A Sea Change

Chapter 12:

Little Hangleton, 1 December:

The tall, eerily pale being stared through slitted eyes at his servant, who knelt quivering on the worn carpet before him.

“Black,”  the creature murmured, as if to himself.

“M-master?” the servant responded, confused.

“Your old friend, Black,” the being repeated, somewhat testily. “I cannot locate him. Is he skilled in Occlumency?”

“He wasn’t, when I knew him,” the servant replied. “He was amazingly clever, though: I’m sure he could have learned…but I believe he’s gone mad. He was raving, and…” Wormtail paused, and blushed.  “…quite violent when I saw him last year. Perhaps there’s no mind left to hear….” The servant risked a glance upward, not that it would do him any good. He could never discern any emotion in that reptilian face. “Why would you want to know where Black is, Master? The Aurors will catch him soon enough, and then he’ll be destroyed. He’s no danger to us….”

The tall being kicked his servant dispassionately, as one would kick a light obstruction off a path. He began pacing around the room.

“Fool. Black is not mad. He is of interest to me because he has Potter. Potter is at the school now, of course, but he no longer stays with his Muggle relatives, and the woman from the Ministry says she believes Dumbledore gave Black permission to keep him during the summer. He will go to Black during holidays. Find Black for me.”

The servant paled, and trembled, if possible, even more than before. “F-find him? Master, I have no idea where to start! He hasn’t been seen in his old village, where we used to visit him at holidays; none of his family live there any more. What can I do that the Aurors cannot? I have no way to…ahh…”

He gasped as pain shot through him, centred on his metallic arm and hand, which glowed with a sickly orange light.

“But you, Wormtail, know him better than any of my other servants. You lived with him; you were privy to the workings of his childish mind. You will find him. I require it. Go to your room now, and make a plan for finding him.”

Wormtail nursed his aching arm and painfully, cautiously, rose to his feet. “Yes, Master.”  Slowly, he backed out of the room, wiping tears from his eyes, and obediently began thinking of Sirius, searching his memories for any clues to his whereabouts. The idea of finding Sirius was nearly as frightening as the idea of NOT finding him.  He tried picturing Sirius in his mind, remembering with abject terror the last time he’d seen him….

The Hut, 2 December:

Gwynneth was fast, and remarkably well-focussed, and a quick learner.  Sirius was just as fast, and bigger, and his years of training had made certain sequences of movement almost instinctive. As she grew more skilled, he held back less and less; Gwen found herself on the ground more and more often.

 

Gwen took the hand Sirius held out to her, resisting the urge to snap at him. Not out of anger; it was a reflex for defence, outmoded now in her human form. Biting, especially with this small human mouth, was not very effective, she told herself, against a human skilled in hand-to-hand combat. She grinned, instead, as Sirius hauled her to her feet, and  rubbed her shoulder where she’d fallen. He smiled back and smacked her lightly on the bottom. She did the same to him, and he gave a bark of laughter. They walked to the Hut, their arms around each other, and went inside to make lunch.

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She and Sirius were busy all the time, it seemed. Moody and Harry showed up each Sunday, the four of them practicing drills and tactics together until they could anticipate each other’s moves nearly flawlessly. Andie and Remus had been to visit once, at the last full moon, and would be back again, Sirius said, in the coming week. Gwen still didn’t pay much attention to the passage of time: days, weeks, months—things either had happened, or were happening now, or hadn’t happened yet, and there were so many other things to keep track of….

She had been to Hogwarts twice, for a week-long stretch each time, to help Moody with his classes in practical defence by assisting him and Harry in demonstrating holds, hexes and charms. Seeing other students in class helped her to understand Harry and his halfway-between state. She now understood that Harry and his classmates were both children and adults at this age, sometimes one and sometimes the other. She felt protective of them, and enjoyed helping them as they struggled to learn these things that had come so easily to her.

 Moody introduced Gwynneth to staff and students as his granddaughter; she quickly recognised this as one of the Useful Lies she’d been told about, and did not contradict him. She didn’t attach any significance to it, but marvelled at the impression it made on everyone they met. She enjoyed these visits, for the fun of sparring with Moody and the children, the awed respect the students gave her, and the magnificence of the huge castle.

They went up to Dumbledore’s rooms every day to report on their progress and have lunch; she found the headmaster to be a charming man. Sirius had, apparently, begun some sort of training sessions with Dumbledore; he was always there waiting for her, and usually seemed quite exhausted.

