Banish Misfortune

Chapter 11:

--Aeneas to his son: "Learn courage from me, and true toil; from others the meaning of fortune."
                                                              -- Vergil,  'the Aeneid,' 12.435

Wednesday, 18 January, 1995; the edge of the Forbidden Forest:  

Hippogriffs are a very loyal race. They are also quite social, in a distant, protocol-driven way. Buckbeak couldn't understand why his human friend wanted him to go alone into the Forbidden Forest. He ruffled his feathers, swished his tail, and followed Sirius back along the path.

Sirius gave a sigh of irritation. "Honestly, Buckbeak, it won't be much fun for you, alone in the Hut for such a long time. Go find Hagrid, or the rest of your flock. I promise I'll come back, but it'll be a month or two. You'd hate it in the city, trust me."

Buckbeak shrieked his disapproval, producing a sound that would put a steam locomotive to shame. An eagle-like scream, from lungs and throat many times the size of any eagle's. Sirius cringed and put his fingers in his ears, too late.

"All right, tell you what: I'll go with you till we find someone you know, but then I have to get going and you have to stay. I hope you don't get me in trouble here: if Hagrid sees me, he'll be upset." Sirius grinned to himself: 'upset' was rather a mild way of putting it. He was still a feared, notorious escaped convict to most of the wizarding world. They walked  together, retracing their steps back along the path, shivering a bit in the sharp wind, avoiding patches of ice in the low places. He was glad of the small shelter the trees provided; if the wind were this strong in the Forest, it would be much fiercer in the open. A Folberg cloak would come in handy just now, he thought. His leather jacket wasn't bad, though.

They were a long way from Hogwarts; Sirius had hoped to release Buckbeak on the far side of the Forest to lessen the chance of his being seen by Hagrid or any students. He wasn't sure where the Hippogriff flock stayed. Perhaps they migrated; he hadn't a clue. They walked on.

Dumbledore's letter was in his pocket: another request for help.

 My Dear Sirius,

After January's full moon, I would be very grateful if you could journey to Edinburgh in search of a few good people. You may not be aware of this, but after the fall of Voldemort, some of our most capable witches and  wizards, in dismay over the dissension, the abuse of office by a few ministers, and the general  state of our world, removed  themselves from ordinary society and moved  to Muggle areas.

Edinburgh, a rather cosmopolitan city, attracted quite a few such people. I am enclosing a list of witches and wizards who may still be there. I wish I could provide you with more than just their names, which may have been changed. Many of these people are sure to have moved on. Some of them kept in touch with me for a time, and I have hopes that a few may still  feel sufficient affection for our world that they may be persuaded to help in the event of Voldemort's attempt to return to power. We will have great need of their experience and skills if this should be the case.

Please find them if possible; talk to them, and tell them what we know about recent events. I do not feel that you will be in danger from any of these people, but do exercise caution. If you think they would be alarmed by your presence, let me know where they can be found and I will communicate with them myself.

It might be wise for you to stay in the city for a time, while you search for these people. I am enclosing sufficient Muggle money for you to live on while there.

Please give my fondest regards to Remus, Andreas, and your charming sister!

Albus

The letter held a great wad of paper Muggle money and a list of seventeen names, some obvious aliases. "Mary and John Miller," honestly. Whatever the "Millers" had done during the war, it hadn't been undercover work. 

He could understand their desire to remove themselves from the wizarding world, however. People had been sickened, shocked, frightened by Voldemort, but the Ministry's method of "cleaning up" had been no less appalling to many. His own capture, and devastating sentence without trial, had not been the only abuse of power in the name of defence. He recalled the conversation only a week ago, in Remus and Andie's cabin at Folberg, when they finally had told his story to Andreas and Martine. Shock and sympathy had been evident in their eyes; Martine had said, softly, "I thought Britain was a civilised country." He had thought so too, once. He didn't know what he thought, now.

