Chapter 30: A Sirius Interlude
In the London Borough of Islington there was a street called Grimmauld Place, a street that had become worthy of its name. At one point Grimmauld Place had been a decent neighbourhood, filled with a sense of community pride and good relations with the local authorities.
Sadly in the years since the end of the Second World War Grimmauld Place had gone downhill. During the war most of the children living on that street had been evacuated to the rural regions of Britain and most had never bothered to come back. If that wasn't bad enough, several families were hit by the mid-1970's recession and were forced to either sell up and move or were evicted.
Since then Grimmauld Place had become one of those rough neighbourhoods where no one really wanted to live. The fronts of the line of townhouses were grimy and unwelcoming, with paint peeling off of doors and window frames.
Several houses had smashed or boarded up windows and, no matter how often the local council sent around the bin men, there always seemed to be black bin bags sitting overstuffed on the steps of some homes, oftentimes torn open by scavenging cats and urban foxes looking for an easy meal.
Half of the street lamps did not work properly, either smashed or simply burnt out and as a result there were many darkened corners where teens liked to gather together to smoke, drink and generally make nuisances of themselves. The most noticeable evidence of their work, aside from the graffiti, was the burnt-out remains of a 1981 Ford Cortina which had been set alight six months ago after spending two years resting on a stack of bricks without its wheels.
On the opposite side of the road from the row of townhouses there was a small pocket park known as Grimmauld Square. Like the street around it, the park had once been a rather nice area that had fallen to neglect. Surrounded by rusting railings, it now consisted of a patch of uncut grass, several overgrowing bushes and couple of trees, one of which still bore the marks from when some of the kids had doused part of its trunk with petrol and set it alight.
And if all that wasn't bad enough, there was a storm drain located where Grimmauld Place met Finsbury lane which had been blocked up for as long as anyone could remember, meaning that anytime it rained (and it does that a lot in Britain) a large puddle formed there.
All of this was well known to the local residents and they had long ago given up complaining about it. It was all just a part of daily life for them and so it was, largely, easy to ignore.
Another thing that was easy to ignore was the apparent fact that, when the street had been built, there had seemingly been a mistake in the numbering of the houses, with House Number Eleven sitting beside House Number Thirteen with no Number Twelve in sight.
The residents of Grimmauld Place had long since come to accept that relatively innocuous issue as just a little amusement to have chuckle over whenever the local gossip ran dry and there was nothing on the news worth commenting on.
But just because they couldn't actually see Number Twelve didn't mean it wasn't there.
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was there, situated perfectly comfortably between Number Eleven and Number Thirteen. If anyone who lived in Grimmauld Place were to ever see Number Twelve for themselves, they would have unanimously concluded that Number Twelve was precisely the reason why their street had its name. For that house was, in fact, the grimiest, grimmest, mouldiest, darkest and seemingly oldest and most unwelcoming-looking house on the entire street.
There were a handful of people in the world who were able to see Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place in all its depressing, unwelcoming glory. Every single one of them thought the same thing; Grimmauld Place was the way it was because of Number Twelve. It was as if Number Twelve was some kind of disease that was affecting the rest of the street, with Number Eleven and Number Thirteen being almost as bad, but with each successive house down the line getting progressively better, with Numbers One and Twenty-three being the most decent of the lot.
The reason why the people living in Grimmauld Place could not see Number Twelve was because it was that particular townhouse that, back in 1832, had come to the attention of Licorus Black, a wizard. Licorus had seen the house, decided that he wanted it and 'persuaded' the previous, muggle occupant to leave. From then the townhouse had, over time, become the main house owned by the Black family. From Licorus, ownership of the house had passed to his grandson, Phineas Nigellus Black, then to his son Sirius Black I, and then to his grandson Orion and his wife (and second cousin) Walburga.
Following the death of Walburga Black in 1985, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place had sat empty and mostly forgotten, for there was no one left to take it on. Of the surviving Blacks, Walburga's father, Pollux, was in Azkaban and his sister, Cassiopeia was in St Mungo's long term care ward, as was Orion's father Arcturus. Orion and Walburga's oldest son, Sirius, was in Azkaban while their younger son, Regulus, had been killed in the service of Lord Voldemort while their three nieces were also indisposed.
