Interwoven: The Seamstress and the Lovable Stray

Chapter 5

**

Abby ran her hands over the shimmering silver cloth stretched out before her. It would be a lovely cloak. Its entire creation had passed here on the smooth oaken beams of her mother’s loom. She had long felt that she knew every knot, every nick on this wooden structure, from the dent her father had made with a mispronounced Sanding Spell to the hidden corner where an eight year-old girl had carved her initials with penknife. Her mother had known every surface of the loom, too, and had given Abby the task of cleaning out the chicken coop, without magic, for the two weeks following that incident.

In front of the loom was its magical companion, a rectangular finishing frame. Years ago, when the first length of invisibility cloth had been completed, Abby had cut it from the loom and moved it to the frame, where it was mounted securely in place. Subsequent layers of cloth were later added on top, and after the necessary spells, the correct potions, and a great deal of time, the layers had begun to fuse together into one. Gradually, after an almost unbearable amount of waiting, the rich silver of the cloth had begun to take on the shimmering gleam of invisibility.

Weaving the gossamer-fine strands was almost like handling cobwebs, Abby often thought, and she fervently pleaded with the threads not to break during each weaving session; if they did, days and weeks of work would be lost. Through the use of Moisture Charms, her hands remained soft and allowed the threads to pass through without snagging or snarling. Each individual layer of the invisibility cloth was so light, so airy, that twenty layers – each a laborious undertaking in its own right – were needed to give the material the heft and stability of a cloak.

Abby swept her eyes around, toying with a nearby shuttle and smiling as she surveyed her spacious, brightly lit surroundings. When she had first moved into the cottage, Dumbledore had cast spells to regulate the temperature and make the room a perfect environment for weaving. The conjured windows in the cellar showed a star-dappled nighttime sky. Diagonally across from her were a smokeless fire and a stack of well-worn cauldrons. Nearby rested an ancient cabinet with herbs and potions supplies – the ingredients used to first treat the Demiguise hair and then the woven fabric – poking out of its cubbyholes.

Beyond the finishing frame was a long, wide workbench, littered with bobbins, carding combs, skeins of yarn, and other weaving materials. Its neighbour, an enchanted spinning wheel, was transforming the fine hairs of the Demiguise beast into delicate filaments of thread. Behind her was Grandmother Connelly’s loom, which always made Abby grateful for the many uses of Engorgement Charms; two such huge frames would never have fit into one room otherwise. Pity the magic only allowed a Weaver to work on one cloak at a time. Still, the second loom came in handy for other undertakings. To Abby’s left was her favorite of the room’s decorations – an overstuffed velvet sofa, perfect for the moments when she wanted to close her eyes and pretend she lived in a world where such things as invisibility cloaks did not exist.

Although Abby sometimes harboured a mite of guilt-tinged resentment toward the developing cloak, she knew she would miss it when it was gone. Its presence was steady, comforting. In the fabric, she saw glimpses of her mother and grandmother. Her mum’s weaving style had always been, to Grandmother Connelly’s unending chagrin, a bit “flashy”. Grandmother’s mode, as Harry Potter’s cloak reminded Abby so forcefully, was more sedate and dignified. Abby had been delighted to see that her own weaving struck a nice balance between the two, as though her lineage was tied together in the cloth. It would truly be a lovely cloak.

She was also grateful that she did not have to see a stack of pelts on the workbench. (Although she had loved to stroke the soft hair as a child, she had finally seen one of the few, rare wizarding photographs of a Demiguise, several years ago. One never knew when the Demiguise would reveal itself, so Abby had been required to stare at the photograph for an inordinate amount of time. Still, the wait had been worth the glimpses of the serene creature, which had gazed at her fleetingly with its doleful eyes.) Ten years ago, Dumbledore had taken part in creating a special Stunning Spell that not only effectively stalled the Demiguise, but kept it visible long enough for skilled handlers to shear the long, silky hair of the ape-like beasts. Now only a large, nondescript burlap sack lay in the corner, sealed shut with a spell known only to Abby and Dumbledore. Inside rested a substantial supply of the fine, silvery wisps.

Abby walked to the finishing frame and ran her hands over the cloak once more before leaving. The Deflecting Draft, shared unwittingly by Severus Snape, had been just what was needed. Only small areas of the fabric still retained their normal silver colour. Her mind toyed with ideas as to how she might thank the Potions Master – perhaps a pair of the high-heeled, buckled boots that Dumbledore fancied, delivered to him during class? Or some gaily-striped stockings, owled over in a large Gladrags box during the breakfast hour? The shop did have an outstanding selection of men’s satin pajamas… No, although the idea held great potential for amusement, it might motivate him to develop methods of long-distance poisoning that he would surely test on her.

Standing on the hearthrug, ready to cast the spell that would raise her back up to the cottage, Abby smiled to herself. It certainly was interesting, this unspoken arrangement that she and Sirius Black had devised between themselves in the week that he had stayed with her. He never asked why she disappeared into the house for two or more hours upon arriving home from Gladrags. When she would finally come out into the garden each evening, Padfoot would either be waiting for her or would shortly arrive. She never inquired as to how he spent his days, apart from the care and feeding of hippogriffs, or why he devoured the Daily Prophet as soon as he could get his hands on it. Perhaps he was looking for information on the search for his wanted self, but she would never know. He allowed Abby her secrets, and she would let him keep his.

All together, it was a wholly satisfying lack of communication.

**

Abby wanted very much to go home after closing up Gladrags the following evening, but a visit to Madam Rosmerta was at least a week overdue. Of course, the habitual crowd of rowdy regulars would not permit much of a proper meeting, but she knew she could at least pass on a few particulars discreetly. Besides, she needed to give the landlady her Christmas present – a fine tablecloth that Abby’s father had purchased on her behalf in Paris. Abby hoped Rosmerta would enjoy the beautiful piece of linen, which would never have to see the light, tankards, or patrons of The Three Broomsticks.

