Banish Misfortune

Chapter 12:

 No lonely convict can resist the darkness,
Just as no sailor can the driving rain,
But find a comrade for to share your fastness,
And sweet loving friendship will ease your pain.
                                                   --Peter Bellamy, "The Transports"

A confusing but quite satisfactory couple of minutes followed, concluding with introductions. The woman with the little boy, now wiping tears from her own eyes, reached up and gave Sirius a kiss on the cheek. His father put an arm around her. "This is a dear friend of mine, Maria Theakston, and her grandson Michael." He looked Sirius up and down, reaching his other hand up to ruffle Sirius's hair. "You look well. A bit skinny, but you're all right, aren't you?"

Maria smiled up at both of them. Her cloud of thick hair, as soft-looking as her daughter's, was mostly grey, fastened in a loose knot on top of her head. She was short, slightly plump, dressed in jeans and sweatshirt. Sirius smiled back, wondering at the look his father had given her. "You look like your father," she murmured. "Just as handsome. We've thought about you quite a bit, you know…. Well, you'll want a bit of time alone, I imagine. Suppose I take Michael and Tam over to Carlo's for lunch, and we meet the two of you later, back here? We can send sandwiches back for you, if you like. I'll just collect Tamsin and lock up the shop."

Sirius remembered Pete. "There's a friend of mine over there," he said. "Would you mind if he goes along? Let me split the bill with you."

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They stood looking at each other for a long moment after Maria had left, wondering what to say next. For years, Sirius had worked at not caring about his reputation. In prison, he'd known better than to dwell on what people thought of him; thoughts like that led to insanity. Suddenly, however, it became terribly important that his father know the truth. He tried to think how to begin. Finally, Sirius cleared his throat, self-consciously. "It looked bad, didn't it? They didn't give me a trial….I should explain to you how it was.…"

"They wouldn't even let me see you when you were arrested," Nigel growled softly, glowering  with remembered anger. "And when Crouch told me you didn't 'deserve' a trial, I screamed bloody murder to anyone who would listen. People over him, his bosses, just told me it wasn't their responsibility. I even went to the Daily Prophet, but they told me they couldn't print a story like that without approval from the Ministry. After all my work, as valuable as I'd been told I was, even bailing Crouch out a time or two. 

 "In the end, after a week of pounding on doors and hearing how unassailable Barty Crouch was, I just went back to his office and punched him in the face. Broke his nose, I think. I cursed him as well—a couple of nasty ones I hadn't used since my school days—then I went downstairs and handed in my resignation. That was the last time I signed the name 'Aeneas Black' to anything. Then I went home and took out a map of the world, closed my eyes, and put my finger down on Edinburgh. If it had been the middle of the ocean, that's where I'd be now. I didn't care much."

Nigel smiled ruefully. "None of that did you much good, I'm afraid. Your mother always complained that you'd inherited my temper." He looked down at his hands for a moment, and said, "Of course, I think a bit of it was deliberate: if I could be furious enough over the way they'd treated you, I wouldn't have to spare any energy wondering if what they said was true."

Sirius reached his hand to his father, who took and held it. "I couldn't blame you, or anyone, for thinking me guilty. It was Peter, remember him? We switched places; we made him James and Lily's Secret-Keeper and let everyone think it was me, so they'd leave him alone. I can't believe how stupid I was, thinking Remus was a spy for Voldemort—it was little Peter, all the time. I went looking for him that day—I would have killed him, but he was too fast for me. He's an Animagus; he got away by turning into the Rat. Some day I will kill him, but first he's going to tell everyone the truth if I have to beat it out of him."

The talking, once begun, continued in an unstoppable flood, punctuated by laughter, tears, shouting, arm-waving, and a delivery boy with sandwiches. A few customers drifted in, bringing in items to be repaired or picking up finished ones, allowing breaks in the conversation. Sirius sat on a high stool with his back to these people, watching as Nigel dealt with the various questions and problems. The sky darkened; the business day ended. Nigel and Sirius picked up their jackets, locked the shop, and walked next door to Castoffs, where Maria, Tamsin, Michael and Pete greeted them with smiles, questions, and a bottle of wine.

 In the flat over the shop, they talked the rest of the afternoon, into the evening. Sirius and Pete eventually relayed Dumbledore's message, to Nigel and Maria's concern. Sirius told of his escape, of his rescue by his godson, of the care he'd been given at Remus's, of making contact with Andie.

