Sirius pursed his lips. He doubted Severus had not told Lily something about the Chamber by now, that boy with the sickly complexion and pasty hair is a living encyclopaedia for subjects like that, though perhaps that is why Lily insists on the Professor being the one to tell her about it, Snape's version of the Chamber of Secrets cannot be if not glorified at the very least, skewed. For all his ghostly awkwardness, Binns must have enough academic ability to give an objective view, without aggrandising or excusing the figure of Salazar Slytherin.

"All right," sighed Binns irritably, "If you're so insistent, Miss Ewing. Let's see… the Chamber of Secrets? You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded about a thousand years ago (we're not sure of the exact date) by the four most important wizards of the time. The four houses of the school are named after them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin. The four of them together built this castle, away from the prying eyes of Muggles, for this was a time when magic was rarely seen well, and without care, much harm could be done with it and by it."

Binns cleared his throat, uncomfortable with so much attention on him.

"For a few years, the founders worked together in harmony, seeking out young people who showed signs of aptitude for magic and bringing them to the castle to educate them. But then disagreements arose between them, and a rift developed between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wanted to be more selective about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He felt that the teaching of magic should be reserved for wizarding families. He was afraid of having students from Muggle families, because he didn't think them trustworthy or worthy of such a privileged education, in his thinking, these students were a danger, and he was afraid of what they might bring…"

Sirius hid a grimace. It was much more than that, Sirius knew. While the education his family had given him on such matters should be scrutinised with tongs, Sirius favoured on his talent for separating fanatical rhetoric from facts; how had Lily put it? Did legends have any reality to them? Magical fanaticism works the same way, for both sides; a little truth lurks in every speech.

Rather than distrust of the Muggle-born, Salazar Slytherin was an extremely prejudiced man, raised in the opulent privilege of the Slytherin family whose wealth was greater than that of Muggle nobles. Wizarding families rarely have trouble amassing fortunes, though their exceptions always exist, but in the old days, when magic was not so secret and its practice could generate wealth, it guaranteed enviable positions. For a man who all he knew in his life was silver plates and silk sheets, what an insult it must have been to be forced to share his talents with those who could neither read nor write… Magic does not discriminate, it can be born in any child, and Salazar Slytherin would have been glad if all magical children had been noble and well-educated, distinguished members of honourable wizarding families and not the children of peasants, or malnourished servants or forgettable orphans.

To reduce the horrible man that was Salazar Slytherin to a magical racist is an understatement; his thinking was more devious, his influence corrosive. How much do the more open-minded not boast that they are not like the others! But introduce them to a starving child, show them the hell of werewolves and the extreme inequality between one and the other. Bring them an orphan and watch them condemn them for it. Very few see beyond their own good fortune. Perhaps if Sirius had been given more indifference by his mother, if she had blessed him with the gift of not being seen, he too could have lived a life of perfect blindness. But his mother, in all her cruelty, showed Sirius the hunger, the pain, the exhaustion… As it is, Sirius cannot close his eyes — what has he not already seen?

The world of Salazar Slytherin exists with greater success than Dumbledore or anyone else would like to delude themselves into believing. It exists and the proof is in Sirius, in his family who chose greatness over the suffering of others, in the fear that has allowed him to subdue others.

To call what Salazar Slytherin felt for Muggles fear is to give him the opportunity to absolve himself and deny the world the man shaped. It is hatred, it is disgust. Magical racism, where some are more deserving than others. Magical classism, where not everyone is equally magical.

"One day there was a serious row about it between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the school." Continued Binns "This is what reliable historical sources tell us, but these simple facts were hidden behind the fantastic legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The legend tells us that Slytherin had built a hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew nothing. Slytherin, according to legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that no one could open it until his true heir arrived at the school. Only the heir could open the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror it contains and use it to rid the school of all those who have no right to learn magic."

Is the Chamber of Secrets a real thing? Frankly, Sirius wouldn't doubt it. After last year's fantabulous disaster, the stone in the castle and Voldemort at meals, that a Hogwarts founder would have managed to build a top-secret Chamber is quite possible, like, highly possible. On that so-called horror, however, Sirius is going to think twice. From what Binns's supposedly reliable sources have been able to show, if Salazar Slytherin had such a horror at his disposal, there's no reason why he wouldn't have used it himself. But Sirius could not know for certain, Salazar Slytherin was too long dead to discern anything of his character beyond the legend in his name.

With concern, Sirius noticed how the atmosphere in the classroom had turned sombre. Lily, who had instigated the topic in the first place, had her eyes wide, fear dulling the green of her eyes.

"Of course, this story is complete nonsense," Binns sentenced. "Naturally, the entire school has been searched several times for the camera, by the best-trained wizards. It does not exist. It's a tale invented to frighten the gullible."

Sirius nodded in agreement with Binns. While anything was possible, the Chamber of Secrets had become a tale of terror to frighten children and the holy grail for ancient families. Merlin, more than one member of the Black family once sought the Chamber, if for no other reason than the recognition that would come with it — being the second or third child in a large family has its disadvantages. While the other families seemed to fantasise about being the heir to the great Salazar Slytherin, the Black family had no such interest in stealing such a title, though it sure would look nice and serve to enhance their own legend. If Sirius were unaware of the horrific story behind the Chamber, he might have tried to seek it out with his friends, but those who seek the Chamber are always the worst of people, with the most nefarious intentions. If the Chamber exists, it is better if it is never found.

Would it not be funny if the one who found the Chamber was none other than a Muggle-born with second-hand clothes and the magic of a squib?

Binns's class only made things more uncomfortable for Sirius. Now he was not only the madman of the castle, but it also looked like he was putting himself at the top of the rankings to be the potential heir to Slytherin which, first of all, gross! Sirius is a very proud Gryffindor, and secondly, he can't see how anyone could think that Lucius Malfoy and Amren Mulciber could be rivals for the position.

As if either of those idiots have the lineage to even be considered in the contest. If anyone has the incestuous lineage to be the heir to Slytherin it's him. His family hasn't been shagging each other for generations, as if they were implementing an extremely strict breeding plan, for some students to come along and say that a Malfoy or Mulciber can compete with him in anything.

It comes as no surprise to Sirius that his brother's name hasn't been thrown into the betting, Regulus is all Black, magical aristocracy and blablablabla, but one look at his kittenish eyes and lambent voice and anyone can tell that there is no way Regulus Black could be the heir to Slytherin. His crazy older brother who has a reputation for blowing up trains and punching professors sure is a safer bet. But then again, if they are going to put him in the rodeo, it would be better if his name was the only one, he doesn't want anyone to think he is even remotely related to — yuck — a Mulciber.

"I can't believe they would actually believe that about you" James said, clicking his tongue.

"I can" Peter nodded.

"Ouch?" exclaimed Sirius, a hand over his heart.

Peter lowered his eyes "Sorry mate" he said "But you can't tell me you don't give off the vibe."

"I don't know" Remus grinned "Does that look like the vibe of an heir to you?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at Sirius's worn slippers and the tie wrapped around his wrist.

"I will inform you that I am, in fact, an heir" Sirius grumbled "Though Merlin forbid, thanks to his beard and breeches, not Salazar Slytherin's… Although being heir to the Black family isn't a compliment either."

Passing through a passageway, behind the tapestry of a forest, Remus led them down a short flight of stairs that brought them out a corridor not so far from the Great Hall. Their constant escapades had allowed them to rediscover the castle, finding passages that Sirius had forgotten or neglected during his school years; the vastness of the castle made it possible to rediscover old finds and be surprised by them as if they were new. Sirius felt joy when he found an old familiar corridor to walk through with Peter and James, it brought him a giddy glee similar to the one he had with his little friends when they were all just as young; it also brought joy when he and Remus were the ones to introduce their young friends to the wonders of the school, the secrets they knew and remembered best.

"Whoa!" exclaimed Peter as he emerged on the other side of the tapestry "Why are there so many spiders?" he asked with his round face alarmed.

Sirius stopped his pacing, turning his gaze to the floor where Peter was pointing. On the edges of the floor with the walls, hundreds of little spiders were walking in a hurry, seeming to want to sneak past, but like the little rat with sensitive ears, Peter didn't miss things like that.

"Where are they going?" James tilted his face, looking closely at the path of the spiders that seemed to be heading in the same direction.

"How odd" Remus analysed "I've never seen so many spiders flee like this before."

It certainly is an oddity, Sirius thought, are there rodents in the castle or what has them so agitated?

"Are they…" James's eyes widened, stopping mid-sentence "Look!" he gasped "They're going into the corridor ."

"Just what I need," Peter lamented, "Spiders, of all bugs, spiders."

Cautiously, Sirius left Peter behind to be comforted by James, and along with Remus, they moved even closer to the myriad of spiders, accompanying them on their journey. Exactly as James had guessed, the spiders were in a race to reach the corridor from the other night, in a hurry to leave the castle behind; fortunately, the blood on the wall had been wiped away and the water on the floor extinguished, the corridor had been restored to its former state and the only reason Sirius could remember the corridor was because there was no way he could forget it, neither he nor his friends.

Spiders were climbing up one wall of the corridor, fleeing out of the castle through the only window and travelling, if Sirius was to guess, into the depths of the forbidden forest; dark leafy leaves rose in the distance, standing in the centre of the window's view.

"At least someone took the time to clean up" Remus commented, touching with two fingers to the wall where the anonymous message from the Chamber would have been written "I don't envy whoever had to do it."

"That's weird" Sirius looked down at the floor, clean and dry "When we came here that night, everything was flooded, but I can't think where a leak could have come from, the castle is enchanted to prevent that sort of thing"

"Maybe whoever wrote the message could have broken a pipe."

