Chapter Text
Prologue
A Cold Night in St Petersburg
...
The Queen of Spades signifies secret malice.
The latest guide to fortune-telling.
In rainy weather
They gathered together
To play. To double – redouble –
A stake was no trouble, They say.
They did not find it hard
To entrust to a card
Their pay,
So no day of rain
Ever slipped by in vain, They say.
-Alexander Pushkin, The Queen of Spades
...
It would be, first of all, not remiss to say for the record, that no one dared to point out the unspoken within the expansive stretches of the ancestral family palace—for to call it anything else would be a disservice—of the Noble and Ancient House of Black that resided—on this continent—on the outskirts of St Petersburg with its clear view of the Catherine Palace and the Imperial Cathedral.
Conscientious, rather, to point out that the dormant dread that lay beneath the beguiling warm lights, drizzle of waltz and habitual dances, and the elaborate, embroidered sweeping gowns had begun to fester into a languid sort of disease underlying every conversation.
For an errand boy like him, of course, being an observer of such tensions fluctuating with news flooding from Britain had become somewhat of an entertainment. The invisible fly on the wall, so to speak, as he gets to intrinsically weave his way through the hidden pathways and walls in the Manor like some overzealous rat, who later also gets his fill from the housemaids and manservants who have their own network of gossip. For James, news from Britain often conflictingly equates to news from home.
It grants the gossip a strain of significance that the sorts of Ivan and Vanya—the stablemen—would never comprehend. Though James understands that Britain cannot be home to an orphan it actively rejected, there is a stubborn part of him that feels a kinship with the English.
The aforementioned unspoken refers to a multi-faceted throbbing amalgamation, a series of events that came together in the span of a hellish winter. One such event, and the catalyst, would be the Black Family’s near-total withdrawal to their Russian side of the family. For a bloodline as vast and as ancient as theirs, there are bound to be relatives and cousins on every continent, an impossible interconnected web of inbreeding and power play being the impetus of such a condition. The gathering of most respective heirs in the Ancestral Manor, therefore, would be a notable occasion on its own. The English, though, to James’ understanding, always assumed a superior position by deeming their relatives as boorish and less civilised.
So there comes the first wave of shock when Orion Black, the Englishman, and his wife—a blood cousin from the French side of the family—Walburga Black, first retreat to St Petersburg with two children in tow. They are soon joined by Orion’s brother and their offspring. And with their arrival, a barrage of other relatives pour into Russia with covetous, sniffling noses and scheming hands. If anyone were to ask about the occasion of this sudden and elongated visit, and James has been explicitly told by Mistress Walburga to repeat the same excuse, that they were to ‘vacation in Russia until the heated affairs and wars in Britain begin to lay low again.’
It is not exactly a believable lie, as the other family members, as inbred as they were, were not utter morons. All of their intentions aligned in the dwindling health of the oldest living matriarch of the House of Black.
Vasilisa Dmitrievna Chernaya, or as the grandchildren and great-grandchildren were to call her ‘Grand-Maman’, began to decline in health shortly after fortifying her ties with the Imperial court of Russia and promising the sitting Tsar, Nicholas II, her firmest support in regard to the success of the Entente in the Great War.
Meddling in such affairs, of course, would be more than frowned upon, as the Muggles were to be kept oblivious to the affairs of their kind. But the influence this family carried with itself, which James has found in his short few years with them, makes them exempt from even the most fundamental rules of their society.
The alliance that she’d forged henceforth was something priceless. To have the Tsar of an entire empire in the palm of her hand, only to grant him so little in return. As her health began to decline, the first grandchildren to uproot their lives and flock to her bedside in Russia were Orion and Cygnus.
After them followed a flood of other European relatives. Some of their families, some lonesome and only eager to tear a piece of the meat off the bone for their own gain. It was a waiting game, most of them wagered. They could put their lives on hold for a month or two, or even five. With the war raging in Britain and the failures of the Magical Ministeries in England, this was to be considered a vacation.
Yet, here the families remain for the entirety of two winters. Long enough that James has begun to learn Russian to keep up with the maids’ chatter and follow simple instructions.
The second event that unfolded the tumor of unspoken unpleasantries, was that in the absence of the Black heirs in their respective seats in British politics, their influence and passive deluge of income had receded to a concerning degree. And soon, James has heard, both Orion and Cygnus will have to make a choice; whether to stick out the long illness and fight for their chunk of meat in the form of the Russian Empire, or return to Britain to abet financial and political disaster.
