He Nearly Killed the Cat
The Worst Case
By Anne B. Walsh
Author Notes:
I disclaim one line of Sirius's. You'll know it when you see it. Also, you might want to have tissues on hand.
Fox crossed the border of his domain at his animal form's fastest lope, heading west. No visible boundary markers existed, no sudden changes from one type of surroundings to another as there would have been if he had gone north. Lin and Nima and their partners, including the one he was going to see, clearly preferred a natural-looking domain, similar to Fox's own.
Which I can only hope indicates our minds work along the same lines. I'd agree to train anyone who came to me asking for my help with something I understood well. Doesn't mean he will.
But there I go with the borrowing trouble again. If he won't help me, I'll find someone who will, or I'll work it out myself.
How hard can it be?
He came around a final bend, slowed to a stop, and retransformed. Two small stone towers, round and crenellated on top, were joined at the top by a walkway which arched down on either side, giving the impression of a very grand gateway to a nonexistent castle.
Like the builder ran out of money after he finished the front door, so he never went any further. I suppose Lin and Nima live in one, and in the other one…
Movement outside the right-hand tower caught his eye. A man was standing up from his seat beside the door.
A couple years older than me, or that's what I'd think if I'd met him in Inner Time. Black hair and fair skin, which usually means blue eyes, and enough height to him, along with enough breadth on those shoulders, to take care of himself if he has to.
The man fit Neenie's description of "medium-sized, dark, and charming," and he certainly wasn't Lin, so at a guess, Fox had found the person he was looking for.
"You Jason?" Fox asked, strolling forward, hands loose at his sides.
"Who's asking?" The voice was soft, but held hints of carrying power beyond its apparent size, along with a trace of a musical accent.
"Name's Fox. New neighbor of yours over to the east."
Hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his cargoes, Jason looked Fox up and down. "Bit short for a full name, isn't it?"
"I've got Reynard for fancy, but that might get confusing with your lady around. And there's no point in tacking the White onto the end when it's just us. That answer your question?"
"It does." For the first time, Jason smiled, and Fox understood his sister's third descriptor perfectly. "So what can I do for Neenie's twin?"
"How did you—"
"Reyna's been a fan of yours from way back." Jason's eyes, up close the expected vivid blue, homed in on Fox's right hip pocket. "Might I guess you're looking for some help with that?"
"Why don't I just wear a sign on my forehead?" Fox extracted the item he'd created and held it out for Jason's inspection. "Twelve and a half inches long, made of hazel wood, dragon heartstring coiled around the central shaft. I had some fun getting the finger holes right without burning through it."
"Some nice work on this." Jason turned the wand-flute over in his fingers, hefted it once or twice, then after glancing at Fox for permission, held it to his lips and blew. The pure, sweet tone which emerged won another smile from him. "Very nice work. Don't think I could improve on it. So it's not craftsmanship you're looking for help with."
"No." Fox wanted to hesitate, wanted to take another breath, to delay in any way he could, but his baby sister and his other set of parents were depending on him. "I hear you can teach me a song that controls time."
The smile vanished. "I'll know why you're asking first."
"Are you familiar with our ridge?" Fox took his flute back and traced his finger down its length, finding the rune for patience he'd carved near its end.
"Tolerably so."
"End of our hero's fifth year," Fox began, and walked Jason through the steps of their preliminary plan. Jason listened in silence, his face giving away nothing.
"So you see, it's really our best shot," Fox finished. "Only it's going to take five seconds at the very least to set it all up, and there just isn't that kind of time in the scene. Besides, we can't be seen doing it. I thought the most obvious answer was a momentary time stop. Get everything ready, then restart the scene and it all plays out the way people expect. Or so they think."
Jason nodded. "You're a troublemaker," he stated, the same way he would have said that Fox's hair was brown. "I thought you might want the song for a silly prank, a joke on your sister. It seems I've underestimated you, and for that I apologize."
"Not necessary, but accepted all the same."
"Thank you. I do know the song you're seeking, and it was written originally for a wind instrument, so there's a stroke of luck for you. But it's a dangerous thing one way and another to be meddling with time. If you slip, play it so much as one note wrong, you could shatter your bonds with Outer Time forever and strand yourself in a world too dark for your liking."
Jason raised a hand when Fox started to speak. "I mean that as no slur on your abilities, merely as a caution. The best of us can flub, all the more when much depends on it. And even should you play the tune note-perfect, you'll still be calling the attention of the RC's. They've no desire for anyone to be altering time in the worlds they've touched but themselves. But none of that matters to you at all, now does it?"
"My family needs me."
