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paulamcgTitle: A Stranded Wizard If Ever There Was One
Author:paulamcg
Rating: PG
Characters: Sirius, his uncle Alphard and some other more or less near and dear ones
Pairing: Subtle pre-slash SB/RL
Summary: At Christmas in his fifth Hogwarts year Sirius breathes and runs.
Warnings: Hints at abuse
Disclaimer: Sirius and his families will never help me make any money.
Notes: This piece can stand on its own, but it also belongs to the story I tell in all my fanfiction.
Word count: 2760
A Stranded Wizard If Ever There Was One
Uncle Alphard’s laughter erupts in the hall and leaks through the doorway, tumbles down towards me with a blast of wild, free air – yes, some stray snowflakes, too. I breathe the cold in eagerly as I’ve already started to rush up the stairs. But I’m too slow, too late.
“Close the damn door!” She might well screech like this to his brother, but it’s an unnecessary order to Kreacher, who’s left the kitchen and arrived at once to let the visitor in.
The elf knows his duties and certainly doesn’t mind keeping me sealed in. With a pop he reappears by the table, where he’s been arranging drinks and mince pies so as to send them up to the drawing room at the right moment. “Young master better go and greet his uncle. But first get dressed.”
I don’t care to reply, just shamble back and throw myself to slouch at the table, then reach to grab two mince pies – out of spite spoiling the elaborate star-shaped arrangement and wolfing them down. I’m also truly ravenous, having refused to eat anything in my parents’ presence – having eaten nothing since yesterday’s breakfast at Hogwarts. And I had not quite finished when McGonagall came to get me, said that my trunk had been ordered to be taken down urgently, and there they were, without a notice, to make sure I couldn’t escape from spending Christmas with them.
Why don’t they leave me alone, if they’re so disgusted with me. At least I said hello and looked at their haughty faces through my fringe. But panic was rising in me. After the nightmare of a summer I had not dared think about Grimmauld Place. Just my friends, and school is my home. But not even my true brother James could possibly help me now. Too late I realised I should have told McGonagall. Father’s hand was on Regulus’s shoulder and the other hand grabbed my wrist. “Your mother looks stunning, doesn’t she?” And I felt a wand tip against my ribs. As they walked me out and to the gate, mother stared at the worn hem of my too short robes and her lip curled.
At least they haven’t sealed the door of my room this time. Not yet. Perhaps I made a mistake, should take Kreacher’s advice and ask him to fetch some neat robes for me.
It just felt comforting to pull on the Muggle clothes I insisted on buying from Peter. Bright red skin-tight t-shirt, really very tight on me. The trouser legs at least are wide down around my ankles, flaring – bell-bottoms, he called them, not saying they’re hilariously short for me before I’d paid a Galleon. And we all laughed then, and now a thought of even Peter makes me weepy.
They all went home for Christmas, but I would’ve been happy to stay, work by myself on our ratty project. What a code name – Peter’s idea! When I’m alone with Remus, my words about it get too solemn, and I love it, thinking about him. Perhaps he’s continued to think about me, and I didn’t have to – even remember I had parents – after he helped me cry, and now I want to cry for him only, so frustrated: will we ever make it and get to be there so he won’t be hurting. And what if they never let me out of here as they don’t want their son to grow a bold Gryffindor.
With a third pie still in my mouth, I wipe my cheeks and nose, too, with a linen napkin, then rub the grease from my fingers on the embroidered family crest.
“Hello there, my favourite nephew!” Uncle Alphard, up at the door, beckons to me. “Come, there’s nobody else in the hall.” There’s a jovial grin on his ruddy round face, framed by mutton chop sideburns.
He’s still holding a heavy cloak, and by the time I’ve climbed up from the kitchen – slowly, hesitating – he’s stepped towards the main staircase so as to hang it on the newel post. His eyes and fingers linger on the gleaming, deep purple fabric. “I don’t think I’ll feel like walking on my way back, so I won’t need to wear this. Perhaps you...” He turns to me, winking. “You like it, don’t you?”
