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07/14: Black, Sirius
Title: Black, in the Smothering Dark
Chapter Title: Black, Sirius 07/14
Words (this chapter): 7,367
Rating (this chapter): PG-13
Story Info/All Chapters: HERE
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maybe_someday8 and amelancholykiss
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Black, in the Smothering Dark
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Chapter Seven
Black, Sirius
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The next morning, Harry woke up feeling wretched. Not only had he lost so much control of himself that he been a complete brat, but he was feeling a worn out from wordlessly removing that hex. He’d never known magic took so much energy, but then he hadn't done any wandless magic since he was a kid. Furthermore, his father had disciplined him, and as he’d never been disciplined by a parent before, it didn’t sit well with him—especially as he was seventeen years old now.
And that was another thing that he felt awkward about. He could see it now; yes, he might have understood that Sirius was really his father from all of the evidence presented to him, but he hadn’t really accepted it. He wanted a parent—any parent, really—and latched on to the knowledge in the same way he’d latched on to learning Sirius wanted him to live with him in third year. He was seventeen now, an adult, but he still wanted to be raised.
He didn’t think he could overcome that feeling just by becoming legal.
Now, everything had sunk in, so to speak. The hurried and excited events from the day before seemed so awkward to him now. To be honest, he rather thought that both he and Sirius handled the situation admirably, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised that that was because they were both somewhat lonely. That wasn’t a good reason for accepting the parent you never knew.
But on the other hand, Sirius knew him very well—especially considering how little time he’d actually had to get to know him. The more he thought about that, the more he realised that Sirius knew him so well because they were, abstractly, so much alike. He could see it very clearly now, and he realised that even though other people might find it strange that neither of them had gone into shock over the revelations, he hadn’t and Sirius hadn’t.
Nothing was ever normal for him, so if he wanted to just shrug and accept the news immediately, what of it? Sirius was the same way. He found he liked that.
But now, there were other things on his mind. Why had Sirius retaliated so strongly and why had he been able to wandlessly and wordlessly remove the hex? Something niggled in the back of his mind telling him that he knew why, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. There were, admittedly, a few things he didn’t know about his father—actually, there were a lot of things. He knew next to nothing about any of his family. He resolved to fix that immediately.
While he was at it, he reckoned that a letter to Dumbledore wouldn’t go amiss, either. Both he and his father should have made a more direct effort to finding out why Sirius wasn’t actually dead and who—if anyone—was dead in his place. He scowled when he remembered that his father had refuted all of his efforts to do so.
Snape’s words were prickling his mind—telling him that he was overlooking something very obvious. His father had always overlooked a lot of obvious things. He had, too; it was time to change that—now, more so than ever in light of recent revelations.
“Fred!” he called, snapping his fingers.
There was a pop, and the demure house-elf appeared in his usual forest green pillow case toga, looking up at Harry shyly. He had several pieces of wood in his hands and a lacy yellow cloth strung over his shoulder as he looked around, frantically wringing his hands. Harry cocked his head to the side.
“What’s going on?”
Fred bit his lip, and looked around worriedly as he answered, “Fred’s lovely Ginger is saying scary things,” he hedged.
“Such as?” Harry pressed curiously.
The house-elf flinched. “Ginger is saying little house-elf is coming soon. Ginger is saying that Fred must assemble cradle that masters so graciously bought for Fred and Ginger and little elf or Ginger is going to make Fred very sorry. Fred doesn’t want to be sorry. Ginger makes Fred sorry all the time and Fred’s always very sorry afterwards.”
Harry winced in sympathy. “Oh. Well, could you bring my breakfast to the library along with some parchment and quills? If you do, you can go back to finishing the cradle and I’ll tell Ginger you’ve been working very hard on it and that you deserve a reward…Do you know if it will be a boy or a girl?”
Fred brightened slightly at the mention of a reward, but shook his head. “Ginger hasn’t decided. Mother house-elves get to pick boy or girl house-elves, and Ginger is threatening Fred with a girl house-elf if he isn’t good. Fred doesn’t want a girl house-elf. Women is frightening; one is enough for Fred,” he added with a shudder.
Harry had to admit he hadn’t known that, but it was certainly interesting. He felt rather sorry for Fred right then, but then again, he always felt kind of sorry for Fred. He was kind of like Neville. “Well, we’ll just have to convince her that she wants a boy then, won’t we?” Fred grinned cautiously and nodded.
“Fred would appreciate it very much,” he said. “Fred is going to take Little Master’s breakfast to the library with parchment and quills now before Ginger realises he is missing.” With that, he snapped his fingers and disappeared. Yawning, Harry got up from his bed, pulled the covers back so Fred wouldn’t have extra work, and got dressed for the day before heading down to the library.
He had some things to do before he and Sirius had their next conversation. He suspected his father might be feeling the same way.
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Breakfast was waiting for him already when Harry strolled into the library. He sighed in satisfaction as he sipped his coffee and levitated the breakfast tray to follow him up the stairs. Sunlight was pouring in through the skylights and filtering down onto the carpeting at the top of the stairs. He set his coffee and breakfast tray down on the writing desk and pulled out the parchment and quills Fred had set on top.
Harry chewed on the tip of his quill as he considered what to write. He needed to word this letter very carefully and he’d never been very good at being subtle. He tried to think back to classes and remember how the Ravenclaw and Slytherin students had acted. They had always seemed rather subtle, so maybe he should try to think like one of them.
It wasn’t as easy as he expected it would have been, though he did realise that all of the Slytherins were subtle—even Crabbe and Goyle in their own way—and that the only students from other houses that were, seemed to have one thing in common: they were all raised by pure-blooded families. His friend Ron, it seemed, was the exception and not the rule. It wasn’t a very strong theory, but just the same, maybe he should wait and have his father help him word the letter? Sirius was raised pure-blooded, after all.
He dismissed the notion almost immediately. If there was anyone less subtle than himself, it would be Sirius Black—and it was a stupid theory anyway. He was reading into things.
With a resigned sigh, he dipped his quill in the ink and pressed it to the parchment.
Godfather? Father? Should he admit that so soon? Or even in a letter at all? As much as he wanted to trust Dumbledore, Harry was still having doubts. He should be having doubts, of course. Dumbledore knew Sirius was alive and lied to him—he could accept that…if there was a good reason. Of course, that was the point of the letter. He wanted to find out what, if any, reason Dumbledore had for leading him on and letting him suffer like that. He wanted to trust, but he had the feeling he should be mad, and it was true that his relationship with the Headmaster had been strained since fifth year. No, it would be best to wait. Dumbledore probably already knew anyway, so there was no reason to admit it in a letter.
But then that brought up another doubt. Did Dumbledore know? Could he have known all along that Sirius had been having an affair with Lily Potter? Had that been the reason he sent Sirius away for the eight months it took Lily to date and become engaged to James Potter?
May-December romance, indeed, he thought. I doubt anyone could break up with someone they’d been dating for nearly three years just to marry someone else eight months later and still sleep with the first person.
No, something was definitely off about that. Harry narrowed his eyes in suspicion and re-inked his quill. It had dried out during his contemplation.
He hesitated only slightly before he signed the letter ‘Harry Potter’ and called Hedwig to him to take it. She nipped his fingers affectionately, stole his bacon, and flew out through an open window before he could scold her.
With an exaggerated sigh, he turned and faced the bookshelves. He knew what he wanted to know, but he didn’t know where to look to learn it. It was, most likely, going to be a very long and difficult afternoon. He only hoped that his father would give him the space to do all this on his own before they started to really form a parent-child relationship; right now, Sirius was too much of his friend.
From his visits before, he knew that the third level—where he was right then—was where the Black family history and dark arts books were. Fortunately, or unfortunately however he chose to see it, he was interested in a combination of those two things. He almost wished Hermione was there to help him; he really was no good at cross-referencing.
Harry pursed his lips in determination. He wasn’t an idiot; he could do this without Hermione’s help. He just needed to think logically and narrow it down. He had a suspicion that something Sirius had mentioned the night before had been literal and not metaphorical, and if it was correct, it might explain what had happened after they returned home from Levitation.
“It’s in the blood.”
