Banish Misfortune

Chapter 13:

True Thomas played upon his harp,
The fairy harp that couldna lee,
And the first least word the proud king heard
It harpit the salt tear out o' his e'e.
                                                     --Rudyard Kipling, "The Last Rhyme of True Thomas" 

Saturday.                  

"Sam, can you put milk on my Weetabix for me? I'd do it myself but I've got a broken leg."

Sirius looked bemusedly down at Vee, standing quite normally in front of him in her pajamas, with her bowl and spoon in her hands. "Right. Milk on the Weetabix. Broken leg. I'm always good in a crisis; have no fear…. Where's the milk?"

"Fridge, Sam, don't you know anything?" With a regal air, she pointed with her toe at the fridge and marched to the table.

"I was just testing you; of course I knew." He opened the fridge and produced the milk jug with a flourish. "Brilliant, eh? Found it the first time." He poured milk into her bowl, left-handed, gauging the amount of soreness still in his arm from yesterday's spell. Not bad; barely noticeable, in fact. He finished making his tea and joined her at the table.

Vee fixed him with a bright eye. "Do owls really bring you letters? Pete says they do, and there was a rolled-up letter on that one yesterday."

Sirius thought for a moment: What were the ethics involved with lying to a child—even a child who, as nearly as he could tell, never told the truth? Better play it safe; truth is always best. "Well, yes, they do bring me letters, but I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't tell that to anyone; it's a secret. Is that OK?"

"Don't worry; I won't tell a single soul. Can you get one to bring me a letter?"

Before he could answer, the twins burst into the kitchen: one still in her nightdress, one wearing purple leggings and a huge bottle-green pullover with the sleeves falling down over her hands. They bustled about the kitchen like a pair of noisy house elves, foraging.

"Dad's never going to let you go tonight, not after Miss Munro talked to him yesterday! You're still in trouble. Hi, Sam!"

"Oh yes he will, I've been punished for yesterday. Tonight's music, that's different. Hi, Sam!"

Sirius grinned. "Hi, twins. What sort of trouble are you in?"

The twin in the nightdress answered. "It's not me, it's Margo. She's in trouble because yesterday at school she threw Claire Johnstone's pencil box on the floor and stamped on it, and it broke in hundreds of pieces, and now she's got to buy her another one. I don't think she should have to, because Claire Johnstone's a horrible pig, but Mum and Dad say she has to."

"Who's a horrible pig, and what do Mum and Dad say?" Jimmy, his hair damp from the shower, ambled into the kitchen, barefoot, buttoning his shirt, and frowning at Margo. "And isn't that my jumper you're wearing, Miss?"

"The girls were just telling me about breaking someone's pencil box at school, but I don't know much about it yet." Sirius looked across the kitchen at Margo, who was sitting on a bench in the corner, busily spreading jam on a slice of toast, ignoring the question from her father. "Why did you want to smash a pencil box, anyway?"

Margo waved her knife. "Because Claire told everyone in class that I fancy Alan McNeill, and I DON'T. And he found out and he was embarrassed, so he stood up in the classroom and told everyone I was a silly cow, and he hated me. Claire's horrible; she's always telling things on people. I wanted to hit her, but I just broke the box instead," she added virtuously.

"Admirable restraint," said Jimmy wryly, his mouth twitching. "Well, my lass, the punishment still stands. You'll apologise to Claire for losing your temper, and you'll buy her a new box. If you're lucky it won't cost more than your week's pocket money. Yes, it's horrible to tell things on people… but it's also horrible to break other people's things. Perhaps if you look after all the instruments tonight, there'll be a bit of cash in it for you; that should help."

Jimmy looked sheepishly over at Sirius as he added water to the electric kettle. "Margo's a fair little whistle player, and she has a couple tunes on concertina as well. She's the only one of this lot who thinks she'd like to be a musician, so I let her come along to all the gigs that don't interfere with school. We're the only band on the circuit with a seven-year-old roadie. I want her to know what it's like." He looked benignly at his daughters. "Who wants bacon and eggs this morning?" he asked.

Sirius pondered the little conversation, marvelling at the way Jimmy handed out punishment, blame, praise, and then moved on to more important things, so gently, so casually, all before he'd had breakfast. Misdemeanors such as Margo's had never been handled so calmly in his childhood, at least not by his mother. And his father's usual comment had always been, "Let's hope your mother doesn't find out."

