Banish Misfortune

Chapter 18:

…the Woman sat up, combing her hair.  She took the bone of the shoulder of mutton—the big fat blade-bone—and she looked at the wonderful marks on it, and she threw more wood on the fire, and she made a Magic. She made the First Singing Magic in the world.
--Rudyard Kipling, "The Cat that Walked by Itself"

1 May, 1995:

Dawn was coming earlier and earlier these days. Padfoot didn't know what time it was, but the light flooding into the cave entrance could not be ignored. He yawned, stretched, found his pool of water at the back of the cave and had a drink. He'd left the remains of last night's supper on the floor to have for breakfast; gulped that down in three bites.

There would be no activity in the village just yet; he thought he'd take a gallop around the Forest. First, though, there was an owl waiting for him in the doorway.

Sirius transformed; took the letter, gave the owl some scraps of ham he'd saved on a ledge for that purpose.

Hello Son, (It gives me such pleasure to write those words!)

A bit of news: The band arrived home from their tour this afternoon, and the first thing young Pete did upon arrival was hike up here and ask Tam to marry him! They plan to be married this summer, perhaps early August, in between band engagements at festivals.

If you can spare any time from your work there, Pete would like very much for you to visit. There are Things, he says, that he needs to discuss with you. Of course the rest of us would like to see you whenever you can get away, as well.

Look after yourself, and come when you can--

Love.

Nigel 

Sirius grinned. He could have predicted this wedding; was delighted for Pete and Tamsin. He couldn't guess what Pete wanted to see him for, but he was glad they were back. He wanted to ask Pete a few questions as well.

And it would be good to see Nigel. He glanced again at his letter. Love. He stood for a moment, staring at the word. A remarkable thing, that. He imagined Nigel, hesitating a bit before committing such a powerful word to parchment, then working up to it; nailing it down with that definite full-stop. His dad. What an amazing bit of luck, having him back. 

No time like the present, he thought. He closed his eyes briefly, pictured his room at the back of Nigel's shop, and Disapparated.

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Nobody awake yet, it seemed. He filled the kettle, made fire, found the tea tin, milk, sugar, and some cups on the shelf behind the counter. And cheese…and biscuits! Living in a cave was all right for Padfoot, but civilization had definite points in its favour: this was luxury. He seated himself crosslegged on Nigel's worktable and enjoyed a second breakfast.

Footsteps sounding through the ceiling from the flat upstairs told him that Nigel and Maria were just waking up. It would be a while before they appeared downstairs; he'd walk to Pete's and say hello. He scribbled a note for Nigel: 

Good morning!  Gone to Pete's.

 I'm afraid I've eaten all your cheese.

Will pick up some more on the way back.

 Love.     S.

He let himself out the front door, and walked down the street and through the park.

There was Lizzie, marshalling the three older girls out the door: off to school, no doubt. They spotted Sirius and raced up to him happily, full of chatter. "Sam! Where've you been? Are you working? Dad and Pete got home yesterday! They were in Australia and they brought us silk slippers from Hong Kong! Margo has a didgeridoo, it's what the Aborigines play! Pete's getting married to Tamsin! He asked her yesterday and she said yes! Mum, can we stay home from school and visit with Sam? Please?"

Lizzie smiled at him over the girls' heads. "Lovely to see you, Sam! Pete's going strong inside with Vee and his dad; jet-lag, you know. He thinks it's two in the afternoon. Jimmy's the old campaigner: he knows how to sleep in. Girls, let's be off—we'll all be late! Sam, I hope you'll still be here this afternoon, it's been ages!"

Sirius scooped up the three giggling girls and gave them each a kiss, promising to be there when they returned. He waved goodbye and knocked on the front door.

Pete appeared in answer to his knock. "Well, that was prompt! Nigel said he'd send you an owl; you must have been close by. Great to see you! Tam says she'll marry me; did they tell you that? I need to talk to you about that. But first, come in and meet my dad! He's been here while Jimmy and I were gone. And you know what? Liz and Jimmy say they want to give Tam and me the top floor of this house! We can turn it into a flat, easily. I.…" He broke off, and backed hastily out of the way as Verity charged down the hall and into Sirius's arms.

"Hi, Sam! Where've you been? I can make tea now, do you want some? Watch this. Our granddad's here. He's my best boyfriend, after you. I make him tea every day, just the way he likes it." She wriggled down, but kept a firm grip on Sirius's hand as she led him into the kitchen.  "Granddad, this is Sam! He was at the door. Can I make him some tea?"