His father could have been talking about something completely different, but now, Harry wondered. Was magic really in the blood? And what did that mean?
He finally just closed his eyes and grabbed the first book his fingers came to in the family history section. The book he picked was called Wizarding Families: Past, Present and Future, and it seemed like a decent place to start. It was thick, heavy and bound in old, worn leather, but was most assuredly a self-updating book as the copyright page included every year from 1300 to the current year.
Harry settled in to read, determined to find out everything he could about this family. He’d never even bothered looking up the Potter lines—even when the Hogwarts library probably had them in loads of books—but for some reason he was beginning to feel really proud of being the Black heir instead of the Potter heir, even with the taint of the name. He smirked and thought; maybe it’s just in the blood.
Hours later, he understood.
Or at least, he understood better. He could not say he fully understood everything he had read in Wizarding Families, but he understood more than he had before. One thing he was sure of was that he had been right: it was in the blood. Further than that, he couldn’t say anything for certain. The book had explained that all pure-blooded families had a talent for either light or dark magic that needed to be exercised regularly, in addition to neutral magic like levitation charms, to prevent madness, so that explained why Sirius cast dark magic when he hated it. Ridiculous.
It did not explain why Bellatrix was still insane, however.
Additionally, it explained that he would be able to master those same hexes and curses much easier than he had mastered Charms or Transfigurations. That was probably why he’d been able to remove the tongue hex from the night before, he realised: with the help of another book, he’d found that it was indeed a dark magic hex. So he had a natural inclination for dark magic…what of it? He had to admit it frightened him a little bit, but more than that, it excited him—and that frightened him more.
But there had also been several passing references to magical inheritances at the age of seventeen. The book did not say what each family tended to pass down because it was private to each individual family, but it hinted that certain families had more desirable inheritances. The Black family appeared to be one of those.
But after all of that, he still didn’t completely understand. He needed to talk to his father.
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Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 412th page.
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Harry and Sirius had retired to the drawing room after dinner and settled into comfortable chairs facing each other. The silence grew as they stared at each other, both trying to decide where would be the best place to start, when Sirius could take it no more. He never said that he was good with verbal confrontations. He was much more comfortable hexing someone or playing semi-cruel pranks.
He thought back to the night he’d led Snape to Remus at the Shrieking Shack, and could not unearth even the smallest amount of guilt. Snape had deserved it. He supposed his mother would be proud of him for that: he was not afraid of destroying an enemy. He was not afraid of murder. He trampled the thought before it could fully take hold of him. He was a father now—the father of the Boy-Who-Lived at that. He could not afford to let any of that consume him, more than it had already, anyway.
Clumsily, he stood up and shuffled over to the liquor cabinet near the fireplace. He needed something to take his mind off everything warring in his mind. The last three days had rendered him nothing but a vengeful Slytherin, and he had no idea why. Perhaps it had been Snape’s visit—although that had been weeks ago.
Surely only being reminded of his past transgressions could not do that to him. But it seemed that it had—Lily had been his, and where he should have felt remorse and guilt for betraying James, he felt nothing but cold hatred.
Hatred for James for taking Lily to begin with, even though James had never known that she wasn’t meant to be his—hatred for Lily for dying, hatred for Dumbledore for sending him away instead of leaving him where he could have watched her more closely. And prevented it.
He stared inside the liquor cabinet and let his eyes rove over each individual bottle. They had not been touched in over two decades, and every one of them was a tempting choice. With a malicious grin, he settled on an unopened bottle of Hennessy Three-Star-Cognac from 1901, and poured it into a snifter with the Black Family Crest on the glass. As an afterthought, he poured a second glass for his son. He was, after all, of age now, and if he’d been raised properly, Sirius would have had him tasting fine spirits of all sorts long before. Pure-blooded men always knew how to pick a good drink. Even James would have agreed with that.
“I imagine that we might each need a glass or two of this to make it through the night,” he said by way of explanation when he handed the glass to Harry. After lunch, Harry had confronted him and given him a rough outline of what he wanted to talk about. Sirius had not known how to say no.
His son smiled, took a hesitant sip and grimaced slightly, but did not complain or set the drink aside.
There was a cough above the fireplace, and Sirius turned, smiling faintly as he noticed both Mr. and Mrs. Evans had poured themselves a glass of red from the stores in their portrait and were lounging in their chairs, watching eagerly. Laurel Evans was much more subtle.
They stared at each other for several more minutes, during which Sirius swirled his cognac around in the glass and inhaled the mixture of flavours, and then Harry exhaled deeply—seeming to steel himself for whatever he was about to say.
“I want you to teach me the spells you used the other night,” he said calmly.
Sirius sputtered and coughed on his drink. “What?!” he exclaimed, jumping up from his chair. “No way!” That wasn’t what his son had hinted at, at all.
Harry only stared back at him calmly.
“Why?” Sirius finally asked, faltering only slightly. “You don’t need to know them. It’s not necessary.” Of course, Sirius knew it was necessary, but he still felt awkward with the situation. He had no idea how to be a parent, but he was sure that his own parents had not done a good job. He didn’t want to end up like either of them.
“But I want to know them,” his son returned carefully. He paused, deliberating over his next words, and then said, “And you want to teach me. You want me to understand.”
Sirius could not argue with those words, no matter how much he wanted to try. The dark magic was in his very blood, and the longer he went without casting something dark, the more forcefully he ached to do so. It had been bred into him, and he knew it would be bred into Harry as well. But he hated that, and he would fight it as much as he could.
It was probably why his son’s mind always gravitated to Voldemort through their connection even though they were sworn enemies. The magic ran through his veins—pulsing and calling him always—and through his heritage, he was helpless to stop it.
Sirius looked up at the portrait of Lily's parents speculatively and wondered if Harry had perhaps gotten a double dose of it. He, admittedly, never knew how the Evans' practised magic.
The best he could do was to accept it—acknowledge and understand it so that he might learn to live with it. It was in his veins, yes, but he did not have to let it compel him. Sirius was living proof of that. Yes, he had to use dark magic every once in a while or he would get restless, but that didn’t mean he had to use it on other people. Harry could be the same way—Sirius was sure he would be. If he refused to teach his son what he wanted to know, he would learn it elsewhere and use it anyway. He couldn’t help using it.
Guilt and desire to be Light were not factors in this. Blood was. Heritage was. Sirius was surprised his son had lasted as long as he had. It would have driven any other dark wizard mad.
Sirius sighed heavily and slumped back into his chair. “You need to learn the theory of it first,” he muttered. “And the history and the whys and hows of it all.” Harry nodded, as if he expected that all along. Sirius realised he might have just been duped by his own son—his own Gryffindor son. He was almost proud, and then he remembered that being proud of his son for fooling him was too Slytherin to even consider. “You should have learned this long ago,” he added with a resigned sigh.
Harry sipped his cognac, and did not flinch this time. It seemed as though he knew what Sirius was thinking—Sirius wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he gave a faint smile and gathered his thoughts.
“First of all,” he said, “you need to know that there is no strict line between light magic and dark magic because magic is not intrinsically good or bad it just is. It’s magic…it has no morals or obligations or emotions—it’s just energy.”
Harry nodded thoughtfully. He had plenty of questions about that—some concerning his own thoughts on muggle-born and squibs—but he wasn’t going to ask them, yet. Sirius was finally telling him something useful, and he didn’t want to break his father’s stride. Instead, he sat back in his chair comfortably and sipped the Hennessy. He still wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.
“Then,” his father continued, “you need to understand why some magic is classified dark and some not. I could give you all sorts of complicated reasons and rationales, but in the end, it comes down to separating the magic that’s natural in the universe. There’s wild magic, and there’s tame magic, so to speak.
“It’s still just magic,” Sirius insisted, “made from the same energy and whatnot, but wild magic is harder to control. So hard, in fact, that it requires emotional support to be welded. It’s magic that can only be exploited if you’re feeling something intensely—love, hate, jealously, anger, lust, compassion, remorse, pity, panic, terror. To use it, it draws on your own magical core, but that’s not enough for it to work. It’s wild, you understand, so it’s going to take more than just your magical core to weld. You’ve got to want it or need it badly enough.”
