Black Days
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In a murky street in Islington, London, two wizards stand cloaked, shrouded in the night. They pause at a peculiar spot, where a house number is ostensibly missing. Together, they step into the orange glow of a streetlight but no one is awake to see them.
The shorter of the men, whose face blurs between the lines of handsome and haunted, fumbles around in a pocket, biting something that shines a beam of unnatural light between his teeth as he conducts his search.
His accomplice waits with composure, checking over his shoulder occassionally at the sound of an engine sputtering several streets away, the clatter as a fox knocks over a bin. Beside him sits a large trunk, battered and decades old, and strangely enough, a grammophone perched atop of it.
Finally, his friend has success; a scrunched up piece of paper in his enclosed hand.
Sirius thrusts it at Remus, "Here. Read it and memorise it."
Without question, Remus takes the paper, the words written by Dumbledore himself, and scans the sentence. He passes it back to Sirius, who promptly burns it with the rap of his wand.
"Okay, repeat it back to yourself."
As Remus thinks over the words on the parchment, the neighbouring muggle houses begin to shift and rumble, splitting apart to give room to the house that is materialising between them.
Remus stares up at 12 Grimmauld Place as the movement grinds to a halt, wedged between 11 and 13. It's a miserable looking building, dirty like smudged charcoal, the windows of each of the three stories caked in grime, dark and foreboding - someone could be watching them through those windows and they would never know it.
"Charming, isn't it? My father made it Unplottable...probably for the best." Sirius mutters when he catches Remus gaping, before traipsing up the steps to the front door. "Hold on - "
He pulls out his wand again and taps the tip of it against the door, the sounds of locks clanking out of place coming from within, the rattle of a chain undoing on its own. Sirius rolls his eyes at the doorknocker, a silvery serpent twisting upon itself, and shoulders open the door, revealing a musty hallway before them.
"If you tried that without the presence of a Black, you'd be walking away from here with 'INTRUDER' stamped across your forehead - an ingenious little spell on my father's part. I've spoken to Dumbledore about it though, he said he'll fix it." Sirius says, taking Remus' trunk and propping it against the wall beside the troll-leg umbrella stand. "Hideous." he grimaces at it, turning back to his friend.
"This is certainly a, uh, unique home." Remus offers, little else coming forth that he can say, the taste of decay settling on his tongue and the smell lingering in his nostrils.
"It's a wreck. Full of dark artefacts and the remnants of prejudiced morons." Sirius states bluntly, kicking the door shut behind them. "I suppose I should welcome you, though I can assure you that this is the least welcoming home you'll ever have the displeasure of stepping foot into."
Sirius has already reacquainted himself with the house; he'd brushed off Remus' offer to accompany him during his first time entering his family home in nineteen years and had stolen away in the night to avoid any further suggestions from him. Needless to say, Remus wasn't pleased when he'd returned the following morning, wrapped up in a borrowed coat with an unrepentant gleam in his eyes. He appreciated Remus's thoughtfulness at being there for him but Sirius shared his reason with a different outlook; he hadn't been sure of his reaction, he didn't want to show how hard it was. It was never his intention for Remus to see him slip - it never is.
They're plunged into pitch black but with a brisk wave of the wand, Sirius ignites the gas lamps along the walls, lighting up the grand but decidedly cobweb-ridden staircase that ascends as high as the unseen ceiling, and the gloomy corridor they're standing in. From here, they can see the lines and lines of shrunken house-elf heads mounted on the walls, who stare down at them with round eyes and twisted mouths.
"I'll give you the grand tour, " Sirius laughs harshly, starting off on a speedy walk. "I don't rejoice in being back here. I'm on strict orders from Dumbledore to stay put. This was about the only useful thing I could do; my parents would have hated me for putting the house to this use, which only added to the appeal of handing it over." he explains with a grim smile.
They hurry down the hallway corridor, treading on worn down carpet, passing dozens of sleeping portraits, all hanging at a crooked angle. He pauses reluctantly at a pair of dusty velvet curtains and looks over to Remus with bleak resolution.
Sighing, he wraps his fingers around the crease in the curtain. "I should probably show you this now, so that there are no nasty surprises if you find yourself wandering the corridors for the bathroom, and you happen to wake her up. Get ready."
