True Colors
Chapter 1: Letters
By Anne B. Walsh
"INTO THAT CUPBOARD WITH YOU, BOY!" bellowed Vernon Dursley, the vein on his temple standing out. "AND DON’T LET ME CATCH YOU OUT OF IT UNTIL SUPPERTIME TOMORROW!"
"Yes, sir," said Harry Potter politely, and obediently ducked his head to enter the cupboard under the stairs.
And I won’t. Let him catch me, that is.
The door closed behind him. Harry grinned. His uncle couldn’t know that what he intended as a punishment was nothing of the sort. The exact opposite, in fact...
His fingers found the spot on the wall which triggered the one-way soundproofing spell, then the one which activated the lookproofing spell, and finally the light switch. No sound from within the cupboard would now reach the outside world, and if Uncle Vernon should happen to open the door, all he would see was a sullen Harry sprawled on the mattress which lay on the floor, with the small chest of drawers at his head and the tiny bookshelf at his feet. The same went for Aunt Petunia or his fat cousin Dudley.
In reality, though...
Harry flopped into the overstuffed red armchair and looked around. In almost every way, his bedroom was perfectly ordinary for a boy going on eleven. His walls were covered with posters of sports teams and musical groups, his bed unmade and littered with clothes, his desk covered with writing materials. Side by side against the other wall sat a chest of drawers and a bookshelf. Should Dudley ever enter this room, he would probably recognize most of the volumes gracing the bookshelf...
No, he wouldn’t. First off, he’d never come in here. Second, he’d never recognize a book. I’m not sure he’s ever opened a book. The only reason he moves up at the end of every year is because the teachers don’t want him to feel bad about himself. Harry snorted. Dudley hardly had a problem in that department.
Of course, none of Harry’s belongings had been paid for by his relatives. They didn’t even know his snug little retreat existed. And, of course, by the logic of the world they lived in, it couldn’t. There simply wasn’t enough room in the cupboard under the stairs for all these pleasant, comfortable things. And they would have been entirely dumbfounded to see the people in the posters on his walls moving, or the parchment, ink, and quills on his desk.
But that was Harry’s other secret. Bigger by far than his bedroom, this encompassed the people who had made it what it was, who had made him who and what he was. Strange that his relatives should be a father, mother, and child, he thought, when his other secret was also a father, mother, and child... little Meghan, though she hated him to call her that, and took every opportunity to point out that there was only two years’ difference in their ages...
Thinking of Meghan made Harry remember that he’d promised to give her a call as soon as he had time. He got up and crossed to his desk, rummaging through the mess there until he found what he was looking for — an old, tarnished, gilt-edged mirror. "Meghan Black," he said clearly into it.
After a moment, the mirror lit up with the image of a girl’s face, dark-skinned and framed with dark braids but with lively gray eyes. "Harry! Your aunt and uncle can’t be in bed yet, it’s not even dark!"
"No, they sent me to my cupboard."
Meghan giggled. She knew the secret of Harry’s cupboard, having played with him in it often when the Dursleys were away. "What did you do?"
Harry grimaced. "I guess I talked back to my uncle. I didn’t really mean to, but he had a couple of drinks after dinner, and he started going on about how immoral Letha is, and how he hates her dog, and how he doesn’t believe she’s a widow..."
Meghan raised her eyebrows. "He’s right."
"Yes, but that’s not what he means!" Harry considered trying to explain, but gave it up as a bad job. "So what did you want to tell me?"
"Mum’s going shopping in Diagon Alley next week and she wants you to come along."
"What day next week?"
"I don’t know. Does it matter?"
"Yes. I have to know what day to ask if I can be out all day."
"Mum, what day are we going shopping?" shouted Meghan to one side of the mirror.
"I don’t know yet," answered Letha’s voice distantly. "Why?"
"Harry’s on the mirror. He wants to know so he can ask his relatives."
"Tell him he’ll know it himself," called Letha.
"She says you’ll know it yourself," repeated Meghan.