Now he strides to me, spreading his arms, and chortles. “We’ve got something in common: the fashion sense. Perhaps I can help you.”
He’s standing too close to me, and I find myself staring at a large gold medallion nestled among the greyed chest hair. He’s wearing something I’ve only heard Peter describe: a multicoloured shirt with a wide open collar, a tight sleeveless jumper with a knitted belt, and bell-bottoms like mine, only of brighter, plaid fabric. I’ve stepped back, as if to have a better look – but mainly to avoid his hug.
What does he mean? I don’t know if I can trust him. I do know I can’t bear him touching me, anyone touching me in this house.
He lets his arms fall, and now with only a small cunning smile he whispers, “They haven’t seen these clothes on you yet, have they?”
I give him a small shake of my head, not sure myself whether it means rejecting whatever he’s planning. But as he turns aside, bows for me to go before him, I muster up my courage and ascend to the first landing and enter the drawing room.
In here… how can I breathe? Where can I hide? I don’t want to remember the answer. The heavy drapes, dark and green like poison, and behind them no escape. The windowpane frozen – still better than that disgusting skin. To not see that, I force my eyes open. I’d managed to forget that, until last summer the same guest… I couldn’t bear it, I panicked, lashed out. And now a tight shirt is enough of a crime to make mother’s face as furious… Father’s turning his back to us with a theatrical sigh, and Regulus giggles hysterically.
“I apologise for making you wait – while I went to find this handsome heir so as to dress him in my Christmas gifts.”
I doubt mother believes him, ever trusts him either. In any case she’ll punish me later, her hands promise, twirling and bending the long, pliable wand.
Her breathing slows down, as her gaze settles on her brother, and she merely sneers at him. “Well, I’m not surprised if that boy wants to be dressed – and undressed – by you. We know what you want to do. And you may do anything – to baby goats, if that’s what you fancy – as long as you marry, and, of course, marry pure blood! Perhaps it’s not too late even in your case, Alphard. But I’m not making the mistake mother made with you.”
She glides across the floor, with the trail of her silvery dress robes behind her like a serpent, and stops in front of the awful old tapestry. Her wand tip hovers near a charred hole, but no, that’s not what she’s indicating. That’s someone who no longer exists for her, and Regulus wasn’t lying: my only cousin with a heart, Andromeda… I must be happy: she chose what – whom – she wanted, and made it, escaped. Mother’s tapping at the names of her sisters.
“There’re still two cousins available, and actually right now on their way here to an engagement party.”
No. I don’t want... to even know which one she’s chosen for me. They’re both… like her: scary. She’s well aware of and enjoying my fright. She’s trapped me. I catch myself stumbling on the threshold, backing off, as the flames in the fireplace flash green.
Uncle Alphard grabs my arm so as to steady me, and I flinch, struggle free. He disgusts me. He said something about helping me, and now he’s done nothing as response to the insults. Used to it all, he doesn’t care, and he must know his sister: it’s no use protesting or suggesting anything. Indeed, when in order to avoid seeing any witch’s beautiful, terrible face I turn towards his, I register a hint of a satisfied smile, as soon as mother starts giving the urgent order.
“Alphard, go and undress him again, and bring him back when he looks decent. We don’t want darling Bella to find fault at first sight of her fiancé.” After a final smirk at me she focuses on the green fire in order to welcome her other, favourite brother’s family.
When uncle’s closed the door behind us, I lean my back against it, nauseated. He doesn’t try to touch me again, just beckons to me with a finger on his lips. He’s not heading for my room but downstairs.
In the hall he whispers, “Kreacher’s still in the kitchen, isn’t he?”
Near the doorway his voice grows just a bit louder. “Stop this whining and begging, Sirius!” he hisses, faking anger but winking again. “I can’t stand to stay. I’m leaving. Elf! Come and unseal the door for me.” And with an exasperated wave of his hand he shoos me away. “Now you, Sirius, go up to your room, get dressed. Do as your mother orders!”