The brothers floundered in indecision, though only visible to the invisible flies on the walls, scheming cousins, and their wives. The children were thriving in Russia. If James says so himself.
“Have the tray delivered to мышонок, boy! We are running behind schedule.” A tray is shoved unceremoniously into his waiting arms.
James suppresses a sigh as he hurries out of the kitchens with a ducked head. Everyone seems to be in a rush today; the great ball being thrown tonight wil; be grander than the nightly gatherings and extravagant dinners. Even their most modest gatherings garnered Muggle attention, as sometimes James heard from the stable boys that they were stopped on the streets when running errands and interrogated about the family affairs.
Tonight, Orion’s firstborn son, a gangly boy named Sirius around the same age and gait as James will be coming into his magical maturity, and moving to England by himself to begin his studies. James knows that Orion hopes for the boy to take over the affairs in Britain in a few years. Well, the entire Manor is aware.
James has heard numerous relatives, marching the corridors and gritting their teeth with narrowed eyes, muttering under their breaths about Orion’s cunning ploy to have his cake and eat it.
An investment on both fronts.
Their jealousy stems from credible origins. There is no verbal confirmation that Grand Maman favours Orion’s family, but the largest wing in the Palace has been bestowed for their leisure, there is to be a grand feast for the family’s firstborn, and the children’s whims are met almost instantenously, compared to others.
James dispells any thoughts about the messy politics of the household and softly knocks on the heavy door. He can hear voices already inside the room, the littlest heir, being given his morning bath.
The boy seems glum and sullen in his tub, glaring ahead at floating bubbles as James slides inside the room with the tray held steady in both hands. The young maid scrubbing the boy’s back is crooning in soft Russian, trying to cheer the young master up, but with his arms crossed over his chest, and his body unyielding under the maid’s careful washing it’s easy to say it’s not working.
“I have breakfast,” James announces to the room, and sets the tray on the writing desk by the large windows. He can see Sirius on the grounds, on horseback, conversing with his father in the snow.
“No breakfast today,” Is the petulant reply, “I said I didn’t want it. I told Olga in the morning.” The eight-year-old maintains broodingly, sputtering as the maid dunks a cup of warm water over his head.
“Come now, little prince,” The maid croons, switching to a broken english, “No frowning today. It’s a good thing, no? Your brother all growing up! You will too!”
Regulus Arcturus Black, remains like a soaked cat, brooding and hissy the entire time. Self-exiled to a stubborn silence, he does not even greet James as he normally would have. They are not exactly palls, but in his years with the Blacks as the errand boy, they have managed to build a somewhat cordial relationship.
James is disinterested in the young heir’s daily whims, but watching him from afar, he cannot help but feel a faint sort of resentment for the spoilt behaviour from time to time. At times it becomes endearing, but in its bare truth, it is revealing the Black family’s corruption at its core. Regulus Black will never have any conception of hardship; he will never want for anything. He will grow spoilt and arrogant like his parents and uncles and aunts.
Like his cousins already are. James thinks that he saw the youngest girl, Bellatrix, tormenting a mouse by the Manor stables more than once. He shudders to think what will become of this boy.
“I want my brother.” Regulus requests sternly, in a tone that seldom belongs to a child this young, ducking the maid’s attempts at drying his hair. “Where is he? I asked to see him ages ago—”
“I’ll go get him,” James suggests meekly. The kid’s glaring ceases as he nods sharply at James.
James rolls his eyes on his way out of the room. His brisk pace down the room towards the main wing is joined by a hobbling and the click of a cane on floorboards. James slows down for the boy to join him at his own pace. “You’re in a hurry today.” The voice teases.
“The little prince,” James declares pompously, “is asking for his brother.”
“We’re heading the same way then.”
If there is a person that James pities more than himself, it would have to be this bloke. Sirius Black’s personal companion—a title the teenager had come up with himself to soften the devastating humiliation of having to call this boy a servant—Remus Lupin is a cook’s son. His father immigrated here for work much before Orion and his camp set sail towards St Petersburg. Sirius Black’s only intention in befriending the boy and then adopting him like a pet, as far as James is concerned, is that Remus speaks English fluently, being previously English himself.
The boy’s limp is the product of a rare childhood disease, which is how Remus described it to James and Sirius both. This is something that Sirius took at face value and with great pity, but James feels there is something under the rug Lupin is sitting on.
Everyone in this damned place has a secret.