"But there was nothing broken that night" said Sirius, thinking back to that night and all the details that came to mind "No… if I had to guess, I would say it was more like the water had been carried here."

"Buckets?" asked Peter, clinging to James's robes to avoid getting too close to the spiders.

Sirius shook his head "Maybe" he said unsure "It's weird…"

"Hey" called James "Is there not a bathroom up here? Maybe the water leaked from the ceiling."

"Myrtle's bathroom" nodded Sirius observing the patterns on the ceiling, marks of age, though not dampness. "But that's impossible, that girl keeps her bathroom in top condition, she wouldn't let a broken tap flood it" the comfort of a ghost, just as Nearly Headless Nick found purpose in being rejected year after year by the select club of decapitated ghosts, for Myrtle her bathroom was her reason for existing, that which gave her something more than a disembodied existence.

"But Myrtle wasn't in her bathroom that night" Peter reminded them "She was at the party".

If nothing could be stranger already, Sirius was being proved wrong in that assumption. Is this not becoming more and more like a crime scene? Now a hooded figure will enter and try to assassinate him before he can get any closer to the truth… Sirius shuddered. Mysteries like this were not his cup of tea, there were enough of them in his sphere of concerns, but these seemed to find a way to envelop him.

Late at night when no one was watching, in the midst of a great celebration where one's absence could be disguised, someone came down this corridor and took the dirty job of smearing the walls with blood, flooding the floor with who knows how, and casting a spell on Filch's cat.

"It would be best if we stayed away from this for a while," Sirius suggested, backing away. "We've got ourselves into enough trouble, again, and this time even I will start to think we're responsible" It had already been a foolish action to return to this corridor so soon, if Sirius let Peter and James go near the abyss now, it would just be putting up a big neon sign with the word 'suspicious' on it. It would do them more good to let some time pass, and Sirius might even decide to dive headlong into the year's new mystery novel.

And with a bad feeling sinking into his skin, Sirius glanced sideways down the corridor, almost hoping that someone was going to be there listening to them.

Dorcas walked around the castle more cautiously, not to mention in her common room. Everything seemed to have changed since Halloween night, her skin prickling constantly as she found herself separated from her friends.

She hugged herself, clutching her spell books to her chest. She already hated being a year older than her friends, but with everything that had happened the other week, Dorcas hated having to walk most of the time alone through the corridors to get to her classes.

The days in the dungeons were getting colder, and Dorcas would like to say it was because of the cold autumn in the Highlands. Nothing so simple, unfortunately. With the supposed opening of the Chamber of Secrets, there is now new chaos among the Slytherins, a chaos that Dorcas watches from afar unwilling to be mixed up in the misfortune that seems to have rained down on her house for the non-Pureblood. Early on, Dorcas had already had to endure being the target of less than flattering comments from her peers, but over time, and with a good dose of bluntness and cunning, Dorcas managed to survive intact for a year in her house; no allies, no name, just her magic and discreet presence.

She does not think that will be enough now, not as the students seem to have become now. Even Narcissa Black can't seem to control the students anymore. Just the other night, as Dorcas was returning from one of their meetings in the ballroom, she witnessed a group of fifth years threatening a group of half-bloods in the common room. Threats, warnings: "Who knows when your time will come," they said, "If the Heir of Slytherin has arrived, where do you think he's going to start cleaning up first?"

Pandora was braver than she was, stepping between the students and reciting an obscure poem in ancient Latin. The cool porcelain eyes and singsong voice are a great way to intimidate students, Dorcas has heard her housemates say that Pandora is possessed, some even say well and she may be the Heiress of Salazar Slytherin. Between one thing or the other, Pandora has her creepy aura to her advantage, the weirdness that comes so naturally to her helps her shield herself from the Slytherin students who circle around her as if they don't know whether Pandora is going to pull an ancient curse out of her pockets or a plastic snake.

It also helps that her blood is clean enough for her peers, unlike Dorcas. That's what matters more than anything. Pandora can be creepy and taciturn, both things that in another child would bring insults, but that in Pandora can be overlooked, because first and foremost she is a pureblood, because first and foremost her surname is traceable in some magical family tree. In Slytherin that matters more than anything else, if only to give Pandora the blessing of being ignored and not bullied.

Dorcas is not so lucky. The clock is ticking over her head.

Day by day, the animosity between the students in her house becomes stifling. Older students picking on younger students. Friendships dissolving because where once they could argue that blood difference didn't matter, now it looms like a red light for dangerous attention.

She watches as students like her become more and more marginalised. She hears the increasingly audacious insults being hurled at Snape. She glimpses in the dormitory Rosalie Kelly's robes being cut by the malicious hands of Alecto Carrow. She finds books with Muggle surnames on the first page burning in the Common Room fire.

Dorcas counts down the days, waits with her wand up her sleeve for her classmates to choose her next. They haven't, deep down Dorcas knows why. It's not because she's going to defend herself, or because her wand use is the best of her year among her housemates, nor is it because Dorcas can be sharp with her words. No, no, it's something more imposing. It's because Dorcas now has friends, friends who could wipe the floor with their pompous and magical surnames to the extreme. Everyone in the castle knows about Regulus Black, knows about the Rosier family, knows the cruelty Barty hides behind his impish face - Christ, even Pandora keeps potential stalkers at bay!

And Dorcas hates it. She hates that feeling of inferiority that eats away at her when she is with her friends, feeling and knowing that she is not really like them and they are not like her. There is an impossible gap between her and them, a glass ceiling that prevents her from going up to them.

Most days she doesn't know what to do with that pain. She thinks that hiding it behind laughter and clever comments is enough, but it's not. She always feels out of place, from the beginning she felt out of place, it's just that now Dorcas waits. The other shoe is about to drop, she thinks, what assures her that her friends won't leave her like one of the many other friendships she has seen broken in the dungeons? And when they leave, when they tire of shielding poor Dorcas without a magical surname, what should she do?

Dorcas shakes her head, pausing at a window in a fifth-floor corridor near the entrance to the library. The scenery is quiet, the lake dark and gloomy, but peaceful. The lake makes her think of Regulus, of the little shivers that assail him every time they approach the shores of the lake. Regulus has told them of his nightmares, of strange dreams that drown him… Regulus has told them of many things, he is an encyclopaedia on legs. Dorcas adores him, adores him to the point of allowing him to cling to her in the corridors and hold her hand in the silence of the afternoon.

In the same measure that Dorcas adores Regulus, she loathes him. It's horrible to feel that. It hurts in a different way because Dorcas doesn't want to feel that. She can't… she doesn't want to loathe Regulus. She doesn't want to feel this way about one of the sweetest, gentlest boys she has ever known. Because Regulus is sweet and gentle, kind as if he can feel the suffering of the world. She knows why, because it's not just Regulus that Dorcas loathes at intervals. There is Evan, there is Barty, there is Pandora.

Dorcas is the meanest girl in the world.

She holds her breath, throat tight as if she might burst into tears here and now, in this empty corridor. She doesn't cry, tears are for those who have time to feel bad, Tabitha would say, they are for those who rejoice in the comfort of letting go and Dorcas has never had such comfort. But she wants to cry, she wants to cry because she is so afraid of her housemates, of her dorm mates. She is afraid of her friends; of the day they will see what Dorcas already sees.

She is the stranger among them, she is the one they had to explain how to hold her quill properly, how to adjust her robe and how to clean her wand. They had to teach her what the bloody Chamber of Secrets is because of course Dorcas, poor Dorcas without magical parents, wouldn't know what that is. She knows so little of anything, she is terrified of that lack of knowledge.

Just once Dorcas would like to feel on the same level, in the same place in the race and not as if she were one of those characters in cheesy films who are taken in by the richest of the rich and have to learn how to use the cutlery at the table.

A trembling sigh leaves her lips, fear escaping with it. Fear is for the weak, and the weak do not survive in Slytherin, she reminds herself.

She takes the next corridor to the right, passing a group of Hufflepuff students studying outside the library. The library doors are wide open, the study area naturally full. Between the rows of tables, in front of a large window that lets in rivers of warm light, the heads of her friends are easily distinguishable: Regulus's curls, Evan's perfect fringe, platinum strands on Pandora, and a stylish mess on Barty.

Dorcas smiles, small and fragile,

Oh, how she adores them.

Oh, what she wouldn't give to be like them.

It hurts, she thinks as she makes her way between tables and chairs. It hurts, she feels from deep inside, when Regulus is the first to notice her, smiling softly and looking at her with excitement. It hurts, but she forgets about it when she sees them, always forgets it when she's with them. "I'm sorry for being late. I was just going over some doubts with Professor Slughorn," she says, setting her school bag down next to Evan.

"Oh, you have questions with potions?" asks Regulus, always ready to give an enthusiastic and clear explanation, not like Barty who explains everything in sensations and monosyllables.

Dorcas nods, "Always," and it doesn't feel wrong to admit it, not now.

Sirius spat in Morgana's face. He, personally, turned Merlin into a tree and used the wood to make a bonfire on which to sacrifice innocent children. For all that is sacred, he ate the flesh of one of Circe's pigs!

It's ridiculous, it's stupid. It's… there is not even a concept that can come close to explaining the utter hilarity and impossibility of his life. He must have done something horrible; Sirius must have been a genocidal in his past life, he must be responsible for the Alexandria library fire, and he must have burned the first witch, how else is Sirius supposed to explain the luck he has? It's the kind of luck that is not even luck anymore.

I'm sorry, profess Sirius to the skies, I'm sorry, whoever I offended, I'm sorry.