Hurrying to the magically secured front door, Kreacher turns his smug little face so as to take in how I’m backing off with an expression of anguish, which I don’t need to fake. But when I reach the newel post and my hand brushes the fine slick fabric, a hope is roused in me by a draft of freezing air.
“Just bring me my cloak first!” Uncle Alphard’s still hissing, turning to Kreacher without taking a breath. “Oh, elf, the first thing you must do, urgently – I forgot: your mistress wants you to go to the cellar and send a bottle of the finest firesparkly to the drawing room with no delay.”
When Kreacher disappears, I’m approaching uncle and the door, which stands ajar, and the cloak is balled up in my arms.
“Just go,” uncle says, pulling the door all open. ”Take the Knight Bus to my house. You don’t need to ever come back. I’ll take care of your property: your school trunk and... whatever.”
“I won’t...” is my only response.
Light snow’s swirling over the gloomy square, and I’m reaching freedom, stumbling down slippery stone steps. A touch on my buttock makes me jerk away and pull out my wand from the back pocket before glancing behind me.
Uncle Alphard’s on the step above me, lifting his hands, holding a Galleon in one. “Just wanted to slip this into your pocket. For the bus.”
I snatch the coin from his fingers, pick up the cloak that’s fallen at my feet, and run. I won’t. I won’t come back – ever. And I won’t go to his place.
Breathe. Walk. I’ve pocketed the wand and the Galleon, wrapped the cloak around me. Finally, yes, grateful to… On my own now, as I must be, and the night is still and cold. On this side of the chilled windowpanes I won’t be touched by what is inside. I won’t, I won’t. I’ll walk and breathe.
Curtains glow: rooms are lit by candles on branches of trees. And out here on the streets, all the twinkling lights are uselessly trying to bring some warmth to the desolate, frigid world.
I’ve tried to stop and think where to go, but I hate being cold and I hate staying still, so I walk on. The Knight Bus, for sure, would come and offer emergency transport for me, a stranded wizard, if ever there was one. But one Galleon can’t be enough to get all the way back to Hogwarts. If I just knew a suitable place to name, I could thrust out my wand and the bus would be here and I could get in, get warm – sleep, too, yet not stop moving, getting away. James knows so much: he’s been free to explore and wander, stay behind in Diagon Alley and return home by himself, and he’s said it costs almost a Galleon to Godric’s Hollow. That’s what I can say, yes!
And I reach for my wand, stick it out, then almost drop it. With a bang and a screech, a huge and high, garish purple vehicle has appeared, now gleams on the brightly-lit but deserted Muggle shopping street.
“Godric’s Hollow,” I say, struggling up aboard the triple-decker.
I try to make believe I’m James, that I’m going home. My money is enough for hot chocolate, too, and there’s a warm glow of candles on the wood-panelled walls. But when I lean my back against the brass headboard of the third-storey bed, I still shiver while holding the mug in both hands. The ride’s as bumpy as James described: the bus keeps jumping all over the country, before it’s the turn of my destination. But I’m not James, and it’s no fun.
At least I’m gaining distance fast, fleeing, flying… Closing my eyes, lying down, huddling, for the cloak to cover my ankles, too, I wish to sleep, as I couldn’t last… no, to sleep like at Hogwarts, and I wish this flight would go on and on, for ever and ever.
Too soon I’m stood on the street again – in a village square. There’s no snow, just a humid wind, thin drizzle of rain, such grey gloom that I wonder if a day has dawned. Yes, Christmas Day. That’s why no one out here. The pub and stores all closed. Behind the fairy lights families opening presents, perhaps soon having their roast turkey or goose and cranberry sauce, bacon and sausage and trifle.
I turn my back to the wind and let it push me towards the other side of the square, past a high stone monument beside a bright-lit tree. Now there comes into sight a small church, probably closed, too, with its windows dark. Why not try the door anyway…
At the moment when I’m sure it was in vain, a multicoloured glow appears: one narrow stained-glass window is suddenly lit from inside. A gentle shepherd smiles to a lamb. And his flock starts to grow, as the window widens and reaches downwards. Fellow shepherds appear in jewel-bright robes, emerald and ruby and sapphire, and creatures move around them: unicorns and hippogriffs…
The window opens, now a magic door, and warm yellow light spills over me together with the cheerful sound of a choir. “God rest ye merry unicorns. Let nothing you dismay...”
