Chapter Text

Chapter 48: Where are you going, where have you been?

If for some bizarre reason Sirius had been looking to get berated for the better part of a morning, then fucking Christmas had come early at the Black Manor. He hadn’t been on the receiving end of that kind of lecture from his grandfather in years and good Merlin, it had left him in need of a drink. How Arcturus Black had even gotten wind of his so-called ‘antics’ at the Spring Gala was beyond him; his grandfather’s reach, his network never failed to impress.

No, Sirius had conceded, it wasn’t his finest moment. But the targets had never been so deserving, and the spectators whom he’d ‘disturbed’ could choke on their own spectacles as far as he cared.

Now, unfortunately, the second that declaration rolled of his tongue in front of his grandfather, it became clear to him how very much he sounded like an impertinent sixteen-year-old, and how… unfortunate that was given that it had been half a decade since then.

So he took it back.

And good Merlin, if that concession had been enough, the conversation could’ve ended at half past nine. But given that he was strolling into his home solidly into the afternoon, it sufficed to say that an admission of fault wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg of what his grandfather expected after an ordeal like this.

No, he wasn’t certain that by 9:30 he had even seen the right iceberg yet.

He was fairly sure he blacked out for most of the conversation, overwhelmed by just how many different ways his grandfather could tell him – no, prove to him – that his behavior was entirely unbecoming of the Black heir. But he was certain that sometime around eleven a sort of role play session had begun with other ideas of how Sirius could’ve approached the situation. By noon, he couldn’t even begin to explain why he hadn’t just stood up and walked away wordlessly, or simply asked Cressida or Alecto to move so Isabella could take a seat.

Thank Merlin they hadn’t gotten into the Snape situation. He wasn’t certain that his grandfather wasn’t just reserving that gem of conversation for a later date. But really, he had no reason to know. Nor reason to care; as he assured Isabella, Snape walked away from that ordeal.

How well he was walking was really no one’s business.

An exasperated sigh escaped him as his sunk down into one of the armchairs off the fireplace he’d just come through. Isabella would get back from lunch at Lily’s eventually, and though it was inevitable he’d walk her through the entire lecture, they’d certainly already done their mental rounds on the subject of the gala the morning after – Isabella taking a far more lenient stance than his grandfather had.

A new voice, a new perspective wouldn’t be unwelcome.

Peter, bless him, had mentioned in a recent letter that he might pop in sometime that afternoon. He wouldn’t be a bad option, and Sirius certainly wouldn’t mind the company, but with something like this, Wormtail just asked so many questions and nothing ever seemed to click. He was a good mate, but he just didn’t know enough to be a very satisfying person to seek council from.

What he knew he ought to do was grab a great bottle of mead from the cellar, or equally as reasonable, pick up a case of beer from a muggle corner shoppe in Godric’s Hollow, and head over to the Potter’s. James would find the whole ordeal hilarious and Sirius could only imagine the tales it would bring up; a sort of escapist trip down memory lane.

Or, of course, James would find the whole thing incredibly reckless. The very sort of attention-grabbing, public display of insanity that would turn far too many eyes towards them. And by going to the Potter’s, he’d just be setting himself up for the second great lecture of the day.

What he was half-tempted to do was write Evan and see if he’d grab a pint, or twelve, at—

Well, that was part of the problem, he wasn’t exactly sure where. The prospect of suggesting the Hog’s Head Inn felt embarrassingly stereotypical. He wasn’t sure how open they all were – both the pubs to such patrons, and such patrons to such public bars.

It was probably a bad idea all around, of course, for innumerable reasons. But there was something so easy about a friendship with Evan Rosier. There were no expectations. It hurt James that he wasn’t in the Order; James had admitted to it that night on St. Helens. He understood, but it bothered him. James really cared if Sirius made the right decisions, the respectable decisions.

But from the bottom of Evan’s heart, he didn’t care.

No guilt, no pitying glances, no nothing.

There was a time and a place for both, and Sirius would never pretend that Evan could hold a candle to James, but sometimes – sometimes – Sirius needed that nothing.

No sooner had he let his mind start to wander with that idea than he heard a knock at the door that took him out of his armchair before he could make any sort of decision.

