Promises Unbroken

Promises Unbroken

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Considerable Chances

"As you know, Auror Training has seven basic sections," Hestia Jones began in a dry voice. "Before the war, these sections, combined with Basic Auror Training and the Mentorship Phase took three years to complete. Now, the entire process is squeezed into a one-year period because we lose Aurors faster than we can train their replacements. With you, the process will be even shorter.

"Most Aurors that leave the field never come back. Most aren't even alive to do so," she continued. "So, you are somewhat of a unique case, especially given that you have been gone for so long. Also, I expect your basic spell work to have suffered a great deal while you were a prisoner, so we're going to really have to go back to the beginning."

Sirius shifted slightly in his chair, but remained silent, biting back an impatient reply. Jones, of course, droned on as if she hadn't seen a thing.

"Accordingly, we'll spend a couple weeks working on simple spells, slowly working our way up to more advanced magic. After that, I've organized a weeklong crash course for each of the seven sections, starting with Concealment and Disguise and ending with Combat Curses. Then you'll be tested in each of the sections to ensure that you're up to Auror Standards. Assuming that works out," (and nothing in her voice made Sirius think she was willing to believe that it would) "you will be partnered with an experienced Auror for six months."

"So let me get this straight," Sirius said slowly. "I'll be spending almost three months retraining, and then undergo a second Mentorship for another six?"

He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but he wasn't sure if Jones would have noticed it anyway. Her answer was simple: "Precisely."

"I don't have nine months."

Only then did she seem to notice that he wasn't happy about this. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said that I don't have nine months to waste," Sirius replied with icy precision. "And neither does the Division."

"Forgive me for believing that your contribution is not going to make the difference between life and death for the entire Auror Division," she remarked sarcastically.

Sirius bit back his temper; right now, it was the absolute last thing he needed. "I never said it would," he retorted. "But there are a few things I can tell you for certain. One: Voldemort wants me, and he's willing to tear apart all kinds of things to do it. Two: my basic spell work does not need refreshing. I've fought two separate duels in the last three days, and come out on top both times. Three: I'm not insane or inept, and there's nothing wrong with my memory. I might have spent the last ten years as a prisoner, but I do remember how to fight."

"Are you finished yet?" Jones asked coldly.

"Should I be?" Sirius shot back, not willing to give an inch, and was rewarded by anger flashing in her eyes.

"Quite frankly, I don't care what you know or don't know," Jones snapped. "My job is to retrain you, and that means we do it my way, or not at all. If you don't like that, you can leave now."

Sirius stood up and left the cubicle without a word.

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"So what do we have here, Perkins?" Arthur asked curiously, having just Apparated onto the scene.

"Interesting one, actually," his colleague replied. "Seems that old Martook had an enchanted Muggle yacht in addition to all his other gadgets and tricks."

"Yes, but what do we do with it?" Arthur asked worriedly, scratching his head. "It's not simply as if we can fly this back to the Ministry. Where will we put it?"

Arthur and Perkins were currently investigating the estate of the late Dennis Martook, and the process was taking days. Of course, ever since Arthur's promotion, he hadn't really been required to go into the field for investigative work, but he found it simply fascinating. Martook's estate had certainly been no exception, either; in fact, it was turning into the most outrageous raid Arthur had ever even heard of. First it had been exploding telephones and random channel-changing televisions. Then the pair had started finding biting ceiling fans and ejecting trash bins; things had only gotten worse when Perkins had tripped over the self-digging shovel. After that Arthur had stumbled into a door that had kicked him clean out of the house, at which point his attention had been drawn to Perkins, who was shouting down by the waterfront.

Martook had lived in Aberdeen before his death, right on the beach. It wasn't a very popular area amongst magical folk, which probably explained how he could get away with enchanting nearly every Muggle item in his entire house. That, and any wizard would have known that boat--What did Perkins call it, a yetch? Arthur wondered--wasn't exactly normal.

"I dunno. We could leave it here, maybe," Perkins answered with a shrug, but inspiration suddenly struck Arthur, and he wasn't listening.

"Does it have a motor, do you think?" he wondered breathlessly.

Perkins laughed (he was Muggleborn and understood these things better than Arthur could ever hope to). "Of course it's got a motor. Does this luxury boat look like it's got sails?"

Arthur ignored the sarcasm and jumped aboard. This was going to be interesting!

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"James, we have a problem."

Sirius had walked straight into his friend's office without bothering to knock and closed the door behind himself. He sat down in the chair before the rather nice looking wood desk--Sirius hadn't been in James' office ever before, but decided that this one would do--and looked his old friend in the eye. For his part, James looked at Sirius as if he'd grown a second head.