“Are you relieved? You know, to be rid of him?” James asks to fill in the silence.
“I think I will miss him,” Remus says after a beat. He is a contemplative sort of guy, with sandy hair, deep brown eyes, and a concerning number of scars over the visible planes of his body that he also attributed to a bear attack in childhood—making for an almost too-exciting bout of youth—Remus Lupin looks decades beyond his meagre age of fourteen.
“Miss him?”
“I haven’t got much else going on,” is all Remus says, “being a cook’s son. This is the most exciting my life will get.”
And as they break out of the manor into the morning’s brisk air and the riding grounds, Remus’ eyes travel to Sirius atop his black horse; the boy leaned back and tensed, the reins clenched in his hands as he exchanged words with the patriarch atop his own horse.
James tries to stay as far away from the man as he can help it. All his duties and proceedings, and the criminally low payment, are all to be dealt with through Walburga. James finds Orion and overly intimidating person, though he has seen the monster’s softer side with his youngest. The man seems not to hold the same fondness for his firstborn.
“You know you never gave him a chance.” Remus muses; both watch the duo from afar, their cheeks already flushed with the cold. “And you’ve known him longer. He’s not like the other ones here.”
“They’re all the same.”
“Not him, and hopefully not his brother.”
“You’re just delusional.”
“He let me practise with his wand, you know.” Remus says suddenly, “You don’t get to do that every day. Hell, any day. People like you and I don’t get to have magic like they do.”
“And whose fault is that?” James seethes.
“Not Sirius’.”
James opens his mouth for a rebuke but feels the duo’s eyes on him and freezes immediately. Respectfully lowering his head, James listens for the muffled galloping of hooves on the plush snow as Sirius makes his way over. Orion Black remains in the middle of the field, staring at the back of his son’s head with an expression almost akin to fury.
“Your brother is asking for you, sir.”
“Won’t you stop with the ‘sir’ nonsense?” Sirius dismounts the horse with undue aggression and stomps towards Remus without sparing James a glance.
“And you,” Sirius reaches for Remus disapprovingly, “You know you shouldn’t be out. The cold makes your joints hurt—”
“Don’t touch here.” Remus shies away from the reaching hands, turning to hobble with the cane. “Your father is still watching.”
“To hell with that man,” Sirius snaps but still obliges his personal companion. As the three of them turn and return to the Manor in a gloomy sort of mood. James would say that Sirius is as excited about getting out of here as his brother is. Which is to say they are both equally miserable.
“You shouldn’t show your emotions so openly when others are around you know.” Remus is scolding the older boy as they make their way through the adorned hallways with their heavy curtains to Orion’s wing, which is the eastern wing and closest to Vasilisa’s personal quarters. “I’m a worker’s boy. What will they think—”
“I’m leaving for England anyway.” Sirius’ tone is smeared with resentment. “It doesn’t matter who spews their shit about this. You should take care of yourself when I’m not around—”
Their bickering continues on sporadically, and James can tell that something must have wound Sirius up for his tone to turn so cuttingly flippant. As much as he wants to blindly hate the boy for his privilege and all that he stands for, he can’t deny that Sirius is the most agreeable of the bunch here. The boy may not be a selfless saint, but he does at the very least treat those around him like human beings.
This is something that James has found to be a point of contention between Sirius and his parents.
They make it to Regulus’ room much sooner than either Sirius or Remus seemed to have liked, and as James hangs by the door, he sees why. The little boy, now on his bed and weeping, is inconsolable. Sirius softens his voice, approaching the bed with both hands under the child’s pits.
“What is this now?” Sirius whispers to the boy, “What’s got you so upset? We have a grand feast tonight—”
“You’re leaving! You’re leaving me behind! You’re going to forget me and you said you’ll take me, won’t you?? But Yelena didn’t let me pack and you’re leaving me!”
“Nonsense.” Sirius strokes the boy’s hair, making a face over his head at Remus that is a blend of helplessness and misery. James cannot exactly pinpoint why he assumes this, but he figures it is a fair guess that the boy and his father were arguing about this very thing prior to James and Remus’ arrival.
Whether Sirius was allowed to take his brother to England with him.
It seems to have failed, if the ashen look on Sirius’ face is any indication.
“I could never leave you.”
“But you are!”
Sirius has no verbal comfort to give and his silence is telling. It is true; they are to be parted, perhaps for years. It could be a matter of months or years. And a part of James is envious that the boy gets to return. Though he knows for him personally, there remains nothing in London worth reminiscing about. The truth is that as much as he hates it here, the quarantined bubble allows him to forget the disparity and injustice roaring back in his homeland.