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Buckbeak gave a sideways prance and lifted his head sharply: someone was coming. Hagrid! Singing to himself: a rumbling, out-of-tune ditty. Buckbeak gave his ear-splitting shriek once more, danced a few steps toward the sound of Hagrid, stopped and looked uncertainly back at Sirius.

"Go on, go see Hagrid," he grinned. Without waiting for a response, he transformed into Padfoot and galloped back toward the edge of the Forest. Behind him, he heard Hagrid's glad shout as he recognised Buckbeak, then the cry of alarm as he caught sight of Padfoot.

He sped along the footpath, skidding on patches of ice, cursing himself for not using his bird shape. He'd be safe now if he'd only had the presence of mind to fly.

They didn't seem to be chasing him, however. He glanced over his shoulder; no, they were out of sight. Excellent.

It is never a good idea to run through a forest without watching where you are going. He slipped on the ice, slammed sideways into a tree, tumbled down the steep slope and fetched up in the stream, against a fallen log, his left foreleg jammed under it. Winded, he lay still for a moment, hoping he hadn't been heard. Almost immediately, as his breath came back, he felt the shock: cold, pain, wet. He tried to struggle free, quietly. The sharp pain in his foreleg caused him to gasp, almost whimper. Something was drastically wrong with that leg. He lay still and didn't moan, though he wanted to.

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"Hello there, Pup," said the voice. Padfoot looked up into concerned brown eyes in a thin, smiling face. A tall, rawboned young man, perhaps in his early twenties, squatted down on the bank and stretched out a hand for him to sniff. "You've got yourself in a right mess, haven't you?" Padfoot slapped his tail in the water a few times at the friendly voice, and tried again to get up, whimpering as he tried to put weight on his foreleg. The young man stepped down into the shallow, icy stream and lifted Padfoot around the middle, trying to haul him up. This hurt too: his ribs protested immediately, and he yelped again.

"You know, mate, I don't want to meddle in your affairs, but I'm thinking this would be a hell of a lot easier if you turned back into a man."  Padfoot's head came up sharply, with an expression of such alarm that the young man laughed. 

"Don't worry about me," he said. "I watched you and that creature of yours going along here a few minutes ago, and saw that bloody giant who yelled after you. I've never seen anyone turn into a dog before; this is too good to share with anybody. Besides, all my friends would only want to know what I'd been drinking, and where they could get some." He jerked his head up toward the path, and said, "The giant was over the moon to see that creature; they went off the other way. He won't see you. So if you can change back, do it; I can't think of any other way to get you out of this." 

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"I'm Pete Armstrong," said the young man.

"Sam Barnes," replied Sirius. "Or at least I'll answer to that."

 The predictable question, "What are you doing here?" was asked on both sides. Sirius had replied, somewhat to his own surprise, truthfully. "I just wanted to return the Hippogriff to the Forest; I have some business in Edinburgh and I couldn't very well take him with me."

Pete's answer took a bit more time. "I've just been five weeks on the road with my brother and his band; I mean, our band. I'm their new guitarist; what with Len's temper they have a fair turnover. I don't think I'll quit, though, mainly because of Jimmy. That's my brother; he's the best there is. So now the band is Len the fiddler, and Jimmy, he plays box and mandolin; and our bodhran player Arthur, and me. 'Banish Misfortune' we call ourselves, after the tune, you know."

 Sirius didn't know, nor did he understand what might be meant by 'playing box', but Pete rambled cheerfully on.  "Truth to tell, I'd be hard to get rid of even if it weren't for Jimmy. This lark is a hell of a lot better than teaching French and Spanish, which is what I've qualified for. I spent a year and a half down at the comprehensive in Darlington with the little bastards, and let me tell you, Len looks like a walk in the park to me, tantrums and all.

"And the music is great. Huge crowds; we were just in Canada and the States, doing a Celtic Christmas tour. The others are all old hands at this, but it was my first trip to America. Parties every night. The food's amazing, and everybody wants to chat while they ask for your autograph. Friendly people, weird as Job's off ox, didn't understand what they were saying to me half the time, but I think that went both ways. I like it. But I like the end of tour as well. 