What were the possibilities? From a scientific, logical, mathematical approach, what were the odds? The Quidditch season would start in a few minutes, the stands were already filled with the euphoria that erased the strange events of the last few weeks for a couple of hours. Dressed in a blue jumper and having forced his friends to wear something of the same colour, Sirius had just wanted to go and cheer his brother on; a proud and supportive big brother, that was what Sirius wanted to be today. For one morning, Sirius would be Sirius, the brother of Regulus Black, the youngest seeker in the castle since it had been decided that having first years on the teams was too dangerous. Peter made little flags! They would wave them from the stands and f*ck their housemates, Sirius supported them, but he supported his brother more and anyone who claimed to be his friend had to share the sentiment.

Things were planned and arranged; everyone had their role to play.

For the first time since the start of term, Sirius had the reassurance of knowing that something else was the centre of attention. His name was no longer mentioned with alarming frequency. Conversations revolved around something other than Sirius Black and his flock of pigeons. Quidditch has this amnesiac effect on people, making them forget things like the Minister's scandals with his mistresses or the most recent election fraud.

"He's completely out of the game," Wellington announced with a grim-eyed look. Gathered around Sutton's bed in the infirmary, Sirius imagined they were painting the perfect picture of a fateful scene, the entire team gathered to say a final farewell to a fallen colleague whom yellow fever had overtaken. Even the lighting was meant to highlight the sickness in Sutton.

After a match the infirmary is always ready to receive students. Inter-school Quidditch is even more vicious than a professional match; the lack of a truly trained referee allows the worst fouls imaginable to be committed. But before a match? The infirmary is the last place a player wants to go before a match starts.

Sutton threw up. Again.

Sutton's usual tanned skin was two shades paler, matching the cream tone of the infirmary walls. Sweaty and panting, with dark circles under his eyes so large they had nothing to envy those of a Ravenclaw in midterm week, Sirius looked sympathetically at Sutton. Poor boy, surely this was not the way he had expected his first match of his final season to start.

He was not keeping track of how many times Sutton had thrown up already, because that would be gross, but as it was going, Sirius thought Sutton must have been throwing up the Christmas dinner from three years ago.

"Well," Wellington cleared his throat as he pulled the sheets up over Sutton's body to cover him better "Get your uniform on, Black" he said "You're going out in the field."

Er, that's… that's not…

"Me?" Sirius pointed his chest "You want me to play the game?"

"You're a reserve, that's what you're for" Selket raised an eyebrow, though her attitude was sympathetic "We won't be able to get you a last-minute uniform, so you'll have to wear Wyatt's"

"I'm not wearing that!" refused Sirius, remembering how moments before he was dragged to the infirmary, Sutton had managed to vomit all over his uniform "And why me? Shrew's a reserve too"

"Shrew will get her chance" said Wellington "You're the one who knows the moves best of the two, you're more prepared for it — Sorry, Shrew" he finished with an apologetic glance in the fifth-year girl's direction.

Shrew, with shoulder length blonde hair, nodded "Nothing taken" she said and smiled kindly at Sirius "There's no shame in admitting when someone is better than you. You'll do fine, Black."

Well, of course Sirius knew the moves, maybe a little too well, he played on the team from his third year all the way through. He was beginning to think he needed to improve on his performance to go under the radar.

"Are you forgetting who the match is with today?" continued Sirius, holding on with both hands to a way out of his new predicament "My little brother is on the other team! Do you think this is the best of ideas?" and just to strengthen his point, Sirius stretched out his jumper of the most perfect Ravenclaw blue. He had not yet been able to show it to Regulus, and now he might never get the chance to do so.

"Black" Wellington admonished "I trust all my players; I know you won't screw us over on purpose. And this is one of my best ideas" the older boy grinned, cruel and vicious "Everyone in the castle fears you now, when the other team sees you come out, they'll think twice before flying your way. You have to make the good out of the bad, and right now, your good points are in your strange reputation… Just, don't blow up the other team."

Desperate, Sirius put his hand to his head. All this stupid stress was going to make him bald, but to his relief, not a single strand of hair remained on his fingers. Merlin, God, Morgana, Buddha, Fleamont, may his hair remain intact by the end of this, all of this. He will not be the first Black without hair, no sir.

"Come on, Sirius" pushed James with pleading eyes, for Sirius, however, the thing that stood out most about James was the raven pin on the collar of his robes; Remus had almost needed to use a sticking spell to make the pin stay there the whole match safe from James' stubborn hands "Do it for us!" he said, pointing at himself and Marlene. They would be a more willing option to play in the match, Sirius said to himself, but James couldn't hit a ball to save his life and Marlene was better off without a potential weapon in her hands.

What had he got himself into? Reserves never took the field, but of course, Sirius was the exception, wasn't he? In his entire life, Sirius never had this kind of luck, things always miraculously worked out in his favour, but now it was almost as if all his luck had been reversed to give him the worst possible scenarios at the worst possible times. In another life, Sirius would have seen a golden opportunity in being part of the Quidditch team in the first match of the season. In this life, he just refuses to dwell on how this unfortunate situation with Sutton will play against him in the future — there will not be a shortage of people to say that Sirius poisoned his teammate!

Sutton.

Sirius returned his attention to Sutton. The boy, shivering violently, was strong enough to give Sirius a nod, passing him the invisible baton before the vomit spurted out again, soiling the hospital linen. Disgusting. Not as dignified a martyr as Sutton must have been expecting.

"Fine. Alright" reluctantly, Sirius walked over to Sutton's folded uniform on one of the chairs next to the bed, it was supposedly clean, but Sirius was not getting into the thing until he had at least used four more cleaning and disinfecting spells "Take care of Tom" Sirius reached inside his sweater, pinching Tom's slender body and pulling him out of his morning nap "Don't let him fall off the bleachers" he warned James. Never before has Sirius had a pet, and he is pretty sure Tom is too smart to be one, but he has already grown too fond of the green critter for James's buttery hands to turn Tom into a green lump.

James picked Tom up, tucking him between the thick curls of his hair and allowing him to snuggle "We'll be rooting for you!" squeaked James, smile sunny and eyes twinkling.

"Don't go easy on them, Black" threatened Marlene, arms crossed, and hips tilted in a facsimile of an intimidating pose "Even if he is your brother. Treat him with the same respect you would give any other player."

What Marlene didn't know was that Sirius respected very few things, and Quidditch and its players were not on that select list. Nevertheless, if only to guard his integrity from Marlene's aggressive habits, Sirius nodded, but he couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes, just a little. No, he was not going to let Regulus have it easy, as a beater Sirius knew he had to try and take down his little brother and the other Ravenclaw players, that was pretty much his only role on the pitch. Sirius will play with the same ferocity he did anything else, otherwise, not only would he have Marlene behind him, but Regulus would also join in to murder him in his sleep.

Sirius ran his hands down the front of his jumper. Making the good out of the bad… the Quidditch robes had to be cooler than a fuzzy jumper.

And when Sirius is out of school, graduating for the second time, he will have aged a lifetime in seven years. He will be weathered and sore, he will have been through hell and back. He will write a book, an unpublished memoir of the one and only Sirius Black, and he will title this chapter: my debut, the fall of one hero and the rise of another.

Regulus is sure that the grass on the Quidditch pitch is not supposed to move like that, as if every little row of green is a bowtruckle. He also thinks it's not normal to feel his breakfast wanting to pop out of his stomach, impossible even, because Regulus refused to take more than two bites of his oatmeal and that was only because Barty forced him to eat.

"If it wasn't for your grip on my hand, it would be impossible to tell you're so nervous," Barty said. The boy swung his hands slightly and craned his neck to get a better look at the bleachers overhead "It scares me that your brother hasn't arrived yet."

"I heard that one of the Gryffindor players got injured" Dorcas whispered "Maybe he's in there deciding who the replacement is going to be."

"Black against Black" Evan laughed "Every day a new surprise."

Of course it is, Regulus thought to himself with amusem*nt, that's just Siri's luck.

"Would you like to play against your brother, Reg?" Pandora tilted her head, the morning sun lighting up her platinum hair and making it look off-white.

"I think it might be fun," Regulus replied, "That's only if Siri doesn't try to go easy on me."

It is strange.

Before they left Grimmauld, Sirius used to have no problem with being a little rough with Regulus, his older brother was careful not to go so far as to make Regulus cry, but he was still careless at times, unable to measure his temper or his teasing; exactly like Bellatrix, the two born older siblings, but still awkward as only the Blacks could be: brutal in their love. However, since they left Grimmauld, Sirius is only careful and gentle with Regulus, no longer pushing and teasing with the same vein of cruelty as when they were younger. He holds back, no… it's stranger than that. It's… it seems Sirius has forgotten how to be unintentionally cruel.

Regulus has been unable to determine what prompted such a change, it may be that the change of house has instigated a new protective attitude in Sirius. His brother has been protective by nature for as long as Regulus can remember, but never to the extreme he has shown since. Regulus has not even had to fake tears to restrain Sirius, now it is Sirius who seems to be hyper-aware of his movements, taking extreme care in his words and actions with Regulus. He no longer resembles Bellatrix in his love and care.

Sirius is also more mature, much more focused. Regulus no longer has to worry about his older brother's recklessness, not as often. In a way, it's liberating. It's as if Regulus can stop thinking so hard around Sirius, knowing that his brother has gained a greater sense and clarity of the world, one even greater than Regulus'. Sirius's eyes, molten silver, moonlit, have an opacity of old age, for his brother has grown, changed, not the same boy who protected them from their mother, and in a way, Regulus cannot but mourn the loss of that brother. The eyes in other children of his brother's age do not have that same bleakness.