Maria explained how she'd found Nigel, sitting alone on a park bench, staring into space. "It was nearly a year after I moved up here. I knew Nigel—Aeneas, as he was then—we'd worked together on a few projects at the Ministry; he was one of the few people there who'd been kind to me when my husband disappeared, tracking Death-Eaters. Nobody knew what had happened to him. I was sick with worry, and then the rumours began; they said my husband had defected to the Dark. I couldn't bear it; I just left, and opened my shop here. So, when Nigel appeared here after what happened to you, I understood. I was so lucky to find him; he's been a dear friend, like a father to my two girls."

When Maria's older daughter, Cordelia, came for Michael, they realised with a sigh that nobody had the strength to fill her in. "We'll tell you tomorrow, but the gist of it is that this is Nigel's son.…"

Pete and Tamsin, also, had exchanged a great deal of information, of interest mainly to each other.

Pete and Sirius were silent as they walked back through blowing snowflakes to the Armstrong home. "I'm bringing her round here for tea on Sunday," he said softly, when they were nearly home. "D'you reckon she'll feel at home in a non-magic house?"

"From all the evidence, she'll feel at home wherever you are," Sirius grinned. "And in any case, she'll do fine. She's grown up here; lots of her friends will have been from non-magic families."

He lapsed into silence once more, his head full of images of his father.

He remembered—would never forget—the last time he'd seen his father: the seventeenth of August, 1981. His twenty-first birthday. A party, the elder Black had called it, for the two of them. Aeneas had gone to some trouble and expense for the occasion: a very pleasant Muggle restaurant, excellent food, a bottle of wine shared between them. Sirius had been surprised at the invitation; they were both so busy in those days. At dinner, both of them had been fighting fatigue, making jokes, willing each other to have a good time. They'd made an effort not to talk shop; to keep the evening light, and to ignore the cloud of fear and danger that hung over everything. Hundreds of things went unsaid that night, with one exception.

In amongst the chitchat, a phrase passed off as a joke: his father had reached for the wine bottle; it had slipped from his hand and dropped the two or three inches to the tabletop. Wine had sloshed out onto Sirius's sleeve, and his father had handed him a serviette. "Thanks, Dad," he'd said. For some reason this had amused his father. With the first real laugh of the evening, Aeneas said to the air, "Daft, I always said so. My fault he's covered in wine, but he's thanking me! I love you, Sirius."

 His father had looked older back then than he did now. What was he, sixty? He looked well; the years had been kind to him. Or perhaps Maria had been kind… Sirius hadn't intended to pursue that thought, but there it was in his head. Nigel had made no move to leave Maria's flat when he and Pete left. Was it their flat? Well, what if it was? 'My dear friend, Maria,' he'd called her. 'I took him home and looked after him,' she'd said. Sirius found himself smiling.

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Pete found himself saddled with rehearsals the next day. "Jimmy's been busy," he smiled. "He's got us gigs we didn't expect to get. There's a chamber music affair in a castle down in the Borders tomorrow evening, very posh, then a Burns dinner Wednesday, and then a spot on a  television programme, which they'll spend two days shooting, Thursday and Friday. We need to go over some new  sets, get the Christmas stuff out of our heads. Nice as far as the money's concerned, but all very proper; we have to wear suits and ties for everything. Arthur and Len should be round in about half an hour. If you're up by Castoffs, give my best to the ladies. And don't do anything exciting without me."

"As a matter of fact, I did think I'd leave the list for a day; I want to talk the whole thing over with my—Aeneas—Nigel. My dad. He'll have some insights into this whole assignment, and he'll know how to approach some of these people."

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Nigel looked over the list of names, while Sirius perched cross-legged on his father's worktable. "The one I'm worried about is Garrard Pyke. I know him. I'm not sure where his loyalties lie; I never was, really. He was a double agent, like your friend Snape, but in his case, I'm not sure which side benefited most from his efforts. In the last weeks of the fighting, just before the Potters were killed, he was "exposed" in the Daily Prophet as a traitor. But nearly the same day, we had word in the office that his cover had been blown among the Death Eaters, as well.

"I spoke with Garrard last year; he came into the shop with a Muggle radio he said was bewitched to report all his activities to Dumbledore. It was bewitched, all right: it sent up clouds of smoke every time the news came on. I suspected he'd done it himself. I never thought he was quite stable. He can be fairly hostile, though; watch yourself when you visit him, and look after your Muggle friend. He doesn't care much for wizards, but he hates Muggles."

Sirius frowned. "Do you have an address for Pyke, then? Perhaps I should go see him today, while Pete is rehearsing. It's a bit of a dilemma about Pete. He's quick, and very cool about magical activity. And he did help me out of a small fix I'd got into. He's great company; I can hardly believe I've only known him a couple of days. But I really shouldn't involve him in all this, should I? He's having a ball: he thinks it's all wonderful, especially now he's met Tamsin."