Sirius paused thoughtfully, sipping the last of his drink and considering his next words.
“You said a few weeks ago that you tried to use Crucio on Bellatrix in the Department of Mysteries, and that it didn’t work.” Sirius shrugged. “There’s a reason for that.”
By now, Harry was leaning forward slightly in his chair, listening intently. Sirius had never thought he was the kind of person that would want to learn so avidly; that it was the subject matter intriguing him so much was both a frightening and prideful feeling.
Sirius leaned forward and locked eyes with his son. This part was very important. No matter how much he joked around or how much the two of them danced around the awkwardness of their new relationship, he needed what he was going to say next to have an impact on his son.
“You didn’t want her to hurt badly enough; that’s why the curse didn’t work. It’s dark magic because it’s designed to fulfil your desires. If you were trying to cast Crucio, your desire should have been to hurt her. Merely hating her will not work—despising, loathing, abhorring…those won’t work. You have to want her to hurt.
“But at the same time,” Sirius said, leaning back, “had you known that at the time, I have a feeling it would have worked. You could have made yourself want to hurt her enough if you’d known how the spell worked. That’s what I mean when I say you have to know how to control it. These spells are all meant to fulfil purposes, and you have to understand your desires before you’re able to carry the magic.”
Sirius stopped, refilled his drink and studied his son. He had to admit to himself that it felt good to be teaching his child; it felt like it should—like he’d been born to pass on his knowledge. He felt accomplished, something that he admittedly did not feel very often. Harry was looking thoughtful; his head tilted slightly to the side as he filtered through the new information and tried to apply it to something he was familiar with. He took a tiny sip of his cognac, grimaced only slightly, and looked up at his father.
“So why do you cast so much dark magic? I read something earlier today that suggested you would go mad if you didn’t.”
Sirius let out a harsh, agitated breath and tried to formulate an answer. He couldn’t remember how his own parents had explained it, but he had a feeling that they did a much better job than he was doing. He and Regulus had seemed to grasp it immediately, but maybe that had been because of the way they were raised.
“Because it’s in your blood; that’s why you were able to remove the tongue-vanishing curse wordlessly and wandlessly,” he finally said. It was weak, he knew, but he couldn’t explain it much better than that. Remembering, he realised that that had been exactly how his father explained it to him, after all. He’d understood. “Because,” he continued slowly, unsure if he was making any sense, “some people are naturally better at it than others, and when they have children, it filters down into their children’s blood making it easier for them to cast it. It’s inherent understanding—I understood that I needed to be hungry and desperate to cast those beheading hexes when I went camping with my father and brother. I didn’t need to be told.”
He cocked his head to the side and studied his son. “I don’t think you needed to be told, either. You understood—maybe without even understanding that you understood—that you needed to be angry at me to remove that curse last night.” He shrugged.
“I still don’t understand why you’d go mad if you didn’t use those curses,” Harry insisted, but his voice wasn’t accusing, only curious.
Sirius exhaled sharply. He really was no good at this fathering thing. He paused for a moment to reflect that James probably would have done a better job, but immediately trampled the thought. He would prove James wrong, wherever he was. He could learn to be a good father.
“Because it’s part of you. The wild magic may be hard to use, but it’s in your blood; it filters through your veins and wants you to use it. You were borne from a mother who used it and a father who used it. It’s in you now, and it’ll demand to be used…especially since you’ve used it now.”
Harry scoffed. “My mother didn’t use dark magic,” he said, deadly serious. There was a duet of uncomfortable coughing from the Evans’ portrait, but he ignored it.
Surprisingly, Sirius only smirked. It looked wholly out of place on his face right then. “You think so?” he asked, almost mockingly. Harry had a moment of doubt, but shook his head. He was sure. “What do you think all of that mother’s love stuff was, then?” his father asked, grinning. “It was wild magic—the kind that favours you and every other dark wizard or witch. She used her love to save you.”
Harry felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. That couldn’t be true, could it? His mother was good. She used her love to save him not hurt him…that couldn’t be dark magic, but then his father had said…something completely different. Was that really the only difference between light magic and dark magic?
“Well then why did you try to stop using dark magic then?” he asked.
“Because it was taking over my family—and because of the stigma of it.” His father smiled self-mockingly and added, “It made me too wild, but in the end, I wasn’t that much of a Gryffindor after all. It was pretty cowardly.”
Harry shook his head jerkily. This was no time for self-doubt. He had too many questions. “But why the stigma if it’s really only just wild magic? Why are people so afraid of it?”
Sirius barked out a laugh. “Why?” he asked incredulously. “Because they’re afraid, and their fear leads to more fear and so on. It’s one big circle. But I suppose you want the original reason? It’s the emotions. It takes emotions to cast it—not like Reducto or Incendio or Wingardium Leviosa—and it takes strong emotions. Think of what a bunch of Gryffindors would do with that. That’s why Slytherins are so self-controlled; if they let their emotions take over them, they might do something like I did to Snape.”
Oh. Well that certainly made sense. Why hadn’t he figured that out on his own?
Suddenly, his father’s head snapped up. “The wards,” Sirius breathed at the same time as Harry’s scar, hidden mostly by his hair, twinged. “Someone unauthorized has touched the wards.”
They jumped up and rushed from the room, sprinting down stairs and hallways. Harry, in an abstract sort of way, was both pleased and surprised to note that his father was not even breathing heavily when the huge, ornate front doors came into view and he yelled a series of unlocking and opening spells that finally resulted in the butterfly doors swinging outward just as they reached them.
It was exciting, really, though if he’d stopped to think about it, Harry probably would have realised it was more than reckless to run outside their house, wands blazing without properly identifying the situation first. He didn’t pause to consider that, and instead grinned over his shoulder at his father who had finally fallen a step behind, and hurtled down the steps and over the lawns.
It was very late, most likely near midnight by the position of the moon, and dark except for faint light from nearby Edinburgh and the stars. Neither of them could see much, but Harry had an idea who was there—his scar was actually tickling him, as if it were teasing him. The sensation increased the further he ran. He wondered if Voldemort was amused for some reason.
Then, he saw him—one heavily cloaked figure standing amid the fen at the very edge of the wards. He skidded to a halt several feet away, and had to put out a hand to balance himself when his father nearly toppled over him. Voldemort was there, and he was enjoying himself.
And facing Voldemort, small and angry and very much pregnant, was Ginger. She had one hand on her hip and the other was waggling a finger chidingly in front of her as she scolded Voldemort for being rude.
“Ginger does not care,” Ginger exclaimed, stomping a foot, and sounding very much like she’d repeated that several times before, “who you are Mr. Voldymort! Ginger is not allowing rude wizards to disturb her masters at this time of night! If Mr. Voldymort, sir, wants to visit, duel or kill her masters, he will have to come at a respectable hour and follow proper wizarding procedures. Mr. Voldymort is impolite and has no honour!”
“Delightful!” Voldemort crowed, clapping his scaly hands. He noticed Harry and Sirius and turned to them with a manic grin.
“I admit I didn’t expect quite such a warm welcome,” Voldemort said almost pleasantly. Harry couldn’t see his eyes, but he knew they would be sparkling in malicious glee. He paused, head tilted to the side as he waited for some sort of reaction from Harry—whose eyes were narrowed—or Sirius—who was too flabbergasted to speak.
When it became obvious that he would not get one, Voldemort huffed haughtily and said, “Well? Aren’t you going to welcome me into your wards and offer me refreshment?”
“Ginger has told you, Mr. Voldymort!” Ginger spoke up. “You is not coming through the wards tonight!” Dazed, Harry turned to her and told her, quietly, to go back inside. It was too surreal to handle already, and he didn’t need a pregnant and most-likely insane woman screaming too.
Sirius finally found his voice, although it was a bit higher than usual—most likely from his state of panic. “You’re kidding, right? You expect us to lower the wards when they’re the only thing between us and certain death?” he scoffed.
Voldemort, oddly enough, preened at the words. “I’m flattered, really, that you think so highly of my power, but I have no business with you tonight. I’m taking a well deserved vacation from the strains of death and destruction.”