"I heard her," said Harry, frowning. "But I don’t understand. How will I know it?"
Meghan giggled again, and the view of her face blurred as someone else picked up the mirror. "Well, we can’t go shopping for you until you have your list," said a deep, amused voice.
Harry suddenly felt very stupid. Of course, of course — his Hogwarts letter, with the list of supplies he’d need! How could he have forgotten? "Thanks, Padfoot," he said, making a face at his godfather. "Are you coming too?"
"Collar and lead and everything," said Padfoot, making a face back. Harry could sympathize. As much as he loved his cupboard, it was still a cage, where the Dursleys could put him when they didn’t want him.
But that’s going to change, when I get that letter...
He chatted a little longer with Padfoot and Letha and Meghan before disconnecting the mirror. Afterwards, he lay on the chair, legs up on the back and head hanging off the seat, and thought about life.
His life with the Dursleys he considered in the light of an exciting adventure game. Brave the wilds of Dursley-world, respect the native customs, trade work for food, and look forward to every opportunity to return to civilization, also known as number seventeen, Privet Drive.
But he was being hunted, so he couldn’t stay in civilization; he had to live in the wild. Number four was his home, the only safe place for him, as he’d known ever since that tearful day when he’d been four and asked why, why he had to go back there where they didn’t like him, instead of staying with Padfoot and Letha and Meghan, where he was so happy?
He could have hated the Dursleys, Harry thought. He could have hated them for standing in the way of what he wanted. But, in truth, he had almost everything he wanted. It might have been nice to live openly with his godfather, but that wasn’t the Dursleys’ fault. And all the privations the Dursleys tried to force on him, the Blacks smoothed over, with the result that Harry’s life was a rather pleasant one.
So he didn’t hate the Dursleys, exactly, though he often wondered what his life would have been like if they didn’t hate him so very much. Would he have ended up like Dudley, a spoiled brat who thought he deserved everything in the world and then some?
No matter. They didn’t, so he wasn’t, and his life was just fine. And about to get a whole lot better.
There would be a letter soon. A letter written on parchment and addressed in emerald green ink, with no stamp or return address. He knew better than to open it in front of his relatives, who would take it away from him on principle, assuming Aunt Petunia didn’t recognize it and start screeching about abominations and freaks. No, he would slip it into his cupboard as he came down the hallway, then, after breakfast, ask permission to go out. And then he would retrieve it and open it with his real family, in his real home.
After all, he only had to be able to call number four "home." He didn’t have to feel that way about it.
He checked his watch, a gift from Letha two birthdays ago. The golden hand was pointing to Time for bed, young man.
"All right, all right," muttered Harry, getting out of the chair. "I’m going."
The hand swung around to That’s more like it.
The boy paused before ripping the flap open. "Are you sure you’re ready?" he teased the girl.
"Stop it!" She took a swipe at him. "Just open it!"
"Are you sorry you don’t have one?"
"Enough," said the man in a quelling tone, but the boy could see mirth in his eyes. "It’s not her fault she can’t go to Hogwarts yet."
"And she will get there," the woman added. "Maybe not in the traditional way, but she’ll get there."
"Now will you please open it before I scream?" said the girl, staring at him in that pointed way which indicated she really meant it.
He slid his finger under the flap and pulled.
Harry jerked awake.
What an odd dream, he thought. He hadn’t been able to see any of the people’s faces clearly, just outlines or silhouettes, or perhaps he hadn’t seen them at all, just heard their voices...
But he’d been able to see their emotions, and the way they looked at each other. Just not their faces. Or maybe he had seen the faces, but couldn’t remember them. It didn’t really matter.
He often had odd dreams, odd not only for their subject matter, but for the fact that they seemed to be an ongoing series. Most people’s dreams, if he understood correctly, were unrelated. He’d been having dreams starring the same cast of characters as long as he could remember — not exclusively, of course, but about twice a week he’d have a dream with them in it.