Jeannie sat beside him at the table, eating an unidentifiable concoction from a bowl. "She does fancy Alan McNeill, though," she announced composedly. "That's why she broke Claire's pencil box instead of his. I'd have done 'em both if it was me; he was horrible too."

Margo's reply, if any, was drowned in her father's laughter and the entrance of Pete, carrying a giggling Helen over one shoulder.

 "Morning, all," said Pete. "Yes, please, we'd both like bacon and eggs. Are you cooking, or was that a trick question, to get someone to cook for you? Lizzie's in the shower; you'd better count her as well."

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That morning Sirius moved into the room behind Nigel's shop. He had intended to walk there, but Jimmy said, "You'll have a suitcase or something to carry; we can drive you up, no trouble." Sirius thanked him, hustled upstairs and conjured a suitcase.

The Clan Armstrong's younger members protested loudly at "Sam's" departure; they had come to regard him as their own property. Sirius was touched and pleased. He and Pete had agreed with Nigel that such a move was a good idea for everyone's safety. Even so, now that the time had come, he suddenly felt reluctant to leave this house, with its easy acceptance and kind generosity.

 Pete seemed to sense this; he said softly, "Don't think you've seen the last of us; I know where you are, and I'll be along Monday and Tuesday to help with the list. Or, tell you what: why don't you bring Tamsin down tomorrow afternoon, she'll probably feel more at home with you here anyway. We'll be rehearsing all day, I'm thinking; come about five. It'll be an excuse to stop."

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The owl was waiting for him when he arrived at the shop, perched on the windowsill of the room that was to be his.

My Dear Mr Black, (Or, if you will allow me to be less formal, Sirius,)

I have thought long and hard about the conversation we had on Thursday, when you and your friend visited my home at Dumbledore's request. In fact, I have not been able to put you out of my mind!

It occurs to me that, since I know some of the people on your list, I might be of some assistance to you in contacting them. I fear that Dumbledore has put you in some danger of being apprehended as an escaped criminal—it was really very indiscreet of him to give you this assignment. Please do not proceed any further with your enquiries until we have spoken further about this. You may visit me at any time, except perhaps Sunday. I have agreed to help with activities at the church where I am a member, and will not be at home for much of the day. May I expect you Monday?

I trust the owl will find you; perhaps the next time we meet, you can tell me your address. Do not write it down or send it; one can never be too careful.

I never thought I would involve myself in activities such as this, after the tragic mishandling of affairs I saw before. But your bravery, and disregard for your own safety, have prompted me to do my duty once again. One cannot hide, can one? Perhaps this time we will be fairer to each other in our fight against the Dark.

Sincerely, 

 Zenobia Witherspoon.

Sirius scribbled a reply:

Dear Zenobia,

 May I take you out for lunch on Monday?  I'll be there at noon.

                                          --Sirius

He opened the window and watched the owl fly off to the south.

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Sunday:

Sirius and Tamsin knocked at the Armstrongs' door a few minutes before five o'clock. Vee came to the door, took a flying leap into Sirius's arms and said, "Sam! I've been yearning for you tragically. Do you like lamb stew? That's what we're having. Is this Tamsin? We have to be quiet; they're not finished practicing yet. My name's Verity," she said, turning to Tamsin. "I'm sixteen, and Sam is my boyfriend."

Carrying Vee, biting his lip and rolling his eyes helplessly at a spluttering Tamsin, Sirius followed the strains of music into the dining room, a room which, until now, had seemed completely unused. A lively reel commanded the attention of the four men seated in straight-backed chairs, playing away on mandolin, guitar, bodhran and fiddle. Jimmy and Pete looked up, smiled and nodded, but didn't stop to speak. Two other men sat off to one side listening, and an older woman played along softly on a flute. The effect was wild, complicated, exhilarating. Margo sat on the floor at her father's feet, listening with an air of close attention and satisfaction.  Sirius and Tamsin took chairs set back against the wall; Vee climbed down and disappeared into the kitchen. Every corner of the room seemed packed with sound.

It reminded Sirius of sitting beside Remus's stream in early spring: a force of tumbling water, racing, falling, fast and urgent, noisy, unstoppable. Irresistible. He listened harder than he'd ever done before to anything, trying to hear each individual note from each  instrument, but at the same time take it all in at once. It was like trying to catch a waterfall in a cup. He gave up and smiled, letting it all splash over him.