Harry folded his arms across his chest and tried to look like he wasn’t even a little intimidated. What was he supposed to think with Voldemort showing up at his house? Yes, there were wards—very strong wards keyed to the very blood of the family—but wards could be broken, tricked, or manoeuvred. If Voldemort wanted in badly enough he would not be stopped. Harry suspected that his father had just realised that, as he stepped forward in attempt to block Voldemort from his son.
“Honestly,” Harry said, irritated, as he stepped around his father once more. He gave Sirius a withering look, and added, “Really, Father, if he wanted in, he would already be in. Don’t be such a Gryffindor right now.”
Voldemort cackled with mirth. “Oh, very good, very good!” he crowed and took measured step closer, bringing his hand up and running one finger against the nearly invisible wards. They rippled and shimmered under his touch, and Sirius shuddered at the intrusion. From his own reading when he’d been studying the wards on Privet Drive, Harry knew that Sirius, as head of the household and linchpin to the wards, would be able to feel it in his head. Harry narrowed his eyes further.
“What do you want?” he asked. Voldemort cocked his head to the side, and Harry said, “You must want something or you would have waited for when I was sleeping.” He hesitated, and then added, “I’m not going down without a fight.”
Voldemort grinned, slightly pointed teeth glinting in the moonlight. He leaned forward, his hood falling even lower as he did, and whispered, “I have a mission for you,” in his naturally hissing voice. Harry barely restrained a flinch.
“I am not your servant,” he said defiantly. His father had taken out his wand by now, but Harry had not. The wards were still between them, and he did not want to seem overly intimidated. He would not show his fear yet. Perhaps foolishly, he had some small bit of trust for Voldemort due to over a year of chatting with him almost daily.
In that time Voldemort had not killed any muggles, and the raids and assaults on other wizards had decreased dramatically. Harry liked to believe it was due to his influencing, but suspected that might be optimistic to the point of idiocy. There would always be some who were past the point of redemption.
Voldemort did not react to the comment. Instead, he stood up fully, eyed Sirius with some distaste, and said, “No. You are not, but I will be yours tonight. I wish to exercise a theory.”
Sirius stepped forward again with his wand raised and pointed at Voldemort. “Not on my son, you won’t,” he breathed in a deadly voice. The sincerity of it was so shocking that Harry jumped, startled. He had not realised that his father could sound so scary or intent, or that he would actually stand up to Voldemort for him. He shivered at the thought, and turned back to Voldemort, waiting to see how he would react. He was almost sure that the Dark Lord would be infuriated enough to come through the wards and kill his father for that statement. He pulled his own wand slowly; he would not allow that to happen.
Voldemort did not try it, but instead regarded Sirius with growing curiosity. “It has not taken you long to accept it, has it, Black? Perhaps you’ve always hated James Potter for the son that should have been yours? And now that he is, you can’t breathe for the sweetness of it?”
Sirius tensed and Voldemort laughed maliciously. “It is true, then,” he decided. “I do not blame you for it, Black,” he added thoughtfully. “Lily Evans was a beautiful woman, was she not?”
Sirius growled and hurled himself forward, trying to body slam Voldemort, and Harry scrambled to prevent it. His blood was pounding harshly in his veins from fear that he would not stop his father before he left the relevant safety of the wards. Voldemort cackled, held up a hand, and Sirius was slammed backwards, landing haphazardly in the grass.
“You know nothing of Lily!” Sirius screamed, though he was shaking and the possible repercussions of his actions seemed to have hit him full-force. He whimpered and stood quickly, afraid now more than ever that he would not be able to protect the son he hadn’t realised was his until just the other day.
“Contrary to what you wish to believe, Black,” Voldemort hissed in a deadly furious voice as he stared down at Sirius, red eyes gleaming, “I know much about Lily Evans…much more than you will ever know.”
He turned his red eyes back to Harry then, and said, “Come with me. I will not harm you,” he said, reaching out and stroking the wards almost lovingly. Harry shook his head, backing up, as he was truly frightened now.
“You can avoid the Imperius, but you cannot overcome the other two,” Voldemort tempted, stepping even closer to the wards until his flat nose was almost pressed against them. “I can teach you.”
“That’s impossible,” Harry said, shaking his head, panicked. “Resisting Imperio is all in your head. Resisting Crucio would be all in your body and resisting Avada Kedavra all in your soul. You can’t resist those.”
“Can’t you?” Voldemort returned quietly, grinning at Harry’s insight. “You yourself have resisted the strongest of them all, and I assure you, if anyone were to cast Avada Kedavra on me right now, it would not work. Not even Dumbledore could put enough power in it to take me down. I can teach you,” he reiterated.
“I don’t believe you,” Harry insisted.
“Try it then,” Voldemort hissed with a smile, opening his arms in invitation. “I will not retaliate. Cast it on me.”
“No,” Harry insisted. “It’s a trick.” Behind him, Sirius tugged on his arm, but his feet were planted where they were. He could not understand why he was reacting so strongly to this; it was as if his own magic were begging him to do it.
Voldemort gave a truly wicked smirk—slowly spreading his lips and displaying sharp, glittering teeth on one side of his mouth. “Are you certain? Surely, after all this time we have come to some sort of unspoken ceasefire? Come with me and I will teach you.”
“You’ll kill me,” Harry muttered. He was resigned to this even though he knew he had a way out—but he refused to take it. His pride wouldn’t let him. He knew he was right, even if he was wrong.
“I will not,” Voldemort promised calmly. “You have my word as a wizard. I swear it on my magic.” Harry shivered as he felt the magic of that promise settling over him. Voldemort could not kill him under those circumstances, or the magic would kill him too. Still, he was wary.
“Then what is the point of this?” Harry asked in frustration.
Voldemort smiled. “You will test a theory of mine, and...” he paused and studied Harry almost lovingly. “I will make you better.” He studied Harry, waiting for a response, and then seemed to decide that he hadn’t the patience to wait any longer. Voldemort apparated away with a crack. Harry stared at the spot where the Dark Lord had been, and behind him, his father exhaled slowly.
-x-
A/N:
1. Adapted from a love letter written to F. Scott Fitzgerald by his soon-to-be-wife, Zelda, just before their marriage in the spring of 1919.
NEXT CHAPTER
Chapter Title: Black, Sirius 07/14
Words (this chapter): 7,367
Rating (this chapter): PG-13
Story Info/All Chapters: HERE
Betas:
maybe_someday8 and amelancholykiss-x-
Black, in the Smothering Dark
-x-
Chapter Seven
Black, Sirius
-x-
The next morning, Harry woke up feeling wretched. Not only had he lost so much control of himself that he been a complete brat, but he was feeling a worn out from wordlessly removing that hex. He’d never known magic took so much energy, but then he hadn't done any wandless magic since he was a kid. Furthermore, his father had disciplined him, and as he’d never been disciplined by a parent before, it didn’t sit well with him—especially as he was seventeen years old now.
And that was another thing that he felt awkward about. He could see it now; yes, he might have understood that Sirius was really his father from all of the evidence presented to him, but he hadn’t really accepted it. He wanted a parent—any parent, really—and latched on to the knowledge in the same way he’d latched on to learning Sirius wanted him to live with him in third year. He was seventeen now, an adult, but he still wanted to be raised.
He didn’t think he could overcome that feeling just by becoming legal.
Now, everything had sunk in, so to speak. The hurried and excited events from the day before seemed so awkward to him now. To be honest, he rather thought that both he and Sirius handled the situation admirably, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised that that was because they were both somewhat lonely. That wasn’t a good reason for accepting the parent you never knew.
But on the other hand, Sirius knew him very well—especially considering how little time he’d actually had to get to know him. The more he thought about that, the more he realised that Sirius knew him so well because they were, abstractly, so much alike. He could see it very clearly now, and he realised that even though other people might find it strange that neither of them had gone into shock over the revelations, he hadn’t and Sirius hadn’t.
Nothing was ever normal for him, so if he wanted to just shrug and accept the news immediately, what of it? Sirius was the same way. He found he liked that.
But now, there were other things on his mind. Why had Sirius retaliated so strongly and why had he been able to wandlessly and wordlessly remove the hex? Something niggled in the back of his mind telling him that he knew why, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. There were, admittedly, a few things he didn’t know about his father—actually, there were a lot of things. He knew next to nothing about any of his family. He resolved to fix that immediately.