It seemed he would get his company after all. Even if it came with a few more questions than he might’ve hoped, he’d be happy to entertain Wormtail for the afternoon.

Except on the other side of the door, there was a man he’d never seen before. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew him, the same way a child might recognize a creature from a reoccurring nightmare. Out of place, yes, but the unmistakable, paralyzing fear that consumes them alerts their mind that, yes, they know who this is.

And they should be afraid.

The man appeared to be in his mid-fifties, tall, broad-shouldered, and sharply dressed. He wouldn’t have looked out of place at the head of the Ministry nor a boardroom. Sirius’ mind tried to rattle through a list of his parents’ friends that he’d been introduced to years ago, that perhaps he hadn’t seen since. But there was one distinct feature that told Sirius he was wrong to try and place him in his past.

The man’s unmistakable red eyes felt as though they were cutting through him.

“May I come in?” the man asked, his voice low and raspy.

Sirius found he couldn’t bring himself to speak or move. Or breath.

“Sirius Black, I’m certain your mother has taught you better manners than that. But let me help you. The words you’re looking for are ‘Yes, my Lord.’”

“Yes, my Lord.” The words came out of him like bile; bitter, disgusting, and almost involuntary.

“Thank you.”

The Dark Lord smiled as he crossed the threshold of the Black’s country estate. There was nothing warm or real about his smile, it was model-esque in the way it was plastered on his brutal face, entirely intentional and surface-level. A pose.

“I felt it time for a chat. Have your elf bring us tea, where would you like us to sit?”

It was interesting, the questions he asked and didn’t. He didn’t ask if Sirius had a moment to chat. Or if he could sit. He asked where – giving him the illusion of choice, when really, Sirius was nothing more than a mouse with two possible entrances to the same maze.

“The living room – the living room will do,” Sirius stuttered through the words, hardly able to muster the courage to vocalize an opinion. “Pip?” the little elf appeared in front of them. “Tea for two in the living room.”

The elf was gone in a flash and the Dark Lord nodded in approval.

“Shall we?” he asked.

Though he walked at Sirius’ side through the hall towards the back of the house, Sirius had the distinct impression that he was not leading the way. It almost seemed the Dark Lord knew the home’s layout already. Whether that was Regulus’ doing, or simply his own paranoia, Sirius didn’t know. But he tried to wipe the thought from his mind.

There was nothing more important right now that keeping his mind clear.

He tried to focus on the number of steps between the front door and the living room, as though fixating on something so mundane might calm him. But it felt pathetic, staring at the ground while his uninvited guest next to him stood tall, looking straight ahead, walking with confidence though Sirius’ own home.

It seemed the Dark Lord had made a similar observation. As they took their seat in the sun-drenched room, he gave Sirius a scan up and down and frowned.

“Your reputation, of course, proceeds you. But when people talk about you, I always imagined you older. As though you were Arcturus Black’s son. But look at you - you’re so young.”

It went without saying his guest’s reputation proceeded him as well. Silence, Sirius felt, was the only appropriate response.

Sirius held his hands firmly in his lap in an effort to stop himself from shaking.

“My followers can usually be relied on to do what needs to be done. They don’t usually fail me. But when they do - as I feel they have with you - I find it best to take it over myself. I find that I am unfailingly reliable.”

Pip reappeared with tea set for two, and though Sirius stared intently at the little elf bustling around the coffee table, he could tell that the Dark Lord hadn’t looked away from him once. Sirius had the sudden urge to grab on to Pip, order the little elf to stay; just the presence of another living creature, another mind to help mask the genuine horror of what, who, he was facing. But instead, he stayed still and silent.

And in a matter of seconds, he was once again alone.

“I’ll keep this short and direct as I am a rather busy man,” the Dark Lord’s words cut through the air like arrows. “I’m not here to recruit you. I think that would be a waste of both my time and yours. I have been assured for a year now that it was only a matter of time, that you and your wife were ever closer to accepting the offer to join me. Your lack of participation tells me that’s not the case. You do not strike me as the type of person who takes a year to make a decision. I don’t know if it’s your bloodline or more personal; it’s of little concern to me. But to accept that – to move on – I need to make sure I understand your rational correctly. I need to ensure that if you aren’t swayed by the right reasons, you cannot be swayed by wrong reasons. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“You’re a pureblood, married to a pureblood, both from Sacred families. You practice the Dark Arts and frequently operate outside of the law. Your life would be better under my rule than Albus Dumbledore’s rule, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

James was right, it really was an open secret.