Nigel nodded, amused. "He's not the only one who thinks it's all wonderful; you should have heard Tam herself all last evening after you'd left, and again bright and early this morning. Yes, whatever we do, we'd better keep young Pete safe." He hesitated, then said, carefully, " What if I go down with you to Garrard's? I don't want you to think—I certainly think you're capable, but-- "

"I'd be glad of the company. And the help, if it comes to that. I've outgrown being offended at any offer of help." He grinned, slid down off the worktable, picked up his jacket and waited for his father to lock up.

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The bus ride was a novelty; Sirius had forgotten about buses. They crawled into less and less savoury neighbourhoods, eventually alighting in front of a block of shabby flats. Up a staircase, checking the numbers. "This should be it," his father said.

The door opened a few inches at their knock, revealing a bloodshot blue eye and a wisp of unruly ginger hair. "What do you want?" she said.

"We're looking for Garrard Pyke; is this the right address?" asked Sirius.

"It's the right address. He's here, but he's not well. I'm his friend; I can give him a message if you like." She stepped out into the cold, blocking the door but facing them. Her tangled hair blew into her face, her shoulders in their black cardigan hunched against the wind.

A hoarse, high-pitched male voice called from inside, "Cass? Cass, who is it? If it's Muggles, kill them."

The woman looked nervously over her shoulder. "This is not a good time; perhaps you'd like to come back another day." She turned to go back inside, but Sirius stopped her. "He called you Cass—would you be Cassandra Westover? I should see you too. Please wait just a minute; I'm sorry, I know it's cold. But I've been asked by Albus Dumbledore to find you.…"

The woman's eyes narrowed; her hands clenched on the hem of her cardigan. "Dumbledore? Where was Dumbledore when Garry needed him? Left him to be crucified by the Ministry and the Death Eaters alike! You'd better leave, and please never come back. I never want to hear the name Dumbledore again. Leave now, or I won't be responsible."

"Dumbledore? Who's that, talking about Dumbledore?" The hoarse voice screeched. "Nevernevernever say that name, he'll hear you! He's everywhere, he's.…"

The woman slammed the door. Nigel and Sirius turned and walked back down the stairs. As they reached the pavement, Nigel turned and glanced up, just as the door reopened. He saw the arm and hand shaking slightly as it pointed the wand at them, saw the sparks, reacted without thinking. He caught Sirius round the waist and fell heavily to the ground with him.  "Don't use your wand," he whispered. Sirius nodded; they got to their feet and began to run. An unkempt figure stood on the balcony and shivered in the biting wind as it took aim a second time.

Sirius felt the impact of the spell on his left shoulder, like a stone from a catapult. He felt his arm grow heavy and numb. Nothing to worry about, he could sort that out when they got home. They turned a corner, slowed to a walk. The shop windows wavered in the weak sunlight, undulating slightly with each step they took. An interesting effect, he thought; rather entertaining. He stumbled, jostling a woman who gave him an outraged glance. She obviously needed cheering up; he smiled winningly at her and decided to sing her a few verses of a song.

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"His eyes are open; I think he's coming round."

A woman's voice; he should know that voice. He was lying down: bed? No, sofa. What was going on? A hand on his shoulder: well-known without seeing the owner. His father. For a moment, he was sixteen years old again. Was he in trouble? He tried to remember what he'd been doing. Was he drunk? No doubt someone would tell him. A woman's face came into focus: Maria. Awareness returned.

"I don't think Garrard Pyke will be much help this time," he murmured.

His father chuckled. "Well, it was an interesting bus ride home anyway, thanks to him. I didn't know there were so many rude verses to 'Abide With Me'; who'd have thought? If our fellow passengers hadn't been so amused, the driver would have thrown us off the bus. Try to move that left arm. A bit stiff? Don't fight it; it's better than it was. Movement will come back. Drink this."

Sirius sat up, ignoring a mild wave of dizziness. He sniffed the contents of the goblet that had been handed him: spicy and warm. A Restoring potion, better made than he could have done it. He finished it in one draught and felt better. He looked around the room: Maria, his father, Tamsin, Pete. "Pete—what are you doing here? You're rehearsing."

"I've been rehearsing, all day. It's nearly eight o'clock; you've been asleep most of the day, they tell me. Len was a non-stop bastard; when they left I told Liz I'd get something to eat in town; I just wanted a walk. Good thing I happened by; you're in a pitiful state. I told you not to do anything interesting without me."

He reached in a pocket and pulled out a rolled-up piece of parchment. "There was an owl on the windowsill of your room. Vee saw it and let it in, then came down to tell us. Everyone was appreciative; Arthur gave her a round of applause. I told her the owl was your postman; she and I took a piece of cheese up to it, for a reward." He grinned and handed the parchment to Sirius. "I hope you're happy; they now think I'm as daft as Vee is."