She ducked aside as the pub door swung open, grateful for the early darkness of December when she recognized the Lawson fellow of a few months earlier in the departing group. He and his mates paid her no notice as they hiccoughed down the street, treating Hogsmeade to a few drunken Christmas carols. Abby gave a soft laugh as she watched their retreating figures. At least she could threaten to set her dog on him if he ever approached her again. Yes, she had been lonely in the past, but never that lonely.

Abby had not cared for company of any sort in the first few years following Will’s death. She had simply gone through the motions of work and weaving, work and weaving, and by the time life began to seem meaningful again, most of her friends had already left school and moved away. They Apparated and Flooed into town on occasion, but there was less and less to talk about as their lives grew more disparate from Abby’s. She had still had a few friends among the younger students, but in the area of romance, the tale of her departure from Hogwarts always preceded her.

Attention of Mr. Lawson’s variety still came her way now and then, most of it highly unwelcome. In her opinion, a wizard had to be willfully dense to mistake a tradeswoman’s pleasant courtesy for affirmation of his physical charms. Perhaps someday, Pinprick Hexes and Chafing Charms would not be compulsory lessons for her new shop assistants. Until then, she would have no qualms about sending offenders out the door with Invisi-Pins in the seams of their robes.

The few engaging, unattached wizards who came to Gladrags were usually also aware of her past. While they were always polite and certainly not above the occasional mild flirtation, they never pursued anything further. In time, Abby found it almost less painful to simply content herself with remembrances of Will. Doing so kept her from dwelling on that the fact that even though the village teemed with the visitors come for the Triwizard Tournament, she spent every evening alone in her cottage.

Until now, that is…

Abby opened the door to The Three Broomsticks and walked in, her eyes lighting up as she saw her favorite seat resting vacant at the end of the bar. Holding in her robes and cloak to avoid muddy boots from treading on them, she wove through the throng and seated herself. Rosmerta came by shortly, resplendent in emerald green robes, her cheeks red from the warmth of the crowd. Abby greeted the landlady happily as Rosmerta expertly whisked a foaming bottle of butterbeer down the counter.

“Oh, Rosmerta, that’s not necessary! I can only stay a moment.”

“Nonsense, dear, there’s quite a chill outside,” Rosmerta replied merrily. “And besides, I’m quite in your debt for providing the pub with its latest amusement! That mirror of yours has become quite popular, although I can’t say her character’s improved much from being in the loo.”

“Gertie?” Abby laughed. “I knew she’d have more fun here than at my cottage. What’s she done?”

“She – she – ” Rosmerta pursed her rosy lip together, trying to keep her composure. “Let’s just say, the men are quite entertained by the comments she manages to cook up. She’s become quite a tease.”

Abby covered her eyes with a hand. “I don’t doubt that! Gertie’s vocabulary was always much more colorful than mine. She’s certainly yours for the keeping – I don’t miss her morning commentary a bit.”

Especially now that an escaped convict lives in my home. Oh goodness, I can only imagine what Gertie might say to that. Although, that might be the one thing that would shut her up.

“One moment, dear – ” Rosmerta paused to send a rag skimming down the counter, where it spun over the contents of a freshly overturned glass and then wrung itself out over a nearby sink. She turned back to Abby with a satisfied look.

“There. Now, how’s the shop, Miss Loomis? Everything all right?”

Abby nodded her head. “Oh, yes. We’ve acquired some new clientele, you know. The discriminating sort.” The Malfoys. She adopted the tone of an eager soldier. “I shall do my best not to disappoint them.”

“I believe that sort fancies themselves a mite above this establishment,” Rosmerta chuckled. “I’m sure they’ll bring in a pretty penny for you, though.”

Abby laughed. “Now, that didn’t come from my lips, Rosmerta! But yes, I think they will become very valued customers, indeed.”

The sound of shattering glass interrupted their conversation, and the women looked down to the other end of the bar, where “Gilly Gil” Barlow sat with a sheepish look on his face. Rosmerta winced and swept off to survey the damage. Abby took another sip of her butterbeer and wondered what she and Sirius might talk about that night. Her foot tapped against the leg of her barstool as she stared into her bottle, eager to be off.

“You’re certainly looking well, Miss Loomis,” Rosmerta commented upon her return. She gave a crinkle-eyed smile and twisted to the mirror behind the bar, tucking back a stray curl with one hand and pouring Mr. Barlow’s replacement glass of gillywater with the other. “A new man friend in your life?”

Abby’s head jerked up abruptly, but Rosmerta’s position didn’t allow her to notice the reaction. It was well-worn joke between the two of them, one they often bandied about, but it held an entirely different meaning now. Abby suddenly wondered if Rosmerta was ever lonely. She had never asked before – though they were friends, the question seemed much too intrusive. Abby tipped her head back down and casually traced her finger around the rim of her butterbeer.

“Only if you count the stray dog that’s been hanging about my cottage,” she said lightly.

“Aye,” Rosmerta replied with a look of commiseration. “Such must be our lot in life! But I’m sure the shop has done well with all the visitors in town. I’m pleased for you, love.”

Abby turned on her stool to gesture about the busy pub. “I see you’re doing well by the Triwizard Tournament, too,” she noted cheekily.

In one corner of the room, a man was falling out of the chair that his drunken companion was trying to levitate. Another fellow, was slapping the table in an attempt to chase down the spectacles that had been enchanted to dance out of his reach. His tablemates roared with laughter, while a nearby group of warlocks started into the bawdiest verse of “Sheila the Veela”.

Rosmerta chuckled. “Now, none of that, dearie, or I’ll give you your mirror back, even though she really does seem to enjoy it here. I should tell you that we did have to move her around a bit at first. Some of the chaps felt she was peeking.”

“Well, maybe I’ll say ‘hullo’ to her before I go...” Abby paused to pull a box wrapped in filmy scarlet gauze from her bag. “But I mustn’t forget this! Happy Christmas, Rosmerta.”