Bellatrix was with Sirius and Pollux in Azkaban, Andromeda had been banished from the family for marrying a muggle and Narcissa was married to Lucius Malfoy who, at the time, was doing all he could to keep his name away from anything that might link him to Lord Voldemort. That included the London Townhouse, no matter how much he coveted the many treasures he believed to be hidden away within.
The other, more distant relations that might have been able to claim some kind of ownership over the house, the Weasleys, the Potters, the Longbottoms, the Macmillans, the Bulstrodes, the Flints and the Crouches were either unaware of their potential right to the house or simply did not want it.
And so the house had sat empty and unused with no one to claim ownership of it, with the only sounds within being the screeching commands issued by a portrait of Walburga to a House Elf named Kreacher, the only thing in the world to have shown her any amount of care during the latter years of her life.
Then, ten years later, Sirius Black, Azkaban escapee had been seeking a place to lie low and, against his personal tastes, he had arrived on the front step of Number Twelve and pushed open the door.
In order to give the two fingered salute to his more unsavoury ancestors and all they stood for (particularly his mother), Sirius had offered his home to Albus Dumbledore for use as the Headquarters of prestigious The Order of the Phoenix, a secret society founded by Dumbledore to oppose the actions of The Dark Lord Voldemort and his followers, The Death Eaters.
The Order of the Phoenix was originally founded in the early 1970's when Voldemort had returned to magical Britain from years of study abroad and began to wage war against those he deemed unworthy of owning a wand; muggleborns, half – bloods, half – breeds and blood traitors.
Throughout the course of that war The Order had fought alongside the Ministry of Magic in order to combat the Death Eater insurgency and hold the tide of darkness at bay. Like the Ministry, The Order suffered heavy casualties and would likely have not held out much longer had the events of one fateful Halloween night in 1981 not come to pass.
Voldemort had been banished that night but now, after thirteen years the Dark Lord was back and with the Ministry of Magic refusing to believe it Dumbledore had reformed The Order of the Phoenix in order to combat the forces of darkness once again.
Now, several months later, Sirius Black had a problem. Being the hub of a pretty important secret organisation meant that people were usually coming in and out of the house all the time and Sirius was very rarely left alone for more than five hours at a time. Not now though.
In a change to the norm, Sirius had not seen anyone for several days and it was beginning to get to him. As far as he knew, the only people from the Order who should be completely out of contact with Headquarters were his long-time friend Remus Lupin, who was off trying to make contacts within the Werewolf community, Rubeus Hagrid, who was trying to make some kind of deal with the Giant colonies of Europe and Charlie Weasley who was still in Romania where he lived and where he was supposed to be sounding out foreign allies for Dumbledore's cause.
As many people entering Hogwarts to deliver reports to Dumbledore would likely draw the suspicions of the interfering Ministry of Magic they instead came to The House of Black where Sirius would use a two-way mirror in order to contact Dumbledore and let him know of whoever had arrived. While Sirius had, at one time, intended to use the mirrors in order to communicate with his godson, Harry Potter, the need to communicate effectively and freely with Dumbledore had proved more important and, unable to safely use the floo network for communication, what with every fireplace within Hogwarts likely being monitored by the Ministry of Magic, Sirius had handed the Headmaster one of the two communication mirrors that he had in his possession.
The usage of those mirrors had prompted Sirius to wonder why several days ago Dumbledore had chosen to communicate through owl post rather than the mirrors, but had decided not to question it. At the time he had reasoned that Dumbledore most likely knew what he was doing.
Now he wasn't so sure. No one from the order had been in contact with Headquarters since he had sent off his reply letter and he was beginning to doubt that the letter had come from Dumbledore at all.
While it was not unusual for certain members of The Order to go without reporting in for days and sometimes even weeks at a time, hearing from no one was, quite frankly, setting Sirius' teeth on edge. It was even getting to the point where he would have been glad to catch sight of Severus Snape, that's how bad his anxiety over the situation was.