Sirius unrolled the parchment and read the letter aloud, with increasing delight:

Dear Sirius,

I hope this reaches you; I have no idea where you are just now. But I have the most marvellous news: we were invited to dinner at Ola's last night. Yes, I know: stuffy, ponderous, dress robes, everything just as you imagine it, I'm sure. But he really is trying, poor man, and it isn't easy for him. The cooking was lovely, however, and his dinner service was ever so elegant. Beautiful old china and crystal, and—wait for it—he told us about his efforts to get acquainted  with the local magical creatures. He'd put out a bowl of porridge for the Tomten, he said, and left his box of cutlery on the bench, thinking perhaps… And sure enough, the next morning, his silver had been polished.

His SILVER, Sirius! Remus ate with a silver knife and fork, and stirred his coffee with a silver spoon! We both realised at the same time, and burst out laughing. Poor Ola thought for a moment we were making fun of him somehow, but we explained quickly enough. He was ever so impressed and said so, very kindly. Remus was very quiet, as you might guess, but fairly vibrating with happiness. I was so happy I cried, just a bit. Ola was hilarious: he said, "Come, my dear: you can't cry now, we haven't had our brandy yet."

Remus didn't say anything about it this morning; he just went off to his classes, with a slightly bigger smile than usual, walking on air. So am I!

Write when you get the chance. How's your mission going?

Please look after yourself--     Andie

Sirius whooped in triumph, then looked around at the group of confused faces. "Is anyone else hungry? I'll explain over dinner. This time it's my treat! But first I need to write to my sister; we need to get you two together. Nigel, do you have an owl?"

"No," he said, "but if you need one right away, I'll open the window. One usually shows up." He was silent for a moment. "My little girl… yes, we need to see Andie."

Dear Andie,

Great news about the silver; I can't stop grinning.

I have some news too: yesterday, I ran into a bloke up here called Nigel Troy (ask Remus, love. I couldn't guess either, from the name. But I'll bet he will.) who sends you his love, and wants to see you as soon as possible. Let me know when you can spare a day for a visit.

Sirius

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Sirius was grateful for Pete's company on the way home. Even after a meal, the lingering effects of the spell left him feeling weak and vulnerable. The walk seemed longer than it usually did. His left arm ached stubbornly; not unbearable, but intrusive. He stumbled slightly, cursed softly, laughed at his clumsiness.

Pete caught his arm and steadied him. "Can we talk about this a bit? You look terrible, you know. They were all dead scared about you up there. Maria said that sort of spell could have killed you if you'd been hit straight on. And your dad was worried, though he didn't let on to you.

"It seems to me, after seeing Zenobia, and listening to Maria and your dad, there's something to be said for just leaving it all alone and living in the normal world. You're a fugitive; they want to stick you back in prison. Why are you doing this?"

To Pete's surprise, Sirius laughed. "My dad might have been worried, but he'd never expect me to retreat from a fight. I suppose it must seem daft to you," he said. "Fair enough, it looks like a choice between stupid and horrible, sometimes. But there is a difference: Take my friend Remus, for example: he's lived most of his life as a werewolf. 'Nice' people, because of stupid prejudice,  would have nothing to do with him. They wouldn't allow him into their homes or hire him to work in their businesses, or be friendly to him in any way.

"The Dark supporters, the Death Eaters, if they had their way, would force him to kill people. They have werewolves working for them, sort of slaves. Which is worse?

"And then there's the fact that Voldemort has taken a special interest in my young godson. He wants to kill him, because he couldn't do it before, I suppose. I owe Harry—I owe his parents—I can't let anything happen to him. He's a great kid; he looks up to me. He trusts me to help him. There's no choice to make, really."

Pete nodded, then grinned at Sirius. "Well, I hope we survive mustering the allies. As you say, I suppose there's no choice."

Sirius looked startled; gave Pete a worried glance. " 'We survive?' What's this 'we' stuff? What would your family think of me if I dragged you along on one of these visits and you came home with an arm like this? Or worse? It could happen."

Pete laughed at him. "I think you magic folk have a great deal more fun than we do, and it's time I got in on some of it. Tamsin tells me her best friend from school likes animals, so he got a job working with dragons in Romania. If people in my world like animals, we buy a puppy." A slow grin spread over his face, and he added, "..or in my case, pick up a stray. I promise, I do know this job of yours is dangerous. But you did follow me home, you know, and now I'm keeping you."

Sirius didn't argue. He wasn't sure whether having Pete as an ally would help or hinder, but he hadn't the strength to worry about it just now. And if he were honest, on the whole he was glad.