"And there's an end to it." Jason nodded. "Come inside. I'll lay the wards so you can learn the song without freezing everything around you, and teach you how to do the same before you go."
"Thanks. I owe you one."
"What else are neighbors for?"
Kreacher the house-elf fussed around his mistress's room, removing the knickknacks she kept on a small table near the window.
Mistress will not notice the small change, or if she does, it is easy to say that a leg of the table is wobbling and must be replaced. Mistress does not need to know where the table is required, not when the knowledge will only pain her and give her grief. The table will be required only for a little while, for a few short months, and then it can be returned and all will be well.
He hated deceiving his mistress, especially on so vital a matter as this, but he knew that she would never understand. The new master who had stepped out of the magical portal in the air nearly a year ago, the master who had added to Kreacher's power from his own so that the plan could be fulfilled, might be able to explain it to her.
Perhaps Kreacher will ask it of him, the next time he comes.
But until that day, or even if that day never arrived, Kreacher would continue to do what the house-elves of his line had always done.
The masters must be served. Served and kept safe, yes, safe from the terrible world, from the dangers that lie out there. If they are not kept safe, perhaps they will die, die and leave none to come after them, and what would Kreacher do then?
He smiled gloatingly and levitated the table out of the room. Thanks to his new master, it was not a dilemma which would arise.
The Mistress will be shocked at first, but that is why she must not know until all is in readiness. Kreacher is tricking her, that is true, but tricking her only to give her what she most desires. When she has it safe in her hands, in her arms, she will ask no questions…
"This is impossible."
Sirius Black knelt beside the same table Kreacher had once removed from this room, staring at the date carved into its underside, a date more than thirteen years in the past. The date, according to the other lines of carving, when his daughter had been born.
"It's just flat-out impossible." Even to his own ears, he sounded like a man trying to convince himself, and hurried to put reasons to the impossibility. "For one thing, the timing doesn't work at all. I'd been in Azkaban for a year when this kid must've been conceived. Unless you're going to argue I was able to sneak out for a quickie…"
But as he laid his fingers against the name carved next to his own, the name of the one girl he'd known at Hogwarts who had ever intrigued him for longer than the time it took to get her into bed, a memory floated to the surface of his mind. Hazy, incomplete, but persistent, it coupled the stark stony chill of his prison cell with the warmth, the taste and the touch, the smooth skin and full lips of a woman named Aletha.
And even there, it was good. It was always good with her.
"Which means…" Sirius traced the jagged lines which formed Aletha's name. "I know it means something, but I'm not good at the logic stuff. You really need Moony for that."
Make it like a story. You like stories. Aletha was there, with you, in Azkaban. It's impossible, it must have been a dream, but it was still good. Except…
"Except that not even dreams are good, in Azkaban." Sirius's hand closed into a fist. "So it wasn't a dream. It happened. But that doesn't make it less impossible!"
So find the possibility. What else do you know about it, other than that it happened?
"There was a kid. A little girl. Meghan Lily." Sirius tried to imagine her, and found it surprisingly easy. She would have had my eyes and her mother's smile, and never slowed down for anything, and she would have been the world to me from the first moment I held her in my arms…
Shaking off the reverie, he moved to the second line of the carving. "Why would she have been born here? Aletha was a Muggleborn, Mother wouldn't have let her cross the threshold, not even if she was carrying my child—maybe especially not if she was carrying my child."
Perhaps more to the point, why did Aletha, or so we assume, feel the need to leave a record of her daughter's birth somewhere that wouldn't be easily seen? Somewhere that obviously hasn't been seen, or Kreacher would have—
"Kreacher." The word emerged from Sirius's throat in a low growl as all the impossibilities suddenly became possible. "Kreacher did this. He bred me, the way I'd breed a dog if I liked its bloodline, because he wanted to make sure he'd have a new little mistress after Mother went two-dimensional. Or a new little master, he wouldn't have known at the time, but that puts it all together, doesn't it?"
Because house-elves can get around Apparition barriers set for wizards and witches, and take passengers with them. And when they want to use it, they have pretty formidable magic. Strong enough to put me and Aletha into some kind of trance, where we'd just reach for each other and not stop to think if it was possible or not. Strong enough to bring her back here afterwards, and keep her here, keep her hidden, until Meghan was born. Probably a while after, maybe a few months, to make sure the baby was healthy and likely to survive. And then…
"Then Letha would have worn out her welcome." A red mist was starting to fill Sirius's vision. "Kreacher would have… disposed of her. Probably enjoyed it, too. And then gone back to raising his little mistress to be exactly what he thought she should be."
Which raises one very important question.
Where is Meghan now?