As if invited, I feel almost compelled to step closer, then enter, but just inside the door I stop, lean against it, still hugging myself, still cold. The voices joined in the carol sound from all around the room: from mattresses spread by the walls, from benches at long tables decorated with holly and ivy and laid with cheap tin plates and goblets. A motley gathering it is, with voices hoarse and sweet, deep and eerie: no unicorns or hippogriffs – but, indeed, some creatures with hoofs, others with horns, some with luminous manes, others with dirty, matted hair.
I catch myself staring at a creature sprawled on a mattress: a goblin’s long fingers in skeletal hands, but the gaunt face human – the head held up by a man who’s kneeling to place a goblet on the blue lips. I turn my gaze away and focus on the carol again. “O tidings of magic and joy!”
“It’s serious.” It must be the man helping the half-goblin, alarmed by his state.
Now a witch strides to me, perhaps an organiser of the charity, perhaps to throw out this intruder.
I struggle to speak, finding my lips numb. “Can I stay?”
“No,” she says, looking horrified.
“Please, Mrs Potter...” It’s the alarmed voice, now breaking.
The dear voice, whispering to me it’s all right that we cry. This must all be a dream.
I’m still staring at the witch, and now I recognise her, from before I started at Hogwarts: James’s mother, of course.
She’s determined. “I’ll take you home.”
“He can’t go back there. You don’t know what they...” It’s his voice.
And now I can see him. He’s left his cloak for the creature he helped, and the sleeves of his robes are all rolled up, exposing the scarred skin of his arms. He’s stepping to me, close to me. He couldn’t possibly come too close.
“Oh, Remus, of course not there!” Mrs Potter says. “Sirius, you’re coming home with us. If you want, you’ll be James’s brother – just as he’s kept saying you are.”
Author:
paulamcgRating: PG
Characters: Sirius, his uncle Alphard and some other more or less near and dear ones
Pairing: Subtle pre-slash SB/RL
Summary: At Christmas in his fifth Hogwarts year Sirius breathes and runs.
Warnings: Hints at abuse
Disclaimer: Sirius and his families will never help me make any money.
Notes: This piece can stand on its own, but it also belongs to the story I tell in all my fanfiction.
Word count: 2760
A Stranded Wizard If Ever There Was One
Uncle Alphard’s laughter erupts in the hall and leaks through the doorway, tumbles down towards me with a blast of wild, free air – yes, some stray snowflakes, too. I breathe the cold in eagerly as I’ve already started to rush up the stairs. But I’m too slow, too late.
“Close the damn door!” She might well screech like this to his brother, but it’s an unnecessary order to Kreacher, who’s left the kitchen and arrived at once to let the visitor in.
The elf knows his duties and certainly doesn’t mind keeping me sealed in. With a pop he reappears by the table, where he’s been arranging drinks and mince pies so as to send them up to the drawing room at the right moment. “Young master better go and greet his uncle. But first get dressed.”
I don’t care to reply, just shamble back and throw myself to slouch at the table, then reach to grab two mince pies – out of spite spoiling the elaborate star-shaped arrangement and wolfing them down. I’m also truly ravenous, having refused to eat anything in my parents’ presence – having eaten nothing since yesterday’s breakfast at Hogwarts. And I had not quite finished when McGonagall came to get me, said that my trunk had been ordered to be taken down urgently, and there they were, without a notice, to make sure I couldn’t escape from spending Christmas with them.
Why don’t they leave me alone, if they’re so disgusted with me. At least I said hello and looked at their haughty faces through my fringe. But panic was rising in me. After the nightmare of a summer I had not dared think about Grimmauld Place. Just my friends, and school is my home. But not even my true brother James could possibly help me now. Too late I realised I should have told McGonagall. Father’s hand was on Regulus’s shoulder and the other hand grabbed my wrist. “Your mother looks stunning, doesn’t she?” And I felt a wand tip against my ribs. As they walked me out and to the gate, mother stared at the worn hem of my too short robes and her lip curled.