Before Remus can ask precisely who 'she' is and why it would be unpleasant for him if he were to wake her up, Sirius yanks back the curtain and hollers at the top of his voice.
"OI! GET UP, YOU OLD HAG!"
"YOU! WRETCHED SON, RETURNED TO BRING SHAME ON US ALL!"
Remus is appalled; before him is the most ghastly portrait he has ever seen. The subject, an old woman, her black cap perched on bedraggled hair, is screaming. Her eyes are rolling in her head, spit flying from her mouth, bony fingers clutching at the yellowing skin on her wasted face.
"ABOMINATION! BEFOULING THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK WITH YOUR TREACHEROUS WAYS!"
Sirius has to shout to make himself heard, "This is my dear mum. She's delightful, isn't she?"
Around them, the other portraits are stirring up in retaliation, raising a commotion so that every single one of them has joined the racket.
"Remus, if you could just stun the other portraits? It'll shut them up." Sirius asks, reaching for the curtains on his mother's portrait. "I'll sort her out."
The woman turns her eyes on Remus and flails in despair.
"HALF BREEDS! FILTH!" she cries, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction.
"You better be quiet if you know what's good for you!" Sirius orders, at length covering his wailing mother with effort, perspiration glistening on his forehead. Remus aims a stunning spell at the final shrieking portrait and the house descends into a pressing silence once again.
"Sorry about that. That'll be the first thing to go, when we start the clean up. It gave me a right shock when I visited last week, let me tell you. I pity the poor artist who had to stare at my mother's mug for any length of time."
"Clean up?" Remus says, still dazed over the portrait.
"Yes, didn't I mention? The Weasley's are coming to stay. I believe Molly volunteered her family to help in the restoration of this place. They'll have their work cut out for them."
Sirius turns out to be a negligent host, passing rooms by with an indifferent shrug of the shoulder - "It looks exactly like the last one. Nothing worth seeing, Moony." - and only briefly taking a turn about the rooms they do enter, which includes a parlour where he'd once trapped his brother inside one of the vast cabinets for trying to jinx him, and a storage room that was more or less used to punish Sirius whenever he had displeased his parents - "They put me in here for a whole day before and as you can see, there are no windows. I came out with a fear of the dark, which lasted for the next three years. Remember when I always drew my curtains shut around my bed in the dormitory at school? I was hiding the fact that I had to light a lamp every night."
He's particularly cantankerous when they find themselves in the drawing room, standing in front of an elaborate tapestry which details Sirius' extensive family history. Remus doesn't have the chance to examine it for long but he does manage to locate Sirius' own spot, now just a charred blotch amidst the Black's, and realises that it's best to avoid commenting on it for the sake of impeding Sirius' ever increasing bad mood.
When their tour takes them to the kitchen, a narrow room with a spacious ceiling, iron pots hanging hazardously above their heads, they can hear the unmistakable noises of a disturbance coming from the adjoining door which Sirius claims leads to the cupboard where the boiler is.
"What was that?" Remus asks, alarmed, casting about the gloom.
Sirius' expression darkens further, "Kreacher."
"You mean- "
The cupboard door opens, the hinges in need of a good oil, and Kreacher himself skulks out, curling fingers around the edge of the door to peer at the trespassers. Needless to say, he is quite startled to find the traitorous son of his beloved - but very much deceased - mistress standing in the middle of the kitchen.
"What's this? Master has returned? Kreacher thought he'd seen the last of the ungrateful brat when he left. Kreacher wonders why he has come back."
Sirius laughs without humour. "Oh, didn't we all. Unfortunately, I'm to tell you that you serve me now, not that horrendous portrait of my mother in the hallway - "
"Master insults my poor mistress, how ashamed she was, the disappointment she felt for her good-for-nothing son." the house elf says to itself, clutching at it's hairy ears, the dirt-encrusted rag tied around its small body slipping. "How upset mistress was when he ran off with blood traitors and half breeds."
" - and you HAVE to obey me. That's an order, Kreacher."
The elf bows low, its fleshy nose pressed against the stone floor of the kitchen, bloodshot eyes narrowed at Sirius and Remus.