"What?"

"Jones," Sirius spat.

James took a deep breath before peering closely at him. "What happened, Sirius?"

"She happened!" With an effort, he reined in his irritation. "Hestia Jones and her nine month long 'retraining' program."

"She--what? Nine months? What in the name of Merlin are you talking about?"

"Yeah," he responded bitterly. He was so sick of people treating him as if he was made of glass. "Apparently, I'm inept as well as off my rocker."

"I know Hestia would never say that," his friend pointed out.

"All right, so she didn't say that. But she sure as hell implied it."

"Is it at all possible that you misunderstood?"

Sirius sighed. "Look, I know you said she's a good Auror and all, and I don't doubt that. In fact, I bet she's even a nice lady, too"--Cold as a fish, but I'll give her the benefit of the doubt--"but she wants me to do a three month crash course followed by a six month Mentorship. For God's sake, James, I was about to start Mentoring people myself before I became your Secret Keeper!"

"I know, Sirius, I know," James reassured him. "Don't bite my head off here."

"Sorry." He reined his temper in again. Doing so was getting harder with every minute, and Sirius didn't know what he'd do if James started doubting him, too.

His friend waved off the apology. "All right. What exactly did Hestia say?"

"In a nutshell, I think she believes everything that Skeeter said." Sirius shook his head and resisted the urge to employ very foul language. Whether it would be aimed at the irritating Auror or the nosy reporter he didn't quite know; however, nor did he care. "She started talking about going back to the basics and reviewing every little bit of Auror Training...a broom load of junk I don't need to do. I've been studying on my own, and I know my weaknesses. My reflexes are shot to hell, and I'm short on complicated spells. I've also simply got to work on combat reactions and simply find out how I react under pressure. I don't need to read Miranda Goshawk's Standard Book of Spells."

James chuckled. "Did you ever read that, mate?"

"Sure, when I was about six." Sirius finally cracked a smile. People like Jones simply drove him crazy; he couldn't stand not to be believed anymore. He hadn't escaped from Azkaban to be called a liar, and it was really beginning to get on his nerves.

They grinned, both remembering days spent under one singular tree, some of which were stupider than others, but all of which were memorable. But the shared nostalgia of the moment couldn't last forever; there was a war on, now, and neither of them were children anymore. Unfortunately, reality always intervened. Finally, James replied,

"I'll talk to her, Sirius. You're right in saying that she's giving you an awfully hard time about this, but Hestia is right in saying that you do need a review." Sirius frowned, but James didn't let him object. "At the very least, we need the review and testing to reassure people like Arabella that you're ready, and that you haven't lost your wits."

"Nice to know Figg believes in me so much," Sirius growled, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. James, however, was having none of that.

"She's got reason to doubt you, you realize. 'Bella doesn't know you as well as I do, and this does seem like a miracle. So do the tests as fast as you can, and maybe then we can start working on Azkaban."

This was the very first time that either of them had ever referred to the prison in such a context, and Sirius saw James' eyes center on him worriedly. It was clear that his friend hadn't meant to mention it so soon, but Sirius nodded with conviction. "Definitely."

Relief blossomed on his friend's face, but a shadow of doubt corrupted it. "I don't want to push you," James said quietly.

"You're worried that I would want anything to remind me of the place, aren't you? That I'd want to stay away from it at all costs?" Sirius asked.

"It's happened before," the Auror pointed out.

"I'm not Dung Fletcher, James," he replied, taking a steadying breath he hoped his friend didn't see. "While I understand his choices, I think they're the wrong ones. I'll never heal if I hide. And I can't hide forever, at any rate."

Not with the way Voldemort wants me, he didn't say, but the point was made all the same. And maybe James did see the breath and pause he'd had to take to reassure himself. It didn't really matter. Friends, Sirius had long ago learned, didn't look down on you because of what you had to be. On roads that needed taking, they were willing to walk by your side--not matter how long or how dark the path might be. He smiled slightly, and was surprised to feel that it wasn't really forced.

"I had to be sure," James said.

"I understand."

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Arabella Figg came storming into the Minister of Magic's office like a hurricane. Her abrupt arrival startled even Lily and made Fawkes screech irritably when she crashed into Dumbledore's inner sanctum, slamming the door shut behind herself. Had it been possible, she was certain that steam would have been blowing out of her ears.

"He's gone," she seethed. Fury made her words short and clipped, and definitely grabbed Dumbledore's attention. The venerable wizard peered carefully up at her over the rims of his glasses.