Rosmerta’s face coloured in delight as she looked at the package, and she let out such a cry of surprise that the five closest patrons at the bar looked up from their drinks and conversation. Her eyes flashed them an unmistakable admonition to not meddle, however, and they all returned to their ale posthaste. Rosmerta’s face softened as she leaned in to quickly squeeze Abby’s hand.

“Thank you, Abby. I’ll save it to open later – I shan’t give these louts the pleasure of seeing me cry.”

Abby clasped Rosmerta’s hand with her other. “From one woman in trade to another, yes?” she said, knowing they were both much more than that. “Now, wish me luck that Gertie doesn’t break herself over my head.”

After slipping another two bottles of butterbeer in Abby’s bag, Rosmerta went back to tending the bar, and Abby left her seat to ease up to the door of the men’s loo, keeping herself a safe distance away. She had no desire to be hit by an exiting customer or given an inadvertent view of the interior. Even while a foot away from the entrance, she could still hear the familiar female voice carrying on loudly inside.

“Gertie? You in there?” Abby called out.

The voice stopped in surprise, and then an unintelligible burst of loud blather slipped through the cracks in the door. Gertie did not seem too pleased by the reunion.

“Gertie?” Abby continued with a smirk. “Mind if I come in and powder my nose?”

She left the pub, laughing, as the peeved sounds of Gertie followed her almost to the main door. With a hearty wave goodbye to Rosmerta, she set off for home. If she did not bother with the weaving tonight, she would not keep Sirius waiting long.

**

“Chop that up, will you?”

With a grunt, Sirius looked up from his newspaper to the large onion Abby had placed before him. Clearly perturbed at being interrupted in his reading, he grabbed her wand and splintered the onion into a dozen rough pieces. He slapped the wand back down on the table and returned to the Daily Prophet, while Abby scooped up the onion bits with both hands and added them to the pot simmering on the stove. She chanced a small glance back at him before pausing to deeply inhale the scent of the beef stew.

Abby had never seen the use of preparing extravagant meals just for herself – it had always much easier to grab a quick sandwich or bit of chicken at The Three Broomsticks. But she had made it her mission in this last week to add a few pounds to Sirius’ bony frame. Already, he was beginning to look better, two weeks of her cooking having added a slight fullness to his face. It blurred some of the harsh Azkaban edges, although she still wondered if light would ever completely return to his eyes. At times, they looked as though any traces of life had been permanently hollowed out of them.

His moods differed so much from evening to evening, too. At times he was jovial, talkative – almost a tease. Just last night, they had had quite a time together while Abby had shown him how to conjure Invisi-Pins.

“And you really use these on men who come to the shop?” he had asked almost admiringly, aiming a series of pins at the soap bubbles she had blown into the air.

Abby had flashed a devilish grin and blown another cloud of iridescent spheres. “Only on the worst offenders, although I must say, I’ve been sorely tempted to try them out on my neighbours. The pins disappear after a day or two, so I don’t think it would be too awful of a thing to do.”

Sirius had laughed, successfully impaling a nearby flock of bubbles. “Invisibility has its benefits, doesn’t it?”

Abby had studied him thoughtfully at that comment, a smile pulled up one corner of her mouth. He had been occupied with conjuring a fresh batch of pins and did not see her face.

“It certainly does,” she had replied, chuckling at the state of the floor. “Just remember to wear your shoes inside until these go away – I don’t want Padfoot to bite me if you lose a toe.”

Yet at other times, Sirius would enter the cottage with a stony face, clearly not wanting to talk at all. He was never short with her, and he never specifically asked to be let alone, but Abby knowingly obliged. She would provide him with dinner and that day’s Daily Prophet, both of which he would devour, and then she would curl up on the sofa to think about cloaks, Malfoys, and the current odd state of her life. But although Abby usually left him alone when he appeared to be in such an ill humour, she could not help needling him tonight. It was the holiday season, and by Merlin, she actually felt like celebrating this year.

Though Sirius’ moods varied, he did seem to be sleeping more soundly. There were nights when he cried out loudly enough to wake her, but he would be back asleep by the time she made her way to the living room. She sometimes waited by the sofa for a few minutes to make sure he was well, wondering how he could possibly deal with the horrors he must have experienced. A conflicted, wistful part of her hoped that he knew he could come to her, if needed. A mountain of soapsuds had long ago moved their relationship beyond awkward trivialities, even though so many things remained unspoken between them.

Abby now placed a few carrots before him. “Could you dice these, please?” she asked sweetly.

Sirius exhaled loudly. Without looking up from his newspaper, he grabbed her wand and broke the carrots into jagged shards.

“Thank you,” Abby murmured in a singsong voice, stifling a giggle. She whisked the carrots into the stew, added some seasonings to the liquid, and looked back at Sirius. She did not know what he found so interesting in the newspaper, but whatever it was, it could wait until a little later.

Abby felt somewhat delinquent when she realized that she had been using that same justification for most of the last week – the invisibility cloak lay in the cellar, the loom untouched. Though her sense of obligation occasionally gave her a sharp poke, it did become a little easier with each passing day to neglect the weaving. While weaving was interesting, certainly, and a challenge of her skill, it was high time for a holiday. Progress on the cloak was mostly at a standstill, anyway, and she really did not have the time to research further, especially not when conversation, company, and smiles awaited her upstairs. Abby had not realized how alone she had been until she had someone with whom she could share the ending of each day…

Well, I don’t exactly “have” him – he’s really just a visitor, a guest, but he’s someone to talk to and to laugh with, and he…Oh bother, what am I thinking! Never mind, Abby, never mind.