The man at the table looked almost elf-like: small, leathery, and thin. He seemed much older than Sirius's own father, but that may have been ill health. He arose with difficulty, wheezing a bit as he surveyed his son and granddaughter with their guest. Sirius wondered how it had happened that this undersized, frail, delicate-looking man had produced such tall, big-boned sons. His bright brown eyes, however, were as friendly and humorous as Pete's, and his smile was as patient, and as long-suffering, as Jimmy's. "Chris Armstrong," he said, putting out his hand.

Sirius shook the old man's hand. The double onslaught of Vee's and Pete's greetings had left him grinning, and Chris grinned back.  "Nothing shy about any of the Armstrongs," he chuckled. "I'm guessing they know you; but it could be you're an innocent postman, or just asking your way.… Oh, Vee's making you some toast and a cup of tea; I hope you like milk and sugar. She doesn't take kindly to opposition."

Sirius sat down at the table and had a third breakfast.

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"I like your dad." Sirius grinned as they walked up through the park, back to Nigel's shop.

"So do I; he's great," answered Pete. "And that's what I need to see you about—him, and Jimmy, and all the rest of them, really. They know I'm getting married. The thing is, how am I going to get them through a magical wedding? I want Tam to have any sort of wedding she wants; I want her to invite anyone she wants. But I'll need Jimmy to be the best man, because… well, because he is, that's all. I hate having secrets from Jimmy; he's too important to me. You've no idea….

"The point is, I want Jimmy, and Liz and the girls, and my dad, to see me married, and I'm not sure how they'll react to a wedding with magic in it. Is there something you can do, to protect them, or make them not notice? Or make them forget, if they see something that upsets them?"

Sirius stared at the ground. He stood silently, thinking about the life Pete must have had, picturing him as a small boy, running in terror from his own mother. Pete, of all people. Happy, laid-back, fun-loving Pete—how could such things have happened to him?  And who could think of hurting him? Sirius wondered if Pete's mother took out her rages on her husband, now that her sons were all gone.

He became aware that Pete was watching him. He answered the question. "Yeah, I know how important Jimmy is, and the rest of them as well…. They have to see you married, of course. There are ways we can protect them, if necessary," he said softly. "Most non-magical folk don't even notice when they see magic done; their minds automatically assign some Muggle reason for the things they see. You're different, and a great surprise to me because of it. Most people, for example, can't see Hippogriffs; they'd look, and just see a horse or something.

"If it was me, though, since you hate keeping secrets from Jimmy, I'd give them a try. Why don't you just tell them beforehand? They may be like you, able to take it all in and not be upset. If you like, I'll be with you when you tell them about wizarding folk, and if it doesn't go well, I can give them Memory Charms."

Pete grinned in what was obviously enormous relief. "I was hoping you'd say something like that," he sighed. "I'd love for them to know all about it, if they could. How about tonight? Can you stay this evening? Dad will still be here; he's not going home till tomorrow."

"That will be fine; I told the girls I'd be around this evening anyway. And now, I need to ask you something."

He told Pete about the song he intended to make for Harry; about the one Aslak had made for the children at Folberg, about his efforts to learn the technique and his need for a tune.

"I have to do it all myself. The words don't have to be much, but they have to mean what I want them to mean. Choosing the right words, that's enough like spellwork I've always done. I think I can manage that, eventually, but I haven't a clue how to make a tune!

Then I have to teach it to Harry, so he can really take possession of it. It'll be his to keep. Then, it will do whatever I've made it to do: protect him from enemies, let him be free from danger, whatever I've said."

Pete listened, fascinated. "And the song will be magic? It'll really do what the words say it should do? That's brilliant! That sounds like magic I can understand. You know, I've heard of singing charms, from places like the west coast of Scotland, and other places. Songs for bringing boats home safely, or girls singing to call their lovers to them, things like that. Some of  'em are pretty famous; the tunes get associated with some little town or island that uses the same song all the time.  I must have been thick; I never thought of that stuff as actual magic.

"Tell you what; when we go back home, I'll dig out some tapes and we can listen to a bunch of them. And then I'll give you a whistle and show you how it works. That should help. You play around with a whistle, you can't help getting some music out of it."

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Pete's talk with his family, over dinner, had gone fairly well, all things considered. Jimmy and his dad at first took the whole thing as an elaborate joke, Liz and Helen had been apprehensive, the twins excited, and Vee declared she knew all along that Sam was magic. The discussion had gone on for most of the evening, and at last Pete said, "Well, the first clue I had that Sam was magic, was when I saw him turn into a dog." There was a chorus of comment ranging from amusement to disbelief, and nothing would do but that Padfoot be introduced to the family. Liz was completely dumbfounded; Chris and the girls were completely won over. Jimmy worried that Pete might be getting into something dangerous, but at last everyone had been tentatively willing to accept the possibility of a magical community. No Memory Charms had been necessary.