There were four of them, a boy and a girl about his own age and their parents. It was easy to tell by their looks that they were a family; it wasn’t quite as clean-cut as "my father’s face and my mother’s eyes," but it was close. But now that he thought about it, Harry realized, he couldn’t say for certain exactly what any of them looked like...
What he did know was what each of them liked and disliked. They all loved to read, but the girl also enjoyed climbing trees, with the result that she was usually found fifteen feet off the ground with her nose in a book. The father and son shared a love for music and a sly sense of humor, and their mother was a fine cook. She’d tutored Harry in making plain cooking seem fancy when it became obvious that Aunt Petunia was going to regard him as kitchen help. He liked cooking in dreams better than in real life, because in the dreams he never got burned, not even if he took a hot pot off the stove with his bare hands.
Dreams of this family were always linked to other dreams, fuzzier and harder to understand, which seemed to have something to do with animals. Mostly with chasing animals, and catching them, and then a lot of running and jumping and playing, outdoors and in, with a fine disregard for anything in the way.
The dream he’d just had might have been about his dream friends, Harry thought, except that his dream friends were obviously twins, and why would one of a twin-set get a Hogwarts letter and another one not? He knew siblings weren’t always both magical, but could that extend even to twins?
Or it might mean my letter is on the way.
This thought snapped him instantly into full wakefulness. He checked his watch. 6:30 in the morning, excellent. That was about the time when the post usually came...
He got out of bed and got dressed in the dark, not wanting to spoil his night-sight by turning on the lights, then opened the door of his cupboard, quietly, carefully, thankful that he’d remembered to oil the hinges two days before. The hall was dark, but there was enough light for him to see his way to the front door, which he had likewise oiled, and out onto the lawn.
He hadn’t been there more than five minutes when it happened. Something caught his eye to the right, and there, winging its way towards him, was a huge, beautiful barn owl. And it was carrying a letter in its beak.
Harry lifted up his wrist, bracing himself for the weight of the bird, which settled gently onto his arm, closing its talons ever so gently about his flesh and dropping the letter into his other hand. "Mice in the back garden," he told it. "My aunt’s always complaining about them. And there’s a birdbath two houses that way." He pointed.
The owl gave a hoot of thanks and spread its wings, and Harry tossed it into the air to give it a flying start. He watched it soar around the house, then turned and went back inside, holding the precious letter in both hands, except when he needed one to open the door.
Back in his cupboard room, he fell onto his bed, feeling as if he wanted to burst out of his skin with excitement. Even though he knew the letter was nothing more than a dry formal greeting and a list of supplies that very seldom changed, it was still special. The look, the feel, even the smell of it was special.
For as long as he could remember, Harry had noticed smells more particularly than other people. Aunt Petunia relied on him to tell if the milk had gone bad or the leftover peas weren’t worth salvaging (he occasionally fibbed when he felt he couldn’t stand another night of looking at the same vegetables). The Dursleys’ house had a scent like a hospital, antiseptic, forbidding, too clean to be a home. By contrast, the house at number seventeen had an odor of warmth and life about it, with overtones of biscuits in the oven, clean sheets, and laughter. It was strange to think that laughter had a smell, but it did. Or at least Harry thought that it did.
He ran over his friends in his mind, working out who would be at Hogwarts with him and who wouldn’t. Neville Longbottom, obviously, they’d been born only one day apart — maybe he’d see Neville at Diagon Alley with his parents.
Funny about them. And lucky, too.
Frank and Alice Longbottom had been about to go to bed on a February night after putting their not-even-two-year-old son to sleep. Before they did, though, an owl arrived from Albus Dumbledore, warning them that there was a chance their house would be invaded that night. Forty-five minutes later, four Death Eaters had disabled their security charms and entered the house silently. Had the Longbottoms not been warned, they would have been asleep, helpless. Instead, they had been awake, and with several friends from the Order beside them.
The Death Eaters hadn’t stood a chance.
Dumbledore had never told anyone who had tipped him off about the Longbottoms. It was possible he didn’t know himself, Harry thought. It might have been someone who wrote to him anonymously.