To clear her mind, Abby began to give some potatoes a ferocious scrubbing over the kitchen sink. She was not sure what the fact that she entertained these thoughts about a convicted felon implied about her...assuming, of course, that he really was a felon, which was having more and more trouble believing. She had seen his behavior at Hogwarts when he did not know anyone else was looking. While she would never ask to be on the end of some of his pranks, especially those directed towards various members of Slytherin House, he had never been malicious to younger students. He had been headstrong and reckless, yes, but she had since seen his reaction of numb grief at the mention of James Potter.

He couldn’t have been responsible for those deaths, he simply couldn’t...

She continued to scrub, forcing the brunt of her confusion onto the potatoes, until she finally placed them in front of Sirius. His eyes narrowed and his hand clenched as he pulled himself away from the Daily Prophet once more, but Abby only smiled. This was not true anger, not like she had seen in the garden the night when he had revealed himself. She knew, in accordance with their silent pact to steer clear of personal information, that she would not ask just yet why her words had stung him as they had. But perhaps, someday, she might.

Sirius wielded the wand angrily at the potatoes, but they all remained intact, perhaps a little frightened after viewing the fate of their fellow vegetables. Abby watched as he directed the wand at them again and again, each time with the same result.

“Your wand won’t cooperate,” he said in exasperation, throwing it halfway across the table.

Abby snickered as she picked up the wand and wiped it off on the dishrag across her shoulder. “I believe it prefers a more genteel user,” she said, “one with a certain level of refinement. Or a more domesticated one, at least. I think it’s still a little miffed at you for the scratches.”

“If that’s the case,” Sirius snapped. “I’ll just leave your overgrown toothpick for firewood next time. And doesn’t ‘refinement’ imply the ability to walk in a straight line without knocking into things?”

Abby’s eyebrows rose at that remark, but her expression soon gave way to a smirk. She was already very aware of her lack of physical coordination, and so she was not about to get herself in a snit over that one.

“Mongrel,” she tossed over her shoulder, as she took the potatoes to chop herself.

“Shopgirl,” he quickly countered.

“Mutt.”

“Fifth year.”

Sirius’ voice stopped abruptly, as though had had been too caught up in the volley of words to realize what was saying. But now his attention had been successfully wrested away from the newspaper, and he stared at Abby with a stricken face. She did her best to glower at him, but her scowl soon caved and she laughed.

“Sirius, I’ve heard much worse. You’re going to have to come up with something better next time. And since you’ve been such a dear tonight, you’re going to have to help me conjure fairy lights for the back garden after dinner.”

“Fairy lights?” he groaned.

“Fairy lights.” Abby replied decisively. “Christmastime is coming, and if you’re not going to fetch my slippers anymore, you’ve got to earn your keep somehow.”

**

Abby consulted her wristwatch – it was already getting late, but if she did not work on her weaving tonight, she could pick up a few things from the grocer and not keep Sirius waiting too long. Tonight was a perfect night for a hot chicken and mushroom pie, spiced pumpkin juice, and the remainder of the ginger biscuits that Sirius had commissioned two days ago. As a matter of fact, he had requested those same biscuits a few days before that, and a few days before that. She realized with a smile that she had better think up a proper alibi, just in case Mr. Cleaves asked about the inordinate amount of baking ingredients she had been buying lately. He might easily assume they were for her holiday baking, but she should bring a plate of biscuits by all the same to be entirely convincing.

She made her shopping trip quick – she was much more eager to rush home and see Sirius than she would care to admit. He had been in her home now for almost three weeks now, and she had become quite skillful at suppressing the irksome thought that she had let the last two them pass without even taking a glance at the cloak. Each of those nights, she had gone directly home and let Padfoot into the cottage. Surely she was due a break, she would tell herself each time. Eighteen years was an awfully long time, after all.

Leaving the shop, Abby paused on the pavement to bend her knees and hoist up the grocery bags that were slipping increasingly out of her grasp. Her right arm had a fairly stable hold on its bundle, but the bag on her left arm was beginning to teeter. The ground was too wet to place them down and she did not have a free hand to reach for her wand…

Just as a bundle of leeks toppled out of the wobbling bag, the red sparks of a Levitating Spell passed over her shoulder. The bags righted themselves and floated out of her arms to rest in the air before her. Abby looked over her shoulder to see Mr. Cleaves standing in the doorway, his large arms with their rolled-up shirtsleeves folded across his grocer’s smock. His moustache twitched as he chuckled deeply, and Abby flashed a grateful smile back at him.

“You’d think I’d know better than to carry these home without magic, wouldn’t you, Gerald?”

“It happens every day, m’dear,” he chortled, holding up a lump wrapped in white paper. “I saved a packet of scraps for you – will you be wanting them for your dog?”

Although caught off-guard, Abby prided herself on collecting her composure more quickly than she had earlier with Rosmerta. Someday soon, she would either have to learn to become a better liar or convince everyone that the dog had run away. Subterfuge with her customers was one thing – artifice with her friends was a more difficult matter.

What do I say to these things? Well, Buckbeak might enjoy them.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, adding the scraps to one of her bags.

“One moment, miss – ” Mr. Cleaves ducked back inside the grocery, emerging moments later with an arrow-shaped pastry box. “An apple tart for your dinner. My wife has really outdone herself with this – it will positively melt in your mouth. Give that dog of yours a taste, if he’s behaving himself.”

Abby grinned again, blinking the snowflakes out of her eyes as she took the box. “Thank you. I just might.” She fumbled for her purse, but Mr. Cleaves held up a large hand to stop her.

“Compliments of the establishment, Miss Loomis,” he said. “Happy Christmas to you.”

On impulse, Abby stepped forward and threw her free arm as far as it would reach around his burly shoulder. Though taken somewhat aback by the gesture, Mr. Cleaves gave her a fatherly pat on the back and sent her and her parcels off with a hearty wave. A joyful spirit danced throughout her as she made her way home, watching her footsteps move carefully across the slick ground. Sirius would laugh at her terribly if she arrived home bearing the signs of a snowy tumble on her cloak.