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“What’s Dumbledore teaching you?” Gwen fished a pickled gherkin out of the jar with her fork and nibbled it daintily, watching Sirius pour the tea. Trips to the Muggle village nearby, with its charity shops and tiny grocery, were endlessly fascinating to them both, though occasionally a bit weird. Sirius always went as Padfoot, and Gwen used the pictures on the various containers to guide her purchases, since using her wand for the Lectio charm would be too conspicuous. She was usually drawn to pictures of fish; today lunch consisted of sardines, chocolate-covered digestive biscuits, and the aforementioned pickles.

Sirius handed her a cup and reached into the pickle jar with his fingers. He tapped the pickle on the edge of the jar to shake off the juice, and bit the end off it solemnly, with the air of a connoisseur.  “Lots of stuff, because I told him how I can hide my thoughts behind a brick wall.  That’s a mind skill, he says, a sort of crude Occlumency, and he thinks if I can do that, there are other things I can do as well.

“He’s teaching me how to see links between people, and how to hear what people are thinking, like Harry can do: it’s called Legilimency. It’s hard work sometimes, because I never really cared before, what people thought… but I can see that it could be useful. These are great; what are they called?” He turned the jar to read the label. “Muggles make the best stuff.”

It had begun to rain. Or snow. Both, really. Gwen looked out the window and sighed. “I know, we need to learn to work in all weathers; let’s get on with it…. Are we flying again this afternoon?”

Sirius watched her face with fond amusement. He loved watching her. No need for Legilimency in dealing with our Gwen, he thought. She was looking out the window at the rain/snow with the same distaste that his father’s cat might show, faced with such a sight. He stood up slowly, knowing she would follow him, and walked to the door, where he paused, staring contemplatively at the broomsticks propped against the wall. She drew closer, reached past him for one of the broomsticks, and he whirled around gleefully, grabbing her, lifting her and spinning around the room.

“Let’s keep you warm and dry, just for today,” he said with a smile. “Go choose us a book from the shelf, love, and I’ll read to you.” He set her down and sank onto the little sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Gwen stood looking at the bookshelf, with its growing collection; Remus’s favourites had been slowly reappearing, along with a few of Harry’s old schoolbooks and several things Remus had bought in the summer, things he knew Sirius would like. There was a very big one, among Harry’s books; she pulled it off the shelf and carried it to the sofa. She dropped it on Sirius’s lap and curled up happily beside him, her head on his shoulder and her feet tucked under her.

“Well, now, this is an interesting choice, but it’s not exactly a book at all,” he said, opening it. “This is Harry’s photograph album. Hagrid started it for him, I believe, in his first year at school, and lots of people have added to it since then. There’s nothing to read in here, but we can look at the pictures; we’ll probably see a few people you know.” He opened the album and gazed at the first page.

“That’s Harry’s mother; her name was Lily. Look at her eyes; don’t they remind you of Harry’s?” The Lily in the photo waved and smiled; Gwen smiled back at her.

“She does look like Harry; she seems very friendly. But she died?”

“She and James, that’s him in this photo, both of them were killed, yes.”

“James looks a lot like you, except for the glasses.”

“Lots of people thought we were brothers… we thought so ourselves, nearly. We were very much alike in all sorts of ways. I still miss him, sometimes…  all the time.”

The James in the picture grinned and made a rude gesture, causing Sirius to smile wistfully, and turn the page.

It was difficult, seeing some of these scenes: Lily, with a group of female students Sirius felt he should know, but couldn’t place. James, flying. A photo of himself, just turned eighteen, in his new Auror’s Academy uniform—where had that one come from?—Remus with a girl Sirius didn’t remember. A few wedding pictures: Dumbledore, his arms around Lily and James. The picture of himself, laughing at the two of them as he raised a glass for a toast.

“That’s you, isn’t it? You look different, there; a bit …smoother,” Gwen said softly.

“I was a lot younger when that was taken. In a photograph, you don’t change. Your image is always the same age. I looked like that, sixteen years ago. People said I was quite handsome, back then.” He gave her a teasing grin.

“Oh.” Gwen stared at the nineteen-year-old Sirius in the photo for a moment, then looked up at him. “You seem much more powerful now. I’m glad you have grown strong.” She snuggled closer and Sirius marvelled as he tightened his arm around her shoulders. He still had no idea what Gwen found attractive, but he felt a sneaking relief that she hadn’t been impressed with that younger, better-looking Sirius.

