POV. Sirius Orion Black.
Sirius Black sat on the edge of the bed in the safe house. The security was tight – protective charms hung on the windows, the entire grounds were locked against Apparition. All for his own good, as an old acquaintance from the Order had politely explained. All to ensure no one could harm him.
"Marauder, time to come home." That's what the letter said. That was all. Just three words.
He clenched the parchment so hard his fingers turned white.
Those words… and the password… only four people knew them. Only them, the Marauders. Padfoot – his nickname, which James had come up with when the four of them, ignoring all the difficulty, had gone through that tedious, long, and unpleasant ritual to obtain their Animagus forms. James was Prongs – and he didn't like it when Sirius called him that, but much to his chagrin, it stuck. The traitor got a fitting nickname – Wormtail – and his rat form had always been a source of good-natured jokes, until it became… what it became. And Sirius himself was Padfoot. A large black dog, clearly stronger than any ordinary dog… And Lupin was Moony, because of his furry little problem.
Sirius would give anything to go back to those years, when on full moon nights after Lupin's transformation, the four of them, in their animal forms, would roam the forest, having fun and supporting their friend.
It was all the more amusing that this gesture of friendship towards Lupin had helped Sirius himself throughout his life.
"Nine years in Azkaban. And only the dog's form saved me from complete madness."
He recalled those first months, when he was completely unaccustomed to the Dementors, who sucked out every happy thought, every memory, every hope. The human mind couldn't withstand it. People went mad – everyone in that prison went mad, stopped speaking, started seeing things that weren't there, hearing the voices of the dead. But Sirius understood from the first days that in his Animagus form, the Dementors didn't affect him as strongly, only draining life and joy passively when nearby. From other prisoners, though, the Dementors wrung them dry. He got used to transforming into the dog every time. That's how he kept his sanity.
Well, almost kept it.
Sometimes he would catch himself laughing for no reason. Sometimes – talking to himself. Sometimes – looking at people with a ferocity no human should possess. Sometimes he felt the walls whisper his name, shadows of those long gone flickering in the corners of the room. But these were trifles. Trifles compared to those who had spent even a year in Azkaban in their human bodies. Sirius had heard their screams and mad laughter, their sobs and mooing. Those sounds still sometimes woke in his head when it got too quiet. Yes, nightmares plagued Sirius even here, at home.
He looked at the parchment in his hand. Now, his Animagus form would have to help him again. He was going back to the house he hated with all his soul. That was where his mother, Walburga, had lived and died; his father had died there too, but most likely they had managed to blast his name off the family tapestry before their deaths. And now, after so many years, he was returning to the place where he had been unhappy since childhood. But today, either friends awaited him there – of whom, he believed, there were few left – or it was a trap.
"They think walls and charms can hold me?"
Sirius smirked, and the next moment, the gaunt figure of the former Azkaban prisoner began to change, transforming into a huge black dog.
But before that, he waited for his guards to change shifts. Then he broke the charms and only then transformed into the dog, hiding his wand in his mouth.
The large black dog noiselessly slipped to the window, jumped – and after a few minutes of running, was already in human form, over fifty kilometers away. Apparition came to the rescue.
Soon, through a chain of Apparitions, he was in London. One more movement, one more effort – and he was in the Grimmauld Place area, on a narrow street where the houses stood so close together that the sky itself seemed cramped between them.
He transformed back into a dog, reached the right house. Apparition had taken more energy than he expected. Nine years without practice were taking their toll.
"Nothing. I'll manage."
He approached number twelve. The house that didn't exist for Muggles. Memories kept forcing their way into his mind. Most were unhappy and unpleasant, but rarely his sick mind encountered something good, often connected with his brother and Uncle Alphard. Sometimes he thought he heard Regulus's voice – childish, calling his name. But Regulus was dead. Sirius knew this. He knew it, but still sometimes turned around when the wind slammed a door.
"Maybe Remus?"
He entered the hall. Dark surroundings, whose richness and atmosphere Sirius had never noticed and would never notice due to his aversion. Tapestries he also hated, portraits of ancestors he now considered all liars and schemers, looking at him with reproach, or so it seemed. In the center was his mother's portrait. Covered by a curtain.
"Thank Merlin," Sirius thought, though something inside clenched at the sight of the place.
"Who's here?" he shouted into the silence. "Come out!"
Silence. Only a floorboard creaked somewhere in the distance, and he imagined the portraits whispering.
"I know you're here!" he shouted again. "The letter! Who sent it?"
Then, shuffling his feet, a house-elf appeared. Old and hunched, with a wrinkled face even grayer than he remembered. Kreacher was a faithful servant of the House of Black – more precisely, the most senior of their three house-elves; the other two, Sirius didn't know about. This house-elf hated Sirius as much as Sirius hated him.
"The unworthy master has returned," the elf rasped, a mix of grumbling and contempt in his voice. "Kreacher did not hope to see in the house of the noble House of Black. Kreacher hoped to lay down his head before this day."
Sirius felt a wave of rage rising in his chest. He wanted to grab the elf by his scrawny neck, but he restrained himself. For now.