"Of course Master, an honour it is to serve him, " Kreacher mutters, still bending at the waist. "Although Master deserves to be locked back up in Azkaban instead of shaming the halls of this house. How my mistress would fret at his brazen return! How mistress would fear that he would sully her prized possessions with his slimy hands."
"You don't have to worry about that Kreacher, I'll be throwing the lot out as soon as I can." Sirius barks, turning from the elf. "Now go back to where you crawled from."
"Very well, Master, as you wish." Kreacher says, hunchbacked as he retreats to his cupboard. "Master thinks he will succeed in getting rid of my mistress' heirlooms but Kreacher will save them, Kreacher will save as many as he can."
"Good luck with that!" Sirius bellows, storming from the kitchen in a rage.
Remus has to run to keep up, jogging up the stairs and back into the hallway to see Sirius furiously marching to the next floor. They barely look around the second floor - Sirius is still quietly seething over his reunion with Kreacher - but it's enough for Remus to know that there are a couple of bedrooms, all bearing their own four poster bed and emblazoned with the Black family crest, and a bathroom which features a chandelier created entirely from dragon bone.
By the time they reach the third floor, Sirius is positively sullen. He slinks along the landing, tapping the lamps as he goes but they're too dim to add much improvement to this floor. There are only three rooms here, each labelled with a plaque, the occupants names engraved upon them. They all hold their own stories, hateful reminders of his austere mother and father, his grovelling brother Regulus. He was never like them, he refused to give in to their obsession with being pure blood, which made him the greatest failure in their eyes, and he can recall with acute hostility the less than favourable letter he received from his parents on his being sorted into Gryffindor.
Sirius stops abruptly at the first room, the master bedroom. He hardly opens the door, just wide enough for him to see the king size bed and the ostentatious purple drapes that cover every inch of the room, clearly ransacked by Kreacher over the years, eager to find items to bring him closer to his mistress.
"Dumbledore is getting Buckbeak dropped off in a few days, at my insistence." Sirius says conversationally, peering in. "You know, I think I'll let him have my parents room, I'm sure he'll find it comfortable enough."
He abandons the room and they move to the next one across the landing, formerly belonging to a 'Regulus Arcturus Black.' Sirius won't go in so he lets Remus wander in alone, the door a little stiff. He never went into his brother's room even when he was still living at Grimmauld Place. They were polar opposites; Sirius can not think of a single time when he related to Regulus, who was always so keen to impress their parents. They spent a lot of their childhood avoiding each other, or cursing each other as much as possible.
"I've put you in here," Sirius mumbles, leaning heavily on the door frame, keeping his distance as Remus explores. "I know, it's covered in Slytherin banners, and those clippings from the Prophet about Voldemort are the most ridiculous, the most - "
"It's fine, Sirius, I'll get by just fine."
"Yeah, well...," Sirius says, moving back to let Remus out, pulling the bedroom door shut with a sharp tug. "I figured you would be in and out most of the time and I need those rooms downstairs for the Weasley's, it seemed like the right decision at the time."
"Yes, it was - it makes perfect sense. Thank you, Sirius."
Sirius shrugs and moves to the last door on the third floor. It bears his own name and he enters with the odd feeling of walking into ones past. Nothing has changed. His mother wasn't the only one able to enlist a Permanent Sticking Charm; symbols of his Gryffindor life seem to be everywhere, from the banner hanging from the ends of his bed to the desk in the corner of the room, with etchings of his house name scratched into the very wood.
During his time living here, he vowed to make his parents lives a misery and his younger self had plastered scantily clad muggle women all over the walls, side by side with pictures of his friends at Hogwarts, the antithesis of his brother's room. He wanted to make his own space an everlasting shrine to show just how unlike his family he was. He wanted to show them that a pure blood name didn't define him.
Remus steps into the stale room behind Sirius and takes it all in with a small smile. He can half recall the scent of a younger Sirius just from being in there, the obnoxious combination of tobacco and leather and Peppermint Toads.