The changes in his brother seem to have come overnight. They are seemingly imperceptible, changes that don't seem like changes at all, but Regulus knows Sirius in a way that is unhealthy. Where once his brother would have brutally played Regulus in a Quidditch match with a raucous laugh accompanying him, now Regulus has his doubts; his brother monitors him every chance he gets between corridors, wishes him goodnight every day after dinner and makes sure to keep up with Regulus and whatever interesting things are going on in his life. In all honesty, Regulus had expected Hogwarts to drive them apart, but Sirius is reluctant to let that happen… it's nice. Comforting. It has made leaving another home does not tear him apart.

Regulus can let his brother's overprotective attitudes slide, it doesn't bother Regulus, because deep down Sirius has always been like that, only now he is more upfront about it. But he won't let it slide if Sirius treats him like a fragile child in front of the whole freaking school. If his brother shows up to this Quidditch pitch, he had better do it the right way: as Regulus' rival and not his smothering hen-brother.

Distracted in thought, Regulus takes a lock of his fringe, twisting it around his finger.

I forgot to cut it; Regulus thinks. He has not mustered the courage to do so. This is the hair he had during his last few months at home, this hair has only grown since Regulus came home . If he cuts it, wouldn't that cut the memories in it? The ends are the last remnants of his mother, and above that is everything he has lived since then.

It's not much.

It is nothing.

What's left of his parents?

Their foreign voices rarely visit Regulus's dreams. His mother's touch was cold and distant. His father's scent mingled with the smell of alcohol and citrus cologne. In the ends of his hair, he could fantasise about his mother's phantom fingers and his father's presence, clinging to the fantasy he still wished was real. If he had a pair of scissors now, Regulus would put an end to this, to missing what was never there. But he is not ready yet, not ready to accept orphanhood. He no longer has parents; he maimed those relationships when he walked through Grimmauld's door holding his uncle's hand. Now they are strangers of the same blood, bound together in an ancestral tapestry but far apart in all that matters.

He has no parents, he never had them, and, it seems, never will. Not anymore.

"Here," Pandora's voice, as serene as a lullaby, startles Regulus out of his reverie. Pandora's face is very close, but she pulls away before Regulus can guess what she meant.

She is like that. Stealthy as a ghost. Other children seem taken out of place by her, but not Regulus. He grew up in old homes with ghosts buried in the walls. Pandora's unobtrusive presence reminds him of that, and it's not an unpleasant feeling.

An odd weight settles on his head, and confused, Regulus lifts his free hand — the one not busy holding Barty — feeling a plastic object holding back the locks that tend to frame his face.

"I thought you might need it," Pandora said, smiling faintly "You looked like you needed it."

“We're going to need more than one" Dorcas reached over, taking a golden hair pin from her hair "Let's see" she took Regulus by the chin, tilting his head to place the pin "There. That way your hair won't get in your face as you fly."

Regulus nods, stunned. "Thank you," he says, touched and grounded.

One day, he will not realise it, but one day, the thought of his parents will evaporate from his routine. He will see the families at the station, he will have dinners with his brother and uncles, he will grow up and he will not feel like the worst son of all, because by then Regulus will have cut off his hair and any residue from when he was still someone's son.

Until then, Regulus just wants to hold on, just a little longer. He wants to be his mother's son and his father's son just a little longer.

"Hey, Regulus" Evan touches his arm, drawing his attention to the path leading from the Quidditch pitch to the castle "I think you have guests" he says, and Regulus directs his gaze there.

There are a pair of figures atop one of the green hills. He squints and tilts his head, the sun making it difficult to make out the two people clearly.

Regulus expects to see his brother, maybe one of his brother's friends if not. What greets him, well, sometimes the stars align in curious ways and the heart's desires take a different shape than expected.

He runs. Releases Barty from his grip. He runs all the way to the field entrance, a speed Bagman would praise during practice.

It's a quick response. His shoes get muddy from the damp ground of the pitch with the still air seeping through the folds of his uniform; the clips keep his hair at bay and don't spoil his eyesight in the slightest. But Regulus is not certain that his eyes are not deceiving him, until he can wrap his arms around the much larger and taller body of another person, until the smell of pine and forest reminds him of home.

"You're here" he says, undoubtedly happy and pleased "You're here."

"I think so" Uncle Alphard says, returning the hug as firmly as ever.

Although Regulus had kept in touch with his uncle through letters, that was no substitute for having the man himself there in person in front of him. He missed his uncle in a different way than he missed his parents. His uncle, he was certain he would see him again at the end of the semester, the farewell more a formality than a permanent act.

"I missed you," he said, a fervent longing to return home searing itself.

I missed you, Regulus thought, I missed you, I missed you, I missed you.

"Little one, if you wanted hair clips you could have sent me a letter. I could have sent you things more appropriate and of more… quality," Aunt Cass's voice was reluctantly polite, which was always to be appreciated in Aunt Cass, for she did not often care for such niceties.

Regulus laughed, pulling away from his uncle against every whim of his body that urged him not to. Aunt Cass's voice had sounded so close and real, when Regulus turned to see her her figure was as regal as his uncle's. And not for the first time, Regulus found himself fascinated by the natural elegance his aunt wore like a second skin.

He embraced her as well, clinging to her suddenly and stealing a sound of surprise not quite as elegant as her appearance.

Aunt Cass laughed loudly, completely graceful "Have you had time to miss me too, or does your precious uncle steal all your attention?" she held him tightly, much tighter in her embrace than Uncle Alphard did. Gold on her wrists, dark hair as it should be.

"I missed you too," Regulus said with a hint of embarrassment under his voice. He did not want his aunt to in any way think that she was less in his thoughts, because when Regulus was homesick, he was thinking of the lunches with his aunt, the idle chats and the fun nights.

Aunt Cass cupped his cheek, the rings on her fingers cool against Regulus' skin. "Take comfort in knowing that I've missed you too," she said.

Regulus laughed "Why are you here?" he asked.

"Why?" scoffed Uncle Alphard "I think someone told me a certain bookworm was playing today, have I been misinformed?"

"You came for my game?" and only at that moment, Regulus could pause to appreciate the appearance of his uncles. Nothing too flashy, but they both had Ravenclaw colours of one sort or another. In Aunt Cass's case, she wore matching blue lipstick and earrings. His uncle wore a cobalt blue turtleneck jumper underneath his jacket. "Oh," Regulus sighed, a full smile colouring his cheeks.

"Oh," Aunt Cass repeated, snorting, "I have never had to support any other house that wasn't Slytherin. But for you I will make an exception, my nephew."

The journey from France to here is far from short, coming for a school match would not be worth it. How many different ways could Regulus be grateful for a gesture like this? The nerves that plagued him before turn to gravel, and he is left with the security of having his family here. At his first match. To sit somewhere in the stands. Regulus will put on the biggest show of the season.

"Gasp" Regulus grabbed his uncles hands. The match would start any minute now, so he had to hurry. He dragged his uncles across the pitch. His thoughts were racing as fast as his feet "You have to meet them!" he said.

"Who?" asked Aunt Cass.

"My friends" Regulus glimpsed them closer and closer "You have to meet them before the match starts." as if they had heard him, which was very possible, his friends turned to him. His favourite people, so close to each other.

He let out a giggle. This day could not get any better.

Sirius walked out of the locker room feeling as if something very bad was about to happen at any moment. For long minutes Sirius stared up at the tall towers of the stands, already filled with students who would rather go to a Quidditch match than do their homework on a Saturday morning.

The perfect blue sky augured an easy and friendly match, though from the expressions on the players' faces that seemed to be the last thing they wanted. Walled in by his teammates, finding Regulus was difficult but not impossible; he was the smallest boy of the lot, skinny as a twig compared to the brutes of Bagman and Wellington. Both captains were challenging each other with their eyes, a good five metres apart, but defiant with their eyes.

What strange things Quidditch does to people. Wellington and Bagman have been seen exchanging enthusiastic greetings in the corridors, sharing training tips, one might almost say they are friends, which of course can't be said now that both older boys have adopted the role of bitter rivals.

Dressed in Sutton's uniform, the sleeves were too long and cumbersome, but when Sirius proposed using spells to adjust the clothing, Madame Hooch gave him that extremely familiar look of distrust, thinking for sure, Sirius was going to use other spells that would give him an advantage in the match. Sirius did not take that kindly, if he was going to cheat in the match, surely Madame Hooch should know that no student with an ounce of intelligence would give her advance warning.

To save himself trouble, Sirius had left the uniform as it was. No vomiting, Merlin would allow him a mercy or two. The name embroidered on the back could not be changed either, but Selket stuck a piece of parchment with the name Black above Sutton. It was impossible to look more ridiculous, but Sirius liked to fantasise that even on a sack of potatoes, he can still pull it off.

"Your brother in those obnoxious plastic pins, and now you in that ill-fitting uniform. My boys, it will be said that this family is ruined."

Unprepared, Sirius flinched, the broom in his hand just a finger's breadth away from falling from his grip. Surprise, surprise, what the f*ck is going on here?

"Mouth shut, Sirius," Aunt Cass reprimanded with a perfect smile somewhere between amused and ravishing, "Emotions underneath. There are no cameras here, but there are gossips."

"Too many," added Uncle Alphard. His hair a little shorter than the last time Sirius had seen him, he was hoping it hadn't been Aunt Cass who had done it. It was not such a strange thing to imagine, perfectly Sirius could see inside his head his aunt sneaking into Uncle Alphard's room with a pair of scissors, lightning bouncing across the sky and illuminating Cassiopeia's face halfway "I haven't had this much attention since that gala four years ago."