When the tune ended, at some signal imperceptible to Sirius, the musicians and listeners chuckled appreciatively and made soft comments: 'Lovely.' 'Rushed that last B part, though.' 'Can't be helped; playing with Len is like runnin' down the tracks in front of the Express.'  'Dancers'll kill you for that; there'll be lots of dancing after this dinner on Wednesday, too.' 'Good fun, though, wasn't it!'

Jimmy turned to acknowledge his guests. "Sam, good to have you back. And this will be Tamsin? It's a relief that you've made it; Pete's been useless all day. Welcome to the House of Alacrity. Len, that was too damn fast. It's OK in concert to play the Wild West gunfighter sometimes, but as Pete says, dancers will kill you for that. Sam, what did you think?"

Sirius shook his head, smiling . "I've never heard anything like it. I didn't know music could sound like that; maybe it's just that I've never been this close to it before. It's wonderful, isn't it?"

 He looked around the room; it was completely given over to musicians and their equipment. The table was covered with no fewer than five concertinas of varying sizes, ("we're trying to get  'em to breed," chuckled Jimmy) a number of flutes and whistles, a fiddle and bow, a small harp, and a confusing object composed of wooden tubes and velvet cloth that was probably a bagpipe of some kind. The floor held instrument cases, a guitar, a stringed instrument Sirius didn't recognise, a string bass, and Margo, who sat in the midst of it all smiling at him.

"Pete should play a whistle tune for Tamsin," she declared. This statement was seconded by a soft chorus: "Oh aye, you should hear the lad play a whistle." "Did you never hear that? He's a wonder on the guitar, you know, but his whistle, now, that's…" "Just give him that low whistle over there."  One of the onlookers picked up the largest of the collection of tin whistles and passed it down to Pete. "Give us an air, lad."

Len the fiddler, a short, good-looking man with a belligerent stare, stood up abruptly. "Well, if we're done for the day, I'll see you on the night. Can't make it tomorrow or the next day; I've got my kids in town. We're to be there at seven?" He stowed his fiddles in cases and stalked out. "Hah; can't let someone else have the solo, especially for a pretty girl," someone commented. Len made a rude gesture, grinned and kept walking.

A casual 'good night' or two followed the fiddler to the door, and attention went back to Pete, who sat with the instrument in his hands. Jimmy regarded his younger brother with pride and affection. "Margo's right: if you really want to hear something special, Pete's your man. The four of us together, we're a good band. We get lots of work, great reviews; people like us.  Pete, though, Pete's got the gift."

Pete blushed, kept his eyes down, said nothing. He ran his bony, long-fingered hands up and down the instrument. "A whistle's pretty simple," he said softly. "It's what every kid starts out on. My earliest memory is of Jimmy playing the whistle to me, when I was sitting in a high chair in our kitchen. He must have been about eleven then. OK, I'll give you a tune." Abruptly, he sat up straighter, closed his eyes, and raised the whistle to his lips.

The instrument itself was very simple: a tube, perhaps two feet long, of a dull silver metal, with a mouthpiece, and six holes down its length.  The sound it made was also simple: a rich, clear note, deeper than a flute's tone, rather soft.

The music began slowly and gently, bubbling and stretching along an uneven rhythm,now and then lengthening a note to tease the listener, but beguilingly, like a girl's long hair being lifted by a light breeze. The girl would be smiling, Sirius thought, her eyes closed, her head tilted back, a long, supple throat bared and inviting. He knew her, or rather, remembered her. He'd been fifteen….

A new phrase: high, long notes, impossibly long, sustained, soaring. Like a wailing, disconsolate, lonely wolf, perhaps. Remus, alone for all those miserable years.  Like keening over a grave— James, trusting him beyond all reason. Like a mother who has lost her child— beautiful, desolate, aching sounds that became Lily's words. "Where is Harry? Please watch over him, Sirius; please let him be happy, please…  please…." The music began to tear at him: he heard all his own failures, his own inability to help or protect….

…and then, when he could bear it no longer, when he was one second away from crying out for it to stop, a liquid phrase surrounded him like the arms of a dear friend, soothing and reassuring. He could start over: make things work. It would all be better; things would be all right. There was Hope, a new, green shoot, struggling upward, coming up like the sun. This time he could protect them; this time he would not fail. He knew tears were running down his cheeks, but made no move to wipe them away.