Even if they had nothing to report to Dumbledore there were those within The Order whom Sirius had become friends with and who would make visits which were purely social in nature, but even they were not turning up. Heck, just last night Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alastor Moody, Mundungus Fletcher, Bill Weasley and Sturgis Podmore were meant to come around for a game or two of cards and work their way a few bottles of fire whiskey in order to let of a little steam. (Moody, of course, would have been made to take out his magical, all seeing eye so that the game was fair!)
None of them had turned up for the game and not one of them had gotten in touch, not a floo call, not an owl and Sirius thought that to be rather rude!
Last night he had wallowed in his disappointment by making his way through two and a half of the ten bottles of fire whiskey that had been set aside for the game before slumping over the kitchen table and passing out.
That was last night though. Twenty-fire hours later and Sirius was now wide awake, sobered up and sitting in front of the fire hearth, staring into the roaring, orange flames as he contemplated the situation that he currently found himself in.
One person missing the game was understandable, two was plausible, three was a bit of a stretch but not beyond the realms of possibility. After all, Kingsley, Sturgis and Bill all had jobs to see to and could easily have been called in to attend to an emergency. But for all five of them to miss the game made no sense at all and Sirius Black did not like it one little bit.
To make matters worse there seemed to be some kind of communication block in place. There were no letters being delivered, no floo calls to take and, with no one visiting Headquarters, Sirius had not seen a copy of the Daily Prophet in days. For obvious reasons he could not subscribe to the premier wizarding periodical himself and had to instead rely upon others to bring copies around with them and leave them lying around.
How was he meant to know how much Ministry-induced damage he was going to have to rectify when he and Harry were together again?
Rapidly he was coming to one every simple conclusion – if information would not come to him, he would have to go and find it. There were no owls available for his personal use at Headquarters, and the Ministry keeping an eye on the Hogwarts Floo Network ruled that out. Even if he did use the floo network, there was no guarantee as to what he would find at the other end. What if the Ministry had raided Hogwarts and Sirius stepped out of the fire place right into a band of Aurors? He was, after all, still marked to have his soul removed through the kiss of a Dementor should he be caught alive.
After hours of thought, what he must do now was becoming steadily clearer. The previous year, during the events of the Tri-Wizard Tournament being held at Hogwarts, he had spent much of his time living in a cave just outside of the wizarding village of Hogsmeade and had entered the village at night to pull discarded copies of The Daily Prophet out of rubbish bins. As a wanted man with no means of communication, this was the best way he could think of to get the information he so desperately desired.
'Yes' he thought 'that will have to do. I did it once and I can certainly do it again.'
He got out of his chair and waved his wand through the air several times. Moments later his younger brother's old school trunk flew in through the drawing room door, followed by several sets of robes, bedding and a decent supply of food.
The trunk landed upon the nearby table and the lid swung open. Sirius watched as clothes and blankets folded themselves up and secured themselves compactly and tidily within one half of the trunk while the food filled the other half. After a couple of moments' thought he decided to add in the remaining bottles of fire whiskey as well. He had no plans on getting drunk while in the cave. Bitter experience had taught him that sleeping in a cave in Scotland during the winter months was not a fun experience, no matter how many blankets you bundled yourself up in or how many warming charms you cast around yourself.
Fire whiskey, as well as being a very good way to get yourself very drunk very quickly, was also known for its warming properties and if you happened to catch a cold, warming up a bowl of fire whiskey and inhaling the fumes for about ten minutes was a rather effective way to clear your airways (Sirius had never agreed with his mother on many topics, but it was hard to argue with her home remedies like that one!)
Thoughts of home remedies quickly turned Sirius' thoughts to medicinal potions. He was never any good at healing charms so in the event of a cut, a bruise or a broken bone he usually relied on a potion or living through the pain. As the remaining bottles of Ogden's Finest Fire Whiskey settled themselves into the trunk, Sirius headed down to the kitchen and raided The Order's potion supply cupboard.
While he might fight with Snape tooth and nail and while he might trust the man about as far as he could throw a mountain troll without the aid of magic, there was no denying that the greasy git made good potions. Deciding to be prepared for anything he grabbed pepper-up potions, burn salves, skele-gro, bruise removal paste, a cut sealing concoction and a few antidotes just to be on the safe side.