“I meant to give this to you later at the ball,” Sirius tells his brother, withdrawing a small jewellery box from the inner pocket of his coat. Regulus remains disinterested at first, but with a small nudge, his eyes catch the emerald-crusted golden box. It seems heavy in his hands, and Sirius lets the boy inspect it in silence.
“It has a little key.” Sirius dangles the small chain in front of the child’s face. “You have to turn it in the box. Go on, try it.”
“It’s not as good as you.” Regulus mumbles quietly.
“It’s not replacing me, silly.” Sirius helps the boy turn the key. James and Remus watch, amused in spite of themselves, as the box creaks open and a soft melody replaces the room’s frosty atmosphere. Regulus is entranced by the music box, his eyes stitched to the dancing ballerina that turns with the tune. James is almost as captivated by it as the kid.
There’s not much magic he gets to see on a daily basis.
“Is it magic?”
“A little bit of magic.” Sirius admits, “When you grow up, you’ll learn how to charm things too.”
Regulus hums, successfully distracted from the inevitable for now. Sirius removes the little key from the music box and hands it over. “Turn it over. Go on.”
Regulus frowns down at the key, turning it over and tilting his head, his mouth quietly sounding out words. Sirius doesn’t help him but throws a smile at Remus, who raises an eyebrow. They seem to have a nefarious connection, the two of them.
“To—To—”
“Together in Paris.”
James has never seen anyone’s expression shift from despair to shimmering excitement so quickly. The boy jumps up from his brother’s lap, bouncing on the bed and turning the key in his hands. “Paris! Do you mean it?? We’ll go??”
“Together,” Sirius smiles, and though James sees something melancholic behind the gesture, the kid doesn’t. He jumps on the bed and melds into his brother’s side for the remainder of the day. James does not quite recall how he meandered the rest of that fateful day. He remembers spending lunch with the Ivan and they communicated in that dry little way of theirs, with the language barrier firmly in place.
They saw one of the Blacks, a Frenchman with braided hair, whip a horse and curse it out in the field, punishing the poor animal with his wand, and Ivan cursed the guy out under his breath. James watches the cruel magic from afar, a churning in his guts. An overwhelming sense of desperation and helplessness against something so systematic and perpetual. He and that horse are the same, he realises.
To these people, they’re the same.
It is with a streak of pure luck that James is not in any capacity involved in the preparations of the feast. For when he enters the Great Hall of the Manor, he is struck speechless by the grandiosity and opulent decorations. He sees charmed bears, galloping horses, gold-encrusted cups and the Black family members already paired off in an elegant waltz. He sees Remus by the side of the hall, a tray shakily held in one hand and his cane held in the other, staring at Sirius from afar with a nude sort of yearning.
And Sirius, his father, and Walburga are in the middle, their own little circle. Regulus is at first in his father’s arms, astutely observing his family with pursed lips, and then demanding to be put down for a dance with his brother.
James watches them, and in them he sees a vulnerability that the other Black family members present in this hall would never willingly present in themselves. And that is that as much as James believes the Black siblings to be the product of greed and doomed to the same disposition as their insufferable family, their love is pure and unconditional.
For Sirius Black, his baby brother matters more than status, his magic, or any sort of wealth. James wouldn’t claim this, as he doesn’t know Sirius with much intimacy, but he would say that the boy at least tries. It will be difficult, not having him around. James feels something very evil in the room, in the undercurrent of the cheer, the same languid rot.
The lips aer smiling here but the eyes are conniving. And James years from now, would only wish that he took the omen seriously.
The Bolsheviks ransack St.Petersburg in hoards. There is mutiny within the Black household, the secret tumor that finally ruptures, concurrently with the revolution on the streets. There is a great fire, broken wands and screaming. And two brothers trying to run through the chaos, their eyes round as the state’s gates are broken under Muggle hands, fire and guns.
“This way!” James would swerve them to a server’s entrance, they see flashes of green light, rapid as gun fire outside. Regulus huddled to his brother’s side as they try to run in the snow, James on their heels.
There are flashes of that night in his memory now, of bodies slamming into each other, Russian expletives and a child crying out for his brother. Lost in the swarm of people and Sirius Black howling in fear and agony for his brother. Screaming his name on a train that is moving away.
It was a cold night in St.Petersburg, the coldest James remembers.