"See, just when you think you can't take another night hearing the same bloody tune sets, and sleeping in the same hotel room as Len with his moaning, and his reeking socks, it's over and you can go off on your own. Don't get me wrong; I love it, but it's work, no mistake. So when we got out of the taxi at home, I threw my stuff in my room, kissed the nieces, and took off as far from my nearest and dearest as I could get; never mind if it's the dead of winter. Jimmy and the others think I'm daft, but it's a change, isn't it? I like the cold, sometimes."

By this time, they had reached the small hollow in the rocks where Pete had set up his camp. Too small to be dignified by the name "cave", it still provided protection from the wind. Pete's camp was efficient: tent,  sleeping bag, tidily folded clothes in a half-open backpack, kettle, small saucepan, bowl, cup, spoon, knife. Food in a couple of animal-proof tin boxes. A circle of stones for a fireplace.

Nodding amiably to Sirius's "OK if I make a fire?" Pete watched without comment as the sudden burst of blue flame turned a more familiar yellow and grew in size. Sirius took off jacket and shirt, applied a healing charm to his bruised ribs, and conjured a bandage for his sprained wrist. These proceedings drew  similar non-comment from Pete, but did prompt a headshake, a smile and a raised eyebrow. He filled his kettle from a jug of water and set it on two stones in the fire.

They sat contentedly, waiting for the kettle to boil.

"You're pretty good at not asking questions," Sirius said with a grin. "And since you saw me in the stream, there's not much use pretending I can't do any of this. Most of the time I'm more careful; I just didn't expect to see anyone this near the Forbidden Forest. Is this a favourite spot of yours?" The wards around the Forest must be wearing thin on this border, he thought to himself. He'd mention his encounter with Pete to Dumbledore, next time he got the chance.

"No; new territory. I'm not sure how  I came to find it. I took a northbound bus as far as it would go, got out in some little village I can't remember the name of, then started walking. Walked for two days before I found this spot; been camped here almost a week. 'Forbidden Forest', no joke.… it's peculiar enough, I can tell you that. I've seen sights these past few days queerer than what you see in most forests." He smiled then, a friendly, wondering smile that charmed Sirius into smiling back.

"You're the real thing, aren't you? Magic, I mean. I've always wondered how I'd react if I saw  something impossible happening. Is it this whole place, or is it just you? No, sorry, I won't ask if you don't want me to." He busied himself with teabags and boiling water.

Sirius, who had been considering when he should apply a Memory Charm, hesitated. He found himself responding to Pete's easy friendliness and undemanding acceptance of the magical world. Striking up friendships was a skill he hadn't had the chance to use recently.

"It's OK; I don't mind, but I'm not sure it'll make much sense. This forest has had quite a few enchantments and wards placed around it. Sort of a magical wildlife preserve. That big bloke you saw, Hagrid, is the keeper. He's a great character; everyone likes him. He's great with all sorts of creatures, including that Hippogriff you saw me with.

" I'm sort of not supposed to be here; that's why I transformed and ran away. I'm not supposed to be anywhere, actually, but that's another story. The Hippogriff has been in my care for a while, but now I've got to go to Edinburgh, and I'm fairly certain he'd stand out. So I wanted to leave him here where he'd be happy." Sirius accepted a cup of tea, nodded his thanks, and grinned as Pete wrapped a sock around the bowl, now serving as a second cup.

Pete grinned back, then hesitantly asked: "Have you got a place to stay yet? Edinburgh's where I live now; I've moved in with Jimmy and his wife and little girls. You're welcome to stay with us as long as you like. There's a spare bedroom, got a door and everything. Nobody will care; there's always somebody staying with us. Jimmy and Liz are always taking in strays." 