Luna Lovegood... no, she wouldn’t be going to Hogwarts this year. She was a year too young, she’d be a first year to Harry’s second.
I like her. She’s a little funny, but I like her. Luna’s mother Anita, before her death the year before, had done independent magical research, often on projects which were of interest to St. Mungo’s Hospital. Letha had got to know Anita quite well, and when they had got together to discuss potions and decoctions and all those things, Mrs. Lovegood had often brought her daughter with her.
You have to get used to Luna, but after you do, she’s fun. She just says things, without caring about how they sound.
Meghan... of course she wouldn’t go to Hogwarts with him, she was a year younger than Luna. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t dream.
Dream...
That dream I had. Could that have been me, and Meghan, and Padfoot and Letha talking?
His mind spun over the words that had been spoken, the expressions and looks exchanged. It was entirely possible. He would tease Meghan just that way, Padfoot would stop them, Letha would calm Meghan down, Meghan would threaten him...
Yes, that was what it was, Harry decided. He’d dreamt how it would be when he opened his letter.
After breakfast, Harry broached the subject. "Aunt Petunia, Meghan Black’s invited me to her house to stay all day. May I go?"
His aunt pursed her lips. "I wanted you to weed the garden today," she said disapprovingly.
"I’ll do it after I get back. Please?"
"Make sure you do." Aunt Petunia turned away.
"I will. Thank you," said Harry to her back, and hurried to his cupboard, snatching up the letter where it lay on his bed.
When he straightened up again, he thought he’d gone blind. Then he realized the light was being blocked by the bulk of Dudley.
"What’s that you’ve got?" asked Dudley, pointing at the letter in his hand.
Uh-oh. "Nothing."
It was the wrong answer. "Dad!" Dudley shouted. "Dad! Mum! Harry’s got something in the mail!"
Harry shoved past Dudley, squeezing through partly due to his smaller size and partly to desperation, and ran for his life, houses whizzing by. If he could just get to number seventeen before they started shouting after him... or if their dislike of making a scene would just conquer their desire to stop him having anything at all, anywhere, ever...
Vernon Dursley watched the boy take the front steps of number seventeen two at a time and sighed. "No use calling him back now, he’ll just pretend not to hear," he said, turning to go back inside. "Besides, it’s probably a birthday card from that little chit. That’s why he’s been invited over, it’s his birthday, and they’re trying to make him feel special." Satisfied with this explanation, he returned to his coffee and newspaper.
But it’s not his birthday, not yet. His birthday is next week. But Petunia didn’t say this. Vernon wouldn’t hear her, and wouldn’t approve if he did. It wasn’t right of her to be keeping such close track of the unnatural brat, he’d say. She should be paying attention to her own son.
She turned to that son now. "Dudley, dear, what did Harry’s letter look like?"
"Look like?"
"Was it large or small?"
"Large, bigger than usual. And it was written in green, on kind of yellowy paper."
Petunia nodded. "And... did the address seem... to have more lines than usual?"
"I don’t know... maybe. Why?"
"Just wondering, dear. Thank you, you’ve been a great help."
She leaned against the doorframe after Dudley had squeezed through the door, feeling a bit weak in the knees. She had known it would probably happen sooner or later, but later had always been the more prominent option...
But the boy’s almost eleven. You knew it happened when they turned eleven.
And this would get him out of the house. She could remind Vernon of that. He’d only be back for two months a year — they’d make sure he stayed there for the holidays — and they could surely come up with a suitable story for the neighbors. There was no reason for anyone to know.
Unless...
Why did he take it to Aletha Black’s house to open it?
Fear gripped her once again.
Harry burst through the door. "I’ve got it," he chanted. "I’ve got it, I’ve got it, I’ve got it..."
"You’ve got it, you’ve got it, you’ve got it," Meghan joined him, doing a dance step to the chant, which turned into spinning in a circle like ring-around-the-rosy.
Padfoot ran up to them, circled around them twice in dog form, then kicked the door shut and changed in the middle of the circle formed by their clasped hands. Dancing in place, he added a bass line to their song. "He’s got it, he’s got it..."