"Marriage rumours always attract that kind of attention" Aunt Cass mused, smacking Alphard on the cheek as if he were a rebellious child "How many times is that now? The only time I believed it was when they said you were marrying that Malfoy wench, I thought you were doing it just to spite Abraxas."

I have absolutely no idea what they're talking about.

"I never believed a single one of them, I'm surprised you did, Mrs. Black. No living being in their right mind would agree to marry such a distinguished gentleman." once again, Sirius nearly jumped out of his skin. Professor McGonagall was here too, dressed head to toe in characteristic Gryffindor colours, though her perpetually serious face contrasted like a Muggle in the middle of Diagon Alley.

Sirius shook his head. "I… I'm going to play," he said to himself, though it sounded more like a question.

Uncle Alphard raised an unimpressed eyebrow "Yeah, I think we figured that out already."

"Very rude of you not to inform us earlier, little nephew" Aunt Cass snapped "Now we will have to improvise to give you our support too".

What was that stupid exercise to calm someone down, five things you can hear, four things you can feel? Sirius was not shaken, just very confused having been caught off guard, but surely that silly exercise could be used for more than one thing. Merlin, let's see, Sirius can hear the shouting of the seats getting impatient for the match to start; hear the sound of the air cracking against the metal of the hoops; the chatter of his Aunt Cass as she tucks her whole arm into her little woven wooden-handled bag; hear his own thoughts racing a mile a minute and the static of the microphone in the air.

Feel. Sirius feels like he would rather be in the kitchens with the house elves playing a game of poker.

Still in a haze of uncertainty, Sirius followed his aunt's movements as she pulled out a small gold tube. His aunt removed the lid of the tube, revealing a blue lipstick which she then turned scarlet red with a flick of her fingernail.

"Come here," she commanded with a concentrated gaze, forcing Uncle Alphard to turn his face away. With two precise movements, Aunt Cass painted two red streaks across Uncle Alphard's cheeks. "Metallics are harder to imitate," she said, squinting at the lipstick; a few moments later, the red turned gold, the exact shade in the lipstick tube, and Aunt Cass painted one more stripe below the red ones.

"Have I told you you're a darling?" grumbled Uncle Alphard.

"You've told me a lot of things."

I don't want to know what was said.

"Professor" Sirius crept up to Minnie, broom held against his chest "Why are they here?" he whispered in alarm.

Minnie made a complicated face as if she had smelled the inside of the changing room lockers.

"To watch the match, of course," replied Minnie "They didn't take no for an answer."

Ah. So that's how things were. Fortunately for everyone, the professors were smarter to let Aunt Cass through the big door, otherwise Sirius can only imagine the mess of debris and fallen trees that would have been left behind. Aunt Cass is a latent danger, however, surrounded by so many children it's like putting a jaguar down a rabbit hole, add Uncle Alphard and it's like having a twig poking out of said jaguar's side.

But didn't they look too civil to each other now… Merlin will know what those two did living together, a prize-worthy sitcom or a gory horror story, with no middle ground Sirius wants to think about.

When he gets home, Sirius thought, half of it will be in flames and half in ruins.

"I'm happy to see you," Sirius told them, drawing his aunt and uncle's attention back to him, "Regulus is going to be happy to see you" more than Sirius undoubtedly will.

Having cleared away the initial surprise and confusion, Sirius didn't find his uncles' presence annoying or unpleasant. It was almost endearing. They had come to support Regulus and now Sirius, as the mix of blues, reds and golds attested. If Sirius thought about it a little carefully, he would feel his inner child heal a little with this. His parents never set foot on the castle's Quidditch pitch, not for Regulus and certainly not for him. But his aunt and uncle did, which was sure to make for an interesting conversation with a mental healer.

Parents coming to watch matches was not unheard of. Common? Nor was it. It happened once in a while during the season, usually when the parents were overly insistent, or some special event was brewing. Like when recruiters came to watch games and parents insisted on being there to support their kids, or when it was the end of the season, and the students could use some good spirits.

One match in particular stood out for Sirius. The last of his student years, a classic Slytherin vs. Gryffindor with two strong teams facing each other. Sirius remembered it, more than the victory for the presence of Fleamont and Euphemia at the top of the professors' stands, dressed in matching jumpers in the overwhelming May sunshine. He remembered it very well, extremely well, perhaps one of his favourite memories especially at the end of the match when the Potters came to congratulate them, and then Sirius saw it, their names on their jumpers, Sirius's name on the front of Euphemia's jumper and on Fleamont's back. If his eyes watered a little that time, it was quickly attributed to sweat and exhaustion.

His uncle's features soured for a thousandth of a hundredth of a second. Sirius smiled knowingly "So you've seen him" he said, "That face" he pointed at his uncle "You should have met Crouch".

Which translates to: you met the filthy-footed, loose-mouthed raccoon who shares a dormitory with your dear, dear, baby nephew . Between all his many bad faults and a few virtues, Sirius still can't decide where to put Barty Crouch's ability to make a first impression. Merlin and his knights bless that child's future in-laws, a first meeting with parents is a scenario that can only end in disaster with Crouch.

"A bold child," said Aunt Cass, probably much more captivated by the chaotic energy in Crouch, like watching a monkey make a deadly backwards "Your brother has made an eclectic choice of friends."

Kind. Sirius would say that his brother's friends are the most disturbing set of children that can be gathered in the castle, and he has seen Sybil Trelawney and company. Almost a month since Pandora joined Regulus's little group, and Sirius has not mustered the courage to look the girl in the eye for more than two seconds; she is creepy, she looks like she's going to recite the exact day and date of your death at any moment and she will do it with that cold smile. The most normal is Dorcas and that is not a compliment, she also does weird things like putting tabasco in chocolate pudding.

"Mr. Crouch is a boy of many talents" whatever that means Minnie "Rest assured he is a kindhearted boy" if allowed, Sirius would expect to get a smack on the back of the head from his favourite teacher.

Oh, Minnie, of course you see the best in your students. Give him a few years when you catch Crouch smoking pot between classes.

"Now, Mr. Black, enough chatter. The game can't wait any longer."

Yes, it certainly couldn't wait. "Make sure you shout my name, Minnie" Sirius waved his hand, walking backwards towards the centre of the pitch "S-I-R-I-U-S, I'll fly as high as I hear my name… Or as high as this branch will let me" he lifted the broom, crooked on the seat and with only a few strands of the brush in a decent state.

Sirius would be lucky if that broom could withstand more than a drizzle, and from the worry in Uncle Alphard's eyebrows, he thought so too. Well, assuredly his uncle would regale him with a broom for next time.

Riding on his broom, the wind is not violent, and the sky is in perfect weather: enough clouds to cover them from the sun, but leaving room to see the clean, perfect blue of an autumn morning. It does not look like the scene of a future disaster, and for that reason alone Sirius relaxes his grip on the broom, in a sky like this, things like war and death cannot come, Sirius would know.

The splinters jumping on the broom handle embed themselves in his fingers, but they don't cling to his skin. A blessing, Sirius thinks. Sutton's gloves, like the entire uniform, were too big for him and Sirius preferred to leave them in the locker, they hindered more than they helped. A misfortune, but Sirius could not have hoped for better. Substitutes don't take the field. It's been repeated time and time again, subs don't take the field, and, therefore, subs don't need uniforms. It's just his luck, Sirius sighs as he watches Wellington challenge Bagman with his eyes, a strange tension between the two teenagers that, if Sirius were not so uninterested in the lives of two schoolboys, he might approach both boys and advise them of a particularly private broom cupboard on the seventh floor. The thick wall of a rivalry can be breached by the thick hormones of adolescent lust.

Madame Hooch watches them from the floor, scrutinising each team's formations to make sure not a single player flies off the rails. No one takes Quidditch more seriously than she does, no one. Not even James and Marlene come close to Madame Hooch's level of professionalism. What James and Marlene have is passion, the same passion that Minnie has; Quidditch is an obsession for them, they have respect for it, but in the end, they always give in to outbursts of emotion that guide their judgement. Madam Hooch is not the same, she is strict on the pitch, she does not indulge in fanaticism or favouritism, her respect for Quidditch is almost reverential, and in that Sirius cannot complain or he wouldn't if he wasn't on the pitch in a uniform five times his size and wearing April Selket's spare boots.

Satisfied, or so it seems, Madame Hooch kicks the leather case at her feet, forcing it open in one abrupt movement. The first ball to be released was the Snitch, the golden glow and flutter of wings was alluring but soon, free on the pitch, it was out of sight. Sirius couldn't guess where it might have gone, he was no seeker for a reason, though he had no doubt that Regulus was already catching glimpses of the snitch all over the pitch; for a natural born seeker, the challenge might not be finding the snitch so much as catching up with the erratic speed of the little metal ball.

The next thing to happen, was that the bludgers were released from their chains.

Hard. Precise. Not very fast, but tricky. Steering the bludger is not as thankless a job as it should be, in Sirius's not at all biased opinion.

They rose into the air, crashing into each other and flying between the teams. With his right hand on his bat, Sirius resisted the instinct to bat at the bludger flying dangerously around him.

Finally, Madame Hooch took the quaffle from the case, holding it aloft for those in the stands to observe. The red leather was worn in places, but the inner stitching still preserved the shape of the quaffle; like the brooms, Sirius would not be surprised to hear that the castle's balls were older than Dumbledore's.

"Attention," ordered Madame Hooch, raising the whistle to her lips, but without blowing.

The chasers from both teams, settled to the front of the formation, leaned on their brooms ready for the match to begin. As the senior of the team, Samira Sadat was positioned in the centre of the Gryffindor trio of chasers, a classic position to try and steal the quaffle.

