Wine and Magic

                                                             Wine and Magic

 

     “What the bloody hell are you listening to, Hermione?”

     “It’s called a CD, Ron.”

     The gangly teenager rolled his eyes. “With a dad like mine, I know how Muggle music works by now. What I meant was, who exactly is this soppy bloke, why is he moaning in–in–Spanish or whatever and why are you forcing us to listen to this shite?”

     Hermione raised one eyebrow slightly. “For one thing, he’s singing, not moaning; for another, it’s in Italian, not Spanish; and finally, I have every right to listen to what I want in my own room. You don’t have to stay in here. And his name is Josh Groban.”

     Ron snorted and folded his long body into what looked like an intensely uncomfortable sitting position on the floor. “That’s rubbish. I’m not going anywhere. The moment I step outside Mum’ll have me doing some chore or other, and I had my fill cleaning this bloody house last summer.”

     “Well then, you’ll just have to deal with my choice in music,” sniffed Hermione, almost but not quite tossing her thick ponytail.

     “I don’t see that there’s anything wrong with it,” mumbled Harry, who had been reading in a ragged armchair in the corner, dozed off, and was now being drawn back to consciousness by the sounds of an impending argument. “At least if it’s in Italian you don’t have hear how inane the lyrics are.”

     “Inane? Wow, Harry, ten points to Gryffindor! What’re you reading over there, a dictionary?” said Ron sarcastically.

     “No, a comic, you git.” Harry flipped the book around and showed him the cover, which bore a misty blue-grey image involving a pale human torso and a giant prehistoric-looking shell. Over all this were emblazoned the words “SANDMAN: Preludes and Nocturnes.”

     “Muggle comics!” said Hermione, interested. “What’re those about, Harry?”

     “Hard to say,” hedged Harry. “A lot of stuff about magic as the Muggles think of it. Occult crap. Not a bad story, though. And the main character looks kinda like...” He stopped.

     “Like who?” demanded Ron.

     “Never mind,” said Harry.

     “C’mon! Tell us!”

     Harry shook his head, annoyed at himself for getting into this situation. “No, it’s too stupid.”

     “Well then, let’s see if I can guess!” With surprising speed–no doubt born of his recent progress in the realm of Quidditch–Ron unfolded himself in a manner reminiscent of the spiders he hated so heartily, made a snatch, and grabbed the book from Harry’s sleep-slowed hands.

     While Harry swore and tried to grab it back and Hermione yelled at both of them to stop being stupid, Ron held the book at arms’ length and paged through it as best he could under the circumstances. “Ho!” he laughed, squirming out of Harry’s reach, “who could it be? This bald chap with a huge nose? Or this black fellow with the glasses? Or the skinny git with red side-whiskers? Hey, look at this one, Hermione! Do you think he would remind Harry of anyone?” Ron tossed the book at Hermione, who caught it, still open, and looked down at the colorful pages. Her prim expression melted into one of surprise, followed by one of such sadness that the boys ceased their tussling and stared at her–Ron in perplexity, Harry in resignation.

     “Oh,” said Hermione softly. “I see.”

     “What are you talking about?” said Ron, craning his neck to look over her shoulder. “It’s just a skinny pale guy with a lot of black...hair...ah. Hm. Well.” He stammered to a halt and met Harry’s eyes awkwardly. “Dead ringer for Sirius, ain’t he?”

     Harry turned away. Hermione scowled furiously at Ron, who grimaced and ran a hand through his bright hair, standing it on end. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

     “S’okay,” said Harry, flopping back into the armchair. “I know I’m being stupid. But...I can’t help it...I like being reminded of him, even though it hurts.”

     The trio sat in thoughtful silence while Josh Groban crooned in the background, now in English: “Fly me up to where you are beyond the distant star...I wish upon tonight to see you smile...”

     Then they heard feet on the staircase–too heavy and slow to be Ginny, too light to be Mr. Weasley–and a knock at the door. “Come in,” said Hermione, shoving the Sandman comic under her pillow.

     The door opened and Remus Lupin peeked in, looking like someone had been dusting with his robe and then used his hair for a dry mop. “I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news,” he said, his teeth glinting in a rueful grin. “Molly has discovered your absence from any of the cleaning teams and wants you with me and Tonks in the cellar.”