"By Merlin, I couldn't wait to leave this place." Sirius says, picking up an old magazine and shaking the dust off of it. Quiddicth players in outdated uniforms zoom around on the cover, swerving a bludger that zips across the page. "I used to count down the days until school started, or till James bailed me out and let me stay with him over the holidays. They were always good to me, the Potters..."
"I don't doubt it, they were wonderful people." Remus responds, perching himself on the edge of the desk.
"I used to wait by the window for James' owl, we got through an obscene amount of parchment. I used to use my father's finest, just to spite him." Sirius recounts, moving to kneel beside his bed. "In fact, I think I still have the letters, if I just - "
He lowers himself onto his stomach, and heedless of the dust that has settled into an even layer on the carpet, slides himself under the bed. Remus watches as his feet kick about for a moment before Sirius resurfaces, clutching a small wooden chest.
"Every letter any of you ever sent me." he declares, pulling the lid off with an air of impatience, brushing away strands of dark hair from his face.
Inside, there are hundreds of letters squashed together, varying in sizes and handwriting; James' somewhat boxy hand, Remus' swirling scribble, Peter's minute chicken scratch. Promptly, he pulls out one from Remus.
"Look, this is where you got made prefect!" Sirius says with evident delight, leaning into the letter. He adopts a voice that sounds remarkably like Remus. "Padfoot, look - this is a bit awkward for me to tell you because I know how you're going to react, especially after that entire conversation on the train back from Hogwarts in July where you thought it would be funny to impersonate me -"
"What's changed?" Remus interrupts.
" - and proceeded to give a speech where I thanked the school, Dumbledore and my irresponsible friends for making me look better than the rest of the year, especially Sirius Black despite his obvious rugged good looks, so that I could be awarded the privilege of being made prefect. You then attempted an ill-advised hover charm on me to emphasise my saint-like persona and I believe I can still feel the lump on my head, which I need to pay you back in kind for. Well, this is why I'm writing - I got made prefect. I know you're probably taking a moment to roll about the floor, choking on your own laughter, but please. Sirius. DO NOT TELL JAMES. I want him to hear this directly from my own mouth - or, should I say, quill?"
"I remember writing that. I didn't want you to tell James because I knew you'd conspire against me, I was fully expecting an ambush the first day back. I shuddered at the possibilities, I had nightmares in the last week of summer about self-projecting ink wells and dungbombs going off on every corner of the school." Remus chuckles, taking the letter to examine his own writing. "Ugh, I forgot I used to sign off with a moon. How subtle of me."
"We would never!" Sirius says, his face all innocence. "Well...okay, we would have. But we didn't! We took pity on you!"
"And I'm eternally grateful to you for that."
Sirius sorts out another letter, eyes greedily reading through it. "This is from James! Padfoot, my parents are forcing me to write you - not that I didn't WANT to write to you, Sirius, I was just waiting upon something fantastic to happen to me before I bored you to death with the details. You're not exactly one to stay focused unless someone is getting attacked by a dragon."
Sirius breaks off to peer at Remus over the parchment, "He says that like it's a bad thing."
"You went through that dragon phase, don't you remember? It was all you could talk about. You used to visit Hagrid and you'd both daydream over getting your hands on a dragon egg." Remus says. He indicates to the letter, eager to hear more. "Go on!"
"Anyway, back to the point. My parents want you to come and stay with us next summer. All of next summer. My mum seems to be worried for your personal safety, she seems to think that your brother will get that house elf of yours to throttle you in your sleep - okay, that doesn't seem like such a jump. You should come and live with us though, just pack extra before we go back to Hogwarts this September. That way, you can just head right home with us at the end of the year. How about it?"
Sirius lowers the letter, staring at James Potter's handwriting. It's as if he'd written it only yesterday and suddenly, Sirius feels the pang of grief for his friend. It never really leaves you, the death of a loved one, and most days you can live with it. There are times though, when you least expect it, where the ache of bereavement hits you hard, as if anew. It will always be there, lurking beneath the surface, and Sirius finds himself in one of these very moments.
"You know, I wouldn't change any of it. If it all happened again tomorrow, I'd still go after Peter."
"I know."
It's enough, Remus' understanding. It's enough for Sirius to shake off the ill feelings and thoughts of what he could have done to save James and Lily, to instead laugh at recollections of their youth and read the words of a dead friend.