"Whistle" the sound penetrated deep into the pitch. High pitched and annoying. At the same time Madame Hooch threw the ball into the air.

The ball rose higher and higher, so high that it was high above the players who made no move to fly after it, not until the ball reached its peak and began its descent. With pinpoint accuracy, Sadat angled her broom skyward and flew, the Ravenclaw team's head chaser only a millisecond too late.

Sirius paid no attention to whoever got the quaffle. He backed up on his broom to line up with Selket, the two of them guarding the hoops and waiting for the bludgers to come to them. To wait for them is the wise thing to do, to run after them is to leave the players unprotected.

"And there they go. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this season of Quidditch with your all-time favourite host. Today we have an unprecedented event, or as unprecedented for as long as I've been narrating these matches. The Slytherin versus Gryffindor classic has been delayed, but don't be disappointed, I promise you that our friends from Ravenclaw are more than ready to give us a show tonight," the static from the microphone cleared until the commentator's voice was clean and sharp, as if he was just an arm's length away and not several metres away in the professors' stand.

Soon, one of the bludgers flew past Selket, who delivered a blunt blow, sending it straight at Sirius. Out of the corner of his eye, Sirius spotted one of the Ravenclaw chasers flying into the hoops; she was flying alone while the rest of her team took care of distracting the rest of the Gryffindor chasers.

Swing.

The blow vibrated off the bat and into Sirius's hand, sending the bludger with a concise thud in the direction of the Ravenclaw chaser: Bell, his uniform said. Bell changed the direction of her broom, suddenly slowing down to avoid being hit full in the face by the bludger, but losing her drive. Melvin Cornus, one of the team's new chasers, came to the rescue and, taking advantage of Bell's loss of concentration, neatly stole the quaffle.

"And the Quaffle is in Gryffindor's possession," the narrator raised his voice. "There he goes, Cornus flies to the other side of the pitch, dodges a bludger — Holy Merlin! That was close, what a good shot from Bagman — but he dodges it, flies, spins, comes down, they have him surrounded. Three against one. Front, back, Cornus surrounds them, but he can't get away and… here comes Sadat with number thirteen, a clean pass. Flies, dodges. Just a few yards and she has it, will she make it? It looks like it, it looks like it. Do you hear those roars? The stands are ready… And Selwyn saves it! What a great save by Selwyn; someone get this boy to the big leagues!"

Sirius shook his head. The narrator had an interesting way with words, what was his name? Adrian? Hadrian? Anderson?

Swing. Sirius sent another bludger as far away as he could where he could see his brother flying suspiciously in the direction of a point in the sky. Regulus avoided it, of course he did, but that gave the Gryffindor Seeker a chance to catch up with the fray.

"No mercy, eh?" asked Andor? Anddie? "There's your answer chaps, the fearless Sirius Black won't go easy on his little brother. Fun fact, ahem, ahem, this is the first time we have ever had a match with two members of the Black family on opposing teams, and, what's more, playing for houses different from Slytherin! I bet you a certain reputable newspaper will devote an article of over a thousand words to it, don't miss tomorrow's edition, Prophet, sponsor me!"

Sirius snorted. Mercy was not in the Black family's millennia-old dictionary. If Sirius dared to feel mercy or compassion for his brother, to lower his standards just so he would not accidentally hurt Regulus, Merlin be with him, Regulus was sure to take it upon himself to remind him of the Black family's mercy. And he didn't even throw the bludger to the best of his ability! Throw it a little further to the right and Sirius is almost eighty percent sure that it would have stopped Regulus completely, though that is something no one but Sirius need know, any claim can be attributed to not having the same skill with his right as with his left.

"I knew I could trust you, Black!" cheered Wellington behind his back. "Now close your right flank, I sense an attack at any moment!"

He turned up his flight. Attacking from the right would be the best the Ravenclaw chasers could do, they must see Sirius as easy prey as the new and inexperienced player. If it were the Slytherin team, they would have sent all their players at Sirius by now, bludgers projected like bullets.

It's not Slytherin, and Sirius almost regrets it. Ravenclaw are calmer and straighter, less prone to fouls, though they are certainly playing with a lot more fang than usual in this match. Watching the Ravenclaw right-side beater, Sirius whistles under his breath at the way Greengrass shoves Susan Colmer, Gryffindor's third Chaser and the smallest of the lot, with his shoulder.

"Hey!" reprimands Ashton? Aiden? "With such rudeness do you treat your sisters, Greengrass?" the commentator sneered and the stands on the Gryffindor side wasted no time in raising their boos.

Greengrass scowled, evidently not taking kindly to the mention of his sisters. It is not uncommon for Greengrasses to grow up in large families, as well as share strong bonds with one another; that imp of a commentator should have thought twice before bringing the Greengrass sisters out into the turmoil of the pitch.

"Hold on, hold on, hold on," exclaimed the commentator. Greengrass had stepped out of formation, flying determined and straight in the direction of the professors' stands.

"Mr. Greengrass," warned Madame Hooch from the ground, the shrill sound of the whistle mingling with the sharpness of her voice, "Get back into position! One more move and I will sanction the team!"

Greengrass mumbles something, Sirius can't hear him, but obediently the teenager returns to his spot, though he certainly looks less friendly, and Sirius lamented for his fellow Gryffindor's getting in Greengrass' way. The teenager was anything but small, defined muscle and crushing strength; someone would have to make sure to get Colmer to the infirmary, she was sure to have a couple of bruises after the game.

"Professor McGonagall would like me to say that any comments regarding the women of the Greengrass family should be kept out of the castle," resumed the commentator — Abraham? "Although she didn't say anything about the men! — But from the look she's giving me right now I think that's out too… In other news, please give a warm welcome to the visitors to this game: Mr. Alphard Black and Mrs., Miss, yes, sorry, Miss Cassiopeia Black. It's not my place to say and yours to know, but I believe I heard that Mr. Black would be making a generous donation to the sport of this prestigious school, wink, wink… and oh, oh. Oh! yes, there it goes, the chequebook is out guys and wow, that's a lot of zeros! Ladies and gentlemen, we are officially switching those sweeping brooms for some proper flying brooms."

Flexing his fingers on the broom handle, Sirius smiled slightly. Cheers and laughter could be heard from the seats, his teammates and field rivals shared victorious smiles. Good brooms sponsored by the Black family… his family was not new to donating to Hogwarts, but this stood out as one of their more charitable contributions.

"Ninety points to sixty, in favour of Gryffindor" the teenage voice of the commentator cracked uncomfortably on some notes, but the excitement was evident "This match looks like it's going to be a long one."

Those words could be menacing, almost paralysing to someone like Remus. While Mr. Black was nice enough to invite his nephews' friends to join him in the teachers' stand, with refreshing spells and a lot more space, Remus has no desire to spend a beautiful Saturday morning trapped Merlin knows how many feet above the ground. Quidditch, Remus thinks, is not an entertaining sport for everyone, its Muggle counterpart usually entertains Remus more.

"I trust you and Sirius, Mr. Lupin, have been able to find time to continue your studies in these turbulent weeks" said Mr. Black below the shouts at one more Gryffindor score.

Remus gave the man a sidelong glance. Sirius's uncle is such an imposing man, easy in his movements, but so clearly confident. He did extravagant things like handing a large cheque to Dumbledore in the middle of a school game, but he was also capable of more subtle things. It made him wonder if that whole display a few minutes ago was a big move to hide a small one, or if it was just a way to create good press for the Black family; Remus has no way of knowing, he is not a politician or a strategist, unaware of the ways of the rich.

"We've been studying the usual," Remus replied with a disinterested shrug, "It's hard to study in the library with everyone so focused on Sirius, but we know how to handle it."

They cut back their hours in the library, that couldn't be avoided, but as Remus sees it they have kept up an appropriate pace. Carefully, of course, he does not want to have to listen to what will be said if anyone sees Sirius Black enter the restricted section. Public opinion has not favoured Sirius this term, and has taken the rest of them that way, though without smearing them from the same scrutiny.

"Ah, yes" said Mr Black "I can't say Sirius hasn't earned it" Mr Black smiled indulgently.

Like Sirius, Remus noted, they smile just the same. Sharp and slightly cold gestures, but no less sincere, though applying his tricks from the manual to read Sirius Black may not be as accurate put on Mr. Black. The similarity is still there, which no longer takes Remus by surprise. The Blacks are very much alike.

With his attention back on the match, Remus looked around the pitch for the figure of Sirius. He was easy to find, with the Quidditch uniform smothering him to the point that Remus was waiting for the moment one of the boots was going to come off in flight, losing Sirius was out of the question.

He is not used to not being in the lead, not anymore, Remus noted. Sirius's flight seemed unsteady, but not as if Sirius was uncomfortable in the air, rather, it was that he was restraining himself from moving out of place, constantly leaving space for Selket to be the one to instruct both of their moves. Clumsy. Remus hid a sheepish smile beneath his blue and bronze scarf.

Quidditch was so boring to him, but watching Sirius play was almost comparable to going to a museum. He flew gracefully, with none of the strength that other players tended to put in; years of experience had not washed away and forgotten either, and even with the appearance of a twelve-year-old, Sirius still managed to show skill and control in his game.

Breathtaking.

"Oh, oh. Looks like young Jacobs is in trouble!" the animated voice of the commentator brought attention to the Gryffindor side of the pitch.

On the pitch, one of the Ravenclaw players had been ambushed by the duo of Selket and Sirius; both Gryffindor players were flying circles around Jacobs, launching the furious bludger from one to the other and leaving Jacobs unable to reach the hoops.

"Is that legal?" asked Dorcas, recoiling in her seat as the bludger grazed the Ravenclaw player dangerously.

