Chapter Eight: Garden Party
Series title: Runaway: A Story About Sirius Black and Remus Lupin
Series summary: During the sweltering summer of 1976, Sirius Black leaves one family, joins another, and falls in love.
Series authors: The Runaway Writers
Installment title: Chapter Eight: Garden Party
Installment author: expositionary
Word count: 1,730
Prologue | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty-One | Twenty-Two | Twenty-Three | Twenty-Four | Twenty-Five | Epilogue
Chapter Seven: Anna
A/N: Apologies for the lateness, as well as any irregularities or mistakes. This was written after midnight, under a bit of stress, and I'm now quite tired. :)
*
One would think that, over the centuries, some witch or wizard somewhere would have managed to invent dress robes which aren't hot and stifling in warm weather. Or a charm to fix it. Or something.
Sirius leans against the railing of the porch and allows his gaze to sweep over the garden, over the verdant grass and impeccable flower plots, over the groups of upper-class wizards, mingling and socialising and eating delicate little appetizers off of trays. Regulus, trailing along behind Mother and Father, is enjoying himself hugely; Sirius is just looking for anything or anyone to alleviate his boredom.
Strangers in dress robes, a few witches and wizards his age -- he blinks, looks again, and sees a familiar determined set of the shoulders.
James Potter?
The figure runs a hand through his hair, and it angles up in all directions. Yes, that's definitely James. Why the Potters are here, Sirius has no idea; he had gotten the idea that this was another opportunity for "families of proper background to socialise", but then again, he hadn't really been listening to anything Father was saying right then.
As he steps off of the porch and skirts a group of young boys standing stiffly in starched collars, Sirius recalls yesterday on the beach: the wrestle with James, which resulted in sand down in rather uncomfortable places.
He starts to grin.
It's a garden party; there can't be much in terms of ammunition. Marauders are resourceful, though, and so...
Casually, Sirius snags a glass from the tray of a passing serving-woman and dumps the water (the grass can always do with some watering during times of drought, right?), transferring the ice to his robe sleeve as he makes his way across the grass and tries to avoid the glances of the young, attractive witches who are very obviously attempting to catch his eye.
As he approaches, Sirius is surprised to find James discussing something with an elderly wizard in a strange hat. His emphatic hand-gestures are a little out of control -- a large buffer of space has opened up around him, in fact -- but the tones of his voice are earnest in a way Sirius has only ever heard when the word Lily is associated, and Evans is definitely not the topic of this conversation.
"-- and the Ministry isn't even doing anything about it," James finishes as Sirius strolls up behind him.
The doddery old wizard is nodding along gravely. Sirius flashes them both a winning smile, swings an arm around James' shoulders, and drops the ice down the back of his shirt.
"Sirius," James says, and then, "Sirius!" His tone is pleasant enough, but anyone listening carefully would be able to detect a strangled note in his voice. All things considered, Sirius is impressed; James isn't even flinching.
"If you'll excuse me," Sirius says to the wizard, "I have to steal this dashing young man away," and grabs James' arm, more or less dragging him into the shadowed area to the right of the house, under the overhang.
Sirius drops James' arm and leans against the shingled corner. He's expecting congratulation for his ingenuity, but James is scowling.
"Sirius!"
"What, d'you have plans to enter the Ministry someday, or something? I was saving your soul."
"Yeah, well, I was discussing something," James mutters, "a concept which escapes you, and -- Merlin, you act about ten years old."
"Could say the same thing of your tactics on the beach yesterday," Sirius points out with a shrug, tapping out a sporadic rhythm against the wood panelling of the house, "unless tackling someone into the sand is the new diplomacy. Get over yourself, Prongs. He was elderly. He probably didn't even notice."
James pulls a face and jabs Sirius in the side with his elbow. "You --" But his eyes widen suddenly, and his mouth snaps shut.
"Sirius! How wonderful to see you," says Mrs. Potter, approaching with her husband and an unfamiliar man in tow.
It only takes a moment to flick a glance James' way, and, seeing the warning in his raised brows, Sirius greets both Potters and the stranger with cordial handshakes and his best Black grace.
"Actually, fortunate that we stumbled across you, boy," says Mr. Potter, clapping Sirius on the shoulder. "We were just discussing the latest bill proposition of that radical group with Mr. Jones here -- oh, sorry; Mr. Jones, this is Sirius Black; Sirius, Mr. Jones, old friend of mine who works at the Ministry -- and you're just the one to talk to."
"If it has to do with politics, you're out of --" Sirius hides his wince; James' elbow is sharp "-- you're, ah... welcome to ask me anything you'd like." He makes a mental note to poison James' pumpkin juice sometime.