While he was at it, he reckoned that a letter to Dumbledore wouldn’t go amiss, either. Both he and his father should have made a more direct effort to finding out why Sirius wasn’t actually dead and who—if anyone—was dead in his place. He scowled when he remembered that his father had refuted all of his efforts to do so.
Snape’s words were prickling his mind—telling him that he was overlooking something very obvious. His father had always overlooked a lot of obvious things. He had, too; it was time to change that—now, more so than ever in light of recent revelations.
“Fred!” he called, snapping his fingers.
There was a pop, and the demure house-elf appeared in his usual forest green pillow case toga, looking up at Harry shyly. He had several pieces of wood in his hands and a lacy yellow cloth strung over his shoulder as he looked around, frantically wringing his hands. Harry cocked his head to the side.
“What’s going on?”
Fred bit his lip, and looked around worriedly as he answered, “Fred’s lovely Ginger is saying scary things,” he hedged.
“Such as?” Harry pressed curiously.
The house-elf flinched. “Ginger is saying little house-elf is coming soon. Ginger is saying that Fred must assemble cradle that masters so graciously bought for Fred and Ginger and little elf or Ginger is going to make Fred very sorry. Fred doesn’t want to be sorry. Ginger makes Fred sorry all the time and Fred’s always very sorry afterwards.”
Harry winced in sympathy. “Oh. Well, could you bring my breakfast to the library along with some parchment and quills? If you do, you can go back to finishing the cradle and I’ll tell Ginger you’ve been working very hard on it and that you deserve a reward…Do you know if it will be a boy or a girl?”
Fred brightened slightly at the mention of a reward, but shook his head. “Ginger hasn’t decided. Mother house-elves get to pick boy or girl house-elves, and Ginger is threatening Fred with a girl house-elf if he isn’t good. Fred doesn’t want a girl house-elf. Women is frightening; one is enough for Fred,” he added with a shudder.
Harry had to admit he hadn’t known that, but it was certainly interesting. He felt rather sorry for Fred right then, but then again, he always felt kind of sorry for Fred. He was kind of like Neville. “Well, we’ll just have to convince her that she wants a boy then, won’t we?” Fred grinned cautiously and nodded.
“Fred would appreciate it very much,” he said. “Fred is going to take Little Master’s breakfast to the library with parchment and quills now before Ginger realises he is missing.” With that, he snapped his fingers and disappeared. Yawning, Harry got up from his bed, pulled the covers back so Fred wouldn’t have extra work, and got dressed for the day before heading down to the library.
He had some things to do before he and Sirius had their next conversation. He suspected his father might be feeling the same way.
-x-
Breakfast was waiting for him already when Harry strolled into the library. He sighed in satisfaction as he sipped his coffee and levitated the breakfast tray to follow him up the stairs. Sunlight was pouring in through the skylights and filtering down onto the carpeting at the top of the stairs. He set his coffee and breakfast tray down on the writing desk and pulled out the parchment and quills Fred had set on top.
Harry chewed on the tip of his quill as he considered what to write. He needed to word this letter very carefully and he’d never been very good at being subtle. He tried to think back to classes and remember how the Ravenclaw and Slytherin students had acted. They had always seemed rather subtle, so maybe he should try to think like one of them.
It wasn’t as easy as he expected it would have been, though he did realise that all of the Slytherins were subtle—even Crabbe and Goyle in their own way—and that the only students from other houses that were, seemed to have one thing in common: they were all raised by pure-blooded families. His friend Ron, it seemed, was the exception and not the rule. It wasn’t a very strong theory, but just the same, maybe he should wait and have his father help him word the letter? Sirius was raised pure-blooded, after all.
He dismissed the notion almost immediately. If there was anyone less subtle than himself, it would be Sirius Black—and it was a stupid theory anyway. He was reading into things.
With a resigned sigh, he dipped his quill in the ink and pressed it to the parchment.
Headmaster Dumbledore,
I am writing to ask a favour of you. As I have learned from your letter and Professor Snape’s visit, you are aware that I am no longer staying with the Dursleys and have moved into River House with my…
Godfather? Father? Should he admit that so soon? Or even in a letter at all? As much as he wanted to trust Dumbledore, Harry was still having doubts. He should be having doubts, of course. Dumbledore knew Sirius was alive and lied to him—he could accept that…if there was a good reason. Of course, that was the point of the letter. He wanted to find out what, if any, reason Dumbledore had for leading him on and letting him suffer like that. He wanted to trust, but he had the feeling he should be mad, and it was true that his relationship with the Headmaster had been strained since fifth year. No, it would be best to wait. Dumbledore probably already knew anyway, so there was no reason to admit it in a letter.
But then that brought up another doubt. Did Dumbledore know? Could he have known all along that Sirius had been having an affair with Lily Potter? Had that been the reason he sent Sirius away for the eight months it took Lily to date and become engaged to James Potter?
May-December romance, indeed, he thought. I doubt anyone could break up with someone they’d been dating for nearly three years just to marry someone else eight months later and still sleep with the first person.
No, something was definitely off about that. Harry narrowed his eyes in suspicion and re-inked his quill. It had dried out during his contemplation.
…my godfather. At your earliest convenience, could you spare an hour or two of your time for some questions I have? Tea-time is usually the easiest time to catch Sirius and me in the house, but the house-elves could find us regardless.
The floo address is ‘River House, Antechamber 1’ and the password (which will only work for those approved by the wards) is included.
He hesitated only slightly before he signed the letter ‘Harry Potter’ and called Hedwig to him to take it. She nipped his fingers affectionately, stole his bacon, and flew out through an open window before he could scold her.
With an exaggerated sigh, he turned and faced the bookshelves. He knew what he wanted to know, but he didn’t know where to look to learn it. It was, most likely, going to be a very long and difficult afternoon. He only hoped that his father would give him the space to do all this on his own before they started to really form a parent-child relationship; right now, Sirius was too much of his friend.
From his visits before, he knew that the third level—where he was right then—was where the Black family history and dark arts books were. Fortunately, or unfortunately however he chose to see it, he was interested in a combination of those two things. He almost wished Hermione was there to help him; he really was no good at cross-referencing.
Harry pursed his lips in determination. He wasn’t an idiot; he could do this without Hermione’s help. He just needed to think logically and narrow it down. He had a suspicion that something Sirius had mentioned the night before had been literal and not metaphorical, and if it was correct, it might explain what had happened after they returned home from Levitation.
“It’s in the blood.”
His father could have been talking about something completely different, but now, Harry wondered. Was magic really in the blood? And what did that mean?
He finally just closed his eyes and grabbed the first book his fingers came to in the family history section. The book he picked was called Wizarding Families: Past, Present and Future, and it seemed like a decent place to start. It was thick, heavy and bound in old, worn leather, but was most assuredly a self-updating book as the copyright page included every year from 1300 to the current year.
Harry settled in to read, determined to find out everything he could about this family. He’d never even bothered looking up the Potter lines—even when the Hogwarts library probably had them in loads of books—but for some reason he was beginning to feel really proud of being the Black heir instead of the Potter heir, even with the taint of the name. He smirked and thought; maybe it’s just in the blood.
Hours later, he understood.
Or at least, he understood better. He could not say he fully understood everything he had read in Wizarding Families, but he understood more than he had before. One thing he was sure of was that he had been right: it was in the blood. Further than that, he couldn’t say anything for certain. The book had explained that all pure-blooded families had a talent for either light or dark magic that needed to be exercised regularly, in addition to neutral magic like levitation charms, to prevent madness, so that explained why Sirius cast dark magic when he hated it. Ridiculous.
It did not explain why Bellatrix was still insane, however.
Additionally, it explained that he would be able to master those same hexes and curses much easier than he had mastered Charms or Transfigurations. That was probably why he’d been able to remove the tongue hex from the night before, he realised: with the help of another book, he’d found that it was indeed a dark magic hex. So he had a natural inclination for dark magic…what of it? He had to admit it frightened him a little bit, but more than that, it excited him—and that frightened him more.