     Ron swore, Hermione sighed, and Harry sunk even lower in his seat. Lupin laughed. “Come on, you lot, it won’t be as bad as all that; we’ve cleared out everything living. Now all that needs to be done is the excavation of the Black family wine collection from half a century’s worth of dust and cobwebs.”

     “Cobwebs?” said Ron suspiciously.

     “All living things gone already,” repeated Lupin. “That means spiders, too. It’s quite safe, Ron.”

     “It won’t be so bad,” said Hermione. “I know some very effective dust-removal spells.”

     “Sorry, no spells. We’ve got to do it by hand,” said Lupin. “Wine and magic don’t mix. There are bottles back there dating back to the Byzantine Empire, and I don’t want to risk any damage.”

     “Do we get to sample some of the goods when we’re finished?” said Ron, waggling his eyebrows.

     “No promises,” said Lupin laconically. “Come on, let’s go.”

     They followed him down various twisting staircases into the dark underbelly of Number 12 Grimmauld Place–not perhaps the pleasantest of places to be spending the last three weeks before the start of their sixth year at Hogwarts, especially since the cleaning process was only now drawing to a close, but it was good to be in the same house with nearly all the members of the Order. Even if it did bring back painful memories.

     Harry had, after much agony, at last processed his godfather’s death enough to talk about Sirius again, which was quite a relief to both himself and everyone around him. He was even able to smile when Ron, trying to take his mind of the possibilities of any remaining spiders as he dusted, told Tonks and Remus about the Sandman’s purported resemblance to Sirius.

     “...I dunno myself,” he was saying, flailing a rag at a rack of bottles. “This Sandman guy looks far too grouchy to be really like Sirius. That’s what I remember most about him–how he’d laugh and joke, especially when Mum was in a snit–reminded me of Fred and George sometimes.”

     “I was thinking looks more than personality,” said Hermione.

     Tonks nodded emphatically, setting her current hairstyle (long red dreadlocks) swinging in the dust-heavy air. “You’re right,” she said. “I haven’t read those comics since I was a little bit of a thing, but I remember what the King of Dreams looked like, and you’re right.”

     Lupin put down the bottle he had been tenderly wiping off with a corner of his robe. “Am I the only one in this group who’s never heard of this Sandman character?” he said, half querulous, half amused.

     “Don’t worry, sir,” Hermione hastened to assure him, “I only learned about him this afternoon. But his resemblance to–to Sirius is quite striking.”

     “Want me to show you, Remus?” said Tonks.

     “Yeah!” said Ron eagerly, always impressed by the young woman’s shapeshifting abilities. “That’d be wicked!”

     Hermione glanced at Harry, worry in her eyes, but he shook his head and smiled slightly. It’s okay. Though watching Tonks transform into a life-sized almost-Sirius would be difficult to see without tears coming, he possessed enough adolescent curiosity to see if she could actually do it. She didn’t often cross the gender border in her morphing, so it was worth watching for sheer rarity value.

     Tonks backed up so that she stood in a dark corner. There was a sound like a cardigan sneezing (at any rate, that was the analogy that leapt to Harry’s mind) and then she stepped out into the light again. Ron swore quietly in awe. Hermione said, “Wow.” Lupin blinked as though not sure if what he saw was real. Harry bit his bottom lip. Tonks looked at them all with burning white pinpoints of eyes from the dark hollows of the Lord Shaper’s white-skinned, bony face. She was him, from the shock of blue-black hair to the high-collared black trench coat with red and yellow flames dancing around the hem. “Well?” she said, in a sepulchral voice. “Am I close?”

     “Spot on,” managed Harry.

     “Incredible,” said Hermione.

     “Bleedin’ feckin’ AWESOME!” laughed Ron.

     “Not quite Sirius, nonetheless,” said Lupin, sounding as though he had swallowed something too large that was now stuck in his throat.

     “Yeah, Sirius’ hair was longer and straighter and not so...blue around the edges,” said Ron.

     “Like this?” said Tonks.

     “Yeah,” said Ron.

     “The voice has got to go,” said Hermione, “you’re giving me the creeps.”