"You look like a May Day celebration," said Letha from the kitchen doorway. "Are you going to dance all day, or are you going to open that so we can go shopping?"
"Open it, open it!" Meghan let go of Harry’s hands to jump around in excitement. "Open it quick!"
Harry grinned at her. "Are you sure you’re ready?"
"Just open it!" Meghan did a cartwheel into the living room, then one back. "Now, now!"
Satisfied that he’d dreamed of what this moment might be like, Harry slid a finger under the flap of the envelope and pulled it up.
Everything was exactly as it should be. The letter on Hogwarts stationery, signed by Professor Minerva McGonagall, and the list of supplies, which Harry put back into the envelope so he wouldn’t lose it while he was busy staring at the letter.
Padfoot laid a hand on his shoulder, making Harry turn to look at him. His godfather’s face was covered with the grin Harry had only ever seen after a particularly successful prank. "Good luck, Greeneyes," he said softly. "You’ll like Hogwarts."
"Bet I will," said Harry, returning the grin. "Can I borrow Maya to write back to them?" he asked Letha, referring to her screech owl.
"Of course. And parchment and quills are on the desk in the living room." Letha dropped a kiss on his head. "Congratulations, love."
Harry smiled at her and went to write his "Yes, thank you, I will come" letter, with Padfoot to advise him about phrasing and Meghan to be a pest and read over his shoulder.
"Do you think Neville will be shopping at Diagon Alley today too?" she asked.
"I don’t know," answered Padfoot, since Harry was concentrating on his handwriting. "Do you want him to be?"
"Yes."
"Meghan’s got a boyfriend," teased Harry, looking up.
"Do not."
"Do so."
"Do not!" Meghan reached down to hit Harry and upended the ink bottle all over his letter.
Harry jumped up with a yell. "Now look what you did!"
"It’s not a disaster," said Padfoot, tapping the ink puddle with his wand and making it freeze in place, then starting to vacuum it up. "But you two both need to settle down some. We can’t take you out in public if you’re fighting like this."
Harry looked at Meghan sidewise. "Sorry," he muttered.
"Sorry," she said back, but she still looked mad at him.
Their first stop at Diagon Alley, of course, was Gringotts, where Harry took some money out of his parents’ vault and Letha got some out of the Black vaults for her own expenses.
"I want to buy one thing all myself," said Harry as they walked down the steps of Gringotts. "Just one. May I?"
"Well, Diagon Alley’s as safe a place as any," said Letha. "I don’t see why not. How about your uniform? I think you’re old enough to handle that. Meet us at the Apothecary afterwards?"
Harry nodded happily and ran off towards Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. The little bell over the door tinkled as he walked in, and Madam Malkin hurried up to him.
"Hogwarts, of course," she said, smiling at him. "Come right on back, you can chat with this other young man here..."
A boy with a rather pale face and silver-blond hair was standing on a footstool while a witch pinned up the long black robes he was wearing. Harry followed the boy’s line of sight and smiled — a grey dog with pointed ears and intelligent brown eyes was looking back at him, head tilted slightly to one side.
"Right up here, dear, that’s the way," said Madam Malkin, and Harry climbed onto the second stool and let Madam Malkin slide a robe over his head.
"Hello," said the other boy, glancing at Harry out of the corner of his eye. "Hogwarts, too?"
"Yes," said Harry.
"I noticed you were looking at Zelda," said the boy, looking back at his dog, who was now watching both boys. "We go everywhere together, I think I’d be lost without her."
"Everywhere?" asked Harry curiously. "Even to Hogwarts?"
"Well, Father’s writing to the Headmaster to find out for certain if I may, but I think I should be allowed. I mean, I’ve heard of people bringing other kinds of pets than cats or owls or toads, and she’s very polite, she won’t bite anyone or make trouble."
"But won’t she have to go out?"
"No, not her. She can use the loo."
Harry looked from animal to boy, surprised. He had never heard of training a dog to use the toilet before. "How did you teach her to do that?"
