Remus Lupin: So…in conclusion… im basically a monster. *he trembles a bit, the next words are obviously hard for him to say.* and i would understand it if either of you wished to cut ties with me completely or…or…
Dorcas jerked awake, drawing air roughly into her lungs, her pulse rushing in her ears. A cold hand brushed her bare arm and she flinched back, staring wildly through the dim night to find the source.
“Dorcas–”
The word – her name – in a heartbreakingly familiar, groggy voice, was drowned out by a thunderous roar from outside. It was low and loud enough to vibrate in her stomach, before it was cut off abruptly with the unmistakable sound of destructive impact.
“You have got to be joking, those fucking tosspots! Lumos!”
A soft light bloomed, not quite reaching the dark corners of the room, but enough for Dorcas to shake her disorientation. It illuminated the sleep-mussed hair and scrunched-up features of an extremely pissed off Marlene.
“…Mar?” She breathed deeply, pushing her hair back with her fingers and her tears back with a will. “God, Marlene I had a sodding awful dream.”
“Yeah, me too. I dreamt that a couple of pissed twats crash landed a motorbike in our garden. Oh wait.”
Dorcas couldn’t help the smile that stretched her lips as Marlene got up, tugging on a baggy t-shirt that didn’t quite cover her arse, and strode grumpily to the window. The sounds of very determinedly drunk idiots flailing in the flowers travelled up from below.
“James Fleamont Potter if you piss on my roses I will cut your heart out with a spoon. Put. Your. Prick. Away.”
“Marleeeene!” Sirius shouted, followed by a yelp as a well-aimed shoe made contact with his face.
“Keep it down, dickhead!” She yelled back.
“Throw us a sobering potion, there’s an angel, or poor Jamie’s going to be in soooooo much trouble!”
“So will you! You live with me you git!”
“Your mum likes me better. I’m the more successful son.”
“Are not.”
“I’m definitely the more attractive–!” he was cut off by his own high-pitched squeal.
Dorcas sprawled back on the bed to listen, her heart steady, the dream retreating to the edges of her mind. Marlene looked back from where she leant against the window frame and grinned widely.
Reading the thought in her girlfriends’ eyes and wicked mouth, Dorcas gave her a wry smile and made her way over to the potions cabinet to retrieve the vials.
“What’s it worth Black?” Marlene called down, leaning back as Dorcas slipped both arms around her waist. Over Marlene’s shoulder, Dorcas could just spot the boys wavering on their feet…in the wreckage of her arbour.
“Those little shits.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Name your price, except for my broom, or his broom, or the Map, or–” Frantic shushing noises and scuffles were followed by silence.
Marlene weighed her options, then leant forward against Dorcas’ arms to state her terms.
“Potions homework for a month!”
“Anything for you Princess!”
“Fuck, Sirius stand up, I can’t hold you up! Nooo, no stop it–!”
Marlene rolled her eyes, clearing holding back a laugh. They waited as the wrestling passed into a fit of giggles, which was then interrupted by a groan and loud retching. Her amusement apparently short-lived, Marlene scowled and took the vials from Dorcas, levitating them down to hover just out of reach.
“Make that two months for what you just did to the roses, dickhead.”
When she judged the weak sounds of agreement acceptable, she lowered the potions, then cast a quick disillusionment charm over the garden, including the wrecked bike.
“Hope you feel like shit tomorrow!” She sang, waving sarcastically.
With that, she half-heartedly tugged the curtains closed and smirked as she turned within the circle of Dorcas’ arms, pulling off her shirt.
“Well, seeing as we’re awake…”
Warm laughter drifted out into the garden, where two now very regretfully sober boys staggered off to flag down the Knight Bus.
((OOC: This is because I love you all and Jess’ angst cannot be combated. All I can do is to not encourage her more than I already do a lot….and write cheesy fluff.))
On this particular night, the Noble Black Family had many visitors in their home at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. The younger of the two sons wandered, talking with the guests of his home, smiling pleasantly, but never really saying a word. His mother caught sight of him from across the room and motioned for him to join her…
The woman rolls her eyes, disgusted with her elder son.
The boy hesitates, his brow creasing ever so slightly.
A moment passes and the boy still has not moved.
The boy makes his way up the stairs to the third floor, passing by the heads of dead house elves mounted on the wall, various family portraits that nod at him politely, numerous candelabra adorned with silver snakes baring their fangs, until finally he reaches the top of the stairs. On one side is his own room where the door is marked with a silver plate, reading “Regulus Arcturus Black.” He crosses to the door opposite. He knocks and waits.