Together, they make their way through the chest of letters, leaving only the bundle of Peter's letters untouched.
The shorter of the men, whose face blurs between the lines of handsome and haunted, fumbles around in a pocket, biting something that shines a beam of unnatural light between his teeth as he conducts his search.
His accomplice waits with composure, checking over his shoulder occassionally at the sound of an engine sputtering several streets away, the clatter as a fox knocks over a bin. Beside him sits a large trunk, battered and decades old, and strangely enough, a grammophone perched atop of it.
Finally, his friend has success; a scrunched up piece of paper in his enclosed hand.
Sirius thrusts it at Remus, "Here. Read it and memorise it."
Without question, Remus takes the paper, the words written by Dumbledore himself, and scans the sentence. He passes it back to Sirius, who promptly burns it with the rap of his wand.
"Okay, repeat it back to yourself."
As Remus thinks over the words on the parchment, the neighbouring muggle houses begin to shift and rumble, splitting apart to give room to the house that is materialising between them.
Remus stares up at 12 Grimmauld Place as the movement grinds to a halt, wedged between 11 and 13. It's a miserable looking building, dirty like smudged charcoal, the windows of each of the three stories caked in grime, dark and foreboding - someone could be watching them through those windows and they would never know it.
"Charming, isn't it? My father made it Unplottable...probably for the best." Sirius mutters when he catches Remus gaping, before traipsing up the steps to the front door. "Hold on - "
He pulls out his wand again and taps the tip of it against the door, the sounds of locks clanking out of place coming from within, the rattle of a chain undoing on its own. Sirius rolls his eyes at the doorknocker, a silvery serpent twisting upon itself, and shoulders open the door, revealing a musty hallway before them.
"If you tried that without the presence of a Black, you'd be walking away from here with 'INTRUDER' stamped across your forehead - an ingenious little spell on my father's part. I've spoken to Dumbledore about it though, he said he'll fix it." Sirius says, taking Remus' trunk and propping it against the wall beside the troll-leg umbrella stand. "Hideous." he grimaces at it, turning back to his friend.
"This is certainly a, uh, unique home." Remus offers, little else coming forth that he can say, the taste of decay settling on his tongue and the smell lingering in his nostrils.
"It's a wreck. Full of dark artefacts and the remnants of prejudiced morons." Sirius states bluntly, kicking the door shut behind them. "I suppose I should welcome you, though I can assure you that this is the least welcoming home you'll ever have the displeasure of stepping foot into."
Sirius has already reacquainted himself with the house; he'd brushed off Remus' offer to accompany him during his first time entering his family home in nineteen years and had stolen away in the night to avoid any further suggestions from him. Needless to say, Remus wasn't pleased when he'd returned the following morning, wrapped up in a borrowed coat with an unrepentant gleam in his eyes. He appreciated Remus's thoughtfulness at being there for him but Sirius shared his reason with a different outlook; he hadn't been sure of his reaction, he didn't want to show how hard it was. It was never his intention for Remus to see him slip - it never is.
They're plunged into pitch black but with a brisk wave of the wand, Sirius ignites the gas lamps along the walls, lighting up the grand but decidedly cobweb-ridden staircase that ascends as high as the unseen ceiling, and the gloomy corridor they're standing in. From here, they can see the lines and lines of shrunken house-elf heads mounted on the walls, who stare down at them with round eyes and twisted mouths.
"I'll give you the grand tour, " Sirius laughs harshly, starting off on a speedy walk. "I don't rejoice in being back here. I'm on strict orders from Dumbledore to stay put. This was about the only useful thing I could do; my parents would have hated me for putting the house to this use, which only added to the appeal of handing it over." he explains with a grim smile.
They hurry down the hallway corridor, treading on worn down carpet, passing dozens of sleeping portraits, all hanging at a crooked angle. He pauses reluctantly at a pair of dusty velvet curtains and looks over to Remus with bleak resolution.
Sighing, he wraps his fingers around the crease in the curtain. "I should probably show you this now, so that there are no nasty surprises if you find yourself wandering the corridors for the bathroom, and you happen to wake her up. Get ready."