The music stopped. He felt exhausted, as if he'd been running for miles. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and glanced at Tamsin, who blinked and wiped her eyes. The listeners across the room sat with their heads bowed. Margo had edged closer to her father, had put her arms around his knees. Jimmy rested his hand on his daughter's head.

"I know magic when I hear it," Sirius said quietly. Pete looked over at him in surprise, and gave him a huge grin.

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Monday: 

The teashop was just the place where one might expect to find ladies like Zenobia. Delicate rose-coloured table linens, flowers on every table, pretty china cream jugs, several kinds of sugar. Pete and Sirius easily passed for doting grandsons out for a day with Granny. They ordered sandwiches, which came cut into dainty triangles, with the crusts trimmed off.  

Zenobia stirred her coffee, looking sternly at Sirius and Pete over her spectacles. "I may as well tell you both that I have been extremely uneasy about your whole purpose here. I cannot imagine what Albus was thinking, sending you to look for these people with no word of explanation. Then there's the fact that you were most incautious, when you came to my house. It was terribly foolish of you, Sirius, to tell me your name. Suppose I had turned you in on the spot?" She folded her hands delicately on the edge of the table and gazed steadily at them.

Sirius shook his head. "But you wouldn't have," he declared. "I've only seen three other people on the list, and I didn't tell any of them who I was. I felt safe with you, and I wanted to let you know you weren't alone. I thought you needed to hear it, that's all." He looked around at Pete, seeking confirmation. Then, remembering that Pete had not actually seen him introducing himself to either Maria or Pyke, he turned back to Zenobia with a grin. "I'm not as foolish as I must appear to you; but I do trust you. I don't claim to have your skill at detecting lies, and I've made some disastrous mistakes in my time—but I know you're not a mistake. Just as I know Pete's not a mistake."

Zenobia smiled at him, a delightful, wise smile that turned her face into a tracery of delicate wrinkles. "For my part, at least, you're correct. I'm not a 'mistake,' and I did need to hear it; otherwise I would have rejected the idea of helping Albus altogether. You are a remarkable young man. And—Peter, is it? Peter, how is it that you came to ally yourself with Sirius in this search for disaffected witches and wizards? Forgive me, but you are not, yourself, a member of our world, are you?"

Pete swallowed the tiny sandwich he'd been toying with. "No, you're right, I'm not. I'm a musician; I met Sirius a few days ago up North, on the edge of a place he calls the Forbidden Forest. We just hit it off, you know; I liked him on sight. He mentioned that he had business in Edinburgh, so I invited him to stay at my place." He gave an embarrassed grin. "I've learned a great deal about him, these past few days, and met some amazing people—and I'm willing to help in any way I can. I'm sure that Sirius isn't a mistake."

 For a moment Pete looked uncertain, searching for words, tapping his fingers lightly on the tabletop. To Zenobia he appeared absurdly young, with his lanky frame, tousled brown hair, and thin, solemn face. He seemed to be aware of this; he gave her an apologetic  look and stopped fidgeting. "I know your folk can be dangerous, in ways I can't even guess. Sirius was hit with some sort of spell when he went visiting Garrard Pyke; it was the creepiest thing I ever saw. They tell me that if Sirius or any of the rest of you don't want me around, you can do a spell that takes all memory of magic right out of my head. The longer I know you, the less I want that. I also know that occasionally, you allow Muggles—yes, I know the word—to come into your world. There's a particular reason that I'd like this to happen to me." He grinned suddenly. "And she seems to like me, too."

Sirius eyed his friend with solemn amusement. "Her name's Tamsin; she's Maria Theakston's daughter. We went up to the antique shop after we'd left you, the other day. Beautiful girl.…"

"Yes, I know the Theakstons very well. Young Thomasina—always such an independent girl— amazing that she's all grown up. And as you've observed, very pretty. Well, I do see. You know, her sister Cordelia has also married a Muggle; they don't have much to do with the wizarding world. I believe he works at the Botanic Garden." Zenobia looked searchingly at Sirius before continuing: "I find Maria to be a very pleasant person; extremely kind and intelligent. You say you did not tell her your name?"

Sirius showed her his wolfish grin, his eyes glinting with mischief. 'I expect you know how my visit there turned out. No, I didn't tell her my name; I was introduced to her by Nigel Troy: my father, as you almost certainly know. Why didn't Dumbledore tell me he was here, or at least put him on the list?"