     “Sorry,” said Tonks, and Harry felt his heart lurch, for the voice was now that of his godfather, raspy and sounding somehow like coffee tasted–strong, dark, soothing, bitter. Ron and Hermione were at it full steam now, directing Tonks so that she became, second by second, closer to the form and face of Sirius Black.

     “His skin wasn’t that pale–”

     “–cheekbones higher–”

     “–beard shadow–no, not that much–”

     “Don’t forget the old robes–looked like he’d found them in the attic–”

     “–his nose was longer and straighter than that–”

     “–teeth were sharper-looking, especially the canines–”

     They were dickering over the exact shade of his eyes when Lupin spoke. “Stop,” he said. “You’ve got it, Tonks.” There was something about the way he said it that brought Harry out of the bittersweet swamp of emotions that he had floundered into. Ron and Hermione must have heard it too, because they shut up and stared at the werewolf, who was pacing through the dusty amber cellar sunlight towards the image of Sirius.

     “Damn you, Sirius Black,” Lupin said conversationally. “Damn you to hell. You left me alone again and you didn’t even say goodbye.” He stopped walking, mainly because if he went any further he and Tonks-Sirius would be touching noses. The trio watched in silence, aware that they were seeing something that neither Remus nor Sirius would have ever wanted them to see, but equally aware that they could not move for fear of disturbing something...private.

     “Goodbye, Remus,” said Tonks-Sirius gravely, putting long, strong hands–Sirius’ hands–on Lupin’s shoulders. Lupin closed his eyes. Then he threw his arms around the lean figure in front of him in a convulsively tight hug. Tonks, apparently accepting the role she had stepped into, returned the embrace with all the sinewy strength available in her Sirius-shaped body. No one said anything or even moved for what felt like at least a minute. Then Lupin pulled away.

     “Sorry, Tonks,” he said woodenly. “I...I think I’d better leave...” He turned and walked up the stairs, his steps even slower and heavier than usual. Not until he was out of earshot did the remaining four people stir and look at each other.

     “Well, Harry,” said Tonks through Sirius’ mouth. “Would you like to have a go?”

     Harry laughed shakily. “No, that’s okay. You can change back now.”

     Again the cardigan noise, and Tonks stood before them, scratching her dreadlocked head thoughtfully.

     “Well, that was weird,” said Ron, trying to sound careless.

     “You’re telling me,” said Tonks. “Remind me never to do that again when Remus is around. I don’t think it’s good for...either of us. Too many false hopes on both sides.”

     Hermione looked at her sharply. “You mean you and he–?”

     “Oh yes, I’m head over heels for him. Just my luck, eh? I don’t think he’ll ever notice. He was claimed a long time ago. As we just saw.”

     Harry stared at the girls, startled. “You mean Sirius and him–?”

     “Maybe, maybe,” said Tonks, shrugging. “He doesn’t talk about it, but I saw the look in his eyes, and I know for a fact that no one hugs like that unless...”

     “Oy! What are you saying?” demanded Ron.

     “Oh, don’t be dense, Ron,” said Hermione. To Harry’s surprise, she was crying. “I think I need to go listen to some Josh Groban.”

     “I’ll come with you,” said Tonks, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “Screw the basement.”

     The two departed, sniffing. Ron looked at Harry anxiously–it was clear that he was waiting for an explosion of some sort. Normally Harry would have been glad to oblige, but at the moment he simply didn’t have the strength. He sat down on the crate of rags that they had been dusting with and rested his chin on his hand.

     “You okay there, mate?” said Ron eventually, when the silence grew too profound.

     Harry wondered how to reply. He knew he couldn’t say what he was thinking, which was: How strange to see, after so long, that there is other pain in the world that’s greater than mine. How strange that it lay hidden for so long. How strange that it does not feel strange, but like something that I always almost knew...

     Harry sat up, reached towards the nearest wooden rack, and pulled out a bottle. Though venerable, it looked as though it had been created within the last one hundred years, so the dark liquid that sloshed invitingly inside it was probably safe for human consumption.

     “I don’t know,” he said. “But let’s drink to Sirius, and to everyone who ever loved him.”

     Ron’s worried expression slid into a grin. “You’re getting soppy in your old age, Harry.”

     “We can only hope,” said Harry.