Before Remus can ask precisely who 'she' is and why it would be unpleasant for him if he were to wake her up, Sirius yanks back the curtain and hollers at the top of his voice.
"OI! GET UP, YOU OLD HAG!"
"YOU! WRETCHED SON, RETURNED TO BRING SHAME ON US ALL!"
Remus is appalled; before him is the most ghastly portrait he has ever seen. The subject, an old woman, her black cap perched on bedraggled hair, is screaming. Her eyes are rolling in her head, spit flying from her mouth, bony fingers clutching at the yellowing skin on her wasted face.
"ABOMINATION! BEFOULING THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK WITH YOUR TREACHEROUS WAYS!"
Sirius has to shout to make himself heard, "This is my dear mum. She's delightful, isn't she?"
Around them, the other portraits are stirring up in retaliation, raising a commotion so that every single one of them has joined the racket.
"Remus, if you could just stun the other portraits? It'll shut them up." Sirius asks, reaching for the curtains on his mother's portrait. "I'll sort her out."
The woman turns her eyes on Remus and flails in despair.
"HALF BREEDS! FILTH!" she cries, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction.
"You better be quiet if you know what's good for you!" Sirius orders, at length covering his wailing mother with effort, perspiration glistening on his forehead. Remus aims a stunning spell at the final shrieking portrait and the house descends into a pressing silence once again.
"Sorry about that. That'll be the first thing to go, when we start the clean up. It gave me a right shock when I visited last week, let me tell you. I pity the poor artist who had to stare at my mother's mug for any length of time."
"Clean up?" Remus says, still dazed over the portrait.
"Yes, didn't I mention? The Weasley's are coming to stay. I believe Molly volunteered her family to help in the restoration of this place. They'll have their work cut out for them."
Sirius turns out to be a negligent host, passing rooms by with an indifferent shrug of the shoulder - "It looks exactly like the last one. Nothing worth seeing, Moony." - and only briefly taking a turn about the rooms they do enter, which includes a parlour where he'd once trapped his brother inside one of the vast cabinets for trying to jinx him, and a storage room that was more or less used to punish Sirius whenever he had displeased his parents - "They put me in here for a whole day before and as you can see, there are no windows. I came out with a fear of the dark, which lasted for the next three years. Remember when I always drew my curtains shut around my bed in the dormitory at school? I was hiding the fact that I had to light a lamp every night."
He's particularly cantankerous when they find themselves in the drawing room, standing in front of an elaborate tapestry which details Sirius' extensive family history. Remus doesn't have the chance to examine it for long but he does manage to locate Sirius' own spot, now just a charred blotch amidst the Black's, and realises that it's best to avoid commenting on it for the sake of impeding Sirius' ever increasing bad mood.
When their tour takes them to the kitchen, a narrow room with a spacious ceiling, iron pots hanging hazardously above their heads, they can hear the unmistakable noises of a disturbance coming from the adjoining door which Sirius claims leads to the cupboard where the boiler is.
"What was that?" Remus asks, alarmed, casting about the gloom.
Sirius' expression darkens further, "Kreacher."
"You mean- "
The cupboard door opens, the hinges in need of a good oil, and Kreacher himself skulks out, curling fingers around the edge of the door to peer at the trespassers. Needless to say, he is quite startled to find the traitorous son of his beloved - but very much deceased - mistress standing in the middle of the kitchen.
"What's this? Master has returned? Kreacher thought he'd seen the last of the ungrateful brat when he left. Kreacher wonders why he has come back."
Sirius laughs without humour. "Oh, didn't we all. Unfortunately, I'm to tell you that you serve me now, not that horrendous portrait of my mother in the hallway - "
"Master insults my poor mistress, how ashamed she was, the disappointment she felt for her good-for-nothing son." the house elf says to itself, clutching at it's hairy ears, the dirt-encrusted rag tied around its small body slipping. "How upset mistress was when he ran off with blood traitors and half breeds."
" - and you HAVE to obey me. That's an order, Kreacher."
The elf bows low, its fleshy nose pressed against the stone floor of the kitchen, bloodshot eyes narrowed at Sirius and Remus.