"Kreacher," Sirius clenched his fists, trying not to lose control. "Who is here!? Who sent me the letter!?"
The elf looked at him. There was something in his eyes Sirius couldn't decipher – mockery, hatred, or a strange, twisted satisfaction.
"The unworthy master is awaited in the small dining room," he said finally. "The unworthy master should hurry. The guest does not wish to wait."
"A guest?" Sirius stepped forward, his voice cracking into a growl. "Who?"
Kreacher remained silent. His face twisted with the contempt and sorrow he harbored for the wayward master.
"Kreacher," Sirius's voice became quiet, then he suddenly, threateningly snarled at the house-elf. "I asked a question! Answer!"
Sirius had practically barked, like a dog, without realizing it himself. Sometimes the boundaries between man and dog blurred, and then he frightened even himself.
"The unworthy master can go and find out for himself," the elf replied, unflinching. "Kreacher was ordered not to tell his identity to one who is unworthy."
He turned and, shuffling his feet, headed back. Sirius followed him, feeling the familiar, dangerous rage bubbling up inside. The Black rage, the rage that had made him commit many mistakes — though he did not consider it a mistake when he blew up an entire street with twelve Muggles and that damned traitor. Twelve Muggles were a fair price for punishing a traitor.
Despite all his dislike for his family and pure-blood ideals, his upbringing from childhood could not help but influence Black's worldview. Though he had no love for radical ideas, hating the Death Eater ideology, like any pure-blood wizard raised in magical society, he certainly did not consider Muggles' lives as valuable as wizards'. And he saw nothing terrible or contradictory in that. For him, it was the norm, something he didn't even think about.
"It could be a trap," he repeated to himself, constantly looking around, but his thoughts were tangled. There was a ringing in his head, and he couldn't tell whether it was from fatigue, from stress, or from the fact that Azkaban had left too deep scars.
Yes, common sense had been murdered in Azkaban, which was why he, despite everything, wanted to see his friend there, or someone connected to him. But in that abyss of despair that resided in his heart, hope remained the only thing preserving his sanity. Even though he remembered Lupin's handwriting, his brain wanted to believe. Even though Lupin couldn't have gotten into Grimmauld Place, Sirius still believed… or rather, wanted to believe.
But James was dead, he had killed Wormtail himself, Remus… Remus was the only possibility. And only he could know those words. Or could he? What if it was someone else? What if it was a trap? What if… there were so many ifs, that Black just ignored them all and came here.
Sirius shook his head, driving away the obsessive thoughts. Sometimes he felt that there wasn't just one voice in his head, but several, all whispering different things.
Sirius gripped his wand tighter, walking through the corridors of Grimmauld Place. He was ready for anything. Even to come face to face with the past. Even to see the Dark Lord himself sitting at the table. Even to see no one at all.
Sirius entered the small dining room and froze in the doorway.
The room was illuminated by the soft light of antique chandeliers, whose magical flames lit the room perfectly. But sometimes Sirius thought the light pulsed, the walls narrowed, the floor beneath his feet heaved. He blinked, and the vision disappeared. Yes, Sirius's mind was badly damaged.
The table, designed for eighteen people, stretched almost across the entire room. The long, carved oak table retained a special Florentine woodcarving flair. At its far end, alone, sat the one who had been waiting for him.
Sirius, looking at the figure at the end of the table, didn't fully understand whom he was seeing.
"Merlin…"
Sirius involuntarily gripped his wand tighter, though at first he didn't even realize who he was looking at. A white-haired boy of strong build, about fifteen years old, no more. He sat with a perfectly straight back, dressed in black clothes that were clearly not made for show – expensive, but not restrictive, made of protective fabric with dragon hide inserts in vital areas. A wand rested in his shoulder holster – effectively at the ready, but without any demonstrative threat.
"Lucius and cousin Narcissa's son," flashed through Sirius's mind, but it was only a guess.
The boy was calmly eating a steak. The knife and fork moved with an aristocratic grace drilled into pure-blood children from the cradle. Juice oozed from the meat, still pink inside – he was in no hurry, simply enjoying his food, as if he had all the time in the world. Next to his plate stood a half-full goblet of red wine.
"What in Mordred's name is going on here!?"
Sirius slowly swept his gaze around the room. There was no one else. Only this boy and him.
The boy's appearance was… strange. He bore the features of Lucius and the Malfoys in general, but at the same time Narcissa's blue eyes and her delicate features, adding to his aristocratic appearance. Yet there was something else. Something that made Sirius freeze a second longer than he should have.
"Regulus," he suddenly realized. "Merlin, he looks like my wayward brother!"
The same sharp cheekbones, the same face shape, but the young platinum-haired boy had a colder gaze. An appraising gaze, like that of a boa constrictor. Completing this aristocratic image squared was a predatory smile that bloomed upon seeing Sirius. The boy's sky-blue eyes stared intently at the former Azkaban prisoner.
(Note: the appearance, but in the image he looks about two years older.)