But there had also been several passing references to magical inheritances at the age of seventeen. The book did not say what each family tended to pass down because it was private to each individual family, but it hinted that certain families had more desirable inheritances. The Black family appeared to be one of those.
But after all of that, he still didn’t completely understand. He needed to talk to his father.
-x-
Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 412th page.
25 December, 848
Beloved,
I beg you, do not fret – We shall be reunited soon, and then these magic-less nights will be over forever. Until we are, I am missing you every little minute of the day and night.
Maybe you will not understand this, but sometimes when I miss you most, it is hardest to write to you – and I have made myself because I fear that if I do not, then I will forget – Just the ache of it all – and I cannot tell you. It is too much. If we were together, you would feel how strong it is – you were so charming when you're melancholy. And you were melancholy often.
I loved your sad tenderness – when I hurt you – It is one of the reasons I could never be sorry when we quarrelled – and they bothered you so – Those dear, dear little fusses, when I always kissed you thoroughly to make you forget.
Beloved – there is nothing in all the world I want but you and your love – All the magical things are nothing. The magic is nothing. The skies, the flowers, the grass, the students are nothing. I fear that I will live a foul, colourless existence if I do not revive you soon – because you would soon love me less – and less – and I would do anything – anything – to keep your heart for my own – I do not want to live – I want to love first, and live incidentally – Why do you not feel that I am trying?
The ones who practice the old magic have written to us offering aid against the muggles. Leo wrote back and told them that their services were unnecessary as we had been fighting the muggles for three years and are doing fine at the moment. I scolded him for his stubbornness and he relented.
The old magic wizards will arrive at the first of the year in the village. They have said that they will be bringing a member of each major house of magic. You cannot imagine how much this excites me as the Mauvaisefoi house is known for their talent for necromancy. I will ask them for help now that I have had time to study on my own. I am sure it can be done—they say it cannot, but I am sure of it.
I have not seen you wandering the halls as you used to when you lived – stalking through corridors and passageways while you ruminated and brooded so methodically. Even the ghosts still hush in your absence. It will not be long—with the Mauvaisefoi family and their talents, I cannot fail.
You will come to me, Lover, when you are able – Do not – do not ever think of the things you did not give me – You trusted me with the dearest heart of all – and it is so much more than anybody else in all the world has ever had. I shall thank you for it humbly when I succeed. I will – I know I will.
How did you think deliberately of death without me? Were you not frightened? Did you not try to wait for me? I would have followed, had I been able. Yet instead, I shall revive you – I shall gift you life as Merlin himself would have, had he the chance.
If I should fail – O dearest – my dearest – It would be like losing my magic. I would. I would have no purpose in life – just a pretty ornament. Do you not think I was made for you? I feel like you enchanted me for yourself – and I was created by you – to be worn – I want you to wear me, like an amulet or a charm or a button.
And then, when we are alone again, I want to help – to know that you cannot do anything without me. You cannot even die without me.
It has been three years today since your passing and I have only just now gained access to your quarters – exactly as you left them – and mine in the towers are so muddled and ambiguously organized. My research is flourishing.
Your son has grown. He has not met you, but I think that he misses you terribly—he no longer calls me ‘Daddy’. I think he misses you terribly. I’ve said that.
I miss you terribly.
Yours,
R.
-x-
Harry and Sirius had retired to the drawing room after dinner and settled into comfortable chairs facing each other. The silence grew as they stared at each other, both trying to decide where would be the best place to start, when Sirius could take it no more. He never said that he was good with verbal confrontations. He was much more comfortable hexing someone or playing semi-cruel pranks.
He thought back to the night he’d led Snape to Remus at the Shrieking Shack, and could not unearth even the smallest amount of guilt. Snape had deserved it. He supposed his mother would be proud of him for that: he was not afraid of destroying an enemy. He was not afraid of murder. He trampled the thought before it could fully take hold of him. He was a father now—the father of the Boy-Who-Lived at that. He could not afford to let any of that consume him, more than it had already, anyway.
Clumsily, he stood up and shuffled over to the liquor cabinet near the fireplace. He needed something to take his mind off everything warring in his mind. The last three days had rendered him nothing but a vengeful Slytherin, and he had no idea why. Perhaps it had been Snape’s visit—although that had been weeks ago.
Surely only being reminded of his past transgressions could not do that to him. But it seemed that it had—Lily had been his, and where he should have felt remorse and guilt for betraying James, he felt nothing but cold hatred.
Hatred for James for taking Lily to begin with, even though James had never known that she wasn’t meant to be his—hatred for Lily for dying, hatred for Dumbledore for sending him away instead of leaving him where he could have watched her more closely. And prevented it.
He stared inside the liquor cabinet and let his eyes rove over each individual bottle. They had not been touched in over two decades, and every one of them was a tempting choice. With a malicious grin, he settled on an unopened bottle of Hennessy Three-Star-Cognac from 1901, and poured it into a snifter with the Black Family Crest on the glass. As an afterthought, he poured a second glass for his son. He was, after all, of age now, and if he’d been raised properly, Sirius would have had him tasting fine spirits of all sorts long before. Pure-blooded men always knew how to pick a good drink. Even James would have agreed with that.
“I imagine that we might each need a glass or two of this to make it through the night,” he said by way of explanation when he handed the glass to Harry. After lunch, Harry had confronted him and given him a rough outline of what he wanted to talk about. Sirius had not known how to say no.
His son smiled, took a hesitant sip and grimaced slightly, but did not complain or set the drink aside.
There was a cough above the fireplace, and Sirius turned, smiling faintly as he noticed both Mr. and Mrs. Evans had poured themselves a glass of red from the stores in their portrait and were lounging in their chairs, watching eagerly. Laurel Evans was much more subtle.
They stared at each other for several more minutes, during which Sirius swirled his cognac around in the glass and inhaled the mixture of flavours, and then Harry exhaled deeply—seeming to steel himself for whatever he was about to say.
“I want you to teach me the spells you used the other night,” he said calmly.
Sirius sputtered and coughed on his drink. “What?!” he exclaimed, jumping up from his chair. “No way!” That wasn’t what his son had hinted at, at all.
Harry only stared back at him calmly.
“Why?” Sirius finally asked, faltering only slightly. “You don’t need to know them. It’s not necessary.” Of course, Sirius knew it was necessary, but he still felt awkward with the situation. He had no idea how to be a parent, but he was sure that his own parents had not done a good job. He didn’t want to end up like either of them.
“But I want to know them,” his son returned carefully. He paused, deliberating over his next words, and then said, “And you want to teach me. You want me to understand.”
Sirius could not argue with those words, no matter how much he wanted to try. The dark magic was in his very blood, and the longer he went without casting something dark, the more forcefully he ached to do so. It had been bred into him, and he knew it would be bred into Harry as well. But he hated that, and he would fight it as much as he could.
It was probably why his son’s mind always gravitated to Voldemort through their connection even though they were sworn enemies. The magic ran through his veins—pulsing and calling him always—and through his heritage, he was helpless to stop it.
Sirius looked up at the portrait of Lily's parents speculatively and wondered if Harry had perhaps gotten a double dose of it. He, admittedly, never knew how the Evans' practised magic.
The best he could do was to accept it—acknowledge and understand it so that he might learn to live with it. It was in his veins, yes, but he did not have to let it compel him. Sirius was living proof of that. Yes, he had to use dark magic every once in a while or he would get restless, but that didn’t mean he had to use it on other people. Harry could be the same way—Sirius was sure he would be. If he refused to teach his son what he wanted to know, he would learn it elsewhere and use it anyway. He couldn’t help using it.
Guilt and desire to be Light were not factors in this. Blood was. Heritage was. Sirius was surprised his son had lasted as long as he had. It would have driven any other dark wizard mad.
Sirius sighed heavily and slumped back into his chair. “You need to learn the theory of it first,” he muttered. “And the history and the whys and hows of it all.” Harry nodded, as if he expected that all along. Sirius realised he might have just been duped by his own son—his own Gryffindor son. He was almost proud, and then he remembered that being proud of his son for fooling him was too Slytherin to even consider. “You should have learned this long ago,” he added with a resigned sigh.