"Is that the one with the businesses and shops?" James asks. "Where they have to meet a certain pureblood employment level, or they get bonuses or tax breaks if they do, or... er... to encourage employment..." He trails off, and it's glaringly obvious how hard James is trying, but at least he has the murderous hand gestures under control now.
Mr. Jones nods enthusiastically. "That's the one. Employment quotas to even the playing field a bit. I have to say, it's one of the more clearly thought-out bills proposed recently, you wouldn't believe the amount of trash we have to deal with." He pauses for a moment to take a drink from a passing platter. "There was a recent study that placed pureblood unemployment levels under those of Muggleborns -- and old money doesn't last forever, you know, some of them are actually having some difficulty."
"These radicals," says Mr. Potter, tone implying exactly what he thinks of 'these radicals', "are under the impression that people are more likely right now to hire Muggleborns or half-bloods than purebloods, because apparently the public's got that the old families are all well-off, at some sort of an 'advantage' --"
"That's not true," Sirius says suddenly. He's seen the amount of gold in his family's vault, and they have no problems, but he remembers hearing Father and Mother discuss giving money to a fourth-cousin somewhere down the line ("and Blacks must look after their own, Walburga").
"But it's still not fair," James retorts, "what kind of shi-- er... er. I mean. It just doesn't seem fair."
"I didn't say it was, James." Sirius is very aware of the fact that four pairs of eyes are fixed directly on him. He lives for attention, but truth be told, he's never given this matter any thought; money is money, he and James and Peter have it, Remus doesn't; they slip him small things when he isn't paying attention, because he needs to be taken care of, even if he doesn't think so. And there's never more to it than that.
"I don't think it's necessarily a bad idea," says Mr. Jones, "old money doesn't last forever, you know. Some of the pureblood lines are actually having difficulty balancing the books, and overall, there's a trend towards the old disadvantaged-Muggleborn circumstance reversing itself --"
"And you're from a pureblood line, I suppose." Sirius freezes. That's something he would have said to James; even he can tell that there is a line, somewhere, and he suspects he just crossed it.
A long silence falls, in which various unrecognisable emotions play across Mr. Jones' face, and then -- he bursts out in laughter. The Potters are trying to hold back smiles, and there's something that just might be approval in their eyes.
"Clever one," Mr. Jones admits, shaking his head. "You don't think it's a good idea, then?"
Sirius pauses for a second, and says, thinking of the sneer on Mother's face when she found out about Remus' Muggleborn father, "No, I don't. There's no difference between purebloods and Muggleborns except for family trees and a sense of entitlement." Inwardly, he feels quite clever, and wishes he could see the look on Mother's face if she'd heard --
"Is there, now."
Sirius closes his eyes, counts to five, and opens them again. And no, it doesn't change the fact that Mother is standing just to the left of Mrs. Potter, stately and severe and thoroughly disapproving, Regulus at her side.
"Yes," he says, looking her in the eye, because the damage has already been done.
"That isn't an acceptable opinion for you to hold, Sirius," Mother says, and she doesn't need to raise her voice, because Sirius already feels like he needs to crawl into a corner and throw up.
"Now, here," cuts in Mrs. Potter, moving almost protectively in front of Sirius, "I think that Sirius is entitled to believe what he thinks, don't you? He's a smart boy."
Sirius has seen the look that Mother's currently giving Mrs. Potter before, and it was while she scolded a recalcitrant house-elf. He forgets, sometimes, that during her good days she's as much of a difficulty as on the bad ones.
And then Regulus is tugging at her sleeve, eyes wide and voice tremulous. "Mother -- I, I don't feel very well, I don't think. Perhaps I had a bit too much to eat."
There is a prolonged moment of tense silence, and then Mother abruptly turns, hand on Regulus' shoulder. "Excuse me," she says, already walking away. "Sirius, find your father. We're leaving now."
"Goodbye," Sirius says awkwardly to the Potters and Mr. Jones, "I'm sorry, sometimes Mother's --" He stops and nods, then turns to follow, muttering to James out of the corner of his mouth as he leaves. "Say sorry for me, would you?"
"Yeah," James says simply, and the look in his eyes is all the sympathy Sirius needs.
After a quick glance around the garden, he spots Mother and Regulus, and joins them silently as they make their farewells to the hosts; Father's already with them, smiling graciously and shaking hands. Mother won't meet his eyes as they walk down a side path to the front of the house.
"Hey," Sirius mutters under his breath, catching Regulus by the elbow. "Thanks."
He doesn't know what he's expecting, but Regulus won't meet his eyes, either. "I didn't do it just for you, Sirius." Regulus quickens his step and slips his hand into Mother's.
The Blacks walk down the pathway in silence, and Sirius wonders if perhaps more happened in that garden than he realises.