"Sit down, Arabella," he said quietly. "Who is gone?

She remained standing with a shake of her head and resisted the urge to break something. "Crouch. Junior," she spat. "My people brought him into custody today and now he is gone. Vanished. Disappeared straight out of a maximum security cell."

"Oh, dear."

"Is that all you can say?" she demanded, glaring at her superior. "A Death Eater is gone and you say 'oh dear'?"

Albus looked at her with suddenly alert blue eyes. "Sit down, Arabella," he repeated quietly, but now his voice was harder and booked no argument. She did so, and his eyes focused on her. "I have much more to say, my friend, as you well know," he replied. "However, I prefer not to jump to conclusions. Tell me what happened."

She took a deep breath and organized her angry thoughts. Of all people, Arabella Figg knew that losing her temper wasn't a good way to operate anything; unfortunately, that didn't change the fact that it was often hard to control it. As a child, she'd had an explosive temper, especially back in the days when her parents had been convinced that she was a Squib. A chance accident had helped her to avoid that fate, however, and years fighting against Dark wizards had taught her not to lose control of her anger. At moments like this, though, flying into a rage would have felt very good.

"Crouch was brought in early this morning by a team of very experienced Aurors, led by Alice Longbottom. He was incarcerated shortly after the Black press conference"--Arabella didn't have to say what she felt about that one--"and placed in our highest security cell. Shortly after noon, his father showed up, demanding to see the evidence against him."

Dumbledore's face darkened. "And what happened then?"

"He was allowed to see the same evidence I showed you last night," she replied immediately. "As you know, the facts are overwhelming. Crouch Senior was not happy, but he couldn't argue. Unfortunately, the then demanded the right to visit his son, which the Aurors on duty granted"--she grimaced--"and left shortly afterwards."

"And then the son escaped," the Minister finished gravely for her.

"Yes. Two hours to the minute after his father left." She bit her lip to contain the sarcastic comment that the coincidence warranted. "Which was about fifteen minutes ago."

"I see."

"Yeah, so do I," 'Bella commented darkly. "I don't believe in coincidences, Albus."

Dumbledore frowned deeply, and she knew what he was about to say. Barty Crouch was the Deputy Minister of Magic and a wizard of no insignificant power in his own right. That power was not simply magical, either; much of it could be derived from the influence and political authority he wielded. It would not do Dumbledore any good to go chasing his deputy with false charges; rather, that would only give Crouch the excuse he wanted to remove the Minister from power and take his place, which they both knew would spell disaster for the Wizarding world. However, there were also some things tat could not be allowed to continue. Finally, Dumbledore sighed.

"Investigate quietly, 'Bella," he said. "Use the Order's resources where you can. I'd prefer to avoid a scandal."

"Consider it done."

Dumbledore nodded, suddenly seeming much older than he had in years. His voice was quiet and heavy. "Thank you."

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Late that afternoon, a bone-tired Sirius Black headed for the Ministry's outbound fireplaces. He'd been working exercises all day in the Auror Division's carefully designed Testing Rooms, pushing his memory and reflexes to the limits. He was very thankful for those practice chambers, each of which contained a network of carefully worked spells that could be activated at a number of different levels of difficulty, allowing an Auror (or candidate) to concentrate on spell work, dueling reflexes, and combat technique. In the absence of Hestia Jones, whom he strongly suspected was very unhappy with him, he'd worked hard. Too hard, probably.

But it felt good, in an odd sort of way. Even though Sirius had to now put ninety percent of his concentration into not heavily favoring his right leg, a sense of accomplishment filled him. Pain, he knew, wouldn't last forever, and sweat in training equaled less blood in combat. Therefore, Sirius could deal with a lot of sweat.

He smiled slightly, remembering the many times Alastor Moody had pounded those words into his skull. Of course, Sirius had an uncommonly thick skull, but Moody had gotten the point across with his customary efficiency. He'd simply drilled Sirius over and over again, pushing and pushing until the importance of training was something his student could understand even in his sleep. His influence hadn't waned, either; Sirius was still pushing himself as far as he could go, knowing that he needed to know his limits now, and that finding them out in combat would be disastrous. Even dead and gone, Alastor, "Mad-Eye" Moody's influence lingered

He was too preoccupied with reminiscences to notice the approaching witch until it was too late.

"Doris Macintosh, Witch Weekly," she introduced herself, bustling forward. He recognized her curly blonde hair and blue eyes from the press conference that morning, of course, but was at a loss to figure out how or why she was approaching him now. But Macintosh immediately held out a hand, which Sirius took against his better judgment.