"Of course Master, an honour it is to serve him, " Kreacher mutters, still bending at the waist. "Although Master deserves to be locked back up in Azkaban instead of shaming the halls of this house. How my mistress would fret at his brazen return! How mistress would fear that he would sully her prized possessions with his slimy hands."
"You don't have to worry about that Kreacher, I'll be throwing the lot out as soon as I can." Sirius barks, turning from the elf. "Now go back to where you crawled from."
"Very well, Master, as you wish." Kreacher says, hunchbacked as he retreats to his cupboard. "Master thinks he will succeed in getting rid of my mistress' heirlooms but Kreacher will save them, Kreacher will save as many as he can."
"Good luck with that!" Sirius bellows, storming from the kitchen in a rage.
Remus has to run to keep up, jogging up the stairs and back into the hallway to see Sirius furiously marching to the next floor. They barely look around the second floor - Sirius is still quietly seething over his reunion with Kreacher - but it's enough for Remus to know that there are a couple of bedrooms, all bearing their own four poster bed and emblazoned with the Black family crest, and a bathroom which features a chandelier created entirely from dragon bone.
By the time they reach the third floor, Sirius is positively sullen. He slinks along the landing, tapping the lamps as he goes but they're too dim to add much improvement to this floor. There are only three rooms here, each labelled with a plaque, the occupants names engraved upon them. They all hold their own stories, hateful reminders of his austere mother and father, his grovelling brother Regulus. He was never like them, he refused to give in to their obsession with being pure blood, which made him the greatest failure in their eyes, and he can recall with acute hostility the less than favourable letter he received from his parents on his being sorted into Gryffindor.
Sirius stops abruptly at the first room, the master bedroom. He hardly opens the door, just wide enough for him to see the king size bed and the ostentatious purple drapes that cover every inch of the room, clearly ransacked by Kreacher over the years, eager to find items to bring him closer to his mistress.
"Dumbledore is getting Buckbeak dropped off in a few days, at my insistence." Sirius says conversationally, peering in. "You know, I think I'll let him have my parents room, I'm sure he'll find it comfortable enough."
He abandons the room and they move to the next one across the landing, formerly belonging to a 'Regulus Arcturus Black.' Sirius won't go in so he lets Remus wander in alone, the door a little stiff. He never went into his brother's room even when he was still living at Grimmauld Place. They were polar opposites; Sirius can not think of a single time when he related to Regulus, who was always so keen to impress their parents. They spent a lot of their childhood avoiding each other, or cursing each other as much as possible.
"I've put you in here," Sirius mumbles, leaning heavily on the door frame, keeping his distance as Remus explores. "I know, it's covered in Slytherin banners, and those clippings from the Prophet about Voldemort are the most ridiculous, the most - "
"It's fine, Sirius, I'll get by just fine."
"Yeah, well...," Sirius says, moving back to let Remus out, pulling the bedroom door shut with a sharp tug. "I figured you would be in and out most of the time and I need those rooms downstairs for the Weasley's, it seemed like the right decision at the time."
"Yes, it was - it makes perfect sense. Thank you, Sirius."
Sirius shrugs and moves to the last door on the third floor. It bears his own name and he enters with the odd feeling of walking into ones past. Nothing has changed. His mother wasn't the only one able to enlist a Permanent Sticking Charm; symbols of his Gryffindor life seem to be everywhere, from the banner hanging from the ends of his bed to the desk in the corner of the room, with etchings of his house name scratched into the very wood.
During his time living here, he vowed to make his parents lives a misery and his younger self had plastered scantily clad muggle women all over the walls, side by side with pictures of his friends at Hogwarts, the antithesis of his brother's room. He wanted to make his own space an everlasting shrine to show just how unlike his family he was. He wanted to show them that a pure blood name didn't define him.
Remus steps into the stale room behind Sirius and takes it all in with a small smile. He can half recall the scent of a younger Sirius just from being in there, the obnoxious combination of tobacco and leather and Peppermint Toads.
"By Merlin, I couldn't wait to leave this place." Sirius says, picking up an old magazine and shaking the dust off of it. Quiddicth players in outdated uniforms zoom around on the cover, swerving a bludger that zips across the page. "I used to count down the days until school started, or till James bailed me out and let me stay with him over the holidays. They were always good to me, the Potters..."