At least they haven’t sealed the door of my room this time. Not yet. Perhaps I made a mistake, should take Kreacher’s advice and ask him to fetch some neat robes for me.
It just felt comforting to pull on the Muggle clothes I insisted on buying from Peter. Bright red skin-tight t-shirt, really very tight on me. The trouser legs at least are wide down around my ankles, flaring – bell-bottoms, he called them, not saying they’re hilariously short for me before I’d paid a Galleon. And we all laughed then, and now a thought of even Peter makes me weepy.
They all went home for Christmas, but I would’ve been happy to stay, work by myself on our ratty project. What a code name – Peter’s idea! When I’m alone with Remus, my words about it get too solemn, and I love it, thinking about him. Perhaps he’s continued to think about me, and I didn’t have to – even remember I had parents – after he helped me cry, and now I want to cry for him only, so frustrated: will we ever make it and get to be there so he won’t be hurting. And what if they never let me out of here as they don’t want their son to grow a bold Gryffindor.
With a third pie still in my mouth, I wipe my cheeks and nose, too, with a linen napkin, then rub the grease from my fingers on the embroidered family crest.
“Hello there, my favourite nephew!” Uncle Alphard, up at the door, beckons to me. “Come, there’s nobody else in the hall.” There’s a jovial grin on his ruddy round face, framed by mutton chop sideburns.
He’s still holding a heavy cloak, and by the time I’ve climbed up from the kitchen – slowly, hesitating – he’s stepped towards the main staircase so as to hang it on the newel post. His eyes and fingers linger on the gleaming, deep purple fabric. “I don’t think I’ll feel like walking on my way back, so I won’t need to wear this. Perhaps you...” He turns to me, winking. “You like it, don’t you?”
Now he strides to me, spreading his arms, and chortles. “We’ve got something in common: the fashion sense. Perhaps I can help you.”
He’s standing too close to me, and I find myself staring at a large gold medallion nestled among the greyed chest hair. He’s wearing something I’ve only heard Peter describe: a multicoloured shirt with a wide open collar, a tight sleeveless jumper with a knitted belt, and bell-bottoms like mine, only of brighter, plaid fabric. I’ve stepped back, as if to have a better look – but mainly to avoid his hug.
What does he mean? I don’t know if I can trust him. I do know I can’t bear him touching me, anyone touching me in this house.
He lets his arms fall, and now with only a small cunning smile he whispers, “They haven’t seen these clothes on you yet, have they?”
I give him a small shake of my head, not sure myself whether it means rejecting whatever he’s planning. But as he turns aside, bows for me to go before him, I muster up my courage and ascend to the first landing and enter the drawing room.
In here… how can I breathe? Where can I hide? I don’t want to remember the answer. The heavy drapes, dark and green like poison, and behind them no escape. The windowpane frozen – still better than that disgusting skin. To not see that, I force my eyes open. I’d managed to forget that, until last summer the same guest… I couldn’t bear it, I panicked, lashed out. And now a tight shirt is enough of a crime to make mother’s face as furious… Father’s turning his back to us with a theatrical sigh, and Regulus giggles hysterically.
“I apologise for making you wait – while I went to find this handsome heir so as to dress him in my Christmas gifts.”
I doubt mother believes him, ever trusts him either. In any case she’ll punish me later, her hands promise, twirling and bending the long, pliable wand.
Her breathing slows down, as her gaze settles on her brother, and she merely sneers at him. “Well, I’m not surprised if that boy wants to be dressed – and undressed – by you. We know what you want to do. And you may do anything – to baby goats, if that’s what you fancy – as long as you marry, and, of course, marry pure blood! Perhaps it’s not too late even in your case, Alphard. But I’m not making the mistake mother made with you.”