Sirius was on his feet without intending it. "I've got to search," he mumbled, starting for the door. "Search everywhere…" He stopped, his eyes lighting up. "No. No, I don't. I'm in the direct line, dammit, it's got to be good for something, and this is it. Kreacher can't refuse an order from me, no matter how much he'd like to, so he's damn well going to tell me what he did with my daughter or I'll follow through on all those threats I used to make about stuffing him down the toilet—"
"Black!" The shout echoed through the house. "Black! Are you here?"
"Perfect timing as always, Snivellus," Sirius grumbled under his breath, yanking the door open. "Up here, Snape! What do you want?"
The Hogwarts Potions Master appeared with a slight pop at the end of the corridor, giving Sirius a quick once-over. "Simply to be sure you had, for once in your life, obeyed orders. Has anything… untoward occurred in the last hour?"
"Other than Kreacher going off his head and just about yanking Buckbeak's wing out of its socket, no." And my finding out that he's been raising the daughter I never knew I had. Kreacher, not Buckbeak. But that's none of your business. "Why?"
"Because your godson was quite distressed about you earlier tonight, to the point of invading Dolores Umbridge's office to attempt to contact you by Floo. He was caught, but had the opportunity, and the wits, to communicate to me the source of his distress without Umbridge understanding him." Snape's lip curled. Clearly he hated admitting Harry had any wits at all. "He seemed to be under the impression that you had been captured, and taken to the place where the item is kept that the Order has been guarding."
"Nobody's firecalled here that I know of, but I've been up tending to Buckbeak…"
The implication hit Sirius like a Bludger square in the chest. I am going to kill Kreacher. That little bastard, he did this on purpose, to get me out of the way—and Harry'd never leave a friend in trouble, he'll have found something to get him to the Ministry if he thinks that's where I am—
"Get a hold of anyone you can call who's free," he instructed Snape, charging past the other wizard, down the hall towards the stairs. "We have to get to the Department of Mysteries, and we have to get there now."
I'm sorry, Pearl. I'll find you as soon as I can, but Harry has to come first.
In his distraction, Sirius never noticed the shift in his mental nomenclature.
Aletha Freeman righted the table she'd been able to convince Kreacher that she needed for the proper care of his "little mistress," returning it to precisely the place it had been and beginning to restack it with the piles of nappies, wipes, bags, and other paraphernalia necessary for dealing with the needs of a three-month-old baby.
I don't know if anyone will ever find it. Or Kreacher might see it himself first, and then no one else ever will. But I had to do something, had to leave some record, make some effort to tell the world we existed…
In the cot, Meghan stirred. Aletha hurried to her daughter's side and gathered her up, treasuring the warmth, the weight, the scent of her, and trying, as she had tried since the day her Pearl was born, to convince herself that the most unthinkable thing a mother could do was also the best.
If I'm going to do it at all, I have to do it soon. She's healthy, getting stronger every day, it won't happen on its own. And I've seen the way Kreacher looks at me. If he doesn't think I've outlived my usefulness yet, it's only a matter of time. Am I going to let him win? Meekly lie down and die, and let him have my baby—
Meghan, catching her mother's mood, began to wail, and Aletha hushed her, stroking a finger along her cheek. "You're a miracle, little one," she whispered. "I'm so sorry it has to be like this. You deserve better. You deserve to be happy."
You deserve to live, to grow up free of all this. You deserve a father who would love you, who would love me, who would be true to both of us…
Relentlessly, her mind presented her with images of Sirius, laughing as he pulled off another crazy stunt on his motorcycle, staring at her in wonder in a broom closet at James and Lily's wedding, smiling with incredulous delight as he reached for her in a tiny room of stone. She winced away, her hand still cupping Meghan's face. It wasn't true. None of it was true. It was all lies, all a cover for what he really wanted, who he really was…
No!
Aletha jerked in surprise, nearly losing her hold on Meghan. "Who's there?" she demanded, turning to scan the recesses of the tiny attic room where she'd been sequestered for nearly a year. "Who are you?"
Mama. The voice managed to convey in the inflection of the single word an impression of rolling eyes and much-tried patience. Is me.
Very slowly, Aletha looked down at the baby in her arms.
Who closed a lid over one of the silver eyes she had inherited from her father in an unmistakable wink.
"Well." Aletha took two careful steps backward and sank down into the wooden rocking chair, grateful it was no farther. "I don't know why this surprises me so much. I've survived learning magic was real, learning an evil wizard wanted me dead for no fault of my own, learning the only man I loved was a lying spy—"
Meghan's tiny hand shot out and grasped her mother's finger. No, she repeated more firmly than before. Dadfoot good. He love you. Was a trick. Was Wormtail. Wormtail bad. Dadfoot good.