"I don't doubt it, they were wonderful people." Remus responds, perching himself on the edge of the desk.
"I used to wait by the window for James' owl, we got through an obscene amount of parchment. I used to use my father's finest, just to spite him." Sirius recounts, moving to kneel beside his bed. "In fact, I think I still have the letters, if I just - "
He lowers himself onto his stomach, and heedless of the dust that has settled into an even layer on the carpet, slides himself under the bed. Remus watches as his feet kick about for a moment before Sirius resurfaces, clutching a small wooden chest.
"Every letter any of you ever sent me." he declares, pulling the lid off with an air of impatience, brushing away strands of dark hair from his face.
Inside, there are hundreds of letters squashed together, varying in sizes and handwriting; James' somewhat boxy hand, Remus' swirling scribble, Peter's minute chicken scratch. Promptly, he pulls out one from Remus.
"Look, this is where you got made prefect!" Sirius says with evident delight, leaning into the letter. He adopts a voice that sounds remarkably like Remus. "Padfoot, look - this is a bit awkward for me to tell you because I know how you're going to react, especially after that entire conversation on the train back from Hogwarts in July where you thought it would be funny to impersonate me -"
"What's changed?" Remus interrupts.
" - and proceeded to give a speech where I thanked the school, Dumbledore and my irresponsible friends for making me look better than the rest of the year, especially Sirius Black despite his obvious rugged good looks, so that I could be awarded the privilege of being made prefect. You then attempted an ill-advised hover charm on me to emphasise my saint-like persona and I believe I can still feel the lump on my head, which I need to pay you back in kind for. Well, this is why I'm writing - I got made prefect. I know you're probably taking a moment to roll about the floor, choking on your own laughter, but please. Sirius. DO NOT TELL JAMES. I want him to hear this directly from my own mouth - or, should I say, quill?"
"I remember writing that. I didn't want you to tell James because I knew you'd conspire against me, I was fully expecting an ambush the first day back. I shuddered at the possibilities, I had nightmares in the last week of summer about self-projecting ink wells and dungbombs going off on every corner of the school." Remus chuckles, taking the letter to examine his own writing. "Ugh, I forgot I used to sign off with a moon. How subtle of me."
"We would never!" Sirius says, his face all innocence. "Well...okay, we would have. But we didn't! We took pity on you!"
"And I'm eternally grateful to you for that."
Sirius sorts out another letter, eyes greedily reading through it. "This is from James! Padfoot, my parents are forcing me to write you - not that I didn't WANT to write to you, Sirius, I was just waiting upon something fantastic to happen to me before I bored you to death with the details. You're not exactly one to stay focused unless someone is getting attacked by a dragon."
Sirius breaks off to peer at Remus over the parchment, "He says that like it's a bad thing."
"You went through that dragon phase, don't you remember? It was all you could talk about. You used to visit Hagrid and you'd both daydream over getting your hands on a dragon egg." Remus says. He indicates to the letter, eager to hear more. "Go on!"
"Anyway, back to the point. My parents want you to come and stay with us next summer. All of next summer. My mum seems to be worried for your personal safety, she seems to think that your brother will get that house elf of yours to throttle you in your sleep - okay, that doesn't seem like such a jump. You should come and live with us though, just pack extra before we go back to Hogwarts this September. That way, you can just head right home with us at the end of the year. How about it?"
Sirius lowers the letter, staring at James Potter's handwriting. It's as if he'd written it only yesterday and suddenly, Sirius feels the pang of grief for his friend. It never really leaves you, the death of a loved one, and most days you can live with it. There are times though, when you least expect it, where the ache of bereavement hits you hard, as if anew. It will always be there, lurking beneath the surface, and Sirius finds himself in one of these very moments.
"You know, I wouldn't change any of it. If it all happened again tomorrow, I'd still go after Peter."
"I know."
It's enough, Remus' understanding. It's enough for Sirius to shake off the ill feelings and thoughts of what he could have done to save James and Lily, to instead laugh at recollections of their youth and read the words of a dead friend.
Together, they make their way through the chest of letters, leaving only the bundle of Peter's letters untouched.