Sirius deliberated, for perhaps ten seconds. His instinct, against all caution and all logic, told him he could trust this remarkable young Muggle. "That's kind of you; are you sure? It should just be for a day or two, until I can find a place. This job may take a month or more. Only, I was hoping to go today. Were you planning to stay out here much longer?"

Pete eyed Sirius with gleeful anticipation. "I can't guess how you intend to get from here to Edinburgh this afternoon. If I left here now, I'd be home in about three days, if I didn't get lost. No doubt you have a better plan."

"Well, there are several ways I could do it, but if you're coming with me, that cuts down the options a bit. I think what I'd better do is go home and get a broomstick. Are you OK with flying?"

"Flying—you mean, flying on a broomstick, like witches? Pull the other one…."

"Give me five minutes; I'll be right back." He Disapparated, and Pete roared with laughter.

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Pete's home was on a quiet street exuding faded gentility. Rows of substantial-looking grey stone houses rested behind tiny gardens, stone-walled against the wind.  A skipping rope, a bright plastic tricycle, and a small suitcase spilling dolls onto the pavement marked the door to the Armstrong home. They stowed the broomstick under the hedge; Sirius restored the camping gear to its former size, and they went in.

A cheerful clutter, composed mainly of books, musical instruments and toys, dominated the cosy sitting room. Voices wafted from the kitchen; obviously a childish dispute was going on, moderated by a patient adult female voice.

"Sorry, love; you're NOT going to live with Grandma. She has troubles of her own, and I don't think she'd count having sisters as child abuse. Fine; phone her up and ask her, you'll see..…  Pete! Lovely to see you back! Look, darlings, Uncle Pete's home!"

Four little girls, ranging in age from eight or nine to perhaps four, left off arguing and ran to Pete, attaching themselves to his waist, arms and legs. He expertly quelled the riot of greeting, picked up the youngest, hugged and kissed the others, and smiled across the room at the dark-haired woman who had greeted him.

"What was all that noise, when I came in? You young heathens have no respect for guests. This is my friend Sam, and I hope you'll be nice to him. Sam Barnes, this is my sister-in-law Liz. She's a zookeeper. And these are captured wild monkeys from the heart of the rain forest. They spend all their time picking fleas off each other and screeching. This is Helen; she's the eldest. These are Jeannie and Margo: twins, as you can see. And this is Vee, short for Verity, the most misleading name in history. Our Vee's going to write fantasy novels when she grows up."

The little girls instantly  grew quiet, suddenly shy at the sight of Sirius. Four blonde heads turned towards him; four pairs of blue eyes stared solemnly. Then, Helen put out her hand, smiled politely, and said "How do you do?" and the other three followed her example.

Pete smiled. "You see, they are at least partially trained." Sirius shook hands all around. Pete turned to Liz and asked, "Sam's looking for work in town; can he stay in the spare room for a few days?" Receiving a smile and a nod, he said, "I'll just go up and make the bed for him then. Where's Jimmy?"

"He had to go round to Arthur's to help him with a drain; you know how hopeless Arthur is. I don't fancy he'll be much longer. The bed can wait; if you'll just take the girls off my hands, tea'll be ready a lot sooner. Sam, we're glad to have you; stay as long as you need to. Make yourself at home, and if there's anything you want, just ask."

Sirius and Pete herded the children into the sitting room, settling amid storybooks, giggles, squabbles, and rough-housing. The little girls' shyness melted away in minutes, as Sirius showed himself willing to read stories, act as announcer for an impromptu fashion show, and be "customer" in a none-too-gentle beauty salon. 

He and Pete sat side by side on the floor, gossiping in their best old-lady voices, the girls arranging dozens of bright plastic barrettes in their hair: "I say, Mrs. Peterborough, those charming clips do bring out the colour of your eyes; they make you look forty years younger."  "Oh, thank you, Mrs Barnesdale, I'm sure you're much too kind. But you certainly do carry off that style you've chosen; you look just like a film star." The young hairdressers giggled; the door opened, and in came a person who could only be Jimmy.