“Are you close to Dumbledore or many of the so-called Light families?”

“No. And not many; the number seems to dimmish day by day.” He wasn’t sure what made him add on the additional detail, other than of course that the man in front of him would know all about his Gryffindor days.

“Your wife, Isabella Rosier, now Black, I take it she’s had some influence over you. And you over her. All of your friends chose a side of the war that you didn’t. And all of hers likewise. This neutrality that you two have chosen didn’t just happen, it had to be discussed. Orchestrated. Am I correct in assuming that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Enlighten me.”

“It came down to family,” Sirius began to recite his usual explanation, perfectly constructed for the entirely wrong audience. He caught himself. Steadying his thoughts, he changed course. “The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is neutral in the conflict. There is a different set of standards for the Heir than there is for anyone else.”

“And Isabella agreed? I understand she is not the type to follow blindly.”

“She did. And she is not.”

“Had you not had those restrictions when leaving Hogwarts - for whatever reason that may be - do you think you would’ve come to the same decision?”

“I-I don’t know.”

The question wasn’t really about family restrictions, it would’ve been about Isabella. Had he not had Isabella, he would’ve joined the Order, wouldn’t he have? He tried pushed that thought away, it seemed for a moment that it crossed a line he couldn’t cross. Opened up the conversation to places he could not let it go.

But the Dark Lord’s expression clouded, and prickle in his mind confirmed in an instant that he had made a mistake. He was engaged in a far more dangerous version of a conversation with his grandfather. If his answers were insufficient, the Dark Lord would simply extract better ones.

“No,” Sirius corrected himself quickly, “with no external drivers, I think I would’ve made a decision at eighteen that I would’ve come to regret.” He spoke sincerely, harking back to his conversation with James on St. Helen’s; things were better off because he was not in the Order.

But he would not take the moment to recall that now, his tea in front of him was far too interesting.

“Whether in the future, or now, have you and Isabella ever discussed joining one side of the effort or the other?”

“We have discussed both in theory. Neutrality suits us.”

“Please, neutrality is weak,” the Dark Lord spoke with more force in his voice than Sirius had yet heard.

“There is… well, there’s power to be found in broader acceptance.”

“Do you find you are broadly accepted?”

“Well… no.”

“No. You’re not. Because the Blacks and the Rosiers are not neutral families. And you and your wife are as un-neutral as they come. It sounds to me like our side has acknowledged your declaration of ‘neutrality’ while the other side has labelled you as the enemy. What does that tell you about your true position?”

Sirius fell quiet.

The Dark Lord took a long sip before he continued.

“I understand your father passed away last year, my condolences,” he said without a hint of compassion in his voice. “Your grandfather is in his 70s-80s now, very much in his prime for a wizard, but nevertheless old enough that I imagine you’ve contemplated a future where you’re head of the Sacred House of Black. When that day comes, I expect we’ll see some changes to House. The way things are done; the way you want things done - is that accurate?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will the Sacred House of Black become a Light family?”

“Of course not.”

Sirius wasn’t sure if it was meant as an insult, but it was surprising the way he took it as one.

“Of course not,” the Dark Lord scoffed. “Have you been recruited by the Order of the Phoenix?”

“In the past. I don’t imagine they want anything to do with us now.”

“Your appeal goes far beyond you as a person, I’m sure the Order is just as aware of that as I am.”

Sirius worked hard to mask his surprise at the Dark Lord’s directness. He was the first person in either camp to acknowledge that it wasn’t really Sirius Black they wanted. And though Sirius would never admit it, he found the approach far more appealing.

“Dorcas Meadowes?”

“Sorry?” Sirius responded, shifting slightly in his seat.

“I understand she’s been leading some of the more high-profile recruitment efforts for them. I assume she recruited you as well?”

“Uh…” his mind wandered back to the Potter wedding against his will, “well, I don’t – I’m not sure…”

“Don’t lie. You’re too young to have forgotten details like that. It’s a simple yes or no.”

