Our Fathers

Epilogue

Chapter Twenty-Four: Curtains Close

In a cramped apartment, a dark-haired man stumbled through the doorway and tossed his leather briefcase atop the nearest chair, ignoring the faint tea stains on the carpet beneath his feet and the piles of newspapers congregating on the floor. A large pile of letters were deposited on top of the suitcase as the man tossed his shoes beneath an endtable and chucked his sportcoat at its peg on the wall, missing by nearly a meter.

The room screamed ‘bachelor’ of its occupant. Piles of unwashed dishes cluttered the kitchenette, clothes were strewn about, dirty and clean mixed together, and the only empty space in the entire studio apartment was that of an overstuffed easy-chair across from a television. The man slumped into the chair, putting his feet up on a beer-can-covered table, and let out a low sigh.

He’d been living in the apartment for almost half a year, since his midnight escape from the island of his birth. After twelve years of confinement and three on the run, home was certainly a nice word to use – but it was a home without old friends and familiar sights. His job wasn’t bad, either. As a legal assistant, he was quickly learning the ins and outs of his new life, as a Muggle. It wasn’t anything like his first job, as an Auror, but it was something. It was the name that threw him off every moment a coworker opened his or her mouth – how could one respond to "Samuel" when "Sirius" had been the original?

Had another acquaintance known of the location of the little apartment, and the contents of the papers housed there, Samuel Black would certainly be dead. A curse-proof safe beneath the dirty sink held an ever-growing pile of papers sent by post from Scotland. There was a list of agents working for the Order, a list of possible sympathizers within the ranks of Slytherin, all the names of the known collaborators of Voldemort, and – most importantly to Samuel – a thick packet containing the medical records of one Harold James Potter. Hidden thus, no one would discover a weakness to exploit within the defenders of the Light.

Samuel was forever banished from both sides – Light and Dark – and from the magical world as a whole. His new routine introduced him to the power breakfast, the late-night overtime, and the wonders of Starbucks, where the English breakfast, nine-to-five workday, and butterbeer were once the norm. Start a new life, Remus had said – and Samuel was, with new name, new job, new home, new wardrobe, and new outlook on life.

The packet of papers held him back, however. Harry had been sick when he’d left, and Sam desperately wanted to know what had happened to his godson; and to Remus, Dumbledore, McGonagall, and the others, of course, but none so much as Harry.

With a frown, he grabbed the remote, turned on the tube (as his new, American colleagues called it), and slumped deeply into the favourite chair.

"... fair weather will continue, topping off somewhere between 80 and 85 degrees tomorrow. Some rain may follow on Sunday, with temperatures dropping to highs in the upper 70’s. Now, in national news, President Clinton is continuing his visit to the Palestinian president, Yassir Arafat..."

The news was all depressing, anyways. Samuel flipped through to a badly made scifi programme and tossed the remote onto the crowded table, reaching finally for his pile of mail. At first, it was all the same – a bill for his car insurance, greatly increased from the month before due to an accident involving a flashback to British motorways – everyone else just drove on the wrong side. A fairly large stack of junk mail. An order form for a CD club, promising twelve new CDs for free. And there, on the bottom, an off-white envelope of parchment, addressed in a familiar green ink.

He tore it open eagerly, extracting a letter and another envelope.

Sirius –

My dear boy, I promised to send on a letter from young Harry, but events over the past few weeks have taken their toll. As promised, though a little late, the letter is enclosed. You may certainly respond as well – just send it by the regular Muggle post to Reginald Lupin, Flat 3b, 108 Kilburn High Street, Maida Vale. Your boy will receive it there. As always, keep our secrets safe, and hope for the end of the troubles.

~A.D.

The note was tossed aside in favour of the smaller envelope as soon as its contents were perused, and that envelope was shredded open as well. A smiling picture of a man and a boy fell out onto Sam’s lap, the picture frozen, as all Muggle photographs. The man beamed fondly at the boy, who looked to be twice as healthy as their last meeting, in December. And then that letter was read as well.

Dear Sirius,

I hope Professor Dumbledore will send this to you without any problems. I’m fine. Hedwig is fine, but she seems a little miffed that I won’t use her to send this to you. I’ve finished fifth year just fine – Snape’s test was easier than last year, and I aced DADA again. I’m living with Uncle Re, now. He adopted me, isn’t that cool? That act of Percy’s was passed, and all.

Things are fine. I don’t know how much Dumbledore told you about a few weeks ago, but Voldemort attacked Hogwarts. Dumbledore fought him off, and Uncle Re was able to cut the whole connection thing, so that’s fine too. And Malfoy’s fine – Voldemort didn’t kill him or anything, he just tried.

Uncle Re says I should tell you about Hermione. I don’t know why. She’s fine, too. She found the spell Uncle Re used. Ron’s working with his dad, this summer, learning how to do things at the Ministry. He wants to go and work there after school’s over all of a sudden. I think it has to do with that sister of his that died. Um, Uncle Re’s yelling at me for writing that part, but I don’t see what harm it can do – Dumbledore said you’re off in some other country, so it’s not like you’ll tell anyone.

I had a dream last night. Not a bad one, though, a good one. You came back to England, and you were married to a brunette. And I was more than a bit older. If Dumbledore hadn’t let Voldemort go (he’s younger now, and looks about your age, because he tried to kill Malfoy) it would all be done, but I guess it’ll turn out all right in the end, anyways. I just wanted you to know, since you might be kinda sad out wherever you are, all alone.

Dumbledore didn’t send you to Germany, right? I’m not supposed to ask, but I know how you can’t speak German or anything, and you were worried about it. Hermione says it’s silly, because German is easier to learn than English – she’s here, you know. She was just in the loo when I started writing. She’s visiting, because her family just lives up the line and she takes a train in to Euston to go shopping and to the British Museum. There’s a whole wing in the back dedicated to wizards, did you know that? You have to keep following the signs for the North American exhibit, which isn’t actually there. If you’re a wizard, you can poke one of the signs and get through, but Muggles just keep going in circles.

Ooh, Uncle Re’s burning the cookies again. I need to go help air out the kitchen. I promise I’ll write again soon. I miss you. Hermione says she misses you too, and that you should learn everything you can about the history of the country you’re living in. She made me write that, but she’s back helping Uncle Re with the smoke now. Malfoy keeps making fun of me about that – he says Hermione fancies me, but I think he’s been sniffing too many potions. He spends most of the time hanging around in the dungeons with Snape. Oh, and he beat Ron at chess.

Really have to go now, Uncle Re’s set Hermione’s hair on fire by accident.

Love, Harry

Sam read through the letter twice, ignoring the tears running down his cheeks. Losing his chance to be Harry’s father was the most painful moment of his life – but knowing he’d someday be allowed to reenter the wizarding world was far more of a relief than he’d imagined. And Harry was in good hands – Remus was the best possible man for the job, better than even Sam would be able to do.

He scrubbed at his face, rising from his seat and stuffing the letter in his pocket. There was a bar down the street that he frequented – not nearly as nice a place as the pubs back in Surrey, but certainly worth visiting to think over his future. He backed out of the door, locking it and turned to walk to the elevator, only to find himself ramming face-first into a brunette, and sending her groceries scattering across the hallway.

"Oh, gosh – so sorry, I wasn’t minding my way -"

"Not your fault – I thought I left a bag in the elevator, and I turned around to see if it was still there -"

Conscious of the letter in his pocket and the dream-prophecy of Harry’s contained within, Samuel knelt down and started piling the spilt groceries back into the bags. "Here, let me make it up to you – I’d love to buy you a drink."

And life went on, one moment at a time.