"Where's me TEA?"  he roared, the twinkle in his eyes proclaiming the question to be a huge joke. About Sirius's own age; blond like his daughters, heavily muscled, slightly stoop-shouldered, he gave the impression of being a giant of a man. Only after Sirius stood up to shake hands did he realise that he was several inches taller than Jimmy.

"I see you've been kidnapped by the Hairdressers from Hell." Jimmy smiled as he stuck out a big hand. Introductions were performed, hairclips removed, Liz called them into the kitchen, and relative peace reigned. Sirius felt happy, relaxed, nearly as much at home as he did with his Pack. These were very kind people. He'd landed on his feet once again.

 

Thursday                            *****************************************

It was late the next morning; Liz had left for her work and the three older girls had gone to school.  Verity was holding forth at the kitchen table, as Jimmy made tea and Sirius remembered how to use a toaster: "I had an elephant once; it was the biggest elephant anywhere. I used to feed him beans on toast. I wanted to keep him till I got to be five, so I could ride him to school, but he was a bad elephant. He ate up Mrs McPhee's washing right off the line, and knocked a big hole in our garden wall to get at it, so Dad made me give him to the Zoo. I get to visit him whenever I want."

Jimmy grinned and covered his eyes; Sirius shook his head in admiration, and Pete said, "Vee lives in an alternate universe. It's only on the planet Earth that she's the queen of all prevaricators. What's your plan for the day, Sam?"

"Well, I have this list of names from… my old boss. He says some of them may be helpful. I'm not sure where to start, though."

"If I were you, I'd start with the phone book; here you are." Pete handed it to him with a smile and a quizzical glance.

The telephone directory; of course. Sirius mentally kicked himself for forgetting. Fortunately, neither Jimmy nor Pete remarked on his seeming inexperience with such things. He pulled his list out of his pocket.

"Posh paper your boss uses," said Pete, fingering the thick parchment. "Let me see… no, I don't know any of these people. Jimmy, want a look?"

Jimmy frowned at the list. "Hmm, they're all strangers to me, too. I take it you're not a musician, right? What sort of work are you looking for, Sam?"

Sirius hesitated for a second or two. "Repair work, mostly. I've done some locksmithing, some mechanical work. I've also done some security jobs, but that was a long time ago."

"Well, if your names there don't work out, maybe we can help you find something. Best of luck; I'll leave you to it. Her Ladyship and I are off to the zoo, if you hadn't guessed."

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Five of the names on the list were in the telephone directory. He copied down the numbers and addresses, then sat staring at them. Pete waited for a moment, then said, "Is something wrong?"

"Not exactly; I'm just wondering whether I should go visit these people or phone them up. If you want to know the truth, I haven't used a telephone since I was about ten, and I'd feel a lot more comfortable just talking to them. On the other hand, it would save having them slam the door in my face, which is a real possibility."

"You haven't used a phone since—this is great. How do magic folk communicate, then? I assume you have your ways. Tell you what, I'll be your city guide. We can take the bus, or jump in a taxi if you like, and you can tell me how it works with your folk. Better yet, here's one we can walk to; it'll take about fifteen minutes. 'Zenobia Witherspoon', there's a name for you." 

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Zenobia Witherspoon was a small woman, nearly as old as Dumbledore, by the look of her. Dressed in a woollen skirt and shapeless cardigan, with sheepskin slippers on her feet, she looked perfectly at home in her Muggle surroundings. She opened the door with a genteel barrage of conversation:  "Hello, lads, so kind of you to come by. Come in; it's dreadfully cold this morning. Let me just put the kettle on; I'll make you something warm to drink. Here are those things I promised the Minister for the jumble sale, mind you don't drop that small one; it's crockery." She ushered them into her small, tidy sitting room, making cheerful conversation all the while.