Returning to the drawing room he placed the potions into the trunk and closed and locked the lid.
"Kreacher!" he called out and a moment later the old, cantankerous House Elf that had served the Black Family for years appeared in the room.
"Nasty young Master calls for Kreacher?" asked the Elf, trying his best to appear subservient like a good House Elf but ultimately unable to keep the loathing out of his voice.
"Yes Kreacher. I am leaving." replied Sirius.
"Master is leaving?" echoed the Elf.
"Yes, Kreacher, leaving. There has been no word from anyone in The Order for several days now, so I am going out to attempt to discover what has happened. Until I return I will be in a cave just outside the village of Hogsmeade. Should anyone from The Order arrive here before I make my return, the only people you may inform of my location are Albus Dumbledore, Remus Lupin or Alastor Moody. Is that clear?"
Kreacher bowed low and croaked "Crystal clear, master."
Sirius huffed and used his wand to shrink the trunk down to the size of a galleon before placing it into a pocket before leaving the room.
At the door he turned back and said "Oh, and Kreacher? Try and keep the place looking tidy this time. I don't think we need another doxy infestation in the curtains of the master bedroom, do we?"
"No, master," croaked Kreacher. "Kreacher will keep out doxies."
"And feed Buckbeak," added Sirius before heading downstairs.
At the front door Sirius turned the handle and looked out. It was dark out, which was to be expected at eleven at night. Looking up he saw that there were thick clouds in the sky, blocking out the moon and the stars. The only things that would expose him were the street lamps and car headlights.
He stepped out of the door and closed it behind him before taking a deep breath of the cool, crisp air and disapparated.
Not for a moment did it enter his head that he could possibly utilise his family's last remaining House Elf to try and get a message through to Dumbledore. But then most wizards do have the tendency to overlook House Elves and Sirius Black was no exception.
Elsewhere in the country a man staggered towards the nearby stream. His latest attempt to talk with some others of his kind had ended in disaster when Fenrir Greyback had caught him.
The fight that followed had almost cost Remus Lupin his life.
As so many werewolves were not permitted to use wands or obtain access to potions, Remus had, as a sign of respect, left his supplies at his base, well away from the feral werewolf encampment where Fenrir was the undisputed king.
An action that he had carried out in the hope of gaining the trust of other, less fortunate werewolves now appeared as though it might result in his death.
Struggling to the bank of the shallow stream he collapsed on it and pulled up the side of his shabby robes before breathing a sigh of relief. Although it hurt like hell, he had survived worse wounds in the past. Sometimes his being a werewolf did have its good points despite the curse.
Reaching down into the stream he cupped some of the cold, fresh water into his hand and gently washed the wound. It stung like a bitch but it had to be done. Although he was already a werewolf and thus could not be further harmed by lycanthropy, Fenrir Greyback seemed to think that being a werewolf also meant that you didn't have to wash. Who knew what other disease or even parasites his bites and scratches could inflict these days?
Wound as clean as he could get it for now he washed his hands off and stood up as above him two clouds parted and the light of a crescent moon shone down upon him.
Behind him he heard a shout, followed by much howling. Evidently in the glade somewhere to the north Fenrir was encouraging his followers to embrace their inner wolf. Remus wanted no part of that so decided to retreat back to the relative safety of his base for now.
That base was a long ago abandoned fox earth found beneath the roots of a large beech tree. The entrance was narrow but Remus had enlarged it slightly to allow himself to squeeze inside where he had made it quite substantially bigger. He had also installed a never-ending candle to provide a little light and its dim glow welcomed him as he entered.
Along one side several blankets were rolled out to form a bed while a small carrycase stood off to one side. Remus approached this and pulled out a bottle labelled Essence of Dittany.
Pulling out the stopper, Remus exposed the wound in his side again and applied the clear liquid.
Smoke, greenish in colour, billowed up from the wound, stinging lightly but otherwise offering little discomfort. When the smoke cleared the bleeding at stopped and the open wound has sealed over. It now looked like an injury that had been received several days ago, with new skin stretching over what had previously been open flesh.