A group photo: the four of them, in about fifth year: Remus on the left, then James, then Peter squashed in between James and a very tall, gangling Sirius.

“Who are these children?” Gwen frowned at the photo, watching James stealthily slip Peter’s wand out of his pocket and pass it over to Remus, who smiled and hid it in his sleeve.

“Those children, my love, are Remus—don’t you recognise him?—and me on this side, and James and Peter in the middle. I was a child once….Yes, that one is Peter; you’d never think to look at him, that….” Sirius broke off suddenly, staring at the photo. The Peter in the picture stared back directly at him, open-mouthed, fear starting in his eyes. Trying not to show any undue haste, Sirius turned the page.

 

They took a long, leisurely time, looking through the whole book, which now included some stunning photos of Harry flying, a few of Harry and his classmates, a strangely still, formally-posed Muggle one of Hermione and her parents, and the newspaper clipping of Ron and his family in Egypt. Sirius told Gwen about all the people in the photos, regaling her with stories of his own school days and the things he and his friends had done. Gwen recognised some of the children in the newer photos, and told Sirius a bit about their abilities in the Defence classes. It grew dark outside; the candles on the shelf in the kitchen edged their way out of the box and lit themselves, gliding over the album to provide better light.

“I could use a cup of tea, I think,” Sirius finally sighed, leaning back. “All this talking…”

“I will make tea,” Gwen declared. “I think you want to look back at some of these photos, don’t you…. Go on and look while I make tea.” She uncurled herself from the sofa and left him staring after her, wondering.

She was almost too perceptive, sometimes. She must have noticed him staring at Peter… where was that photo… He’d find the photo, but not look directly at Peter, not at first. Not till he was ready. There it was. Best to be careful; suppose Peter was trying to find him, for Voldemort…

He saw them then, for the very first time: the bands of colour that Dumbledore had described to him, encircling the four boys in the photo and running from one to the other. The bright blue band from James to himself, yellow from James to Peter, and darker gold from James to Remus. Childhood bonds, as Dumbledore had said: clear and strong. He couldn’t make out any connection between himself and Peter; granted, he hadn’t been as tolerant of Peter as James or Remus had, but he thought there’d have been some link to him.

The truth was, though, Peter had never meant much to him, except as James’s shadow. James had enjoyed the admiration Peter gave him; Sirius hadn’t really cared. He wondered if Peter had admired him too, and he’d just never noticed. Remus, now: Remus had been the most patient of them all, and had taken endless pains to explain things to Peter, and help him with spells and written work. Remus was the best of them, Sirius knew.

He gazed, awestruck, at the stunning, indescribable colours connecting himself  to Remus: deep green, with flecks of bright gold and hints of other colours that came and went tantalisingly. They formed an intricate web of moving light, which came right off the page and surrounded him as he sat on the sofa. It warmed him, starting a well of happiness somewhere deep in his chest and causing him to grin foolishly. This photo must have been taken after—well, after their reconciliation…. He could have sat there, enveloped in that beautiful pattern, forever.

He forced himself to look directly into Peter’s eyes.

Carefully.

 Wall in place…he wouldn’t give anything away.  A cold, greyish, metallic line slowly formed between him and the Peter in the photo; they were connected now, certainly. Peter’s eyes again showed surprise, and the beginnings of fear. His mouth formed that little round “O” that Sirius had seen so often as a boy, when Peter watched him and James, and usually Remus, plotting something….

He began a silent Calling,  nothing very elaborate, just a simple Beckoning; he could use this connection.

 All right then, Peter, you sneak, you little toady, where are you…. You’ll tell me.

The images of himself and the other two boys faded from the photo, and Peter—a much older Peter— was standing alone, in an overgrown, untended garden, the trees bare, wind ruffling his thin wisps of hair. It was dusk—nearly as dark there as it was here; we must be in the present, Sirius thought. There was a fence around the garden, broken in places… Sirius had seen that fence, and that garden. He’d hidden behind those scraggly bushes, when the village boys threw stones at the big stray dog; Little Hangleton was not a friendly place. The Peter in the picture turned and ran, tripping over a fallen branch in his haste. He ran to the door in a huge, rambling  old house—Sirius knew that house—and pulled it open frantically, slamming it behind him.

 He shut the photograph album carefully, as if any sudden movement would give away his thoughts, and looked up.