"My dad did it. He’s very clever that way." The boy gave a little half-smile, looking straight at Harry for the first time. His eyes widened a little as he did. "Wait... you’re not... are you Harry Potter?"
Padfoot and Letha had warned Harry that he’d run into this as he became more of a part of the wizarding world. He was famous, and he’d have to deal with it. So it was with good grace that he answered, "Yes, I am."
"Wicked!" The boy looked down to make sure the witch wasn’t trying to pin under his right arm, then held out his hand, exposing a tight green leather bracelet on his wrist. "Draco Malfoy. But only my father calls me Draco. Everyone who knows me calls me Ray."
"Ray?" repeated Harry, shaking his hand. "Oh, from D-ray-co?"
"Yeah — my mum didn’t want me called Dray or Day, so I guess Ray was the only thing left." Ray shrugged, smiling. "So d’you have any idea what house you’ll be in?"
"Not really — Gryffindor, maybe, but I’ll have to wait and see. You?"
"Well, my mother and father were in Slytherin... but I don’t know. Just because your family’s one way, doesn’t mean you have to be, does it?"
"No, it doesn’t," said Harry, thinking of Padfoot. "I know somebody whose whole family for generations was in Slytherin, and he turned out to be a Gryffindor."
"Really?" Ray’s face lit up. "That’s brilliant — who?"
Harry tried not to gulp. "I forget his name," he said quickly. "But he was somebody my dad knew."
"All right." Ray was still smiling. "Hear that, Zelda?" he said to the dog. "His whole family was in Slytherin, and he turned out to be a Gryffindor!"
Zelda turned around and lay down, as if this news interested her not at all.
"That’s you done, m’dear," said the witch pinning Ray’s robes. "Just hop down and we’ll get these made up right away."
Ray stepped down from the footstool. "Come on, Zel," he said as the witch waved her wand, sending a line of stitching around the hem of the robes. "We need to go find Mother now."
Zelda got to her feet and stretched. Harry noticed she was wearing a green collar with symbols etched into it, matching Ray’s bracelet. It looked tight, but it didn’t seem to be bothering her.
"See you at Hogwarts, then, I guess," said Ray.
"See you." Harry watched the other boy go, the dog pacing beside him, his hand occasionally falling to rest on her head or back, as Harry sometimes did with Padfoot.
"Malfoy?" repeated Padfoot in surprise. "You liked a boy named Malfoy?"
Harry nodded, licking one of the ice creams they’d bought and kept cold for after supper. "Draco Malfoy. But everyone calls him Ray."
"Must be Lucius Malfoy’s son, I remember him telling me Narcissa was expecting a few months before your mum was due." Padfoot took another bite of his own ice cream and frowned. "Funny, though, I would never have thought any of the Malfoys would have the capacity to be nice. You said he had a pet with him?"
Harry nodded. "A dog with grey fur. Looked kind of like a shepherd, with pointed ears and all that."
"But there aren’t any shepherd breeds with grey fur," said Letha. "Maybe it was a cross. Did he say?"
"No. Just that her name was Zelda, and they went everywhere together."
"She sounds pretty," said Meghan. "Did she let you pet her?"
"I didn’t try, I was getting my robes fitted."
"Too bad."
"So, one more month," said Padfoot teasingly. "How are you ever going to survive?"
Harry grinned. "I think I’ll manage."
Narcissa Malfoy sat alone in the study, reading over a scroll, although she knew perfectly well what it said.
I would have failed in my duty, I who have never failed before.
But I did not.
Thanks to them, I did not.
A peal of laughter caught her ear, and a pale-blond boy ran past the door of the room where she sat. "Zelda, no fair!" Narcissa heard him shout. "Give me my wand back!"
He was such a fine boy, she thought distantly. Lucius had been exceedingly proud the day he was presented with a son, and grew prouder daily, as the boy proved his intelligence and cunning to be above average.