"Absolutely!" replied James emphatically. He gripped the edge of the balcony, and should a player pass nearby, Remus had no doubt in his mind that James would steal their broom to join in the game "It's a way of putting pressure on the other team."

"It seems like a form of intimidation" replied Dorcas "It's even cruel."

"Why else would we watch Quidditch if not for the possibility of witnessing some cruelty and violence?" Barty asks, and no one can say anything against him because he is objectively not lying; he earns a few looks of dismay, however, from the adults who cannot simply ignore something like that.

Actually, Quidditch might have more similarities to sports like boxing at times… That would be interesting, Remus thought with a dull brain, boxing on broomsticks would be an interesting sport.

"… and he has surrendered" Remus tuned back into the narrator's speech "Jacobs has released the quaffle and the ball is back in the Gryffindor domain. This would be a good time for the seekers to do more than just run laps around the pitch."

"Hey, you bloody idiot. Our seeker is doing an amazing job. Try looking for that bloody snitch if you are so critical!" snapped Crouch, getting up from his seat and pointing at the commentator in the left-hand box.

"Mr. Crouch!" reprimands McGonagall, her voice scandalised, "Behave properly!"

Remus laughs, openly. He fails to understand why Sirius has so much resentment towards Crouch, when the younger boy is a constant source of hilarity. He is the most f*cking predictably unpredictable brat, and Remus begins to grow fond of him in the same way one grows fond of bedroom spiders: they're there, potentially dangerous, but they're there. And Crouch is always everywhere, fighting and biting, climbing walls like a raccoon. Remus is certain that one of these days he will see Crouch's body go falling out of one of the windows during class.

"Merlin," Remus hears Mr. Black sigh, but he is uncertain whether to categorise it as a humorous sigh or one of regret. He decides on the latter, only because the sigh sounded exactly like Sirius'.

It seems that Crouch is not so in tune with the Blacks, Remus thinks, with his exceptions of course, he adds as he witnesses the pleasant, fine mirth of Mrs. Black who laughs good-naturedly at Crouch's bravado.

Another laugh escapes his lips and Remus adjusts his scarf, covering his face. If Sirius saw him laughing at Crouch's antics, he would send the bludger straight this way.

Between this and that, the air was still in the stands, and Remus raised his eyes in interest - was something more interesting than watching Sirius shoot Ravenclaws finally going to happen?

"Looks like we've been heard" boasted the narrator with a tinge of anticipation in his voice "On your right — no, your other right, everyone watches carefully. Number seven, little Regulus Black, has started the race and Captain Wellington is following close behind. Watch, they pass Sadat, fly down, round a bend, what a view the Hufflepuff's have on that side! They come back up, only a few metres behind Black. I don't see the snitch but they apparently do — no, wait, I take it back, I see the snitch! And they're coming up at full speed, if they're not careful they'll go through the teachers' stands. And they speed up, the snitch is right here! Wellington takes a low stance, tries to surprise Black, but Black keeps his path, this kid doesn't even flinch!"

The snitch was a safe distance away from Remus, but still too close for his comfort. It hovered in front of James, the tiny wings fluttering like a fly's.

Sitting so close to the snitch, James' hands were caught by Peter. Wise decision, Remus praised, for James' impulse control could not be trusted and if he got carried away, that little Snitch could be caught by James before the seekers had a chance.

As the seekers got closer, Remus' heart rate got funnier. One miscalculation and the narrator was right, they would be going through the teachers' stands. Lousy day to sit here. This could very well be the scenario of his worst nightmares: being rammed by a Quidditch player and falling backwards onto the flat ground of the pitch. Quidditch was just as dangerous for players and spectators alike.

He is an excellent flyer, Remus consoled himself, his skin crawling, Regulus is an excellent flyer.

He watched Regulus fly towards them with the confidence of a prince going to war. Wellington, who was flying in a position below him, did not show the same confidence, for the furrow in his eyebrows betrayed his insecurity. The best and safest thing to do would be to let the snitch fly elsewhere, but the damn thing stubbornly remained stationary. The reflection of it flickered in James's glasses.

Remus pulled back. Sitting in the second row, that would make it hurt less, wouldn't it? Why did no one else look as worried as he was?

Finally, just inches away, Wellington had to give up. It was either that or ram Regulus and send the boy into the professors, with no chance of catching the snitch. Regulus would catch it, that was already written, he would, for his dangerous persistence Wellington couldn't match.

"And that's it!" announced the commentator. "The match has come to an end. With a score of one hundred to two hundred and ten, the winner of this season opener is: Ravenclaw House!"

The applause was not long in coming. Sitting next to Mr and Mrs Black, Remus never expected to witness such an open display of emotions and joy in two such private people, but here they were, clapping and whistling. Bright smiles, like the stars that gave them their names, adorned their faces robbing them of that monstrous mysticism they boasted.

Overjoyed, Remus joined in the festivities. Celebrating for Regulus Black, who knew? And that giddy grin on Regulus's small face, the rosy cheeks, the escaping breath, those strange hair ornaments, all were the framing of the wishes Sirius must have had for his brother and for that Remus could only clap and cheer.

Clap and cheer.

Clap and cheer.

To Regulus Black, the youngest seeker in the castle. Member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Sirius's younger brother. The pride of Slytherin House and, at this time, Ravenclaw House… He can think of a thousand labels with which to call the boy, and it is only now that the word martyr or tragedy does not seem appropriate.

The roar of the Ravenclaw celebrations is deafening, though to James it is a dull roar in his ears. The vibrations around him are muffled, and the victory chant of Barty Crouch and Dorcas is unintelligible. It's all happening so close and to James it's as if it's happening miles away, on a planet in another solar system.

His hands are held by Peter, and his friend sings awkwardly along with the other two children. He will thank him later, he tells himself, because it is only Peter's grip that stops James from doing something stupid like leaning over and arranging the dark curl that has escaped from the pins in Sirius's little brother's hair.

It's not fair, how can someone fly like that, how can someone look so gracious on a broom? One curl, just one misplaced curl, and everything else is perfection.

Regulus Black flies in front of him, the glint of the snitch peeking through his fingers. He smiles and James knows the smile is not for him, Regulus has done nothing more than give him a concentrated look and that was not for him either, it was for the snitch, James was just in the way.

He unconsciously kept that smile in some corner of his thoughts. He has a right to do so. Regulus has beaten his house, and this is James's way of claiming a victory for himself. He takes that smile and the image, guards it jealously, for what? James is not sure. He just does.

He knows he should be furious at how his team has lost. He should be sympathising with his house and putting on a miserable face. He has no idea what face he might be making, but it sure as hell is not one of sadness.

Impossible to be sad, not after seeing such a display of skill and composure in the front row.

It's not fair how breathtaking Regulus Black is.

The whistle blows, and all the players put an end to their plays; Madame Hooch wastes no time and begins collecting the balls that wander free in the air. The match is over, and unashamedly, even as he wears his house colours, Sirius smiles jubilantly and raises his arms in the air.

He sees his brother in the distance, too far away to appreciate the snitch he knows he has in his hands.

Sirius laughs, a sound born from the centre of his chest.

It's his brother's first match, and there's a hint of embarrassment stirring inside him. He tries to conjure up any memories and gets only consumed glimpses; he has no memory of what his brother's first match was like, if he won, if he lost, if he smiled the way he does now, if he looked for Sirius with his eyes as he seems to be doing now. It is just one of many moments that Sirius let bitterness take away; cut off from his brother, self-condemned to be a distant spectator. Bits of memories, fragments of moments. But Sirius is here, now, he will be for as long as he can steal away, and he won't just be a distant spectator watching his brother triumph and laugh, he can be there and be a part of it.

He doesn't remember how he should. And what can Sirius do now? Just remember this present, soak it in, make sure he doesn't miss a thing.

A victory for Regulus Black, muses a voice in his head, one of many.

Sirius once wondered, when his brother's death was announced to the world, who will know how to look beyond the dead heir and unearth the child? But there is no more child to unearth, he is here, and as long as Sirius has anything to say about it, that child will prevail on the surface, where he always should have been. Like flowers that bloom full of beauty and gentleness.

The echo from the microphone flared again. A dull, thudding sound as if — Alex? Andre? — had shaken the microphone sharply.

"Woah! Woah! Watch out over there, looks like —!"

However, Sirius could never hear whatever the narrator was trying to say, though he would later get a pretty good idea what it might have been. Now, sensing danger a second away, but unable to stop it, Sirius gasped: Adrius! That was the name… not that it mattered now…

Have you ever had a spell take you by surprise? So close it's impossible to flee, so silent you can't predict it. Sirius hasn't, because he is paranoid as only his mother could teach him, and spells are rarely silent. Bludgers are even harder to ignore, they break the air with their force and leave an earthy red trail, but sometimes things happen.

Things happen a lot with Sirius Black these days.

Caught by Adrius Valens' half-finished warning, Sirius turned on his broom in time to see a wild, out-of-control bludger come flying straight at him; an impossible thing to happen, that thing should have been put away and chained up by now. But here it is, flying, straight at Sirius, it's surprising and unpredictable, he can only watch it fly through the short distance without a chance to run away or send it away with his bat. Something crackles, just as Sirius realises the danger, something crackles. And with his last lucid thought, Sirius prays that it was the broom and not his bones.

Why me?

The darkness never felt so dizzying.