Sirius had gone back to his cave with one of Pete's tin whistles, and dozens of tunes in his head.

Sirius's days took on a variation in routine: he was awakening earlier, because of the lengthening days, so he began practicing with his whistle for the first hour or two before starting his rounds. He found that slipping into his trancelike Attitude was easier when he played certain sequences of notes. Along with this discovery was the awareness that he was returning to those sequences more frequently. His Tune was building itself. Each morning, he played until images of Harry stopped coming to him, and then he laid the whistle aside and went on his rounds of the village, the forest, and castle grounds.

He usually ended his tours at the castle grounds, timing things so that he arrived at about the time when classes ended and students came outdoors to enjoy the warm weather. He told himself that he needed to be on hand in case Harry came out and wandered too close to the forest, or someone tried to harm him in some way. No-Shape was coming in very handy for excursions like this.

He was occasionally rewarded with a glimpse of his godson: once Harry came out with Ron and Hermione and walked down to Hagrid's cabin. He walked with them, listening happily to their complaints about homework and History of Magic classes. He saw them to Hagrid's door, stayed outside until they reappeared, and followed them back to the castle.

The very next day, Harry and Ron came out with a couple of other children and engaged in a friendly game of four-person Quidditch, Chasers and Keepers only. There was a great deal of shouting, changing the rules, cheating and hilarity. Harry's flying was amazing, brilliant. Sirius looked on in delight, following Harry's every move, and then saw them all back into the castle, tired, happy, bickering about who had won.

The third time, several days later, Harry appeared by himself and walked down to the edge of the lake. He stood looking into the murky water, hands in pockets, his robes hanging loosely, unfastened. Sirius tried to determine whether Harry was happy or sad; came to no conclusion. Felt badly because he couldn't tell. Longed to approach and speak to him; didn't dare. At last Harry sat down on the bank and took a bit of parchment, quill and ink out of a pocket. He wrote quickly, sat staring at his work for a moment, and then just as quickly twisted the parchment into a knot and threw it into the water.  He looked up and across the lawn, spying a group of his friends coming down the castle steps. He called to them, got up and turned back towards the castle.

Sirius summoned the parchment and unfolded it: the beginnings of a letter to him.

Dear Snuffles, I know you're always telling me to be careful, but I wish I knew you were doing that too.  I want to see you, but it scares me that you're so close.  I'm scared of what they'll do to you if you get caught again. Promise

The rest of the letter had been smeared by the water. Sirius sighed deeply and closed his eyes.  "OK, Harry," he thought, "I promise." He dried the letter with a charm, folded it very carefully, and tucked it into a pocket. "I promise to take care. And I promise to deserve all this concern, one day." He moved back into the trees, transformed into Padfoot, and ran the rounds of the forest, the lake, the castle, the village, retracing, looking everywhere, until it was too dark to see.

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Folberg, 14 May:

"Words are beginning to come, and a tune. They seem to keep changing, though: is it all right that it's taking such a long time? I wish I already knew how to do this. Harry deserves better than a first attempt."

The old man smiled at him. "Don't bother wishing such a thing: the first joik we make is the one we've waited all our lives to make, and so perhaps our most powerful. The first joik I ever made was for Minne, when we were children." He threw more wood on the fire and stared into the flames, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, and curving his mouth into a bow.  He sang softly in his own language, just a brief line, repeated two or three times. He turned to Sirius. "That one is for you; a prediction that your heart's wishes will find a way into your godson's joik. I think you will do this."

As Sirius walked back to Remus and Andie's cabin, he discovered that he could remember the sound of those words exactly, as well as the tune Aslak had sung them to.

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Andie and Remus had already prepared the afternoon meal when he arrived, humming his tune.

"You and Aslak seem to have struck up quite a friendship," smiled Andie, as she carried a plate of salmon to the table. "Is that where you were, all this afternoon?"

Sirius nodded. "If you want to know, he's teaching me joik-making. I've been working at it since about Christmas time. I didn't want to say anything till I was sure I could do it, but I think it's going to be all right." He paused, looking from one to the other of his Pack, grinning. "It feels so good to be working on things, and learning, and coming home to you two every so often. I think I'm the luckiest man I know."

Remus grinned at his friend's enthusiasm. "Oh, yes, you've certainly led a charmed life. How, exactly, do you define 'lucky'? I think most people would hesitate before calling thirteen years of prison 'lucky'.…"

Sirius paused, his fork halfway to his mouth, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "My friend the linguist. 'Lucky,' as anyone can tell you, is the quality of having undeserved good fortune. Through no merit of my own, I've come across people who are willing to help me, hide me from the dementors, teach me, feed me, keep my spirits up…yeah, lucky."