Chapter Nine: Encounter
Series summary: During the sweltering summer of 1976, Sirius Black leaves one family, joins another, and falls in love.
Series authors: The Runaway Writers
Installment title: Chapter Eight: Garden Party
Installment author: expositionary
Word count: 1,730
Prologue | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty-One | Twenty-Two | Twenty-Three | Twenty-Four | Twenty-Five | Epilogue
Chapter Seven: Anna
A/N: Apologies for the lateness, as well as any irregularities or mistakes. This was written after midnight, under a bit of stress, and I'm now quite tired. :)
*
One would think that, over the centuries, some witch or wizard somewhere would have managed to invent dress robes which aren't hot and stifling in warm weather. Or a charm to fix it. Or something.
Sirius leans against the railing of the porch and allows his gaze to sweep over the garden, over the verdant grass and impeccable flower plots, over the groups of upper-class wizards, mingling and socialising and eating delicate little appetizers off of trays. Regulus, trailing along behind Mother and Father, is enjoying himself hugely; Sirius is just looking for anything or anyone to alleviate his boredom.
Strangers in dress robes, a few witches and wizards his age -- he blinks, looks again, and sees a familiar determined set of the shoulders.
James Potter?
The figure runs a hand through his hair, and it angles up in all directions. Yes, that's definitely James. Why the Potters are here, Sirius has no idea; he had gotten the idea that this was another opportunity for "families of proper background to socialise", but then again, he hadn't really been listening to anything Father was saying right then.
As he steps off of the porch and skirts a group of young boys standing stiffly in starched collars, Sirius recalls yesterday on the beach: the wrestle with James, which resulted in sand down in rather uncomfortable places.
He starts to grin.
It's a garden party; there can't be much in terms of ammunition. Marauders are resourceful, though, and so...
Casually, Sirius snags a glass from the tray of a passing serving-woman and dumps the water (the grass can always do with some watering during times of drought, right?), transferring the ice to his robe sleeve as he makes his way across the grass and tries to avoid the glances of the young, attractive witches who are very obviously attempting to catch his eye.
As he approaches, Sirius is surprised to find James discussing something with an elderly wizard in a strange hat. His emphatic hand-gestures are a little out of control -- a large buffer of space has opened up around him, in fact -- but the tones of his voice are earnest in a way Sirius has only ever heard when the word Lily is associated, and Evans is definitely not the topic of this conversation.
"-- and the Ministry isn't even doing anything about it," James finishes as Sirius strolls up behind him.
The doddery old wizard is nodding along gravely. Sirius flashes them both a winning smile, swings an arm around James' shoulders, and drops the ice down the back of his shirt.
"Sirius," James says, and then, "Sirius!" His tone is pleasant enough, but anyone listening carefully would be able to detect a strangled note in his voice. All things considered, Sirius is impressed; James isn't even flinching.
"If you'll excuse me," Sirius says to the wizard, "I have to steal this dashing young man away," and grabs James' arm, more or less dragging him into the shadowed area to the right of the house, under the overhang.
Sirius drops James' arm and leans against the shingled corner. He's expecting congratulation for his ingenuity, but James is scowling.
"Sirius!"
"What, d'you have plans to enter the Ministry someday, or something? I was saving your soul."
"Yeah, well, I was discussing something," James mutters, "a concept which escapes you, and -- Merlin, you act about ten years old."
"Could say the same thing of your tactics on the beach yesterday," Sirius points out with a shrug, tapping out a sporadic rhythm against the wood panelling of the house, "unless tackling someone into the sand is the new diplomacy. Get over yourself, Prongs. He was elderly. He probably didn't even notice."
James pulls a face and jabs Sirius in the side with his elbow. "You --" But his eyes widen suddenly, and his mouth snaps shut.
"Sirius! How wonderful to see you," says Mrs. Potter, approaching with her husband and an unfamiliar man in tow.
It only takes a moment to flick a glance James' way, and, seeing the warning in his raised brows, Sirius greets both Potters and the stranger with cordial handshakes and his best Black grace.
"Actually, fortunate that we stumbled across you, boy," says Mr. Potter, clapping Sirius on the shoulder. "We were just discussing the latest bill proposition of that radical group with Mr. Jones here -- oh, sorry; Mr. Jones, this is Sirius Black; Sirius, Mr. Jones, old friend of mine who works at the Ministry -- and you're just the one to talk to."
"If it has to do with politics, you're out of --" Sirius hides his wince; James' elbow is sharp "-- you're, ah... welcome to ask me anything you'd like." He makes a mental note to poison James' pumpkin juice sometime.