Gwen sat sideways on the sofa, facing him, watching him solemnly. “Your tea’s cold,”  she said softly. “You were doing magic, so I waited. I’ll warm it for you.” She pointed her wand at the cup beside him.

He saw colours again: a lacy pattern of brilliant, deep red, shot with blue, gold and green sparks, connecting Gwen to himself. Running both ways…. Breathtaking…. Very slowly and carefully, so as not to disturb the outlines, he reached out to her and took the cup. “I was doing magic? How could you tell?”

“The air crackled, all around you, and around the book. Was it a spell?”

“No; this is what Dumbledore was teaching me. Tonight’s the first time I’ve been able to do it right.” He fell silent and sipped his tea. “I think I’ve used an old connection to Peter—we used to be friends, you know—to Call him. Wait till Moody and Harry come tomorrow, and I’ll tell you when I tell them.”

He stood up slowly, stumbling a bit, suddenly very tired. Gwen quickly stood up with him, taking his arm solicitously, and he found himself leaning on her. She Banished the empty cups into the kitchen sink and held his arm as they walked through the kitchen to their tiny bedroom, surrounded by the bands of beautiful light.

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Sunday morning, 3 December

“I don’t think so.” Moody glared from Sirius to Gwen as he stirred his tea, and Harry listened attentively.

“Even if it’s true, even if you’re sure, we don’t know who else is there, and we don’t know if he’s sounded the alarm…. What if he knows you’re onto him? You say yourself he looked scared. We can’t go barging in there without more information. The place could be a nest of Death Eaters; Voldemort himself could be there.”

Moody took a bite of his scrambled eggs, swallowed, and gestured distractedly with his fork. “I know, laddie, you’re probably right, though Merlin knows how they’ve managed to Conceal it from all of us. We’ve watched that old house off and on for over a year now, and seen nothing. And didn’t you say Dumbledore sent you there for a while, last year?”

Sirius nodded, and leaned forward. “Yeah, and I never saw a soul. But, you know what? It didn’t mean anything to me at the time, but there was a smell around the house and grounds. I was there as Padfoot, and he noticed. Snakes—the whole area smelled like snakes. I’ll bet anything they’ve been there all along.”

Moody nodded, and gazed quizzically at the small jar of maraschino cherries on the table, along with the more conventional breakfast foods. He picked up the jar, opened it and sniffed suspiciously at the contents. “Where do you find this stuff?—Anyway, I’m not letting you, or even the three of you, charge down there until I’m sure of what we’re dealing with. I’ve got spell-breakers, Seers, surveillance people…. Now that we know for sure something’s going on there, it should be easier to get through all the concealment stuff. I’ll talk to some Aurors… and you lot sit tight.”

He glared around the table at the intent, slightly frustrated expressions. “I mean it.”

Sirius sighed. “I know you do, and I know you’re right. But— you’re sure your people won’t do anything to tip him off?  And when you do go down there, and you find out what you need to find out, let me know. I promise,” he said, lifting a hand to ward off argument, “not to do anything stupid. But you’re going to need me to identify him. Nobody knows what Pettigrew looks like, any more, except me.”

Harry cleared his throat. “And me,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.

Brilliant blue; the same colour as the bond in the photo between James and Sirius. Interwoven with blue of a deeper shade. Strong and clear, breathtakingly beautiful, shimmering in the weak morning sunlight. It dominated the room’s pattern for a moment, stretching across the other connections, as Sirius caught his breath and hesitated. If James had lived…what an amazing bond they’d have had by now. Ah well.

Harry was fifteen, and likely thought himself indestructible. He would go right down to Little Hangleton; he’d go in a heartbeat. If Voldemort were there with Peter…. That must not happen.  Sirius sent an unspoken plea across the table to Moody, who gave him a barely discernable nod and a half-smile. The thin, taut band connecting him to Moody glowed briefly, and Sirius relaxed a fraction.

“So, you’ll let me know? I can come whenever you say.”

They cleared the breakfast things away and spent the rest of the morning teaching Concealment charms to Harry and Gwen, practicing on their footprints in the thin crust of snow, and then trying to break each other’s concealments.

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Evening, 3 December: a letter.

Hello Dears,

I know you were expecting us for the full moon on Wednesday, but we wondered if the two of you could come here instead, and stay for a couple of days. Gwen’s never seen Norway, for one thing, and besides, it would be difficult for us to leave just now.