Yes, it’s going to be a happy Christmas, indeed.

**

After dinner that evening, Abby pushed aside the sofa, quickly Banished the questionable things she found there, and laid out a large expanse of deep blue flannel on the cottage floor. Sirius sat at the kitchen table, mounting an attack on Honeydukes’ largest red and green box of Quidditch Cordials. Abby pointed her white chalk pencil surreptitiously in his direction and whispered a few hushed words to it, then set in on the cloth and watched as it began to trace a set of men’s robes. The hue would bring out the hints of blue in his eyes so nicely…

“Dish ish great,” Sirius mumbled, his teeth slightly glued together by a Caramel Quaffle. He chewed the sticky confection a few more times and swallowed. “What do they put in these? They’re fabulous.”

“I’m not sure,” Abby called out, glancing back over her shoulder, “but if you continue at that pace, I’ll never have a chance to find out.”

Sirius looked up guiltily, but only for a moment, as he then popped a Bludger Bon-Bon in his mouth with relish. Shaking her head, Abby turned her attention back to her robemaking. She did love these scissors – they almost seemed like the sixth and seventh fingers of her right hand, and they cut through fabric so smoothly…

The rustle of paper wrappers caused her to look up again. Sirius was rummaging though the box in earnest pursuit of any remaining sweets, and if she did not act soon –

“Oh, save a Sugar Snitch for me, will you? They’re my fav – ”

Too late. The crumpled gold foil wrapper in his hand and the lump in his cheek betrayed him. Abby flashed Sirius an Unforgivable Glare, but smiled as she returned to her cutting.

“Don’t worry,” she said, concentrating as she cut into the flannel. “I made Rose Sooker a lovely set of curtains last summer. I’m certain she’ll give me another box or two, which I now know better than to give you access to. I’ll send her a quick owl tomorrow to ask.”

Sirius dropped the wrapper on the table, for once looking interested in something other than the sweets. “You have an owl?” he asked, his voice a little hurried.

Abby paused, setting down her scissors. “I do. Well, Gladrags does. Hubert. He’s very good at sensing when I need to send post. Do – do you need to use him? You’re welcome to, at any time.”

He nodded gratefully, but then paused with a trace of apprehension. “Will he know to come if I leave my post outside the house?”

I don’t think Hubert will give away your whereabouts, Sirius, but I understand.

“Of course,” Abby said casually. “I often leave letters on the sill of the front window. He’s uncannily good at delivering things – I trust him completely.”

Sirius smiled in satisfaction and threw the empty sweets box aside. Abby rolled her eyes as a shower of empty wrappers cascaded to the floor. She would have to badger him to pick them up later. She hated to nag him about things like that, but this was not a wizarding youth hostel, for Helga’s sake. Besides, he seemed to somewhat like the attention. Dementors probably did not fuss much over their charges…

At that thought, Abby began to wonder again why Sirius had not sought out his family after his escape. He’d had a younger brother at Hogwarts, hadn’t he? And what of his parents? She could not recall their names, but they had been in the papers at the time of Sirius’ trial. Or had he even had a trial? Her mind awash in speculation, Abby felt as though she were coming dangerously close to wanting to ask Sirius a few personal questions. Although three weeks was a relatively short time, it was long enough to make her want to put aside a few pretenses and know more about the man staying in her home. She did not mind taking that first step, just so long as he did not want to know anything else about her. That, of course, was still not permitted.

Sirius did not seem to notice her deep musings – his attention was now centered on the box of trinkets and baubles that Abby’s father had promised long ago to send. It had arrived just that afternoon, and Abby had planned to sort out the contents and see if any of the pieces might do for Christmas gifts. But now Sirius was rifling though the box with what she knew to be an almost exhausting curiosity, making a jumble of everything. He paused from his hunt and held up a lacquered red object.

“Any idea what this is?” he asked, turning the oblong piece around in the light.

“Oh, haven’t you seen those?” Abby gave little thought to her reply, but she winced as soon as the words left her mouth.

No, you fool – he’s been in Azkaban. Of course he hasn’t seen them.

She forced herself to continue, grateful that she was not very visible from the kitchen table. “They’re rather handy penknives, made by the Dornomore Company. They’ll open anything, really. I believe they’re based on a gadget the Muggles use.”

Abby craned her neck and peered over the sofa a bit, hoping she had not touched a nerve with Sirius. He was preoccupied with folding open the many appendages of the knife, however, and did not appear to notice her gaffe. Abby’s eyes brightened as she saw his boyish delight in tinkering with the object. If such a simple thing could make him happy, she would have to set him to fixing up a few things around the cottage.

Unexpectedly, Sirius glanced up from the penknife and caught Abby fully in the act of observing him. She started to turn her head away, feeling more than a little foolish, but he caught her eye and smiled. The boyishness in his demeanor extended to the way he hesitantly opened his mouth as if to ask her something. When no question came after a few seconds, Abby smiled in return.

“Would you like to have that?” she finally asked.

“Really? You don’t have a need for it?”

“Not at all. But really, Sirius, you know you’re welcome here,” she teased. “There’s no need for breaking and entering. Of course, you are entirely welcome to raid the Boormans’ and take back the crystal goblets they borrowed from me two years ago.”

Sirius gave a brief nod of thanks and pocketed the penknife, continuing to poke around the box for other treasures. As the remaining trinkets were decidedly feminine in nature, he soon abandoned his search and came to rest on the sofa. He watched in silence as Abby continued to cut through the flannel, placing robe panels and scraps in two neat piles.

“What are you making?” he asked at length, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees.

“Robes,” she said, trying to stifle a snort of laughter. Really, it was rather obvious that she was not working on a set of trousers.

“For yourself?”

Abby turned to Sirius and screwed up her face in an expression of dismay. “I certainly hope this isn’t my size,” she laughed, holding up a piece in front of her. “Thank you for so kindly diminishing my self-esteem. No, they’re for a lout I know. I’m sure he’ll rip, stain and generally disregard them in every possible way.”