Instincts honed in Azkaban told him that this a time to flee, but he resisted the urge. He was in the real world, now, and couldn't run away from reporters--although he'd rather face a Death Eater any day. At least he knew exactly where they stood.

"Miss Macintosh," he replied warily, drawing his hand from her grip as soon as politely possible. Sirius wished strangers still didn't make him so uneasy. And he didn't like to be touched.

"I'm so glad I caught you, Mr. Black," she gushed, turning a dazzling smile on him. Her teeth were rather too white, Sirius thought; they blazed. "I spoke to my editors following the press conference this morning, and we have decided to award you Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award."

"I beg your pardon?" Sirius stared at her, certain he'd heard wrong.

Macintosh shoved a picture towards him. It had been taken earlier that morning, captured in the one moment when he'd smiled lopsidedly in response to a question about if he was currently in a romantic relationship of any sort. "The Most Charming Smile Award," she replied. "Surely you've heard of it."

"I have been gone for ten years," he reminded her dryly. "And before that, I did not exactly spend my time reading witch's magazines."

"I'm so sorr--"

"No matter." Sirius waved the apology off. He was getting so sick of hearing it. She smiled gratefully, not knowing that another one of those blistering grins would make him sick.

"Well, anyway, I just wanted to let you know that you will be featured on the cover of tomorrow's issue of Witch Weekly," Macintosh continued brightly.

Can I refuse? Sirius wondered acidly. Instead, though, he replied as politely as he was able. "Thanks."

To his ears, the response didn't sound very nice at all, but evidently it was good enough for her. With another brilliant smile (making Sirius want to throw up the undigested remains of his lunch), Doris Macintosh rushed away, oblivious to the rest of the world's concerns and quite satisfied with herself. Sirius watched her go with a bemused expression on his face, finally shrugging his shoulders and continuing on his way. In a few minutes, he'd be back at Hogwarts and able to pretend this was all just another bad dream.

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"Do you still wonder about the world outside?" Frank asked quietly.

Bill blinked at the unexpected query. "Yeah. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering," his companion replied. "It's a way to make sure that you're still sane...the mad ones don't think about home much."

Images of his family flashed through his mind. One by one, Bill saw his parents' faces, then Percy and the twins, then Ron and Ginny--and finally Charlie's. Charlie. Sadness welled up inside him, but Bill pushed it away. Oftentimes the Dementors centered on that horrible memory of the day Arabella Figg had come to tell the Weasleys that their son had been slain... Sometimes he had wondered why James hadn't come himself, but now Bill understood. Having come to know the senior Auror quite well during the long days leading up to Operation Icebreaker, he had come to know a lot more about James Potter than was simply presented in his public image. He knew that having been Charlie's Mentor, James had been heartbroken by his loss.

Sometimes he wondered if Charlie could see him now. If so, Bill hoped he could make him proud.

"Forgetting must be hell," he finally breathed.

"The longer you're here, the harder it gets to remember," Frank remarked. His scratchy voice was bitter, now.

"What do you think about?" Bill asked on impulse.

A long pause followed his question, and for a moment he began to wish he hadn't asked. Frank, he knew, had been in Azkaban much longer than he; perhaps he was speaking from experience and had a hard time remembering better times or the world outside. Maybe Frank was so quiet because he feared that he was going insane--

"I think about my family," the other replied softly. "I wonder how my son is doing..."

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Midnight, in the Wizarding world, was usually considered an ominous hour. Ever since the beginning of the war, the deep hours of darkness had spelled evil, and good witches and wizards had feared the night. Accordingly, most stayed inside at such sinister hours, asleep if possible. Bad things happened at midnight, and few wanted to be a part of that. Midnight, they said, was when the Death Eaters came out to play.

Midnight was definitely not the ideal time for spring cleaning.

"KREACHER!"

Remus' patience had finally snapped, and his wand was out, pointed at the degenerate house elf in an unwavering threat. "If you even think about letting that boggart out, I swear by all that's holy I will hex you into the next century!"

Far to the left and busy wrestling with an umbrella rack, Sirius laughed. "Unbelievable, isn't he?"

"I thought you were joking," Remus snarled, still pointing his wand at Kreacher, who was mumbling furiously under his breath.

"The werewolf is talking to Kreacher as if Kreacher cares what such a beast has to say--"

"Kreacher, if you say another word, I will give you clothes!" Sirius bellowed, cutting the house elf off. Big and watery eyes focused on him, then, but he glared, striding towards the Black family servant. He left the umbrella rack to deal with itself. "Just try me."