Harry sipped his cognac, and did not flinch this time. It seemed as though he knew what Sirius was thinking—Sirius wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he gave a faint smile and gathered his thoughts.
“First of all,” he said, “you need to know that there is no strict line between light magic and dark magic because magic is not intrinsically good or bad it just is. It’s magic…it has no morals or obligations or emotions—it’s just energy.”
Harry nodded thoughtfully. He had plenty of questions about that—some concerning his own thoughts on muggle-born and squibs—but he wasn’t going to ask them, yet. Sirius was finally telling him something useful, and he didn’t want to break his father’s stride. Instead, he sat back in his chair comfortably and sipped the Hennessy. He still wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.
“Then,” his father continued, “you need to understand why some magic is classified dark and some not. I could give you all sorts of complicated reasons and rationales, but in the end, it comes down to separating the magic that’s natural in the universe. There’s wild magic, and there’s tame magic, so to speak.
“It’s still just magic,” Sirius insisted, “made from the same energy and whatnot, but wild magic is harder to control. So hard, in fact, that it requires emotional support to be welded. It’s magic that can only be exploited if you’re feeling something intensely—love, hate, jealously, anger, lust, compassion, remorse, pity, panic, terror. To use it, it draws on your own magical core, but that’s not enough for it to work. It’s wild, you understand, so it’s going to take more than just your magical core to weld. You’ve got to want it or need it badly enough.”
Sirius paused thoughtfully, sipping the last of his drink and considering his next words.
“You said a few weeks ago that you tried to use Crucio on Bellatrix in the Department of Mysteries, and that it didn’t work.” Sirius shrugged. “There’s a reason for that.”
By now, Harry was leaning forward slightly in his chair, listening intently. Sirius had never thought he was the kind of person that would want to learn so avidly; that it was the subject matter intriguing him so much was both a frightening and prideful feeling.
Sirius leaned forward and locked eyes with his son. This part was very important. No matter how much he joked around or how much the two of them danced around the awkwardness of their new relationship, he needed what he was going to say next to have an impact on his son.
“You didn’t want her to hurt badly enough; that’s why the curse didn’t work. It’s dark magic because it’s designed to fulfil your desires. If you were trying to cast Crucio, your desire should have been to hurt her. Merely hating her will not work—despising, loathing, abhorring…those won’t work. You have to want her to hurt.
“But at the same time,” Sirius said, leaning back, “had you known that at the time, I have a feeling it would have worked. You could have made yourself want to hurt her enough if you’d known how the spell worked. That’s what I mean when I say you have to know how to control it. These spells are all meant to fulfil purposes, and you have to understand your desires before you’re able to carry the magic.”
Sirius stopped, refilled his drink and studied his son. He had to admit to himself that it felt good to be teaching his child; it felt like it should—like he’d been born to pass on his knowledge. He felt accomplished, something that he admittedly did not feel very often. Harry was looking thoughtful; his head tilted slightly to the side as he filtered through the new information and tried to apply it to something he was familiar with. He took a tiny sip of his cognac, grimaced only slightly, and looked up at his father.
“So why do you cast so much dark magic? I read something earlier today that suggested you would go mad if you didn’t.”
Sirius let out a harsh, agitated breath and tried to formulate an answer. He couldn’t remember how his own parents had explained it, but he had a feeling that they did a much better job than he was doing. He and Regulus had seemed to grasp it immediately, but maybe that had been because of the way they were raised.
“Because it’s in your blood; that’s why you were able to remove the tongue-vanishing curse wordlessly and wandlessly,” he finally said. It was weak, he knew, but he couldn’t explain it much better than that. Remembering, he realised that that had been exactly how his father explained it to him, after all. He’d understood. “Because,” he continued slowly, unsure if he was making any sense, “some people are naturally better at it than others, and when they have children, it filters down into their children’s blood making it easier for them to cast it. It’s inherent understanding—I understood that I needed to be hungry and desperate to cast those beheading hexes when I went camping with my father and brother. I didn’t need to be told.”
He cocked his head to the side and studied his son. “I don’t think you needed to be told, either. You understood—maybe without even understanding that you understood—that you needed to be angry at me to remove that curse last night.” He shrugged.
“I still don’t understand why you’d go mad if you didn’t use those curses,” Harry insisted, but his voice wasn’t accusing, only curious.
Sirius exhaled sharply. He really was no good at this fathering thing. He paused for a moment to reflect that James probably would have done a better job, but immediately trampled the thought. He would prove James wrong, wherever he was. He could learn to be a good father.
“Because it’s part of you. The wild magic may be hard to use, but it’s in your blood; it filters through your veins and wants you to use it. You were borne from a mother who used it and a father who used it. It’s in you now, and it’ll demand to be used…especially since you’ve used it now.”
Harry scoffed. “My mother didn’t use dark magic,” he said, deadly serious. There was a duet of uncomfortable coughing from the Evans’ portrait, but he ignored it.
Surprisingly, Sirius only smirked. It looked wholly out of place on his face right then. “You think so?” he asked, almost mockingly. Harry had a moment of doubt, but shook his head. He was sure. “What do you think all of that mother’s love stuff was, then?” his father asked, grinning. “It was wild magic—the kind that favours you and every other dark wizard or witch. She used her love to save you.”
Harry felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. That couldn’t be true, could it? His mother was good. She used her love to save him not hurt him…that couldn’t be dark magic, but then his father had said…something completely different. Was that really the only difference between light magic and dark magic?
“Well then why did you try to stop using dark magic then?” he asked.
“Because it was taking over my family—and because of the stigma of it.” His father smiled self-mockingly and added, “It made me too wild, but in the end, I wasn’t that much of a Gryffindor after all. It was pretty cowardly.”
Harry shook his head jerkily. This was no time for self-doubt. He had too many questions. “But why the stigma if it’s really only just wild magic? Why are people so afraid of it?”
Sirius barked out a laugh. “Why?” he asked incredulously. “Because they’re afraid, and their fear leads to more fear and so on. It’s one big circle. But I suppose you want the original reason? It’s the emotions. It takes emotions to cast it—not like Reducto or Incendio or Wingardium Leviosa—and it takes strong emotions. Think of what a bunch of Gryffindors would do with that. That’s why Slytherins are so self-controlled; if they let their emotions take over them, they might do something like I did to Snape.”
Oh. Well that certainly made sense. Why hadn’t he figured that out on his own?
Suddenly, his father’s head snapped up. “The wards,” Sirius breathed at the same time as Harry’s scar, hidden mostly by his hair, twinged. “Someone unauthorized has touched the wards.”
They jumped up and rushed from the room, sprinting down stairs and hallways. Harry, in an abstract sort of way, was both pleased and surprised to note that his father was not even breathing heavily when the huge, ornate front doors came into view and he yelled a series of unlocking and opening spells that finally resulted in the butterfly doors swinging outward just as they reached them.
It was exciting, really, though if he’d stopped to think about it, Harry probably would have realised it was more than reckless to run outside their house, wands blazing without properly identifying the situation first. He didn’t pause to consider that, and instead grinned over his shoulder at his father who had finally fallen a step behind, and hurtled down the steps and over the lawns.
It was very late, most likely near midnight by the position of the moon, and dark except for faint light from nearby Edinburgh and the stars. Neither of them could see much, but Harry had an idea who was there—his scar was actually tickling him, as if it were teasing him. The sensation increased the further he ran. He wondered if Voldemort was amused for some reason.
Then, he saw him—one heavily cloaked figure standing amid the fen at the very edge of the wards. He skidded to a halt several feet away, and had to put out a hand to balance himself when his father nearly toppled over him. Voldemort was there, and he was enjoying himself.
And facing Voldemort, small and angry and very much pregnant, was Ginger. She had one hand on her hip and the other was waggling a finger chidingly in front of her as she scolded Voldemort for being rude.
“Ginger does not care,” Ginger exclaimed, stomping a foot, and sounding very much like she’d repeated that several times before, “who you are Mr. Voldymort! Ginger is not allowing rude wizards to disturb her masters at this time of night! If Mr. Voldymort, sir, wants to visit, duel or kill her masters, he will have to come at a respectable hour and follow proper wizarding procedures. Mr. Voldymort is impolite and has no honour!”