Now Sirius laughed, adopting a look of mock indignation.

“Now, that’s an unfair assumption to make.”

“Is it?” Abby said. “I’ve already seen what chasing small game has done to your other robes. And why would you think they’re for you, anyway?”

Sirius shook his head and leaned back against the sofa, throwing his arms up to concede defeat. He watched as she maneuvered about, cutting around the curves and angles of the tracings, and Abby suddenly began to wish that Sirius were sitting at the kitchen table as he was before. She had to look rather silly, creeping around on the floor in such a manner.

Perhaps if I hunt up another box of sweets, he’ll go back there.

“Why aren’t you using your wand?” he inquired. “Like you did that one night?”

Abby shrugged her shoulders, pausing to think. In all truth, she was not quite sure why she was making the robes by hand. It certainly took longer.

“This is the way I first learned to sew,” she replied, after a moment of reflection. “I suppose it reminds me of my mum. And…” she added with an angelic smile, “I know that by making them this way, the recipient will feel all the more guilty if he doesn’t care for them properly.”

Sirius snorted in reply, reclining once more on the sofa. He stayed quiet as Abby finished cutting out and folding up a few more pieces.

“Why wouldn’t your door open for me?” he asked abruptly.

“What?” Abby turned around again, unsure if she had heard him correctly.

“Your door,” he said, “It wouldn’t open for me.”

Abby’s scissors stopped in the middle of the cloth, her cut veering off to the right of the tracing. It almost sounded as though Sirius, or Padfoot, or Snuffles, or whoever he was, might have tried the door on more than one occasion.

“It’s warded,” Abby said slowly, feeling that she really needed to learn to think more quickly on her feet. Although, she observed, she might actually be able to tell the truth this time. She tried to keep her voice even and unhurried for her next words. “The spells were a gift from Dumbledore. So I’d have a little privacy from the Boormans’ noise and, well, from their very existence. That’s why the back garden is protected, too. Their children would come in and rummage around while I was at the shop.”

And, they didn’t let me pursue ancient magical arts in my cellar in peace.

The answer seemed to satisfy Sirius, or so Abby thought. She was grateful the robemaking gave her an excuse to keep her face away from his, as she knew she would have more difficulty answering to his face. The residents of Hogsmeade already thought they knew everything there was to know about Abigail Loomis, which meant she was very much out of practice being on the receiving end of such questions.

The empty box of Quidditch Cordials, which Sirius had left perched precariously on the edge of the kitchen table, then decided to fall onto the floor. He started at the sound, and the sight almost made Abby want to giggle, until she remembered that he probably had very good reason to twitch at sudden noises. She flinched, feeling that she might never really understand what made Sirius Black’s mind work.

The sight of sweets wrappers littering the floor reminded Abby of another subject she had been meaning to broach with Sirius. Dumbledore had owled her three days ago to request a meeting for the evening after this. She hesitated to tell him where she was going, but she did not have the heart to think up a suitable fib to explain her absence. Hopefully, he would trust her to keep his location safe. But even more daunting than this was the imminent challenge of how she might avoid telling Dumbledore that she had all but discarded her weaving in the last few weeks. Even during previous standstills, she had always kept up her research or tinkered around with different potions. But not this time, and truth be told, she did not miss it. Not one bit.

“You’re picking those up, you know,” she joked with forced effort, straining to keep her voice light as she continued. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you! I’m to drop by Hogwarts tomorrow after work, to bring a Christmas gift to Dumbledore.”

Sirius looked at her, his expression guarded. “Do you know Dumbledore well?”

Abby had almost forgotten that he – or Padfoot, rather – had taken a part in her last visit to Hogwarts. She wondered how she could have let that slip her mind when Sirius was always grunting and growling like Padfoot, especially when annoyed. Not quite knowing how to answer him, she gathered up more scraps of flannel and hoped illogically that the question, if ignored, might slip away into the air.

“You see him often then, don’t you?” he persisted.

So much for that hope. Abby’s mouth opened uncertainly, but as before, she realized that the best she could do was to simply tell the truth. If he were to ever call her bluff on the information, at least she would not forget what she had said.

“Yes, from time to time,” she replied. “He’s been a friend to me since I left Hogwarts. And he doesn’t trust just anyone to create those fantastic ensembles.”

“So he wants only the best, does he?” Sirius said, causing Abby to note the utterly charming way in which one corner of his mouth pulled up when he grinned. She gave her chin a grand toss into the air.

“Why yes, he does,” she said haughtily, before succumbing to a giggle. With a shy glance at Sirius, she went back to her cutting, accompanied by the crackling of the fire and the sound of her scissor blades. She was so focused on the outline of the last sleeve that Sirius’ next question caught her completely unawares.

“Are your parents alive?”

My, he is full of questions tonight.

Her eyes opening widely, Abby sat back on her heels and rested her scissors on her leg. This was entirely new territory for them. To be sure, they had spoken of some personal things – clothing shops and hippogriffs – but nothing of this nature had entered into their conversation before. The question was innocuous enough, but Abby feared it all the same. The details of her personal life had been under lock and key for a very long time, so long that she felt the lock had rusted over ages ago. Even if she had wanted to truly open up to someone earlier, doing so might have well been impossible. The need for secrecy was too well entrenched, but then, Sirius had trusted her, in a way…

Finally, Abby took a deep breath and answered him.

“My dad is, but he’s not in Britain. My mum passed on eight years ago. After she was gone, Dad couldn’t stand to be in the house by himself. He’s been with the Ministry in Paris ever since.”

“Did your mum work?” Sirius inquired.

“Only in the home,” Abby replied, a meaningful glint in her eye. Mum had really done quite a lot of magical work in the home, especially at her loom. “Although she went to a lot of Ministry functions with Dad. That was almost a career in and of itself.”