She glides across the floor, with the trail of her silvery dress robes behind her like a serpent, and stops in front of the awful old tapestry. Her wand tip hovers near a charred hole, but no, that’s not what she’s indicating. That’s someone who no longer exists for her, and Regulus wasn’t lying: my only cousin with a heart, Andromeda… I must be happy: she chose what – whom – she wanted, and made it, escaped. Mother’s tapping at the names of her sisters.
“There’re still two cousins available, and actually right now on their way here to an engagement party.”
No. I don’t want... to even know which one she’s chosen for me. They’re both… like her: scary. She’s well aware of and enjoying my fright. She’s trapped me. I catch myself stumbling on the threshold, backing off, as the flames in the fireplace flash green.
Uncle Alphard grabs my arm so as to steady me, and I flinch, struggle free. He disgusts me. He said something about helping me, and now he’s done nothing as response to the insults. Used to it all, he doesn’t care, and he must know his sister: it’s no use protesting or suggesting anything. Indeed, when in order to avoid seeing any witch’s beautiful, terrible face I turn towards his, I register a hint of a satisfied smile, as soon as mother starts giving the urgent order.
“Alphard, go and undress him again, and bring him back when he looks decent. We don’t want darling Bella to find fault at first sight of her fiancé.” After a final smirk at me she focuses on the green fire in order to welcome her other, favourite brother’s family.
When uncle’s closed the door behind us, I lean my back against it, nauseated. He doesn’t try to touch me again, just beckons to me with a finger on his lips. He’s not heading for my room but downstairs.
In the hall he whispers, “Kreacher’s still in the kitchen, isn’t he?”
Near the doorway his voice grows just a bit louder. “Stop this whining and begging, Sirius!” he hisses, faking anger but winking again. “I can’t stand to stay. I’m leaving. Elf! Come and unseal the door for me.” And with an exasperated wave of his hand he shoos me away. “Now you, Sirius, go up to your room, get dressed. Do as your mother orders!”
Hurrying to the magically secured front door, Kreacher turns his smug little face so as to take in how I’m backing off with an expression of anguish, which I don’t need to fake. But when I reach the newel post and my hand brushes the fine slick fabric, a hope is roused in me by a draft of freezing air.
“Just bring me my cloak first!” Uncle Alphard’s still hissing, turning to Kreacher without taking a breath. “Oh, elf, the first thing you must do, urgently – I forgot: your mistress wants you to go to the cellar and send a bottle of the finest firesparkly to the drawing room with no delay.”
When Kreacher disappears, I’m approaching uncle and the door, which stands ajar, and the cloak is balled up in my arms.
“Just go,” uncle says, pulling the door all open. ”Take the Knight Bus to my house. You don’t need to ever come back. I’ll take care of your property: your school trunk and... whatever.”
“I won’t...” is my only response.
Light snow’s swirling over the gloomy square, and I’m reaching freedom, stumbling down slippery stone steps. A touch on my buttock makes me jerk away and pull out my wand from the back pocket before glancing behind me.
Uncle Alphard’s on the step above me, lifting his hands, holding a Galleon in one. “Just wanted to slip this into your pocket. For the bus.”
I snatch the coin from his fingers, pick up the cloak that’s fallen at my feet, and run. I won’t. I won’t come back – ever. And I won’t go to his place.
Breathe. Walk. I’ve pocketed the wand and the Galleon, wrapped the cloak around me. Finally, yes, grateful to… On my own now, as I must be, and the night is still and cold. On this side of the chilled windowpanes I won’t be touched by what is inside. I won’t, I won’t. I’ll walk and breathe.
Curtains glow: rooms are lit by candles on branches of trees. And out here on the streets, all the twinkling lights are uselessly trying to bring some warmth to the desolate, frigid world.
I’ve tried to stop and think where to go, but I hate being cold and I hate staying still, so I walk on. The Knight Bus, for sure, would come and offer emergency transport for me, a stranded wizard, if ever there was one. But one Galleon can’t be enough to get all the way back to Hogwarts. If I just knew a suitable place to name, I could thrust out my wand and the bus would be here and I could get in, get warm – sleep, too, yet not stop moving, getting away. James knows so much: he’s been free to explore and wander, stay behind in Diagon Alley and return home by himself, and he’s said it costs almost a Galleon to Godric’s Hollow. That’s what I can say, yes!