"Is that the one with the businesses and shops?" James asks. "Where they have to meet a certain pureblood employment level, or they get bonuses or tax breaks if they do, or... er... to encourage employment..." He trails off, and it's glaringly obvious how hard James is trying, but at least he has the murderous hand gestures under control now.
Mr. Jones nods enthusiastically. "That's the one. Employment quotas to even the playing field a bit. I have to say, it's one of the more clearly thought-out bills proposed recently, you wouldn't believe the amount of trash we have to deal with." He pauses for a moment to take a drink from a passing platter. "There was a recent study that placed pureblood unemployment levels under those of Muggleborns -- and old money doesn't last forever, you know, some of them are actually having some difficulty."
"These radicals," says Mr. Potter, tone implying exactly what he thinks of 'these radicals', "are under the impression that people are more likely right now to hire Muggleborns or half-bloods than purebloods, because apparently the public's got that the old families are all well-off, at some sort of an 'advantage' --"
"That's not true," Sirius says suddenly. He's seen the amount of gold in his family's vault, and they have no problems, but he remembers hearing Father and Mother discuss giving money to a fourth-cousin somewhere down the line ("and Blacks must look after their own, Walburga").
"But it's still not fair," James retorts, "what kind of shi-- er... er. I mean. It just doesn't seem fair."
"I didn't say it was, James." Sirius is very aware of the fact that four pairs of eyes are fixed directly on him. He lives for attention, but truth be told, he's never given this matter any thought; money is money, he and James and Peter have it, Remus doesn't; they slip him small things when he isn't paying attention, because he needs to be taken care of, even if he doesn't think so. And there's never more to it than that.
"I don't think it's necessarily a bad idea," says Mr. Jones, "old money doesn't last forever, you know. Some of the pureblood lines are actually having difficulty balancing the books, and overall, there's a trend towards the old disadvantaged-Muggleborn circumstance reversing itself --"
"And you're from a pureblood line, I suppose." Sirius freezes. That's something he would have said to James; even he can tell that there is a line, somewhere, and he suspects he just crossed it.
A long silence falls, in which various unrecognisable emotions play across Mr. Jones' face, and then -- he bursts out in laughter. The Potters are trying to hold back smiles, and there's something that just might be approval in their eyes.
"Clever one," Mr. Jones admits, shaking his head. "You don't think it's a good idea, then?"
Sirius pauses for a second, and says, thinking of the sneer on Mother's face when she found out about Remus' Muggleborn father, "No, I don't. There's no difference between purebloods and Muggleborns except for family trees and a sense of entitlement." Inwardly, he feels quite clever, and wishes he could see the look on Mother's face if she'd heard --
"Is there, now."
Sirius closes his eyes, counts to five, and opens them again. And no, it doesn't change the fact that Mother is standing just to the left of Mrs. Potter, stately and severe and thoroughly disapproving, Regulus at her side.
"Yes," he says, looking her in the eye, because the damage has already been done.
"That isn't an acceptable opinion for you to hold, Sirius," Mother says, and she doesn't need to raise her voice, because Sirius already feels like he needs to crawl into a corner and throw up.
"Now, here," cuts in Mrs. Potter, moving almost protectively in front of Sirius, "I think that Sirius is entitled to believe what he thinks, don't you? He's a smart boy."
Sirius has seen the look that Mother's currently giving Mrs. Potter before, and it was while she scolded a recalcitrant house-elf. He forgets, sometimes, that during her good days she's as much of a difficulty as on the bad ones.
And then Regulus is tugging at her sleeve, eyes wide and voice tremulous. "Mother -- I, I don't feel very well, I don't think. Perhaps I had a bit too much to eat."
There is a prolonged moment of tense silence, and then Mother abruptly turns, hand on Regulus' shoulder. "Excuse me," she says, already walking away. "Sirius, find your father. We're leaving now."
"Goodbye," Sirius says awkwardly to the Potters and Mr. Jones, "I'm sorry, sometimes Mother's --" He stops and nods, then turns to follow, muttering to James out of the corner of his mouth as he leaves. "Say sorry for me, would you?"
"Yeah," James says simply, and the look in his eyes is all the sympathy Sirius needs.
After a quick glance around the garden, he spots Mother and Regulus, and joins them silently as they make their farewells to the hosts; Father's already with them, smiling graciously and shaking hands. Mother won't meet his eyes as they walk down a side path to the front of the house.
"Hey," Sirius mutters under his breath, catching Regulus by the elbow. "Thanks."
He doesn't know what he's expecting, but Regulus won't meet his eyes, either. "I didn't do it just for you, Sirius." Regulus quickens his step and slips his hand into Mother's.
The Blacks walk down the pathway in silence, and Sirius wonders if perhaps more happened in that garden than he realises.
Chapter Nine: Encounter