Abby paused, training her eyes on the scissors so as not to see Sirius’ face when she ventured a question of her own.

“And yours?”

The seconds that passed were painful. Abby could almost hear the pounding of her heart, the uneasy turning of her stomach. She should have kept her mouth shut.

“They’re dead, but I ceased to be their son long before that,” Sirius answered, in a voice steeped in bitterness.

Abby continued not to look at him, dreading the look she might see in his eyes. She would not ask anything else – given his circumstances, there were probably no happy answers to any question she might pose. With a small sigh, she looked at the little slivers of blue flannel that covered the floor in front of her. Her cutting was completed, so she raised her wand and whisked the panels to her workbench and the scraps to the dustbin. She had assumed that their conversation was also finished for the night, which was why Sirius’ voice caught her by surprise when he next spoke.

“Who was your friend who played Quidditch? ‘Flaming Quaffle’, remember?” he asked.

The clanking sound of scissors falling to the floor echoed throughout the cottage. Abby stared forward, keeping her eyes focused on the tattered slippers to the side of the hearth, trying her best not to blink. She felt an oncoming surge of tears, and she would be hexed if she were going to cry in front of Sirius Black. Blast him! She had not anticipated this.

“William Lowby,” she answered at length, her voice tight. “He was the Hufflepuff Keeper in my fifth year.”

Sirius remained quiet, and Abby eventually glanced over her shoulder. He had leaned back into the sofa, arms crossed, his forehead creased in concentration.

“Tall, brown hair?” he said. “I think James and I might have played against him once. A quiet fellow, wasn’t he?”

Despite her uneasiness at this line of questioning (and the fact that Sirius appeared to have a very good memory for something she had mentioned only briefly), Abby smiled sadly to herself. Once they had become a couple, Will had never been quiet. He had never had any trouble telling her what he thought of her eyes, and her laugh, and her lips. The fleeting memory of happier times faded as her heart began to pound with a dull, familiar ache. Before the memory of soft words and stolen moments in Hufflepuff Turret could swallow her up entirely, she forced her attention back to Sirius.

“Yes,” she replied simply, with an air of finality. She desperately hoped the answer would appease Sirius, but he apparently was not planning to let the topic go quite yet.

“Why doesn’t he ever stop by?” he asked, his tone almost conversational, yet certainly deliberate.

Abby stared at Sirius, her face obviously pained. Why was he asking these things? Couldn’t he just let the subject well enough alone? She turned to face the fire as her stomach began to lurch even more. Jaw clenched, eyes shut, she sat there, afraid of the sounds that might come out of her mouth were she to open it. Everyone in Hogsmeade already knew this information. Even the new girls who came from outside the village to work at Gladrags were quickly apprised of “Miss Loomis’ situation”. Abby had never been asked to relate the circumstances herself, and although part of her ached to get the information out now, she was not sure that she even could.

“Patrick McKinnon,” she said faintly. “Did you know Patrick McKinnon, in Ravenclaw? He and Will were cousins, and that summer – the summer after my last year at Hogwarts – Will went to visit him, and – and – ”

She got no further. Her voice broke, and the wave of emotion that she had been endeavoring to suppress broke over her, churning her up in its power and slamming her down hard. It had been months since she had cried over Will, and suddenly, Abby was very, very angry with Sirius Black. He had no right to bring this up. He had no part in this, no understanding of what she had been through. Though her role as heartsick girlfriend had been fully exposed to all of Hogsmeade and beyond, the feelings that accompanied it were hers alone. The thought of Will had always kept Abby going, the futility of it being, in some sad and pathetic way, a constant in her life. But lately, that constant felt as though it were being ripped away from her. Or more accurately, she thought with an ache, she had been setting it aside.

The emotional muddle hung on Abby like a water-soaked blanket. She had lied to Will once before, a lie about which he would never know the truth. To abandon his memory now seemed doubly traitorous. Sirius Black, curse him, had not helped matters by bringing up things that were clearly none of his concern.

Abby felt her fingernails dig painfully into her leg as she clenched it, trying not to visibly shake. She pressed her lips together tightly, but the ugly sob that wrenched its way out of her throat finally gave her away. She collapsed against the sofa, threw her head in her arms, and let out months’ worth of tears in an angry cry.

After the tears were spent, Abby turned her face slightly toward the fire and tried to reclaim her breath, feeling more ridiculous than she had ever felt with Sirius before. She did not want to see him now, if for no other reason than her face was probably a mess of violent purple blotches. She heard the rustle of his robes, and she hoped he would have the decency to go outside after her embarrassing outburst, or at least to the other side of the room. But he didn’t. As Abby sat there, her shoulders still rising and falling from the exertion of the sobs, a tentative hand reached over and grasped her shoulder.

Abby stiffened at the touch. She had certainly wrestled with Padfoot before, but Sirius had never, ever, done this. She was very conscious of his closeness, the sound of his breath, and the fact that although most of his hand rested on her shoulder, his fingers brushed against her neck. She closed her eyes for a moment, soaking in the fragment of contact, but soon clenched her jaw again, reminding herself that she was very, very angry with Sirius Black. He should have let her cling to her rock of miserable security in peace. Still trembling, Abby shook off his hand and stood up without a backward glance.

“I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Good night,” she said flatly, walking straight to her bedroom. She did not see the look on his face or the awkward way his hand still hung in the air.

**

The following evening, Abby shifted nervously outside the door to Dumbledore’s office. As if the events of the night had not been confusing enough, she now had to stand before the headmaster and somehow hope that he would not see through her terribly transparent excuses. Even though she was rather disappointed in herself for neglecting her calling, she felt as though she would crumple up and die if Dumbledore expressed any displeasure. And then there was the matter of the dog she had told him about on her last visit, who had turned out not to be much of a dog after all.