“Yes,” he conceded, barely above a whisper. The words made him feel ill. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you. I’ll deal with her personally.”

Sirius opened his mouth to object but words failed him.

Dorcas Meadowes, in no uncertain terms, had just been delivered a death sentence. Silence didn’t suffice.

Had he had a different morning. Had the futility of arguing with such a man not been made so apparent to him. Had the fight in him not been so thorough, so properly snuffed. Then maybe…

But yet the conversation moved on and he had said nothing.

“What concessions would the Order of the Phoenix have to make to successfully recruit you?”

“They wouldn’t – they’re not even trying -”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion on if they would try, I asked what it would take to persuade you.”

Sirius gave himself a brief moment to think. It felt, unlike with the other questions, he had been given the right to take that moment. He wasn’t concocting a lie or a deception. There was no way to know what would be enough of an answer and what would be a step too far. The Dark Lord didn’t seem to play games. It didn’t seem that this was a trap or trick. He would give him the truth, and if it killed, he evidently wouldn’t be the only one to die as a consequence of this conversation.

“If the Order changed their stance on the Dark Arts – entirely,” he explained, “I would entertain the conversation in a way I haven’t in years. I’m sure there’s more, but that, right now, makes it a non-starter.”

“And what would move the Black family wealth to their aid?”

Sirius’ response came out before he even really realized what he was confessing.

“Nothing,” Sirius shook his head dismissively, “I don’t trust them.”

The Black wealth would never back the Order.

As sickening as it felt to admit it, it was true. He didn’t trust that the Light families would keep their word when it came to anything to do with the Dark Arts. He’d heard the same debates rage on in the Wizengamot since he was old enough to follow the dinnertime conversations. The laws had been tweaked, adjusted, and meddled with for a century now. He’d watched the Potter’s, who he knew cared more about him than almost anyone else on earth, flop back and forth on the same issues countless times. If he couldn’t trust his best friends, how could he trust people who thought far less of him? They would never fund a side who would be the wind at the backs one day, and slit their sails as soon as the tides changed.

The Dark Lord smiled; it seemed almost genuine, and altogether unsettling as a result.

“That was, I confess, the only thing I needed to hear from you. Anything beyond that would be superfluous.”

He leaned back in his chair and, for what felt like the first time since he’d arrived, allowed his gaze to wander away from Sirius. He wore a similar expression to someone engaged in a game a chess, mentally moving the pieces on the board.

And then he simply nodded.

“We’ll proceed.”

The man who sat before him looked like a gentleman. He was stately, intelligent, and caried himself with an air of aristocratic elegance and power that takes most men a lifetime to perfect. But when a gentleman makes such a simple declaration, the temperature of the room does not dip. The lights do not dim. A gentleman’s eyes do not flash to blood red, before returning to a less vibrant hue. No, the man before him was no gentleman; the man wasn’t even human.

The Dark Lord sat his teacup down gently on his saucer and turned his attention back towards Sirius, who was struggling to maintain even a pretense of calmness.

“You are still young. You can be forgiven for the foibles and follies of youth. When there comes a time when you realize the importance of allies and surrounding yourself with like-minded individuals - and I think that day will come – we will see how long ‘neutrality’ lasts.”

And with that, he stood to leave. Sirius accompanied him back down the hall, once again keenly aware of how he was dwarfed by the sheer presence of the Dark Lord. His uninvited guest didn’t bother waiting for Sirius to open the door for him; he simply let himself out.

“You know, Sirius,” the Dark Lord turned back to him, hand on the doorknob, “you do look like your mother, far more so than your brother. Tell her I said hello, won’t you? It’s been an awfully long time.”

Sirius stared at the back of the closed door, mouth agape, for an indeterminable amount of time. Decision paralysis.

There was a chance he was being watched. That whatever he did next would be observed. Wherever he went next, he would be followed. And whoever he visited next; he was bringing that burden with him.

But doing nothing was a decision in and of itself – and one he felt even less comfortable making.

Recklessness was not so easily snuffed.

He flung the door back open and as soon as he crossed the threshold, apparated to the one safe place he knew he had an ally.

The Pettigrew residence.