Sirius waited until she paused for breath, and said softly, "Mrs Witherspoon, we're not from the church: Albus Dumbledore sent me to find you."

The change in her manner was instantaneous. She sank down into a brocade-covered  armchair, staring into space. "Albus. What does he want from me? I've nothing Albus wants. I've no  family left; I haven't touched a wand in eleven years. When they took my Jonathan, I left off wizards' affairs forever."

Sirius knelt beside her chair, listened sympathetically, and answered, "All he wanted was for me to talk to you, and tell you there's a real possibility that the Dark Lord is attempting a return. He wants me to tell you that there are some disturbing signs of this, and that the Ministry doesn't seem willing or able to recognise them. People are being killed, disappearing, all over again. He's hoping to get some people with experience of last time, who still have some feeling for the wizarding world. He says we'll need your skills if his fears prove true. Can you at least think it over, perhaps talk to him?"

"Young man, you're asking more than you realise. A reign of terror from Voldemort, or a reign of terror from Voldemort's enemies, it came to the same thing, didn't it? People died, innocent people, because of bloodthirsty monsters on both sides. I lost my son and his family to Death Eaters, and my husband to our 'brave protectors.' A mistake, they said. They apologised very nicely. You can't understand; you're too young."

Sirius took her hand, and said softly: "Zenobia, I do understand. I'm not as young as I must look to you. I lost my best friend to Voldemort; my freedom and good name to our 'brave protectors,' as you put it. Do you remember the name Sirius Black? I'm not likely to get an apology any time soon." 

She looked searchingly at him for a long moment. Then she laid her other hand on his, and murmured, "Oh, my dear. My dear boy. So they were lying about you, too. And yet you're working for Albus now? Well." She sat silent.

At last she looked up and smiled grimly. "Well then. You just go back to Albus Dumbledore and tell him I'll listen if he wants to tell me what he needs. I'm not making any promises, tell him. And I'm not working for the Ministry. If he just wants personal favours, I can probably give him some help. It's been a long time; we'll see. And I hope to goodness he's wrong."

"So do we all, love. I'll tell him you'll listen when he calls. Is your fireplace connected? He may want to know. Oh, one more thing. He gave me a list of people he thinks still live here in town; could you look at it for me and see if you can tell me anything about any of these names? I don't know any of them." He pulled out the list and handed it to her.

"Well, you won't have much luck with the Millers; they're dead. Double suicide, so terrible. Just last year: I was heartsick when I heard. They'd just had enough; I can't argue with their decision.

"Who else do you have? Yes, those addresses are still good. Not that one, though; Anthea Blackthorn and her surviving children have emigrated to Australia. I don't know the Marriotts, or Cassandra Westover. Garrard Pyke: I believe he still lives in town, but I haven't heard from him in years. Maria Theakston: she lives in the Old Town, near the Grassmarket. I don't have her address, but she owns an antique shop called Castoffs. It shouldn't be too difficult to find." She stopped then, looked at him thoughtfully, and said, "What about your family, young Sirius; have you any idea what happened to them?"

"My mother's lived in France for a long time; she's remarried, I hear. I don't know what happened to my father. My sister is in Norway; we're in close touch. She's given me a lot of help since I escaped from prison. She and a friend. They looked after me when I was in fairly bad shape; I could never have survived without them."

He stood up, released her hand, and thanked her. "We should get on with this," he said. "Zenobia… I'm just curious.  Would you mind telling me what your job was, back when Voldemort was a threat? I assume you worked for the Ministry…?"

She smiled impishly at him. "Interrogations," she answered. "I don't need Veritaserum; I ask questions people have to answer, and I can tell when a subject is lying. You pass with flying colours, by the way." She paused a moment, and added, "Do be careful, talking to these people. There are some who have no allegiance except to themselves, and there are others who are turned against all wizards. You have your wand with you? You're wise to travel with a friend. And if you find that you need help, you may call on me."