Biting her lip, she lifted her hand and rapped on the door. It swung open at her touch, and Abby saw Dumbledore sitting not before his desk, as was his usual custom, but in an armchair by the fire, stretching his stocking-clad feet toward the flames. His face lit up as he saw her in the doorway, and he happily beckoned her over to a neighbouring chair.

“Come in, dear, and please be seated! The blaze is delightful.”

Abby hung her cloak on a stand near the door and crossed the room, lowering herself into the armchair. Dumbledore must have charmed the fire somehow – the minute she placed her toes before it, a wave of warmth covered her like a thick quilt and a mug of steaming cocoa. It was incredibly comfortable, and she could easily imagine why he might prefer this spot to his desk. She was very much tempted to close her eyes and take a nap.

Dumbledore wordlessly passed her a gold dish of what she confirmed on second glance to be Bertie Botts’ Every Flavour Beans. Abby peered into the dish with caution – she could not spot any of the usual dodgy beans, but one could never know with absolute certainty (she had once given them up for a year after a disastrous kiwi-sauerkraut mix-up). She settled on several beans that looked like orange marmalade, and she was even more pleased when she tasted ripe apricot.

“Sir, I may be wrong,” she said with a soft laugh, “but I thought at one time that you had an aversion to these.”

“I have persuaded dear old Bertie to provide me with an assortment of requested flavours on occasion,” Dumbledore chuckled. “He is quite curmudgeonly about it, to be sure, but I have promised him he may use my written endorsement on the packaging. I consider it a fair trade.”

Abby smiled and sampled a few more beans, delighted to find a genuine kiwi one in the bunch. She leaned back into the soft upholstery of the chair, and she and the headmaster enjoyed their sweets in silence.

“I must tell you, Abigail,” Dumbledore said, after a time, “you were quite right concerning those toffees, although they did prove to be quite amusing at the next staff meeting. Professor Vector was rather upset when she tripped over her tongue – literally – but as she has not resigned yet, I do believe things have been smoothed over. You have quite a sharp eye.”

“Blame Alastor Moody, sir! I shan’t tell you what he used to do with raisins,” Abby giggled.

Dumbledore laughed, and the silence resumed. It was an odd meeting, Abby mused – he had not yet asked for a status report, nor did he seem to have any intention to do so. But she had no plans to complain, and she certainly was not going to offer any information for which he did not ask.

“I never get accustomed to seeing the school empty, sir,” she did say, as her handful of beans dwindled. “I’m glad there’s a fair number staying for the Yule Ball this year.”

Dumbledore glanced over and smiled kindly. “We do have a good number with us at present, although, in years past, the holiday has presented an opportunity for me to better acquaint myself with the students who have stayed. Harry Potter, for example, has been here every Christmas.”

“Yes, it’s terribly sad that he has no family to go to.”

“His remaining blood relatives are not – approving, shall we say? – of Harry’s wizarding heritage, but he is not wholly without other family,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully. “He has a living godfather, you know.”

Abby stared at the headmaster, her eyebrows raised in curiosity. She had never heard this before, although it did make sense. But who had been so close to James and Lily Potter that they would name him godfather to their only son? Peter Pettigrew? But he was dead, allegedly killed by… Abby halted that train of thought before it got any further. Remus Lupin, then? But if he were Harry’s godfather, would he have not stayed at Hogwarts? Or in the area, at least? Abby racked her brain, trying to remember any other of the Potters’ acquaintances. She suddenly realized that although the headmaster had not continued speaking, his mouth was still slightly open, pausing almost as though to invite her to question further.

“Who is Harry’s godfather, sir?” she asked finally. “Is he a wizard?”

“Yes, he is,” Dumbledore replied. “He is Sirius Black.”

Abby felt as though the Whomping Willow had clouted her across the head for a second time as she stared at Dumbledore, astounded. Scattered bits of information and observation began to take slow shape in her mind as she let out the breath she had been holding.

Of course. I should have known.

Although a stunned expression might be expected from anyone following such a disclosure, the headmaster watched Abby with curious eyes as he continued.

“Sadly, as we all know, horrible circumstances have kept Harry from ever knowing his godfather.”

Abby was certain Dumbledore could see the confusion swirling in her head. Despising herself for the falsehood, but not knowing what else to do, she shakily asked –

“Was – was Sirius Black ever apprehended, sir? The Daily Prophet says so little about him nowadays.”

“Apprehended?” Dumbledore said softly, his eyes showing an odd twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles. “Perhaps he has been apprehended. I am not the one who knows best, Abigail. Yet until the Ministry decides on his fate, I fear these times are still very dangerous for Sirius Black.”

He turned to face the fire and stretched out his feet closer toward the warmth, leaving Abby to her bewilderment. Moments passed as he sifted deftly through the remaining beans. Abby remained mute, her mind and mouth incapable of movement.

“The night is growing late, my dear,” Dumbledore said at length. “You had best be on your way.”

The finality in his voice saved Abby from further pretension. She had only been in his office for less than twenty minutes, but she knew without a doubt that the conversation was over.

Handing Dumbledore the box containing his Christmas gift, a bejeweled spectacle case, Abby bid the headmaster farewell and meekly prepared to leave. The meeting had so unsettled her, Abby was halfway to her cottage before she realized that Dumbledore had not asked her a word about the invisibility cloak or her other weaving endeavor. She sighed, feeling, for all of her thirty-three years, still a child. There was probably nothing she could keep from Dumbledore, anyway.

Sirius was quiet when Abby finally returned home, but she did not pay him much mind. She had much to ponder, and she wanted only to unburden her mind with sleep. She would not remember the next morning that late in the night, when a cracking log in the fire had caused her to blearily open her eyes, she had seen Sirius standing in her bedroom doorway. A piece of parchment with emerald-green writing clutched in his hand, he had remained there for a long moment, watching as her eyes floated shut once more. When she woke, Sirius was already gone. And as Christmas and the New Year came and went, and as spring began to creep into Hogsmeade, he was gone still.

**