And I reach for my wand, stick it out, then almost drop it. With a bang and a screech, a huge and high, garish purple vehicle has appeared, now gleams on the brightly-lit but deserted Muggle shopping street.
“Godric’s Hollow,” I say, struggling up aboard the triple-decker.
I try to make believe I’m James, that I’m going home. My money is enough for hot chocolate, too, and there’s a warm glow of candles on the wood-panelled walls. But when I lean my back against the brass headboard of the third-storey bed, I still shiver while holding the mug in both hands. The ride’s as bumpy as James described: the bus keeps jumping all over the country, before it’s the turn of my destination. But I’m not James, and it’s no fun.
At least I’m gaining distance fast, fleeing, flying… Closing my eyes, lying down, huddling, for the cloak to cover my ankles, too, I wish to sleep, as I couldn’t last… no, to sleep like at Hogwarts, and I wish this flight would go on and on, for ever and ever.
Too soon I’m stood on the street again – in a village square. There’s no snow, just a humid wind, thin drizzle of rain, such grey gloom that I wonder if a day has dawned. Yes, Christmas Day. That’s why no one out here. The pub and stores all closed. Behind the fairy lights families opening presents, perhaps soon having their roast turkey or goose and cranberry sauce, bacon and sausage and trifle.
I turn my back to the wind and let it push me towards the other side of the square, past a high stone monument beside a bright-lit tree. Now there comes into sight a small church, probably closed, too, with its windows dark. Why not try the door anyway…
At the moment when I’m sure it was in vain, a multicoloured glow appears: one narrow stained-glass window is suddenly lit from inside. A gentle shepherd smiles to a lamb. And his flock starts to grow, as the window widens and reaches downwards. Fellow shepherds appear in jewel-bright robes, emerald and ruby and sapphire, and creatures move around them: unicorns and hippogriffs…
The window opens, now a magic door, and warm yellow light spills over me together with the cheerful sound of a choir. “God rest ye merry unicorns. Let nothing you dismay...”
As if invited, I feel almost compelled to step closer, then enter, but just inside the door I stop, lean against it, still hugging myself, still cold. The voices joined in the carol sound from all around the room: from mattresses spread by the walls, from benches at long tables decorated with holly and ivy and laid with cheap tin plates and goblets. A motley gathering it is, with voices hoarse and sweet, deep and eerie: no unicorns or hippogriffs – but, indeed, some creatures with hoofs, others with horns, some with luminous manes, others with dirty, matted hair.
I catch myself staring at a creature sprawled on a mattress: a goblin’s long fingers in skeletal hands, but the gaunt face human – the head held up by a man who’s kneeling to place a goblet on the blue lips. I turn my gaze away and focus on the carol again. “O tidings of magic and joy!”
“It’s serious.” It must be the man helping the half-goblin, alarmed by his state.
Now a witch strides to me, perhaps an organiser of the charity, perhaps to throw out this intruder.
I struggle to speak, finding my lips numb. “Can I stay?”
“No,” she says, looking horrified.
“Please, Mrs Potter...” It’s the alarmed voice, now breaking.
The dear voice, whispering to me it’s all right that we cry. This must all be a dream.
I’m still staring at the witch, and now I recognise her, from before I started at Hogwarts: James’s mother, of course.
She’s determined. “I’ll take you home.”
“He can’t go back there. You don’t know what they...” It’s his voice.
And now I can see him. He’s left his cloak for the creature he helped, and the sleeves of his robes are all rolled up, exposing the scarred skin of his arms. He’s stepping to me, close to me. He couldn’t possibly come too close.
“Oh, Remus, of course not there!” Mrs Potter says. “Sirius, you’re coming home with us. If you want, you’ll be James’s brother – just as he’s kept saying you are.”