"Wormtail." Aletha considered this, and the fragmentary image which floated into her mind of the infamous street scene, Peter Pettigrew secreting his wand behind his back. "I see. But how in the world could you know—"
Meghan arched her back, her feet and her free hand thrashing in temper. I not know how, but I not want you think bad 'bout Dadfoot! Dadfoot love you. Love me. He come. He stop Kreacher. Or you stop Kreacher. Touch—
"Easy, love, I know you're angry, but I can't understand you." Aletha held her daughter close, kissing her hair and rubbing her back as she would have for any baby fit of anger. "What do you want me to touch? Touch you?"
NooooOOOOOO! The mental shriek turned into a verbal one, and Meghan began to flail in good earnest, her face darkening with fury. No, no, no, no me! No me! Him! Him, him!
"You want me to—to touch Kreacher? What good will—"
"The Mudblood calls Kreacher?" a voice croaked from behind her.
Sirius laughed, ducking Bellatrix's Stunner. "Come on," he taunted, dodging towards the small dais where an archway stood, a tattered veil hanging from it. "You can do better than that!"
You're not going to stop me now. Not now that I know I'm not alone. I'm going to get my godson out of this, we'll find my daughter, and I'll finally have the family I always wanted…
Bellatrix's second spell struck him full in the chest.
Sirius's vision wavered, and he thought he heard a high clear note, as from a flute. Then he was standing next to himself, everything around him frozen in its tracks. The other him had just started to fall backwards, towards the veil, surprise and fear mingled on his face.
This can't be good…
The flute was still playing, a lower note now, then a middling one. Between the other Sirius and the archway, a second arch appeared, this one seemingly made of nothing but shimmering light. From its other side, a man stepped out, a man who resembled—Sirius looked back and forth, just to be sure—
"Moony? But you're not—"
"I'm sorry, Padfoot. No time." His friend caught the arm of the other Sirius and pulled him backwards through the shining archway, a flick of his left hand creating the illusion that the missing body was still in place, as the flute continued to play. "We'll get Meghan. That's a promise. I'm sorry we couldn't—"
The melody ended. The arch of light vanished. Sirius registered his illusion-self plummeting through the veil, Bellatrix screaming in triumph, Harry calling his name and trying to follow, but his mind could process only one complete thought.
I'm dead. I'm dead. My body's gone, and I'm dead, and I'm never going to find out what happened to my little girl…
Meghan wanted to howl, wanted to scream at the top of her tiny lungs, but she knew her temper would do her no good. She had already lost her chance to explain to her Mama Letha how she could stop Kreacher from hurting her, and her mouth wasn't ready yet to form the words which would command Kreacher to leave her Mama Letha alone.
Mama Letha ought to be able to tell Kreacher to leave her alone herself. But he won't listen to her. I don't know if that's because she and Dadfoot never got married in this world, or because the new master he likes to talk about made him stronger so he doesn't have to listen to anyone except a Black by bloodline—
Or what if it's a little of both?
Ever since her brain had developed to the point where her teenage mind and powers could reawaken, she had been gathering all the information she could find, preparing herself to battle for her own and her mother's lives. Once or twice, when she had scanned her Mama Letha more deeply than usual, she had felt hints of something far down in the back of her mother's mind, something different.
And that something different reached back to me. It knew me. It wanted me.
I think that might mean—
"Give Kreacher his little mistress," the house-elf ordered, coming forward from the usual spot where he Apparated into the hidden attic room. "Kreacher will not hurt the Mudblood. She gave good service, birthed a strong mistress, and Kreacher is grateful."
"Over my dead body," Mama Letha snarled, holding Meghan tighter.
Mama, no! Meghan screamed through their blood link, but it was too late.
"As the Mudblood wishes." A hideous grin split Kreacher's face, and he gestured.
The heart thundering in the chest against which Meghan was pressed shuddered once and stopped.
Meghan wailed and clutched at her mother's hand, her infant body's automatic response to feeling the arms holding her go limp, but her mind was searching frantically for that hint of something which had known her.
If I can just find it—if it's just there—
Please, please, let it be there!
Aletha gasped in horror as her lifeless body crumpled to the floor beside her, cushioning her weeping daughter. "No!" she shouted, stretching out her hands, trying to reach back through the implacable veil which separated the living from the dead. "No, please, it can't end like this! I don't care about myself, just don't let this happen to my baby—please, someone, help her—"
Kreacher's grin widened as he started forward to claim his prize.
Author Notes:
Yes, I think that's a sufficiently evil place to leave this for two whole days. Remember, please, that threatened authors do not write and dead ones cannot update...