Relieved that his wound was healed and no longer causing him any pain, Remus quickly took off his robe and cast it aside before pulling on a nightshirt and pyjama trousers. He then took out his wand and hit his robe with a few quick scouring charms to remove the blood stains followed by a stitching charm to close up the holes made by Fenrir's clawed hands.
Satisfied he sat down on his blankets and pulled his carrycase towards him. After a quick rummage through what few supplies were left to him he pulled out a can of baked beans. With little else available, he opened the can and used his wand to heat it up before settling down to consume his filling, if boring meal.
At best guess he had just enough supplies to last him another week, ten days at the most. Though, admittedly, if Fenrir Greyback attacked him again he would likely have to abort the mission completely. He had been out here for nearly two months now and had made absolutely no progress towards gaining any support within the werewolf community.
Oh, there were one or two who would listen to what he had to say but they were just being kind and humouring him. None of them really listened to what he had to say, or what Dumbledore was prepared to offer them in return for going against Fenrir's commands.
But then, they had no reason to listen. After centuries of persecution werewolves had no desire to listen to any offers made and no reason to believe any offers they heard. Remus could wax lyrical for hours about Albus Dumbledore and how the man had extended to him the chance to attend Hogwarts, gain a magical education and make friends with non-werewolves but the simple fact was that while this was the case for Remus, no other werewolf had been offered that chance either before his time at Hogwarts or after it. His story wasn't one of hope to them, instead it made them envious and Remus had learned not to talk about it within his first few days here.
Wizarding society had turned their backs on werewolves and had done for centuries. As a result, as far as the vast majority of werewolves were concerned, they were on their own. They had to look out for themselves and each other, for no one else would. But while forming groups certainly had its benefits, there was also a major flaw – under the light of the full moon werewolves would fight for dominance, to establish an alpha of the pack and that title always ended up going to the biggest, strongest and fiercest werewolf around, like Fenrir Greyback.
Of course, pointing out that it was individuals like Fenrir Greyback whose actions gave werewolves a bad name and caused other magic users to fear them was a very bad idea. For many of the werewolves here, Fenrir was all that they had. As cruel as their leader could be he was also their protector and in many cases the only father figure many of them new. Of course, there was the fact that he alone was responsible for more than half of werewolves in the group being bitten and becoming werewolves in the first place, but that fact was neither here nor there for the vast majority.
The pack was all that they had.
Remus sighed and set his half eaten can of baked beans aside before stretching out on hid makeshift bed and pulling two blankets over himself. He supposed he could easily have conjured up a proper bed to sleep on but in the event of another werewolf coming sniffing around he did not want to look like he had it too comfortable. Nor did he want to rub the fact that he was a wand user in their faces. As it was he thought that the warming charms were pushing it enough!
Settling himself down for as decent a sleep as he could get these days, Remus gave a flick of his wand and extinguished the light form the never-ending candle, plunging the den into darkness.
He wondered if Hagrid was having any more luck in recruiting the giants than he was with recruiting the werewolves.
Sticking to the shadows, the large black dog slunk his way through the darkened streets of Hogsmeade, looking for a bin to raid. The three that he had searched so far had proved to be useless to him but he held out hope that the one out the front of The Three Broomsticks would prove fruitful.
Slowly and quietly so as to not draw attention he made his way towards the famous Inn, his ears straining to pick up any sound at all. There were lights on in the pub, proving that there were still people situated at the bar and Padfoot knew he was taking a risk but he had to get information!
He reached the bin and placed his forepaws on the top before pausing. How to open the lid on the bin without changing back into a human? Before he used to just knock the bin over but with the Three Broomsticks full he couldn't take the change of someone overhearing him.
Suddenly his decision was made for him as Aurors John Dawlish and Bertram Savage rounded the corner of the pub.
Sirius ducked down behind the bin and listened fearfully as the two men got closer.
Step by step they got nearer to him and Padfoot's heart was beating so fact that he was certain sure that they must be able to hear it.