And he prides himself on making certain of his son’s safety. She rubbed the bracelet encircling her right wrist. What would he do, I wonder, if he realized what the boy has done to circumvent his plans? What I have done to the same end?
But she did not regret what she had done. Far from it. She had entered into a deal willingly, a deal that profited both sides. As long as Lucius could be kept in ignorance of it, just so long would their family’s prosperity last.
And just so long would Ray’s happiness.
So she had dedicated herself to making sure that, should Lucius ever discover what she had done, he would be powerless to harm anyone involved.
Including herself, of course. It would hardly have been Slytherin to do otherwise.
Sirius lay awake in bed beside Aletha. It was late, but he couldn’t sleep.
Might as well get a jump on this week’s letter, then. He got out of bed carefully, so as not to disturb his sleeping wife, and went down the hall into the room they used as a study. Hunting up parchment, ink, and quill, he sat down at the desk and began to write.
Dear Moony,
Harry got his Hogwarts letter today. Merlin, he was excited. I don’t even remember being that happy about it, and I hated living at home about as much as he does. I wish you and Danger were still around. Maybe with all of us together, Dumbledore would have thought it was safe for Harry to live with us, instead of with his god-awful relatives to take advantage of the blood magic wards.
Something else funny, too. Harry met a boy at Diagon Alley who said his name was Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, and he liked him. Said he was nice. Is that even physically possible? I thought arrogance was bred into the Malfoy line a long time ago. Lucius Malfoy has enough of it for two. Maybe that’s why his son can afford to be nice.
Did I ever tell you what that uppity bastard said to me the day after your memorial service? I ran into him at the Ministry, and he was all condolences. Pretending it was comforting to think you might still be alive, as if he didn’t know perfectly well — as if he didn’t help make it this way — that when you get captured by Death Eaters, the sooner you die, the better off you are. Then, of course, he insulted Aletha’s faithfulness and my magical prowess, in such a perfectly genteel way that I couldn’t possibly take offense...
He lay on his side, staring out the window at the stars. She was a comforting warmth against his back, as she had been all his life that he could recall. The others were outdoors but nearby, two more sources of reassurance in an otherwise cheerless world.
One more month, he thought. Will I make it?
I think you’ll manage.
He nodded. It was the answer he’d expected.
The moon shone down over all of England, on those who slept and those who hunted.
Vernon Dursley considered opening the door to check on his sleeping nephew, to make sure he wasn’t doing anything funny, but a sudden rush of hunger turned him away from the cupboard door and back to the refrigerator, where a pint of rum raisin ice cream was waiting.
Lucius Malfoy thought of looking in on his sleeping son, just to have another glance at the next generation of the House of Malfoy, but an inexpressible impulse sent him to his wife’s bedroom instead, where he promptly forgot about his son in what Narcissa had ready for him.
And far away, an old man’s quest neared completion, as he drew close to the penultimate piece of the puzzle.
As Sirius continued writing his letter, setting down the events of the past week, his mind detached, wandering.
Why do I still do this? It’s been almost twelve years, there’s no way Remus and Danger could still be alive... or getting these, if they are, since I burn them after I write them...
Still, he kept writing. And he kept dreaming, every Monday night, of finding a letter on the kitchen table addressed to him in Remus’ handwriting, filled with the same sorts of details about Remus’ life that Sirius wrote about his own life. Stories about work, about Danger, about their children — if the dreams were to be believed, Remus and Danger had twins about Harry’s age, a boy and girl named Reynard and Griselda.
And besides being completely unlike Remus — he believed in simple names for children, that’s the only reason Harry’s not named for him — that’s impossible. Werewolves are sterile.
But he still wrote the letters, and dreamed the dreams, as he had for nearly twelve years.
Letting his letter roll up into its original scroll, Sirius went back upstairs and checked on Meghan before crawling back in beside Aletha.
There was a time I thought I’d lost them both...
His mind processed that thought slowly as he fell asleep, sending him drifting back in time ten years, to the night he and Aletha had thought they’d lost everything, and the two people who had pulled them out of hell, despite being dead themselves...