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Pete gave Sirius a bemused look as they left Zenobia's flat. "I think I'm suffering from information overload. I tried to pay attention; let me see if I have all this straight. You're a wizard, named Sirius Black. Your boss is called Albus. There's a whole international civilization of people like you. You've escaped from prison, but you were innocent of whatever it was they put you in for; Zenobia says so, and she can tell when people are lying.

" Lots of people were killed once before, and are being killed again. Looking up your list of people could be dangerous, but you may need them if there's trouble. Zenobia says to call on her if we get in over our heads; I can only suppose she's stronger than she looks. There's a Ministry—of wizards, I presume—that bollixes things up as royally as our own government does. There's a person called Voldemort; the baddie, I think. And you have a sister. Is she pretty?" He grinned.

Sirius grinned back. "I like the way you focus on the essentials, my friend. Yes, she's very pretty, and clever, but definitely attached."

 He hesitated, then said, "We should talk, though, before we do any more of this. Zenobia reminded me of a few things you should know; or perhaps not know. I'm not sure what my responsibilities are here. Let's get some tea or something; d'you know any place quiet?"

"Home is the quietest place I can think of, and the closest. Let's go back there; you can tell me whatever it is, and then we can go looking for that antique shop Zenobia mentioned. Lizzie has a birthday coming up, and she likes things like that."

There was a large brown owl waiting on the garden wall when they approached the house. Sirius removed the note from its leg, said, "Sorry, I haven't anything to give you." The owl glared disdainfully and flew away. Pete grinned. "Let me guess: the morning post," he chortled.

"Actually, you're right," Sirius smiled, as he unrolled the note and scanned it. "It's a note from my godson; he's at school. He says—well, he says there've been strange things going on there, too. A  Ministry official, very high up, broke into the school and was searching the professors' offices. That's daft; what can he hope to learn that way? He could come to the school any time he wanted to; why break in?"

They went inside, into the kitchen, and sat down at the table. Sirius frowned and drummed his fingers on the tabletop, wondering where to begin. Finally he said, "The main thing I need to tell you is that this could very well be dangerous. It will certainly be sad: the people I'm looking for will all be like Zenobia: clever, powerful people, who have been so badly hurt, or sickened, by the wrongs in our world that they've gone into hiding in yours.

"You're right: Voldemort's the baddie. He's an extremely powerful wizard, obsessed with the idea of pure blood in the wizarding world. Lots of witches and wizards—most of them, most likely—have non-magic people in their family backgrounds." Sirius stopped short of using the word 'Muggle' to Pete. For the first time in his memory, it seemed disrespectful, somehow. He stood up, restlessly, and began pacing around the kitchen.

"Voldemort wanted to kill those people, the 'impure' witches and wizards; he recruited lots of followers who felt the same way. And they did it. And he didn't care how many of your people he killed in the process. He was nearly destroyed back in late '81, along with a lot of innocent people, as you've probably gathered." He glanced down at Pete, trying to assess his reaction.  "If I'm stirring up all these people's memories and feelings, telling them Voldemort may be able to return, it could get intense. It took lots of people to fight him; some of the methods our side used were nearly as bad as the enemy's. I'm likely not to be welcome; it's possible that they may take measures against me."

Sirius paused in his third or fourth circuit of the kitchen, his attention caught by a photo of Jimmy, Liz and the girls in a small frame on the windowsill. He picked it up, carried it over to the table and sat down again, gazing at it as he spoke.

"The point is, I shouldn't drag you into any of this. It isn't safe and my boss probably wouldn't approve. We were lucky, to have picked Zenobia first. I think you should let me do the rest of this visiting alone; there's no way to know what could happen."

Pete listened solemnly, but finally shook his head. "Zenobia said you were wise to have a friend along. If there's some lunatic out there killing people just because they're not wizards, I should help. Besides," he grinned, "I love this! I've never had so much fun in my life! I wouldn't miss this for anything. If you get into trouble, I'll just run back to Zenobia's and have her rescue you, how does that sound? Let's forget this dithering and go on to the antique shop." He paused for a moment, then asked, "Does your family meet Voldemort's standards? Is he after you for not having pure blood?"