Then he heard their heavy boots tromping up the wooden steps at the front of the pub, followed by the sound of the door opening and the noise and clamour from within the bar flooded the street. It sounded a lot busier in there than Padfoot had thought.
"Evening Rosemerta!" he heard Dawlish's voice say loudly.
"Evening lads," came the reply of the curvy landlady. "What can I get you this evening?"
And then the door swung shut and Padfoot turned and bolted off into the night. With just a few patrons in the bar he would have been willing to take his chances and risk it, but that bar was full and worse there were Aurors traipsing around!
The black dog, easily the size of a small bear didn't stop until the village of Hogsmeade was well behind him. Panting he turned to look back down the hillside to the village just in time to see a couple of shadowy figures stumble out through the front door of The Three Broomsticks and shuffle off towards their homes.
Padfoot turned and continued on his way up the hillside. The cave that he had stayed in the previous year was relatively easy for him to find and he slipped inside the dark opening before reverting back into his human form.
Sirius took out his wand and trunk and began setting up his own base of operations. Within minutes the trunk was back to its normal size, he had conjured up a decently sized bed and was heading up two eggs and three rashers of bacon in a conjured saucepan over bluebell flames before heading back to the entrance and casting a glamour charm over it to avoid drawing unwanted attention.
Moments later he was sitting down on his bed, his evening meal on a plate in his lap. He decided he rather liked being back here. It was certainly less depressing than being in that dratted house of his. And unlike the last time he was here he had a pretty decent setup going, what with his comfortable bed, warm, clean clothes, a stash of decent food and, most importantly, a few bottles of Ogden's Finest.
Speaking of which…
He reached over to his trunk and pulled out the half empty pull from which he promptly took a heavy pull. After belching out the flaming burp which usually accompanied the consumption of fire whiskey he settled himself back on his bed and settled in for what looked like would be the best night he had had in a very long time!
A/N: And there you have it. I hope it was worth the wait – you even got to see Remus, which is more than I promised. You will be happy to know that the next five chapters have been carefully planned out and are all ready to be written up. Don't worry, we will be seeing more from Sirius as well as moving the main plot forward.
The trip to Leavesden Studios was fantastic and to anyone who hasn't gone yet I ask "what the hell are you waiting for?" It is amazing! Personally I went a bit overboard with the merchandise purchasing and still managed to overlook getting a wand! After deliberating with those I went with it was decided that I would most likely have been a Hufflepuff so I got a scarf for that house. I also got a Head Boy badge because if I'm going to be a Hufflepuff I'm damned well going to be the best one! I also got a model of the Hogwarts Express, a Tri-Wizard Cup (it didn't whisk me off to a graveyard) a Hedwig mug, a t-shirt with Platform 9 ¾ on it and a t-shirt with a Hungarian Horntail on it. And I also got a Buckbeak the Hippogriff keychain and my very own Marauder's Map!
I also tried the butterbeer and was disappointed to find it to be the most disgusting thing I have ever tasted, and that is saying something. But then, there were plenty of other people there who apparently enjoyed the stuff, so what the hell do I know?
I also discovered just how much of a Harry Potter nerd I am. Right at the end there is a room filled with stacks of boxes so it looks like Ollivander's Wand Shop and on each box is written the name of someone who had something to do with the films, whether they were a lead character, an extra, a director, a cameraman, a set designer, a screenwriter, a producer, a concept artist a composer or whatever. But they're all jumbled up and the idea is you are supposed to look around for the ones you want to see. So while everyone else is freaking out over finding Daniel Radcliff, Emma Watson and Evanna Lynch, I'm there picking out names like Eleanor Columbus, Louis Doyle, Charlotte Skeoch, Emily, Dale, Georgina Leonidas, Harry Melling, Timothy Bateson, Tiana Benjamin, Afshan Azad, Hugh Mitchell, George Harris, Chris Rankin, Nicholas Hooper, Steve Kloves, Mark Radcliffe and David Heyman, immediately working out what they did or who they played and I quickly come to realise that I'm the only one out of around thirty people in that room who gives a sh*t that those names are there! I also spotted the name Natalie McDonald and I'm fairly certain I'm the only one to recognise the significance of that name too!