"Master must do as Master wishes." Kreacher bowed miserably low and then started mumbling. "Oh, Kreacher's poor mistress would hate to see this. Traitors and freaks and monsters defiling her house..."

"Oh, I've had it with this," Remus spat all of a sudden, more impatient than Sirius had ever seen him. "I'll be right back."

Crack. Remus Apparated away, leaving Sirius to stare and Kreacher to mumble. Finally, Sirius turned to the house elf. "You sure do have a way with people, don't you?"

Kreacher glared at him in sullen silence.

"Where'd Remus go?" James asked, walking in with Peter. Both of them were covered in dust and muck, having been waging war on Number 12, Grimmauld Place for the past four hours and having made as little progress as Sirius and Remus had in the Drawing Room.

"Good question," Sirius replied as Kreacher snuck out the door his friends had entered through. "The little monster must have peeved him something mighty, though. He said he'd be right back."

"Remus, angry?" Peter chuckled. "Too bad I missed it."

"I think Kreacher offends his sense of order," James replied with a smile. "Merlin knows, I couldn't abide a house elf like that."

"I told you my mum was a bit off, mate."

"Yeah, so we gathered from that screeching portrait in the hallway," Peter commented. "Lily is still doing war with it."

"Lily versus my mum?" Sirius grinned. "I almost feel sorry for the old bat. Almost."

"I don't," James responded darkly. "I'd have blasted that damn portrait into smithereens if Lily hadn't stopped me. You should have heard what she was calling Lily..." A baffled look crossed James' face. "But Lily was laughing at her. No offense, Sirius, but you mother was a nutter."

But Sirius only snorted. "I did warn you, but this was your idea, I do recall."

"You agreed, Padfoot."

"With reservations."

"Reservations, hell!" Peter snickered. "This will be a great house as soon as it's cleaned up a bit."

"A bit?" James snorted.

Sirius rolled his eyes and responded to Peter. His voice was grim. "You didn't have to live here growing up, Wormtail. It was different then."

Everything was different then. Sirius still remembered running away from home at sixteen and vowing to never return. He'd hated this place, then, as beautiful, ancient, and splendid as the house was. For Sirius, Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, represented a family history that he had been struggling all of his life to overcome: one of prejudice, arrogance, and darkness. He hadn't really wanted to come back, even when he'd learned of his mother's death and the fact that he inherited the house. Only James and Remus' insistence had brought him back, and when the five of them had visited for the first time early that evening, Sirius had been almost ready to give up. Not only was the place a mess, but it also reminded him of things best left forgotten.

He took a deep breath and glanced over at the tapestry on the far wall. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. He couldn't deny that there were good people there, too, and good memories mixed in with the bad--but both were far outnumbered by darkness and evil. Sirius sighed. Maybe he'd leave the tapestry there. Maybe he'd leave it up as a reminder of the past he'd chosen to overcome, and the history that made him what he was. Forces had shaped and changed him throughout his life, and not all of them were good. Perhaps his family's history was a good lesson to remember.

At any rate, his family's was a good tradition to break.

Pop. Remus suddenly appeared in front of them; the Anti-Apparition wards around the house were so old that Sirius had taken them down entirely. He'd fix them whenever he moved in, along with all the other decaying defenses that the house sported. However, even he couldn't argue with the advantages of having an Unplottable home, especially when Voldemort was hunting him so madly. And he did appreciate the irony of returning to here as the last Black, especially after his mother swore he'd never amount to anything.

"Welcome back," Sirius said with amusement. "Where did you go?"

"Recruiting."

Crack.

The other three looked at Remus strangely.

Crack.

Sirius frowned, trying to figure out what was going on. In the background, he heard his mother's portrait screeching at Lily, who was obviously still winning.

Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

A veritable army of house elves had appeared around their friend, who was grinning like a madman. "I suddenly had an epiphany," Remus explained gravely. "And I realized that we have been expending quite a lot of unnecessary effort."

"You went to Hogwarts." Realization dawned on James' face.

"That I did." Remus grinned. "By this time Wednesday, this house will be fit for human habitation."

"Remus, you're a bloody genius," Sirius declared with feeling.

Hogwarts' headmaster chuckled. "I am, aren't I?"

"Oh, great. Now he's going to get all egotistical about this," Peter grumbled. But he was smiling, too. Anything that promised to free them from several weeks' worth of work on that dammed house was worth cheering over.

"So." Sirius cracked his knuckles. "Why don't we go attack my mum, now? After all, I don't think even her portrait can stand up to the Marauders."

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