Remus sat quietly for a moment, an expression of amusement and perplexity on his lean face, staring up at Sirius with his head slightly bowed. "Undeserved? No merit of your own? Idiot."

Andie uttered a soft but decidedly unladylike snort. "Do you know, I've become something of a linguist myself: I am now an expert in Monosyllabic Malespeak. What Remus means is, you do deserve all the care people have given you, and more. You've done more for him—for us—than you seem to realise. You're his oldest, truest, dearest friend. He loves you."

Remus, blushing, gazed down at the tabletop and muttered, "Yes, well—yes." 

Andie burst out laughing and Sirius helped himself to more salmon, saying softly, "Yeah, I thought that's what he said. You're coming along very well, Andie, love."

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27 May, outside Hogsmeade:

The tiny owl buzzed around the cave, bumping into the walls like a bumblebee in a bottle, hooting happily as Sirius read his letter, muttering to himself.

"A maze, that's going to be straightforward enough…Viktor Krum: oh yes, the Durmstrang kid.  Crouch?  What on earth…. Good God.  At least he had the sense to run for Dumbledore…. Stunned!" Sirius reached out and caught Pigwidgeon neatly, out of the air. "Can you wait a bit? Have a sleep or something; I need some time to think about this, and I have rounds to make. I need to get up to the castle." He set the little owl down on the ledge with the remaining ham scraps, and transformed; Padfoot set off at a gallop. Thinking was something he did best while in motion.

It was stupid of Harry to have wandered off towards the forest; he should have had better sense. The Durmstrang kid was probably safe enough, but one couldn't even be sure of that. But someone had been there: someone who had stunned Krum, kidnapped Crouch, was probably near enough to kill Harry.

Crouch: was he mad? Pretending? Escaping from a Dark agent? Dumbledore might have some answers; he'd been there.

He raced through the village, up the lane, onto the Hogwarts grounds. The early morning flying class was out again; better stay close to the trees. He circled around behind the Quidditch pitch and began casting about for a scent. Here: Harry and another, heading towards the forest. Head down, he followed. Here; a bit of walking up and down; a third scent. Here: Dumbledore. Here, coming from (or going into) the forest: someone else—someone he should know, but couldn't remember…. Here, the second person, lying on the ground. A jumble of scent traces, none in any particular order: Hagrid, Karkaroff… Padfoot trotted back and forth, trying to piece together what had occurred, trying to match what his nose told him to the events Harry had described. The dew on the grass wasn't helping.

Footsteps. Padfoot looked up: Dumbledore. "Good morning, Sirius. I see you've heard about the events of last night. I wish I could enlighten you further about this disturbing incident, but I admit I am baffled. I have cautioned Harry once again about going out after hours; perhaps you can do the same. If you can shed any light on the mystery after your examination of this area, I hope you will tell me." The old man reached out and gently laid his hand on Padfoot's head, his face solemn. "And I hope you will be careful, as well. Along with your concern for Harry, please remember that your own safety is also important."

Dumbledore turned and walked slowly back towards the castle, his head bowed. Padfoot watched him go, his own head cocked to one side in puzzlement. He sat still for a long moment, remembering the gentle weight of Dumbledore's hand on his head. At last he got up and continued his rounds, running purposefully.

He ran along the edge of the forest, in the shelter of the trees, but able to see the open ground outside. The quiet, rhythmic thumping of his paws on the soft ground called to mind his joik. His own little song, made for him by Aslak, predicting his success with making a song for Harry.

The physical fact of running, and the automatic repeating of the words to his song as he ran, gradually calmed his mind. His confusion and fear receded and his mind began to wander. He thought back to his last visit to Folberg, when Aslak had given this song to him. When Andie and Remus had teased him for feeling lucky.

The wishes of my heart, he thought, for Harry. It would be great, wouldn't it, if our wishes for our friends could be actual predictions. Maybe, he thought then, the wishes of my friends are what's actually keeping me safe… their wishes and my own good sense, such as it is.

Perhaps I have a whole crowd of Secret-Keepers, like a classroom full of children who won't tell the teacher who giggled when her back was turned. More and more people, now, knew of his whereabouts, but oddly enough, he felt much safer now than he had when he was alone.

A voice in the back of his mind whispered, but that's what a joik is, isn't it: the wishes we have for someone. Of course these wishes do what we want them to do. Simple. And my wishes do have some power, don't they: things happen in response to my wishes, when I pay attention.

He moved his thoughts softly, ever so lightly, from his own tune, to the notes he'd been playing on Pete's whistle in the mornings. Yes, he could hum that one in his head, too.

Aha. This was going to be much easier than he'd thought. Easier than he'd been trying to make it, all these weeks.