Sirius grinned his wolfish grin, teeth gleaming. "If he's out there, he'd be after me just because I fought against him the first time; but no, our family isn't pureblood either. My granny was a seal."

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They had decided to walk to the Old Town to find the antique shop, a matter of some twenty minutes across a park and up a gentle slope. The streets became narrower, more crooked, paved with cobblestones. The shops and restaurants, however, were mostly new, bright places with incomprehensible names like 'Cyber-Kaf' and 'Gen-X'.  The juxtaposition of sharp, modern, trendy establishments in these venerable surroundings made Sirius feel hopelessly out of touch; these shops were selling things he couldn't identify, even with his fondness for Muggle artefacts. They wandered down one side of the street reading the names of shops, finally spotting "Castoffs" on a battered sign on the other side. They went in, and a bell on the door tinkled satisfyingly.

The shop was bursting with curiosities of all sorts, crowding the narrow aisles. There didn't seem to be a theme: old coins in a case, large, imposing pieces of furniture, a rack of clothing from a number of time periods, cardboard boxes of oddments, several shelves full of books, musical instruments, glassware and crockery, all cheek-by-jowl with little attempt at categorisation. At the sound of the bell, a quietly dressed young woman with glorious, soft brown hair came out from the rear of the shop and smiled at them. Or rather, she smiled at Pete.

Sirius had heard of love at first sight, but this was his first chance to observe it directly. Instead of the expected "May I help you?" the woman said "…Oh…"

Pete replied, "…Hullo…" and returned the smile.

After several minutes Sirius decided that any further conversation would have to come from him. He cleared his throat and said, "Good morning; my friend would like to find a gift for his sister-in-law, and I am looking for Maria Theakston. Can you help us?"

The woman shook her head, coming back to earth. "I'm terribly sorry! Maria's my mother; she's at Nigel's shop next door having a music box repaired. She's looking after my little nephew,  trying to keep him from playing with the things in here. You can have a word with her at Nigel's; he won't mind."  Neither she nor Pete noticed when he left.

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The sign on the shop next door read: "Nigel Troy, Repairs and Locksmithing." As Sirius looked at the sign, another line appeared at the bottom: "Curses Lifted."  Sirius went in.

There was no bell on the door. This shop too was crowded with widely dissimilar objects, all with tags bearing owners' names. A rocking chair, an enormous grandfather clock, an old but serviceable broomstick, likely one of the early Nimbus models. Muggle machines, large and small. A dressing table, its mirror held together with C-clamps. An open guitar case with a cat sleeping inside, the guitar in a stand just beside it.

 Voices sounded from the rear of the shop: a woman; a very small child singing the ABCs. Then, a man's voice, warm but powerful, teasing the child: "That's all very well, young Michael, but can you say them this way? Here's how  I used to tell 'em to my little ones." The voice took on a faster, music-hall patter: "A  for 'orses; B for mutton, C for yourself, D for dumb.…"

Sirius caught his breath. Slowly, quietly he walked towards the voice. "F for vessence…" He laughed softly even as tears formed in his eyes, and repeated the sequence along with the speaker: "L for leather, M for sis, N for a penny- N for a pound, O for the carefree days of my youth.…"

"Sirius?"

The man was large and muscular, nearly as tall as Sirius. A worn leather apron covered the front of his trousers and woollen shirt. His hair was black, with  patches of white at the temples. His eyes, pale blue, were misting with tears. His strong hands clenched into fists at his sides.

 Sirius was suddenly wary, uncertain of his welcome. "I never betrayed James," he whispered. "I didn't kill anyone.…"

"I believe you. You never could be bothered to lie.…" Nigel Troy, formerly Aeneas Black, laughed then, opened his arms and embraced his son, holding tight and lifting him off the floor.