We seem to have acquired a child. You remember Jonas, the little singer? He has moved from the Second-Years’ House into our cabin; he had a terrible loss just over a month ago. His parents and grandparents, and two younger sisters, were trapped in a freak snowstorm and most likely killed; no trace of them has been found. Jonas left school, went home to his village and helped with the search, but nothing could be discovered. He was staying with an uncle and his family, but couldn’t handle being there, so he asked and was given permission to come back to the school.

He won’t be parted from Remus and me. After two nights back in the Second-Years’ House, he came to me in the barn and asked if he could sleep at our place; of course I couldn’t refuse him. He looked so small, and so alone, but so self-possessed… my heart went right out to him! Remus is his favourite teacher; that may have prompted his request. That was almost three weeks ago, and he seems content, if unusually quiet. You’ll know how strange that is, if you remember how he and Frode terrorised the place last year!

Frode sticks loyally by him; in fact, after school hours we generally have both of them here. Jonas does all his schoolwork; sometimes he actually laughs at some of Frode’s jokes, but most of the time he just sits quietly, close to me or Remus, never out of our sight.

I know Remus wants to talk to you; he’s heard from that French couple about their daughter.

So, shall we see you on Wednesday, unless we hear otherwise? Just Apparate; don’t try flying that motorbike of yours. The weather is far too wet, and there are terrible storms over the sea this time of year.

Love,

Andie

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Wednesday, Folberg school, Norway

“Of course there was a bit of discontent from the members of Jonas’s community; I listened long and patiently to his aunt and uncle about this move.”

The dining hall was always a noisy, cheerful place—doubly so, every time Sirius visited. As Sirius held forth at the opposite end of the hall, sending the children into shouts of laughter, everyone at the staff table strained to hear as old Aslak, the shaman, recounted the events of his visit to Jonas’s village that morning. Gwen sat between Andie and Remus, listening along with everyone else.

“We of the wizarding Sami do not have the custom of adoption, at least not as others do it. If one of our children is left without parents, everyone is responsible for him. But if the child is old enough to have an opinion, he may choose where he is to live. Nobody ever questions this right—but nobody from his village has ever chosen to live with a foreigner before.” Aslak smiled.

“Jonas’s uncle told him, ‘Who will teach you to be Sami?’ and Jonas replied, ‘No-one needs to teach me that; I AM Sami.’ I told Jonas’s uncle that this was true, but I would be here, and would take a special interest in the boy’s education.” Aslak smiled diffidently at Remus. “I hope you do not consider that presumptuous of me. Jonas considers himself to belong to your family now, and I wish to respect his choice.”

Remus raised his glass to Aslak and nodded his appreciation. “You are more than welcome to take an interest in Jonas; I am grateful. I hope you, and everyone here, will help us. I am quite pleased and honoured that he’s chosen us, but a bit terrified at the same time. Andie will be perfect in a mothering role, but I’ve no idea whether I can be a good father….”

Andreas, from his Headmaster’s chair, nodded solemnly at Remus and tried, not very hard, to mask a smile. “If half what I hear from Andie and Sirius is true, this is nothing more than justice. Who would be better than yourself to take young Jonas in hand, since you had such a…lively childhood yourself? You will understand his active nature. Jonas is a bit subdued now, but I am confident that with you and Andie to shelter him, he will soon be the trial to our sanity that he was last year. Of course we will help—all of us.”

There was a general murmur of assent, and a few smiles, as the staff turned their attention to the food on the table. Sirius joined them, still chuckling at some joke he’d had with the children, and found an empty chair beside Martine, the Potions mistress.

This was a good place. Andie and Remus were happy here; Sirius gazed around the table at the easy smiles, the conversation, the…patterns. Dumbledore hadn’t exaggerated; it was a beautiful sight, to be in a room full of people who all worked together. A tapestry: a crisscrossing web of shifting lines, strands, threads of light, of every imaginable colour, stretching between people and off into the distance. The bonds strengthened when two people focussed on each other, to speak or share a glance, then subsided into the general pattern when their attention was turned elsewhere.

He looked a few places down the table toward his Pack, sitting together with Gwen in the middle; welcome and cherished. Beautiful patterns there…swirling around the three of them, and…stretching out to include him! He closed his eyes, momentarily overcome.

“Sirius?”

Martine looked up at him with polite concern, holding a basket of rolls. Wonderful; all he needed was a new “skill” that made him appear even more of a prat in company.

“Sorry; I was just enjoying the sight of all of you together. Gwen and I have been leading quite a secluded life, lately.” He took a roll and passed the basket on.