“Delightful!” Voldemort crowed, clapping his scaly hands. He noticed Harry and Sirius and turned to them with a manic grin.
“I admit I didn’t expect quite such a warm welcome,” Voldemort said almost pleasantly. Harry couldn’t see his eyes, but he knew they would be sparkling in malicious glee. He paused, head tilted to the side as he waited for some sort of reaction from Harry—whose eyes were narrowed—or Sirius—who was too flabbergasted to speak.
When it became obvious that he would not get one, Voldemort huffed haughtily and said, “Well? Aren’t you going to welcome me into your wards and offer me refreshment?”
“Ginger has told you, Mr. Voldymort!” Ginger spoke up. “You is not coming through the wards tonight!” Dazed, Harry turned to her and told her, quietly, to go back inside. It was too surreal to handle already, and he didn’t need a pregnant and most-likely insane woman screaming too.
Sirius finally found his voice, although it was a bit higher than usual—most likely from his state of panic. “You’re kidding, right? You expect us to lower the wards when they’re the only thing between us and certain death?” he scoffed.
Voldemort, oddly enough, preened at the words. “I’m flattered, really, that you think so highly of my power, but I have no business with you tonight. I’m taking a well deserved vacation from the strains of death and destruction.”
Harry folded his arms across his chest and tried to look like he wasn’t even a little intimidated. What was he supposed to think with Voldemort showing up at his house? Yes, there were wards—very strong wards keyed to the very blood of the family—but wards could be broken, tricked, or manoeuvred. If Voldemort wanted in badly enough he would not be stopped. Harry suspected that his father had just realised that, as he stepped forward in attempt to block Voldemort from his son.
“Honestly,” Harry said, irritated, as he stepped around his father once more. He gave Sirius a withering look, and added, “Really, Father, if he wanted in, he would already be in. Don’t be such a Gryffindor right now.”
Voldemort cackled with mirth. “Oh, very good, very good!” he crowed and took measured step closer, bringing his hand up and running one finger against the nearly invisible wards. They rippled and shimmered under his touch, and Sirius shuddered at the intrusion. From his own reading when he’d been studying the wards on Privet Drive, Harry knew that Sirius, as head of the household and linchpin to the wards, would be able to feel it in his head. Harry narrowed his eyes further.
“What do you want?” he asked. Voldemort cocked his head to the side, and Harry said, “You must want something or you would have waited for when I was sleeping.” He hesitated, and then added, “I’m not going down without a fight.”
Voldemort grinned, slightly pointed teeth glinting in the moonlight. He leaned forward, his hood falling even lower as he did, and whispered, “I have a mission for you,” in his naturally hissing voice. Harry barely restrained a flinch.
“I am not your servant,” he said defiantly. His father had taken out his wand by now, but Harry had not. The wards were still between them, and he did not want to seem overly intimidated. He would not show his fear yet. Perhaps foolishly, he had some small bit of trust for Voldemort due to over a year of chatting with him almost daily.
In that time Voldemort had not killed any muggles, and the raids and assaults on other wizards had decreased dramatically. Harry liked to believe it was due to his influencing, but suspected that might be optimistic to the point of idiocy. There would always be some who were past the point of redemption.
Voldemort did not react to the comment. Instead, he stood up fully, eyed Sirius with some distaste, and said, “No. You are not, but I will be yours tonight. I wish to exercise a theory.”
Sirius stepped forward again with his wand raised and pointed at Voldemort. “Not on my son, you won’t,” he breathed in a deadly voice. The sincerity of it was so shocking that Harry jumped, startled. He had not realised that his father could sound so scary or intent, or that he would actually stand up to Voldemort for him. He shivered at the thought, and turned back to Voldemort, waiting to see how he would react. He was almost sure that the Dark Lord would be infuriated enough to come through the wards and kill his father for that statement. He pulled his own wand slowly; he would not allow that to happen.
Voldemort did not try it, but instead regarded Sirius with growing curiosity. “It has not taken you long to accept it, has it, Black? Perhaps you’ve always hated James Potter for the son that should have been yours? And now that he is, you can’t breathe for the sweetness of it?”
Sirius tensed and Voldemort laughed maliciously. “It is true, then,” he decided. “I do not blame you for it, Black,” he added thoughtfully. “Lily Evans was a beautiful woman, was she not?”
Sirius growled and hurled himself forward, trying to body slam Voldemort, and Harry scrambled to prevent it. His blood was pounding harshly in his veins from fear that he would not stop his father before he left the relevant safety of the wards. Voldemort cackled, held up a hand, and Sirius was slammed backwards, landing haphazardly in the grass.
“You know nothing of Lily!” Sirius screamed, though he was shaking and the possible repercussions of his actions seemed to have hit him full-force. He whimpered and stood quickly, afraid now more than ever that he would not be able to protect the son he hadn’t realised was his until just the other day.
“Contrary to what you wish to believe, Black,” Voldemort hissed in a deadly furious voice as he stared down at Sirius, red eyes gleaming, “I know much about Lily Evans…much more than you will ever know.”
He turned his red eyes back to Harry then, and said, “Come with me. I will not harm you,” he said, reaching out and stroking the wards almost lovingly. Harry shook his head, backing up, as he was truly frightened now.
“You can avoid the Imperius, but you cannot overcome the other two,” Voldemort tempted, stepping even closer to the wards until his flat nose was almost pressed against them. “I can teach you.”
“That’s impossible,” Harry said, shaking his head, panicked. “Resisting Imperio is all in your head. Resisting Crucio would be all in your body and resisting Avada Kedavra all in your soul. You can’t resist those.”
“Can’t you?” Voldemort returned quietly, grinning at Harry’s insight. “You yourself have resisted the strongest of them all, and I assure you, if anyone were to cast Avada Kedavra on me right now, it would not work. Not even Dumbledore could put enough power in it to take me down. I can teach you,” he reiterated.
“I don’t believe you,” Harry insisted.
“Try it then,” Voldemort hissed with a smile, opening his arms in invitation. “I will not retaliate. Cast it on me.”
“No,” Harry insisted. “It’s a trick.” Behind him, Sirius tugged on his arm, but his feet were planted where they were. He could not understand why he was reacting so strongly to this; it was as if his own magic were begging him to do it.
Voldemort gave a truly wicked smirk—slowly spreading his lips and displaying sharp, glittering teeth on one side of his mouth. “Are you certain? Surely, after all this time we have come to some sort of unspoken ceasefire? Come with me and I will teach you.”
“You’ll kill me,” Harry muttered. He was resigned to this even though he knew he had a way out—but he refused to take it. His pride wouldn’t let him. He knew he was right, even if he was wrong.
“I will not,” Voldemort promised calmly. “You have my word as a wizard. I swear it on my magic.” Harry shivered as he felt the magic of that promise settling over him. Voldemort could not kill him under those circumstances, or the magic would kill him too. Still, he was wary.
“Then what is the point of this?” Harry asked in frustration.
Voldemort smiled. “You will test a theory of mine, and...” he paused and studied Harry almost lovingly. “I will make you better.” He studied Harry, waiting for a response, and then seemed to decide that he hadn’t the patience to wait any longer. Voldemort apparated away with a crack. Harry stared at the spot where the Dark Lord had been, and behind him, his father exhaled slowly.
-x-
A/N:
1. Adapted from a love letter written to F. Scott Fitzgerald by his soon-to-be-wife, Zelda, just before their marriage in the spring of 1919.
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Oh...I just worked out where I think the journal of a necromancer is going...(I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner...)
I really enjoyed this chapter - particularly the explanations of wild and tame magic.
Keep up the good work!
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Go with Mr. Voldymort Castor, silly boy. LOVED, LOVED, LOOOOOOOOVED Ginger! lol
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I love this story! Ohh Sirius, he wants so badly to be a wonderful parent... and Harry wants his Daddy - as soon as he's found out everything he needs to know. XD
Brilliany chapter!!!
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YAY!
Re: YAY!
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The Voldemort-Ginger confrontation was hilarious. And Harry telling Sirius not to be such a Gryffindor ... that was without a doubt my favourite line.
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