It took Sirius considerable effort to restrain himself in the first moment and not end this farce with an Avada, but although he had lost some sanity over the years in Azkaban, he wasn't about to kill a teenager over a look.
"Well, hello, uncle," the boy said, putting down his fork. His voice was calm, even relaxed.
He paid no attention to the wand pointed at him. He didn't flinch, didn't try to defend himself. He simply pointed with his knife at the seat opposite him.
"Have a seat. Kreacher will bring food."
Sirius didn't move from his spot until he had quickly, with a few flicks of his hand, cast a couple of scanning spells on the room. As it turned out, there really was no one else besides the two of them. No traps, no hidden ill-wishers, no warning charms.
"Who are you?" he asked, not lowering his wand. Though he had guessed correctly in his head.
"Arcturus Corvus Armand Black-Malfoy," the boy replied calmly. "Your first cousin once removed. But let's not delve into genealogy, uncle. The dinner will get cold."
"Black?" Sirius repeated, distrust in his voice.
"My mother is Narcissa Black. Your cousin." Arcturus took a goblet, took a small sip. "I would have become the head of the House of Black if you had… well, not been freed."
Sirius smirked. Crookedly and maliciously.
"So that's it. Lucius's son wanted to get the cursed wealth of my cursed family. Convenient. I'm in Azkaban – you inherit. I'm free – your dad wants to kill me."
"Don't insult your own family, for which our common ancestors died for generations," Arcturus replied evenly. "Even if you disagree with them, even if you hate them."
"Our ancestors?" Sirius stepped forward, his voice growing louder. "I renounced this family, boy. I don't bear their name. I don't accept their values. And if you think you can come here and…"
"Uncle, you are too biased," Arcturus interrupted. "It's unlikely we'll reach a common conclusion on this matter. Let's not waste time on arguments that will lead nowhere."
Sirius whirled around, feeling movement, but it was only Kreacher. The old elf, shuffling his feet, placed a tray of food – the same steak, the same goblet of wine, the same cutlery.
Sirius lowered his wand slightly, but not his vigilance. He sat down but didn't even touch the food.
"How do you know?" he asked, his tone quiet but threatening. "Padfoot. Prongs. Wormtail. Moony. Only four people knew those words."
"Uncle, you could use some sustenance," Arcturus replied calmly, not answering the question. "Nine years in Azkaban… you clearly need more frequent meals."
"Don't change the subject!" Sirius pointed his wand directly at the boy's face. "How?!"
Arcturus looked at him for a long second. Then he sighed – wearily, like an adult tired of explaining the obvious.
"I was hoping for a warmer interaction with an uncle I've never met," he said. "It's a good thing my parents don't know I arranged this meeting. They wouldn't approve."
Sirius froze. There was no threat in the boy's voice. No mockery. Only a strange, childlike sincerity. At least, Sirius only felt sincerity.
"Why did you call me here?" he asked, lowering his wand slightly. "What do you want… nephew?" The word "nephew" came out like a spit.
"For some, this house and this family are cursed," Arcturus swept his gaze around the room, "but for me, it's a special place. Here I feel an unprecedented peace, the peace of a place I belong."
He nodded towards the door.
"Kreacher, lock yourself in the basement for a couple of hours. I don't need extra ears."
"As the young master says," the elf rasped and disappeared with a soft pop. "Kreacher is glad to serve a worthy master."
"I just really wanted to meet you, uncle," Arcturus said when they were alone. "Since childhood, I've always compared myself to you. Taking an example to emulate… from the positive words of Grandmother Walburga."
Sirius laughed maliciously.
"You think I'll believe this nonsense? My mother hated me. She would never…"
"You don't know anything, uncle," Arcturus shook his head and laughed quietly. "You don't know anything. It seems I'll have to open your eyes to a lot of things."
"I don't have time for your games," Sirius gripped his wand. "And don't test my patience, boy. Nine years in Azkaban don't do good things to the mind – I'm not who I used to be. Be careful with your words!"
"I know," Arcturus replied calmly. "But hear me out first. You know, one boy, placed in Slytherin, didn't become a future Death Eater, as you might think given who his father is. The color of the house decides nothing; alas, ardent fools don't know this. Instead, this Slytherin simply fell in love with Hogwarts. He started exploring the castle's hidden corners, playing pranks with friends, falling under Filch's wrathful hand… until one day he found an interesting map."
Sirius froze.
"The Marauder's Map," Arcturus continued. "It took considerable effort to solve the riddle. 'I solemnly swear that I am up to no good!' The map seemed to guide him… After that, real fun began. This Slytherin and his friends snuck into Hogsmeade before their third year, played jokes on classmates and professors; it was fun. And that prankster was me. The son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black."
Sirius lowered his wand. He didn't even notice when he had done so, mesmerized by words that washed over him in a wave of memories.
"Do you have the map?" he asked, something like hope in his voice.
"No," Arcturus shook his head. "It was taken away."
"Taken away by whom, Malfoy!?" Sirius began to doubt, simultaneously remembering that before him was the son of the Dark Lord's treasurer, so his wand was raised again.