"I'm sure Albus doesn't know he is here. Nigel has been very quiet about his whereabouts; I gather he didn't tell anyone where he was going when he left. I knew your father well, back in our days at the Ministry. He was a humane, extremely responsible, scrupulously honest man. Aeneas did not bend the rules to suit his own ends, nor did he remain quiet about those who did. He was the sort of man who became an embarrassment as things at the Ministry deteriorated. When he left, he must have seen the whole Ministry as a nest of viciousness." Zenobia shook her head sadly. Then, with an air of having made a decision, she opened her flat, brown leather handbag and drew out a letter.

"Your father, of course, is not the only wizard who is not on your list: we are a secretive little group, most of the time. And that, my dears, is why I wanted to see you today." She unrolled the letter and handed it to Sirius. "When you left my house the other day, I was extremely troubled; I thought very hard about you, and your willingness to undertake such a potentially dangerous task. Eventually I wrote to Albus, offering to contact the Edinburgh wizarding community myself. I know most of them, you see; I can invite them to my home and we can talk all this news over together. It is true, you would be in very little danger from most of them. There are others, however… I am pleased to say that Albus agrees with me."  She indicated the letter; Sirius held it to one side so that Pete could see too.

My Dear Zenobia,

How delightful to hear from you after all these years! And how fortunate that Sirius found you!  By all means, if you are willing to contact the people you know in Edinburgh, this would be a very great help. I had no wish to put Sirius in danger, but I felt that I had very little choice: times are such that, once again, we do not know whom to trust. I have asked him to carry out several such tasks for me since his escape, and he has proved successful each time.

Sirius is an extraordinarily powerful wizard, completely trustworthy, quite inventive, and  fearless—but not, I believe, to the point of foolhardiness.  I am sure he will be happy to hand this task, or the directing of it, over to you.

He will soon be needed here, in any case; his godson, Harry Potter, is a champion in the Tri-Wizard Tournament; the second task will take place in just a few weeks. Sirius is most eager to take over Harry's care.  While this is, of course, not possible, I do understand that he wishes to be nearby at that time. I will be asking him to help secure the perimeter of the lake where the task will take place.

I am extremely grateful for your offer of help: your knowledge and experience will be sorely needed, I suspect, from now on. I do realise that you must have grave doubts about rejoining the wizarding world, and about the manner in which the upcoming struggle will be handled. Please believe that I share your worries; the more people like you we can persuade to join us, the better chance we have of a satisfactory outcome.

Thank you again.

Albus Dumbledore

Sirius sat silent, holding the letter, staring down at it. His expression was unreadable; Pete watched him for a moment and looked over at Zenobia, shrugging, looking for clues.

"Are you unhappy with me for being an interfering old woman?" she asked softly.

Sirius slowly crushed the letter in his hand. "No, of course not; you're quite right. You'd be much better than I would at talking to these people. It's just…"

" '…just..?'" Zenobia prompted, watching him.

"It's that line, about my looking after Harry:  '…while this is, of course, not possible…' Harry's a great kid. His father was my best friend. I promised him I'd care for Harry….Dumbledore has him living with a Muggle family who hates him. As his godfather, I should be—I know, I was in prison. And after I escaped, I was rather a mess for a while. But…I'm the nearest thing he has to a father." Sirius looked from Zenobia to Pete, his eyes uncertain, unhappy: "He doesn't say, '…not possible at this time,' or '…not immediately possible,' does he? Do you think he wants us always to stay away from each other? What do you think he's doing?" He turned to Zenobia.  "Am I reading too much into this?"

Zenobia gently removed the letter from Sirius's hand, flattened it and found the line. She sat quietly for a moment, shaking her head, before answering. "I think he is looking out for the safety of both of you,"  she said thoughtfully. "He knows the Ministry and the dementors have been set on your trail, and in all likelihood the Death Eaters have been charged with finding Harry. One of you could be used by either group as bait for capturing the other. I'm sure he thinks that keeping your whereabouts a secret from Harry will protect him from at least some danger.

"It may be that this is the best course. Albus has been fighting this sort of battle for many, many years; longer than Voldemort has lived. He is the most powerful wizard I have ever met, and one of the wisest. He acts for the greatest good; he sees the whole fabric of a situation. Albus is, and has been, many things. He has done enormous good.

"Still, your unhappiness makes me wonder. There is one thing he has never done: Albus has never had a child of his own." She sighed heavily, then gently continued, "He may not understand the harm in keeping this child of yours from you."