November 29th, 1938

He finds him in the library. Tom no longer even makes the effort to hide, he understands that escaping from Alphard Black is like trying to elude the portraits in the castle: as far as Tom's nocturnal forays have taken him, he hasn't found a corridor or room in the castle that doesn't have paintings on the walls. It's annoying. Privacy seems to be a foreign concept to wizards. Such a thing shouldn't bother Tom, he has had it worse at the orphanage, but he had hoped that Hogwarts would give him some of the freedom and privacy he has been deprived of all his life. Excitement turned to disappointment at first when he discovered how little freedom he would be given here too, but then it turned to challenge, a challenge to find the blind spots and hidden places.

Tom likes a challenge, he likes knowledge. He likes to feel in control of any aspect of his life.

Alphard is a point of contention to achieve that. The other boy is just as controlling as Tom, he stares at the people around him and at times, delights in pulling strings to watch his housemates become like puppets. Every time Alphard tries to put a string on Tom's wrist, Tom breaks it instantly. He won't be Alphard's silly puppet; he is not Malfoy or any of his housemates bending to the will of the other boy. In the end, that's what Black's constant presence has brought him; if Tom were in his place, he would undoubtedly do the same. There is no child in the orphanage who does not shy away from his known temperament, and the matron turns a blind eye to Tom and everything around him; if a stranger were to arrive at the orphanage and refuse to give Tom the treatment he deserves as his superior, he too might find himself curious.

Yet Tom was already expecting Alphard's arrival. It is such a common occurrence that it becomes routine. He would not say he longs for it or looks forward to it, but it no longer bothers him so much. He can't waste all his energy on Alphard Black's unbidden presence, accepting it has done him more good than harm.

"That's a bit of an advanced book for you," says Alphard, used to softening his footsteps and silencing his breathing so as not to alert Tom to his presence. It's a good trick, one that Tom is pleased to be able to say he also knows how to replicate, even better.

Alphard knows about discretion and silence as a weapon, Tom knows about it as a way to survive. From two opposite worlds, Tom thinks bitterly, but still so similar. Alphard knows luxury, while Tom has little more than his books and scrolls to call his own. Alphard denotes a good, comfortable life, while Tom is familiar with the burning in his stomach from days without dinner.

Alphard's silence is sharp, like a well-polished knife waiting to be drawn. Not so for Tom, who has made silence his way of life. Alphard has embraced shadows and silence, but Tom grew up in it and so Tom will always be better at hiding and waiting.

It's still a good trick. Surprisingly it does not bother Tom when Alphard finds him that way; for a brief moment, it is as if they are one and the same. Interest overcomes anger.

Tom slams his book shut, his eyes flashing with displeasure, but his features are harmless "Is it?" he asks with false naivety "I was only interested in the title."

"You have very specific interests" Alphard pointed out, inviting himself uninvited to take a seat opposite Tom at his secluded table in the library; a table out of sight, obscured by the shadows of the bookshelves "The history of old families is not usually what newcomers seek."

Tom forced his shoulders to remain relaxed "You would be surprised what the newcomers find interesting" he said "Forgive me for wanting to be interested in the history of this place, you understand that not all of us were lucky enough to grow up in it"

"I don't mean that as a bad thing" shook his hand Alphard, a sharp smile on his lips "It was just an observation".

Bloody prick. Thinks himself so funny and smart. Don't fall, Tom reminded himself with his fists clenched under the table, that's what he wants. He wants to see you react, he wants to see how he gets you upset, it gives him pleasure and you are no one to be the entertainment of a spoiled brat.

But is Alphard spoiled? A nuisance, that's what he is. Spoiled may be an exaggeration. Spoilt brats are bullies like Malfoy. What Black is is something of an unknown. Not a friend, but not an enemy either.

Unconsciously, Tom's hands stray to his robe. It's soft, fresh, the fabric doesn't sting his skin. They haven't talked about this, about the robe that mysteriously appeared in his bedroom, and he has no intention of talking about it. He does not want to owe anyone anything, though he cannot deny that Alphard Black has not been a complete curse in his life.

«The Black Family,

founded at an indeterminate date, its antecedents can be traced back to the birth of the primitive magical communities of ancient France.

Probably one of the first magical families to be established and one that has endured to the present day. »

Tom does not know what Alphard expects to get out of him. And he is not interested, because as long as he can keep this strange attention, Tom is reaping all the silent benefits, without boasting, of course, he does not want to step on the lion's tail by accident. But his time at the castle has passed with little turbulence. Malfoy hasn't spoken ill of him in weeks, and the professors even seem to offer him something resembling favouritism, with the flamboyant exception of Professor Dumbledore. Tom made poor moves early on and now he must pay for it, with Alphard lurking at his side and Dumbledore watching his back.

The point is, things have been going well for Tom, and that is not something many of his peers can say. Tom is not stupid to think that it has all been a product of his charm and sweet tongue, if only. That strange attention Alphard gives him, which is not as discreet as the taller boy wants to make it seem, has fallen like a blessed halo over Tom's head.

"Did you keep practising the spell I taught you?" asked Alphard still with that stupid little grin. "You're going to hurt your arm if you keep that up."

Tom adjusted the sleeve of his robe, no longer able to stop himself from frowning. The dark mark on the inside of his arm could be mistaken for a simple inkblot, but the truth was less accidental and innocent. If he were a less layered person, Tom might blush in embarrassment at being caught; he refuses to let Alphard get the idea that Tom has gotten anything more out of their mundane, hidden chats. Tom likes to learn, and Alphard has much to teach; the spells Alphard shares with him on his sporadic escapades to the library should not be so precious to Tom, especially when the spells are so innocuous and simple.

But still, there is that horrible dark mark on his arm, proof of his many attempts and failures to make that rubbish spell into something more.

They have not made a friendship, Alphard and Tom, but what some might call camaraderie. Whatever they have now, this strange companionship can never be more than that. Neither of them will allow themselves to be more than that. But they have made tentative gestures to each other, crumbs of solidarity.

To give it a name would be to condemn it to failure, and for the moment, Tom has no intention of failing in Alphard, not until he discovers what lies behind the intentions of a boy like that with a boy like Tom. Not until Tom has the strength to stand up for himself and demand the fear of his housemates. At Hogwarts he can't go and re-enact his orphanage tricks, that's what Dumbledore expects him to do, and so he must play the role of the perfect student, the supportive classmate. The poor, white-hearted nameless boy.

"You say it has no use. I say it just hasn't been found yet," Tom snarls back.

Obstinacy. The very nature of his essence is obstinate. Tom has had very few things in his life, and the few he has managed to obtain he locks in his fingers with a death grip, like the hands of the dead when stiffness petrifies their limbs. It can be anything, a brooch, a book, even a needle. Magic too. Tom clings to his magic, always has, even before he could give his abilities another name; his sorcery, his spells, the inherent evil of his ambitions. Tom clings to all of it, every scrap of gold and rubbish.

Alphard raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "It's a two-way spell," he said, "There is no point in practising it on your own. You need someone else to make it work." Alphard lifts the sleeve of his pristine white shirt, and Tom snorts in annoyance, rarely does Black wear the full uniform, the robe seems expendable to the boy.

Tom stares at him. He follows Alphard's movements as the boy pulls out his wand and lets it show under the dim lights of the library; it is elegant, if crude, the carving of its shape is rough and does not match the softened colour of the wood, what does that say about Alphard? Tom wonders, he always has questions about Alphard, about the Blacks, about the complex magical world and where he belongs.

"Sem sanguis" Alphard conjures with the tip of his wand on the skin of his forearm. A dark spot appears on the pale skin, resembling a birthmark. Alphard then grabs Tom's arm without question and repeats the words with the tip of the wand on the dark spot on the inside of his arm.

It is not long before he feels the effect of the spell. It's no big deal, barely a tingle on his arm, but from what Alphard explained to him last time when he introduced him to the spell, the greater the distance between them the stronger the itch and discomfort.

"It's not something wizards do now," Alphard says with his hands back where they belong: away from Tom. "There is no use in this spell. Did I tell you its history? I don't think so. It was a spell created by my family during the times when we were constantly being hunted by Muggles. Sometimes it was necessary for families to be separated and with this spell they could find each other."

But Tom likes to disagree, going against Alphard as if it were a necessity. It's an animalistic impulse that the taller boy brings out in him "Being able to find the family" he said, knowing he doesn't believe much of what he was about to say "I think it's interesting. But of course, wizards like you wouldn't understand it" without meaning to, boiling fury burning in his throat.

No, Alphard wouldn't understand. Because he has parents and siblings, and an extension of his family in every bloody soul in this castle.

Alphard smiled, this time with some pity in the gesture. Oh, no. No, no. Tom didn't need anyone's pity. But he held his tongue, he held his tongue because, he told himself, he gained more by appealing to Alphard Black's soft side than he got from his coldness.

"It will be gone soon" Alphard replies, leaving the strange brittleness and discomfort in Tom's words unheeded "I'm telling you, useless. It's not even permanent."

"Family is something that should be found every day" Tom pursed his lips, feeling foolish for saying cheesy things he believed hardly anything in, but willing to take the last word for it. He wouldn't agree with Alphard; not about the uselessness of this spell or anything else.

Alphard laughed and Tom swallowed the surprise and the burning in his stomach at the playful, vibrating sound. He had never made anyone laugh before.

"You're so stubborn" sighed Alphard "I'm sure your stubbornness alone to prove me wrong is going to change the world."

Tom huffed "There are no silly or useless spells, only imperfect ones. Someday I will show you how this spell can be better. I will make it mine."

Like all the trinkets and junk Tom has been accumulating, he will make them gold with his single touch; he will put his name on them and make them his own completely. He will make for himself the greatest treasures the world can hold, and all of them he will leave the mark of his fingers for the rest of the world to see. And Alphard Black will be the first to see it, Tom will make sure of that.

One day, even the name Black and its treasures will have Tom's touch on them.

"I'm waiting for it."