“Sirius?” he calls. There is no reply. The boy reaches out, twists the door handle and enters the room.
Sirius: And did she tell you just how the imperious curse works…
A blaze of scarlet and gold from around Sirius’ neck catches his brother’s eye.
The elder brother shoves his way past the younger. Regulus can hear his steps descending, the stairs. He closes his eyes. And waits. The sound of his brothers steps fade and a moment later, he hears what he expected to hear; the shrill, painful shrieks of his mother and the sharp cracks of guests disapparating.
Number 12 Grimmauld Place is no longer hidden. It sits neatly between Number 11 and Number 13, its wrought iron polished and shiny, its windows clean of dust and grime. Muggles can see it, though they rarely give it more than a moment’s glance; wizards and witches will occasionally approach cautiously to lay down a wreath of flowers, or a handwritten note addressed to The Boy Who Lives Still. Their wary respect is well-intentioned but unnecessary- Number 12 is second only to Hogwarts in the number of protective spells and wards place around it.
It is empty most of the year.
Fall winds blow and disturb no one’s slumber inside. In winter, snow gathers on the steps and railings; the windows remain dark and the curtains drawn. No flowers peek out from the windowsills to celebrate the arrival of spring.
In the summer, they arrive.
From the outside, there is nothing to unite them. There are loud, boisterous teenagers and shy, quiet children no older than twelve; there are some dressed in the latest Muggle fashions and some whose jeans are patched and worn. They are of all races and ethnicities, all shapes and sizes, from all parts of the British Isles; they can be heard chattering in accents that clash and meld and somehow become harmonious. From the outside, they have nothing in common. But since when has someone’s outside reflected who they really are?
Molly Weasley was the first person Harry told about his idea. She and Arthur help him expand Number 12′s interior, adding bathrooms and reading nooks and bedrooms. Ginny chooses the squashiest armchairs and sturdiest furniture, tracking down bargains with a fierce glint in her eyes. When he realizes he needs an outdoor space, Hermione helps him to link his back door to an empty field. Ron helps Bill put up Quidditch hoops while Neville transplants trees and Hannah stations benches beneath their shady branches. Parvati paints the rooms in swirls of bright colors- green and red and blue and yellow mingle on the walls.
In the summer, Number 12 Grimmauld Place becomes a refuge for lost children. They are the ones with no home to go to when the term ends, the ones who don’t have someone waiting to pick them up when the Hogwarts Express pulls into Platform 9 ¾. They are the ones whose homes are not safe, who grow anxious as June approaches and spring turns to summer. They are the ones who are no longer welcomed by those who share their blood, who have had to make family out of friends.
Harry Potter greets these students at Kings Cross and he takes them in.
In the summer, former DA members stream in and out of Number 12′s brightly polished door. Luna brings suitcases packed with odd creatures she’s discovered on her travels; the students sit in the sunny field as she pulls them out one by one and tells of hiking up mountains and wading through marshes. Ginny gives flying lessons and organizes Quidditch matches; the Harpies donate their old brooms when they switch sponsors (something that happens far more often than any other team in the league). There is a greenhouse where students with a green thumb can tend their own plots and assist Neville with his herbology experiments. Justin and Hermione drill them on Muggle subjects; Justin teaches algebra, geometry, and basic sciences while Hermione covers history and literature. George always spends a memorable week showing off his newest inventions while Ron drops by almost every evening to play chess. Students entering their fifth year can spend the summer shadowing people in careers that pique their interest; the Trio rarely use their fame for their own gain, but they wield it with fierce determination in the service of others.
In the summer, these children are fed by Molly Weasley, hugged by Hannah Abbott, told bedtime stories by Luna Lovegood. They can spend all day reading under a tree or playing Exploding Snap in the kitchen or arguing about how best to make a phone work at Hogwarts. They can wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and make their way down to the kitchen, where Harry will meet them with a mug of hot tea and a listening ear. They can stay in bed on days when the world is too cruel and lonely, when the emptiness in their body is too heavy to bear. They can see others who struggle with it too and realize that family is not limited by blood, that being lonely doesn’t always mean being alone.
In the summer, Number 12 Grimmauld Place opens its doors wide and vibrates with life. It becomes a place where Sirius Black would be welcomed along with Severus Snape, where Harry Potter and Tom Riddle could spend their summers side by side.
In the summer, Number 12 Grimmauld Place becomes a home.
After many months of being squashed by the stresses of my last year of graduate school, my muse has come roaring back with a vengeance. No promises on when the next update will be, but I hope you enjoy this piece
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